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tanzbt bim better.
, that he first seduces to sin, and then Thorow, I hear you. Pray, go on. beirass to punishment.
[Exit Blunt. Mill. I have been informed he had a violent Mill. They disapprove of my conduct then. passion for her, and she for him; but till now My ruin is resolved. I see my danger, but I always thought it innocent. I know her stocu both it and them. I was not born to poor, and given to expensive pleasures. Now, fali by such weak instruments.
[Going. who can tell but she may have influenced the
amorous youth to commit this murder, to supEnter THOROWGOOD.
ply her extravagancies.-It must be so. I now Thorow, Where is the scandal of her own recollect a thousand circumstances that conses, and curse of ours?
firm it. I'll have her, and a man-servant whom Mill. What means this insolence? Whom I súspect as an accomplice, secured immediado you seek for?
[Offers to go. Thurns, Gilwood!
Thorow. Madam, you pass not this way. Mil . Well
, you bave found her then, I am I see your design, but shall protect them from Müllrood!
Tharoo. Then you are the most impious Mill. I hope you will not use your influwretch that e'er the sun beheld !
ence, and the credit of your name, to screen Mill. From your appearance I should have such guilty wretches. Consider, sir, the wickexpected wisdom and moderation: but your edness of persuading a ihoughiless youth to manners belie your aspect. What is your such a crime! business bere? I know you nota,
Thorow. I do—and of betraying him when Therew. Hereafter you may know me bet- it was done. ter. I an Barnwell's master.
Mill. That which you call betraying bim, Malīben you are master to a villain; may convince you of my innocence. She wtich, I think, is not much to your credit. who loves him, though she contrived the mur
Thorou. Had be been as much above thy der, would never have delivered him into the
. My arts! I don't understand you, sir. Thorow. How should an unexperienced i be bas done amiss, what's that to me? Was youth escape her snares? Even I, that with be my servant, or yours? You should have just prejudice came prepared, had by her art
ful story been deceived, but that my strong Thuroa. Why should I wonder to find such conviction of her guilt makes even a doubt uncommon impudence in one arrived to such a impossible. [Aside) Those whom subtilely you beigti of wicho dness? Know, sorceress, I'm not would accuse, you know are your accusers; ignorant of any of the arts by which you first and, which proves unanswerably their innoCereived the unwary youth. I know how, step cence and your guilt, they accused you before bu, step, you've led him on, reluctant and un- the deed was done, and did all that was in wung, from crime to crime, to this last horrid their power to prevent it. <d, which you contrived, and by your cursed Mill
. Sir, your are very hard to be conwies eren forced him to commit.
vinced; but I have a proof, wbich, when prowill
, Ha! Lucy has got the advantage, and duced, will silence all objection. [Exit Lillwood. ICT 3xd me first. Unless I can turn the acon, and fix it upon her and Blunt, I am Enter Lucy, TrueMan NT, Officers, etc.
[ Aside. Lucy. Gentlemen, pray place yourselves, Thorow. Flad I known your cruel design some on one side of that door, and some on $73967, it had been prevented. To see you the other; watch her entrance, and act as your eashed, as the law directs, is all that now prudence shall direct you. This way ; [To
"isins. Poor satisfaction!'For“be, innocent Thorowgood] and note her behaviour; I have · se is, compared to you, must suffer too. observed her, she's driven to the last extrem
Wall. I find, sir, we are both unhappy in ity, and is forming some desperate resolur" servants. I was surprised at such ill treat- tion. I guess at her design. **** without cause, from a gentleman of us appearance, and therefore too hastily re- Re-enter Millwood with a Pistol, TrueMAX d'il, for which I ask your pardon. I
secures her. perceive you have been so far imposed True. Ilcre thy power of doing mischief 15 to think me engaged in a former cor- ends, deceitful, cruel, bloody woman! loadence with your servant, and some way Mill. Fool, hypocrite, villain, man! Thou ter accessary to his undoing.
