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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 44015 ***

  THE FATAL DOWRY

  BY

  PHILIP MASSINGER AND
  NATHANIEL FIELD

  EDITED, FROM THE ORIGINAL QUARTO,
  WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES

  A DISSERTATION

  PRESENTED TO THE
  FACULTY OF PRINCETON UNIVERSITY
  IN CANDIDACY FOR THE DEGREE
  OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

  BY
  CHARLES LACY LOCKERT, JR.

  ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, KENYON COLLEGE

  PRESS OF
  THE NEW ERA PRINTING COMPANY
  LANCASTER, PA.

  1918

  Accepted by the Department of English, June, 1916




PREFACE


This critical edition of _The Fatal Dowry_ was undertaken as a Thesis
in partial fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Ph.D. at
Princeton University. It was compiled under the guidance and direction
of Professor T. M. Parrott of that institution, and every page of
it is indebted to him for suggestion, advice, and criticism. I can
but inadequately indicate the scope of his painstaking and scholarly
supervision, and can even less adequately express my appreciation of
his ever-patient aid, which alone made this work possible.

I desire also to acknowledge my debt to Professor J. Duncan Spaeth
of Princeton University, for his valuable suggestions in regard to
the presentation of my material, notably in the Introduction; also to
Professor T. W. Baldwin of Muskingum College and Mr. Henry Bowman,
both of them then fellow graduate students of mine at Princeton, for
assistance on several occasions in matters of special inquiry; and to
Dr. M. W. Tyler of the Princeton Department of History for directing me
in clearing up a lego-historical point; and finally to the libraries of
Yale and Columbia Universities for their kind loan of needed books.




INTRODUCTION


In the Stationer’s Register the following entry is recorded under the
date of “30º Martij 1632:”

  CONSTABLE Entred for his copy vnder the hands of Sir HENRY HERBERT
    and master _SMITHWICKE_ warden a Tragedy called _the ffatall
    Dowry_.    Vj d.

In the year 1632 was published a quarto volume whose title-page was
inscribed: _The Fatall Dowry_: a Tragedy: As it hath been often Acted
at the Private House in Blackfriars, by his Majesties Servants.
Written by P. M. and N. F. London, Printed by John Norton, for Francis
Constable, and are to be sold at his shop at the Crane, in Pauls
Churchyard. 1632.

That the initials by which the authors are designated stand for Philip
Massinger and Nathaniel Field is undoubted.


LATER TEXTS

There is no other seventeenth century edition of _The Fatal Dowry_. It
was included in various subsequent collections, as follows:

I. _The Works of Philip Massinger_--edited by Thomas Coxeter,
1759--re-issued in 1761, with an introduction by T. Davies.

II. _The Dramatic Works of Philip Massinger_--edited by John Monck
Mason, 1779.

III. _The Plays of Philip Massinger_--edited by William Gifford, 1805.
There was a revised second edition in 1813, which is still regarded as
the Standard Massinger Text, and was followed in subsequent editions of
Gifford.

IV. _Modern British Drama_--edited by Sir Walter Scott, 1811. The text
of this reprint of _The Fatal Dowry_ is Gifford’s.

V. _Dramatic Works of Massinger and Ford_--edited by Hartley Coleridge,
1840 (_et seq._). This follows the text of Gifford.

VI. _The Plays of Philip Massinger._ From the Text of William Gifford.
With the Addition of the Tragedy Believe as You List. Edited by Francis
Cunningham, 1867 (_et seq._). The Fatal Dowry in this edition, as in
the preceding, is a mere reprint of the Second Edition of Gifford.

VII. _Philip Massinger._ Selected Plays. (Mermaid Series.) Edited by
Arthur Symons, 1887-9 (_et seq._).

In addition to the above, _The Fatal Dowry_ appeared in _The Plays of
Philip Massinger_, adapted for family reading and the use of young
persons, by the omission of objectionable passages,--edited by Harness,
1830-1; and another expurgated version was printed in the _Mirror of
Taste and Dramatic Censor_, 1810. Both of these are based on the text
of Gifford.

The edition of Coxeter is closest of all to the Quarto, following even
many of its most palpable mistakes, and adding some blunders on its
own account. Mason accepts practically all of Coxeter’s corrections,
and supplies a great many more variants himself, not all of which are
very happy. Both these eighteenth century editors continually contract
for the sake of securing a perfectly regular metre (e. g.: _You’re_
for _You are_, I, i, 139; _th’ honours_ for _the honours_, I, ii, 35;
etc.), while Gifford’s tendency is to give the full form for even the
contractions of the Quarto, changing its _’em’s_ to _them’s_, etc.
Gifford can scarce find words sharp enough to express his scorn for his
predecessors in their lack of observance of the text of the Quarto,
yet he himself frequently repeats their gratuitous emendations when
the original was a perfectly sure guide, and he has almost a mania for
tampering with the Quarto on his own account. Symons’ _Mermaid_ text,
while based essentially on that of Gifford, in a number of instances
departs from it, sometimes to make further emendations, but more often
to go back from those of Gifford to the version of the original, so
that on the whole this is the best text yet published.

There has been a German translation by the Graf von Baudisson, under
the title of _Die Unselige Mitgift_, in his _Ben Jonson und seine
Schule_, Leipsig, 1836; and a French translation, in prose, under
the title of _La dot fatale_ by E. Lafond in _Contemporains de
Shakespeare_, Paris, 1864.


DATE

The date of the composition or original production of _The Fatal Dowry_
is not known. The Quarto speaks of it as having been “often acted,” so
there is nothing to prevent our supposing that it came into existence
many years before its publication. It does not seem to have been
entered in Sir Henry Herbert’s Office Book.[1] This would indicate its
appearance to have been prior to Herbert’s assumption of the duties of
his office in August, 1623. In seeking a more precise date we can deal
only in probabilities.[2]

The play having been produced by the King’s Men, a company in which
Field acted, it was most probably written during his association
therewith. This was formed in 1616; the precise date of his retirement
from the stage is not known. His name appears in the patent of March
27, 1619, just after the death of Burbage, and again and for the last
time in a livery list for his Majesty’s Servants, dated May 19, 1619.
It is absent from the next grant for livery (1621) and from the actors’
lists for various plays which are assigned to 1619 or 1620. We may
therefore assume safely that his connection with the stage ended before
the close of 1619. On the basis of probability, then, the field is
narrowed to 1616-19.[3]

More or less presumptive evidence may be adduced for a yet more
specific dating. During these years that Field acted with the King’s
Men, two plays appeared which bear strong internal evidence of being
products of his collaboration with Massinger and Fletcher: _The Knight
of Malta_ and _The Queen of Corinth_. While several parallels of
phraseology are afforded for _The Fatal Dowry_ by these (as, indeed, by
every one of the works of Massinger) they are not nearly so numerous
or so striking as similarities discoverable between it and certain
other dramas of the Massinger _corpus_. With none does the connection
seem so intimate as with _The Unnatural Combat_. Both plays open with
a scene in which a young suppliant for a father’s cause is counseled,
in passages irresistibly reminiscent of each other, to lay aside pride
and modesty for the parent’s sake, because not otherwise can justice
be gained, and it is the custom of the age to sue for it shamelessly.
Moreover, the offer by Beaufort and his associates to Malefort of any
boon he may desire as a recompense for his service, and his acceptance
of it, correspond strikingly in both conduct and language with the
conferring of a like favor upon Rochfort by the Court (I, ii, 258
ff.); while the request which Malefort prefers, that his daughter be
married to Beaufort Junior, and the language with which that young man
acknowledges this meets his own dearest wish, bear a no less patent
resemblance to the bestowal of Beaumelle upon Charalois (II, ii,
284-297). Now this last parallel is significant, because _The Unnatural
Combat_ is an unaided production of Massinger, while the analogue in
_The Fatal Dowry_ occurs in a scene that is by the hand of Field. The
similarity may, of course, be only an accident, but presumably it is
not. Then did Field borrow from Massinger, or did Massinger from Field?
The most plausible theory is that _The Unnatural Combat_ was written
immediately after _The Fatal Dowry_, when Massinger’s mind was so
saturated with the contents of the tragedy just laid aside that he was
liable to echo in the new drama the expressions and import of lines in
the old, whether by himself or his collaborator. That at any rate the
chronological relationship of the two plays is one of juxtaposition is
further attested by the fact that in minor parallelisms,[4] too, to
_The Fatal Dowry_, _The Unnatural Combat_ is richer than any other work
of Massinger.

Unfortunately _The Unnatural Combat_ is itself another play of whose
date no more can be said with assurance than that it preceeds the entry
of Sir Henry Herbert into office in 1623, though its crude horrors,
its ghost, etc., suggest moreover that it is its author’s initial
independent venture in the field of tragedy, his _Titus Andronicus_, an
ill-advised attempt to produce something after the “grand manner” of
half a generation back. Next in closeness to _The Fatal Dowry_ among
the works of Massinger as regards the number of its reminiscences of
phraseology stands his share of _The Virgin Martyr_; next in closeness
as regards the _strikingness_ of these parallels stands his share of
_The Little French Lawyer_. These two plays can be dated _circa_ 1620.

       *       *       *       *       *

To sum up:

_The Fatal Dowry_ appears to antedate the installation of Sir Henry
Herbert in 1623.

It was probably written while Field was with the King’s Men; with whom
he became associated in 1616, and whom he probably quitted in 1619.

The indications point to its composition during the latter part of this
three-year period (1616-19), for it yields more and closer parallels
to _The Virgin Martyr_ and _The Little French Lawyer_, dated about
1620, than to _The Knight of Malta_ and _The Queen of Corinth_, dated
1617-8,--closer, indeed, than to any work of Massinger save one, _The
Unnatural Combat_, itself an undated but evidently early play, with
which its relationship is clearly of the most intimate variety.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following (at best hazardously conjectural) scheme of sequence may
be advanced:

Fletcher and Massinger and Field together wrote _The Knight of Malta_
and _The Queen of Corinth_--according to received theory, in 1617 or
1618. Thereafter, the last two collaborators (desirous, perhaps, of
trying what they could do unaided and unshackled by the dominating
association of the chief dramatist of the day) joined hands in the
production of the tragedy which is the subject of our study. Then, upon
Field’s retirement, Massinger struck off, with _The Unnatural Combat_,
into unassisted composition; but we next find him, whether because he
recognized the short-comings of this turgid play or for other reasons,
again in double harness, at work upon _The Virgin Martyr_ and _The
Little French Lawyer_. On this hypothesis, _The Fatal Dowry_ would be
dated 1618-9.


SOURCES

No source is known for the main plot of _The Fatal Dowry_. A Spanish
original has been suspected, but it has never come to light. The stress
laid throughout the action on that peculiarly Spanish conception of
“the point of honor” (see under CRITICAL ESTIMATE, in consideration
of the character of Charalois) is unquestionably suggestive of the
land south of the Pyrenees, and we have an echo of _Don Quixote_
in the exclamation of Charalois (III, i, 441): “Away, thou curious
impertinent.” The identification, however, of the situation at Aymer’s
house in IV, ii with a scene in Cervantes’ _El viejo celoso_ (Obras
Completas De Cervantes, Tomo XII, p. 277) is extremely fanciful. The
only similarity consists in the circumstance that in both, while the
husband is on the stage, the wife, who, unknown to him, entertains
a lover in the next room, is heard speaking within. But this is a
spontaneous outcry on the part of Beaumelle, who does not suspect the
proximity of her husband, and her discovery follows, and from this
the denouement of the play; whereas in Cervantes’ _entremes_ the wife
deliberately calls in bravado to her niece, who is also on-stage, and
boasts of her lover,--and the husband thinks this is in jest, and
nothing comes of it but comedy.

The theme of the son’s redemption of his father’s corpse by his own
captivity is from the classical story of Cimon and Miltiades, as
narrated by Valerius Maximus, De dictis factisque memorabilibus, etc.
Lib. V, cap. III. De ingratis externorum: _Bene egissent Athenienses
cum Miltiade, si eum post trecenta millia Persarum Marathone devicta,
in exilium protinus misissent, ac non in carcere et vinculis mori
coegissent; sed, ut puto, hactenus saevire adversus optime meritum
abunde duxerunt: immo ne corpus quidem eius, sic expirare coacti
sepulturae primus mandari passi sunt, quam filius eius Cimon eisdem
vinculis se constrigendum traderet. Hanc hereditatem paternam maximi
ducis filius, et futurus ipse aetatis suae dux maximus, solam se
crevisse, catenas et carcerem, gloriari potuit._

In the version of Cornelius Nepos (Vitae, Cimon I) Cimon is
incarcerated against his will.

The action of the play is given the historical setting of the later
fifteenth century wars of Louis XI of France and Charles the Bold of
Burgundy, although this background is extremely hazy. The hero’s name
is the title which Charles bore while heir-apparent to the Duchy of
Burgundy; mention is made of Charles himself (“The warlike Charloyes,”
I, ii, 171), to Louis (“the subtill Fox of France, The politique
Lewis,” I, ii, 123-4), and to “the more desperate Swisse” (I, ii,
124), against whom Charles lost his life and the power of Burgundy
was broken; while the three great defeats he suffered at their hands,
Granson, Morat, Nancy, are named in I, ii, 170. Shortly after these
disasters the events which the play sets forth must be supposed to
occur; the parliament by which in our drama Dijon is governed was
established by Louis XI when he annexed Burgundy in 1477 and thereby
abolished her ducal independence.


COLLABORATION

It is doubtful if Massinger ever collaborated with any author whose
manner harmonized as well with his own as did Field’s. In his
partnership with Decker in _The Virgin Martyr_, the alternate hands
of the two dramatists afford a weird contrast.[5] His union with
Fletcher was less incongruous, but Fletcher was too much inclined to
take the bit between his teeth to be a comfortable companion in double
harness,[6] and at all times his volatile, prodigal genius paired ill
with the earnest, painstaking, not over-poetic moralist. But in Field
Massinger found an associate whose connection with himself was not only
congenial, but even beneficial, to the end that together they could
achieve certain results of which either was individually incapable;
just as it has been established was the case in the Middleton-Rowley
collaboration. To a formal element of verse different, indeed, from
Massinger’s, but not obtrusively so, a certain moral fibre of his
own (perhaps derived from his clerical antecedents), and a like
familiarity with stage technique, Field added qualities which Massinger
notably lacked, and thereby complemented him: a light and vigorous
(if sometimes coarse) comic touch as opposed to Massinger’s cumbrous
humor; a freshness and first-hand acquaintance with life as opposed to
Massinger’s bookishness; a capacity to visualize and individualize
character as opposed to Massinger’s weakness for drawing types rather
than people. The fruit of their joint endeavors testifies to a
harmonious, conscientious, and mutually respecting partnership.

In consideration of the above, it is surprising how substantially in
accord are most of the opinions that have been expressed concerning the
share of the play written by each author.

“A critical reader,” says Monck Mason, “will perceive that Rochfort
and Charalois speak a different language in the Second and Third Acts,
from that which they speak in the first and last, which are undoubtedly
Massinger’s; as is also Part of the Fourth Act, but not the whole of
it.”

Dr. Ireland, in a postscript to the text of _The Fatal Dowry_ in
Gifford’s edition, agrees with Mason in assigning the Second Act
to Field and also the First Scene of the Fourth Act; the Third
Act, however, he claims for Massinger, as well as that share of
the play with which Mason credits him. Fleay and Boyle, the chief
modern commentators who have taken up the question of the division
of authorship with the aid of metrical tests and other criteria,
agree fairly well with the speculations of their less scientific
predecessors, and adopt an intermediate, reconciling position on the
disputed Third Act, dividing it between the two dramatists.[7]

Boyle (_Englische Studien_, V, 94) assigns to Massinger Act I; Act III
as far as line 316; Act IV, Scenes ii, iii, and iv; and the whole of
Act V, with the exception of Scene ii, lines 80-120, which he considers
an interpolation of Field, whom he also believes to have revised the
latter part of I, ii (from _Exeunt Officers with Romont_ to end).

Fleay (_Chron. Eng. Dra._, I, 208) exactly agrees with this division
save that the latter part of I, ii, which Boyle believes emended by
Field, he assigns to that author outright; and that he places the
division in Act III twenty-seven lines later (Field after _Manent Char.
Rom._).

In my own investigation I have used for each Scene the following tests
to distinguish the hands of the two authors:

(_a_) Broad aesthetic considerations: the comparison of style and
method of treatment with the known work of either dramatist.

(_b_) The test of parallel phrases. Massinger’s habit of repeating
himself is notorious. I have gone through the entire body of his
work, both that which appears under his name, and that which has been
assigned to him by modern research in the Beaumont & Fletcher plays,
and noted all expressions I found analogous to any which occur in
_The Fatal Dowry_. I have done the same for Field’s work, examining
his two comedies, _Woman is a Weathercock_ and _Amends for Ladies_,
and Acts I and V of _The Knight of Malta_ and III and IV of _The
Queen of Corinth_, which the consensus of critical opinion recognizes
(in my judgment, correctly) as his. He is generally believed to have
collaborated also in _The Honest Man’s Fortune_, but the exact extent
of his work therein is so uncertain that I have not deemed it a proper
field from which to adduce evidence. His hand has been asserted by one
authority or another to appear in various other plays of the period,
he having served, as it were, the role of a literary scapegoat on whom
it was convenient to father any Scene not identified as belonging to
Beaumont, Fletcher, or Massinger; but there is no convincing evidence
for his participation in the composition of any extant dramas save the
above named.

(_c_) Metrical tests. I have computed the figures for _The Fatal Dowry_
in regard to double or feminine endings and run-on lines. Massinger’s
verse displays high percentages (normally 30 per cent, to 45 per cent.)
in the case of either. Field’s verse varies considerably in the matter
of run-on lines at various periods of his life, but the proportion of
them is always smaller than Massinger’s. His double endings average
about 18 per cent. I have also counted in each Scene the number
of speeches that end within the line, and that end with the line,
respectively. (Speeches ending with fragmentary lines are considered to
have mid-line endings.) This is declared by Oliphant (_Eng. Studien_,
XIV, 72) the surest test for the work of Massinger. “His percentage of
speeches,” he says, “that end where the verses end is ordinarily as low
as 15.” This is a tremendous exaggeration, but it is true that the
ratio of mid-line endings is much higher in Massinger than in any of
his contemporaries--commonly 2:1, or higher.

We find the First Scene of Act I one of those skillful introductions
to the action which the “stage-poet” knew so well how to handle, for
which reason, probably, he was generally intrusted with the initial
Scene of the plays in which he collaborated. Thoroughly Massingerian
are its satire upon the degenerate age and its grave, measured
style, rhetorical where it strives to be passionate, and replete
with characteristic expressions. Especially striking examples of the
dramatist’s well-known and never-failing _penchant_ for the recurrent
use of certain ideas and phrases are: _As I could run the hazard of a
check for’t._ (l. 10)--cf. [8]C-G. 87 b, 156 b, 327 b; D. V, 328; XI,
28;--_You shall o’ercome._ (l. 101)--cf. C-G. 230 b, 248 b, 392 a;--and
ll. 183-7--cf. C-G. 206 a, 63 a, 91 a, 134 b. The correspondence
between ll. 81-99 and the opening of _The Unnatural Combat_ has already
been remarked on, while further reminiscences of the same passage are
to be found elsewhere in Massinger (C-G. 104 a, 195 b). Metrical tests
show for the Scene 33 per cent. double endings and 29 per cent. run-on
lines, figures which substantiate the conclusions derivable from a
scrutiny of its style and content.[9]

In I, ii Massinger appears in his element, an episode permitting
opportunities for the forensic fervor which was his especial forte.
Such Scenes occur again and again in his plays: the conversion of
the daughters of Theophilus by the Virgin Martyr, the plea of the
Duke of Milan to the Emperor, of old Malefort to his judges in _The
Unnatural Combat_, of Antiochus to the Carthagenian senate in _Believe
as You List_. From the speech with which Du Croy opens court (I, ii,
1-3)--cf. the inauguration of the senate-house scene in _The Roman
Actor_, C-G. 197 b,

  _Fathers conscript, may this our meeting be
  Happy to Caesar and the commonwealth!_

--to the very end, it abounds with Massingerisms: _Knowing judgment_;
_Speak to the cause_; _I foresaw this_ (an especial favorite of the
poet’s); _Strange boldness!_; the construction, _If that curses_,
etc;--also cf. l. 117 ff. with

  _To undervalue him whose least fam’d service
  Scornes to be put in ballance with the best
  Of all your Counsailes._

      (_Sir John van Olden B._, Bullen’s _Old Plays_, II, 232.)

We have seen that the hand of Field has been asserted to appear in the
last half of this Scene. This is probably due to the presence here of
several rhymed couplets, which are uncommon in Massinger save as tags
at the end of Scenes or of impressive speeches, but not absolutely
unknown in his work; whereas Field employs them frequently--in
particular to set off a gnomic utterance. If Field’s indeed, they
can scarcely represent more than his revising touch here and there;
everything else in this part of the Scene bespeaks Massinger no less
clearly than does the portion which preceeds it. There continues the
same stately declamation, punctuated at intervals by brief comments
or replies, the same periodic sentence-structure, the same or even
greater frequency of characteristic diction. Massinger again and again
refers in his plays to the successive hardships of the summer’s heat
and winter’s frost (l. 184--cf. C-G. 168 b, 205 a, 392 b, 488 b);
_stand bound_ occurs literally scores of times upon his pages (three
times on C-G. 77 a alone);--typical also are _in their dreadful ruins
buried quick_ (l. 178--cf. C-G. 603 a, 625 a, _Sir John van Olden B._,
Bullin’s _Old Plays_, II, 209), _Be constant in it_ (l. 196--cf. C-G.
2 a, 137 a, 237 a, 329 a), _Strange rashness!_, _It is my wonder_
(l. 293--cf. C-G. 26 b, 195 b; D. VIII, 438; XI, 34). Cf. also l. 156,

  _To quit the burthen of a hopeless life,_

with C-G. 615 b,

  _To ease the burthen of a wretched life._

And ll. 284-6,

                _But would you had
  Made trial of my love in anything
  But this,_

with C-G. 286 a,

                _I could wish you had
  Made trial of my love some other way._

And again, ll. 301-3,

                  _and his goodness
  Rising above his fortune, seems to me,
  Princelike, to will, not ask, a courtesy._

with D. XI. 37,

                    _in his face appears
  A kind of majesty which should command,
  Not sue for favour._

and the general likeness of l. 258 ff. with C-G. 44 b-45 a, as above
noted. Nor do the verse tests reveal any break in the continuity of
the Scene; the figures for the first part are: double endings, 45 per
cent.; run-on lines, 33 per cent.--for the second part: double endings,
36 per cent.; run-on lines, 36 per cent.

Passing to the Second Act, we discover at once a new manner of
expression, in which the sentence has a looser structure, the verse
a quicker _tempo_, the poetry a striving now and again for a note of
lyric beauty which, although satisfactorily achieved in but few lines,
is by Massinger’s verse not even attempted. A liberal sprinkling
of rhymes appears. The Scene is a trifle more vividly conceived;
the emotions have a somewhat more genuine ring. Simultaneously,
resemblances to the phraseology of Massinger’s other plays become
infrequent; _and, to increase the wonder_, is almost the only reminder
of him in the whole of Scene i. On the other hand we must not expect
to find in the work of Field the same large number of recognizable
expressions as mark that of Massinger; for he was not nearly so given
to repeating himself, nor are there many of his plays extant from
which to garner parallels. The figure of speech with which Charalois
opens his funeral address [Field shows a great predilection for
“aqueous” similes and metaphors], the liberal use of oaths (_’Slid_,
_’Slight_), a reference (l. 137) to the Bermudas (also mentioned
in _Amends for Ladies_: M. 427), and the comparison to the oak and
pine (ll. 119-121--cf. a Field Scene of _The Queen of Corinth_: D. V,
436-7) are the only specific minutia to which a finger can be pointed.
The verse analysis testifies similarly to a different author from
that of Act I, double endings being 20 per cent., run-on lines 15 per
cent.--figures which are quite normal to Field.

To the actor-dramatist may be set down the prose of II, ii without
question. Massinger practically never uses prose, which is liberally
employed by Field, as is the almost indistinguishable prose-or-verse by
which a transition is made from one medium to the other. The dialogue
between Beaumelle and her maids is strikingly like that between two
“gentlewomen” in _The Knight of Malta_, I, ii--a Scene generally
recognized as by his hand; the visit of Novall Junior which follows
is like a page out of his earlier comedies. Notable resemblances are
ll. 177-8, _Uds-light! my lord, one of the purls of your band is,
without all discipline, fallen out of his rank_, with _I have seen him
sit discontented a whole play because one of the purls of his band was
fallen out of his reach to order again_. (_Amends for Ladies_, M. 455);
and l. 104, _they skip into my lord’s cast skins some twice a year_,
with _and then my lord_ (_like a snake_) _casts a suite every quarter,
which I slip into_: (_Woman is a Weathercock_, M. 374). The song, after
l. 131, recalls that in _Amends for Ladies_, M. 465.

Of the verse which follows, most of the observations made in regard to
the preceeding Scene are applicable. The comic touch in the midst of
Romont’s tirade (ll. 174-206) against old Novall, when the vehemence
of his indignation leads him to seek at every breath the epithet of
a different beast for his foe, is surely Field’s, not Massinger’s. A
Field scene of _The Queen of Corinth_, D. V, 438, parallels with its
_Thou a gentleman! thou an ass_, the construction of l. 276, while
there too is duplicated the _true-love knots_ of l. 314, though in a
rather grotesque connection. The verse tests are confirmative of Field:
21 per cent. double endings; 19 per cent, run-on lines. While a few
resemblances to phrases occurring somewhere in the works of Massinger
can be marked here and there in the 355 lines of the Scene, they are
not such as would demand consideration, nor are more numerous than
sheer chance would yield in the case of a writer so prolific as the
“stage-poet.” The parallel between ll. 284-297 and a passage from _The
Unnatural Combat_ is pointed out under the head of DATE, and one of
several possible explanations for this coincidence is there offered.
These lines in _The Fatal Dowry_ are as unmistakably Field’s as any
verse in the entire play; their short, abruptly broken periods and
their rapid flow are as characteristic of him as the style of their
analogue in _The Unnatural Combat_ is patently Massingerian.

Act III presents a more difficult problem. It will be noted that Fleay
and Boyle alike declare that its single long Scene is divided between
the two authors, but are unable to agree as to the point of division.
The first 316 lines are beyond question the work of Massinger. The tilt
between Romont and Beaumelle is conducted with that flood of rhetorical
vituperation by which he customarily attempts to delineate passion;
in no portion of the play is his diction and sentence-structure more
marked; and the parallels to passages elsewhere in his works reappear
with redoubled profusion. Indeed, they become too numerous for complete
citation; let it suffice to refer ll. 43-4 to D. III, 477; ll. 53-4 to
C-G. 173 a; ll. 80-3 to D. III, 481; l. 104 to C-G. 532 a; l. 116 to
C-G. 146 b; ll. 117-8 to D. VI, 294 and D. VI, 410; ll. 232-5 to C-G.
307 a, also to 475 b, and to D. VIII, 406; while the phrase, _Meet with
an ill construction_ (l. 238) is a common one with Massinger (cf. C-G.
76 a, 141 b, 193 b, 225 b, 339 b), as are such ironic observations as
the _Why, ’tis exceeding well_ of l. 293 (cf., e. g., 175 b). This part
of the Scene contains 45 per cent. double endings and 36 per cent.
run-on lines.

The last 161 lines of the Act with scarcely less certainty can be
established as Field’s, though on a first reading one might imagine,
from the wordiness of the vehement dialogue and the rather high ratio
(19:11) of speeches ending in mid-line, that the hand of Massinger
continues throughout. But the closest examination no longer will reveal
traces of that playwright’s distinctive handiwork, while a ratio of 17
per cent. for double endings and 28 per cent. for run-on lines, the
introduction of rhyme, the oaths, and the change from the previous
full-flowing declamation to shorter, more abrupt periods are vouchers
that this part of the Scene is from the pen of the actor-dramatist. We
can scarcely imagine the ponderous-styled Massinger writing anything
so easy and rapid as

                            _I’ll die first.
  Farewell; continue merry, and high heaven
  Keep your wife chaste._

Such phrases as _So I not heard them_ (l. 352) and _Like George
a-horseback_ (l. 433) in the loose structure of the one and the slangy
scurrility of the other, exhibit no kinship to his manner; l. 373,
_They are fools that judge me by my outward seeming_ recalls a Field
passage in _The Queen of Corinth_ (D. V, 444) _They are fools that hold
them dignified by blood_. There is here and there, moreover, a certain
violence of expression, a compressed over-trenchancy of phrase, that
brings to mind the rant of the early Elizabethans, and is found among
the Jacobeans only in the work of Rowley, Beaumont, and Field. For the
last named, this is notably exemplified in the opening soliloquy of
_The Knight of Malta_; we cannot but recognize the same touch here in
ll. 386-8:

                        _Thou dost strike
  A deathful coldness to my heart’s high heat,
  And shrink’st my liver like the calenture._

The _Something I must do_, which concludes the Act, is repeatedly
paralleled in Massinger’s plays, but a similar indefinite resolve is
expressed in _Woman is a Weathercock_ (M. 363), and it consequently
cannot be adduced as evidence of his hand. Immediately above, however
(ll. 494-6), we encounter, in the allusion to the Italian and Dutch
temperaments, a thought twice echoed by the “stage-poet” in plays of
not greatly later date, _The Duke of Milan_ and _The Little French
Lawyer_ (C-G. 90 a; D. III, 505). It may represent an interpolation by
Massinger; it may be merely that this rather striking conclusion to the
climatic speech of his collaborator’s scene so fixed itself on his mind
as to crop out afterwards in his own productions.

In the short disputed passage (ll. 317-343) which separates what is
undoubtedly Massinger’s from what is undoubtedly Field’s, it would
appear that both playwrights had a hand. The _’Sdeath and Gads me!_,
the play upon the word _currier_, and the phrase, _I shall be with
you suddenly_ (cf. _Q. of Cor._ D. V, 467) speak for Field; while
Massinger, on the other hand, parallels

                          _His back
  Appears to me as it would tire a beadle;_

with

  _A man of resolution, whose shoulders
  Are of themselves armour of proof, against
  A bastinado, and will tire ten beadles._--C-G. 186 b;

and the phrase “to sit down with a disgrace” occurs something like a
dozen times on his pages, especially frequently in the collaborated
plays--that is to say, in the earlier period of his work, to which
_The Fatal Dowry_ belongs. It is probable, and not unnatural, that
the labors of the partners in composition overlapped on this bit of
the Scene, but metrical analysis claims with as much certainty as
can attach to this test in the case of so short a passage that it is
substantially Massinger’s, and should go rather with what preceeds than
with what comes after it, the verse being all one piece with that of
the former section. It has 37 per cent. double endings and 41 per cent.
run-on lines.

IV, i, opens with a prose passage for all the world like that of
_Woman is a Weathercock_, I, ii, with its picture of the dandy, his
parasites, and the pert page who forms a sort of chorus with his
caustic _asides_; and writes itself down indisputably as by the same
author. Novall Junior and his coterie appear here as in their former
presentation in II, ii. We have again the same racy comedy, the same
faltering of the vehicle between verse and prose (see ll. 61-8;
137-153). After the clearing of the stage of all save Romont and young
Novall, uninterrupted verse ensues, which, despite a rather notable
parallel in _The Beggars’ Bush_, D. IX, 9 to l. 174, is evidently
Field’s also. An analogue of ll. 180-1 is discoverable in _Amends
for Ladies_ (M. 421), as is of the reference (l. 197) to “fairies’
treasure” in _Woman is a Weathercock_ (M. 344). Novall’s exclamation
(l. 182), _Pox of this gun!_ and his retort (l. 201), _Good devil to
your rogueship!_ are Fieldian, and the entire passage possesses a
vigor and an easy naturalness which declare his authorship. It is not
improbable, however, that his contribution ends with the fragmentary
l. 207, and that the remaining four lines of the Scene are a Massinger
tag. _The Maid of Honour_ (C-G. 28 a) furnishes a striking parallel
for ll. 208-9, while for 210-1 cf. C-G. 192 a. The metrical tests for
IV, i, confirm Field: 22 per cent. double endings; 22 per cent. run-on
lines.

With the next Scene the hand of Massinger is once more in evidence with
all its accustomed manifestations. One interested in his duplication of
characteristic phrasing may refer for comparison ll. 13-4 to C-G. 299
b; l. 17 to C-G. 241 a; ll. 24-6 to C-G. 547 b; ll. 29-30 to C-G. 425
b; l. 57 to C-G. 41 b, 70 b; l. 94 to C-G. 182 b. The Scene contains 32
per cent. double endings and 37 per cent. run-on lines. The authorship
of its two songs is less certain. Field was more given to song-writing
than was Massinger, and the second of this pair is reminiscent in its
conception of the Grace Seldom episode in _Amends for Ladies_ (II, i).

The short IV, iii is by Massinger. In evidence of him are its 36 per
cent. of double endings and 55 per cent. of run-on lines, its involved
sentence structure, and the familiar phrasing which makes itself
manifest even in so brief a passage (e. g.: _To play the parasite_,
l. 7--cf. V, iii, 78 and C-G. 334 b. Cf. also ll. 9-10 with D. III,
476; and l. 22 with C-G. 40 b, 153 a, 262 b.).

The same dramatist’s work continues through the last Scene of the Act.
This, the emotional climax of the play, representing a quasi-judicial
procedure, affords him abundant opportunity for fervid moralizing and
speech-making, of which he takes advantage most typically. Massinger
commonplaces are l. 29, _Made shipwreck of your faith_ (cf. C-G. 55 b,
235 a, 414 b); l. 56, _In the forbidden labyrinth of lust_ (cf. C-G.
298 b); l. 89, _Angels guard me!_ (cf. C-G. 59 b, 475 b); l. 118-9,
_and yield myself Most miserably guilty_ (cf. C-G. 61 b, 66 b, 130
a; D. VI, 354); etc.; while within a year or so of the time when he
wrote referring to “those famed matrons” (l. 70), he expatiated upon
them in detail (see _The Virgin Martyr_, C-G. 33 a). Yet more specific
parallels may be found: for l. 63 cf. C-G. 179 a; ll. 76-7, cf. C-G. 28
a; l. 78, cf. C-G. 32 b; ll. 162-3, cf. C-G. 3 b, in a passage wherein
there is a certain similarity of situation; l. 177, cf. D. IX, 7.
Were any further confirmation needed for Massinger’s authorship, the
metrical tests would supply it, with their 36 per cent. double endings
and 34 per cent. run-on lines.

The most cursory reading of V, i is sufficient to establish the
conviction that its author is not identical with that of the earlier
comic passages--is not Field, but Massinger. The humor, such as it is,
is of a graver, more restrained sort--satiric rather than burlesque; it
has lost lightness and verve, and approaches to high-comedy and even
to moralizing. One feels that the confession of the tailor-gallant is
no mere fun-making devise, but a caustic attack upon social conditions
against which the writer nurtured a grudge. Massingerian are such
expressions as _And now I think on’t better_ (l. 77--cf. C-G. 57 b,
468 a, 615 a; D. XI, 28), and _use a conscience_ (l. 90--cf. C-G. 444
a, 453 a), while the metrical evidence of 36 per cent. double endings
and 29 per cent. run-on lines fortifies a case concerning which all
commentators are in agreement. But despite the unanimity of critical
opinion hitherto, I am not sure that Field did not contribute a minor
touch here and there to the Scene. Such contribution, if a fact, must
have been small, for the Massinger flavor is unmistakable throughout;
yet in the _Plague on’t!_ and the _’Slid!_, in the play upon words
(ll. 13-4, 20-1, 44), which is rare with Massinger and common with
Field, in the line, _I only know_ [_thee_] _now to hate thee deadly_:
(cf. _Amends for Ladies_, M. 421: _I never more Will hear or see thee,
but will hate thee deadly._), we may, perhaps, detect a hint of his
hand.

