FROM "THE GREAT DUKE OF FLORENCE." Giovanni, nephew to the Duke of Florence, taking leave of Lidia, the daughter of his tutor Charomonte. Persons.-CHAROMONTE; CONTARINO, the DUKE'S Secretary; GIOVANNI; and LIDIA.
Char. THIS acknowledgment
Binds me your debtor ever.-Here comes one In whose sad looks you easily may read What her heart suffers, in that she is forced To take her last leave of you.
Cont. As I live,
A beauty without parallel!
Lid. Must you go, then,
So suddenly?
Giov. There's no evasion, Lidia,
To gain the least delay, though I would buy it
At any rate. Greatness, with private men
Esteem'd a blessing, is to me a curse;
And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude
The only freemen, are the only slaves.
Happy the golden mean! had I been born
In a poor sordid cottage, not nursed up
With expectation to command a court,
I might, like such of your condition, sweetest,
Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not,
As I am now, against my choice, compell'd
Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised
So high upon the pinnacles of state,
That I must either keep my height with danger,
Or fall with certain ruin.
Lid. Your own goodness
Will be your faithful guard.
Giov. O, Lidia.
Cont. So passionate!
Giov. For, had I been your equal,
I might have seen and liked with mine own eyes,
And not, as now, with others; I might still,
And without observation, or envy,
As I have done, continued my delights
With you, that are alone, in my esteem,
The abstract of society: we might walk
In solitary groves, or in choice gardens;
From the variety of curious flowers
Contemplate nature's workmanship, and wonders;
And then, for change, near to the murmur of
Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing,
And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue,
In my imagination conceive
With what melodious harmony a choir
Of angels sing above their Maker's praises.
And then with chaste discourse, as we return'd,
Imp feathers to the broken wings of time:-
And all this I must part from.
Cont. You forget
The haste upon us.
Giov. One word more,
Such saucy hopes. If I had been the heir
Of all the globes and sceptres mankind bows to,
At my best you had deserved me; as
am,
Howe'er unworthy, in my virgin zeal
I wish you, as a partner of your bed,
A princess equal to you; such a one
That may make it the study of her life,
With all the obedience of a wife, to please you.
May you have happy issue, and I live
To be their humblest handmaid!
Giov. I am dumb,
And can make no reply.
Cont. Your excellence Will be benighted.
Giov. This kiss, bathed in tears, May learn you what I should say.
FROM "THE FATAL DOWRY."*
ACT II. SCENE I.
Enter PONTALIER, MALOTIN, and BEAUMONT. Mal. 'Tis strange.
Beau. Methinks so.
Pont. In a man but young,
Yet old in judgment; theorick and practick
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?
For since the clock did strike him seventeen old,
Under his father's wing this son hath fought,
Served and commanded, and so aptly both,
That sometimes he appeared his father's father,
And never less than 's son; the old man's virtues
So recent in him, as the world may swear,
Nought but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear.
Pont. But wherefore lets he such a barbarous law,
And men more barbarous to excute it,
Prevail on his soft disposition,
That he had rather die alive for debt
Of the old man, in prison, than they should
Rob him of sepulture; considering
These moneys borrow'd bought the lender's peace,
And all the means they enjoy, nor were diffused
In any impious or licentious path? [trunk,
Beau. True! for my part, were it my father's
The tyrannous ram-heads with their horns should
Or cast it to their curs, than they less currish,
Ere prey on me so with their lion-law,
Being in my free will, as in his, to shun it.
Pont: Alas! he knows himself in poverty lost.
For in this partial avaricious age
What price bears honour? virtue? long ago
* Mr. Gifford, in his edition of Massinger, has few doubts that it was written by Field.
It was but praised, and freezed; but now-a-days
"Tis colder far, and has nor love nor praise:
The very praise now freezeth too; for nature
Did make the heathen far more Christian then,
Than knowledge us, less heathenish, Christian.
Mal. This morning is the funeral?
Pont. Certainly.
