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devil is, that he first seduces to betrays to punishment.

sin, and then Thorow. I hear you. Pray go on. [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 scorn both it and them. I was not born to poor, and given to expensive pleasures. Now, fall by such weak instruments.


[Going, who can tell but she may have influenced the amorous youth to commit this murder, to sup

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ply her extravagancies.—It must be so. I now

Thorow. Where is the scandal of her own recollect a thousand circumstances that consex, and curse of ours? firm it. I'll have her, and a man-servant whom Mill. What means this insolence? Whom I suspect as an accomplice, secured immediado you seek for? tely.

Thorow. Millwood!

Mill. Well, you have found her then, I am Millwood!

Thorow. Then you are the most impious wretch that e'er the sun beheld!

[Offers to go. Thorow. Madam, you pass not this way. I see your design, but shall protect them from your malice.

Mill. I hope you will not use your influence, 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 thoughtless youth to manners belie your aspect. What is your such a crime! business here? I know you not

Thorow. I do—and of betraying him when

Therow. Hereafter you may know me bet-it was done. ter. I am Barnwell's master.

Mill Then you are master to a villain; which, I think, is not much to your credit. Thorow. Had he been as much above thy arts, as my credit is superior to thy malice, I need not have blushed to own him.


Mill. That which you call betraying him, may convince you of my innocence. who loves him, though she contrived the murder, would never have delivered him into the hands of justice, as I, struck with horror at his crimes, have done.

Mill. My arts! I don't understand you, sir. Thorow. How should an unexperienced If he has done amiss, what's that to me? Was youth escape her snares? Even I, that with he my servant, or yours? You should have just prejudice came prepared, had by her arttaught him better. ful story been deceived, but that my strong Thorow. 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 height of wickedness? 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 innodeceived the unwary youth. I know how, step cence and your guilt, they accused you before by step, you've led him on, reluctant and un- the deed was done, and did all that was in wing, from crime to crime, to this last horrid their power to prevent it.


1, which you contrived, and by your cursed Mill. Sir, your are very hard to be conLes even forced him to commit. vinced; but I have a proof, which, when proMill Ha! Lucy has got the advantage, and duced, will silence all objection. [Exit Millwood. trised me first. Unless I can turn the action, and fix it upon her and Blunt, I am Enter LUCY, TRUEMAN, BLUNT, Officers, etc. [Aside. Lucy. Gentlemen, pray place yourselves, Thorow. Had I known your cruel design some on one side of that door, and some on ger, it had been prevented. To see you the other; watch her entrance, and act as your shed, as the law directs, is all that now prudence shall direct you. This way; [To ins. Poor satisfaction! For he, innocent Thorowgood] and note her behaviour; I have be is, compared to you, must suffer too. observed her; she's driven to the last extremMZ. I find, sir, we are both unhappy in ity, and is forming some desperate resoluar servants. I was surprised at such ill treat- tion. I guess at her design.

without cause, from a gentleman of

secures her.

ar appearance, and therefore too hastily re- Re-enter MILLWOOD with a Pistol, TRUEMAN ed it, for which I ask your pardon. I perceive you have been so far imposed as to think me engaged in a former corondence with your servant, and some way her accessary to his undoing. Thorow. I charge you as the cause, the rause of all his guilt, and all his sufferf 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 period to his life and miseries together. in each particular man may see his own likeTis very strange! But who's secure ne ss, and that of all mankind.

True. Here thy power of doing mischief ends, deceitful, cruel, bloody woman!

Mill. Fool, hypocrite, villain, man! Thou canst not call me that.

True. To call thee woman were to wrong thy sex, thou devil!

scandal and detraction? So far from Thorow. Think not by aggravating the faults ributing to his ruin, I never spoke to him of others, to extenuate thy own, of which the ce this fatal accident, which I lament as abuse of such uncommon perfections of mind as you. Tis true I have a servant, on whose and body is not the least.

the bath of late frequented my house. Mill. If such I had, well may I curse your has abused my good opinion of her, am I to barbarous sex, who robbed me of 'em ere I Has 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, Irous 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 me withal.