canst not call me that. Izarow. I charge you as the cause, the
True. To call thee woman were to wrong rause of all his guilt, and all his suffer- thy sex, thou devil! : all he now endures, and must endure, Mill. That imaginary being is an emblem
a violent and shameful death shall put a of thy cursed sex collected. A mirror, where -vul period to his life and miseries together. in each particular man may see his own like
Ill. 'Tis very strange! But who's 'secure ness, and that of all mankind. "! Brandal and detraction? So far from Thorow. Think not by aggravating the faulls
ributing to his ruin, I never spoke to him of others, to extenuate ihy own, of which the icace this fatal accident, which I lament as abuse of such uncommon perfections of mind #vias you. Tis true I have a servant, on whose and body is not the least. sat he hath of late frequented my house.
Mill. If such I had, well may I curse your Las abused my good opinion of her, am I to barbarous sex, who robbed me of 'em erc I "las not Barnwell done the same by you? knew their worth; then left me, too late, to count their value by their loss.—Another, and Thorow. These are the genuine signs of another spoiler came, and all my gain was true repentance; the only preparatory, the cerpoverty and reproach. My soul disdained, and tain way to everlasting peace. yet disdains, dependence and contempt. Rich- Barn. What do I owe for all your genees, no matter by what means obtained, I rous kindness? But though I cannot, heaven saw secured the worst of men from both; I can and will reward you. found it therefore necessary to be rich, and Thorow. To see thee thus, is joy too great to that end I summoned all my arts. You for words. Farewell.—Heaven strengthen thee! call 'em wicked; be it so; they were such as-Farewell. my conversation with your sex had furnished Barn. Oh, sir, there's something I would me withal.
say, if my sad swelling heart would give me leave. Thorow. Sure none but the worst of men Thorow. Give it vent awhile, and try. conversed with thee!
Barn. I had a friend-'tis true I am unMill. Men of all degrees, and all profes- worthy-yet methinks your generous example sions, I have known, yet found no difference, might persuade. Could I not see him once, but in their several capacities; all were alike, before I go from wbence there's no return? wicked to the utmost of their power. What Thorow. He's coming, and as much tby are your laws of which you make your boast, friend as ever. I will not anticipate his sorbut the fool's wisdom, and the coward's va- row; too soon he'll see the sad effects of this lour, the instrument and screen of all your contagious ruin. - This torrent of domestic villanies? By them you punish in others what misery bears too hard upon me. I must reyou act yourselves, or would have acted, had tire, to indulge a weakness I find impossible you been in their circumstances. The judge; to overcome. [ Aside] Much loved – and much who condemns the poor man for being a thief, lamented youth!- Farewell. -- Heaven strengthhad been a thief himself had be been poor.- en thee! — Eternally farewell. Thus you go on deceiving and deceived, har- Barn. The best of masters, and of men, rassing, plaguing, and destroying one another. Farewell. While I live let me not want your But women are your universal prey:
prayers. Women, by whom you are, the source of horow. Thou shalt not. Thy peace being joy,
made with heaven, death is already vanquished. With cruel arts you labour to destroy: Bear a little longer the pains that attend this A thousand ways our ruin you pursue, transitory life, and cease from pain fo rever. Yet blame in us those arts first taught by
Barn. Perhaps I shall. I find a power withOh, may from hence each violated maid, in, that bears my soul above the fears o By flattering, faithless, barb'rous man be-death, and, spite of conscious shame and guilt tray'd,
gives me a taste of pleasure more than mortal When robb'd of innocence and virgin fame, From your destruction raise a nobler name,
Enter TRUEMAN. To avenge their sex' wrongs devote their mind, Barn. Trueman!—My friend, whom I s And future Millwood's prove to plague man- wished to see; yet, now he's here, I dare no kind. Exeunt. look upon him.
[Weeps True. Oh, Barnwell, Barnwell! ACT V.
Barn. Mercy ! mercy! gracious heaven! Fo Scene I.-A Dungeon, a Table, and a Lamp.
death, but not for this was I prepared.