Scene ii (which in the Quarto ends with the reconciliation of Charalois
and Romont, the entry of Du Croy, Charmi, etc. being marked as the
beginning of a third Scene, though the place is unchanged and the
action continuous, wherefore modern editors disregard the Quarto’s
division and count Scene ii as including all the remainder of the Act)
presents the usual distinctive earmarks of a Massinger passage. The
last third of it, however (ll. 80-121), has, on account of the presence
of several rhymes, been commonly assigned to Field. No doubt his hand
is here discernable; l. 118, _mark’d me out the way how to defend it_,
is scarcely a Massinger construction either; but I cannot think Field’s
presence here more than that of a reviser, just as in the latter half
of I, ii. The language remains more Massinger’s than Field’s; and while
the passage is over-short for metrical tests to be decisive, the 39
per cent. of double endings and 35 per cent. of run-on lines which it
yields (for the earlier part of the Scene the figures are respectively
28 per cent. and 35 per cent.) are corroborative of Massinger’s
authorship. Cf. also ll. 96-8 with this from _The Renegado_ (C-G. 157
a):

                          _This applause
  Confirm’d in your allowance, joys me more
  Than if a thousand full-cramm’d theatres
  Should clap their eager hands._

Of the final Scene, V, iii, little need be said. It brings before us
again a court-room, with another trial, and continues the manner of
its predecessor, I, ii, as only Massinger can. His customary formulae,
_stand bound_, _play the parasite_, etc., are here; characteristic too
are his opposition of _wanton heat_ and _lawful fires_ (ll. 141-2--cf.
C-G. 37 b; D. V. 476), while further material for comparison may be
found in ll. 95-6 with _Respect_, _wealth_, _favour_, _the whole world
for a dower_ of _The Virgin Martyr_ (C-G. 6 b), and in ll. 165-7:

  Char. _You must find other proofs to strengthen these
  But mere presumptions._

  Du Croy               _Or we shall hardly
  Allow your innocence._

with C-G. 39 a and b:

                 _You must produce
  Reasons of more validity and weight
  To plead in your defence, or we shall hardly
  Conclude you innocent._

The last passage cited for comparison also exhibits another feature
normal to the work of this dramatist: the splitting of an observation,
frequently a single sentence, between two speakers; so ll. 38-9, and
again, l. 59. The Scene and play are rounded off with the pointing of a
moral, so indispensable to Massinger’s satisfaction.

To sum up, therefore, disregarding for practical purposes the slight
touches of Field in I, ii, ll. 146-_end_; III, i, ll. 317-343; V, ii,
ll. 80-_end_; and perhaps in V, i;--and the apparent Massinger touches
in IV, i, and possibly at one or two other points in the Field Scenes,
we may divide the play as follows:

MASSINGER: I; III, ll. 1-343; IV, ii, iii, iv; V.

FIELD: II; III, ll. 344-_end_; IV, i.

A metrical analysis of the play is appended in tabular form, in
which I have computed separately the figures for each portion of any
Scene on which there has been a question. It will be noted that the
single simple test of the mid-line speech-ending would, with but two
exceptions--one (III, i, c) doubtful, and the other (V, ii, b) too
short a passage to afford a fair test--have made a clean-cut and
correct determination of authorship in every case.

 A = Scene
 B = Prose Lines
 C = Verse Lines
 D = Double Endings
 E = Per Cent.
 F = Run-on Lines
 G = Per Cent.
 H = Fragmentary Lines
 I = Rhymed Lines
 J = Speeches Ending in Mid-line
 K = Speeches Ending with Line
 L = Author

 ==========+====+=====+=====+====+====+====+===+====+====+====+=========
     A     | B  |  C  |  D  | E  | F  | G  | H | I  | J  | K  |   L
 ----------+----+-----+-----+----+----+----+---+----+----+----+---------
 I, i      | -- | 196 |  64 | 33 | 56 | 29 | 1 |  2 | 42 | 22 |Massinger
 I, ii (a) | -- | 145 |  64 | 45 | 48 | 33 | 1 |  2 | 25 | 14 |Massinger
 I, ii (b) | -- | 158 |  57 | 36 | 57 | 36 | 0 | 12 | 30 | 16 |Massinger
           |    |     |     |    |    |    |   |    |    |    |(Field
           |    |     |     |    |    |    |   |    |    |    |revision)
 II, i     | -- | 145 |  29 | 20 | 22 | 15 | 4 | 16 | 19 | 17 |Field
 II, ii    | 82 | 273 |  57 | 21 | 52 | 19 | 9 | 12 | 47 | 50 |Field
 III, i (a)| -- | 316 | 142 | 45 |114 | 36 | 1 |  2 | 67 | 29 |Massinger
 III, i (b)| -- |  27 |  10 | 37 | 11 | 41 | 3 |  0 | 13 |  6 |Massinger
           |    |     |     |    |    |    |   |    |    |    |(with
           |    |     |     |    |    |    |   |    |    |    |Field?)
 III, i (c)| -- | 161 |  28 | 17 | 45 | 28 | 0 | 10 | 19 | 11 |Field
 IV, i     | 88 | 124 |  27 | 22 | 27 | 22 | 4 |  6 | 26 | 24 |Field
 IV, ii    | -- | 104 |  33 | 32 | 38 | 37 | 2 |  2 | 24 | 10 |Massinger
 IV, iii   | -- |  22 |   8 | 36 | 12 | 55 | 0 |  0 |  3 |  1 |Massinger
 IV, iv    | -- | 195 |  71 | 36 | 67 | 34 | 0 |  6 | 32 |  8 |Massinger
 V, i      | -- | 107 |  38 | 36 | 31 | 29 | 1 |  2 | 16 |  5 |Massinger
 V, ii (a) | -- |  80 |  22 | 28 | 27 | 34 | 0 |  2 | 17 |  2 |Massinger
 V, ii (b) | -- |  41 |  15 | 37 | 14 | 35 | 0 |  8 |  3 |  3 |Massinger
           |    |     |     |    |    |    |   |    |    |    |(Field
           |    |     |     |    |    |    |   |    |    |    |revision)
 V, iii    | -- | 229 |  98 | 43 | 50 | 22 | 0 |  4 | 34 | 19 |Massinger
 ----------+----+-----+-----+----+----+----+---+----+----+----+---------


CRITICAL ESTIMATE

No less an authority than Swinburne has pronounced _The Fatal Dowry_
the finest tragedy in the Massinger _corpus_. Certainly it would be
the most formidable rival of _The Duke of Milan_ for that distinction.
It occupies an anomalous position among the works of the “stage
poet.” His dramas are, as a rule, strongest in construction; he
went at play-making like a skillful architect, and put together and
moulded his material with steady hand. They are likely to be weakest
in characterization. Massinger could not get inside his figures and
endow them with the breath of life; they remain stony shapes chiseled
in severely angular and conventional lines, like some old Egyptian
bas-relief. But _The Fatal Dowry_ is strong in characterization and
defective in construction.

The structural fault is less surprising when it is ascertained to be
fundamental--inevitable in the theme. The play breaks in the middle:
it is really composed of two stories; the first two Acts present and
resolve one action, while another, hitherto barely presaged, occupies
the last three, and is the proper story of the Fatal Dowry. Charalois’
self-immolation for the corpse of his heroic father, and his rescue
and reward by the great-hearted Rochfort, form a little play in
themselves--a brief but stately tragi-comedy, which is followed by
a tense drama of intrigue and retribution, of adultery and avenged
honor--itself complete in itself, for which we are prepared in the
first two Acts only by one figure, whose potentialities for disaster
are ominous if not obvious:--Beaumelle, of whom more later. This
plot-building by _enjambment_ precludes the slow, steady mounting of
suspense from the initial moment and inexorable gathering of doom which
are manifested in a well-conceived tragedy; yet crude, amorphous,
inorganic as it may seem--defying, as it does, unity of action--like
as it is to the earliest Elizabethan plays, which were concerned
with a single career rather than a single theme, it would appear
inevitably necessary, if a maximum effect is to be gained from the
given plot-material. Just as Wagner found it impossible to do justice
to the story of Siegfried without first presenting that of Siegmund
and Sieglinde, so the experiment of Rowe (who in re-working the story
for _The Fair Penitent_ relegated to expository dialogue the narration
of what corresponds to the first two Acts of _The Fatal Dowry_) sadly
demonstrated that unless the reader or audience actually sees, and
not merely hears about, Charalois’ previous devotion, Rochfort’s
generosity, and Romont’s loyalty, these characters do not attract to
themselves a full measure of sympathy, and the story of their later
vicissitudes is somehow unconvincing and falls flat.

Massinger and Field accepted frankly the structural awkwardness of
their plot as they had fashioned or found it. Making, apparently, no
attempt to obviate its essential duality, they went to work in the most
straightforward manner, and achieved, thanks in no small measure to
that same resolute directness of approach, a drama of so naturalistic
a tone as half to redeem its want of unity. _The Fatal Dowry_ is not
an Aristotelian tragedy with a definite beginning, middle, and end--it
is rather a cross-section of life. The unconventionality and vitality
of such a production are startling, and obtain a high degree of
verisimilitude.

Both authors seem to have been themselves inspired by their virile
theme to give to it their best work. The stately, somewhat monotonous
verse of Massinger, which never loses dignity and is so incapable of
expressing climaxes of passion, is once or twice almost forgotten,
or else rises to a majesty which transfigures it. Though forensic
declamation was always the especial forte of this dramatist, he
literally out-did himself in his management of the suit for the dead
Marshal’s body. The elaborate rhetoric of Charmi, checked by the stern
harshness of Novall Senior, the indignant outburst of Romont, and the
sad, yet noble calmness of Charalois’ speech in which he presses the
forlorn alternative, succeed one another with striking contrast; the
very flow of the verse changes with the speaker in a manner which
recalls the wonderful employment of this device by Shakespeare, as, for
example, in the First Act of _Othello_. In the final Scene of Act IV,
Massinger achieves a climax worthy of Fletcher himself;--save, perhaps,
the _denouement_ of _A New Way to Pay Old Debts_, and the great scene
in _The Duke of Milan_ in which Sforza’s faith in his Duchess is broken
down by aspersion after aspersion, until he slays her, only to learn
the terrible truth one instant later, it is the most dramatic situation
he ever worked up. Field, too, seems to have been on his mettle: his
verse is more trenchant, his care greater than in his two earlier
comedies; the lines (II, i, 126-7)

  _My root is earthed, and I a desolate branch
  Left scattered in the highway of the world,_

touch the high-water mark of his poetic endeavor.

Blemishes, indeed, are not unapparent. The episodic first Scene of Act
V is a rather stupid piece of pseudo-comedy by Massinger, which serves
no function adequate to justify its existence, while it interrupts the
thread of the main story at a point where its culminating intensity
does not, of right, permit such a diversion. Gifford in commenting upon
this Scene makes the amazing pronouncement that it serves “to prove
how differently the comic part of this drama would have appeared, if
the whole had fortunately fallen into the hands of Massinger.” Surely
never was criticism more fatuous.

But the most serious--indeed, the outstanding--defect of the play
is the easy readiness of Charalois to break with Romont. The calm,
unregretful placidity with which he untwists the long web of friendship
with a man who has stood by him through weal and woe, who has courted a
prison’s chains for his sake, shocks us, and repels us with its flinty
self-sufficiency. It is not that we know him to be wrong and Romont
to be right; suppose the high faith of Charalois in Beaumelle to be
entirely justified and the charge of Romont to be as groundless as it
is wildly delivered and unconvincing, yet there is no excuse for the
_immediacy_ with which, on the first revelation of what he himself
has demanded to know, the hero rejects, along with the report of his
friend, the friend himself, whose aim could have been only his best
interest. For the fault lies not in the situation, which is sound, but
in its over-hasty development. A little more length to the scene, a few
more speeches to either participant in the dialogue, a little longer
and more vituperative insistence on the part of Romont in the face
of Charalois’ warnings that he has gone far enough, and the quarrel
would have been thoroughly realized and developed. As it is, it comes
on insufficient provocation; the hero, at the moment when he should
excite regret and sympathy because of his blind, mistaken trust in his
unworthy wife, excites rather indignation; the later words of Romont
with which he justifies his unshaken loyalty to his comrade turn back
the mind perforce to that comrade’s lack of loyalty to _him_, and
unwittingly ring out as a judgment upon Charalois:

           _That friendship’s raised on sand,
  Which every sudden gust of discontent,
  Or flowing of our passions can change,
  As if it ne’er had been:_--

The faulty passage, it will be noted upon reference to the analysis
of shares in collaboration, is by the hand of Field. Unconvincing
precipitancy in the conduct of situations marks his work elsewhere,
notably in the _Amends for Ladies_.

As it has already been said, the strongest feature of the play is its
characterization. Almost every figure is, if not an individual, at
least a type so vitalized as to appear to take on life. One or two
touches, to be sure, of conventional Massingerian habits of thought
still cling about them; even the noblest cannot entirely forget to
consider how their conduct will pose them before the eyes of the world
and posterity. But apart from such slight occasional lapses, they may
truthfully be said to speak and move quite in the manner of real men
and women.

The hero, Charalois, is drawn as of a gentle, meditative, temperate,
and self-possessed disposition, in strong and effective contrast to his
friend. Though his military exploits are spoken of with admiration, and
Romont testifies that he can “pursue a foe like lightning,” he betrays
a certain readiness to yield to discouragement scarce to be expected
in the son of the great general. In consequence of these facts, he has
been described by some (notably Cunningham, in his Edition of Gifford,
Introduction, p. xiii;--cf. also Phelan, p. 61; and Beck, pp. 22-3) as
“a Hamlet whose mind has not yet been sicklied o’er by the pale cast
of thought,” and his long silence at the opening of Act I is compared
to that of the Danish Prince on his first appearance. But, in reality,
excess of pride is the chief reason of Charalois’ backwardness on this
occasion, and thereafter he acts promptly and efficiently always. The
same over-sensitive pride continues to manifest itself throughout
the play--when he is confronted with Rochfort’s generosity; when he
finds (III, i, 365 ff.) that it is he who is the object of the jests
of Novall Junior and his satellites (though scarce a breath earlier
he has chided Romont for noticing the yapping of such petty curs);
and in the viscissitudes of the catastrophe and its consequences. A
harmonious twin-birth with his pride, at once proceeding from it, bound
up with it, and on occasion over-weighing its scruples, is an extreme
punctiliousness at every turn to the dictates of that peculiarly
Spanish imperative, “the point of honor,”--a consideration so prominent
throughout the play as to have convinced many critics that the source
of the story, although still undiscovered, must have been Spanish.
These two traits--pride and an adherence to “the point of honor,” are
almost invariably the mainsprings of Charalois’ conduct. His pride
holds him back from supplicating in behalf of his father the clemency
of the unworthy ministers of the law, till he is persuaded by Romont
that honor not only permits but requires that he do so; he feels
that honor demands that he sacrifice himself to secure his father’s
burial, and he does it; that honor demands that he put away his friend
in loyalty to his wife, and he does it; that honor demands that he
slay the adulteress--and he does it; he even consents to lay bare the
details of his ignominious wrong before the eyes of men, because he is
brought to believe that “the point of honor” calls for a justification
of his course and the holding of it up as an example to the world.
It is a striking and consistent portrait--how unlike the usual
conventionally noble hero of romantic drama!

Romont, however, is the finest figure of the play. He draws to
himself rather more than his share of interest and sympathy, to the
detriment of the protagonist. Of a type common enough on the stage
of that day--the bluff, loyal soldier-friend of the hero--he is yet
so thoroughly individualized that we can discuss him and calculate
what he will do in given situations, even as with a character of
Shakespeare’s. The portrait suffers from no jarring inconsistencies;
almost his every utterance is absolutely in part, and adds its touch
to round out our conception of him. His negligence of his personal
appearance, his quick temper, his impulsiveness, his violence, his
lack of restraint, his fierce, uncompromising honesty, his devotion
to the “grave General dead” and his unshaken fidelity to the living
son, his flashes of unexpected tenderness, his homage for the
reverend virtue of Rochfort--a sort of child-like awe for what he
knows is finer if not of truer metal than his own rough spirit, his
ill-disguised scorn for Novall Junior and his creatures, “those dogs
in doublets,” his lack of tact which unfits him for effective service
in the delicate task of preserving Beaumelle’s honor, and dooms his
story to Charalois to disbelief and resentment, his prompt, fearless
decisiveness of action, the tumultuous flood of nervous and at times
eloquent speech which pours from his lips when he is aroused, yet
dies in his throat when he is lashed by a woman’s tongue--a flood of
speech which is most torrential when the situation is most doubtful
or hopeless of good issue, but which gives place to a self-possessed
terseness when he is quite sure of his ground:--all go to give detail
and reality to a character at once amazingly alive and irresistibly
attractive. “Romont is one of the noblest of all Massinger’s men,”
says Swinburne, “and Shakespeare has hardly drawn noble men more nobly
than Massinger.” To find a parallel creation who can over-match him in
vigor of presentation and theatrical efficiency, we must go back to the
Melantius of Beaumont and Fletcher. These two characters represent the
ultimate elaborations of the stock figure of the faithful friend and
blunt soldier; Melantius is the supreme romantic, Romont the supreme
realistic, development of the type.

Yet though Romont is the most compelling of the _dramatis personae_,
into none does Massinger enter more thoroughly than the noble figure of
Rochfort. Utter devotion to virtue, to which he had paid a life-long
fidelity, is the key-note of the nature of the aged Premier President,
and accordingly in him the deep-seated ethical seriousness of the
“stage-poet” found a congenial expression. A statelier dignity is wont
to echo in his lines than in the utterance of any other character; they
breathe an exalted calm, a graciousness, a grave courtesy, as though
the very spirit of their speaker had entered them.

An inability to judge the character of others was his great weakness--a
weakness which he himself realized, for he called upon Beaumont to
confirm the one strikingly sure, true appraisement which he exhibited,
his admiration for Charalois. Characteristically, this weakness seems
to have taken the form of a too-generous estimate of his fellows. This
caused him to bestow his vacated office upon the harsh and unjust
Novall, and to be blind to the disposition of his daughter, and the
danger that lay in her intimacy with Novall Junior. But if his kindly
nature saw the better side of even that contemptible young man, he at
least understood him well enough not to take him at all seriously as a
suitor for Beaumelle’s hand.

Of the Novalls, father and son, there is a much briefer presentation.
Yet even so, in the case of old Novall we have as masterly a sketch
as in Romont a detailed study. His every word is eloquent of his
stern, not to say _mean_, nature--curt and severe towards others, all
prejudice where he himself is concerned, inexorably malevolent against
those who incur his animosity. Yet it never enters his head to seek the
satisfaction of his hate in any way save through the law; for example,
he does not seize upon, or even think seriously of, Pontalier’s proffer
of private vengeance; the law is his sphere--he will abuse it to his
advantage, if he can, but he will not go outside of it. He is, in other
words, the Official Bureaucrat _par excellence_, and his enmity against
the martial house of the Charaloises and the rigor with which he is
said to “cross every deserved soldier and scholar,” and, on the other
hand, the detestation in which Romont holds him, are manifestations of
the feud of type against type. It has been suggested that the especial
fervor with which he is devoted to execration argues a prototype in
actual life, and that in him is to be recognized Sir Edward Coke,
notorious for the savage vindictiveness of his conduct towards Sir
Walter Raleigh.

Novall Junior, the cowardly, foppish, and unscrupulous gallant, though
a flimsy personality, affords once or twice, in the Fieldian prose,
rather good humor: e. g.--

_Nay, o’ my soul, ’tis so; what fouler object in the world, than to see
a young, fair, handsome beauty unhandsomely dighted, and incongruently
accoutred? or a hopeful chevalier unmethodically appointed in the
external ornaments of nature? For, even as the index tells us the
contents of stories, and directs to the particular chapters, even so
does the outward habit and superficial order of garments (in man or
woman) give us a taste of the spirit, and demonstratively point (as
it were a manual note from the margin) all the internal quality and
habiliment of the soul; and there cannot be a more evident, palpable,
gross manifestation of poor, degenerate, dunghilly blood and breeding,
than a rude, unpolished, disordered, and slovenly outside._ (IV, i,
48-60.)

Of the remaining characters, only two call for especial notice.
The three Creditors are a blemish upon the otherwise striking
verisimilitude of the play; they are impossible, inhuman monsters of
greed and relentlessness, who serve as vehicles for a kind of grotesque
comedy. A personal rancour on the part of the authors may have been
responsible for this presentation, as it is probable that they
themselves had had none-too-pleasant experiences with money-lenders.
Pontalier, however, is very well conceived and skillfully executed.
Occupying a relation to Novall Junior quite similar to that of Romont
to Charalois, he is yet differentiated from his parallel, while at
the same time he is kept free from any taint of the despicableness
and fawning servility which are chiefly prominent in the parasites of
the vicious and feather-brained young lord. There is something really
pathetic about this brave, honorable soldier, committed to the defense
of an unworthy benefactor, ranged on the side of wrong against right,
by his very best qualities: his noble sense of gratitude, his loyalty,
his devotion to what he conceives to be his duty. It will be observed
that he never joins with the rest of the group about Novall Junior in
their jibes against Charalois and Romont.

The last figure for consideration, and not the least important, is
Beaumelle. So general has been the misconception of her character that
it calls for a more detailed analysis than has been accorded to the
other personages of the drama, or than the place she occupies might
appear to warrant. That place, indeed, is not a striking one; she is
scarce more than a character of second rank, appearing in but few
scenes and speaking not many lines. Yet her part in the story is one
of such potentialities that in Rowe’s version of the same theme her
analogue becomes the central figure, and even in _The Fatal Dowry_ a
failure to understand her has probably been at the bottom of most of
the less favorable judgments that have been passed upon the play, while
those critics who appraise it higher yet acknowledge her to be its
one outstanding defect. “_The Fatal Dowry_,” says Saintsbury (_Hist.
Eng. Lit._, vol. ii, p. 400) “... is ... injured by the unattractive
character of the light-of-love Beaumelle before her repentance
(Massinger never could draw a woman).” She is declared by Swinburne to
be “too thinly and feebly drawn to attract even the conventional and
theatrical sympathy which Fletcher might have excited for a frail and
penitent heroine: and the almost farcical insignificance and baseness
of her paramour would suffice to degrade his not involuntary victim
beneath the level of any serious interest or pity.” If these and
similar pronouncements were well founded, the play as a cross-section
of life would have the great weakness of being unconvincing at a very
vital point. A study of the text, however, will discover Beaumelle
to be portrayed, in the brief compass of her appearance, in no
wise inadequately, but rather, if anything, somewhat beyond the
requirements of her dramatic function--will reveal her, not, indeed,
a personage of heroic proportions and qualities, but a young woman of
considerable naturalness, plausibility, and realistic convincingness.

The trouble has probably been that the critics of Beaumelle have
passed hastily over the very scurrilous prose scene in which she first
appears. They have looked on this passage as merely a piece of Fieldian
low-comedy, a coarse bit of buffoonery which pretends to no function
save that of humor, and can sustain not even this pretense. Nothing can
be further from the truth. The passage _is_ a piece of coarse comedy
such as Field had an over-fondness for writing; but it is something
more; in reality, a proper understanding of the heroine is conditioned
upon it.

Beaumelle is a young girl whose mother, we may infer, has long been
dead. The cares of the bench have been too great to allow her father
time for much personal supervision of her; she has had for associates
her two maids, and of these she not unnaturally finds the gay and
witty, but thoroughly depraved, Bellapert the more congenial, and
adopts her as her mentor and confidant. She is in love, after a
fashion--caught, like the impressionable, uncritical girl she is, by
the fair exterior of a young magnificent, whose elegant dress and
courtly show of devotion quite blind her to his real worthlessness--and
there is scant likelihood of her getting the man who has charmed
her fancy. Her disposition is high-spirited and wayward, but not
deliberately vicious; she has certain hazily defined ideals, mingled
with the same romantic mist through which the superfine dandy, Novall,
appears in her eyes a very Prince Charming: she “would meet love and
marriage both at once”; she desires to preserve her honor. She has
ideals, but she doubts their tangibility; she is in an unsettled
state of mind, questioning the fundamentals of conduct and social
relationships, in much need of good counsel. In that perilous mood
she talks with Bellapert--Bellapert, the dearest cabinet of her
secrets--Bellapert, the bribed instrument of Novall--and is told
by that worldly-wise wench that marriage almost never unites with
love, but must be used as a cloak for it; that honor is a foolish
fancy; that a husband is a master to be outwitted and despised. The
shaft sinks home all too surely; a visit at that very moment by
Beaumelle’s lover completes the conquest, when her father interrupts
their tete-a-tete--her father, who comes with the anouncement that
she must marry a man whom she does not even know! In the scene where
the destined bride and groom are brought face to face, she stands
throughout in stony silence quite as eloquent as the more famous
speechlessness of Charalois at the beginning of the play. She has
ever been “handmaid” to her father’s will; she realizes all her hopes
and fortunes “have reference to his liking;” and now she obeys, with
the bitter thought in her heart that Fate, in denying her her will,
has wronged Love itself (II, ii, 154); only when Charalois turns to
her with a direct question, “Fair Beaumelle, can you love me?” does
she utter a word--then from her lips a brief, desperate, “Yes, my
lord”--and a moment later (II, ii, 315) she is weeping silently. (Her
answer was honest in as far as she really did mean to give to the man
chosen for her husband her duty with her hand.) Then the voice of the
tempter whispers in her ear, she feels its tug at her heart, and with a
cry, “Oh, servant!--Virtue strengthen me!” she hurries from the room.
That is the situation at the end of the Second Act and first part of
the play; an appreciation of its significance makes the connection with
what follows less arbitrary and inorganic.

When Beaumelle next appears, in the Third Act, there has been a change.
We may imagine that she has had time to ponder those cynical maxims
of Bellapert on the natural course of romance. Her union has been
unwilling; she does not care for her husband; Novall appeals to her as
much as ever: with her eyes open, she deliberately chooses the path of
sin--because the enforced marriage which shattered her hopes must needs
appear to her the final demonstration of the correctness of her maid’s
contention (towards which she was already inclining) that she has been
foolishly impractical to dream of the satisfaction of her heart’s wish
through wedlock, but that it is by secret amour that love must be, and
is wont to be, enjoyed.

It may not be unreasonable to regard the resourcefulness and effrontery
which characterize her throughout the Third Act as the result of a sort
of mental intoxication, into which she has been lifted by her reckless
resolve and the consciousness of danger; at any rate she now shows
herself altogether too much for Romont; she finds a shrewdness and an
eloquence that carry her triumphant to the consummation of her desire.
When discovery ensues, her paramour is slain, and she herself is haled
to die, she is overcome--abruptly and, one might say, strangely--with
remorse and penitence. But it is not at all by one of those
theatrically convenient but psychologically absurd changes of heart so
frequent in the drama of that period; nothing, indeed, could be more
true to life. Novall Junior, coward and fop that he was, has hitherto
always borne himself in lordly fashion before her, even when they were
surprised by Romont; but now at last she beholds him stripped to the
shivering abjectness of his contemptible soul, that she may observe
his baseness. She sees him cowed and beaten and slain, while Charalois
(whom she never knew before their marriage nor has tried to understand
in the brief period of their wedlock) with his outraged honor and
irresistible prowess assumes to her eyes the proportions of a hero; and
with her girl’s romanticism[10] of nature, she bows down and worships
him. It is somewhat the same note that is struck by Thackeray in the
similar situation where Rawdon Crawley, returning home unexpectedly,
finds his wife with Lord Steyne and knocks the man down.

_It was all done before Rebecca could interpose. She stood there
trembling before him. She admired her husband, strong, brave,
victorious._

So it was with Beaumelle. Except for one brief cry of “Undone for
ever!” she utters no word from the moment of the surprise to the end
of the Scene. She hangs back, shrinking, for a moment, when ordered
into the coach with the dead body of her partner in guilt. “Come,” says
Charalois, in terrible jest, “you have taught me to say, you must and
shall.... You are but to keep him company you love--” and she obeys
mutely.

Thus, all contriteness, Beaumelle goes to her fate. It should be
observed how, even at the last, her tendency to romantic idealization
vehemently asserts itself; she looks fondly back (IV, iv, 53) to an
imagined time, which never really existed, when she was “good” and “a
part of” Charalois, made one with him through the virtuous harmony of
their minds!--no voice is more unfaltering than her own to pronounce
her doom as both righteous and necessary, and she conceives herself
to climb, by her ecstatic welcoming of death, into the company of the
ancient heroines and martyrs. In its realism of the commonplace and its
slightly ironic conception, it is the outline drawing of a character
that might have received elaborate portraiture at the hands of Flaubert.

Whether we are to regard this consistent “study in little” as a
deliberate piece of work on the part of the authors, must remain a
matter of opinion. There is no similar figure elsewhere in the dramatic
output of Massinger, nor any quite so minutely conceived within the
same number of speech-lines in that of Field, and one could scarce
be blamed for believing that a number of hap-hazard, sketchy strokes
with which the collaborators dashed off a character whom they deemed
of no great importance, all so fell upon the canvas that, by a miracle
of chance, they went to form the lineaments of a real woman. The
discussion of the probability or possibility of such a hypothesis would
carry us very far afield, and would involve the question of the extent
to which all genius is unconscious and intuitive. But however that may
be, the _result_ of their labors remains the same, there to behold in
black and white, and Beaumelle, so far from being a poorly conceived
and unsatisfactory wanton who is the chief defect of the play, is
a figure of no mean verisimilitude who succeeds after a fashion in
linking together the loose-knit dual structure of the drama; to whose
main catastrophe she adds her own tragedy, a tragedy neither impressive
nor deeply stirring, it is true, for she is a petty spirit from whom
great tragedy does not proceed--but tragedy still--the eternal,
inevitable tragedy of false romanticism, that has found its culmination
in the person of Emma Bovary.

In this study of Beaumelle, _The Fatal Dowry_ has been subjected to
a much more intensive examination than it is the custom to bestow
upon the dramas of the successors of Shakespeare. The truth is that
the plays of the Jacobean period do not, as a rule, admit of such
analysis. In most of them, and especially in the plays of Massinger, he
who searches and probes them comes presently to a point beyond which
critical inquiry is stopped short with a desperate finality; be they
ever so strikingly splendid and glittering fair in their poetry and
their characterization, these dazzling qualities lie upon the surface,
and a few careful perusals exhaust their possibilities and tell us all
there is to know of them. But _The Fatal Dowry_, though less imposing
than a number of others, stands almost alone among its contemporaries
in sharing with the great creations of Shakespeare the power to open
new vistas, to present new aspects, to offer new suggestions, the
longer it is studied. Perhaps this is due to the fact that, as has
already been said, it is not so much a tragedy of the accepted type as
a cross-section of life.

How does it come about, we may well ask, that this play possesses
qualities so rare and so strangely at variance with those which are
normal to the work of Massinger--its masterly portrait-gallery of
_dramatis personae_ and its inexhaustible field for interpretation. We
can suspect an answer only in the complementary nature of the two minds
that went to fashion it--in the union in this one production of the
talents of Massinger and of Field.

A reference to the analysis of collaboration discloses that, so far
as the actual writing of the play goes, the figure of Novall Senior
is altogether the work of Massinger. His son, on the other hand, is
almost entirely the work of Field; in Massinger’s share he appears only
in the first part of III, i, and in the scene of his surprisal and
death. Indeed, both the young gallant himself and all his satellites
can safely be put down as creations of the actor-dramatist. They have
their parallels in his comedy of _Woman is a Weathercock_, down to the
page whose pert _asides_ of satiric comment are anticipated in the
earlier work by those of a youngster of identical kidney. The long
scene in which we are introduced to Beaumelle and given insight into
her character and mental attitude is Field’s throughout; thereafter she
has only to act out her already-revealed nature--first as the impudent
adulteress and later as the repentant sinner, in both of which roles
she affords Massinger excellent opportunities to display his favorite
powers of speech-making. Charalois, Romont, and Rochfort are treated at
length by both dramatists.

But in a harmonious collaboration, such as _The Fatal Dowry_ plainly
was, the contributions of the two authors cannot be identified with the
passages from their respective pens. Each must inevitably have planned,
suggested, criticised. The question remains whether we can in any
measure determine what part of the conception was due to each. Beyond
the Novall Junior group we cannot establish distinct lines of cleavage.
What we can do is to suggest the features of the finished product which
Field and Massinger brought severally to its making--to point out the
qualities of the two men which were joined to produce the play they
have given us.

The outstanding excellences of Massinger were a thorough grasp of the
architectonics of play-making in the building both of separate Act
and entire drama; an adherence to an essential unity of design and
treatment; a conscientious regard to the details of stage-craft; a
vehicle of dignified and at times noble verse, without violent conceits
or lapses into triviality, sustained, lucid, regular; and a genuine
eloquence in forensic passages. His chief weaknesses were a certain
stiffness of execution which made his plays appear always as structures
rather than organisms, a ponderous monotony of fancy, and an inability
to create or reproduce or understand human nature. His characters are
normally types, their qualities--honor, virtue, bravery, etc.--mere
properties which they can assume or lay aside at pleasure like
garments, their conduct governed more by the exigencies of plot than by
any conceivable psychology.

The weaknesses of Field--as revealed in his two independent
comedies--were of a nature more evasive, less capable of definition. A
tendency to weave too many threads into the action, an occasional hasty
and skimping treatment of his scenes which leaves them unconvincing
for lack of sufficient elaboration, and a general thinness of design
and workmanship are discoverable. Defects such as these could be
readily corrected by association with the single-minded, painstaking,
thorough Massinger. On the other hand he possessed a lightness of
touch, a blithe vigor, and a racy, though often obscene, humor foreign
to his colleague. What is more important, he possessed a considerable
first-hand knowledge of men and women, and an ability to put them in
his plays and endow them with something of life--not to conceive great
figures, such as dominate the imagination, but to reproduce with
vitality and freshness the sort of people he saw about him--in other
words, not to create but to depict; and furthermore Field seems to
have had a special gift for sketching them rather clearly in a very
brief compass.[11] Mr. Saintsbury was right in declaring that Massinger
never could draw a woman. But Field could, and the critic was rather
unfortunate in applying his broadly correct observation to the one
woman of Massinger’s in the delineation of whom he had Field to help
him!

With these facts in mind, the distinctive virtues of _The Fatal Dowry_
can be accounted for. Massinger here possessed a colleague who had
just those talents of insight and verve and grasp of life that were
denied his own plodding, bookishly learned mind. Not only young Novall
and his satellites, but Beaumelle certainly, and probably Pontalier
(whom Massinger would have been more likely to degrade to the baseness
of Novall’s other dependents) may be put down as essentially Field’s
creations, while in the case of the others he was ever at Massinger’s
elbow to guard him against blunders, if, indeed, their preliminary
mapping out of the rather obvious lines along which the action and
characters must develop were not of itself a sufficiently sure guide.
To Massinger, on the other hand, may safely be ascribed the basic
conception of such stately figures as Charalois and Rochfort, however
much Field may have been responsible for preserving them as fresh and
living portraits.

As to share in plot structure, in the absence of any known source,
we may conjecture that the germ from which the play evolved was the
conception of that situation by which Charalois, burdened as he is with
an immense debt of thankfulness to Rochfort, finds himself suddenly
called by the imperative demands of honor to do that which will
strike his benefactor to the heart. The grounding of the hero’s debt
of gratitude in the story of Miltiades and Cimon was probably the work
of Massinger, of whose veneration for things classic we have abundant
evidence, while to him also, we may believe, was due the shaping of the
story in such fashion that he had opportunity to exploit his greatest
gift in no less than two formal trials, one informal trial, and a
long Act besides given over almost exclusively to verbose disputes
and exhortations. The circumstances of the discovery of the amour of
Beaumelle and Novall, while penned by Massinger, are more likely an
invention of Field’s, not only as faintly reminiscent of his _Amends
for Ladies_, but as according better with the general spirit of his
work.