Thorow. Sure none but the worst of men conversed with thee!

Barn. Oh, sir, there's something I would say, if my sad swelling heart would give me leave. Thorow. Give it vent awhile, and try. Barn. I had a friend-'tis true I am un

Mill. 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 whence there's no return? wicked to the utmost of their power. What Thorow. He's coming, and as much thy 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 2 Le who condemns the poor man for being a thief, lamented youth!-Farewell. - Heaven strengthhad been a thief himself had he been poor.- en thee!-Eternally farewell. Thus you go on deceiving and deceived, harrassing, plaguing, and destroying one another. But women are your universal prey: Women, by whom you are, the source of joy,

With cruel arts you labour to destroy:
A thousand ways our ruin you pursue,
Yet blame in us those arts first taught by

Oh, may from hence each violated maid,
By flattering, faithless, barb'rous man be-

Barn. The best of masters, and of menFarewell. While I live let me not want your prayers.

Thorow. Thou shalt not. Thy peace being made with heaven, death is already vanquished. Bear a little longer the pains that attend this transitory life, and cease from pain fo rever.


Barn. Perhaps I shall. I find a power within, that bears my soul above the fears o death, and, spite of conscious shame and guilt gives me a taste of pleasure more than mortal Enter TRUEMAN.

When robb'd of innocence and virgin fame,
From your destruction raise a nobler name,
To avenge their sex' wrongs devote their mind, Barn. Trueman!-My friend, whom I st
And future Millwood's prove to plague man-wished to see; yet, now he's here, I dare no
[Exeunt. look upon him.



SCENE I-A Dungeon, a Table, and a Lamp.

BARNWELL reading.

[Weeps True. Oh, Barnwell, Barnwell! Barn. Mercy! mercy! gracious heaven! Fo death, but not for this was I prepared.

True. What have I suffered since I sav thee last!-What pain has absence given me -But oh, to see thee thus!—

Enter THOROWGOOD, at a Distance. Thorow. There see the bitter fruits of pas- Barn. I know it is dreadful! I feel the an 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 wee

Barn. My honoured, injured master, whose True. I come not to reproach you; I though 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 you spect. Indeed I saw you not. all might have been prevented.

Thorow. 'Tis well; I hope you are better Barn. Alas, thou knowest not what a wretc employed in viewing of yourself; your jour- I've been. Breach of friendship was my fur ney's long, your time for preparation almost and least offence. So far was I lost to good spent. I sent a reverend divine to teach you ness, so devoted to the author of my rui to improve it, and should be glad to hear of that had she insisted on my murdering thee I think I should have done it.

his success. Barn. The word of truth, which he recom- True. Pr'ythee aggravate thy faults no mor mended for my constant companion in this Barn. I think I should! Thus good and g my sad retirement, has at length removed the nerous as you are, I should have murder doubts I laboured under. From thence I have you! learned the infinite extent of heavenly mercy. True. We have not yet embraced, and m How shall I describe my present state of mind? be interrupted. Come to my arms. I hope in doubt, and trembling I rejoice; I Barn. Never, never will I taste such j 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 iron fetters only shall clasp, and flinty p


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 had quitted her abode, friendship joined? Thy miseries cannot lay and the lifeless form alone was left behind. thee so low, but love will find thee. Here will Barn. I groan, but murmur not. Just heawe offer to stern calamity; 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 greedy vault; our sighs shall number the moments as earth thy sorrows, and rob me of my due? they pass; a ; 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. Óh, 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 my breast! True. I do, I do. Almighty Power! how hast thou made us capable to bear at once the extremes of pleasure and of pain!

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Barn. To meet and part with you, I thought was all I had to do on earth. What is there more for me to do or suffer?