True. What have I suffered since I sas BARNWELL reading.
thee last!--What pain has absence given me Enter THOROWGOOD, at a Distance.
—But oh, to see thee thus ! Thorow. There see the bitter fruits of pas- Barn. I know it is dreadful! I feel the ar sion's detested reign, and sensual appetite 'in- guish of thy generous soul:—But I was bor dulged: severe reflections, penitence, and tears. to murder all who love me. [Both weep
Barn. My honoured, injured master, whose True. I come not to reproach you; I thoug goodness has covered me a thousand times to bring you comfort. Oh, had you truste with shame, forgive this last unwilling disre- me when first the fair seducer tempted yo spect. Indeed I saw you not.
all might bave been prevented. Thorow. 'Tis well; I hope you are better Barn. Alas, thou kuowest not what a wret employed in viewing of yourself; your jour- I've been. Breach of friendship was my fu ney's long, your time for preparation almost and least offence. So far was I lost to goo spent. I sent a reverend divine to teach you ness, so devoted to the author of my ru to improve it, and should be glad to hear of that had she insisted on my murdering thee bis success.
I think I should have done it. Barn. The word of truth, which he recom- True. Pr'ytbee aggravate thy faults no mo mended for my constant companion in this Barn. I think I should! Thus good and iny sad retirement, has at length removed the nerous as you are, I should have murde doubts I laboured under. From thence I have you! learned the infinite extent of heavenly mercy. True. We have not yet embraced, and How shall I describe my present state of mind? be interrupted. Come io my arms. I hope in doubt, and trembling I rejoice; Bain. Never, never will taste such i feel my grief increase, even as my fears give on earth ; never will I sooth my just remo way. 'Joy and gratitude now supply more Are those honest arms and faithful bosom tears than the horror and anguish of despair to embrace and support a murderer? Th before.
iron fetters only shall clasp, and flinty pa
True. I come.
ment bear me ; [Throwing himself on the per guest, the abandoned and lost Maria brings Ground) even these are too good for such a despair, and sees the subject and the cause of bloody monster,
all this world of woe. Silent and motionless True. Shall fortune sever those whom he stands, as if his soul bad quitted her abode, friendship joined? Thy miseries cannot lay and the lifeless form alone was left behind. ibee so low, but love will find thee. Here will Barn. I groan, but murmur not. Just heawe offer to stern calamily; this place the altar, ven! I am your own; do with me what you please. and ourselves the sacrifice. Our mutual groans Maria. Why are your streaming eyes still shall echo to each other through the dreary fix'd below, as though thou’dst give the grcedy rault; our sighs shall number the moments as earth thy sorrows, and rob me of my due ? they pass; and mingling tears communicate such Were happiness within your power, you anguish
, as words were never made to express. should bestow it where you pleased; but in Barn. Then be it so. (Rising] Since you your misery I must and will partake. propose an intercourse of woe, pour all your Barn, Oh, say not so; but 'fly, abhor, and griefs into my breast, and in exchange take leave me to my fate. Consider what you are, mine. (Embracing] Where's now the an- So shall I quickly be to you—as though I had guish that you promised? Oh, take, take some never been. of the joy that overflows iny breast!
Maria. When I forget you, I must be so True. I do, I do. Almighty Power! how indeed. Reason, choice, virtue, all forbid it. bast thou made us capable to bear at once the Let women, like Millwood, if there are more extremes of pleasure and of pain!
such women, smile in prosperity, and in ad
versity forsake. Be it ihe pride of virtuc to Enter Keeper.
repair, or to partake, the ruin such have made. Keep. Sir.
True. Lovely, ill-fated maid!
[Erit Keeper. Maria. Yes, fruitless is my love, and unaBarn. Must you leave me?"Death would railing all my sighs and tears. Can they save soon bare parted us for ever.
thee from approaching death ?—from such a True. Oh, my Barnwell, there's yet another death?—Oh, sorrow insupportable! task behind. Again your heart must bleed for Barn. Preserve her, heaven, and restore her
peace, nor let her death be added to my crimes ! Barn. To meet and part with you, I thought|--[Bell tolls]—I'm summoned to my fate. was all I had to do on earth. What is there more for me to do or suffer ?