Several plays of the Massinger _corpus_ are more striking on first
acquaintance than _The Fatal Dowry_, and yet others surpass it in
regard to this feature or that. It has not the gigantic protagonist
of _A New Way to Pay Old Debts_, or the admirable structure of that
fine play, which works with ever-cumulating intensity to one final,
tremendous climax. It has not the impressiveness of _The Duke of
Milan_, or its sheer sweep of tragic passion and breathless intensity,
or anything so compelling as its great scene of gathering jealousy
that breaks forth at last in murder. Its verse is less poetic than
that of _The Maid of Honor_; it lacks the charm of _The Great Duke of
Florence_, and the ethical fervor of _The Roman Actor_. But in utter
reality, in convincing simulation of life, which holds good under the
most exhaustive study and makes that study forever continue to yield
new suggestions and new appreciations, and in abundance and inherent
truthfulness of detailed characterization, it stands alone, and these
sterling qualities must so outweigh its defects as to insure for it a
high place, not only among the productions of its authors, but among
the plays of the Jacobean Period as a whole.


STAGE HISTORY--ADAPTATIONS--DERIVATIVES

Beyond the statement on the title-page of the 1632 Quarto, that
_The Fatal Dowry_ had been “often acted at the Private House in
Blackfriars by his Majesties Servants,” nothing is known of its
early stage history. It was not revived after the Restoration, and
until the publication of the Coxeter edition of Massinger seems to
have been almost unknown. At last, in 1825, an emended version was
placed upon the boards by no less an actor than the great Macready.
January 5 of that year was the date, and Drury Lane the place, of
its initial performance, Macready himself taking the part of Romont,
Wallack--Charalois, Terry--Rochfort, and Mrs. W. West--Beaumelle. “The
play was well acted and enthusiastically applauded,” says Macready in
his _Reminiscences_ (p. 228); “its repetition for the following Tuesday
was hailed most rapturously; but Friday[12] came, and with it a crowded
house, to find me laboring under such indisposition that it was with
difficulty I could keep erect without support.” Macready’s serious
illness cut short the run of the play, and when he was at length (April
11) able to take it up again, the interest of the public had abated,
and it in consequence was repeated only a few times--seven being the
total number of its performances.

The variant of _The Fatal Dowry_ in which Macready acted was the work
of Sheil, and involved substantial divergences. Romont’s release from
prison follows immediately upon Novall Senior’s consent to his pardon,
and in consequence, together with his conversation with Rochfort, is
transferred from Act II to the close of Act I, while the redemption of
Charalois takes place at the funeral of his father, which concludes
Act II. For the scene between Beaumelle and her maids is substituted
another coloquy of similar import but chastened tone. A brief scene
of no especial significance is inserted at the beginning of Act III,
in the interval between which and the preceding Act three weeks
are supposed to have elapsed; the rest of Act III follows much the
same course as the original, save that the application of Romont to
Rochfort and his foiling by the stratagem of Beaumelle and Bellapert
are omitted. A really notable departure is found in the discovery of
the amour by Charalois. According to Sheil, Novall Junior and his
mistress attempt to elope, but the note which appoints their rendezvous
falls into Charalois’ hands, and he waits for the lovers and surprises
them, killing Novall off-stage. The Fifth Act opens with a scene of
a few lines only, in which Beaumont bears to Rochfort a request from
Charalois to meet him in the church yard. Then follows a lugubrious
scene in the dead of night beside the tomb of the hero’s father,
to which place are transferred the reconciliation between Charalois
and Romont, and the judgment of Rochfort! Beaumelle, however, does
not appear during the trial, and upon the paternal sentence of doom,
Charalois reveals her body, slain already by his hand. To the father
he vindicates his action in much the same words as in Massinger’s
last court-room scene, and then, on the appearance of Novall Senior
clamoring for vengeance and accompanied by the minions of the law,
stabs himself.

The version of Sheil follows with but occasional exceptions the
language of the original wherever possible. It makes some slight
changes in the minor characters.

Sheil’s redaction was also presented at Bath on February 18 and 21,
Romont being acted by Hamblin, Charalois by Warde, Beaumelle by Miss E.
Tree. “Hamblin never appeared to so much advantage--in the scene with
Novall he reminded one strongly of John Kemble,” says Genest (_Hist.
Dra. and Stage in Eng._, IX, 322).

At Sadler’s Wells, Samuel Phelps, who at that time was reviving a
number of the old dramas, took the stage in _The Fatal Dowry_ on August
27, 1845. This, however, was Sheil’s version, and not the original
play of Massinger and Field, as has been sometimes supposed. It ranked
as one of his four chief productions of that year. He, too, chose for
himself the part of Romont, which was considered by many his greatest
quasi-tragic role. Marston appeared as Charalois, G. Bennett as
Rochfort, and Miss Cooper as Beaumelle.

_The Fatal Dowry_ in substantially its own proper form does not appear
ever to have been acted after Jacobean times.

       *       *       *       *       *

If the stage career of _The Fatal Dowry_ has been meagre, not so the
extent of its influence. Its literary parenthood begins before “the
closing of the theatres” and continues even to our own day. As early as
1638 it was echoed in _The Lady’s Trial_ of Ford. Here the figures of
Auria, Adurni, Aurelio, and Spinella correspond roughly with Charalois,
young Novall, Romont, and Beaumelle respectively. Auria has gone
to the wars, and in his absence his wife is pursued by Adurni, who
sits at table with her in private, when Aurelio breaks in upon them,
bursting open the doors. Spinella bitterly resents the intrusion and
the aspersions of the intruder, and when, on the return home of Auria,
Aurelio accuses her to him, it is without shaking his faith in her
loyalty. Here the analogy ends: spite of Auria’s incredulousness there
is no rupture between the friends; Spinella establishes her innocence;
and Adurni, while guilty enough in his intent against her, shows
himself thereafter to be an essentially noble youth, who will defend
to any length the lady’s honor which has become subject to question
through fault of his, and for this gallant reparation, is not only
forgiven, but even cherished ever after by the husband he had sought to
wrong.

The more steadily one regards the man John Ford and his work, the more
probable does it appear that the relationship between _The Fatal Dowry_
and _The Lady’s Trial_ is not one of mere reminiscence or influence,
but of direct parentage. That strange and baleful figure, who seems
almost a modern Decadent born out of his time, had a profound interest
in moral problems, to the study of which he brought morbid ethical
sensibilities scarce matched before the latter nineteenth century.
(Witness his conception, in _The Broken Heart_, of a loveless marriage
as tantamount to adultery.) Ford’s talent for invention was deficient
to the extent that he was hard put to it for plots. It is not at all
unlikely that he surveyed the Massingerian tragedy, and, repelled by
the conduct of its figures, exclaimed to himself: “I will write a play
to centre around a situation as incriminating as that of Act III of
_The Fatal Dowry_; but my personages will be worthier characters; I
will show a lady who, spite of appearances, is of stainless innocence
and vindicates her husband’s trust in the face of evidence; I will show
a friendship strong enough to endure an honestly mistaken aspersion put
upon the chastity of a wife, though the charge is not for one moment
credited; I will show that even the would-be seducer may be a fine
fellow at bottom, and set forth a generous emulation in magnanimity
between him and the husband. See how finely everything would work out
with the _right_ sort of people!” It is at least a plausible hypothesis.

Nicholas Rowe, who was the first modern editor of Shakespeare,
contemplated also an edition of Massinger, but gave up the project that
he might more safely plunder one of his plays. Rowe’s famous tragedy,
_The Fair Penitent_, was deliberately stolen from _The Fatal Dowry_.
It appeared in 1703, and spite of a ludicrous accident[13] which cut
short its first run, took rank as one of the most celebrated dramas of
the English stage. Rowe lived during the vogue of the “She-tragedy,”
while the canons of literary criticism of his day demanded a “regular,”
pseudo-classical form and a sententious tone. Accordingly, in his hands
the chief figure in the play, as is evidenced by the change in title,
becomes the guilty wife, here called Calista, who is “now the evil
queen of the heroic plays; now the lachrymose moralizer;” the theme is
indeed _her_ story, not Altamont’s (Charalois)--her seduction (prior
to the nuptuals and before the opening of the play), her grief, her
plight, her exposure, her death;--she holds the centre of the stage
to the very end. The number of the _dramatis personae_ is cut down
to eight; all touches of comedy are excised; and the double plot of
the original is unified by the bold stroke of throwing back to a time
before the opening of the play the entire episode of the unburied
corpse and the origin of the hero’s friendship with the father of the
heroine.

Discussions of the relative merits of _The Fair Penitent_ and its
source have been almost invariably acrimonious. Nor is this to be
wondered at, for after reading the old tragedy with its severe
dignity and noble restraint, one can scarce peruse without irritation
the cloyingly melifluous, emasculated verse of Rowe--by turns
grandiloquent and sentimental. The characterization of _The Fair
Penitent_ is, in the main, insipid, and while Rowe’s heroine holds a
commanding place in her drama to which Beaumelle does not pretend, the
latter is a great deal more natural, and indeed, for that matter, far
more truly a “penitent.” An exception to the general insipidity is
Lothario, who is the analogue of the insignificant Novall Junior--“the
gay Lothario”--whose very name has been ever since a synonym for
the graceful, graceless, devil-may-care libertine--whose figure has
been the prototype of a long line of similar characters in English
literature, beginning with Richardson’s Lovelace and not yet closed
with Anthony Hope’s Rupert of Hentzau. Beside this striking creation,
the seducer of Beaumelle shows poorly indeed; but it is doubtful if the
old dramatists would have consented to paint such an attractive rogue,
had they been able; they wanted their Novall to be just the cowardly,
dandyfied thing they made him. Beyond the portrait of Lothario, small
ground for praise can be found in _The Fair Penitent_. That part of the
action of _The Fatal Dowry_ which under Rowe’s treatment antedates the
rise of the curtain is narrated in the most stiffly mechanical sort
of exposition; the action is developed by such threadbare theatrical
devices as a lost letter and an overheard conversation; the voluble
speeches of the several characters are, throughout, declamatory
effusions almost unbelievably divorced from the apposite utterance of
any rational human being under the circumstances. An Altamont who has
been assured and reassured from his bride’s own lips of her aversion
for him can fling himself from a quarrel with his life-long friend in
hysterical defence of her, to seek solace in her arms--

  _There if in any pause of love I rest
  Breathless with bliss upon her panting breast,
  In broken, melting accents I will swear,
  Henceforth to trust my heart with none save her;_

a Sciolto who has given his daughter a dagger with which to end her
shame, and then has arrested her willing arm with the prayer that she
will not dispatch herself until he is gone from the sight of her, can
thereupon take leave of her with the statement:

  _There is I know not what of sad presage
  That tells me I shall never see thee more._

The play, which enjoyed an immense fame, high contemporary
appreciation, and a long career on the stage, remains a curious
memorial of the taste of a bygone day.

It is noteworthy that in _The Fair Penitent_ Horatio, as Romont in
all modern reproductions of _The Fatal Dowry_, is the great acting
part--not the husband.

In 1758 was produced at the Hay market a drama entitled _The Insolvent
or Filial Piety_, from the pen of Aaron Hill. In the preface it is
said--according to Genest (IV, 538)--“Wilks about 30 years before gave
an old manuscript play, called the _Guiltless Adulteress_, to Theo.
Cibber who was manager of what then was the Summer Company--after an
interval of several years this play was judged to want a revisal to
fit it for representation--Aaron Hill at the request of Theo. Cibber
almost new wrote the whole, and the last act was entirely his in
conduct, sentiment and diction.” In reality, _The Insolvent_ is _The
Fatal Dowry_ over again, altered to tragicomedy, and with the names of
the characters changed. The first two Acts of Hill’s play proceed much
after the manner of its prototype, with close parallels in language.
From thenceforward, however, the action diverges. The bride, Amelia,
resists the further attentions of her former sweetheart. They are none
the less observed and suspected by her husband’s friend, who speaks
of the matter to both her father and her lord. The former promises
to observe her with watchful eye; Chalons, the husband, is at first
resentful of the imputation, but presently yields to his friend’s
advice, that he pretend a two-days’ journey, from which he will return
unexpectedly. During his absence, his wife’s maid introduces the lover
into her mistress’ chamber while Amelia sleeps. There Chalons surprises
him kneeling beside the bed, and kills him. Amelia stabs herself, but
the confession of her maid reveals her innocence, and her wound is
pronounced not mortal.

It has been suggested (_Biographia Dramatica_, II, 228--quoted by
Phelan, p. 59, and Schwarz, p. 74) that in Hill’s _Zara_ (adaptation
of the _Zaire_ of Voltaire), also, Nerestan’s voluntary return to
captivity in order to end that of his friends, whom he lacked the means
to ransom with gold, was suggested by the behavior of Charalois; but
this can be no more than a coincidence, as it here but reproduces what
is in the French original.

A long interval, and finally, in the dawn of the twentieth century,
there appeared the next and latest recrudescence of _The Fatal
Dowry_. This was _Der Graf von Charolais, ein Trauerspiel_, by
Richard Beer-Hofmann, disciple of the Neo-Romantic School or
_Vienna Decadents_, a coterie built about the leadership of Hugo
von Hofmannsthal. Beer-Hofmann’s play--a five-Act tragedy in blank
verse--was produced for the first time at the Neue Theatre, Berlin, on
December 24, 1904, and was received with considerable acclaim. Unlike
Rowe, he gives full credit to his source, from which he has drawn no
less extensively than the author of _The Fair Penitent_. Unlike Rowe,
he goes back to the old dramatists in the matter of construction,
placing upon the stage once more the episode of the unburied corpse
and the noble son; he even outdoes _The Fatal Dowry_ in this respect,
by allowing the first half of his plot three Acts instead of two, with
only two Acts for the amour and its tragic consequences. In his hands
the hero again becomes the central figure; in fact, the three principal
versions of this _donnee_ suggest by their titles their respective
viewpoints: _The Fatal Dowry_; _The Fair Penitent_; _Der Graf von
Charolais_. DER GRAF VON CHAROLAIS, be it observed;--this new redaction
is no longer the tale of a “fatal dowry;” no longer is the first part
of the dual theme merely introductory and accessory--it is coördinate
with the second. Beer-Hofmann has sought to achieve a kind of unity
from his double plot by making his fundamental theme not the adulterous
intrigue, but _the destiny of Charolais_, thus converting the play
into a Tragedy of Fate, which pursues the hero inexorably through all
his life. This strictly classical _motif_ animating the _donnee_ of a
Jacobean play reproduced in the twentieth century presents, as might
be expected, the aspect of an exotic growth, which is not lessened by
the extreme sensuousness of treatment throughout, such as has always
been one of the cardinal and distinctive qualities of the Decadent
School the world over. But as a contrast in the dramatic technique
and verse of Jacobean and modern times, _Der Graf von Charolais_ is
extremely interesting. The difference is striking between the severe
simplicity of three centuries ago, and the elaborate stagecraft of
to-day, its insistence on detail, and studied care in the portraiture
of minor characters. Yet minutia do not make tragedy, and while their
superficial realism and the congeniality of the contemporary point of
view undeniably lend to Beer-Hofmann’s redaction a palatability and a
power to interest and appeal which its original does not possess to
the modern reader, yet a discriminating critic will turn back to the
old play with a feeling that, for all its stiffness and conventions,
he breathes there a more vital air. To the enrichment of his theme
Beer-Hofmann contributes every ingenious effect possible to symbolism,
delicate suggestion, and scenic device; this exterior decoration is
gorgeous in its color and seductive warmth, but no amount of such stuff
can compensate for the fundamental flaw in the crucial episode of
his tragedy. In spite of the care which he has lavished on the scene
between his heroine and her seducer, the surrender of the wife--three
years married, a mother, and loving both husband and child--remains
insufficiently motivated and sheerly inexplicable, and by this vital,
inherent defect the play must fall. Moreover, it lacks a hero. Romont
can no longer play the main part he did in former versions; he is
reduced to a mere shadow. In a tragedy of Fate, which blights a man’s
career, phase by phase, with persistent, relentless hand, that man
must necessarily be the central figure, and, of right, _should_ be an
imposing figure--a protagonist at once gigantic and appealing, who will
draw all hearts to him in pity and terror at the helpless, hopeless
struggle of over-matched greatness and worth; whereas Charolais--

The case of Charolais is peculiar. _A priori_ we should expect him
to be just such a personage, yet his conduct throughout is best
explainable as that of a man dominated, not by noble impulses,
but by an extreme egoism--a man acutely responsive alike to his
sense-impressions and his feverish imagination, and possessed of an
exaggerated squeamishness towards the ugly and the unpleasant. When,
in the First Act, he bursts into tears, he confesses it is not for his
father that he weeps, but for his own hard lot; he suffers from his
repugnance to the idea of his father’s corpse rotting above ground--a
repugnance so intolerable to him that he will yield his liberty to
escape it. He purposes to cashier the innkeeper because the sight of
the lecherous patrons of his hostelry has disgusted him, and he alters
his resolve and forgives the fellow, not from any considerations of
mercy, but because the mental picture of the man’s distress tortures
him. And by similar personal repugnances reacting on egoism is his
behavior in the denouement to be accounted for, and in this light
becomes logically credible and clearly understood. Few practices are
more hazardous or unjust than judging an artist by his objective
creations; but an ignoble protagonist, as Charolais is represented,
is in such ill accord with any conceivable purpose on the part of
Beer-Hofmann, and so unlikely to have been intended by him, that one
cannot help strongly suspecting that the author unconsciously projected
himself into the character and thus revealed his own nature and point
of view. In any case he has presented for his hero a whimperer who can
command neither our sympathy nor our respect when he cries above the
bodies of his benefactor and her who is that benefactor’s daughter, his
own wife, and the mother of his child:

  _Ist dies Stück denn aus,
  Weil jene starb? Und ich? An mich denkt keiner?_

We have come a long way from Massinger and Field and the early
seventeenth century. The shadow of the old dramatists reaches far,
even to our own time; we have seen their play redeveloped, but never
improved upon, by pseudo-classicist, and popularizer, and Decadent
hyper-aesthete. That which was the vulnerable point in the original
production--its two-fold plot--has been still for every imitator a
stone of stumbling. Rowe tried to escape it by the suppression of the
antecedent half, and the fraction which remained in his hand was an
artificial thing without the breath of life, that had to be attenuated
and padded out with speechifying to fill the compass of its five Acts.
Beer-Hofmann tried to escape it by superimposing an idea not proper
to the story, and beneath the weight of this his tragedy collapsed in
the middle, for its addition over-packed the drama, and left him not
room enough to make convincing the conduct of his characters. The first
essayers, who attacked in straightforward fashion their unwieldy theme,
succeeded best; all attempts to obviate its essential defect have
marred rather than mended. Perhaps the theme is by its nature unsuited
to dramatic treatment, and yet there is much that is dramatic about
that theme, as is evinced by the fact that playwrights have been unable
to let it lie.




EDITOR’S NOTE ON TEXT


The present text aims to reproduce exactly the Quarto edition of 1632,
retaining its punctuation, spelling, capitals, italics, and stage
directions--amending only the metrical alignment.[14] Mere mistakes
of printing--inverted and broken letters--are restored, but are duly
catalogued in the foot notes. The division into scenes, as made by
Gifford, and his affixment of the _locus_ of each, are inserted into
the text, inclosed in brackets. In the foot notes are recorded all
variants of all subsequent editions. Differences of punctuation are
given, if they could possibly alter the meaning, but not otherwise--nor
mere differences _in wording_ of stage directions, nor differences in
spelling, nor elision for metre. In the Quarto the elder Novall is
sometimes designated before his lines as _Novall Senior_, sometimes
merely as _Novall_--no confusion is possible, since he and his son are
never on the stage at the same time. Gifford and Symons always write
_Novall Senior_, while Coxeter and Mason write _Novall_ alone in I, i,
and _Novall Senior_ thereafter. I have not thought it worth while to
note the variants of the several texts on this point.




    Q.--The Quarto--1632

    C.--Coxeter’s edition, 1759

    M.--Monck Mason’s edition, 1779

    G.--Gifford’s [2nd.] edition, 1813

    S.--Symons’ (Mermaid) edition, 1893

    f.--and all later editions

  s.d.--stage direction




  THE FATALL DOWRY:

  A TRAGEDY:

  _As it hath beene often Acted at the Priuate
  House in Blackefryers, by his
  Maiesties Seruants._

  _Written by P. M. and N. F._


  LONDON,

  Printed by IOHN NORTON, for FRANCIS
  CONSTABLE, and are to be iold at his
  shop at the _Crane_, in _Pauls Churchyard_.
  1632.




  _Charalois._

  _Romont._

  _Charmi._

  _Nouall Sen._

  _Liladam._

  _DuCroy._

  _Rochfort._

  _Baumont._

  _Pontalier._

  _Malotin._

  _Beaumelle._

  _Florimel._ }

  _Bellapert._}

  _Aymer._

  _Nouall Jun._

  _Aduocates._

  _Creditors 3._

  _Officers._

  _Priest._

  _Taylor._

  _Barber._

  _Perfumer._

  [Page.]

  [Presidents, Captains, Soldiers, Mourners, Gaoler, Bailiffs,
  Servants.]




The Fatall Dowry:

A Tragedy:




_Act. primus._


_Scaena prima:_

[_A Street before the Court of Justice_]

_Enter_ Charaloyes _with a paper_, Romont, Charmi.

  _Charmi_ Sir, I may moue the Court to serue your will,
  But therein shall both wrong you and my selfe.

  _Rom._ Why thinke you so sir?

  _Charmi._                    ’Cause I am familiar
  With what will be their answere: they will say,
  ’Tis against law, and argue me of Ignorance                          5
  For offering them the motion.

  _Rom._                       You know not, Sir,
  How in this cause they may dispence with Law,
  And therefore frame not you their answere for them,
  But doe your parts.

  _Charmi._          I loue the cause so well,
  As I could runne, the hazard of a checke for ’t.                    10

  _Rom._ From whom?

  _Charmi._        Some of the bench, that watch to give it,
  More then to doe the office that they fit for:
  But giue me (sir) my fee.

  _Rom._                   Now you are Noble.

  _Charmi._ I shall deserue this better yet, in giuing
  My Lord some counsell, (if he please to heare it)                   15
  Then I shall doe with pleading.

  _Rom._                         What may it be, sir?

  _Charmi._ That it would please his Lordship, as the presidents,
  And Counsaylors of Court come by, to stand
  Heere, and but shew your selfe, and to some one
  Or two, make his request: there is a minute                         20
  When a mans presence speakes in his owne cause,
  More then the tongues of twenty aduocates.

  _Rom._ I haue vrg’d that.

    _Enter_ Rochfort: _DuCroye_.

  _Charmi._                Their Lordships here are coming,
  I must goe get me a place, you’l finde me in Court,
  And at your seruice

    _Exit Charmi._

  _Rom._             Now put on your Spirits.                         25

  _Du Croy._ The ease that you prepare your selfe, my Lord,
  In giuing vp the place you hold in Court,
  Will proue (I feare) a trouble in the State,
  And that no slight one.

  _Roch._                Pray you sir, no more.

  _Rom._ Now sir, lose not this offerd means: their lookes            30
  Fixt on you, with a pittying earnestnesse,
  Inuite you to demand their furtherance
  To your good purpose.--This such a dulnesse
  So foolish and vntimely as--

  _Du Croy._                  You know him.

  _Roch._ I doe, and much lament the sudden fall                      35
  Of his braue house. It is young _Charloyes_.
  Sonne to the Marshall, from whom he inherits
  His fame and vertues onely.

  _Rom._                     Ha, they name you.

  _Du Croye._ His father died in prison two daies since.

  _Roch._ Yes, to the shame of this vngrateful State;                 40
  That such a Master in the art of warre,
  So noble, and so highly meriting,
  From this forgetfull Country, should, for want
  Of meanes to satisfie his creditors,
  The summes he tooke vp for the generall good,                       45
  Meet with an end so infamous.

  _Rom._                       Dare you euer
  Hope for like opportunity?

  _Du Croye._               My good Lord!

  _Roch._ My wish bring comfort to you.

  _Du Croye._                          The time calls vs.

  _Roch._ Good morrow Colonell.

    _Exeunt Roch. Du Croye._

  _Rom._                       This obstinate spleene,
  You thinke becomes your sorrow, and sorts wel                       50
  With your blacke suits: but grant me wit, or iudgement,
  And by the freedome of an honest man,
  And a true friend to boote, I sweare ’tis shamefull.
  And therefore flatter not your selfe with hope,
  Your sable habit, with the hat and cloake,                          55
  No though the ribons helpe, haue power to worke ’em
  To what you would: for those that had no eyes,
  To see the great acts of your father, will not,
  From any fashion sorrow can put on,
  Bee taught to know their duties.

  _Char._                         If they will not,                   60
  They are too old to learne, and I too young
  To giue them counsell, since if they partake
  The vnderstanding, and the hearts of men,
  They will preuent my words and teares: if not,
  What can perswasion, though made eloquent                           65
  With griefe, worke vpon such as haue chang’d natures
  With the most sauage beast? Blest, blest be euer
  The memory of that happy age, when iustice
  Had no gards to keepe off wrongd innocence,
  From flying to her succours, and in that                            70
  Assurance of redresse: where now (_Romont_)
  The damnd, with more ease may ascend from Hell,
  Then we ariue at her. One Cerberus there
  Forbids the passage, in our Courts a thousand,
  As lowd, and fertyle headed, and the Client                         75
  That wants the sops, to fill their rauenous throats,
  Must hope for no accesse: why should I then
  Attempt impossibilities: you friend, being
  Too well acquainted with my dearth of meanes,
  To make my entrance that way?

  _Rom._                       Would I were not.                      80
  But Sir, you haue a cause, a cause so iust,
  Of such necessitie, not to be deferd,
  As would compell a mayde, whose foot was neuer
  Set ore her fathers threshold, nor within
  The house where she was borne, euer spake word,                     85
  Which was not vshered with pure virgin blushes,
  To drowne the tempest of a pleaders tongue,
  And force corruption to giue backe the hire
  It tooke against her: let examples moue you.
  You see great men in birth, esteeme and fortune,                    90
  Rather then lose a scruple of their right,
  Fawne basely vpon such, whose gownes put off,
  They would disdaine for Seruants.

  _Char._                          And to these
  Can I become a suytor?

  _Rom._                Without losse,
  Would you consider, that to game their fauors,                      95
  Our chastest dames put off their modesties,
  Soldiers forget their honors, vsurers
  Make sacrifice of Gold, poets of wit,
  And men religious, part with fame, and goodnesse?
  Be therefore wonne to vse the meanes, that may                     100
  Aduance your pious ends.

  _Char._                 You shall orecome.

  _Rom._ And you receiue the glory, pray you now practise.
  ’Tis well.

    _Enter Old Nouall, Liladam, & 3 Creditors._

  _Char._   Not looke on me!

  _Rom._                    You must haue patience----
  Offer’t againe.

  _Char._        And be againe contemn’d?

  _Nou._ I know whats to be done.

  _1 Cred._                      And that your Lordship              105
  Will please to do your knowledge, we offer, first
  Our thankefull hearts heere, as a bounteous earnest
  To what we will adde.

  _Nou._               One word more of this
  I am your enemie. Am I a man
  Your bribes can worke on? ha?

  _Lilad._                     Friends, you mistake                  110
  The way to winne my Lord, he must not heare this,
  But I, as one in fauour, in his sight,
  May harken to you for my profit. Sir,
  I pray heare em.

  _Nou._          Tis well.

  _Lilad._                 Obserue him now.

  _Nou._ Your cause being good, and your proceedings so,             115
  Without corruption; I am your friend,
  Speake your desires.

  _2 Cred._           Oh, they are charitable,
  The Marshall stood ingag’d vnto vs three,
  Two hundred thousand crownes, which by his death
  We are defeated of. For which great losse                          120
  We ayme at nothing but his rotten flesh,
  Nor is that cruelty.

  _1 Cred._           I haue a sonne,
  That talkes of nothing but of Gunnes and Armors,
  And sweares hee’ll be a soldier, tis an humor
  I would diuert him from, and I am told                             125
  That if I minister to him in his drinke
  Powder, made of this banquerout Marshalls bones,
  Provided that the carcase rot aboue ground
  ’Twill cure his foolish frensie.

  _Nou._                          You shew in it
  A fathers care. I haue a sonne my selfe,                           130
  A fashionable Gentleman and a peacefull:
  And but I am assur’d he’s not so giuen,
  He should take of it too, Sir what are you?

  _Char._ A Gentleman.

  _Nou._              So are many that rake dunghills.
  If you haue any suit, moue it in Court.                            135
  I take no papers in corners.

  _Rom._                      Yes
  As the matter may be carried, and hereby
  To mannage the conuayance----Follow him.

  _Lil._ You are rude. I say, he shall not passe.

    _Exit Nouall, Char: and Aduocates_

  _Rom._                                         You say so.
  On what assurance?                                                 140
  For the well cutting of his Lordships cornes,
  Picking his toes, or any office else
  Neerer to basenesse!

  _Lil._              Looke vpon mee better,
  Are these the ensignes of so coorse a fellow?
  Be well aduis’d.

  _Rom._          Out, rogue, do not I know,      (_Kicks him_)      145
  These glorious weedes spring from the sordid dunghill
  Of thy officious basenesse? wert thou worthy
  Of anything from me, but my contempt,
  I would do more then this, more, you Court-spider.

  _Lil._ But that this man is lawlesse;
      he should find that I am valiant.                              150

  _1 Cred._                            If your eares are fast,
  Tis nothing. Whats a blow or two? As much--

  _2 Cred._ These chastisements, as vsefull are as frequent
  To such as would grow rich.

  _Rom._                     Are they so Rascals?
  I will be-friend you then.

  _1 Cred._                 Beare witnesse, Sirs.                    155

  _Lil._ Trueth, I haue borne my part already, friends.
  In the Court you shall haue more.

    _Exit._

  _Rom._                           I know you for
  The worst of spirits, that striue to rob the tombes
  Of what is their inheritance, from the dead.
  For vsurers, bred by a riotous peace:                              160
  That hold the Charter of your wealth & freedome,
  By being Knaues and Cuckolds that ne’re prayd,
  But when you feare the rich heires will grow wise,
  To keepe their Lands out of your parchment toyles:
  And then, the Diuell your father’s cald vpon,                      165
  To inuent some ways of _Luxury_ ne’re thought on.
  Be gone, and quickly, or Ile leaue no roome
  Vpon your forhead for your hornes to sprowt on,
  Without a murmure, or I will vndoe you;
  For I will beate you honest.

  _1 Cred._                   Thrift forbid.                         170
  We will beare this, rather then hazard that.

    _Ex: Creditor._

    _Enter Charloyes._

  _Rom._ I am some-what eas’d in this yet.

  _Char._                                 (Onely friend)
  To what vaine purpose do I make my sorrow,
  Wayte on the triumph of their cruelty?
  Or teach their pride from my humilitie,                            175
  To thinke it has orecome? They are determin’d
  What they will do: and it may well become me,
  To robbe them of the glory they expect
  From my submisse intreaties.

  _Rom._                      Thinke not so, Sir,
  The difficulties that you incounter with,                          180
  Will crowne the vndertaking--Heaven! you weepe:
  And I could do so too, but that I know,
  Theres more expected from the sonne and friend
  Of him, whose fatall losse now shakes our natures,
  Then sighs, or teares, (in which a village nurse                   185
  Or cunning strumpet, when her knaue is hangd,
  May ouercome vs.) We are men (young Lord)
  Let vs not do like women. To the Court,
  And there speake like your birth: wake sleeping justice,
  Or dare the Axe. This is a way will sort                           190
  With what you are. I call you not to that
  I will shrinke from my selfe, I will deserue
  Your thankes, or suffer with you--O how bravely
  That sudden fire of anger shewes in you!
  Give fuell to it, since you are on a shelfe,                       195
  Of extreme danger suffer like your selfe.

    _Exeunt._


[SCENE II]

[_The Court of Justice_]

_Enter Rochfort_, _Nouall Se. Charmi_, _Du Croye_,
_Aduocates_, _Baumont_, _and Officers_, _and 3. Presidents_.

  _Du Croye._ Your Lordship’s seated. May this meeting proue prosperous
      to vs, and to the generall good
  Of _Burgundy_.

  _Nou. Se._ Speake to the poynt.

  _Du Croy._                     Which is,
  With honour to dispose the place and power
  Of primier President, which this reuerent man                        5
  Graue _Rochfort_, (whom for honours sake I name)
  Is purpos’d to resigne a place, my Lords,
  In which he hath with such integrity,
  Perform’d the first and best parts of a Iudge,
  That as his life transcends all faire examples                      10
  Of such as were before him in _Dijon_,
  So it remaines to those that shall succeed him,
  A President they may imitate, but not equall.

  _Roch._ I may not sit to heare this.

  _Du Croy._                          Let the loue
  And thankfulnes we are bound to pay to goodnesse,                   15
  In this o’recome your modestie.

  _Roch._                        My thankes
  For this great fauour shall preuent your trouble.
  The honourable trust that was impos’d
  Vpon my weaknesse since you witnesse for me,
  It was not ill discharg’d, I will not mention,                      20
  Nor now, if age had not depriu’d me of
  The little strength I had to gouerne well,
  The Prouince that I vndertooke, forsake it.

  _Nou._ That we could lend you of our yeeres.

  _Du Croy._                                  Or strength.

  _Nou._ Or as you are, perswade you to continue                      25
  The noble exercise of your knowing iudgement.

  _Roch._ That may not be, nor can your Lordships goodnes,
  Since your imployments haue confer’d vpon me
  Sufficient wealth, deny the vse of it,
  And though old age, when one foot’s in the graue,                   30
  In many, when all humors else are spent
  Feeds no affection in them, but desire
  To adde height to the mountaine of their riches:
  In me it is not so, I rest content
  With the honours, and estate I now possesse,                        35
  And that I may haue liberty to vse,
  What Heauen still blessing my poore industry,
  Hath made me Master of: I pray the Court
  To ease me of my burthen, that I may
  Employ the small remainder of my life,                              40
  In liuing well, and learning how to dye so.

    _Enter Romont, and Charalois._

  _Rom._ See sir, our Aduocate.

  _Du Croy._                   The Court intreats,
  Your Lordship will be pleasd to name the man,
  Which you would haue your successor, and in me,
  All promise to confirme it.

  _Roch._                    I embrace it,                            45
  As an assurance of their fauour to me,
  And name my Lord Nouall.

  _Du Croy._              The Court allows it.

  _Roch._ But there are suters waite heere, and their causes
  May be of more necessity to be heard,
  And therefore wish that mine may be defer’d,                        50
  And theirs haue hearing.

  _Du Croy._              If your Lordship please
  To take the place, we will proceed.

  _Charm._                           The cause
  We come to offer to your Lordships censure,
  Is in it selfe so noble, that it needs not
  Or Rhetorique in me that plead, or fauour                           55
  From your graue Lordships, to determine of it.
  Since to the prayse of your impartiall iustice
  (Which guilty, nay condemn’d men, dare not scandall)
  It will erect a trophy of your mercy
  With married to that Iustice.

  _Nou. Se._                   Speaks to the cause.                   60

  _Charm._ I will, my Lord: to say, the late dead Marshall
  The father of this young Lord heer, my Clyent,
  Hath done his Country great and faithfull seruice,
  Might taske me of impertinence to repeate,
  What your graue Lordships cannot but remember,                      65
  He in his life, become indebted to
  These thriftie men, I will not wrong their credits,
  By giuing them the attributes they now merit,
  And fayling by the fortune of the warres,
  Of meanes to free himselfe, from his ingagements,                   70
  He was arrested, and for want of bayle
  Imprisond at their suite: and not long after
  With losse of liberty ended his life.
  And though it be a Maxime in our Lawes,
  All suites dye with the person, these mens malice                   75
  In death find matter for their hate to worke on,
  Denying him the decent Rytes of buriall,
  Which the sworne enemies of the Christian faith
  Grant freely to their slaues; may it therefore please
  Your Lordships, so to fashion your decree,                          80
  That what their crueltie doth forbid, your pittie
  May giue allowance to.