True. I dread to tell thee, yet it must be known!-Maria

Barn. Our master's fair and virtuous daughter?

Maria. When I forget you, I must be so indeed. Reason, choice, virtue, all forbid it. Let women, like Millwood, if there are more such women, smile in prosperity, and in adversity forsake. Be it the pride of virtue to repair, or to partake, the ruin such have made. True. Lovely, ill-fated maid!

Maria. Yes, fruitless is my love, and unavailing all my sighs and tears. Can they save thee from approaching death?-from such a death?-Oh, sorrow insupportable!

Barn. Preserve her, heaven, and restore her peace, nor let her death be added to my crimes! [Bell tolls]-I'm summoned to my fate.

Re-enter Keeper.

Keep. Sir, the officers attend you. Millwood is already summoned.

Barn. Tell 'em I'm ready. [Exit Keeper] And now, my friend, farewell. [Embracing] True. The same. 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.-[Turning to Maria]-Would you, ill, to show mankind that goodness is your care! bright excellence, permit me the honour of a 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 have 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 cause unknown; till hearing of your dreadful fate, the long stifled flame blazed out, and in the transport of her grief discovered her own last state, while she lamented yours.

Barn. [Weeping] Why did not you let me die, and never know it?

True. It was impossible. She makes no secret of her passion for you; she is determined to see you ere you die, and waits for me to introduce her. [Exit.

Barn. Vain, busy thoughts, be still! What avails it to think on what I might have been? m now what I've made myself,



If any youth, like you, in future times
Shall mourn my fate, though he abhors my


Or tender maid, like you, my tale shall hear,
And to my sorrows give a pitying tear;
To each such melting eye and throbbing heart,
Would gracious heaven this benefit impart:
Never to know my guilt, nor feel my pain,
Then must you own you ought not to
Since you nor weep, nor I shall die in vain.
[Exit Barnwell.

True. In vain

With bleeding hearts, and weeping eyes, we


Re-enter TRUEMAN, with MARIA. True. Madam, reluctant I lead you to this dismal scene. This is the seat of misery and A humane, gen'rous sense of others woe, ul. Here awful justice reserves her public Unless we mark what drew their ruin on, victims. This is the entrance to a shameful death. And, by avoiding that, prevent our own. Maria. To this sad place then, no impro- [The Curtain descends to slow Music,


THIS excellent poet was son to Mr. Philip Massinger, a gentleman, who had some employment under the Earl 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 he remained three or four years, in order to complete his education, yet, though he 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 much 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 his 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 university without 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 plots. "Those who are unacquainted with Mas singer'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 immortal Ben; but we flatter ourselves 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 Fletcher; and if it should be objected, that he has less of the vis comica, it will surely 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 studied 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-rate 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.


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 Mariamne, 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 reception 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 though 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, have fitted it to shine in all its lustre,

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SCENE. For the first and second Acts, in MILAN; during part of the third, in the Imperial Camp near PAVIA; the rest of the Play, in MILAN and its Neighbourhood.


SCENE I-An outer Room in the Cas le.

Julio. But think you 'tis a fault
To be found sober?

Grac. It is capital treason;

Enter GRACCHO, JULIO, and GIOVANNI, with Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay


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To all you meet; I am this day the state drunkard,
I am sure against my will; and if you find
A man at ten that's sober, he's a traitor,
And, in my name, arrest him.

Julio. Very good, sir;

But say he be a sexton?

Grac. If the bells

Forty crowns to the poor; but give a pension
To all the magistrates you find singing catches
Or their wives dancing; for the courtier:


And the duke himself, I dare not say dis

But kind, and in his tottering chair carousing
They do the country service.

And so, dear friends, co-partners in my travail
Drink hard; and let the health run throug
the city,

Ring out of tune, as if the streets were burning,
And he cry, Tis rare music!" bid him Until it reel again, and with me cry,
"Long live the dutchess!"