Re-enter Keeper. True. I dread to tell thee, yet it must be Keep. Sir, the officers attend
is already summoned. Barn. Our master's fair and virtuous daugh- Barn. Tell 'em I'm ready. [Erit Keeper] ter?
And now, my friend, farewell." [Embracing
Support and comfort, the best you can, this Barn. No misfortune, I hope, has reached mourning fair.- No more-Forget not to pray that maid! Preserve her, heaven, from every for me.
e.—[ Turning to María]-Would you, iil, to show mankind that goodness is your care! bright excellence, permit me the honour of
True. Thy, thy misfortunes, my unhappy chaste embrace, the last happiness this world friend, have reached her ear. Whatever you could give were mine.-[She inclines towards and I bave felt, and more, if more be possi- him; they embrace] Exalted goodness! Oh, ble, she feels for you.
turn your eyes from earth and me to heaven, Barn. This is indeed the bitterness of death. where virtue like yours is ever heard. Pray
[ Aside. for the peace of my departing soul! Early my True. You must remember (for we all ob- race of wickedness began, and soon I reached served it), for some time past, a heavy me- the summit
. Thus justice, in compassion to lancholy weighed her down. Disconsolate she mankind, cuts off a wretch like me; by one seemed, and pined and languished from a such example to secure thousands from future czase unknown; till hearing of your dreadful ruin. late , the long stifled flame blazed out, and in If
in future times the transport of her grief discovered her own Shall mourn my fate, though he abhors my last state, while she lamented yours.
crimes; Barn. [Weeping] Why did not you let Or tender maid, like you, my tale shall bear, me die, and never know it?
And to my sorrows give a pitying, tear; True. It was impossible.
She makes no To each such melting eye and throbbing heart, secret of her passion for you; she is deter- Would gracious heaven this benefit impart: mined to see you ere you die, and waits for Never to know my guilt, nor feel my pain, a to introduce her.
: Then must you own, you ought not to Barn. Vain, busy thoughts, be still! What zvails it to think on what I might have been? Since you nor weep, nor I shall die in vain. I am now what I've made myself,
True. In vain Re-enter TRUEMAN, with Maria. With bleeding hearts, and weeping eyes, we True. Madam, reluctant I lead you to this
show Gismal scene. This is the seat of misery and A humane, gen'rous sense of others woe, Full Here awful justice reserves her public Unless we mark what drew their ruin on, fictites. This is the entrance to a shameful death. And, by avoiding that, prevent our own. Naria. To this sad place then, no impro- [The Curtain descends to slow Music,
True. The same.
any youth, like
MASSINGER This excellent poet was son to Mr. Philip Massinger, a gentleman, who had some employment under the Ear] of Pembroke, in whose service he died, after having spent several happy years in his family. Our author was born at Salisbury, in queen Elizabeth's reign, anno 1584, and at the age of 18, was entered a fellow-commoner of Alban Hall, in Oxford; in which station be remained three or four years, in order to complete his edacation, yet, though ho was encouraged in the pursuit of his studies by his father's patron, the Earl of Pembroke, the natural bent of his genius lead him moch more to poetry and polite literature, than to the dryer and more abstruse studies of logic and philosophy: being impatient for an opportunity of moving in a more public sphere of action, and improving poetical fancy and his knowledge of the belles lettres, by conversation with the world, and an intercourse with men of wit and genius; he quitted the universitywithout taking any degree, and came to London, where, applying himself to writing for the stage, he presently rose into high reputation ; his plays meeting with universal approbation, both for the purity of their style, and the ingenuity and oeconomy of their plois. “ Those who are anacquainted with Massinger's writings," says the Biographia Dramatica, “ will, perhaps be surprised to find us placing him in an equal rank with Beaumont and Fletcher, and the imnsortal Ben; but we flatter purselves that, upon a perusal of his plays, their astonishment will cease, that they will acquiesce with our opinion, and think themselves obliged to us, for pointing out so vast a treasury of entertainment and delight.” Massinger has certainly equal invention, equal ingenuity, in the conduct of his plots, and an equal knowledge of character and nature, with Beaumont and Fleteher; and if it should be objected, that he has less of the vis comica, it will sarciy be allowed, that that deficiency is amply made amends for by that purity and decorum which he has preserved, and a rejection of that looseness and obscenity which runs through most of their comedies.