  _Nou. Se._            How long haue you Sir
  Practis’d in Court?

  _Charmi._          Some twenty yeeres, my Lord.

  _Nou. Se._ By your grosse ignorance it should appeare,
  Not twentie dayes.

  _Charmi._         I hope I haue giuen no cause                      85
  In this, my Lord--

  _Nou. Se._        How dare you moue the Court,
  To the dispensing with an Act confirmd
  By Parlament, to the terror of all banquerouts?
  Go home, and with more care peruse the Statutes:
  Or the next motion fauoring of this boldnesse,                      90
  May force you to leape (against your will)
  Ouer the place you plead at.

  _Charmi._                   I foresaw this.

  _Rom._ Why does your Lordship thinke, the mouing of
  A cause more honest then this Court had euer
  The honor to determine, can deserue                                 95
  A checke like this?

  _Nou. Se._         Strange boldnes!

  _Rom._                             Tis fit freedome:
  Or do you conclude, an aduocate cannot hold
  His credit with the Iudge, vnlesse he study
  His face more then the cause for which he pleades?

  _Charmi._ Forbeare.

  _Rom._             Or cannot you, that haue the power              100
  To qualifie the rigour of the Lawes,
  When you are pleased, take a little from
  The strictnesse of your fowre decrees, enacted
  In fauor of the greedy creditors
  Against the orethrowne debter?

  _Nou. Se._                    Sirra, you that prate                105
  Thus sawcily, what are you?

  _Rom._                     Why Ile tell you,
  Thou purple-colour’d man, I am one to whom
  Thou owest the meanes thou hast of sitting there
  A corrupt Elder.

  _Charmi._       Forbeare.

  _Rom._ The nose thou wearst, is my gift, and those eyes            110
  That meete no obiect so base as their Master,
  Had bin, long since, torne from that guiltie head,
  And thou thy selfe slaue to some needy Swisse,
  Had I not worne a sword, and vs’d it better
  Then in thy prayers thou ere didst thy tongue.                     115

  _Nou. Se._ Shall such an Insolence passe vnpunisht?

  _Charmi._                                          Heere mee.

  _Rom._ Yet I, that in my seruice done my Country,
  Disdaine to bee put in the scale with thee,
  Confesse my selfe vnworthy to bee valued
  With the least part, nay haire of the dead Marshall,               120
  Of whose so many glorious vndertakings,
  Make choice of any one, and that the meanest
  Performd against the subtill Fox of France,
  The politique _Lewis_, or the more desperate Swisse,
  And ’twyll outwaygh all the good purpose,                          125
  Though put in act, that euer Gowneman practizd.

  _Nou. Se._ Away with him to prison.

  _Rom._                             If that curses,
  Vrg’d iustly, and breath’d forth so, euer fell
  On those that did deserue them; let not mine
  Be spent in vaine now, that thou from this instant                 130
  Mayest in thy feare that they will fall vpon thee,
  Be sensible of the plagues they shall bring with them.
  And for denying of a little earth,
  To couer what remaynes of our great soldyer:
  May all your wiues proue whores, your factors theeues,             135
  And while you liue, your riotous heires vndoe you,
  And thou, the patron of their cruelty.
  Of all thy Lordships liue not to be owner
  Of so much dung as will conceale a Dog,
  Or what is worse, thy selfe in. And thy yeeres,                    140
  To th’ end thou mayst be wretched, I wish many,
  And as thou hast denied the dead a graue,
  May misery in thy life make thee desire one,
  Which men and all the Elements keepe from thee:
  I haue begun well, imitate, exceed.                                145

  _Roch._ Good counsayle were it, a prayse worthy deed.

    _Ex. Officers with Rom._

  _Du Croye._ Remember what we are.

  _Chara._                         Thus low my duty
  Answeres your Lordships counsaile. I will vse
  In the few words (with which I am to trouble
  Your Lordships eares) the temper that you wish mee.                150
  Not that I feare to speake my thoughts as lowd,
  And with a liberty beyond _Romont_:
  But that I know, for me that am made vp
  Of all that’s wretched, so to haste my end,
  Would seeme to most, rather a willingnesse                         155
  To quit the burthen of a hopelesse life,
  Then scorne of death, or duty to the dead.
  I therefore bring the tribute of my prayse
  To your seueritie, and commend the Iustice,
  That will not for the many seruices                                160
  That any man hath done the Common wealth
  Winke at his least of ills: what though my father
  Writ man before he was so, and confirmd it,
  By numbring that day, no part of his life,
  In which he did not seruice to his Country;                        165
  Was he to be free therefore from the Lawes,
  And ceremonious forme in your decrees?
  Or else because he did as much as man
  In those three memorable ouerthrowes
  At _Granson_, _Morat_, _Nancy_, where his Master,                  170
  The warlike _Charloyes_ (with whose misfortunes
  I beare his name) lost treasure, men and life,
  To be excus’d, from payment of those summes
  Which (his owne patri mony spent) his zeale,
  To serue his Countrey, forc’d him to take vp?                      175

  _Nou. Se._ The president were ill.

  _Chara._                          And yet, my Lord, this much
  I know youll grant; After those great defeatures,
  Which in their dreadfull ruines buried quick,      _Enter officers._
  Courage and hope, in all men but himselfe,
  He forst the proud foe, in his height of conquest,                 180
  To yield vnto an honourable peace.
  And in it saued an hundred thousand liues,
  To end his owne, that was sure proofe against
  The scalding Summers heate, and Winters frost,
  Illayres, the Cannon, and the enemies sword,                       185
  In a most loathsome prison.

  _Du Croy._                 Twas his fault
  To be so prodigall.

  _Nou. Se._         He had frô the state
  Sufficent entertainment for the Army.

  _Char._ Sufficient? My Lord, you sit at home,
  And though your fees are boundlesse at the barre:                  190
  Are thriftie in the charges of the warre,
  But your wills be obeyd. To these I turne,
  To these soft-hearted men, that wisely know
  They are onely good men, that pay what they owe.

  _2 Cred._ And so they are.

  _1 Cred._                 ’Tis the City Doctrine,                  195
  We stand bound to maintaine it.

  _Char._                        Be constant in it,
  And since you are as mercilesse in your natures,
  As base, and mercenary in your meanes
  By which you get your wealth, I will not vrge
  The Court to take away one scruple from                            200
  The right of their lawes, or one good thought
  In you to mend your disposition with.
  I know there is no musique in your eares
  So pleasing as the groanes of men in prison,
  And that the teares of widows, and the cries                       205
  Of famish’d Orphants, are the feasts that take you.
  That to be in your danger, with more care
  Should be auoyded, then infectious ayre,
  The loath’d embraces of diseased women,
  A flatterers poyson, or the losse of honour.                       210
  Yet rather then my fathers reuerent dust
  Shall want a place in that faire monument,
  In which our noble Ancestors lye intomb’d,
  Before the Court I offer vp my selfe
  A prisoner for it: loade me with those yrons                       215
  That haue worne out his life, in my best strength
  Ile run to th’ incounter of cold hunger,
  And choose my dwelling where no Sun dares enter,
  So he may be releas’d.

  _1 Cred._             What meane you sir?

  _2 Aduo._ Onely your fee againe: ther’s so much sayd               220
  Already in this cause, and sayd so well,
  That should I onely offer to speake in it,
  I should not bee heard, or laught at for it.

  _1 Cred._ ’Tis the first mony aduocate ere gaue backe,
  Though hee sayd nothing.

  _Roch._                 Be aduis’d, young Lord,                    225
  And well considerate, you throw away
  Your liberty, and ioyes of life together:
  Your bounty is imployd vpon a subiect
  That is not sensible of it, with which, wise man
  Neuer abus’d his goodnesse; the great vertues                      230
  Of your dead father vindicate themselues,
  From these mens malice, and breake ope the prison,
  Though it containe his body.

  _Nou. Se._                  Let him alone,
  If he loue Lords, a Gods name let him weare ’em,
  Prouided these consent.

  _Char._                I hope they are not                         235
  So ignorant in any way of profit,
  As to neglect a possibility
  To get their owne, by seeking it from that
  Which can returne them nothing, but ill fame,
  And curses for their barbarous cruelties.                          240

  _3 Cred._ What thinke you of the offer?

  _2 Cred._                              Very well.

  _1 Cred._ Accept it by all meanes: let’s shut him vp,
  He is well-shaped and has a villanous tongue,
  And should he study that way of reuenge,
  As I dare almost sweare he loues a wench,                          245
  We haue no wiues, nor neuer shall get daughters
  That will hold out against him.

  _Du Croy._                     What’s your answer?

  _2 Cred._ Speake you for all.

  _1 Cred._                    Why let our executions
  That lye vpon the father, bee return’d
  Vpon the sonne, and we release the body.                           250

  _Nou. Se._ The Court must grant you that.

  _Char._                                  I thanke your Lordships,
  They haue in it confirm’d on me such glory,
  As no time can take from me: I am ready,
  Come lead me where you please: captiuity
  That comes with honour, is true liberty.                           255

    _Exit Charmi, Cred. & Officers._

  _Nou. Se._ Strange rashnesse.

  _Roch._                      A braue resolution rather,
  Worthy a better fortune, but howeuer
  It is not now to be disputed, therefore
  To my owne cause. Already I haue found
  Your Lordships bountifull in your fauours to me;                   260
  And that should teach my modesty to end heere
  And presse your loues no further.

  _Du Croy._                       There is nothing
  The Court can grant, but with assurance you
  May aske it and obtaine it.

  _Roch._                    You incourage
  A bold Petitioner, and ’tis not fit                                265
  Your fauours should be lost. Besides, ’tas beene
  A custome many yeeres, at the surrendring
  The place I now giue vp, to grant the President
  One boone, that parted with it. And to confirme
  Your grace towards me, against all such as may                     270
  Detract my actions, and life hereafter,
  I now preferre it to you.

  _Du Croy._               Speake it freely.

  _Roch._ I then desire the liberty of _Romont_,
  And that my Lord _Nouall_, whose priuate wrong
  Was equall to the iniurie that was done                            275
  To the dignity of the Court, will pardon it,
  And now signe his enlargement.

  _Nou. Se._                    Pray you demand
  The moyety of my estate, or any thing
  Within my power, but this.

  _Roch._                   Am I denyed then--
  My first and last request?

  _Du Croy._                It must not be.                          280

  _2 Pre._ I haue a voyce to giue in it.

  _3 Pre._                              And I.
  And if perswasion will not worke him to it,
  We will make knowne our power.

  _Nou. Se._                    You are too violent,
  You shall haue my consent--But would you had
  Made tryall of my loue in any thing                                285
  But this, you should haue found then--But it skills not.
  You haue what you desire.

  _Roch._                  I thanke your Lordships.

  _Du Croy._ The court is vp, make way.

    _Ex. omnes, praeter Roch. & Beaumont._

  _Roch._                                I follow you--_Baumont_.

  _Baum._ My Lord.

  _Roch._         You are a scholler, _Baumont_,
  And can search deeper into th’ intents of men,                     290
  Then those that are lesse knowing--How appear’d
  The piety and braue behauior of
  Young _Charloyes_ to you?

  _Baum._                  It is my wonder,
  Since I want language to expresse it fully;
  And sure the Collonell--

  _Roch._                 Fie! he was faulty--                       295
  What present mony haue I?

  _Baum._                  There is no want
  Of any summe a priuate man has use for.

  _Roch._                                ’Tis well:
  I am strangely taken with this _Charaloyes_;
  Me thinkes, from his example, the whole age
  Should learne to be good, and continue so.                         300
  Vertue workes strangely with vs: and his goodnesse
  Rising aboue his fortune, seemes to me
  Princelike, to will, not aske a courtesie.

    _Exeunt._




_Act. secundus._


_Scæna prima:_

[_A Street before the Prison_]

_Enter Pontalier_, _Malotin_, _Baumont_.

  _Mal._ Tis strange.

  _Baum._            Me thinkes so.

  _Pont._                          In a man, but young,
  Yet old in iudgement, theorique, and practicke
  In all humanity (and to increase the wonder)
  Religious, yet a Souldier, that he should
  Yeeld his free liuing youth a captiue, for                           5
  The freedome of his aged fathers Corpes,
  And rather choose to want lifes necessaries,
  Liberty, hope of fortune, then it should
  In death be kept from Christian ceremony.

  _Malo._ Come, ’Tis a golden president in a Sonne,                   10
  To let strong nature haue the better hand,
  (In such a case) of all affected reason.
  What yeeres sits on this Charolois?

  _Baum._                            Twenty eight,
  For since the clocke did strike him 17 old
  Vnder his fathers wing, this Sonne hath fought,                     15
  Seru’d and commanded, and so aptly both,
  That sometimes he appear’d his fathers father,
  And neuer lesse then’s sonne; the old man’s vertues
  So recent in him, as the world may sweare,
  Nought but a faire tree, could such fayre fruit beare.              20

  _Pont._ But wherefore lets he such a barbarous law,
  And men more barbarous to execute it,
  Preuaile on his soft disposition,
  That he had rather dye aliue for debt
  Of the old man in prison, then he should                            25
  Rob him of Sepulture, considering
  These monies borrow’d bought the lenders peace,
  And all their meanes they inioy, nor was diffus’d
  In any impious or licencious path?

  _Bau._ True: for my part, were it my fathers trunke,                30
  The tyrannous Ram-heads, with their hornes should gore it,
  Or, cast it to their curres (than they) lesse currish,
  Ere prey on me so, with their Lion-law,
  Being in my free will (as in his) to shun it.

  _Pont._ Alasse! he knowes him selfe (in pouerty) lost:              35
  For in this parciall auaricious age
  What price beares Honor? Vertue? Long agoe
  It was but prays’d, and freez’d, but now a dayes
  ’Tis colder far, and has, nor loue, nor praise,
  Very prayse now freezeth too: for nature                            40
  Did make the heathen, far more Christian then,
  Then knowledge vs (lesse heathenish) Christian.

  _Malo._ This morning is the funerall.

  _Pont._                              Certainely!
  And from this prison ’twas the sonnes request
  That his deare father might interment haue.                         45

    _Recorders Musique,_

  See, the young sonne interd a liuely graue.

  _Baum._ They come, obserue their order.

    _Enter Funerall. Body borne by 4. Captaines and Souldiers,
    Mourners, Scutchions, and very good order. Charolois, and Romont
    meet it. Char. speaks. Rom. weeping, solemne Musique, 3 Creditors._

  _Char._ How like a silent streame shaded with night,
  And gliding softly with our windy sighes;
  Moues the whole frame of this solemnity!                            50
  Teares, sighs, and blackes, filling the simily,
  Whilst I the onely murmur in this groue
  Of death, thus hollowly break forth! Vouchsafe
  To stay a while, rest, rest in peace, deare earth,
  Thou that brought’st rest to their vnthankfull lyues,               55
  Whose cruelty deny’d thee rest in death:
  Heere stands thy poore Executor thy sonne,
  That makes his life prisoner, to bale thy death;
  Who gladlier puts on this captiuity,
  Then Virgins long in loue, their wedding weeds:                     60
  Of all that euer thou hast done good to,
  These onely haue good memories, for they
  Remember best, forget not gratitude.
  I thanke you for this last and friendly loue.
  And tho this Country, like a viperous mother,                       65
  Not onely hath eate vp vngratefully
  All meanes of thee her sonne, but last thy selfe,
  Leauing thy heire so bare and indigent,
  He cannot rayse thee a poore Monument,
  Such as a flatterer, or a vsurer hath.                              70
  Thy worth, in euery honest brest buyldes one,
  Making their friendly hearts thy funerall stone.

  _Pont._ Sir.

  _Char._ Peace, O peace, this sceane is wholy mine.
  What weepe ye, souldiers? Blanch not, _Romont_ weepes.              75
  Ha, let me see, my miracle is eas’d,
  The iaylors and the creditors do weepe;
  Euen they that make vs weepe, do weepe themselues.
  Be these thy bodies balme: these and thy vertue
  Keepe thy fame euer odoriferous,                                    80
  Whilst the great, proud, rich, vndeseruing man,
  Aliue stinkes in his vices, and being vanish’d,
  The golden calfe that was an Idoll dect
  With marble pillars Iet, and Porphyrie,
  Shall quickly both in bone and name consume,                        85
  Though wrapt in lead, spice, Searecloth and perfume

  _1 Cred._ Sir.

  _Char._ What! Away for shame: you prophane rogues
  Must not be mingled with these holy reliques:
  This is a Sacrifice, our showre shall crowne                        90
  His sepulcher with Oliue, Myrrh and Bayes
  The plants of peace, of sorrow, victorie,
  Your teares would spring but weedes.

  _1 Cred._                           Would they not so?
  Wee’ll keepe them to stop bottles then:

  _Rom._                                 No; keepe ’em
  For your owne sins, you Rogues, till you repent:                    95
  You’ll dye else and be damn’d.

  _2 Cred._                     Damn’d, ha! ha, ha.

  _Rom._ Laugh yee?

  _3 Cred._        Yes faith, Sir, weel’d be very glad
  To please you eyther way.

  _1 Cred._                Y’are ne’re content,
  Crying nor laughing.

  _Rom._ Both with a birth shee rogues.

  _2 Cred._                          Our wiues, Sir, taught vs.      100

  _Rom._ Looke, looke, you slaues, your thanklesse cruelty
  And sauage manners, of vnkind _Dijon_,
  Exhaust these flouds, and not his fathers death.

  _1 Cred._ Slid, Sir, what would yee, ye’are so cholericke?

  _2 Cred._ Most soldiers are so yfaith, let him alone:              105
  They haue little else to liue on, we haue not had
  A penny of him, haue we?

  _3 Cred._               ’Slight, wo’d you haue our hearts?

  _1 Cred._ We haue nothing but his body heere in durance
  For all our mony.

  _Priest._        On.

  _Char._             One moment more,
  But to bestow a few poore legacyes,                                110
  All I haue left in my dead fathers rights,
  And I haue done. Captaine, weare thou these spurs
  That yet ne’re made his horse runne from a foe.
  Lieutenant, thou, this Scarfe, and may it tye
  Thy valor, and thy honestie together:                              115
  For so it did in him. Ensigne, this Curace
  Your Generalls necklace once. You gentle Bearers,
  Deuide this purse of gold, this other, strow
  Among the poore: tis all I haue. _Romont_,
  (Weare thou this medall of himselfe) that like                     120
  A hearty Oake, grew’st close to this tall Pine,
  Euen in the wildest wildernese of war,
  Whereon foes broke their swords, and tyr’d themselues;
  Wounded and hack’d yee were, but neuer fell’d.
  For me my portion prouide in Heauen:                               125
  My roote is earth’d, and I a desolate branch
  Left scattered in the high way of the world,
  Trod vnder foot, that might haue bin a Columne,
  Mainly supporting our demolish’d house,
  This would I weare as my inheritance.                              130
  And what hope can arise to me from it,
  When I and it are both heere prisoners?
  Onely may this, if euer we be free,
  Keepe, or redeeme me from all infamie.

    _Song. Musicke._

  _1 Cred._ No farther, looke to ’em at your owne perill.            135

  _2 Cred._ No, as they please: their Master’s a good man.
  I would they were the _Burmudas_.

  _Saylor._                        You must no further.
  The prison limits you, and the Creditors
  Exact the strictnesse.

  _Rom._                Out you wooluish mungrells!
  Whose braynes should be knockt out, like dogs in Iuly,             140
  Leste your infection poyson a whole towne.

  _Char._ They grudge our sorrow: your ill wills perforce
  Turnes now to Charity: they would not haue vs
  Walke too farre mourning, vsurers reliefe
  Grieues, if the Debtors haue too much of griefe.                   145

    _Exeunt._


[SCENE II]

[_A Room in Rochfort’s House._]

_Enter Beaumelle_: _Florimell_: _Bellapert_.

  _Beau._ I prithee tell me, _Florimell_, why do women marry?

  _Flor._ Why truly Madam, I thinke, to lye with their husbands.

  _Bella._ You are a foole: She lyes, Madam, women marry husbands,
  To lye with other men.                                               5

  _Flor._ Faith eene such a woman wilt thou make. By this
  light, Madam, this wagtaile will spoyle you, if you take
  delight in her licence.

  _Beau._ Tis true, _Florimell_: and thou wilt make me too good
  for a yong Lady. What an electuary found my father out for          10
  his daughter, when hee compounded you two my women?
  for thou, _Florimell_, art eene a graine to heauy, simply for a
  wayting Gentlewoman.

  _Flor._ And thou _Bellapert_, a graine too light.

  _Bella._ Well, go thy wayes goodly wisdom, whom no body             15
  regards. I wonder, whether be elder thou or thy hood: you
  thinke, because you serue my Laydes mother, are 32 yeeres
  old which is a peepe out, you know.

  _Flor._ Well sayd, wherligig.

  _Bella._ You are deceyu’d: I want a peg ith’ middle.                20
  Out of these Prerogatiues! you thinke to be mother of the
  maydes heere, & mortifie em with prouerbs: goe, goe, gouern
  the sweet meates, and waigh the Suger, that the wenches
  steale none: say your prayers twice a day, and as I take it, you
  haue performd your function.                                        25

  _Flor._ I may bee euen with you.

  _Bell._ Harke, the Court’s broke vp. Goe helpe my old Lord
  out of his Caroch, and scratch his head till dinner time.

  _Flor._ Well.

    _Exit._

  _Bell._ Fy Madam, how you walke! By my mayden-head                  30
  you looke 7 yeeres older then you did this morning: why,
  there can be nothing vnder the Sunne vanuable, to make you
  thus a minute.

  _Beau._ Ah my sweete Bellapert thou Cabinet
  To all my counsels, thou dost know the cause                        35
  That makes thy Lady wither thus in youth.

  _Bel._ Vd’d-light, enioy your wishes: whilst I liue,
  One way or other you shall crowne your will.
  Would you haue him your husband that you loue,
  And can’t not bee? he is your seruant though,                       40
  And may performe the office of a husband.

  _Beau._ But there is honor, wench.

  _Bell._                           Such a disease
  There is in deed, for which ere I would dy.--

  _Beau._ Prethee, distinguish me a mayd & wife.

  _Bell._ Faith, Madam, one may beare any mans children,              45
  Tother must beare no mans.

  _Beau._                   What is a husband?

  _Bell._ Physicke, that tumbling in your belly, will make you
  sicke ith’ stomacke: the onely distinction betwixt a husband
  and a seruant is: the first will lye with you, when he please;
  the last shall lye with you when you please. Pray tell me,          50
  Lady, do you loue, to marry after, or would you marry, to
  loue after.

  _Beau._ I would meete loue and marriage both at once.

  _Bell._ Why then you are out of the fashion, and wilbe contemn’d;
  for (Ile assure you) there are few women i’th world,                55
  but either they haue married first, and loue after, or loue
  first, and marryed after: you must do as you may, not as you
  would: your fathers will is the Goale you must fly to: if a
  husband approach you, you would haue further off, is he your
  loue? the lesse neere you. A husband in these days is but a         60
  cloake to bee oftner layde vpon your bed, then in your
  bed.

  _Baum._ Humpe.

  _Bell._ Sometimes you may weare him on your shoulder,
  now and then vnder your arme: but seldome or neuer let him          65
  couer you: for ’tis not the fashion.

    _Enter y. Nouall_, _Pontalier_, _Malotin_, _Lilladam_, _Aymer_.

  _Nou._ Best day to natures curiosity,
  Starre of _Dijum_, the lustre of all _France_,
  Perpetuall spring dwell on thy rosy cheekes,
  Whose breath is perfume to our Continent,                           70
  See _Flora_ turn’d in her varieties.

  _Bell._ Oh diuine Lord!

  _Nou._ No autumne, nor no age euer approach
  This heauenly piece, which nature hauing wrought,
  She lost her needle and did then despaire,                          75
  Euer to work so liuely and so faire.

  _Lilad._ Vds light, my Lord one of the purles of your band
  is (without all discipline falne) out of his ranke.

  _Nou._ How? I would not for a 1000 crownes she had seen’t.
  Deare _Liladam_, reforme it.                                        80

  _Bell._ O Lord: _Per se_, Lord, quintessence of honour,
  shee walkes not vnder a weede that could deny thee any
  thing.

  _Baum._ Prethy peace, wench, thou dost but blow the fire,
  that flames too much already.                                       85

    _Lilad. Aym. trim Nouall, whilst Bell her Lady._

  _Aym._ By gad, my Lord, you haue the diuinest
  Taylor of Christendome; he hath made
  you looke like an Angell in your cloth of Tissue doublet.

  _Pont._ This is a three-leg’d Lord, ther’s a fresh assault, oh
  that men should spend time thus!                                    90
  See see, how her blood driues to her heart, and straight
  vaults to her cheekes againe.

  _Malo._ What are these?

  _Pont._ One of ’em there the lower is a good, foolish, knauish
  sociable gallimaufry of a man, and has much taught                  95
  my Lord with singing, hee is master of a musicke house: the
  other is his dressing blocke, vpon whom my Lord layes all
  his cloathes, and fashions, ere he vouchsafes ’em his owne
  person; you shall see him i’th morning in the Gally-foyst, at
  noone in the Bullion, i’th euening in Quirpo, and all night        100
  in--

  _Malo._ A Bawdy house.

  _Pont._ If my Lord deny, they deny, if hee affirme, they affirme:
  they skip into my Lords cast skins some twice a yeere,
  and thus they liue to eate, eate to liue,                          105
  and liue to prayfe my Lord.

  _Malo._ Good sir, tell me one thing.

  _Pont._ What’s that?

  _Malo._ Dare these men euer fight, on any cause?

  _Pont._ Oh no, ’t would spoyle their cloathes, and put their       110
  bands out of order.

  _Nou._ _Mrs_, you heare the news: your father has resign’d
  his Presidentship to my Lord my father.

  _Malo._ And Lord Charolois vndone foreuer.

  _Pont._                                   Troth, ’tis pity, sir.
  A brauer hope of so assur’d a father                               115
  Did neuer comfort _France_.

  _Lilad._                   A good dumbe mourner.

  _Aym._ A silent blacke.
  As if he had come this Christmas from St. _Omers_.

  _Nou._ Oh fie vpon him, how he weares his cloathes!
  To see his friends, and return’d after Twelfetyde.                 120

  _Lilad._ His Colonell lookes fienely like a drouer.

  _Nou._ That had a winter ly’n perdieu i’th rayne.

  _Aym._ What, he that weares a clout about his necke,
  His cuffes in’s pocket, and his heart in’s mouth?

  _Nou._ Now out vpon him!

  _Beau._                 Seruant, tye my hand.                      125
  How your lips blush, in scorne that they should pay
  Tribute to hands, when lips are in the way!

  _Nou._ I thus recant, yet now your hand looks white
  Because your lips robd it of such a right.
  _Mounsieur Aymour_, I prethy sing the song                         130
  Deuoted to my _Mrs._

    _Cant._ _Musicke._

    _After the Song, Enter Rochfort, & Baumont._

  _Baum._ Romont will come, sir, straight.

  _Roch._                                 ’Tis well.

  _Beau._                                           My Father.

  _Nouall._ My honorable Lord.

  _Roch._ My Lord _Nouall_ this is a vertue in you.
  So early vp and ready before noone,                                135
  That are the map of dressing through all _France_.

  _Nou._ I rise to say my prayers, sir, heere’s my Saint.

  _Roch._ Tis well and courtly; you must giue me leaue,
  I haue some priuate conference with my daughter,
  Pray vse my garden, you shall dine with me.                        140

  _Lilad._ Wee’l waite on you.

  _Nou._                      Good morne vnto your Lordship,
  Remember what you haue vow’d----to his _Mrs._

    _Exeunt omnes praeter Roch. Daug._

  _Beau._                                      Performe I must.

  _Roch._ Why how now _Beaumelle_, thou look’st not well.
  Th’ art sad of late, come cheere thee, I haue found
  A wholesome remedy for these mayden fits,                          145
  A goodly Oake whereon to twist my vine,
  Till her faire branches grow vp to the starres.
  Be neere at hand, successe crowne my intent,
  My businesse fills my little time so full,
  I cannot stand to talke: I know, thy duty                          150
  Is handmayd to my will, especially
  When it presents nothing but good and fit.

  _Beau._ Sir, I am yours. Oh if my teares proue true,      _Exit Daug_
  Fate hath wrong’d loue, and will destroy me too.

    _Enter Romont keeper_

  _Rom._ Sent you for me, sir?

  _Roch._                     Yes.

  _Rom._                          Your Lordships pleasure?           155

  _Roch._ Keeper, this prisoner I will see forth comming
  Vpon my word--Sit downe good Colonell.      _Exit keeper._
  Why I did wish you hither, noble sir,
  Is to aduise you from this yron carriage,
  Which, so affected, _Romont_, you weare,                           160
  To pity and to counsell yee submit
  With expedition to the great _Nouall_:
  Recant your sterne contempt, and slight neglect
  Of the whole Court, and him, and opportunity,
  Or you will vndergoe a heauy censure                               165
  In publique very shortly.

  _Rom._                   Hum hum: reuerend sir,
  I haue obseru’d you, and doe know you well,
  And am now more affraid you know not me,
  By wishing my submission to _Nouall_,
  Then I can be of all the bellowing mouthes                         170
  That waite vpon him to pronounce the censure,
  Could it determine me torments, and shame.
  Submit, and craue forgiuenesse of a beast?
  Tis true, this bile of state weares purple Tissue.
  Is high fed, proud: so is his Lordships horse,                     175
  And beares as rich Caparisons. I know,
  This Elephant carries on his back not onely
  Towres, Castles, but the ponderous republique,
  And neuer stoops for’t, with his strong breath trunk
  Snuffes others titles, Lordships, Offices,                         180
  Wealth, bribes, and lyues, vnder his rauenous iawes.
  Whats this vnto my freedome? I dare dye;
  And therefore aske this Cammell, if these blessings
  (For so they would be vnderstood by a man)
  But mollifie one rudenesse in his nature,                          185
  Sweeten the eager relish of the law,
  At whose great helme he sits: helps he the poore
  In a iust businesse? nay, does he not crosse
  Euery deserued souldier and scholler,
  As if when nature made him, she had made                           190
  The generall Antipathy of all vertue?
  How sauagely, and blasphemously hee spake
  Touching the Generall, the graue Generall dead,
  I must weepe when I thinke on’t.

  _Roch._                         Sir

  _Rom._                              My Lord,
  I am not stubborne, I can melt, you see,                           195
  And prize a vertue better then my life:
  For though I be not learnd, I euer lou’d
  That holy Mother of all issues, good,
  Whose white hand (for a Scepter) holds a File
  To pollish roughest customes, and in you                           200
  She has her right: see, I am calme as sleepe,
  But when I thinke of the grosse iniuries
  The godlesse wrong done, to my Generall dead,
  I raue indeed, and could eate this Nouall
  A lsoule-esse Dromodary.

  _Roch._                 Oh bee temperate,                          205
  Sir, though I would perswade, I’le not constraine:
  Each mans opinion freely is his owne,
  Concerning any thing or any body,
  Be it right or wrong, tis at the Iudges perill.

    _Enter Baumond,_

  _Bau._ These men, Sir, waite without, my Lord is come too.         210

  _Roch._ Pay ’em those summes vpon the table, take
  Their full releases: stay, I want a witnesse:
  Let mee intreat you Colonell, to walke in,
  And stand but by, to see this money pay’d,
  It does concerne you and your friends, it was                      215
  The better cause you were sent for, though sayd otherwise.
  The deed shall make this my request more plaine.

  _Rom._ I shall obey your pleasure Sir, though ignorant
  To what is tends?

    _Exit Seruant: Romont. Enter Charolois_

  _Roch._ Worthiest Sir,                                             220
  You are most welcome: fye, no more of this:
  You haue out-wept a woman, noble Charolois.
  No man but has, or must bury a father.

  _Char._ Graue Sir, I buried sorrow, for his death,
  In the graue with him. I did neuer thinke                          225
  Hee was immortall, though I vow I grieue,
  And see no reason why the vicious,
  Vertuous, valiant and vnworthy man
  Should dye alike.

  _Roch._          They do not.

  _Char._                      In the manner
  Of dying, Sir, they do not, but all dye,                           230
  And therein differ not: but I haue done.
  I spy’d the liuely picture of my father,
  Passing your gallery, and that cast this water
  Into mine eyes: see, foolish that I am,
  To let it doe so.

  _Roch._          Sweete and gentle nature,                         235
  How silken is this well comparatiuely
  To other men! I haue a suite to you Sir.

  _Char._ Take it, tis granted.

  _Roch._                      What?

  _Char._                           Nothing, my Lord.

  _Roch._ Nothing is quickly granted.

  _Char._                            Faith, my Lord,
  That nothing granted, is euen all I haue,                          240
  For (all know) I haue nothing left to grant.

  _Roch._ Sir, ha’ you any suite to me? Ill grant
  You something, any thing.

  _Char._ Nay surely, I that can
  Giue nothing, will but sue for that againe.                        245
  No man will grant mee any thing I sue for.
  But begging nothing, euery man will giue’t.

  _Roch._ Sir, the loue I bore your father, and the worth
  I see in you, so much resembling his.
  Made me thus send for you. And tender heere                        250

    _Drawes a Curtayne._

  What euer you will take, gold, Iewels, both,
  All, to supply your wants, and free your selfe.
  Where heauenly vertue in high blouded veines
  Is lodg’d, and can agree, men should kneele downe,
  Adore, and sacrifice all that they haue;                           255
  And well they may, it is so seldome seene.
  Put off your wonder, and heere freely take
  Or send your seruants. Nor, Sir, shall you vse
  In ought of this, a poore mans fee, or bribe,
  Vniustly taken of the rich, but what’s                             260
  Directly gotten, and yet by the Law.

  _Char._ How ill, Sir, it becomes those haires to mocke?

  _Roch._ Mocke? thunder strike mee then.

  _Char._                                You doe amaze mee:
  But you shall wonder too, I will not take
  One single piece of this great heape: why should I                 265
  Borrow, that haue not meanes to pay, nay am
  A very bankerupt, euen in flattering hope
  Of euer raysing any. All my begging,
  Is _Romonts_ libertie.

    _Enter Romont. Creditors loaden with mony. Baumont._

  _Roch._               Heere is your friend,
  Enfranchist ere you spake. I giue him you,                         270
  And Charolois. I giue you to your friend
  As free a man as hee; your fathers debts
  Are taken off.

  _Char._       How?

  _Rom._            Sir, it is most true.
  I am the witnes.

  _1 Cred._       Yes faith, wee are pay’d.

  _2 Cred._ Heauen blesse his Lordship, I did thinke him wiser.      275

  _3 Cred._ He a states-man, he an asse Pay other mens debts?

  _1 Cred._ That he was neuer bound for.

  _Rom._                                One more such
  Would saue the rest of pleaders.

  _Char._                         _Honord Rochfort._
  Lye still my toung and bushes, cal’d my cheekes,
  That offter thankes in words, for such great deeds.                280

  _Roch._ Call in my daughter: still I haue a suit to you.

    _Baum. Exit._

  Would you requite mee.

  _Rom._                With his life, assure you.

  _Roch._ Nay, would you make me now your debter, Sir.
  This is my onely child: what shee appeares,      _Enter Baum. Beau._
  Your Lordship well may see her education                           285
  Followes not any: for her mind, I know it
  To be far fayrer then her shape, and hope
  It will continue so: if now her birth
  Be not too meane for Charolois, take her
  This virgin by the hand, and call her wife,                        290
  Indowd with all my fortunes: blesse me so,
  Requite mee thus, and make mee happier,
  In ioyning my poore empty name to yours,
  Then if my state were multiplied ten fold.

