THE FATAL DOWRY, A TRAGEDY:
BY PHILIP MASSINGER AND NATHANIEL FIELD.
The Marshal of Burgundy dies in prison at Dijon for debts contracted by him for the service of the state in the wars. His dead body is arrested and denied burial by his creditors. His son, young CHARALOIS, gives up himself to prison to redeem his father's body, that it may have honourable burial. He has leave from his prison doors to view the ceremony of the funeral, but to go no farther.
Enter three gentlemen, PONTALIER, MALOTIN, and BEAUMONT, as spectators of the funeral.
Mal. 'Tis strange.
Beaum. Methinks so.
Pont. In a man but young,
Yet old in judgment; theoric and practic
In all humanity, and, to increase the wonder,
Religious, yet a soldier,-that he should
Yield his free-living youth a captive, for
The freedom of his aged father's corpse,
And rather choose to want life's necessaries,
Liberty, hope of fortune, than it should
In death be kept from christian ceremony.
Mal. Come, 'tis a golden precedent in a son,
To let strong nature have the better hand,
In such a case, of all affected reason.
What years sit on this Charalois ?
Beaum. Twenty-eight;
For since the clock did strike him seventeen old,
Under his father's wing this son hath fought,
Serv'd and commanded, and so aptly both,
That sometimes he appear'd his father's father,
And never less than 's son ; the old man's virtues
So recent in him, as the world may swear,
Naught but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear.
Mal. This morning is the funeral?
And from this prison,-'twas the son's request [CHARALOIS appears at the door of the prison. That his dear father might interment have; See, the young son enter'd a lively grave. Beaum. They come; observe their order.
The funeral procession enters. Captains and soldiers, mourners. ROMONT, friend to the deceased. Three creditors are among the spectators. CHARALOIS speaks.
Char. How like a silent stream shaded with night,
And gliding softly with our windy sighs,
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!
Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile,
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove
Of death, thus hollowly break forth!--Vouchsafe
To stay awhile; rest, rest in peace, dear earth,
Thou that brought'st rest to their unthankful lives,
Whose cruelty denied thee rest in death!
Here stands thy poor executor, thy son,
That makes his life prisoner, to bail thy death;
Who gladlier puts on this captivity,
Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds.
Of all that ever thou hast done good to,
These only have good memories, for they
Remember best, forget not gratitude.
I thank you for this last and friendly love.
And though this country, like a viperous mother,
Not only hath eat up ungratefully
All means of thee, her son, but last thyself,
Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent,
He cannot raise thee a poor monument,
Such as a flatterer or an usurer hath,
Thy worth in every honest breast builds one,
Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone.
Char. Peace! O peace! This scene is wholly
What! weep ye, soldiers?-blanch not-Romont
Ha! let me see! my miracle is eas'd,
The jailers and the creditors do weep;
Even they that make us weep, do weep themselves.
Be these thy body's balm; these, and thy virtue,—
Keep thy fame ever odoriferous,
Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man,
Alive stinks in his vices, and, being vanish'd,
The golden calf that was an idol, deck'd
With marble pillars, jet and porphyry,
Shall quickly both in bone and name consume, Though wrapp'd in lead, spice, cerecloth, and perfume.
Char. What !-away for shame,-you, profane rogues,
Must not be mingled with these holy relics :
This is a sacrifice-our shower shall crown
His sepulchre with olive, myrrh, and bays,
The plants of peace, of sorrow, victory,
Your tears would spring but weeds.
Rom. Look, look, you slaves! your thankless cruelty,
And savage manners of unkind Dijon,
Exhaust these floods, and not his father's death.
Char. One moment more,
But to bestow a few poor legacies,
All I have left in my dead father's right,
And I have done. Captain, wear thou these
That yet ne'er made his horse run from a foe.
Lieutenant, thou this scarf, and may it tie
Thy valour and thy honesty together,
For so it did in him. Ensign, this cuirass,
Your general's necklace once. You gentle bearers,
Divide this purse of gold, this other, strew
Among the poor: 'tis all I have. Romont,
(Wear thou this medal of himself) that like A hearty oak grew'st close to this tall pine, Even in the wildest wilderness of war,
Whereon foes broke their swords, and tir'd themselves :
Wounded and hack'd ye were, but never fell'd.
For me, my portion provide in heaven :
My root is earth'd, and I, a desolate branch,
Left scatter'd in the highway of the world,
Trod under foot, that might have been a column
Mainly supporting our demolish'd house,
This would I wear as my inheritance.
And what hope can arise to me from it,
When I and it are here both prisoners ?
Only may this, if ever we be free,
Keep, or redeem me from all infamy.
Jailer. You must no farther;
The prison limits you, and the creditors
Exact the strictness.
THE VIRGIN MARTYR, A TRAGEDY:
BY PHILIP MASSINGER AND THOMAS DECKER.
ANGELO, an Angel, attends DOROTHEA as a page.
Dor. My book and taper.
Ang. Here, most holy mistress.
Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never
Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound.
Were every servant in the world like thee,
So full of goodness, angels would come down
To dwell with us: thy name is Angelo,
And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest;
Thy youth with too much watching is oppress'd,
Ang. No, my dear lady, I could weary stars,
And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes
By my late watching, but to wait on you.
When at your prayers you kneel before the altar,
Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven,
So blest I hold me in your company:
Therefore, my most lov'd mistress, do not bid
Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence,
For then you break his heart.
Dor. Be nigh me still, then;
In golden letters down I 'll set that day,
Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope
To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself,
This little pretty body, when I coming
Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy,
My sweet-fac'd godly beggar-boy, crave an alms,
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand;
And when I took thee home, my most chaste
bosom
Methought was fill'd with no hot wanton fire,
But with a holy flame, mounting since higher,
On wings of cherubims, than it did before.
Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye
So likes so poor a servant.
Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents;
I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some,
To dwell with thy good father; for, the son
Bewitching me so deeply with his presence,
He that begot him must do 't ten times more :
I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents,
Be not asham'd.
Ang. I am not: I did never
Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace, Fill'd with bright heavenly courtiers, I dare assure
And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand,
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