Set off with glorious honour; thou being bound It cannot, wretch; and thou but remember [it. With scorn on death and danger, and contemn'd Had made her constant stand upon their helmets ? But what is weak and womanish, thine own. Mal. jun. Thou incensed power, Awhile forbear thy thunder: let me have My mother Mal. sen. Thou shalt never name her more Mal. sen. Die all my fears, [They fight, and the son is slain. And waking jealousies, which have so long Been my tormentors; there's now no suspicion : 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. Dor. My book and taper. Ang. Here, most holy mistress. Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never Were every servant in the world like thee, And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest; And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes, Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid 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 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. Dor. I have offer'd Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. Bewitching me so deeply with his presence, Be not ashamed. Ang. I am not: I did never Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace, 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 strength 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 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 And rather choose to want life's necessaries, What years sit on this Charalois ? Beaum. Twenty-eight. For since the clock did strike him seventeen old, Naught but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear. 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, mourners. ROMONT, friend to the deceased. Three creditors are among the spectators. CHARALOIS speaks. Char. How like a silent stream shaded with night, Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds. I thank you for this last and friendly love. And though this country, like a viperous mother, All means of thee, her son, but last thyself, Char. Peace! O peace! This scene is wholly mine— Ev'n they that make us weep, do weep themselves. Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man, With marble pillars, jet and porphyry, Shall quickly both in bone and name consume, Char. What!-away for shame,-you, profane rogues, Rom. Look, look, you slaves! your thankless cruelty, 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, |