  _Char._ Is this the payment, Sir, that you expect?                 295
  Why, you participate me more in debt,
  That nothing but my life can euer pay,
  This beautie being your daughter, in which yours
  I must conceiue necessitie of her vertue
  Without all dowry is a Princes ayme,                               300
  Then, as shee is, for poore and worthlesse I,
  How much too worthy! Waken me, _Romont_,
  That I may know I dream’t and find this vanisht

  _Rom._ Sure, I sleepe not.

  _Roch._                   Your sentence life or death.

  _Char._ Faire Beaumelle, can you loue me?

  _Beau._                  Yes, my Lord.                             305

    _Enter Nouall, Ponta. Malotine, Lilad. Aymer. All salute_

  _Char._ You need not question me, if I can you.
  You are the fayrest virgin in _Digum_,
  And _Rochfort_ is your father.

  _Nou._                        What’s this change?

  _Roch._ You met my wishes, Gentlemen.

  _Rom._                               What make
  These dogs in doublets heere?

  _Beau._                      A Visitation, Sir.                    310

  _Char._ Then thus, Faire _Beaumelle_, I write my faith
  Thus seale it in the sight of Heauen and men.
  Your fingers tye my heart-strings with this touch
  In true-loue knots, which nought but death shall loose.
  And yet these eares (an Embleme of our loues)                      315
  Like Cristall riuers indiuidually
  Flow into one another, make one source,
  Which neuer man distinguish, lesse deuide:
  Breath, marry, breath, and kisses, mingle soules
  Two hearts, and bodies, heere incorporate:                         320
  And though with little wooing I haue wonne
  My future life shall be a wooing tyme.
  And euery day, new as the bridall one.
  Oh Sir I groane vnder your courtesies,
  More then my fathers bones vnder his wrongs,                       325
  You _Curtius_-like, haue throwne into the gulfe,
  Of this his Countries foule ingratitude,
  Your life and fortunes, to redeeme their shames.

  _Roch._ No more, my glory, come, let’s in and hasten
  This celebration.

  _Rom. Mal. Pont. Bau._ All faire blisse vpon it.                   330

    _Exeunt Roch. Char. Rom. Bau. Mal._

  _Nou._ Mistresse.

  _Beau._          Oh seruant, vertue strengthen me.
  Thy presence blowes round my affections vane:
  You will vndoe me, if you speake againe.

    _Exit Beaum._

  _Lilad. Aym._ Heere will be sport for you. This workes.

    _Exeunt Lilad. Aym._

  _Nou._                                                 Peace, peace,

  _Pont._ One word, my Lord _Nouall_.

  _Nou._                        What, thou wouldst mony; there.      335

  _Pont._ No, Ile none, Ile not be bought a slaue,
  A Pander, or a Parasite, for all
  Your fathers worth, though you haue sau’d my life,
  Rescued me often from my wants, I must not
  Winke at your follyes: that will ruine you.                        340
  You know my blunt way, and my loue to truth:
  Forsake the pursuit of this Ladies honour,
  Now you doe see her made another mans,
  And such a mans, so good, so popular,
  Or you will plucke a thousand mischiefes on you.                   345
  The benefits you haue done me, are not lost,
  Nor cast away, they are purs’d heere in my heart,
  But let me pay you, sir, a fayrer way
  Then to defend your vices, or to sooth ’em.

  _Nou._ Ha, ha, ha, what are my courses vnto thee?                  350
  Good Cousin _Pontalier_, meddle with that
  That shall concerne thyselfe.

    _Exit Nouall._

  _Pont._                      No more but scorne?
  Moue on then, starres, worke your pernicious will.
  Onely the wise rule, and preuent your ill.

    _Exit. Hoboyes._

    _Here a passage ouer the Stage, while the Act is playing for the
    Marriage of Charalois with Beaumelle, &c._




_Actus tertius._


_Scaena prima._

[_A Room in Charalois’ House_]

_Enter Nouall Iunior, Bellapert._

  _Nou. Iu._ Flie not to these excuses: thou hast bin
  False in thy promise, and when I haue said
  Vngratefull, all is spoke.

  _Bell._                   Good my Lord,
  But heare me onely.

  _Nou._            To what purpose, trifler?
  Can anything that thou canst say, make voyd                          5
  The marriage? or those pleasures but a dreame,
  Which _Charaloyes_ (oh _Venus_) hath enioyd?

  _Bell._ I yet could say that you receiue aduantage,
  In what you thinke a losse, would you vouchsafe me
  That you were neuer in the way till now                             10
  With safety to arriue at your desires,
  That pleasure makes loue to you vnattended
  By danger or repentance?

  _Nou._                  That I could.
  But apprehend one reason how this might be,
  Hope would not then forsake me.

  _Bell._                        The enioying                         15
  Of what you most desire, I say th’ enioying
  Shall, in the full possession of your wishes,
  Confirme that I am faithfull.

  _Nou._                       Giue some rellish
  How this may appeare possible.

  _Bell._                       I will
  Rellish, and taste, and make the banquet easie:                     20
  You say my Ladie’s married. I confesse it,
  That Charalois hath inioyed her, ’tis most true
  That with her, hee’s already Master of
  The best part of my old Lords state. Still better,
  But that the first, or last, should be your hindrance,              25
  I vtterly deny: for but obserue me:
  While she went for, and was, I sweare, a Virgin,
  What courtesie could she with her honour giue
  Or you receiue with safety--take me with you,
  When I say courtesie, doe not think I meane                         30
  A kisse, the tying of her shoo or garter,
  An houre of priuate conference: those are trifles.
  In this word courtesy, we that are gamesters point at
  The sport direct, where not alone the louer
  Brings his Artillery, but vses it.                                  35
  Which word expounded to you, such a courtesie
  Doe you expect, and sudden.

  _Nou._                     But he tasted
  The first sweetes, _Bellapert_.

  _Bell._                    He wrong’d you shrewdly,
  He toyl’d to climbe vp to the _Phoenix_ nest,
  And in his prints leaues your ascent more easie.                    40
  I doe not know, you that are perfect Crittiques
  In womens bookes, may talke of maydenheads.

  _Nou._ But for her marriage.

  _Bell._                     ’Tis a faire protection
  ’Gainst all arrests of feare, or shame for euer.
  Such as are faire, and yet not foolish, study                       45
  To haue one at thirteene; but they are mad
  That stay till twenty. Then sir, for the pleasure,
  To say Adulterie’s sweeter, that is stale.
  This onely is not the contentment more,
  To say, This is my Cuckold, then my Riuall.                         50
  More I could say--but briefly, she doates on you,
  If it proue otherwise, spare not, poyson me
  With the next gold you giue me.

    _Enter Beaumely_

  _Beau._                        Hows this seruant,
  Courting my woman?

  _Bell._           As an entrance to
  The fauour of the mistris: you are together                         55
  And I am perfect in my qu.

  _Beau._                   Stay _Bellapert_.

  _Bell._ In this I must not with your leaue obey you.
  Your Taylor and your Tire-woman waite without
  And stay my counsayle, and direction for
  Your next dayes dressing. I haue much to doe,                       60
  Nor will your Ladiship know, time is precious,
  Continue idle: this choise Lord will finde
  So fit imployment for you.

    _Exit Bellap._

  _Beau._                   I shall grow angry.

  _Nou._ Not so, you haue a iewell in her, Madam.

    _Enter againe._

  _Bell._ I had forgot to tell your Ladiship                          65
  The closet is priuate and your couch ready:
  And if you please that I shall loose the key,
  But say so, and tis done.

    _Exit Bellap._

  _Baum._ You come to chide me, seruant, and bring with you
  Sufficient warrant, you will say and truely,                        70
  My father found too much obedience in me,
  By being won too soone: yet if you please
  But to remember, all my hopes and fortunes
  Had reuerence to this likening: you will grant
  That though I did not well towards you, I yet                       75
  Did wisely for my selfe.

  _Nou._                  With too much feruor
  I haue so long lou’d and still loue you, Mistresse,
  To esteeme that an iniury to me
  Which was to you conuenient: that is past
  My helpe, is past my cure. You yet may, Lady,                       80
  In recompence of all my dutious seruice,
  (Prouided that your will answere your power)
  Become my Creditresse.

  _Beau._               I vnderstand you,
  And for assurance, the request you make
  Shall not be long vnanswered. Pray you sit,                         85
  And by what you shall heare, you’l easily finde,
  My passions are much fitter to desire,
  Then to be sued to.

    _Enter Romont and Florimell._

  _Flor._            Sir, tis not enuy
  At the start my fellow has got of me in
  My Ladies good opinion, thats the motiue                            90
  Of this discouery; but due payment
  Of what I owe her Honour.

  _Rom._                   So I conceiue it.

  _Flo._ I haue obserued too much, nor shall my silence
  Preuent the remedy--yonder they are,
  I dare not bee seene with you. You may doe                          95
  What you thinke fit, which wil be, I presume,
  The office of a faithfull and tryed friend
  To my young Lord.

    _Exit Flori._

  _Rom._           This is no vision: ha!

  _Nou._ With the next opportunity.

  _Beau._                          By this kisse,
  And this, and this.

  _Nou._             That you would euer sweare thus.                100

  _Rom._ If I seeme rude, your pardon, Lady; yours
  I do not aske: come, do not dare to shew mee
  A face of anger, or the least dislike.
  Put on, and suddaily a milder looke,
  I shall grow rough else.

  _Nou._                  What haue I done, Sir,                     105
  To draw this harsh vnsauory language from you?

  _Rom._ Done, Popinjay? why, dost thou thinke that if
  I ere had dreamt that thou hadst done me wrong,
  Thou shouldest outliue it?

  _Beau._                   This is something more
  Then my Lords friendship giues commission for.                     110

  _Nou._ Your presence and the place, makes him presume
  Vpon my patience.

  _Rom._           As if thou ere wer’t angry
  But with thy Taylor, and yet that poore shred
  Can bring more to the making vp of a man,
  Then can be hop’d from thee: thou art his creature,                115
  And did hee not each morning new create [thee]
  Thou wouldst stinke and be forgotten. Ile not change
  On syllable more with thee, vntill thou bring
  Some testimony vnder good mens hands,
  Thou art a Christian. I suspect thee strongly,                     120
  And wilbe satisfied: till which time, keepe from me.
  The entertaiment of your visitation
  Has made what I intended on a businesse.

  _Nou._ So wee shall meete--Madam.

  _Rom._                           Vse that legge again,
  And Ile cut off the other.

  _Nou._                    Very good.                               125

    _Exit Nouall._

  _Rom._ What a perfume the Muske-cat leaues behind him!
  Do you admit him for a property,
  To saue you charges, Lady.

  _Beau._                   Tis not vselesse,
  Now you are to succeed him.

  _Rom._                     So I respect you,
  Not for your selfe, but in remembrance of,                         130
  Who is your father, and whose wife you now are,
  That I choose rather not to vnderstand
  Your nasty scoffe then,--

  _Beau._                  What, you will not beate mee,
  If I expound it to you. Heer’s a Tyrant
  Spares neyther man nor woman.

  _Rom._                       My intents                            135
  Madam, deserue not this; nor do I stay
  To be the whetstone of your wit: preserue it
  To spend on such, as know how to admire
  Such coloured stuffe. In me there is now speaks to you
  As true a friend and seruant to your Honour,                       140
  And one that will with as much hazzard guard it,
  As euer man did goodnesse.--But then Lady,
  You must endeauour not alone to bee,
  But to appeare worthy such loue and seruice.

  _Beau._ To what tends this?

  _Rom._                     Why, to this purpose, Lady,             145
  I do desire you should proue such a wife
  To _Charaloys_ (and such a one hee merits)
  As Caesar, did hee liue, could not except at,
  Not onely innocent from crime, but free
  From all taynt and suspition.

  _Beau._                      They are base                         150
  That iudge me otherwise.

  _Rom._                  But yet bee carefull.
  Detraction’s a bold monster, and feares not
  To wound the fame of Princes, if it find
  But any blemish in their liues to worke on.
  But Ile bee plainer with you: had the people                       155
  Bin learnd to speake, but what euen now I saw,
  Their malice out of that would raise an engine
  To ouerthrow your honor. In my fight
  (With yonder pointed foole I frighted from you)
  You vs’d familiarity beyond                                        160
  A modest entertaynment: you embrac’d him
  With too much ardor for a stranger, and
  Met him with kisses neyther chaste nor comely:
  But learne you to forget him, as I will
  Your bounties to him, you will find it safer                       165
  Rather to be vncourtly, then immodest.

  _Beau._ This prety rag about your necke shews well,
  And being coorse and little worth, it speakes you,
  As terrible as thrifty.

  _Rom._                 Madam.

  _Beau._                      Yes.
  And this strong belt in which you hang your honor                  170
  Will out-last twenty scarfs.

  _Rom._                      What meane you, Lady?

  _Beau._ And all else about you Cap a pe
  So vniforme in spite of handsomnesse,
  Shews such a bold contempt of comelinesse,
  That tis not strange your Laundresse in the League,                175
  Grew mad with loue of you.

  _Rom._                    Is my free counsayle
  Answerd with this ridiculous scorne?

  _Beau._                             These obiects
  Stole very much of my attention from me,
  Yet something I remember, to speake truth,
  Deceyued grauely, but to little purpose,                           180
  That almost would haue made me sweare, some Curate
  Had stolne into the person of _Romont_,
  And in the praise of goodwife honesty,
  Had read an homely.

  _Rom._             By thy hand.

  _Beau._                        And sword,
  I will make vp your oath, twill want weight else.                  185
  You are angry with me, and poore I laugh at it.
  Do you come from the Campe, which affords onely
  The conuersation of cast suburbe whores,
  To set downe to a Lady of my ranke,
  Lymits of entertainment?                                           190

  _Rom._ Sure a Legion has possest this woman.

  _Beau._ One stampe more would do well: yet I desire not
  You should grow horne-mad, till you haue a wife.
  You are come to warme meate, and perhaps cleane linnen:
  Feed, weare it, and bee thankefull. For me, know,                  195
  That though a thousand watches were set on mee,
  And you the Master-spy, I yet would vse,
  The liberty that best likes mee. I will reuell,
  Feast, kisse, imbreace, perhaps grant larger fauours:
  Yet such as liue vpon my meanes, shall know                        200
  They must not murmur at it. If my Lord
  Bee now growne yellow, and has chose out you
  To serue his Iealouzy that way, tell him this,
  You haue something to informe him:

    _Exit Beau._

  _Rom._                            And I will.
  Beleeue it wicked one I will. Heare, Heauen,                       205
  But hearing pardon mee: if these fruts grow
  Vpon the tree of marriage, let me shun it,
  As a forbidden sweete. An heyre and rich,
  Young, beautifull, yet adde to this a wife,
  And I will rather choose a Spittle sinner                          210
  Carted an age before, though three parts rotten,
  And take it for a blessing, rather then
  Be fettered to the hellish slauery
  Of such an impudence.

    _Enter Baumont with writings._

  _Bau._               Collonell, good fortune
  To meet you thus: you looke sad, but Ile tell you                  215
  Something that shall remoue it. Oh how happy
  Is my Lord _Charaloys_ in his faire bride!

  _Rom._ A happy man indeede!--pray you in what?

  _Bau._ I dare sweare, you would thinke so good a Lady,
  A dower sufficient.

  _Rom._             No doubt. But on.                               220

  _Bau._ So faire, so chaste, so vertuous: so indeed
  All that is excellent.

  _Rom._                Women haue no cunning
  To gull the world.

  _Bau._            Yet to all these, my Lord
  Her father giues the full addition of
  All he does now possesse in _Burgundy_:                            225
  These writings to confirme it, are new seal’d
  And I most fortunate to present him with them,
  I must goe seeke him out, can you direct mee?

  _Rom._ You’l finde him breaking a young horse.

  _Bau._                                        I thanke you.

    _Exit Baumont._

  _Rom._ I must do something worthy _Charaloys_ friendship.          230
  If she were well inclin’d to keepe her so,
  Deseru’d not thankes: and yet to stay a woman
  Spur’d headlong by hot lust, to her owne ruine,
  Is harder then to prop a falling towre
  With a deceiuing reed.

    _Enter Rochfort._

  _Roch._               Some one seeke for me,                       235
  As soone as he returnes.

  _Rom._                  Her father! ha?
  How if I breake this to him? sure it cannot
  Meete with an ill construction. His wisedome
  Made powerfull by the authority of a father,
  Will warrant and giue priuiledge to his counsailes.                240
  It shall be so--my Lord.

  _Roch._                 Your friend _Romont_:
  Would you ought with me?

  _Rom._                  I stand so engag’d
  To your so many fauours, that I hold it
  A breach in thankfulnesse, should I not discouer,
  Though with some imputation to my selfe,                           245
  All doubts that may concerne you.

  _Roch._                          The performance
  Will make this protestation worth my thanks.

  _Rom._ Then with your patience lend me your attention
  For what I must deliuer, whispered onely
  You will with too much griefe receiue.

    _Enter Beaumelle, Bellapert._

  _Beau._                               See wench!                   250
  Vpon my life as I forespake, hee’s now
  Preferring his complaint: but be thou perfect,
  And we will fit him.

  _Bell._             Feare not mee, pox on him:
  A Captaine turne Informer against kissing?
  Would he were hang’d vp in his rusty Armour:                       255
  But if our fresh wits cannot turne the plots
  Of such a mouldy murrion on it selfe;
  Rich cloathes, choyse faire, and a true friend at a call,
  With all the pleasures the night yeelds, forsake vs.

  _Roch._ This in my daughter? doe not wrong her.

  _Bell._                                        Now.                260
  Begin. The games afoot, and wee in distance.

  _Beau._ Tis thy fault, foolish girle, pinne on my vaile,
  I will not weare those iewels. Am I not
  Already matcht beyond my hopes? yet still
  You prune and set me forth, as if I were                           265
  Againe to please a suyter.

  _Bell._                   Tis the course
  That our great Ladies take.

  _Rom._                     A weake excuse.

  _Beau._ Those that are better seene, in what concernes
  A Ladies honour and faire same, condemne it.
  You waite well, in your absence, my Lords friend                   270
  The vnderstanding, graue and wise _Romont_.

  _Rom._ Must I be still her sport?

  _Beau._                          Reproue me for it.
  And he has traueld to bring home a iudgement
  Not to be contradicted. You will say
  My father, that owes more to yeeres then he,                       275
  Has brought me vp to musique, language, Courtship,
  And I must vse them. True, but not t’offend,
  Or render me suspected.

  _Roch._                Does your fine story
  Begin from this?

  _Beau._         I thought a parting kisse
  From young _Nouall_, would haue displeasd no more                  280
  Then heretofore it hath done; but I finde
  I must restrayne such fauours now; looke therefore
  As you are carefull to continue mine,
  That I no more be visited. Ile endure
  The strictest course of life that iealousie                        285
  Can thinke secure enough, ere my behauiour
  Shall call my fame in question.

  _Rom._                         Ten dissemblers
  Are in this subtile deuill. You beleeue this?

  _Roch._ So farre that if you trouble me againe
  With a report like this, I shall not onely                         290
  Iudge you malicious in your disposition,
  But study to repent what I haue done
  To such a nature.

  _Rom._           Why, ’tis exceeding well.

  _Roch._ And for you, daughter, off with this, off with it:
  I haue that confidence in your goodnesse, I,                       295
  That I will not consent to haue you liue
  Like to a Recluse in a cloyster: goe
  Call in the gallants, let them make you merry,
  Vse all fit liberty.

  _Bell._             Blessing on you.
  If this new preacher with the sword and feather                    300
  Could proue his doctrine for Canonicall,
  We should haue a fine world.

    _Exit Bellapert._

  _Roch._                     Sir, if you please
  To beare your selfe as fits a Gentleman,
  The house is at your seruice: but if not,
  Though you seeke company else where, your absence                  305
  Will not be much lamented--

    _Exit Rochfort._

  _Rom._                     If this be
  The recompence of striuing to preserue
  A wanton gigglet honest, very shortly
  ’Twill make all mankinde Panders--Do you smile,
  Good Lady Loosenes? your whole sex is like you,                    310
  And that man’s mad that seekes to better any:
  What new change haue you next?

  _Beau._                       Oh, feare not you, sir,
  Ile shift into a thousand, but I will
  Conuert your heresie.

  _Rom._               What heresie? Speake.

  _Beau._ Of keeping a Lady that is married,                         315
  From entertayning seruants.--

    _Enter Nouall Iu._ _Malatine_, _Liladam_, _Aymer_, _Pontalier_.

                               O, you are welcome,
  Vae any meanes to vexe him,
  And then with welcome follow me.

    _Exit Beau_

  _Nou._                          You are tyr’d
  With your graue exhortations, Collonell.

  _Lilad._ How is it? Fayth, your Lordship may doe well,             320
  To helpe him to some Church-preferment: ’tis
  Now the fashion, for men of all conditions,
  How euer they haue liu’d; to end that way.

  _Aym._ That face would doe well in a surplesse.

  _Rom._                                         Rogues,
  Be silent--or--

  _Pont._        S’death will you suffer this?                       325

  _Rom._ And you, the master Rogue, the coward rascall,
  I shall be with you suddenly.

  _Nou._                       _Pontallier_,
  If I should strike him, I know I shall kill him:
  And therefore I would haue thee beate him, for
  Hee’s good for nothing else.

  _Lilad._                    His backe                              330
  Appeares to me, as it would tire a Beadle,
  And then he has a knotted brow, would bruise
  A courtlike hand to touch it.

  _Aym._                       Hee lookes like
  A Curryer when his hides grown deare.

  _Pont._                              Take heede
  He curry not some of you.

  _Nou._                   Gods me, hee’s angry.                     335

  _Rom._ I breake no Iests, but I can breake my sword
  About your pates.

    _Enter Charaloyes and Baumont._

  _Lilad._         Heeres more.

  _Aym._                       Come let’s bee gone,
  Wee are beleaguerd.

  _Nou._ Looke they bring vp their troups.

  _Pont._                                 Will you sit downe
  With this disgrace? You are abus’d most grosely.                   340

  _Lilad._ I grant you, Sir, we are, and you would haue vs
  Stay and be more abus’d.

  _Nou._                  My Lord, I am sorry,
  Your house is so inhospitable, we must quit it.

    _Exeunt. Manent. Char. Rom._

  _Cha._ Prethee _Romont_, what caus’d this vprore?

  _Rom._                                           Nothing.
  They laugh’d and vs’d their scuruy wits vpon mee.                  345

  _Char._ Come, tis thy Iealous nature: but I wonder
  That you which are an honest man and worthy,
  Should softer this suspition: no man laughes;
  No one can whisper, but thou apprehend’st
  His conference and his scorne reflects on thee:                    350
  For my part they should scoffe their thin wits out,
  So I not heard ’em, beate me, not being there.
  Leaue, leaue these fits, to conscious men, to such
  As are obnoxious, to those foolish things
  As they can gibe at.

  _Rom._              Well, Sir.

  _Char._                       Thou art know’n                      355
  Valiant without detect, right defin’d
  Which is (as fearing to doe iniury,
  As tender to endure it) not a brabbler,
  A swearer.

  _Rom._ Pish, pish, what needs this my Lord?
  If I be knowne none such, how vainly, you                          360
  Do cast away good counsaile? I haue lou’d you,
  And yet must freely speake; so young a tutor,
  Fits not so old a Souldier as I am.
  And I must tell you, t’was in your behalfe
  I grew inraged thus, yet had rather dye,                           365
  Then open the great cause a syllable further.

  _Cha._ In my behalfe? wherein hath _Charalois_
  Vnfitly so demean’d himselfe, to giue
  The least occasion to the loosest tongue,
  To throw aspersions on him, or so weakely                          370
  Protected his owne honor, as it should
  Need a defence from any but himselfe?
  They are fools that iudge me by my outward seeming,
  Why should my gentlenesse beget abuse?
  The Lion is not angry that does sleepe                             375
  Nor euery man a Coward that can weepe.
  For Gods sake speake the cause.

  _Rom._                         Not for the world.
  Oh it will strike disease into your bones
  Beyond the cure of physicke, drinke your blood,
  Rob you of all your rest, contract your sight,                     380
  Leaue you no eyes but to see misery,
  And of your owne, nor speach but to wish thus
  Would I had perish’d in the prisons iawes:
  From whence I was redeem’d! twill weare you old,
  Before you haue experience in that Art,                            385
  That causes your affliction.

  _Cha._                      Thou dost strike
  A deathfull coldnesse to my hearts high heate,
  And shrinkst my liuer like the _Calenture_.
  Declare this foe of mine, and lifes, that like
  A man I may encounter and subdue it                                390
  It shall not haue one such effect in mee,
  As thou denouncest: with a Souldiers arme,
  If it be strength, Ile meet it: if a fault
  Belonging to my mind, Ile cut it off
  With mine owne reason, as a Scholler should                        395
  Speake, though it make mee monstrous.

  _Rom._                               Ile dye first.
  Farewell, continue merry, and high Heauen
  Keepe your wife chaste.

  _Char._                Hump, stay and take this wolfe
  Out of my brest, that thou hast lodg’d there, or
  For euer lose mee.

  _Rom._            Lose not, Sir, your selfe.                       400
  And I will venture--So the dore is fast.      _Locke the dore._
  Now noble _Charaloys_, collect your selfe,
  Summon your spirits, muster all your strength
  That can belong to man, sift passion,
  From euery veine, and whatsoeuer ensues,                           405
  Vpbraid not me heereafter, as the cause of
  Iealousy, discontent, slaughter and ruine:
  Make me not parent to sinne: you will know
  This secret that I burne with.

  _Char._                       Diuell on’t,
  What should it be? _Romont_, I heare you wish                      410
  My wifes continuance of Chastity.

  _Rom._ There was no hurt in that.

  _Char._                          Why? do you know
  A likelyhood or possibility vnto the contrarie?

  _Rom._ I know it not, but doubt it, these the grounds
  The seruant of your wife now young _Nouall_,                       415
  The sonne vnto your fathers Enemy
  (Which aggrauates my presumption the more)
  I haue been warnd of, touching her, nay, seene them
  Tye heart to heart, one in anothers armes,
  Multiplying kisses, as if they meant                               420
  To pose Arithmeticke, or whose eyes would
  Bee first burnt out, with gazing on the others.
  I saw their mouthes engender, and their palmes
  Glew’d, as if Loue had lockt them, their words flow
  And melt each others, like two circling flames,                    425
  Where chastity, like a Phoenix (me thought) burn’d,
  But left the world nor ashes, nor an heire.
  Why stand you silent thus? what cold dull flegme,
  As if you had no drop of choller mixt
  In your whole constitution, thus preuailes,                        430
  To fix you now, thus stupid hearing this?

  _Cha._ You did not see ’em on my Couch within,
  Like George a horse-backe on her, nor a bed?

  _Rom._ Noe.

  _Cha._     Ha, ha.

  _Rom._            Laugh yee? eene so did your wife,
  And her indulgent father.

  _Cha._                   They were wife.                           435
  Wouldst ha me be a foole?

  _Rom._                   No, but a man.

  _Cha._ There is no dramme of manhood to suspect,
  On such thin ayrie circumstance as this
  Meere complement and courtship. Was this tale
  The hydeous monster which you so conceal’d?                        440
  Away, thou curious impertinent
  And idle searcher of such leane nice toyes.
  Goe, thou sedicious sower of debate:
  Fly to such matches, where the bridegroome doubts:
  He holds not worth enough to counteruaile                          445
  The vertue and the beauty of his wife.
  Thou buzzing drone that ’bout my eares dost hum,
  To strike thy rankling sting into my heart,
  Whose vemon, time, nor medicine could asswage.
  Thus doe I put thee off, and confident                             450
  In mine owne innocency, and desert,
  Dare not conceiue her so vnreasonable,
  To put _Nouall_ in ballance against me,
  An vpstart cran’d vp to the height he has.
  Hence busiebody, thou’rt no friend to me,                          455
  That must be kept to a wiues iniury,

  _Rom._ Ist possible? farewell, fine, honest man,
  Sweet temper’d Lord adieu: what Apoplexy
  Hath knit fence vp? Is this _Romonts_ reward?
  Beare witnes the great spirit of my father,                        460
  With what a healthfull hope I administer
  This potion that hath wrought so virulently,
  I not accuse thy wife of act, but would
  Preuent her _Praecipuce_, to thy dishonour,
  Which now thy tardy sluggishnesse will admit.                      465
  Would I had seene thee grau’d with thy great Sire,
  Ere liue to haue mens marginall fingers point
  At Charaloys, as a lamented story.
  An Emperour put away his wife for touching
  Another man, but thou wouldst haue thine tasted                    470
  And keepe her (I thinke.) Puffe. I am a fire
  To warme a dead man, that waste out myselfe.
  Bleed--what a plague, a vengeance i’st to mee,
  If you will be a Cuckold? Heere I shew
  A swords point to thee, this side you may shun,                    475
  Or that: the perrill, if you will runne on,
  I cannot helpe it.

  _Cha._            Didst thou neuer see me
  Angry, _Romont_?

  _Rom._          Yes, and pursue a foe
  Like lightening

  _Char._        Prethee see me so no more.
  I can be so againe. Put vp thy sword,                              480
  And take thy selfe away, lest I draw mine.

  _Rom._ Come fright your foes with this: sir, I am your friend,
  And dare stand by you thus.

  _Char._                    Thou art not my friend,
  Or being so, thou art mad, I must not buy
  Thy friendship at this rate; had I iust cause,                     485
  Thou knowst I durst pursue such iniury
  Through fire, ayre, water, earth, nay, were they all
  Shuffled againe to _Chaos_, but ther’s none.
  Thy skill, _Romont_, consists in camps, not courts.
  Farewell, vnciuill man, let’s meet no more.                        490
  Heere our long web of friendship I vntwist.
  Shall I goe whine, walke pale, and locke my wife
  For nothing, from her births free liberty,
  That open’d mine to me? yes; if I doe
  The name of cuckold then, dog me with scorne.                      495
  I am a _Frenchman_, no _Italian_ borne.

    _Exit._

  _Rom._ A dull _Dutch_ rather: fall and coole (my blood)
  Boyle not in zeal of thy friends hurt, so high,
  That is so low, and cold himselfe in’t. Woman,
  How strong art thou, how easily beguild?                           500
  How thou dost racke vs by the very hornes?
  Now wealth I see change manners and the man:
  Something I must doe mine owne wrath to asswage,
  And note my friendship to an after-age.

    _Exit._




_Actus quartus._


_Scaena prima._

[_A Room in Nouall’s House_]

_Enter Nouall Iunior, as newly dressed, a Taylor, Barber, Perfumer,
Liladam, Aymour, Page._

  _Nou._ Mend this a little: pox! thou hast burnt me. oh fie
  vpon’t, O Lard, hee has made me smell (for
  all the world) like a flaxe, or a red headed womans chamber:
  powder, powder, powder.

  _Perf._ Oh sweet Lord!                                               5

    _Nouall sits in a chaire,_

  _Page._ That’s his Perfumer.

    _Barber orders his haire,_

  _Tayl._ Oh deare Lord,

    _Perfumer giues powder,_

  _Page._ That’s his Taylor.

    _Taylor sets his clothese._

  _Nou._ Monsieur _Liladam_, _Aymour_, how allow you the
  modell of these clothes?                                            10

  _Aym._ Admirably, admirably, oh sweet Lord! assuredly
  it’s pity the wormes should eate thee.

  _Page._ Here’s a fine Cell; a Lord, a Taylor, a Perfumer, a
  Barber, and a paire of Mounsieurs: 3 to 3, as little will in the
  one, as honesty in the other. S’foote ile into the country          15
  againe, learne to speake truth, drinke Ale, and conuerse with
  my fathers Tenants; here I heare nothing all day, but
  vpon my soule as I am a Gentleman, and an honest
  man.

  _Aym._ I vow and affirme, your Taylor must needs be an expert       20
  Geometrician, he has the Longitude, Latitude, Altitude,
  Profundity, euery Demension of your body, so exquisitely,
  here’s a lace layd as directly, as if truth were a
  Taylor.

  _Page._ That were a miracle.                                        25

  _Lila._ With a haire breadth’s errour, ther’s a shoulder
  piece cut, and the base of a pickadille in _puncto_.

  _Aym._ You are right, Mounsieur his vestaments fit: as if
  they grew vpon him, or art had wrought ’em on the same
  loome, as nature fram’d his Lordship as if your Taylor were         30
  deepely read in Astrology, and had taken measure of your
  honourable body, with a _Iacobs_ staffe, an _Ephimerides_.

  _Tayl._ I am bound t’ee Gentlemen.

  _Page._ You are deceiu’d, they’ll be bound to you, you must         35
  remember to trust ’em none.

  _Nou._ Nay, fayth, thou art a reasonable neat Artificer, giue
  the diuell his due.

  _Page._ I, if hee would but cut the coate according to the
  cloth still.                                                        40

  _Nou._ I now want onely my misters approbation, who is
  indeed, the most polite punctuall Queene of dressing in all
  _Burgundy_. Pah, and makes all other young Ladies appeare,
  as if they came from boord last weeke out of the country,
  Is’t not true, Liladam?                                             45

  _Lila._ True my Lord, as if any thing your Lordship could
  say, could be othewrise then true.

  _Nou._ Nay, a my soule, ’tis so, what fouler obiect in the
  world, then to see a young faire, handsome beauty, vnhandsomely
  dighted and incongruently accoutred; or a hopefull                  50
  _Cheualier_, vnmethodically appointed, in the externall ornaments
  of nature? For euen as the Index tels vs the contents
  of stories, and directs to the particular Chapters, euen so
  does the outward habit and superficiall order of garments
  (in man or woman) giue vs a tast of the spirit, and                 55
  demonstratiuely poynt (as it were a manuall note from the margin)
  all the internall quality, and habiliment of the soule, and
  there cannot be a more euident, palpable, grosse manifestation
  of poore degenerate dunghilly blood, and breeding, then
  rude, vnpolish’d, disordered and slouenly outside.                  60

  _Page._ An admirable! lecture. Oh all you gallants, that hope
  to be saued by your cloathes, edify, edify.

  _Aym._ By the Lard, sweet Lard, thou deseru’st a pension
  o’ the State.

  _Page._ O th’ Taylors, two such Lords were able to spread           65
  Taylors ore the face of a whole kingdome.

  _Nou._ Pox a this glasse! it flatters, I could find in my heart
  to breake it.

  _Page._ O saue the glasse my Lord, and breake their heads,
  they are the greater flatterers I assure you.                       70

  _Aym._ Flatters, detracts, impayres, yet put it by,
  Lest thou deare Lord (_Narcissus_-like) should doate
  Vpon thyselfe, and dye; and rob the world
  Of natures copy, that she workes forme by.

  _Lila._ Oh that I were the Infanta Queene of Europe,                75
  Who (but thy selfe sweete Lord) shouldst marry me.

  _Nou._ I marry? were there a Queene oth’ world, not I.
  Wedlocke? no padlocke, horselocke, I weare spurrs      _He capers._
  To keepe it off my heeles; yet my _Aymour_,
  Like a free wanton iennet i’th meddows,                             80
  I looke aboute, and neigh, take hedge and ditch,
  Feede in my neighbours pastures, picke my choyce
  Of all their faire-maind-mares: but married once,
  A man is stak’d, or pown’d, and cannot graze
  Beyond his owne hedge.

    _Enter Pontalier, and Malotin._

  _Pont._               I haue waited, sir,                           85
  Three hours to speake w’ee, and not take it well,
  Such magpies are admitted, whilst I daunce
  Attendance.

  _Lila._ Magpies? what d’ee take me for?

  _Pont._ A long thing with a most vnpromising face.

  _Aym._ I’ll ne’re aske him what he takes me for?

  _Mal._                                          Doe not, sir,       90
  For hee’l goe neere to tell you.

  _Pont._                         Art not thou
  A Barber Surgeon?