As to Ben Jonson, we shall readily allow that he excels this author with respect to the stadied accuracy and classical correctness of his style ; yet Massinger has so greatly the superiority over him in fire, pathos, and the fancy and management of his plots, that we cannot help thinking the balance stands pretty even between them. Though his pieces bespeak him a man of the first-rale abilities, and well qualified both as to learning and a most perfect acquaintance with the methods of dramatic writing, yet he was at the same time a person of the most consummate modesty, which rendered him extremely beloved by all his contemporary poets, few of whom but esteemed it as an honour to join with him in the composition of their works. He died in 1659, some say 69.
THE DUKE OF MILAN. ACTED at Black Friars, 1623. The plot is taken partly from Guicciardini, book 8, and partly from Josephus's History of the Jews, book 15, ch. 4, where will be found the story of Herod's leaving orders with his uncle Joseph to put his beloved wife Mariamne to death ; from which the instructions given by Sforza to his favourite Francisco, for the murder of the Duchess Marcelia, his wife, seem evidently borrowed. This piece was altered, and produced at Covent Garden, by Mr. Cumberland, in 1799, but the additions made to it, from Fenton's Muriamne, rather injured than improved the play, and it was acted only two or three times. In its present state it was reproduced at Drury Lane, March 9, 1816; and from its recep promises to be a long and lasting favourite, Massinger seems to have been buried in obscurity, and forgotten among the number of writers of the same period, whose names were not worth calling forth from the cavern of oblivion; but when we consider, how long many of those pieces, even of the immortal Shakspeare himself, which are now the greatest ornament of the stage, lay neglected, although they wanted nothing but a judicious pruning of some few luxuriancies, some little straggling branches, which overhang the fairer flowers, and hid some of the choicest fruits, it is the less to be wondered at, that this author who thoughi second, stands no more than second to him, should share for a while the same destiny. Thus has this precious gem been once more presented to an admiring audience, the modern taste demanding a different dress to that of former years; and the few judicious alterations which have taken place in it, haye fitted it to shine in all its lustre.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE. LUDOVICO SFORZA. GRACCHO.
perial Camp near Pavia; the rest of the Play, in Milan and its Neighbourhood.
Julio. But think you 'tis a fault
To be found sober?
Grac. It is capital treason;
Forty crowns to the poor; but give a pensior Grac. Take every man his Nagon; give To all the magistrates you find singing catches the oath
Or their wives dancing; for the courtier: To all you meet; I am this day the state drunkard,
reeling I am sure against my will; and if you find And the duke himself, I dare not say dis A man at ten that's sober, he's a traitor,
temper'd, And, in my name, arrest him.
But kind, and in his iottering chair carousins Julio. Very good, sir;
They do the country service. But say he be à sexton ?
And so, dear friends, co-partners in my travails Grac. If the bells
Drink hard; and let the health run throug Ring out of tune, as if the streets were burning, And he cry, “'Tis rare nusic!” bid him Until it reel again, and with me cry, sleep;
" Long live the duíchess!" Tis a sign he has ta'en his liquor: and if you
Enter Tiberio and STEPHANO. meet An officer preaching of sobriety,
Julio. Here are two lords! what think yor Unless he read it in Gencra spirit,
Shall we give the oath to them? Lay him by the heels.
Grac. Fie! no; I know them:
You need not swear them; your lord, by his Are these loud triumphs ? in my weak opipatent,
nion, Stands bound to take his rouse. Long live They are unseasonable. the dutchess!