And from this prison,-'twas the son's request,
That his dear father might interment have,
See, the young son enter'd a lively grave!
Beau. They come :-observe their order. Solemn Music. Enter the Funeral Procession. The Coffin borne by four, preceded by a Priest. Captains, Lieutenants, Ensigns, and Soldiers; Mourners, Scutcheons, dc, and very good order. ROMONT and CHARALOIS, followed by the Jailers and Officers, with Creditors, meet it.
Charal. How like a silent stream shaded with
And gliding softly with our windy sighs, [night,
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 the bearers.
To stay a while.-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 exécutor, 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:
[To the Soldiers.
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 a usurer hath;
Thy worth, in every honest breast, builds one,
Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone.
Charal. Peace! Oh, peace! this scene is wholly
[weeps.-
What! weep ye, soldiers? blanch not.-Romont
Ha! let me see! my miracle is eased,
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 wrapt in lead, spice, searcloth, and per-
fume!.
Charal. One moment more,
But to bestow a few poor legacies,
All I have left in my dead father's rights,
And I have done. Captain, wear thou these spurs,
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, [selves:
Whereon foes broke their swords, and tired them-
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 both here prisoners!
THE OXFORD RIDDLE ON THE PURITANS. FROM A SINGLE SHEET PRINTED AT OXFORD IN 1643.
THERE dwells a people on the earth,
That reckons true allegiance treason,
That makes sad war a holy mirth,
Calls madness zeal, and nonsense reason;
That finds no freedom but in slavery,
That makes lies truth, religion knavery,
That rob and cheat with yea and nay:
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they?
They hate the flesh, yet kiss their dames,
That make kings great by curbing crowns,
That quench the fire by kindling flames,
That settle peace by plund'ring towns,
That govern with implicit votes,
That 'stablish truth by cutting throats,
That kiss their master and betray:
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they?
That make Heaven speak by their commission,
That stop God's peace and boast his power
That teach bold blasphemy and sedition,
And pray high treason by the hour,
That damn all saints but such as they are,
That wish all common, except prayer,
That idolize Pym, Brooks, and Say:
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they?
That to enrich the commonwealth,
Transport large gold to foreign parts;
That house't in Amsterdam by stealth,
Yet lord it here within our gates;
That are staid men, yet only stay
For a light night to run away;
That borrow to lend, and rob to pay:
Riddle me, riddle me, who are they?
[Born, 1608. Died, 1641.]
SUCKLING, who gives levity its gayest expression, was the son of the comptroller of the household to Charles I. Langbaine tells us that he spoke Latin at five years of age; but with what correctness or fluency we are not informed. His versatile mind certainly acquired many accomplishments, and filled a short life with many pursuits, for he was a traveller, a soldier, a lyric and dramatic poet, and a musician. After serving a campaign under Gustavus Adolphus, he returned to England, was favoured by Charles I., and wrote some pieces, which were exhibited for the amusement of the court with sumptuous splendour. When the civil wars broke out he ex
pended 12007.* on the equipment of a regiment for the king, which was distinguished, however, only by its finery and cowardice. A brother poet crowned his disgrace with a ludicrous song. The event is said to have affected him deeply with shame; but he did not live long to experience that most incurable of the heart's diseases. Having learnt that his servant had robbed him, he drew on his boots in great haste; a rusty nail,† that was concealed in one of them, pierced his heel, and produced a mortification, of which he died. His poems, his five plays, together with his letters, speeches, and tracts, have been collected into one volume.
WHY so pale and wan, fond lover!
Pr'ythee why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Pr'ythee why so pale?
Why so dull and mute, young sinner!
Pr'ythee why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do't?
Pr'ythee why so mute?
Quit, quit for shame! this will not move,
This cannot take her;
If of herself she will not love,
Nothing can make her :-
The devil take her!
A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING.
I TELL thee, Dick, where I have been,
Where I the rarest things have seen:
O things without compare!
Such sights again cannot be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake, or fair.
At Charing-Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs:
And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town,
Vorty at least, in pairs.