  _Barb._          Yes sira why.

  _Pont._ My Lord is sorely troubled with two scabs.

  _Lila._ _Aym._ Humph--

  _Pont._ I prethee cure him of ’em.

  _Nou._                            Pish: no more,                    95
  Thy gall sure’s ouer throwne; these are my Councell,
  And we were now in serious discourse.

  _Pont._ Of perfume and apparell, can you rise
  And spend 5 houres in dressing talke, with these?

  _Nou._ Thou ’idst haue me be a dog: vp, stretch and shake,         100
  And ready for all day.

  _Pont._               Sir, would you be
  More curious in preseruing of your honour.
  Trim, ’twere more manly. I am come to wake
  Your reputation, from this lethargy
  You let it sleep in, to perswade, importune,                       105
  Nay, to prouoke you, sir, to call to account
  This Collonell _Romont_, for the foule wrong
  Which like a burthen, he hath layd on you,
  And like a drunken porter, you sleepe vnder.
  ’Tis all the towne talkes, and beleeue, sir,                       110
  If your tough sense persist thus, you are vndone,
  Vtterly lost, you will be scornd and baffled
  By euery Lacquay; season now your youth,
  With one braue thing, and it shall keep the odour
  Euen to your death, beyond, and on your Tombe,                     115
  Sent like sweet oyles and Frankincense; sir, this life
  Which once you sau’d, I ne’re since counted mine,
  I borrow’d it of you; and now will pay it;
  I tender you the seruice of my sword
  To beare your challenge, if you’ll write, your fate:               120
  Ile make mine owne: what ere betide you, I
  That haue liu’d by you, by your side will dye.

  _Nou._ Ha, ha, would’st ha’ me challenge poore _Romont_?
  Fight with close breeches, thou mayst think I dare not.
  Doe not mistake me (cooze) I am very valiant,                      125
  But valour shall not make me such an Asse.
  What vse is there of valour (now a dayes?)
  ’Tis sure, or to be kill’d, or to be hang’d.
  Fight thou as thy minde moues thee, ’tis thy trade,
  Thou hast nothing else to doe; fight with _Romont_?                130
  No i’le not fight vnder a Lord.

  _Pont._                        Farewell, sir,
  I pitty you.
  Such louing Lords walke their dead honours graues,
  For no companions fit, but fooles and knaues.
  Come _Malotin_.

    _Exeunt Pont. Mal._

    _Enter Romont._

  _Lila._        ’Sfoot, _Colbran_, the low gyant.                   135

  _Aym._ He has brought a battaile in his face, let’s goe.

  _Page._ _Colbran_ d’ee call him? hee’l make some of you smoake,
  I beleeue.

  _Rom._ By your leaue, sirs.

  _Aym._                     Are you a Consort?

  _Rom._                                       D’ee take mee
  For a fidler? ya’re deceiu’d: Looke. Ile pay you.

    _Kickes ’em._

  _Page._ It seemes he knows you one, he bumfiddles you so.          140

  _Lila._ Was there euer so base a fellow?

  _Aym._ A rascall?

  _Lila._ A most vnciuill Groome?

  _Aym._ Offer to kicke a Gentleman, in a Noblemans chamber?
  A pox of your manners.                                             145

  _Lila._ Let him alone, let him alone, thou shalt lose thy
  arme, fellow: if we stirre against thee, hang vs.

  _Page._ S’foote, I thinke they haue the better on him,
  though they be kickd, they talke so.

  _Lila._ Let’s leaue the mad Ape.                                   150

  _Nou._ Gentlemen.

  _Lilad._ Nay, my Lord, we will not offer to dishonour you
  so much as to stay by you, since hee’s alone.

  _Nou._ Harke you.

  _Aym._ We doubt the cause, and will not disparage you, so          155
  much as to take your Lordships quarrel in hand. Plague on
  him, how he has crumpled our bands.

  _Page._ Ile eene away with ’em, for this souldier beates
  man, woman, and child.

    _Exeunt. Manent Nou. Rom._

  _Nou._ What meane you, sir? My people.

  _Rom._                                Your boye’s gone.            160

    _Lockes the doore._

  And doore’s lockt, yet for no hurt to you,
  But priuacy: call vp your blood againe, sir,
  Be not affraid, I do beseach you, sir,
  (And therefore come) without, more circumstance
  Tell me how farre the passages haue gone                           165
  ’Twixt you and your faire Mistresse _Beaumelle_,
  Tell me the truth, and by my hope of Heauen
  It neuer shall goe further.

  _Nou._                     Tell you why sir?
  Are you my confessor?

  _Rom._ I will be your confounder, if you doe not.                  170

    _Drawes a pocket dag._

  Stirre not, nor spend your voyce.

  _Nou._                           What will you doe?

  _Rom._ Nothing but lyne your brayne-pan, sir, with lead,
  If you not satisfie me suddenly,
  I am desperate of my life, and command yours.

  _Nou._ Hold, hold, ile speake. I vow to heauen and you,            175
  Shee’s yet vntouch’t, more then her face and hands:
  I cannot call her innocent; for I yeeld
  On my sollicitous wrongs she consented
  Where time and place met oportunity
  To grant me all requests.

  _Rom._                   But may I build                           180
  On this assurance?

  _Nou._            As vpon your fayth.

  _Rom._ Write this, sir, nay you must.

    _Drawes Inkehorne and paper._

  _Nou._                               Pox of this Gunne.

  _Rom._ Withall, sir, you must sweare, and put your oath
  Vnder your hand, (shake not) ne’re to frequent
  This Ladies company, nor euer send                                 185
  Token, or message, or letter, to incline
  This (too much prone already) yeelding Lady.

  _Nou._ ’Tis done, sir.

  _Rom._                  Let me see, this first is right,
  And heere you wish a sudden death may light
  Vpon your body, and hell take your soule,                          190
  If euer more you see her, but by chance,
  Much lesse allure. Now, my Lord, your hand.

  _Nou._ My hand to this?

  _Rom._                 Your heart else I assure you.

  _Nou._ Nay, there ’tis.

  _Rom._                 So keepe this last article
  Of your fayth giuen, and stead of threatnings, sir,                195
  The seruice of my sword and life is yours:
  But not a word of it, ’tis Fairies treasure;
  Which but reueal’d, brings on the blabbers, ruine.
  Vse your youth better, and this excellent forme
  Heauen hath bestowed vpon you. So good morrow to your Lordship.    200

  _Nou._ Good diuell to your rogueship. No man’s safe:
  Ile haue a Cannon planted in my chamber,      _Exit._
  Against such roaring roagues.

    _Enter Bellapert._

  _Bell._                 My Lord away
  The Coach stayes: now haue your wish, and iudge,
  If I haue been forgetfull.

  _Nou._                    Ha?

  _Bell._                      D’ee stand                            205
  Humming and hawing now?

    _Exit._

  _Nou._                 Sweet wench, I come.
  Hence feare,
  I swore, that’s all one, my next oath ’ile keepe
  That I did meane to breake, and then ’tis quit.
  No paine is due to louers periury.                                 210
  If loue himselfe laugh at it, so will I.

    _Exit Nouall._


_Scaena 2._

_Enter Charaloys, Baumont._

[_An outer Room in Aymer’s House_]

  _Bau._ I grieue for the distaste, though I haue manners,
  Not to inquire the cause, falne out betweene
  Your Lordship and _Romont_.

  _Cha._                     I loue a friend,
  So long as he continues in the bounds
  Prescrib’d by friendship, but when he vsurpes                        5
  Too farre on what is proper to my selfe,
  And puts the habit of a Gouernor on,
  I must and will preserue my liberty.
  But speake of something, else this is a theame
  I take no pleasure in: what’s this _Aymeire_,                       10
  Whose voyce for Song, and excellent knowledge in
  The chiefest parts of Musique, you bestow
  Such prayses on?

  _Bau._          He is a Gentleman,
  (For so his quality speakes him) well receiu’d
  Among our greatest Gallants; but yet holds                          15
  His maine dependance from the young Lord _Nouall_:
  Some tricks and crotchets he has in his head,
  As all Musicians haue, and more of him
  I dare not author: but when you haue heard him,
  I may presume, your Lordship so will like him,                      20
  That you’l hereafter be a friend to Musique.

  _Cha._ I neuer was an enemy to’t, _Baumont_,
  Nor yet doe I subscribe to the opinion
  Of those old Captaines, that thought nothing musicall,
  But cries of yeelding enemies, neighing of horses,                  25
  Clashing of armour, lowd shouts, drums, and trumpets:
  Nor on the other side in fauour of it,
  Affirme the world was made by musicall discord,
  Or that the happinesse of our life consists
  In a well varied note vpon the Lute:                                30
  I loue it to the worth of it, and no further.
  But let vs see this wonder.

  _Bau._                     He preuents
  My calling of him.

  _Aym._            Let the Coach be brought      _Enter Aymiere._
  To the backe gate, and serue the banquet vp:
  My good Lord _Charalois_, I thinke my house                         35
  Much honor’d in your presence.

  _Cha._                        To haue meanes
  To know you better, sir, has brought me hither
  A willing visitant, and you’l crowne my welcome
  In making me a witnesse to your skill,
  Which crediting from others I admire.                               40

  _Aym._ Had I beene one houre sooner made acquainted
  With your intent my Lord, you should haue found me
  Better prouided: now such as it is,
  Pray you grace with your acceptance.

  _Bau._                              You are modest.
  Begin the last new ayre.

  _Cha._                   Shall we not see them?                     45

  _Aym._ This little distance from the instruments
  Will to your eares conuey the harmony
  With more delight.

  _Cha._            Ile not consent.

  _Aym._                            Y’are tedious,
  By this meanes shall I with one banquet please
  Two companies, those within and these Guls heere.                   50

    _Song aboue._

    _Musique and a Song, Beaumelle within--ha, ha, ha._

  _Cha._ How’s this? It is my Ladies laugh! most certaine
  When I first pleas’d her, in this merry language,
  She gaue me thanks.

  _Bau._             How like you this?

  _Cha._                               ’Tis rare,
  Yet I may be deceiu’d, and should be sorry                          55
  Vpon vncertaine suppositions, rashly
  To write my selfe in the blacke list of those
  I haue declaym’d against, and to _Romont_.

  _Aym._ I would he were well of--perhaps your Lordship
  Likes not these sad tunes, I haue a new Song                        60
  Set to a lighter note, may please you better;
  Tis cal’d The happy husband.

  _Cha._                      Pray sing it.

    _Song below. At the end of the Song, Beaumelle within._

  _Beau._ Ha, ha, ’tis such a groome.

  _Cha._                             Doe I heare this,
  And yet stand doubtfull?

    _Exit Chara._

  _Aym._                  Stay him I am vndone,
  And they discouered.

  _Bau._              Whats the matter?

  _Aym._                               Ah!                            65
  That women, when they are well pleas’d, cannot hold,
  But must laugh out.

    _Enter Nouall Iu. Charaloys, Beaumley, Bellapert_.

  _Nou._             Helpe, saue me, murrher, murther.

  _Beau._ Vndone foreuer.

  _Cha._                 Oh, my heart!
  Hold yet a little--doe not hope to scape
  By flight, it is impossible: though I might                         70
  On all aduantage take thy life, and iustly;
  This sword, my fathers sword, that nere was drawne,
  But to a noble purpose, shall not now
  Doe th’ office of a hangman, I reserue it
  To right mine honour, not for a reuenge                             75
  So poore, that though with thee, it should cut off
  Thy family, with all that are allyed
  To thee in lust, or basenesse, ’twere still short of
  All termes of satisfaction. Draw.

  _Nou._                           I dare not,
  I haue already done you too much wrong,                             80
  To fight in such a cause.

  _Cha._                   Why, darest thou neyther
  Be honest, coward, nor yet valiant, knaue?
  In such a cause come doe not shame thy selfe:
  Such whose bloods wrongs, or wrong done to themselues
  Could neuer heate, are yet in the defence                           85
  Of their whores, daring looke on her againe.
  You thought her worth the hazard of your soule,
  And yet stand doubtfull in her quarrell, to
  Venture your body.

  _Bau._            No, he feares his cloaths,
  More then his flesh

  _Cha._             Keepe from me, garde thy life,                   90
  Or as thou hast liu’d like a goate, thou shalt
  Dye like a sheepe.

  _Nou._            Since ther’s no remedy

    _They fight, Nouall is slaine._

  Despaire of safety now in me proue courage.

  _Cha._ How soone weak wrong’s or’throwne! lend me your hand,
  Beare this to the Caroach--come, you haue taught me                 95
  To say you must and shall: I wrong you not,
  Y’are but to keepe him company you loue.
  Is’t done? ’tis well. Raise officers, and take care,
  All you can apprehend within the house
  May be forth comming. Do I appeare much mou’d?                     100

  _Bau._ No, sir.

  _Cha._         My griefes are now, Thus to be borne.
  Hereafter ile finde time and place to mourne.

    _Exeunt._


_Scaena 3._

_Enter Romont, Pontalier._

[_A Street_]

  _Pont._ I was bound to seeke you, sir.

  _Rom._                                And had you found me
  In any place, but in the streete, I should
  Haue done,--not talk’d to you. Are you the Captaine?
  The hopefull _Pontalier_? whom I haue seene
  Doe in the field such seruice, as then made you                      5
  Their enuy that commanded, here at home
  To play the parasite to a gilded knaue,
  And it may be the Pander.

  _Pont._                  Without this
  I come to call you to account, for what
  Is past already. I by your example                                  10
  Of thankfulnesse to the dead Generall
  By whom you were rais’d, haue practis’d to be so
  To my good Lord _Nouall_, by whom I liue;
  Whose least disgrace that is, or may be offred,
  With all the hazzard of my life and fortunes,                       15
  I will make good on you, or any man,
  That has a hand in’t; and since you allowe me
  A Gentleman and a souldier, there’s no doubt
  You will except against me. You shall meete
  With a faire enemy, you vnderstand                                  20
  The right I looke for, and must haue.

  _Rom._                               I doe,
  And with the next dayes sunne you shall heare from me.

    _Exeunt._


_Scaena 4._

_Enter Charalois with a casket, Beaumelle, Baumont._

[_A Room in_ Charalois’ _House_]

  _Cha._ Pray beare this to my father, at his leasure
  He may peruse it: but with your best language
  Intreat his instant presence: you haue sworne
  Not to reueale what I haue done.

  _Bau._                          Nor will I--
  But--

  _Cha._ Doubt me not, by Heauen, I will doe nothing                   5
  But what may stand with honour: Pray you leaue me
  To my owne thoughts. If this be to me, rise;
  I am not worthy the looking on, but onely
  To feed contempt and scorne, and that from you
  Who with the losse of your faire name haue caus’d it,               10
  Were too much cruelty.

  _Beau._               I dare not moue you
  To heare me speake. I know my fault is farre
  Beyond qualification, or excuse,
  That ’tis not fit for me to hope, or you
  To thinke of mercy; onely I presume                                 15
  To intreate, you would be pleas’d to looke vpon
  My sorrow for it, and beleeue, these teares
  Are the true children of my griefe and not
  A womans cunning.

  _Cha._           Can you _Beaumelle_,
  Hauing deceiued so great a trust as mine,                           20
  Though I were all credulity, hope againe
  To get beleefe? no, no, if you looke on me
  With pity or dare practise any meanes
  To make my sufferings lesse, or giue iust cause
  To all the world, to thinke what I must doe                         25
  Was cal’d vpon by you, vse other waies,
  Deny what I haue seene, or iustifie
  What you haue done, and as you desperately
  Made shipwracke of your fayth to be a whore,
  Vse th’ armes of such a one, and such defence,                      30
  And multiply the sinne, with impudence,
  Stand boldly vp, and tell me to my teeth,
  You haue done but what’s warranted,
  By great examples, in all places, where
  Women inhabit, vrge your owne deserts,                              35
  Or want of me in merit; tell me how,
  Your dowre from the lowe gulfe of pouerty,
  Weighed vp my fortunes, to what now they are:
  That I was purchas’d by your choyse and practise
  To shelter you from shame: that you might sinne                     40
  As boldly as securely, that poore men
  Are married to those wiues that bring them wealth,
  One day their husbands, but obseruers euer:
  That when by this prou’d vsage you haue blowne
  The fire of my iust vengeance to the height,                        45
  I then may kill you: and yet say ’twas done
  In heate of blood, and after die my selfe,
  To witnesse my repentance.

  _Beau._                   O my fate,
  That neuer would consent that I should see,
  How worthy thou wert both of loue and duty                          50
  Before I lost you; and my misery made
  The glasse, in which I now behold your vertue:
  While I was good, I was a part of you,
  And of two, by the vertuous harmony
  Of our faire minds, made one; but since I wandred                   55
  In the forbidden Labyrinth of lust,
  What was inseparable, is by me diuided.
  With iustice therefore you may cut me off,
  And from your memory, wash the remembrance
  That ere I was like to some vicious purpose                         60
  Within your better iudgement, you repent of
  And study to forget.

  _Cha._              O _Beaumelle_,
  That you can speake so well, and doe so ill!
  But you had been too great a blessing, if
  You had continued chast: see how you force me                       65
  To this, because my honour will not yeeld
  That I againe should loue you.

  _Beau._                       In this life
  It is not fit you should: yet you shall finde,
  Though I was bold enough to be a strumpet,
  I dare not yet liue one: let those fam’d matrones                   70
  That are canoniz’d worthy of our sex,
  Transcend me in their sanctity of life,
  I yet will equall them in dying nobly,
  Ambitious of no honour after life,
  But that when I am dead, you will forgiue me.                       75

  _Cha._ How pity steales vpon me! should I heare her
  But ten words more, I were lost--one knocks, go in.

    _Knock within. Exit Beaumelle. Enter Rochfort._

  That to be mercifull should be a sinne.
  O, sir, most welcome. Let me take your cloake,
  I must not be denyed--here are your robes,                          80
  As you loue iustice once more put them on:
  There is a cause to be determind of
  That doe’s require such an integrity,
  As you haue euer vs’d--ile put you to
  The tryall of your constancy, and goodnesse:                        85
  And looke that you that haue beene Eagle-eyd
  In other mens affaires, proue not a Mole
  In what concernes your selfe. Take you your seate:
  I will be for you presently.

    _Exit._

  _Roch._                     Angels guard me,
  To what strange Tragedy does this destruction                       90
  Serue for a Prologue?

    _Enter Charaloys with Nouals body. Beaumelle, Baumont._

  _Cha._               So, set it downe before
  The Iudgement seate, and stand you at the bar:
  For me? I am the accuser.

  _Roch._                 _Nouall_ slayne,
  And _Beaumelle_ my daughter in the place
  Of one to be arraign’d.

  _Cha._                 O, are you touch’d?                          95
  I finde that I must take another course,
  Feare nothing. I will onely blind your eyes,
  For Iustice should do so, when ’tis to meete
  An obiect that may sway her equall doome
  From what it should be aim’d at.--Good my Lord,                    100
  A day of hearing.

  _Roch._          It is granted, speake--
  You shall haue iustice.

  _Cha._                 I then here accuse,
  Most equall Iudge, the prisoner your faire Daughter,
  For whom I owed so much to you: your daughter,
  So worthy in her owne parts: and that worth                        105
  Set forth by yours, to whose so rare perfections,
  Truth witnesse with me, in the place of seruice
  I almost pay’d Idolatrous sacrifice
  To be a false advltresse.

  _Roch._                  With whom?

  _Cha._ With this _Nouall_ here dead.

  _Roch._                             Be wel aduis’d                 110
  And ere you say adultresse againe,
  Her fame depending on it, be most sure
  That she is one.

  _Cha._          I tooke them in the act.
  I know no proofe beyond it.

  _Roch._                    O my heart.

  _Cha._ A Iudge should feele no passions.

  _Roch._                                 Yet remember               115
  He is a man, and cannot put off nature.
  What answere makes the prisoner?

  _Beau._                         I confesse
  The fact I am charg’d with, and yeeld my selfe
  Most miserably guilty.

  _Roch._               Heauen take mercy
  Vpon your soule then: it must leaue your body.                     120
  Now free mine eyes, I dare vnmou’d looke on her,
  And fortifie my sentence, with strong reasons.
  Since that the politique law prouides that seruants,
  To whose care we commit our goods shall die,
  If they abuse our trust: what can you looke for,                   125
  To whose charge this most hopefull Lord gaue vp
  All he receiu’d from his braue Ancestors,
  Or he could leaue to his posterity?
  His Honour, wicked woman, in whose safety
  All his lifes ioyes, and comforts were locked vp,                  130
  With thy lust, a theefe hath now stolne from him,
  And therefore--

  _Cha._          Stay, iust Iudge, may not what’s lost
  By her owne fault, (for I am charitable,
  And charge her not with many) be forgotten
  In her faire life hereafter?

  _Roch._                     Neuer, Sir.                            135
  The wrong that’s done to the chaste married bed,
  Repentant teares can neuer expiate,
  And be assured, to pardon such a sinne,
  Is an offence as great as to commit it.

  _Cha._ I may not then forgiue her.

  _Roch._                           Nor she hope it.                 140
  Nor can she wish to liue no sunne shall rise,
  But ere it set, shall shew her vgly lust
  In a new shape, and euery on more horrid:
  Nay, euen those prayers, which with such humble feruor
  She seemes to send vp yonder, are beate backe,                     145
  And all suites, which her penitance can proffer,
  As soone as made, are with contempt throwne
  Off all the courts of mercy.

    _He kills her._

  _Cha._                      Let her die then.
  Better prepar’d I am. Sure I could not take her,
  Nor she accuse her father, as a Iudge                              150
  Partiall against her.

  _Beau._              I approue his sentence,
  And kisse the executioner; my lust
  Is now run from me in that blood; in which
  It was begot and nourished.

  _Roch._                    Is she dead then?

  _Cha._ Yes, sir, this is her heart blood, is it not?               155
  I thinke it be.

  _Roch._        And you haue kild here?

  _Cha._                                True,
  And did it by your doome

  _Roch._                 But I pronounc’d it
  As a Iudge onely, and friend to iustice,
  And zealous in defence of your wrong’d honour,
  Broke all the tyes of nature: and cast off                         160
  The loue and soft affection of a father.
  I in your cause, put on a Scarlet robe
  Of red died cruelty, but in returne,
  You haue aduanc’d for me no flag of mercy:
  I look’d on you, as a wrong’d husband, but                         165
  You clos’d your eyes against me, as a father.
  O _Beaumelle_, my daughter.

  _Cha._                     This is madnesse.

  _Roch._ Keepe from me--could not one good thought rise vp,
  To tell you that she was my ages comfort,
  Begot by a weake man, and borne a woman,                           170
  And could not therefore, but partake of frailety?
  Or wherefore did not thankfulnesse step forth,
  To vrge my many merits, which I may
  Obiect vnto you, since you proue vngratefull,
  Flinty-hearted _Charaloys_?

  _Cha._                     Nature does preuaile                    175
  Aboue your vertue.

  _Roch._           No! it giues me eyes,
  To pierce the heart of designe against me.
  I finde it now, it was my state was aym’d at,
  A nobler match was fought for, and the houres
  I liu’d, grew teadious to you: my compassion                       180
  Towards you hath rendred me most miserable,
  And foolish charity vndone my selfe:
  But ther’s a Heauen aboue, from whose iust wreake
  No mists of policy can hide offendors.

    _Enter Nouall se. with Officers._

  _Nou. se._ Force ope the doors--O monster, caniball,               185
  Lay hold on him, my sonne, my sonne.--O _Rochfort_,
  ’Twas you gaue liberty to this bloody wolfe
  To worry all our comforts,--But this is
  No time to quarrell; now giue your assistance
  For the reuenge.

  _Roch._         Call it a fitter name--                            190
  Iustice for innocent blood.

  _Cha._                     Though all conspire
  Against that life which I am weary of,
  A little longer yet ile striue to keepe it,
  To shew in spite of malice, and their lawes,
  His plea must speed that hath an honest cause.                     195

    _Exeunt_




_Actus quintus._


_Scaena prima._

[_A Street_]

_Enter Liladam_, _Taylor_, _Officers_.

  _Lila_ Why ’tis both most vnconscionable, and vntimely
  T’arrest a gallant for his cloaths, before
  He has worne them out: besides you sayd you ask’d
  My name in my Lords bond but for me onely,
  And now you’l lay me vp for’t. Do not thinke                         5
  The taking measure of a customer
  By a brace of varlets, though I rather wait
  Neuer so patiently, will proue a fashion
  Which any Courtier or Innes of court man
  Would follow willingly.

  _Tayl._                There I beleeue you.                         10
  But sir, I must haue present moneys, or
  Assurance to secure me, when I shall.--
  Or I will see to your comming forth.

  _Lila._                             Plague on’t,
  You haue prouided for my enterance in:
  That comming forth you talke of, concernes me.                      15
  What shall I doe? you haue done me a disgrace
  In the arrest, but more in giuing cause
  To all the street, to thinke I cannot stand
  Without these two supporters for my armes:
  Pray you let them loose me: for their satisfaction                  20
  I will not run away.

  _Tayl._             For theirs you will not,
  But for your owne you would; looke to them fellows.

  _Lila._ Why doe you call them fellows? doe not wrong
  Your reputation so, as you are meerely
  A Taylor, faythfull, apt to beleeue in Gallants                     25
  You are a companion at a ten crowne supper
  For cloth of bodkin, and may with one Larke
  Eate vp three manchets, and no man obserue you,
  Or call your trade in question for’t. But when
  You study your debt-booke, and hold correspondence                  30
  With officers of the hanger, and leaue swordmen,
  The learned conclude, the Taylor and Sergeant
  In the expression of a knaue are these
  To be _Synonima_. Looke therefore to it,
  And let vs part in peace, I would be loth                           35
  You should vndoe your selfe.

  _Tayl._                     To let you goe

    _Enter old Nouall, and Pontalier._

  Were the next way.
                    But see! heeres your old Lord,
  Let him but giue his worde I shall be paide,
  And you are free.

  _Lila._          S’lid, I will put him to’t:
  I can be but denied: or what say you?                               40
  His Lordship owing me three times your debt,
  If you arrest him at my suite, and let me
  Goe run before to see the action entred.
  ’Twould be a witty iest.

  _Tayl._                 I must haue ernest:
  I cannot pay my debts so.

  _Pont._                  Can your Lordship                          45
  Imagine, while I liue and weare a sword,
  Your sonnes death shall be reueng’d?

  _Nou. se._                          I know not
  One reason why you should not doe like others:
  I am sure, of all the herd that fed vpon him,
  I cannot see in any, now hee’s gone,                                50
  In pitty or in thankfulnesse one true signe
  Of sorrow for him.

  _Pont._           All his bounties yet
  Fell not in such vnthankfull ground: ’tis true
  He had weakenesses, but such as few are free from,
  And though none sooth’d them lesse then I: for now                  55
  To say that I foresaw the dangers that
  Would rise from cherishing them, were but vntimely.
  I yet could wish the iustice that you seeke for
  In the reuenge, had been trusted to me,
  And not the vncertaine issue of the lawes:                          60
  ’Tas rob’d me of a noble testimony
  Of what I durst doe for him: but howeuer,
  My forfait life redeem’d by him though dead,
  Shall doe him seruice.

  _Nou. se._            As farre as my griefe
  Will giue me leaue, I thanke you.

  _Lila._                          Oh my Lord,                        65
  Oh my good Lord, deliuer me from these furies.

  _Pont._ Arrested? This is one of them whose base
  And obiect flattery helpt to digge his graue:
  He is not worth your pitty, nor my anger.
  Goe to the basket and repent.

  _Nou. se._                   Away                                   70
  I onely know now to hate thee deadly:
  I will doe nothing for thee.

  _Lila._                     Nor you, Captaine.

  _Pont._ No, to your trade againe, put off this case,
  It may be the discouering what you were,
  When your vnfortunate master tooke you vp,                          75
  May moue compassion in your creditor.
  Confesse the truth.

    _Exit Nouall se. Pont._

  _Lila._            And now I thinke on’t better,
  I will, brother, your hand, your hand, sweet brother.
  I am of your sect, and my gallantry but a dreame,
  Out of which these two fearefull apparitions                        80
  Against my will haue wak’d me. This rich sword
  Grew suddenly out of a taylors bodkin;
  These hangers from my vailes and fees in Hell:
  And where as now this beauer sits, full often
  A thrifty cape compos’d of broad cloth lifts,                       85
  Nere kin vnto the cushion where I sate.
  Crosse-leg’d, and yet vngartred, hath beene seene,
  Our breakefasts famous for the buttred loaues,
  I haue with ioy bin oft acquainted with,
  And therefore vse a conscience, though it be                        90
  Forbidden in our hall towards other men,
  To me that as I haue beene, will againe
  Be of the brotherhood.

  _Offi._               I know him now:
  He was a prentice to _Le Robe_ at _Orleance_.

  _Lila._ And from thence brought by my young Lord, now dead,         95
  Vnto _Dijon_, and with him till this houre
  Hath bin receiu’d here for a compleate Mounsieur.
  Nor wonder at it: for but tythe our gallants,
  Euen those of the first ranke, and you will finde
  In euery ten, one: peraduenture two,                               100
  That smell ranke of the dancing schoole, or fiddle,
  The pantofle or pressing yron: but hereafter
  Weele talke of this. I will surrender vp
  My suites againe: there cannot be much losse,
  ’Tis but the turning of the lace, with ones                        105
  Additions more you know of, and what wants
  I will worke out.

  _Tayl._          Then here our quarrell ends.
  The gallant is turn’d Taylor, and all friends.

    _Exeunt._


_Scaena 2._

_Enter Romont, Baumont._

[_The Court of Justice_]

  _Rom._ You haue them ready.

  _Bau._                     Yes, and they will speake
  Their knowledg in this cause, when thou thinkst fit
  To haue them cal’d vpon.

  _Rom._                  ’Tis well, and something
  I can adde to their euidence, to proue
  This braue reuenge, which they would haue cal’d murther,             5
  A noble Iustice.

  _Bau._          In this you expresse
  (The breach by my Lords want of you, new made vp)
  A faythfull friend.

  _Rom._             That friendship’s rays’d on sand,
  Which euery sudden gust of discontent,
  Or flowing of our passions can change,                              10
  As if it nere had bin: but doe you know
  Who are to sit on him?

  _Bau._                Mounsieur _Du Croy_
  Assisted by _Charmi_.

  _Rom._               The Aduocate
  That pleaded for the Marshalls funerall,
  And was checkt for it by _Nouall_.

  _Bau._                            The same                          15

  _Rom._ How fortunes that?

  _Bau._                   Why, sir, my Lord _Nouall_
  Being the accuser, cannot be the Iudge,
  Nor would grieue _Rochfort_, but Lord _Charaloys_
  (Howeuer he might wrong him by his power,)
  Should haue an equall hearing.

  _Rom._                        By my hopes                           20
  Of _Charaloys_ acquitall, I lament
  That reuerent old mans fortune.

  _Bau._                         Had you seene him,
  As to my griefe I haue now promis’d patience,
  And ere it was beleeu’d, though spake by him
  That neuer brake his word, inrag’d againe                           25
  So far as to make warre vpon those heires
  Which not a barbarous Sythian durst presume
  To touch, but with a superstitious feare,
  As something sacred, and then curse his daughter,
  But with more frequent violence himselfe,                           30
  As if he had bin guilty of her fault,
  By being incredulous of your report,
  You would not onely iudge him worrhy pitty,
  But suffer with him.

    _Enter Charalois, with Officers._

                      But heere comes the prisoner,
  I dare not stay to doe my duty to him,                              35
  Yet rest assur’d, all possible meanes in me
  To doe him seruice, keepes you company.

    _Exit Bau._

  _Rom._ It is not doubted.

  _Cha._                   Why, yet as I came hither,
  The people apt to mocke calamity,
  And tread on the oppress’d, made no hornes at me,                   40
  Though they are too familiar: I deserue them.
  And knowing what blood my sword hath drunke
  In wreake of that disgrace, they yet forbare
  To shake their heads, or to reuile me for
  A murtherer, they rather all put on                                 45
  (As for great losses the old _Romans_ vs’d)
  A generall face of sorrow, waighted on
  By a sad murmur breaking through their silence,
  And no eye but was readier with a teare
  To witnesse ’twas shed for me, then I could                         50
  Discerne a face made vp with scorne against me.
  Why should I then, though for vnusuall wrongs,
  I chose vnusuall meanes to right those wrongs,
  Condemne my selfe, as over-partiall
  In my owne cause Romont?

  _Rom._                  Best friend, well met,                      55

  By my heart’s loue to you, and ioyne to that,
  My thankfulness that still liues to the dead,
  I looke upon you now with more true ioy,
  Than when I saw you married.

  _Cha._                      You have reason
  To give you warrant for’t; my falling off                           60
  From such a friendship with the scorne that answered
  Your too propheticke counsell, may well moue you
  To thinke your meeting me going to my death,
  A fit encounter for that hate which iustly
  I have deseru’d from you.

  _Rom._                   Shall I still then                         65
  Speake truth, and be ill vnderstood?

  _Cha._                              You are not.
  I am conscious, I haue wrong’d you, and allow me
  Only a morall man to looke on you,
  Whom foolishly I haue abus’d and iniur’d,
  Must of necessity be more terrible to me,                           70
  Than any death the Iudges can pronounce
  From the tribunall which I am to plead at.

  _Rom._                                    Passion transports you.

  _Cha._ For what I haue done
  To my false Lady, or _Nouall_, I can
  Giue some apparent cause: but touching you,                         75
  In my defence, childlike, I can say nothing,
  But I am sorry for’t, a poore satisfaction:
  And yet mistake me not: for it is more
  Then I will speake, to haue my pardon sign’d
  For all I stand accus’d of.

  _Rom._                     You much weaken                          80
  The strength of your good cause. Should you but thinke
  A man for doing well could entertaine
  A pardon, were it offred, you haue giuen
  To blinde and slow-pac’d iustice, wings, and eyes
  To see and ouertake impieties,                                      85
  Which from a cold proceeding had receiu’d
  Indulgence or protection.

  _Cha._                   Thinke you so?

  _Rom._ Vpon my soule nor should the blood you chalenge
  And took to cure your honour, breed more scruple
  In your soft conscience, then if your sword                         90
  Had bin sheath’d in a Tygre, or she Beare,
  That in their bowels would haue made your tombe
  To iniure innocence is more then murther:
  But when inhumane lusts transforme vs, then
  Like beasts we are to suffer, not like men                          95
  To be lamented. Nor did _Charalois_ euer
  Performe an act so worthy the applause
  Of a full theater of perfect men,
  As he hath done in this: the glory got
  By ouerthrowing outward enemies,                                   100
  Since strength and fortune are maine sharers in it,
  We cannot but by pieces call our owne:
  But when we conquer our intestine foes,
  Our passions breed within vs, and of those
  The most rebellious tyrant powerfull loue,                         105
  Our reason suffering vs to like no longer
  Then the faire obiect being good deserues it,
  That’s a true victory, which, were great men
  Ambitious to atchieue, by your example
  Setting no price vpon the breach of fayth,                         110
  But losse of life, ’twould fright adultery
  Out of their families, and make lust appeare
  As lothsome to vs in the first consent,
  As when ’tis wayted on by punishment.

  _Cha._ You haue confirm’d me. Who would loue a woman               115
  That might inioy in such a man, a friend?
  You haue made me know the iustice of my cause,
  And mark’t me out the way, how to defend it.

  _Rom._ Continue to that resolution constant,
  And you shall, in contempt of their worst malice,                  120
  Come off with honour. Heere they come.

  _Cha._                                I am ready.


_Scaena 3._

_Enter Du Croy_, _Charmi_, _Rochfort_, _Nouall se._ _Pontalier_,
_Baumont_.

  _Nou. se._ See, equall Iudges, with what confidence
  The cruel murtherer stands, as if he would
  Outface the Court and Iustice!