Tis a sign he has ta'en his liquor: and if you


An officer preaching of sobriety,
Unless he read it in Geneva spirit,
Lay him by the heels.

Julio. Here are two lords! what think yo
Shall we give the oath to them?
Grac. Fie! no; I know them :

You need not swear them; your lord, by his Are these loud triumphs? in my weak opinion,

patent, the dutchess!

Stands bound to take his rouse. Long live

They are unseasonable.
Tib. I judge so too;

But only in the cause to be excus'd,

[Exeunt Graccho, Julio, and Giovanni. Steph. The cause of this? but yesterday the It is the dutchess' birth-day, once a year

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I know as you are noble, you are honest,
And capable of secrets of more weight
Than now I shall deliver. If that Sforza,
The present duke (though his whole life hath

But one continual pilgrimage through dangers,
Affrights, and horrors, which his fortune,


Solemniz'd with all pomp and ceremony;
In which the duke is not his own, but hers:
Nay, every day, indeed, he is her creature;
For never man so doted.

Steph. She knows it,
And how to prize it.

Tib. She bear's herself with such a majesty, That Sforza's mother, that would lose no part Of what was once her own, nor his fair sister, Will brook it well.

Come, let us to the court;

We there shall see all bravery and cost
That art can boast of

Steph. I'll bear you company.


SCENE II.-Another Room in the same.
Mari. I will not go; I scorn to be a spot

By his strong judgment, still hath overcome), In her proud train.
Appears now shaken, it deserves no wonder: Isa. Shall I, that am his mother,
All that his youth hath labour'd for, the harvest Be so indulgent as to wait on her
Sown by his 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,

Or lost for ever.


Steph. I know no such hazard:

Ilis guards are strong and sure, and though

war rages

In most parts of our western world, there is No enemy near us.

Tib. Dangers that we see

To threaten ruin, are with ease prevented;
But those strike deadly that come unexpected.
The wars so long continued between

The emperor Charles, and Francis, the French king,

Have interest'd, in either's cause, the most
Di the Italian princes; among which, Sforza,
As one of greatest power, was sought by both;
hat with assurance, having one his friend,
The other lived his enemy.
Steph. Tis true;

And 'twas a doubtful choice.

Tb. But be, well knowing

And nating too, it seems, the Spanish pride, Lent bis assistance to the king of France;

ich hath so far incens'd the emperor, That all his hopes and honours are embark'd Win his great patron's fortune,

Steph. Which stands fair, For aught I yet can hear.

Ts. But should it change,

The duke's undone. They have drawn to the field

o royal armies, full of fiery youth, equal spirit to dare, and power to do; ear intrench'd, that 'tis beyond all hope 1 human counsel they e'er can be severed, til it be determin'd by the sword Win hath the better cause; for the success cudes the victor innocent, and the vanquish'd

at miserably guilty. Steph. But why, then,

sach a time, when every knee should bend the success and safety of his person,

And not to her; and, my sweet wife, re

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A brother's love and favour: but this granted,
Consider he's the prince, and you his subjects,
And not to question or contend with her
Whom he is pleas'd to honour. Private men
Prefer their wives; and shall he, being a prince,
And blest with one that is the paradise
Of sweetness, and of beauty,
Not use her like herself?

Isa. You are ever forward
To sing her praises.

Mari. Others are as fair; I am sure as noble.

Fran. I detract, from none

In giving her what's due. Were she deform'd, Yet, being the dutchess, I stand bound to serve her;

But as she is, to admire her. Never wife
Met with a purer heat her husband's fervour;
A happy pair, one in the other blest!

She confident in herself he's wholly hers,
And cannot seek for change; and he secure
That 'tis not in the power of man to tempt

And therefore to contest with her, that is
The stronger and the better part of him,
Is more than folly: you know him of a nature
Not to be play'd with; and, should you forget
To obey him as your prince, he'll not re-


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