Do what thou wilt, 'tis in thy choice; what say ye? Bian. Yes, take it; that, Or what thy heart can wish: I am all thine. Fer. Oh me- -come, come, how many women, pray, Were ever heard or read of, granted love, And did as you protest you will? Bian. Fernando ! Jest not at my calamity: I kneel : By these dishevel'd hairs, these wretched tears, Fer. I must believe ye; yet I hope anon, Bian. No; by the faith I owe my bridal vows : Than all my joys on earth; by this chaste kiss. Fer. You have prevailed: and heaven forbid that I This sacred temple. 'Tis enough for me, Bian. Nay, be thine: Command my power, my bosom, and I'll write This love within the tables of my heart. Fer. Enough: I'll master passion, and triumph In being conquer'd, adding to it this, In you my love as it begun shall end. Bian. The latter I new vow- -but day comes on: What now we leave unfinish'd of content, Each hour shall perfect up. Fer. Best Life, good rest. Sweet, let us part. [Kneels. THE CHRONICLE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK. Perkin Warbeck and his Followers are by Lord Dawbney presented to King Henry as Prisoners. Dawb. Life to the King, and safety fix his throne. I here present you, royal Sir, a shadow Of majesty, but in effect a substance We observe no wonder; I behold ('tis true) A handsome youth indeed, but not admire him. Dawb. From sanctuary At Bewley, near Southampton; registred, With these few followers, for persons privileged. King H. I must not thank you, Sir; you were to blame To infringe the liberty of houses sacred: Dare we be irreligious? Dawb. Gracious Lord, They voluntarily resign'd themselves, Without compulsion. King H. So? 'twas very well; 'Twas very well. Turn now thine eyes, Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt Warb. But not my heart: my my heart Will mount, till every drop of blood be frozen There was a shooting in of light, when Richmond Dawb. Whither speeds his boldness ? King H. O let him range: The player's on the stage still; 'tis his part: Warb. Bosworth field: Where at an instant, to the world's amazement, King H. A pretty gallant! thus your Aunt of Burgundy, Your Duchess Aunt, inform'd her nephew; so The lesson prompted, and well conn'd, was moulded Into familiar dialogue, oft rehears'd, Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now received for truth. Warb. Truth in her pure simplicity wants art To put a feigned blush on; scorn wears only By which the sovereign is best distinguish'd King H. Sirrah, shift Your antick pageantry, and now appear In your own nature; or you'll taste the danger Of fooling out of season. Warb. I expect No less than what severity calls justice, And politicians safety; let such beg, As feed on alms: but if there can be mercy Descend to these poor creatures,* whose engagements Flow from some noble orator, in death King H. So brave? What a bold knave is this! We trifle time with follies. Urswick, command the Dukeling, and these fellows, Warb. Noble thoughts Meet freedom in captivity. The Tower : Our childhood's dreadful nursery! King H. Was ever so much impudence in forgery? The custom sure of being styl'd a King, Hath fast'ned in his thoughts that he is such. Warbeck is led to his Death. Oxford. Look ye, behold your followers, appointed To wait on ye in death. Warb. Why, Peers of England, We'll lead 'em on courageously. I read A triumph over tyranny upon Their several foreheads. Faint not in the moment Of victory our ends, and Warwick's head, Innocent Warwick's head (for we are prologue But to his tragedy), conclude the wonder Of Henry's fears: and then the glorious race. * His Followers. Of fourteen kings Plantagenets, determines In this last issue male. Heaven be obey'd. Death! pish, 'tis but a sound; a name of air ; By some physicians for a month or two, Shall blaze our names, and style us Kings o'er Death. "TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE: A TRAGEDY, BY JOHN FORD. Giovanni, a Young Gentleman of Parma, entertains an illicit love fur his Sister. He asks counsel of Bonaventura, a Friar.* FRIAR. GIOVANNI. Friar. Dispute no more in this, for know, young man, These are no school-points; nice philosophy May tolerate unlikely arguments, But heaven admits no jests! wits that presumed * The good Friar in this Play is evidently a Copy of Friar Lawrence in Romeo and Juliet. He is the same kind Physician to the Souls of his young Charges; but he has more desperate Patients to deal with. |