  _Roch._                       But looke on him.
  And you shall find, for still methinks I doe,
  Though guilt hath dide him black, something good in him,             5
  That may perhaps worke with a wiser man
  Then I haue beene, againe to set him free
  And giue him all he has.

  _Charmi._               This is not well.
  I would you had liu’d so, my Lord that I,
  Might rather haue continu’d your poore seruant,                     10
  Then sit here as your Iudge.

  _Du Croy_                   I am sorry for you.

  _Roch._ In no act of my life I haue deseru’d
  This iniury from the court, that any heere
  Should thus vnciuilly vsurpe on what
  Is proper to me only.

  _Du Cr._             What distaste                                  15
  Receiues my Lord?

  _Roch._          You say you are sorry for him:
  A griefe in which I must not haue a partner:
  ’Tis I alone am sorry, that I rays’d
  The building of my life for seuenty yeeres
  Vpon so sure a ground, that all the vices                           20
  Practis’d to ruine man, though brought against me,
  Could neuer vndermine, and no way left
  To send these gray haires to the graue with sorrow.
  Vertue that was my patronesse betrayd me:
  For entring, nay, possessing this young man,                        25
  It lent him such a powerfull Maiesty
  To grace what ere he vndertooke, that freely
  I gaue myselfe vp with my liberty,
  To be at his disposing; had his person
  Louely I must confesse, or far fain’d valour,                       30
  Or any other seeming good, that yet
  Holds a neere neyghbour-hood, with ill wrought on me,
  I might haue borne it better: but when goodnesse
  And piety it selfe in her best figure
  Were brib’d to by destruction, can you blame me,                    35
  Though I forget to suffer like a man,
  Or rather act a woman?

  _Bau._                Good my Lord.

  _Nou. se._ You hinder our proceeding.

  _Charmi._                            And forget
  The parts of an accuser.

  _Bau._                  Pray you remember
  To vse the temper which to me you promis’d.                         40

  _Roch._ Angels themselues must breake _Baumont_, that promise
  Beyond the strength and patience of Angels.
  But I haue done, my good Lord, pardon me
  A weake old man, and pray adde to that
  A miserable father, yet be carefull                                 45
  That your compassion of my age, nor his,
  Moue you to anything, that may dis-become
  The place on which you sit.

  _Charmi._                  Read the Inditement.

  _Cha._ It shall be needelesse, I my selfe, my Lords,
  Will be my owne accuser, and confesse                               50
  All they can charge me with, or will I spare
  To aggrauate that guilt with circumstance
  They seeke to loade me with: onely I pray,
  That as for them you will vouchsafe me hearing:
  I may not be, denide it for my selfe,                               55
  When I shall vrge by what vnanswerable reasons
  I was compel’d to what I did, which yet
  Till you haue taught me better, I repent not.

  _Roch._ The motion honest.

  _Charmi._                 And ’tis freely granted.

  _Cha._ Then I confesse my Lords, that I stood bound,                60
  When with my friends, euen hope it selfe had left me
  To this mans charity for my liberty,
  Nor did his bounty end there, but began:
  For after my enlargement, cherishing
  The good he did, he made me master of                               65
  His onely daughter, and his whole estate:
  Great ties of thankfulnesse I must acknowledge,
  Could any one freed by you, presse this further
  But yet consider, my most honourd Lords,
  If to receiue a fauour, make a seruant,                             70
  And benefits are bonds to tie the taker
  To the imperious will of him that giues,
  Ther’s none but slaues will receiue courtesie,
  Since they must fetter vs to our dishonours.
  Can it be cal’d magnificence in a Prince,                           75
  To powre downe riches, with a liberall hand,
  Vpon a poore mans wants, if that must bind him
  To play the soothing parasite to his vices?
  Or any man, because he sau’d my hand,
  Presume my head and heart are at his seruice?                       80
  Or did I stand ingag’d to buy my freedome
  (When my captiuity was honourable)
  By making my selfe here and fame hereafter,
  Bondslaues to mens scorne and calumnious tongues?
  Had his faire daughters mind bin like her feature,                  85
  Or for some little blemish I had sought
  For my content elsewhere, wasting on others
  My body and her dowry; my forhead then
  Deseru’d the brand of base ingratitude:
  But if obsequious vsage, and faire warning                          90
  To keepe her worth my loue, could preserue her
  From being a whore, and yet no cunning one,
  So to offend, and yet the fault kept from me?
  What should I doe? let any freeborne spirit
  Determine truly, if that thankfulnesse,                             95
  Choise forme with the whole world giuen for a dowry,
  Could strengthen so an honest man with patience,
  As with a willing necke to vndergoe
  The insupportable yoake of slaue or wittoll.

  _Charmi._ What proofe haue you she did play false, besides         100
  your oath?

  _Cha._    Her owne confession to her father.
  I aske him for a witnesse.

  _Roch._                   ’Tis most true.
  I would not willingly blend my last words
  With an vntruth.

  _Cha._          And then to cleere my selfe,
  That his great wealth was not the marke I shot at,                 105
  But that I held it, when faire _Beaumelle_
  Fell from her vertue, like the fatall gold
  Which _Brennus_ tooke from _Delphos_, whose possession
  Brought with it ruine to himselfe and Army.
  Heer’s one in Court, _Baumont_, by whom I sent                     110
  All graunts and writings backe, which made it mine,
  Before his daughter dy’d by his owne sentence,
  As freely as vnask’d he gaue it to me.

  _Bau._ They are here to be seene.

  _Charmi._                        Open the casket.
  Peruse that deed of gift.

  _Rom._                   Halfe of the danger                       115
  Already is discharg’d: the other part
  As brauely, and you are not onely free,
  But crownd with praise for euer.

  _Du Croy._                      ’Tis apparent.

  _Charmi._ Your state, my Lord, againe is yours.

  _Roch._                                        Not mine,
  I am not of the world, if it can prosper,                          120
  (And being iustly got, Ile not examine
  Why it should be so fatall) doe you bestow it
  On pious vses. Ile goe seeke a graue.
  And yet for proofe, I die in peace, your pardon
  I aske, and as you grant it me, may Heauen                         125
  Your conscience, and these Iudges free you from
  What you are charg’d with. So farewell for euer.--

    _Exit Roch._

  _Nouall se._ Ile be mine owne guide. Passion, nor example
  Shall be my leaders. I haue lost a sonne,
  A sonne, graue Iudges, I require his blood                         130
  From his accursed homicide.

  _Charmi._                  What reply you
  In your defence for this?

  _Cha._                   I but attended
  Your Lordships pleasure. For the fact, as of
  The former, I confesse it, but with what
  Base wrongs I was vnwillingly drawne to it,                        135
  To my few wordes there are some other proofes
  To witnesse this for truth, when I was married:
  For there I must begin. The slayne _Nouall_
  Was to my wife, in way of our French courtship,
  A most deuoted seruant, but yet aym’d at                           140
  Nothing but meanes to quench his wanton heate,
  His heart being neuer warm’d by lawfull fires
  As mine was (Lords:) and though on these presumptions,
  Ioyn’d to the hate betweene his house and mine,
  I might with opportunity and ease                                  145
  Haue found a way for my reuenge, I did not;
  But still he had the freedome as before
  When all was mine, and told that he abus’d it
  With some vnseemely licence, by my friend
  My appou’d friend _Romont_, I gaue no credit                       150
  To the reporter, but reprou’d him for it
  As one vncourtly and malicious to him.
  What could I more, my Lords? yet after this
  He did continue in his first pursute
  Hoter then euer, and at length obtaind it;                         155
  But how it came to my most certaine knowledge,
  For the dignity of the court and my owne honour
  I dare not say.

  _Nou. se._     If all may be beleeu’d
  A passionate prisoner speakes, who is so foolish
  That durst be wicked, that will appeare guilty?                    160
  No, my graue Lords: in his impunity
  But giue example vnto iealous men
  To cut the throats they hate, and they will neuer
  Want matter or pretence for their bad ends.

  _Charmi._ You must find other proofes to strengthen these          165
  But more presumptions.

  _Du Croy._            Or we shall hardly
  Allow your innocence.

  _Cha._               All your attempts
  Shall fall on me, like brittle shafts on armour,
  That breake themselues; or like waues against a rocke,
  That leaue no signe of their ridiculous fury                       170
  But foame and splinters, my innocence like these
  Shall stand triumphant, and your malice serue
  But for a trumpet; to proclaime my conquest
  Nor shall you, though you doe the worst fate can,
  How ere condemne, affright an honest man.                          175

  _Rom._ May it please the Court, I may be heard.

  _Nou. se._                                     You come not
  To raile againe? but doe, you shall not finde,
  Another _Rochfort_.

  _Rom._             In _Nouall_ I cannot.
  But I come furnished with what will stop
  The mouth of his conspiracy against the life                       180
  Of innocent _Charaloys_. Doe you know this Character?

  _Nou. se._ Yes, ’tis my sonnes.

  _Rom._                         May it please your Lordships, reade it,
  And you shall finde there, with what vehemency
  He did sollicite _Beaumelle_, how he had got
  A promise from her to inioy his wishes,                            185
  How after he abiur’d her company,
  And yet, but that ’tis fit I spare the dead,
  Like a damnd villaine, assoone as recorded,
  He brake that oath, to make this manifest
  Produce his bands and hers.

    _Enter Aymer_, _Florimell_, _Bellapert_.

  _Charmi._                  Haue they tooke their oathes?           190

  _Rom._ They haue; and rather then indure the racke,
  Confesse the time, the meeting, nay the act;
  What would you more? onely this matron made
  A free discouery to a good end;
  And therefore I sue to the Court, she may not                      195
  Be plac’d in the blacke list of the delinquents.

  _Pont._ I see by this, Nouals reuenge needs me,
  And I shall doe.

  _Charmi._       ’Tis euident.

  _Nou. se._                   That I
  Till now was neuer wretched, here’s no place
  To curse him or my stars.

    _Exit Nouall senior._

  _Charmi._                Lord _Charalois_,                         200
  The iniurie: you haue sustain’d, appeare
  So worthy of the mercy of the Court,
  That notwithstanding you haue gone beyond
  The letter of the Law, they yet acquit you.

  _Pont._ But in Nouall, I doe condemne him thus.                    205

  _Cha._ I am slayne.

  _Rom._             Can I looke on? Oh murderous wretch,
  Thy challenge now I answere. So die with him.

  _Charmi._ A guard: disarme him.

  _Rom._                         I yeeld vp my sword
  Vnforc’d. Oh _Charaloys_.

  _Cha._                   For shame, _Romont_,
  Mourne not for him that dies as he hath liu’d,                     210
  Still constant and vnmou’d: what’s falne vpon me,
  Is by Heauens will, because I made my selfe
  A Iudge in my owne cause without their warrant:
  But he that lets me know thus much in death,
  With all good men forgiue mee.

  _Pont._                       I receiue                            215
  The vengeance, which my loue not built on vertue,
  Has made me worthy, worthy of.

  _Charmi._                     We are taught
  By this sad president, how iust foeuer
  Our reasons are to remedy our wrongs,
  We are yet to leaue them to their will and power,                  220
  That to that purpose haue authority.
  For you, _Romont_, although in your excuse
  You may plead, what you did, was in reuenge
  Of the dishonour done vnto the Court:
  Yet since from vs you had not warrant for it,                      225
  We banish you the State: for these, they shall,
  As they are found guilty or innocent,
  Be set free, or suffer punishment.

    _Exeunt omnes._


_FINIS_




First Song.

  _Fie, cease to wonder,
  Though you are heare Orpheus with his Iuory Lute,
  Moue Trees and Rockes.
  Charme Buls, Beares, and men more sauage to be mute,
  Weake foolish singer, here is one,                                   5
  Would haue transform’d thy selfe, to stone._


Second Song.

A Dialogue betweene _Nouall_, and _Beaumelle_.

  _Man._

  _Set_ Phoebus, _set, a fayrer sunne doth rise,
  From the bright Radience of my Mrs. eyes
  Then euer thou begat’st. I dare not looke,
  Each haire a golden line, each word a hooke,
  The more I striue, the more I still am tooke._                       5

  Wom.

  _Fayre seruant, come, the day these eyes doe lend
  To warme thy blood, thou doest so vainely spend.
  Come strangled breath._

  Man.

                        _What noate so sweet as this,
  That calles the spirits to a further blisse?_

  Wom.

  _Yet this out-sauours wine, and this Perfume._                      10

  Man.

  _Let’s die, I languish, I consume._


CITTIZENS SONG OF THE COURTIER.

  _Courtier, if thou needs wilt wiue,
  From this lesson learne to thriue.
  If thou match a Lady, that
  Passes thee in birth and state,
  Let her curious garments be                                          5
  Twice aboue thine owne degree;
  This will draw great eyes vpon her,
  Get her seruants and thee honour._


COURTIERS SONG OF THE CITIZEN.

  _Poore Citizen, if thou wilt be
  A happy husband, learne of me;
  To set thy wife first in thy shop,
  A faire wife, a kinde wife, a sweet wife, sets a poore man vp.
  What though thy shelues be ne’re so bare:                            5
  A woman still is currant ware:
  Each man will cheapen, foe, and friend,
  But whilst thou art at tother end,
  What ere thou seest, or what dost heare,
  Foole, haue no eye to, nor an eare;                                 10
  And after supper for her sake,
  When thou hast fed, snort, though thou wake:
  What though the Gallants call thee mome?
  Yet with thy lanthorne light her home:
  Then looke into the town and tell,                                  15
  If no such Tradesmen there doe dwell._




NOTES


[_Dramatis personae._] _Charalois_--the name _Charalois_ is a
corruption of _Charolais_, the Count of Charolais being the hereditary
title of the heir-apparent of the Duchy of Burgundy, for whom the
county of Charolais, an arrière-fief of Burgundy, was reserved as an
appanage. This domain had been purchased by Philip the Bold for his
son, John the Fearless.

I, i, 4. _argue me of_--obsolete construction: “accuse me of.” Cf. Ray,
_Disc._ II, v, 213: “Erroneously argues Hubert Thomas ... of a mistake.”

I, i, 7. _dispence with_--give special exemption from. Cf. I, ii, 87.

I, i, 33. _This such_--_This_ for _this is_ is a common Elizabethan
construction. Cf. “O this the poison of deep grief”--_Hamlet_, IV, v,
76; “This a good block”--_Lear_, IV, vi, 187.

I, i, 45. _tooke vp_--borrowed. Cf. Shakespeare, _Henry IV, Part II_,
I, ii, 46: “if a man is through with them in honest taking up, they
stand upon security.”

I, i, 55-6. _Your sable habit, with the hat and cloak ... haue
power_--the details of hat, cloak, and ribbons, interposed between
subject and verb, have attracted the latter into the plural, to the
violation of its agreement with its substantive.

I, i, 70. _in that_--i. e., in the fact that justice had no such guards.

I, i, 73-7. For the allusion to _Cerberus_ and the _sops_, cf. Virgil’s
picture of Aeneas’ journey to Hades (Aeneid, VI, 417-425): “Huge
Cerberus makes these realms to resound with barking from his tripple
jaws, stretched at his enormous length in a den that fronts the gate.
To whom the prophetess, seeing his neck now bristle with horrid snakes,
flings a soporific cake of honey and medicated grain. He, in the mad
rage of hunger, opening his three mouths, snatches the offered morsel,
and, spread on the ground, relaxes his monstrous limbs, and is extended
at vast length over all the cave. Aeneas, now that the keeper [of Hell]
is buried [in sleep], seizes the passage and swift overpasses the bank
of that flood whence there is no return.”--_Davidson’s trans._

I, i, 75. _fertyle headed--many headed_, _fertyle_ is used in the now
obsolete sense of _abundant_.

I, i, 92. _such, whose_--for the construction, cf. Shakespeare: “Such I
will have, whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy.”--_All’s Well_,
III, iv, 24.

I, i, 99. _men religious_--the adjective is regularly placed after its
noun in Eliz. Eng. when the substantive is unemphatic and the modifier
not a mere epithet, but essential to the sense. See Abbott, S. G. § 419.

I, i, 137-8.--The thought of these lines is undeveloped, the phrasing
being broken and disconnected. It is a scornful observation on the
part of Romont that whether or not Novall takes papers depends on how
the matter is brought before him--and he is about to add that there is
a way in which Charalois can manage to gain his point, when he breaks
off with the cry, “Follow him!” _Conuayance_ = contrivance.

I, i, 164. _parchment toils_--snares in the shape of documents upon
parchment, such as bonds, mortgages, etc.

I, i, 166. _Luxury_--used here in the modern sense,--not, as more
commonly in Elizabethan times, with the meaning, _laciviousness_,
_lust_. The thought of the somewhat involved period which ends with
this line is, that the creditors prayed only on an occasion when they
feared to lose their clutch on some rich spendthrift--on which occasion
they would pray to the devil to invent some new and fantastic pleasure
which would lure their victim back into the toils.

I, ii, 11. _Dijon_--the scene of the drama,--situated on the western
border of the fertile plain of Burgundy, and at the confluence of the
Ouche and the Suzon. It was formerly the capital of the province of
Burgundy, the dukes of which acquired it early in the eleventh century,
and took up their residence there in the thirteenth century. For the
decoration of the palace and other monuments built by them, eminent
artists were gathered from northern France and Flanders, and during
this period the town became one of the great intellectual centers of
France. The union of the duchy with the crown in 1477 deprived Dijon
of the splendor of the ducal court, but to counterbalance this loss it
was made the capital of the province and the seat of a _parlement_.
To-day it possesses a population of some 65,000, and is a place of
considerable importance.

I, ii, 21-3. _Nor now ... that I vndertooke, forsake it._--The
expression is elliptical, the verb of the preceding period being in
the future indicative--whereas here the incomplete verb is in the
conditional mood. In full: _Nor now ... that I undertook, would I
forsake it._

I, ii, 56. _determine of--of_ is the preposition in obs. usage which
follows _determine_ used, as here, in the sense of _decide_, _come to a
judicial decision_, _come to a decision on_ (_upon_). Cf. IV, iv, 82.

I, ii, 57. _to_--in addition to.

I, ii, 66. _become_--modern editors, beginning with Mason, read
_became_; but _become_ may be taken as a variant form of the past
tense (or even as participle for _having become_, with nom. absolute
construction, though this is less likely).

I, ii, 91-2. _May force you ... plead at_--i. e. “may cause your
dismissal from the bar.”

I, ii, 107. _purple-colour’d_--Novall wears the official red robe of
judge.

I, ii, 123-4. _the subtill Fox of France, The politique Lewis_--Louis
XI of France, an old enemy of Burgundy.

I, ii, 127. _If that_, etc.--Gradually, as the interrogatives were
recognized as relatives, the force of _that_, _so_, _as_, in “when
_that_”, “when _so_”, “when _as_”, seems to have tended to make the
relative more general and indefinite; “who so” being now nearly (and
once quite) as indefinite as “whosoever.”... In this sense, by analogy,
_that_ was attached to other words, such as “if”, “though”, “why”,
etc.--Abbott, S. G. § 287.

Cf.

                     “If that rebellion
  Came like itself, in base and abject routs.”

      _Henry IV, Part_ II, IV, i, 32.

The same construction appears in V, iii, 95.

I, ii, 163. _Writ man_--i. e., wrote himself down as a man.

I, ii, 170. _Granson_, _Morat_, _Nancy_--the “three memorable
overthrows” which Charles the Bold suffered at the hands of the Swiss
cantons and Duke René of Loraine. The battle of Granson took place
March 3, 1476; that of Morat, June 22, 1476; that of Nancy, January
5, 1477. On each occasion the army of Charles was annihilated; and
finally at Nancy he was himself slain. These defeats ended the power of
Burgundy.

I, ii, 171. _The warlike Charloyes_--Charles the Bold, the Duke of
Burgundy.

I, ii, 185. _Ill ayres_--noxious exhalations, miasma.

I, ii, 194-5. _They are onely good men, that pay what they owe._

  2 Cred. _And so they are._

  1 Cred.                  _’Tis the City Doctrine._

Cf. Shakespeare in _The Merchant of Venice_, I, iii, 12 ff.:

  “_Shy._ Antonio is a good man.

  _Bass._ Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

  _Shy._ Ho, no, no, no, no! My meaning in saying he is a good man is
  to have you understand me that he is sufficient.”

I, ii, 201. _right_--so in all texts. With this word the meaning is
perfectly plain, but the substitution, in its place, of _weight_ would
better sustain the figure used in the preceding line. _Weight_ is a
word which it is not unlikely the printer would mis-read from the Ms.
as _right_.

I, ii, 207. _in your danger_--regularly, “in your power”, “at your
mercy”; so here, “in your debt”.

I, ii, 245. _As_--used here in its demonstrative meaning, to introduce
a parenthetical clause. Cf. Abbott, S. G. § 110.

II, i, 13. _sits_--the common Elizabethan 3rd. person plural in _s_,
generally and without warrant altered by modern editors. See Abbott,
S. G. § 333. Cf. _keepes_, V, ii, 37.

II, i, 28. _was--monies_ is taken in the collective sense.

II, i, 46. _interd a liuely graue_--i. e., _enter’d a lively_
[_living_] _grave_. G., who first prints it so, considers he has made a
change in the first word, taking it in the Q. for _interr’d_, as does
M., who suggests in a footnote the reading: _enters alive the grave_.
But _interd_ may be, and is best, taken as merely an old spelling for
_enter’d_, naturally attracted to the _i_-form by the presence of the
word _interment_ in the preceding line.

II, i, 63. _Remember best, forget not gratitude_--ellipsis for:
_Remember best who forget not gratitude_. Modern usage confines the
omission of the relative mostly to the objective. In Eliz. Eng.,
however, the nominative relative was even more frequently omitted,
especially when the antecedent clause was emphatic and evidently
incomplete, and where the antecedent immediately preceded the verb to
which the relative would be subject. See Abbott, S. G., § 244.

Cf. III, i, 134-5; i, 139; i, 332; IV, ii, 61.

II, i, 65. _viperous_--according to various classical authorities
[e. g., Pliny, X, 82], the young of vipers eat their way forth to light
through the bowels of their dam. The figure here seems to be somewhat
confused, as the dead hero is the _son_ of the country, his mother,
who devours _him_. The thought, perhaps, in the mind of the dramatist,
albeit ill-expressed, was that the mother-country owed her existence to
her son, and, viper-like had devoured the author of her life.

II, i, 66. _eate_--owing to the tendency to drop the inflectional
ending _-en_, the Elizabethans frequently used the curtailed forms of
past participles, which are common in Early English: “I have spoke,
forgot, writ, chid,” etc.--Abbott, S. G., § 343. Cf. _broke_, II, ii,
27; _spoke_, III, i, 3; _begot_, IV, iv, 154; 170.

II, i, 83. _golden calf_--the figure, from its immediate application
to _a dolt of great wealth_, is transferred to the false god whom the
children of Israel worshipped at the foot of Mount Sinaï.

II, i, 93-4. _Would they not so_, etc.--the Q. reading is to be
preferred to either of the modern emendations. It is probably in the
sense of “Would they no more but so?”, with the ensuing declaration
that in that case they would keep their tears to stop (fill?) bottles
(probably meaning lachrimatories or phials used in ancient times for
the preservation of tears of mourning).

II, i, 98-9. _Y’are ne’re content, Crying nor laughing_--The meaning
is, of course: “You are never content with us, whether we are crying or
laughing.”

II, i, 100. _Both with a birth_--i. e., both together, at the same time.

II, i, 137. _Burmudas_--The Bermuda islands, known only through the
tales of early navigators who suffered shipwreck there, enjoyed a
most unsavory reputation in Elizabethan times, as being the seat of
continual tempests, and the surrounding waters “a hellish sea for
thunder, lightning, and storms.” Cf. Shakespeare, _The Tempest_, I, ii,
269: “the still-vexed Bermoothes.” They were said to be enchanted, and
inhabited by witches and devils. They were made famous by the shipwreck
there in 1609 of Sir George Somers; the following year one of his
party, Sil. Jordan, published _A Discovery of the Bermudas, otherwise
called the Isle of Devils_.

Field has another reference to “the Barmuthoes” in _Amends for Ladies_,
III, iv; but there it is not clear whether he means the islands or
certain narrow passages north of Covent Garden, which went by the slang
name of “the Bermudas” or “the Streights.” It _is_ in this latter sense
that the word is used in Jonson’s _The Devil is an Ass_, II, i.

II, i, 139. _Exact the strictnesse_--i. e., require a strict
enforcement of the sentence which limits Charalois to the confines of
the prison.

II, i, 144. _vsurers relief_, etc.--a rather awkward expression, so
phrased for the sake of the end-scene rhyme. The thought seems to be:
“The relief which usurers have to offer mourns, if the debtors have
(exhibit) too much grief.” Charalois’ remark is, of course, ironical.

II, ii, 10. _electuary_--a medicinal conserve or paste, consisting of
a powder or some other ingredient mixed with honey, preserve, or syrup
of some other kind. Beaumelle means that Florimal is the medicine and
Bellapert the sweet which makes it palatable.

II, ii, 17. _serue_--G. and S. read _served_, which is certainly
correct. Not only is there nothing throughout the play to suggest that
Beaumelle’s mother is still alive, but she herself has just spoken of
“you two my women” (l. 11).

II, ii, 18. _a peepe out_--a “pip” [old spelling _peepe_] is one of the
spots on playing cards, dice, or dominoes. The allusion is to a game of
cards called “one-and-thirty”; thirty-two is a pip too many.

II, ii, 21-2. _the mother of the maydes_--a title properly applied to
the head of the maids of honour in a Royal household.

II, ii, 22. _mortifie_--there is a significant ambiguity to the word
Bellapert uses. It means “bring into subjection,” “render dead to the
world and the flesh;” it formerly had also a baleful meaning: “to
kill;” “to destroy the vitality, vigor, or activity of.”

II, ii, 32. _vanuable, to make you thus--valuable_ is used in its
generic sense of _value-able_, _of sufficient value_.

II, ii, 71. _turn’d in her varieties_--G., S. read: _trimm’d in her
varieties_--i. e., “decked in her varieties [varied aspects].” But
adherence to the Q. is possible, with the meaning, “fashioned in her
varieties.”

II, ii, 82. _walkes not vnder a weede_--i. e., “wears not a garment,”
“is not in existence.”

II, ii, 88. _Tissue_--a rich kind of cloth, often interwoven with gold
or silver. So again in II, ii, 175.

II, ii, 89. _a three-leg’d lord_--the meaning is that Young Novall
cannot independently “stand upon his own legs,” but requires the triple
support of himself, Liladam, and Aymer.

II, ii, 96. _musicke house_--a public hall or saloon for musical
performances.

II, ii, 99-100. _in the Galley foyst_, etc.--a Galley-foist was a state
barge, especially that of the Lord Mayor of London. This, however, can
hardly be the meaning of the word here, used as it is in connection
with _Bullion_, which were trunk-hose, puffed out at the upper part,
in several folds; and with _Quirpo_, a variant of _cuerpo_--i. e., _in
undress_. “Galley-foist” may be the name of some dress of the period,
so-called for its resemblance to the gaily bedecked Mayor’s-barge. But
it is not unlikely, as Mason suggests, that _The Galley-foist_ and _The
Bullion_ were the names of taverns of that day; or else of houses of
public resort for some kind of amusement.

II, ii, 104. _skip_--so in all texts. But Field has elsewhere (_Woman
is a Weathercock_, II, i.): “and then my lord ... casts a suit every
quarter, which I _slip_ into.” It is probable that the word was the
same in both passages,--though whether _skip_ or _slip_ I have no means
of determining.

II, ii, 119. _St Omers_--more properly, _St. Omer_, a town of northern
France. A College of Jesuits was located there, and the point of
Novall’s comparison is perhaps an allusion to the mean appearance of
Jesuit spies who would come from thence to England on some pretext,
such as to see their friends during the Christmas season.

II, ii, 122. _ly’n perdieu_--“to lie perdu” is properly a military
term for, “to be placed as a sentinel or outpost,” especially in an
exposed position. _Ly’n_ is one of the many obsolete forms of the past
participle of the verb “to lie.”

II, ii, 125. _tye my hand_--i. e., tie the ribbon-strings which
depended from the sleeve over the hand.

II, ii, 163. _slight neglect_--contemptuous disrespect.

II, ii, 174. _bile_--all editors after the Q. read _boil_. _Bile_ was
an old spelling for _boil_; but in the other sense, one of the “four
humours” of medieval physiology, the passage is perfectly clear, and
the figure perhaps even more effective.

II, ii, 186. _eager relish_--acrid taste. The figure is that the law in
itself is often like a sharp and bitter flavor, but that a good judge
will sweeten this.

II, ii, 250 _s. d._ _Drawes a Curtayne_--the curtain of the alcove or
back-stage, within which was placed the “treasure,” thus to be revealed.

II, ii, 298. _in which yours_--i. e., “because of the fact of her being
yours.”

II, ii, 301. _for poore and worthlesse I--I_ for _me_, like other
irregularities in pronominal inflection, was not infrequent in
Elizabethan times. Cf. Abbott, S. G., § 205.

II, ii, 326. _Curtius-like_--like Marcus Curtius, legendary hero of
ancient Rome. See Livy, vii, 6.

II, ii, _final s. d._ _while the Act is playing_--i. e., while the
interlude music is played, at the close of the Act.

III, i, 18. _relish_--a trace or tinge of some quality, a
suggestion.--In III, i, 20: _a flavor_; or, if read with the Q.’s
punctuation, a verb: _give a relish_. It appears preferable, however,
to take the passage as punctuated by G., S., which makes _relish_ a
noun.

III, i, 29. _take me with you_--understand me.

III, i, 37. _sudden_--adv. for _suddenly_. The _-ly_ suffix was
frequently omitted in Elizabethan times.

III, i, 45. _Such as are faire_, etc.--the connection goes back to
l. 42, Bellapert taking up again the thread of her remark which
Novall’s objection and her summary answer thereto had broken in upon.

III, i, 120. _Christian_--probably used here in the colloq. sense
of: _a human being_, as distinguished from a brute; a “decent” or
“respectable” person. Cf. Shakespeare, _Twelfth Night_, I, iii, 89:
“Methinks ... I have no more wit than a Christian, or an ordinary man
has.”

III, i, 122. _The entertaiment of your visitation_--i. e., the
entertainment which your visit received.

III, i, 123. _on_ [old spelling for _one_]--i. e., a visitation.

III, i, 126. _Muske-cat_--the civet-cat; applied as a term of contempt
to a fop, as being a person perfumed with musk.

III, i, 139. _there is now speaks to you_--G., S. omit _is_, at the
same time clearing the construction and securing a more regular metre.
The Q. reading, however, is perfectly possible, as an ellipsis, by
omission of the subject relative, for, _there is that now speaks to
you_ [i. e., _there is now speaking to you_], or even, by a change of
punctuation, _there is--now speaks to you_--, etc.

III, i, 148. _As Caesar, did he liue, could not except at_--see
Plutarch’s _Life of Julius Caesar_, Chapters 9 & 10, wherein it
is narrated how Caesar divorced his wife, Pompeia, when scandal
assailed her name, although he denied any knowledge as to her guilt;
“‘Because’ said he, ‘I would have the chastity of my wife clear even of
suspicion.’”

III, i, 148. _except at_--take exception at.

III, i, 159. _pointed_--all editors after the Q. read _painted_, an
absolutely unnecessary and unwarranted emendation. _Pointed_ means
“fitted or furnished with tagged points or laces;” “wearing points;”
“laced.” Cf. Maurice Hewlett’s novel, _The Queen’s Quair_, p. 83:
“saucy young men, trunked, puffed, pointed, trussed and doubleted.”
Huloet in his Dictionary (1552) has: “Poynted, or tyed with poynts,
_ligulatus_.”

III, i, 167. _This pretty rag_--i. e., the “clout” mentioned in II, ii,
123.

III, i, 173. _in spite of_--in scorn of, in defiance of.

III, i, 184. _thy_--so the Q. All later editors read _this_. It is not
impossible, of course, that Romont should begin an oath “By thy hand,”
and Beaumelle flash back at him “And sword,” transferring the _thy_
from herself to him. But Romont would be more likely to swear by his
own hand than by Beaumelle’s.

III, i, 188. _cast suburb whores_--prostitutes who had been cashiered
from service. Houses of ill-fame were customarily located in the
suburbs.

III, i, 191. _legion_--i. e., of evil spirits. Cf. _Mark_, v, 9.

III, i, 193. _horne-mad_--the word was originally applied to horned
beasts, in the sense: “enraged so as to horn any one;” hence of
persons: “stark mad,” “mad with rage,” “furious.” By word-play it
acquires its sense in the present passage. “mad with rage at having
been made a cuckold.”

III, i, 202. _yellow_--this color was regarded as a token or symbol of
jealousy.

III, i, 211. _Carted_--carried in a cart through the streets, by way of
punishment or public exposure (especially as the punishment of a bawd).

III, i, 261. _in distance_--within reach, in striking distance.

III, i, 331. _as it would tire--as_ appears to be used for _as if_; in
reality the _if_ is implied in the (conditional) subjunctive.--Abbott,
S. G., § 107.

III, i, 331. _a beadle_--it was one of the duties of a beadle to whip
petty offenders.

III, i, 352. _So I not heard them_--Abbott explains this construction,
not uncommon in the Elizabethan period, as an omission of the auxiliary
verb “do” (S. G. § 305). But here the main verb is _heard_, whereas,
according to his explanation, grammar would require _hear_. May not the
construction be better taken as a simple, though to our ears cumbrous,
inversion of, _So I heard them not_?

III, i, 366. _cause_--affair, business--so also in III, i, 377.

III, i, 388. _Calenture_--a disease incident to sailors within the
tropics; a burning fever.

III, i, 428-9. _flegme ... choller_--in the old physiologies the
predominance of the “humour, phlegm,” was held to cause constitutional
indolence or apathy,--the predominance of “choler” to cause
irascibility.

III, i, 432. _’em_--grammatical precision would require _him_, as is
substituted in M., f. In Field’s rapid, loose style, however, a change
of construction in mid-sentence is not improbable, and the Q. reading
may very well reproduce accurately what he wrote.

III, i, 441. _thou curious impertinent_--the epithet is from _The
Curious Impertinent_ of Cervantes, a story imbedded in _Don Quixote,
Part I_.

III, i, 463. _I not accuse_--cf. note on l. 354.

III, i, 467. _Ere liue--Ere I should live_ is required in full by
strict grammar, but Field’s verse is frequently elliptical. Gifford’s
emendation to _lived_ for the sake of grammatical regularity, which is
followed by all later editors, is unwarranted.

III, i, 467. _mens marginall fingers_--the figure is an allusion to
the ancient custom of placing an index hand in the margin of books,
to direct the reader’s attention to a striking passage. So does
Romont picture men’s fingers pointing to the story of Charalois as a
noteworthy and lamentable thing. Cf. IV, i, 56.

III, i, 469-470. _An Emperour put away his wife for touching Another
man._--The source of this allusion is not apparent. Can it be a
perversion in the mind of Field of the story of Caesar’s divorce of his
wife, to which Massinger has already referred above (l. 148)?

IV, i, 3. _a flaxe_--the flax wick of a lamp or candle.

IV, i, 3. _a red headed womans chamber_--Since early times red-haired
individuals have been supposed to emit an emanation having a powerful
sexually exciting influence. In the Romance countries, France and
Italy, this belief is universally diffused.--Iwan Block: _The Sexual
Life of our Time_--transl. by Eden Paul--p. 622.

Cf. also Gabrielle D’Annunzio: _Il Piacere_, p. 90:

  “‘Have you noticed the armpits of Madame Chrysoloras? Look!’”

  “The Duke di Beffi indicated a dancer, who had upon her brow, white
  as a marble of Luni, a firebrand of red tresses, like a priestess
  of Alma Tadema. Her bodice was fastened on the shoulders by mere
  ribbons, and there were revealed beneath the armpits two luxuriant
  tufts of red hair.