Tib. I judge so too; [E.reunt Graccho, Julio, and Giovanni. But only in the cause to be excus'd. Steph. The cause of this? but yesterday the It is the dutchess' birth-day, once a year court
Solemniz'd with all pomp and ceremony; Wore the sad livery of distrust and fear; In which the duke is not his own, but bers: Jo smile, not in a buffoon, to be seen, Nay, every day, indeed, he is her creature; Or common jester: the great duke himself For never man so doted, Had sorrow in bis face; wbich, waited on Steph. She knows it, By bis mother, sister, and his fairest dutchess, And how to prize it. Dispersed a silent mourning through all Milan Tib. She bear's herself with such a majesty, As it some great blow had been given the state, That Sforza's mother, that would lose no part Or were at least expected.
Of what was once her own, nor his fair sister, TB. Stephano,
Will brook it well. I know as you are noble, you are honest, Come, let us to the court; And capable of secrets of more weight We there shall see all bravery and cost Than now I sball deliver. If that Sforza, That art can boast of. The present duke (though his whole life bath Steph. I'll bear you company. [Exeunt.
been But one continual pilgrimage through dangers,
Scene II.-Another Room in the same. Al rights, and borrors, which his fortune, Enter Francisco, Isabella, and MARIANA. guided
Mari. I will not go; I scorn to be a spot By bis strong judgment, still bath overcome), In her proud train. Appears now shaken, il deserves no wonder: Isa. Shall I, that am his mother, All that his youth bath labour'd for, the harvesi Be so indulgent as to wait on her Sowa by bis industry ready to be reap'd too, That owes me duty ? Being now at stake; and all his hopes con- Fran. 'Tis done to the duke, firm'd
And not to her; and, my sweet wise, reOr lost for ever.
member, Steph. I know no such hazard :
And, madam, if you please, receive my counsel, llis guards are strong and sure, and though As Sforza is your son, you may command war rages
him; In most parts of our western world, there is And, as a sister, you may challenge from So Enemy Dear us.
him Tit. Dangers that we see
A brother's love and favour: but this granted, To tresten rnin, are with ease prevented; Consider he's the prince, and you his subjects, Bul those strike deadly that come unexpected. And not to question or contend with her He wars so long continued between Whom he is pleas'd to honour. Private men Ibe emperor Charles, and Francis, the French Prefer their wives; and shall he, being a prince, king,
And blest with one that is the paradise
is one of greatest power, was sought by both; Isa. You are ever forward
Mari. Others are as fair;
I am sure as noble. Adivas a doubiful choice.
Fran. I detract from none lit. But be, well knowing
In giving her what's due. Were she deformid, La baling !oo, it seems, the Spanish pride, Yet, being the dutchess, I stand bound to 1841 bis assistance to the king of France;
serve her; li lich hath so far incens'd the emperor, But as she is, to admire her. Never wife
all bis hopes and honours are embark'd Met with a purer heat her husband's fervour; rbi his great patron's fortune,
A happy pair, one in the other blest! Steph. Which stands fair,
She confident in herself he's wholly bers, augbt I vel can hear.
And cannot seek for change; and he secure 13. But should it change,
That 'tis not in the power of man to tempt ie duke's undone. They have drawn to the
And therefore to contest with her, that is can roral armies, full of fiery youth, The stronger and the better part of him,
equal spirit to dare, and power to do; Is more than folly: you know him of a nature se ar intrench'd, that 'tis beyond all bope Not to be play'd with; and, should you forget
herzan counsel'they c'er can be severed, To obey him as your prince, he'll not reBisbe determind by the sword
member 5 bath the better cause; for the success The duty that he owes you. xudes the riclor innocent, and the van- Mari. I shall do quish'd
What may become the sister of a prince ; miserable guilty.
But will not stoop beneath it. Si- ptu But why, then,
Fran. Yet, be wise; Bath a time, when every knee should bend Soar not too high, to fall; but sloop, to rise. 1 bae saccess and safety of bis person,