Amongst the rest, one pest'lent fine,
(His beard no bigger though than thine,)
Walk'd on before the rest:
Our landlord looks like nothing to him:
The king (God bless him) 'twou'd undo him,
Shou'd he go still so drest.
At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' the town:
[* Rather 12.0001. See Percy's Reliques, vol. ii. p. 356, where the ludicrous song Mr. Campbell refers to may be found.-C.)
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,
Or Vincent of the Crown.
But wot you what? the youth was going
To make an end of all his wooing;
The parson for him stay'd:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past
(Perchance) as did the maid.
The maid-and thereby hangs a tale-
For such a maid no Whitson ale
Could ever yet produce:
No grape that's kindly ripe could be
So round, so plump, so soft as she,
Nor half so full of juice.
Her finger was so small, the ring
Wou'd not stay on which they did bring,
It was too wide a peck:
And to say truth (for out it must)
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight.
He wou'd have kiss'd her once or twice,
But she wou'd not, she was so nice,
She wou'd not do't in sight:
And then she look'd as who shou'd say
I will do what I list to-day;
And you shall do't at night.
Her checks so rare a white was on,
No daisy makes comparison,
(Who sees them is undone) For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Katherine pear,
The side that's next the sun.
Oldys says the blade of a penknife, whilst Aubrey affirms that he was poisoned. The nail or blade may have been poisoned.-C.]
Her lips were red, and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin,
Some bee had stung it newly.
But (Dick) her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on the sun in July.
Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get;
But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.
If wishing shou'd be any sin,
The parson himself had guilty been,
She look'd that day so purely:
And did the youth so oft the feat
At night, as some did in conceit,
It would have spoil'd him, surely.
Passion o'me! how I run on!
There's that that wou'd be thought upon,
I trow, besides the bride:
The bus'ness of the kitchen's great,
For it is fit that men should eat;
Nor was it there denied.
Just in the nick the cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
His summons did obey;
Each serving man with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up, like our train'd band,
Presented and away.
When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated:
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace,
The company were seated.
Now hats fly off, and youths carouse; Healths first go round, and then the house, The brides came thick and thick; And when 'twas named another's health, Perhaps he made it her's by stealth,
And who could help it, Dick?
O' the sudden up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh and glance:
Then dance again and kiss.
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Whilst every woman wish'd her place,
And every man wish'd his.
By this time all were stolen aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know:
But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.
When in he came (Dick) there she lay,
Like new-fal'n snow melting away,
"Twas time, I trow, to part.
Kisses were now the only stay,
Which soon she gave, as who wou'd say,
Good b'ye, with all my heart.
But just as heavens wou'd have to cross it,
In came the bridemaids with the posset;
The bridegroom eat in spite;
For had he left the women to't
It wou'd have cost two hours to do't,
Which were too much that night.
At length the candle's out, and now
All that they had not done, they do!
What that is, who can tell?
But I believe it was no more
Than thou and I have done before
With Bridget and with Nell!
[Born, 1610. Died, 1642.]
SIDNEY GODOLPHIN, who is highly praised by Lord Clarendon, was the brother of the treasurer
Godolphin. He flourished and perished in the civil wars.
THE FOLLOWING LINES ARE FOUND IN MS. IN MR. MALONE'S COLLECTION.
"Tis affection but dissembled,
Or dissembled liberty.
To pretend thy passion changed
With changes of thy mistress' eye,
Following her inconstancy.
Hopes, which do from favour flourish,
May perhaps as soon expire
As the cause which did them nourish,
And disdain'd they may retire;
But love is another fire.
For if beauty cause thy passion,
If a fair resistless eye
Melt thee with its soft expression,
Then thy hopes will never die,
Nor be cured by cruelty.
"Tis not scorn that can remove thee,
For thou either wilt not see
Such loved beauty not to love thee,
Or will else consent that she
Judge not as she ought of thee.
