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Set off with glorious honour; thou being bound
To see with my eyes, and to hold that reason

That takes or birth or fashion from my will.
Mal. jun. This sword divides that slavish knot.
Mal. sen. It cannot,

It cannot, wretch; and thou but remember [it.
From whom thou hadst this spirit, thou darest not hope
Who train’d thee up in arms, but I? who taught thee
Men were men only when they durst look down
With scorn on death and danger, and contemn'd
All opposition, till plumed victory
Had made her constant stand upon their helmets ?
Under my shield thou hast fought as securely
As the young eaglet, cover'd with the wings
Of her fierce dam, learns how and where to prey.
All that is manly in thee, I call mine ;
But what is weak and womanish, thine own.
And what I gave (since thou art proud, ungrateful,
Presuming to contend with him, to whom
Submission is due) I will take from thee.
Look therefore for extremities, and expect not
I will correct thee as a son, but kill thee
As a serpent swoln with poison; who surviving
A little longer, with infectious breath,
Would render all things near him, like itself,

Contagious.
Mal. jun. Thou incensed power,

Awhile forbear thy thunder: let me have
No aid in my revenge, if from the grave

My mother
Mal. sen. Thou shalt never name her more

[They

fight, and the son is slain. Mal. sen. Die all my fears,

And waking jealousies, which have so long
Been

my tormentors; there 's now no suspicion:
A fact, which I alone am conscious of,
Can never be discover'd, or the cause
That call'd this duel on; I being above
All perturbations; nor is it in
The

power of fate again to make me wretched.

THE VIRGIN MARTYR: A TRAGEDY,
BY PHILIP MASSINGER AND THOMAS DECKER.

ANGELO, an Angel, attends DOROTHEA as a page.

ANGELO. DOROTHEA. The time, midnight.
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 loved 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-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms,
Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand;
And when 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.
Dor. I have offer'd

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 ashamed.
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 you,
And
pawn
these

eyes upon it, and this hand,
My father is in heaven; and, pretty mistress,
If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand
No worse, than yet it doth, upon my life,
You and I both shall meet my father there,
And he shall bid

you

welcome. Dor. A bless'd day!

[This scene has beauties of so very high an order, that, with all my respect for Massinger, I do not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of furnishing them. His associate Decker, who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for any thing. The very impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of this play (like Satan among the sons of heaven) and which the brief scope of my plan fortunately enables me to leave out, have a streugth of contrast, a raciness, and a glow in them, which are above Massinger. They set off the religion of the rest, somehow as Caliban serves to show Miranda.]

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 BEAU-

MONT, as spectators of the funeral.
Mal. 'Tis strange.
Bearim. 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,
Served and commanded, and so aptly both,
That sometimes he appear'd his father's father,
And never less than his 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 ?
Pont. Certainly,
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, mourn

ers. 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 broughtst 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, Iong 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 bath;
Thy worth in every honest breast builds one,

Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone.
Pont. Sir!
Char. Peace! O peace! This scene is wholly mine-

What! weep you, soldiers ?-blanch not.-Romont
Ha! let me see! my miracle is eased; [weeps.
The jailers and the creditors do weep;
Ev'n 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.
Creditor. Sir!
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.
Priest. On.
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

spurs,
That yet ne'er made his horse run from 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,

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