Thus thou either canst not sever
Hope from what appears so fair,
Or, unhappier, thou canst never
Find contentment in despair,
Nor make love a trifling care. There are seen but few retiring
Steps in all the paths of love, Made by such who in aspiring Meeting scorn their hopes remove; Yet even these ne'er change their love
[Born, 1611. Died, 1643.]
WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT was the son of an innkeeper at Cirencester, who had been reduced to that situation by spending a good estate. He was a king's scholar at Westminster, and took orders at Oxford, where he became, says Wood, "a most florid and seraphic preacher." Bishop Duppa, his intimate friend, appointed him succentor of the church of Salisbury in 1642. In the same year he was one of the council of war, or delegacy, appointed by the University of Oxford, for providing troops sent by the king to protect, or as the opposite party alleged, to overawe the universities. His zeal in this service occasioned his being imprisoned by the parliamentary
ON THE DEATH OF SIR BEVIL GRENVILLE.
NOT to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride,
To a compliance with the thriving side:
Not to take arms for love of change, or spite,
But only to maintain afflicted right;
Not to die vainly in pursuit of fame,
Perversely seeking after voice and name;
Is to resolve, fight, die, as martyrs do,
And thus did he, soldier and martyr too. . . . .
When now th' incensed legions proudly came
Down like a torrent without bank or dam:
When undeserved success urged on their force;
That thunder must come down to stop their course,
Or Grenville must step in; then Grenville stood,
And with himself opposed, and check'd the flood.
Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire
Either o'ercomes, or doth itself expire:
His courage work'd like flames, cast heat about,
Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out;
Not any pike in that renowned stand,
But took new force from his inspiring hand:
Soldier encouraged soldier, man urged man,
And he urged all; so much example can;
Hurt upon hurt, wound upon wound did call,
He was the butt, the mark, the aim of all:
His soul this while retired from cell to cell,
At last flew up from all, and then he fell.
But the devoted stand enraged more
From that his fate, plied hotter than before,
And proud to fall with him, sworn not to yield,
Each sought an honour'd grave, so gain'd the field.
Thus he being fallen, his action fought anew:
And the dead conquer'd, whiles the living slew.
This was not nature's courage, not that thing
We valour call, which time and reason bring;
But a diviner fury, fierce and high,
Valour transported into ecstasy,
Which angels, looking on us from above,
Use to convey into the souls they love.
You now that boast the spirit, and its sway,
Show us his second, and we'll give the day:
We know your politic axiom, lurk, or fly;
Ye cannot conquer, 'cause you dare not die:
forces on their arrival; but he was speedily released on bail. Early in the year 1643 he was appointed junior proctor of his university, and also reader in metaphysics. The latter office we may well suppose him to have filled with ability, as, according to Lloyd's account, he studied at the rate of sixteen hours a day : but he survived his appointment to it for a very short time, being carried off by a malignant fever, called the camp-disease, which was then epidemical at Oxford. Cartwright died in his thirty-second year; but he lived long enough to earn the distinguishing praise of Ben Jonson, who used to say of him, "My son, Cartwright, writes all like a man."
And though you thank God that you lost none there, 'Cause they were such who lived not when they
Yet your great general (who doth rise and fall,
As his successes do, whom you dare call,
As fame unto you doth reports dispense,
Either a
or his excellence)
Howe'er he reigns now by unheard-of laws,
Could wish his fate together with his cause.
And thou (blest soul) whose clear compacted fame,
As amber bodies keeps, preserves thy name,
Whose life affords what doth content both eyes,
Glory for people, substance for the wise,
Go laden up with spoils, possess that seat
To which the valiant, when they've done, retreat:
And when thou seest an happy period sent
To these distractions, and the storm quite spent,
Look down and say, I have my share in all,
Much good grew from my life, much from my fall.
WHERE is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the veil'd god throws?
O let him tell me ere I die
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly:
Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold, or lead,
Quicken, or dull the head:
I will anoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heal the harm.
Fond that I am to ask! whoe'er
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of human eye
These arrows (as their ways are) fly:
The flights of angels part
Not air with so much art;
And snows on streams, we may
Say, louder fall than they.
So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.
|