  “Bomminaco began to discourse upon the peculiar odour which
  red-haired women have.”

IV, i, 13. _Cell_--so in the Q. and all later texts. Yet the word is
utterly unsatisfactory to the sense of the passage; it should almost
certainly be _coil_--i. e., tumult, confusion, fuss, ado. Cf. Field in
_Amends for Ladies_, II, iv: “Here’s a coil with a lord and his sister.”

IV, i, 23. _a lace_--a trimming of lace.

IV, i, 27. _pickadille_--the expansive collar fashionable in the early
part of the seventeenth century.

IV, i, 27. _in puncto_--in point; i. e., in proper condition, in order.

IV, i, 32. _Iacobs staffe_--an instrument formerly used for measuring
the altitude of the sun; a cross-staff.

IV, i, 32. _Ephimerides_--a table showing the positions of a heavenly
body for a series of successive days.

IV, i, 39-40. _if he would but cut the coate according to the cloth
still_--“to cut one’s coat after one’s cloth” was: “to adapt one’s
self to circumstances;” “to measure expense by income.” The point of
its employment here is not plain; it is doubtful if anything were
very clear in Field’s own mind, who was merely trying to hit off an
epigrammatical phrase. Perhaps, “make the coat match the man.”

IV, i, 72. _Narcissus-like_--like Narcissus, in classic myth. See Ovid,
_Meta._, iii, 341-510.

IV, i, 72. _should_--G., f. read _shouldst_, but the breach of
agreement between subject and verb is to be explained by the attraction
of the verb to the third person by the interposed _Narcissus-like_;
just as four lines further on we find _shouldst_ for _should_, because
of the similar intrusion between subject and verb of (_but thy selfe
sweete Lord_).

IV, i, 92. _a Barber Surgeon_--formerly the barber was also a regular
practitioner in surgery and dentistry. Cf. Beaumont & Fletcher, _The
Knight of the Burning Pestle_, III, iv.

IV, i, 96. _ouerthrowne_--M., f. read _overflown_, i. e., become
excessive or inordinate; so full that the contents run over the
brim. The reading of the Q., however, is quite intelligible,--taking
_overthrown_ in the sense of _thrown too strongly_.

IV, i, 135. _Colbran_--more properly _Colbrand_ or _Collebrand_, a
wicked giant in the medieval romance of Guy of Warwick. He is the
champion of the invading King of Denmark, who challenges the English
King, Athelstan, to produce a knight who can vanquish Colbrand, or to
yield as his vassal. In this hour of need Guy appears, fights with the
giant, and kills him.

IV, i, 137. _hee’l make some of you smoake_,--i. e., “make some of you
_suffer_.” Cf. Beaumont & Fletcher, _The Knight of the Burning Pestle_,
I, ii, 136: “I’ll make some of ’em smoke for’t;” and Shakespeare,
_Titus Andronicus_, IV, iii, 111: “Or some of you shall smoke for it in
Rome.”

IV, i, 138. _a Consort_--“In the author’s age, the taverns were
infested with itinerant bands of musicians, each of which (jointly and
individually) was called a noise or _consort_: these were sometimes
invited to play for the company, but seem more frequently to have
thrust themselves, unasked, into it, with an offer of their services:
their intrusion was usually prefaced with, ‘By your leave, gentlemen,
will you hear any music?’”--Gifford.

IV, i, 145. _of_--formerly sometimes substituted, as here, for _on_ in
colloquial usage. So also _on_ for _of_, as in l. 148. Cf. also l. 182.

IV, i, 197-8. _’tis Fairies treasure Which but reueal’d brings on the
blabbers ruine._--To confide in any one about a fairy’s gift rendered
it void, according to popular tradition, and drew down the fairy
giver’s anger. In instance, see John Aubrey’s _Remains_ (Reprinted in
_Publications of the Folk-Lore Society_, vol. IV, p. 102): “Not far
from Sir Bennet Hoskyns, there was a labouring man, that rose up early
every day to go to worke; who for a good while many dayes together
found a nine-pence in the way that he went. His wife wondering how he
came by so much money, was afraid he gott it not honestlye; at last he
told her, and afterwards he never found any more.”

There are numerous literary allusions to this superstition: e. g.,
Shakespeare, _The Winter’s Tale_, III, iii, 127, ff.: “This is fairy
gold, boy; and ’twill prove so. Up with’t, keep it close.... We are
lucky, boy; and to be so still requires nothing but secrecy.”

And Field himself in _Woman is a Weathercock_, I, i:

  “I see you labour with some serious thing,
  And think (like fairy’s treasure) to reveal it,
  Will cause it vanish.”

IV, i, 210-1. _louers periury_, etc.--that Jove laughed at and
overlooked lovers’ perjuries was a familiar proverb. Cf. Massinger,
_The Parliament of Love_, C-G. 192 a: “Jupiter and Venus smile At
lovers’ perjuries;” and Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_, II, ii, 92:
“at lovers’ perjuries, They say, Jove laughs.” The saying goes back to
Ovid’s _Art of Love_, book I;--as Marlowe has translated it:

  “For Jove himself sits in the azure skies,
  And laughs below at lovers’ perjuries.”

IV, ii, 71. _On all aduantage take thy life_--i. e., “Taking every
advantage of you, kill you.”

IV, ii, 84. Such whose bloods wrongs, or wrong done to
_themselues_--the Q.’s regular omission of the possessive apostrophe
has in this instance confused later editors in their understanding of
the passage. We would write _blood’s_,--with the meaning: “Those whom
wrongs to kindred or to themselves,” etc.

IV, iii, 12. _so_--there is no direct antecedent, but one is easily
understandable from the general sense of what precedes; _to be
so_--i. e., “as you were in thankfulness to the General.”

IV, iv, 10. _it_--another case of a pronoun with antecedent merely
implied in the general sense of what precedes; _it_ = “the fact that I
am not worthy the looking on, but only,” etc.

IV, iv, 30. _such defence_--i. e., “the defence of such a one.” _Such_
= qualis.

IV, iv, 66. _To this_--i. e., to tears.

IV, iv, 70. _those fam’d matrones_--cf. Massinger in _The Virgin
Martyr_, C-G. 33 a:

  “You will rise up with reverence, and no more,
  As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember
  What the canonized Spartan ladies were,
  Which lying Greece so boasts of. Your own matrons,
  Your Roman dames, whose figures you yet keep
  As holy relics, in her history
  Will find a second urn: Gracchus’ Cornelia,
  Paulina, that in death desired to follow
  Her husband Seneca, nor Brutus’ Portia,
  That swallowed burning coals to overtake him,
  Though all their several worths were given to one,
  With this is to be mention’d.”

IV, iv, 112. _on it_--i. e., “on what you say.”

IV, iv, 156. _be_--“be” expresses more doubt than “is” after a verb of
_thinking_. Cf. Abbott, S. G., § 299.

V, i, 5. _lay me vp_--imprison me.

V, i, 7. _varlets_--the name given to city bailiffs or sergeants.
Perhaps here, however, it is applied merely as a term of abuse.

V, i, 9. _Innes of court man_--a member of one of the four Inns of
Court (The Inner Temple, The Middle Temple, Lincoln’s Inn, and Gray’s
Inn), legal societies which served for the Elizabethan the function
which our law-schools perform to-day. Overbury says of the Inns of
Court Man, in his _Characters_: “Hee is distinguished from a scholler
by a pair of silk-stockings, and a beaver hat, which make him contemn
a scholler as much as a scholler doth a school-master.... He is as far
behind a courtier in his fashion, as a scholler is behind him.... He
laughs at every man whose band sits not well, or that hath not a faire
shoo-tie, and he is ashamed to be seen in any mans company that weares
not his clothes well. His very essence he placeth in his outside....
You shall never see him melancholy, but when he wants a new suit, or
feares a sergeant....”

V, i, 13. _coming forth_--appearance in court, or from prison.

V, i, 28. _manchets_--small loaves or rolls of the finest wheaten
bread. There seems to have been a commonplace concerning the huge
quantities of bread devoured by tailors. Cf. l. 88 below, and Note.

V, i, 31. _leaue swordmen_--i. e., swordmen (swaggering ruffians who
claim the profession of arms) _on leave_. It is possible, however, that
_leaue_ is a misprint (by inversion of a letter) for _leane_ = hungry.

V, i, 83. _hangers_--not “short-swords”, as in l. 31, but here
“pendants”, perhaps a part of the hat-band hanging loose, or else loops
or straps on the swordbelt, often richly ornamented, from which the
sword was hung. Cf. Shakespeare, _Hamlet_, V, ii, 157-167.

V, i, 83. _Hell_--a place under a tailor’s shop-board, in which shreds
or pieces of cloth, cut off in the process of cutting clothes, are
thrown, and looked upon as perquisites. Cf. Overbury’s _Characters, A
Taylor_: “Hee differeth altogether from God; for with him the best
pieces are still marked out for damnation, and without hope of recovery
shall be cast down into hell.”

V, i, 88. _Our breakefasts famous for the buttred loaues_--Cf. above
l. 28, and Note; also Glapthorne’s _Wit in a Constable_, V, i:

         “as easily as a Taylor
  Would do six hot loaves in a morning fasting,
  And yet dine after.”

V, i, 90. _vse a conscience_--show or feel compunction; be
tender-hearted.

V, i, 91. _hall_--a house or building belonging to a guild or
fraternity of merchants or tradesmen. At such places the business
of the respective guilds was transacted; and in some instances they
served as the market-houses for the sale of the goods of the associated
members.

V, i, 97. _compleate Mounsieur_--perfect gentleman.

V, i, 102. _pantofle_--slipper; here used figuratively for: the
shoe-maker’s profession.

V, ii, 27. _a barbarous Sythian_--Cf. Purchas’ _Pilgrimage_ (ed. 1613,
p. 333): “They [The Scythians] cut off the noses of men, and imprinted
pictures in the flesh of women, whom they overcame: and generally
their customes of warre were bloudie: what man soever the Scythian
first taketh, he drinketh his bloud: he offereth to the King all the
heads of the men he hath slaine in battell: otherwise he may not share
in the spoile: the skinnes of their crownes flaid off, they hang at
their horse bridles: their skinnes they use to flay for napkins and
other uses, and some for cloathing.... These customes were generall to
the Scythians of Europe and Asia (for which cause _Scytharum facinora
patrare_, grew into a proverbe of immane crueltie, and their Land was
justly called Barbarous).”

V, ii, 40. _made no hornes at me_--to “make horns” at any one was the
common method of taunting one with having horns,--i. e., with being a
cuckold.

V, ii, 51. _made vp with_--set with the expression of.

V, ii, 102. _by pieces_--in part.

V, iii, 8.--Charmi’s speech is addressed to Charalois, as is that of Du
Croy which follows it.

V, iii, 18 ff.--M., f. insert _when_ after _that_ of l. 18. This is
probably the correct reading. It would be possible, however, to let
the line stand without alteration, if the _that_ of l. 20 be taken
as coordinate with the _that_ of l. 18, introducing a second clause
depending on _am sorry_ (instead of correlative with _so_ to introduce
a result-clause). With this reading, _left_ (l. 22) would be taken as
an ellipsis for _being left_; with the emended reading, for _was left_.
Though the construction is in doubt, the sense is easy.

V, iii, 22. _vndermine_--an object, _it_, is understood,--i. e., _the
building of my life_.

V, iii, 34. _her--its_ was rare in Elizabethan usage. Cf. Abbott,
S. G., §§ 228, 229.

V, iii, 46. _compassion of_--former obsolete construction for
“compassion for.” Cf. Shakespeare, _Henry VI, Part I_, IV, i, 56;
“Mov’d with compassion of my country’s wreck.”

V, iii, 59. _motion_--C., f. read _motion’s_,--an uncalled-for
emendation, since ellipsis of _is_ was not infrequent. Cf. Shakespeare,
_Henry V_, IV, i, 197: “’Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill
[is] upon his own head.”

V, iii, 93. _and yet the fault kept from me_--loose construction, not
easily parsed, though the sense is clear.

V, iii, 98. _As ... to vndergoe_--again a loose construction. It should
be, properly: _That ... he would undergo_, etc.

V, iii, 107-9. _like the fatall gold_, etc.--In this passage the two
leaders of the Gauls known to history by the same name appear to be
confounded--(1): Brennus, who sacked Rome in 390 B. C., and consented
to withdraw after receiving a large ransom of gold;--and (2): Brennus,
who led the irruption of the Gauls into Greece in the second century
B. C., and attempted to despoil Delphi of its treasure, but did not
succeed in doing so. The fact that their respective expeditions are
said to have borne an immediate sequel of disaster and death for both
alike, may be responsible for the dramatist’s mistake.

V, iii, 131. _homicide_--formerly, as here, = _murderer_.

V, iii, 139. _in way of_--in the manner of.

V, iii, 144. _the hate betweene his house and mine_--cf. III, i, 416.

V, iii, 166. _more presumptions_--C., f. read _mere presumptions_,
which is probably correct. An alternative possibility should be
noted, however: that _presumptions_ by mis-reading from the Ms. (or
by the mere inversion of a _u_) may be a mis-print for presumptious
(presumptuous) = _presumptive_, in which case _more_ would be retained,
with the passage to mean: “You must find other proofs to strengthen
these, and they must, moreover, be of a nature to give more reasonable
grounds for presumption.”

V, iii, 174-5.--The last two lines of Charalois’ speech are addressed
to his judges; what preceded them to Novall.

V, iii, 190. _bands_--the emendation _bawds_, proposed by Coxeter and
followed by all subsequent editors, seems almost surely correct. “Bawd”
prior to 1700 was a term applied to men as well as--and, indeed, more
frequently than--to women. Cf. Shakespeare, _Hamlet_, I, iii, 130.

V, iii, 190. _tooke_--where the common Elizabethan custom of dropping
the _-en_ inflectional ending of the past participle rendered a
confusion with the infinitive liable, the past tense of the verb was
used for the participle. Cf. Abbott, S. G., § 343.

V, iii, 193. _this matron_--i. e., Florimel.

V, iii, 205. _in Nouall_--i. e., “in the person of Novall.”

V, iii, 207. _Thy challenge now I answere_--this phrase would indicate
that Romont crosses swords with Pontalier, and after a moment of
fencing runs him through; instead of striking him unawares, as the
modern stage direction, “_Stabs Pontalier_,” would imply.

V, iii, 226. _these--i. e._, Aymer, Florimel, and Bellapert.

_Court. Song_, l. 3. first--i. e., “in the front part of,” to meet the
customers and be herself an attraction and an object of display, while
the husband remains “at tother end” (l. 8) of the store.

_Court. Song_, l. 4.--This is a most unduly long line. It seems
probable that, in the Ms. from which the play was printed, the three
phrases, “A faire wife,” “a kinde wife,” and “a sweet wife,” were
_three variant_ readings, which, by mistake, were _all_ incorporated in
the text. Any one of them used alone would give a perfectly normal line.




GLOSSARY


_affection_, bent, inclination, _penchant_. I, ii, 32.

_allow_, command, approve. IV, i, 9.

_answere_, correspond to. III, i, 82.

_arrests_, stoppages, delays. III, i, 43.

_author_, to be the author, of a statement; to state, declare, say. IV,
ii, 19.


_baffled_, disgraced, treated with contumely. IV, i, 112.

_balm_, an aromatic preparation for embalming the dead. II, i, 79.

_band_, a collar or ruff worn round the neck by man or woman. II, ii,
77; etc.

_banquerout_, early spelling of _bankrupt_, which was originally _banke
rota_ (see N. E. D. for variants under _bankrupt_), from Italian _banca
rotta_, of which _banqueroute_ is the French adaptation. The modern
spelling, _bankrupt_, with the second part of the word assimilated to
the equivalent Latin _ruptus_, as in _abrupt_, etc., first appears in
1543. I, i, 127; ii, 88.

_black_, a funereal drapery. II, i, 51; ii, 117.

_brabler_, a quarrelsome fellow; a brawler. III, i, 358.

_braue_, in loose sense of approbation, good, excellent, worthy, etc.
I, ii, 256; 292; etc.

_bumfiddles_, beats, thumps. IV, i, 140.


_cabinet_, a secret receptacle; a jewel-box. II, ii, 34.

_canniball_, a strong term of abuse for “blood-thirsty savage.” IV, iv,
185.

_Caroch_, coach. II, ii, 28; IV, ii, 95.

_case_, exterior; skin or hide of an animal, or garments--hence,
perhaps, _disguise_. V, i, 73.

_censure_, a judicial sentence. I, ii, 53.--in the sense of _sentence
to punishment_. II, ii, 166; 172.

_chalenge_, demand. V, ii, 88.

_change_, exchange. III, i, 117.--_chang’d_, I, i, 66.

_charges_, expenses. I, ii, 191.

_charitable_, benevolent, kindly, showing Christian charity. I, i, 117.

_circumstance_, the adjuncts of a fact which make it more or less
criminal. V, iii, 52.

_close_, close-fitting. IV, i, 124.

_cold_, unimpassioned, deliberate. V, ii, 86.

_coloured_, specious. III, i, 139.

_comely_, becoming, proper, decorous. III, i, 163.

_complement_, observing of ceremony in social relations; formal
civility, politeness. III, i, 439.

_conference_, subject of conversation. II, ii, 139.

_conscious_, inwardly sensible of wrong-doing. III, i, 353.--aware. V,
ii, 67.

_consists_, lies, has its place. III, i, 489.

_courtesie_, generosity, benevolence. V, iii, 73.

_Courtship_, courteous behavior, courtesy. III, i, 276; 439.

_credits_, reputations, good name. I, ii, 67.

_curiosity_, elegance of construction. II, ii, 67.

_curious_, careful, studious, solicitous. IV, i, 102.--made with art or
care; elaborately or beautifully wrought; fine; “nice”. _Cit. Song._
l. 5.


_dag_, a kind of heavy pistol or hand-gun. IV, i, 170 _s. d._

_debate_, strife, dissension, quarreling. III, i, 443.

_decent_, becoming, appropriate, fitting. I, ii, 77.

_defeatures_, defeats. I, ii, 177.

_demonstrauely_, in a manner that indicates clearly or plainly. IV, i,
55.

_deserued_, deserving. II, ii, 189.

_determine_, decree. II, ii, 172.

_detract_, disparage, traduce, speak evil of. I, ii, 271.

_dis-become_, misbecome, be unfitting for or unworthy of. V, iii, 47.

_discouery_, revelation, disclosure. III, i, 91; V, iii, 194.

_distaste_, estrangement, quarrel. IV, ii, 1.--offence. V, iii, 15.

_doubtfull_, fearful, apprehensive. IV, ii, 88.

_doubts_, apprehensions. III, i, 246.


_earth’d_, buried. II, i, 126.

_edify_, gain instruction; profit, in a spiritual sense. IV, i, 62.

_engag’d_, obliged, attached by gratitude. III, i, 242.

_engender_, copulate. III, i, 423.

_engine_, device, artifice, plot. III, i, 157.

_ensignes_, signs, tokens, characteristic marks. I, i, 144.

_entertaine_, accept. V, ii, 82.

_entertainment_, provision for the support of persons in
service--especially soldiers; pay, wages. I, ii, 188.

_ernest_, a sum of money paid as an installment to secure a contract.
V, i, 44.

_except against_, take exception against. IV, iii, 19.

_exhaust_, “draw out”; not as to-day, “use up completely.” II, i, 103.

_expression_, designation. V, i, 33.


_factor_, one who has the charge and manages the affairs of an estate;
a bailiff, land-steward. I, ii, 135. Cf. Shakespeare, _Henry IV, Part
I_, III, ii, 147: “Percy is but my factor,” etc.

_familiar_, well acquainted. I, i, 3.

_feares_, fears for. IV, ii, 89.

_fit_, punish; visit with a fit penalty. III, i, 253.

_forespake_, foretold, predicted. III, i, 251.

_fortunes_, happens, chances, occurs. V, ii, 16.


_gallimaufry_, contemptuous term for “a man of many accomplishments”; a
ridiculous medley; a hodge-podge. II, ii, 95.

_gamesters_, those addicted to amorous sport. III, i, 33.

_Geometrician_, one who measures the earth or land; a land-surveyor.
IV, i, 21.

_get_, beget. I, ii, 246.

_gigglet_, a lewd, wanton woman. III, i, 308.


_honestie_, honorable character, in a wide, general sense. To the
Elizabethan it especially connoted _fidelity_, _trustiness_. II, i, 115.

_horslock_, a shackle for a horse’s feet; hence applied to any hanging
lock; a padlock. IV, i, 78.

_humanity_, learning or literature concerned with human culture: a
term including the various branches of polite scholarship, as grammar,
rhetoric, poetry, and esp. the study of the ancient Latin and Greek
classics. II, i, 3.

_humour_, used here in the specific Jonsonian sense of a dominating
trait or mood. I, i, 124; ii, 31.


_imployments_, services (to a person). I, ii, 28.

_individually_, indivisibly, inseparably. II, ii, 316.

_Infanta_, the title properly applied to a daughter of the King and
Queen of Spain or Portugal. IV, i, 75.

_issues_, actions, deeds. II, ii, 198.


_kinde_, agreeable, pleasant, winsome. _Court. Song._ l. 4.


_Lard_, an obsolete form of _Lord_. IV, i, 2. Cf. Congreve, _Old
Bach._, II, iii: “Lard, Cousin, you talk oddly.”

_League_, probably used for _Leaguer_ (so emended by M., f.): a
military camp, especially one engaged in a siege. III, i, 175.

_learnd_, informed. III, i, 156.

_legge_, an obeisance made by drawing back one leg and bending the
other; a bow, scrape. III, i, 124.

_lively_, _living_. II, i, 46.--gay, full of life. II, ii,
76.--life-like. II, ii, 232.


_map_, embodiment, incarnation. II, ii, 136. Cf. H. Smith, _Sinf. Man’s
Search_, Six Sermons: “What were man if he were once left to himselfe?
A map of misery.”

_mome_, blockhead, dolt, fool. Court. Song, l. 13.

_monument_, sepulchre. I, ii, 212.

_moue_, urge, appeal to, make a request to. IV, iv, 11.


_next_, shortest, most convenient or direct. V, i, 37.

_nice_, petty, insignificant, trifling. III, i, 442.

_note_, show forth; demonstrate. III, i, 504.


_Obiect_, bring forward in opposition as an adverse reason, or by way
of accusation. IV, iv, 174.

_obnoxious_, liable, exposed, open, vulnerable. III, i, 354.

_obsequious_, prompt to serve or please, dutiful. V, iii, 90.

_obseruers_, those who show respect, deference, or dutiful attention;
obsequious followers. IV, iv, 43.

_Orphants_, obsolete corrupt form of _Orphans_. I, ii, 206. It survives
in dialect. Cf. James Whitcomb Riley’s _Little Orphant Annie_.

_overcome_, usually, “conquer”, “prevail”; but here, “out-do”,
“surpass”. I, i, 187.


_parts_, function, office, business, duty. Formerly used in the plural,
as here, though usually when referring to a number of persons. I, i, 9;
ii, 9; V. iii, 39.--qualities. IV, iv, 105.

_pious_, used in the arch. sense of _dutiful_. I, i, 101.

_practicke_, practical work or application; practice as opposed to
theory. II, i, 2.

_Praecipuce_ (mis-print for _precipice_), a precipitate or headlong
fall or descent, especially to a great depth. III, i, 464.

_presently_, immediately, quickly, promptly. IV, iv, 89.

_president_ [variant of _precedent_], example, instance, illustration.
V, iii, 226.

_preuent_, anticipate. I, i, 64; ii, 17; IV, ii, 32.

_Prouince_, duty, office, function; branch of the government. I, ii, 23.

_punctual_, punctilious, careful of detail. IV, i, 42.

_purl_, the pleat or fold of a ruff or band; a frill. II, ii, 77.


_quick_, alive. I, ii, 178.


_Ram-heads_, cuckolds. II, i, 31.

_recent_, fresh. II, i, 19.

_roaring_, riotous, bullying, hectoring. IV, i, 203.


_sawcily_, formerly a word of more serious reprobation than in modern
usage: “with presumptuous insolence.” I, ii, 106.

_scandall_, to spread scandal concerning; to defame. I, ii, 58.

_sect_, class, order. V, i, 79.

_seene_, experienced, versed. III, i, 268.

_seruant_, a professed lover; one who is devoted to the service of a
lady. II, ii, 40; etc.

_seruice_, the devotion of a lover. III, i, 81; IV, iv, 107.

_set forth_, adorned. IV, iv, 106.

_skills_, signifies, matters. I, ii, 286.

_snort_, snore. _Court. Song._ l. 12.

_soft_, tender-hearted, pitiful. II, i, 23.

_sooth’d_, assented to; humoured by agreement or concession. V, i, 55.

_Spittle_, hospital. III, i, 210. Cf. Shakespeare, _Henry V_, II, i,
78; V, i, 86.

_spleene_, caprice. I, i, 49.

_state_, estate. II, ii, 294; III, i, 24; IV, iv, 178; V, iii, 119.

_submisse_, submissive. I, i, 179.


_take_, charm, captivate. I, ii, 206.

_taske_, take to task; censure, reprove, chide, reprehend = _tax_. I,
ii, 64.

_temper_, temperateness, calmness of mind, self-restraint. V, iii, 40.

_theorique_, theory; theoretical knowledge, as opposed to practice. II,
i, 2.

_Thrift_, here used in the old sense of _prosperity_ or _success_. I,
i, 170.

_toyes_, whims, caprices, trifles. III, i, 442.


_vncivil_, unrefined, ill-bred, not polished. III, i, 490.

_vailes_, perquisites. V, i, 83.

_Visitation_, visit. II, ii, 310.


_wagtaile_, a term of familiarity and contempt; a wanton. II, ii, 7.

_where_, whereas. I, i, 71.

_wittoll_, a man who knows of his wife’s infidelity and submits to it;
a submissive cuckold. V, iii, 99.

_wreake_, vengeance, revenge. IV, iv, 183; V, ii, 43.




BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE


The Quarto, and the various modern editions and translations of _The
Fatal Dowry_ have already been recorded in the opening pages of the
INTRODUCTION. In the editions there noted of the collected works of
Massinger will be found all the plays which bear his name. (_Believe As
You List_ appears only in Cunningham’s edition of Gifford and in the
Mermaid Series’ _Massinger_.) Field’s two independent plays, _Woman is
a Weathercock_ (Q. 1612) and _Amends for Ladies_ (Q’s. 1618, 1639),
were reprinted by J. P. Collier, London, 1829. They are included in
Thomas White’s _Old English Dramas_, London, 1830; in W. C. Hazlitt’s
edition of Dodsley’s _Old English Plays_, London, Reeves and Turner,
1875; and in the Mermaid Series volume, _Nero and Other Plays_, with
an Introduction by A. W. Verity, London and New York, 1888. All other
extant dramas in which either Massinger or Field had a share may be
found in any edition of the collected works of Beaumont & Fletcher,
with the exception of _Sir John van Olden Barnavelt_, which appears in
vol. II of Bullen’s _Old Plays_, London, Weyman and Sons, 1883.

The stage version of _The Fatal Dowry_ by Sheil is printed in _French’s
Acting Edition_, vol. 9. Of the related plays, _The Lady’s Trial_ and
_The Fair Penitent_ may be found in all editions of the collected works
respectively of John Ford and Nicholas Rowe; _The Fair Penitent_ is
also published along with Rowe’s _Jane Shore_ in the Belles Lettres
Series, 1907. For _The Insolvent_, see _The Dramatic Works of Aaron
Hill, Esq._, 2 vols., 1760. DER GRAF VON CHAROLAIS _ein Trauerspiel von
Richard Beer-Hofmann_ is printed by S. Fischer, Berlin, 1906.

The following works have bearing upon the play or its authors:

  Beck, C.: _Phil. Massinger_, THE FATALL DOWRY. _Einleitung zu einer
  neuen Ausgabe_. Beyreuth, 1906.

  Boyle, R.: _Beaumont, Fletcher and Massinger_. Englische Studien,
  vol. V.

  CAMBRIDGE HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE, THE,--vol. VI. Cambridge,
  1910.

  Courthope, W. J.: _A History of English Poetry_, vol. IV. Macmillan,
  1903.

  Cumberland: His famous comparison of _The Fatal Dowry_ with _The
  Fair Penitent_, which originally appeared in _The Observer_, Nos.
  LXXVII-LXXIX, is reprinted in Gifford’s Edition of Massinger.

  DICTIONARY OF NATIONAL BIOGRAPHY--_Field_, by J. Knight; _Massinger_,
  by R. Boyle.

  Fleay, F. G.: _A Biographical Chronicle of the English Drama_
  (1559-1642). 2 vols. London. Reeves and Turner. 1891.

  _Annals of the Career of Nathaniel Field_. Englische Studien, vol.
  XIII.

  Genest, John: _Some Account of the English Stage from the Restoration
  in 1660 to 1830_. 10 vols. Bath, 1832.

  Gosse, E. W.: _The Jacobean Poets_. (Univ. Series). Scribner’s, 1894.

  Koeppel, E.: _Quelenstudien zu den Dramen George Chapman’s, Philip
  Massinger’s und John Ford’s_. Strassburg. 1897.

  Murray, John Tucker: _English Dramatic Companies_ (1558-1642). 2
  vols. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1910.

  Oliphant, E. F.: _The Works of Beaumont and Fletcher_. Englische
  Studien, vols. XIV-XVI. [This is not concerned with _The Fatal
  Dowry_, but contains inquiry into other collaboration work of
  Massinger and Field in plays of the period, with an analysis of the
  distinctive characteristics of Massinger (XIV, 71-6) and the same for
  Field (XV, 330-1).]

  Phelan, James: _On Philip Massinger_. Halle. 1878. Reprinted in
  _Anglia_, vol. II, 1879.

  Schelling, F. E.: _Elizabethan Drama_. 2 vols. Houghton, Mifflin &
  Co. 1908.

  Schwarz, F. H.: _Nicholas Rowe’s_ FAIR PENITENT. A Contribution to
  Literary Analysis. _With a Side-reference to Richard Beer-Hofmann’s_
  GRAF VON CHAROLAIS. Berne. 1907.

  Stephens, Sir Leslie: _Philip Massinger_. The Cornhill Magazine.
  Reprinted in _Hours in a Library_, Third Series. 1879.

  Swinburne, A. C.: _Philip Massinger_. The Fortnightly Review. July,
  1889.

  Thorndike, Ashley H.: _Tragedy_. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 1908.

  Ward, A. W.: _A History of English Dramatic Literature_. 3 vols.
  Macmillan. 1899.

  Wurzbach, W. von: _Philip Massinger_. Shakesp. Jahrb., vols. XXXV and
  XXXVI.




Footnotes: Preface and Introduction


[1] Fleay (_Chron. Eng. Dra._, I, 208) thinks that the otherwise lost
Massinger play, _The Judge_, licensed by Herbert in 1627, and included
in the list of Warburton’s collection, may have been _The Fatal Dowry_.
He declares, moreover, that “the decree in favor of creditors in I, ii
_a_ was a statute made in 1623,” and suggests that Massinger after this
date made over an independent play of Field’s, now lost. But I think
that any one who surveys in _The Fatal Dowry_ the respective hands of
its authors will incline strongly to the conviction that this drama is
the offspring of joint effort rather than the re-handling of one man’s
work by another. The decree to which Fleay has reference appears to be
that to be found in _Statutes of the Realm_, IV, ii, 1227-9, recorded
as 21º Jac I, 19. This is an act passed by the parliament of 1623-4;
it somewhat increases the stringency of the already-existing severe
laws in regard to bankrupts, but contains nothing which even faintly
suggests the decree in our play, by which the creditors are empowered
to withhold the corpse of their debtor from burial; and, indeed, it is
obviously impossible that a statute permitting any such practice could
have been passed in Christian England of the seventeenth century. The
fact is that this feature of the plot is taken direct from a classical
author (see under SOURCES), and it would be gratuitous to assume in
it a reference to contemporaneous legislation. As for the hypothesis
that _The Fatal Dowry_ and _The Judge_ are the same play, in the utter
absence of any supporting evidence it must be thrown out of court. This
sort of identification is a confirmed vice with Fleay. _The Judge_
is, moreover, listed as a comedy (see reprint of Warburton’s list in
Fleay’s _The Life and Work of Shakespeare_, p. 358).

[2] Two other arguments--both fallacious--have been advanced for a more
assured dating.

Formal prologues and epilogues came into fashion about 1620, and the
absence of such appendages in the case of _The Fatal Dowry_ has been
generally taken as evidence for its appearance before that year; but
for a Massinger production no such inference can be drawn--there is
no formal prologue or epilogue in any of his extant plays before _The
Emperor of the East_ and _Believe as You List_, which were licensed for
acting in 1631.

The suggestion (Fleay: _Chron. Eng. Dra._, I, p. 208) that Field took
the part of Florimel, and that the mention of her age as thirty-two
years (II, ii, 17) has reference to his own age at the time the play
was produced (thus fixing the date: 1619), is an idea so far-fetched
and fantastic that it is amazing to find it quoted with perfect gravity
by Ward (_Hist. Eng. Dra. Lit._, III, 39). That Field, second only to
Burbage among the actors of his time, should have played the petty role
of Florimel is a ridiculous supposition. It is strange that anyone who
considered references of this sort a legitimate clue did not build
rather upon the statement (II, i, 13) that Charalois was twenty-eight.
But such grounds for theorizing are utterly unsubstantial; there is no
earthly warrant for identifying the age of an author’s creation with
the age of the author himself.

[3] I would not, however, think it very improbable that Field might
have engaged in the composition of _The Fatal Dowry_ immediately after
his retirement, when the ties with his old profession were, perhaps,
not yet altogether broken.

[4] On a careful inspection of the entire dramatic output of Massinger,
both unaided work and plays done in collaboration, I have found worthy
of record parallels to passages in _The Fatal Dowry_ to the number of:
24, in _The Unnatural Combat_, 14 in the Massinger share (about ⅗) of
_The Virgin Martyr_, 18 in _The Renegado_, 11 in _The Duke of Milan_,
10 in _The Guardian_, and in none of the rest as many as 8.--But
Massinger’s undoubted share (⅓) of _The Little French Lawyer_ yields 6;
⅖ of _The Double Marriage_, 6; ⅖ of _The Spanish Curate_, 6; ⅖ of _Sir
John van Olden Barnavelt_, 4.

[5] _E. g._, I, i (Massinger) with its grave rhetoric uniformly
sustained, and, in immediate succession, II, i (Decker), a medley of
coarse buffoonery and tender and beautiful verse.

[6] As witness _The False One_. Here Massinger seems to have projected
a stately historical drama of war and factional intrigue, with a
conception of Cleopatra as the Great Queen, more a Semiramis or a
Zenobia than “the serpent of old Nile,” and so treats his subject in
the first and last Acts; while Fletcher “assists” him by filling the
middle section of the play with scenes theatrically effective but
leading nowhere, and in them makes the heroine the traditional “gipsy”
Cleopatra.

[7] The only other modern attempt to apportion the play is that of
C. Beck (_The Fatal Dowry_, Friedrich-Alexander Univ. thesis, 1906,
pp. 89-94). He assigns Massinger everything except the prose passages
of II, ii and IV, i, and perhaps II, i, 93-109. His _a priori_ theory
of distribution seems to be that all portions of the play which he
deems of worth must be Massinger’s. It is difficult to speak of Beck’s
monograph with sufficiently scant respect.

[8] References to the plays of Massinger are either by page and column
of the Cunningham-Gifford edition of his works (designated C-G.), or,
in the case of plays in the Beaumont & Fletcher _corpus_ in which he or
Field collaborated, by volume and page of the Dyce edition (designated
_D._). Field’s two independent comedies are referred to by page of
the Mermaid Series volume which contains them: _Nero and Other Plays_
(designated _M._).

[9] The figures for the speech-ending test for each scene will be found
in the table at the end of this section, and are not given in the
course of the detailed examination of the play, save in the case of one
passage, where the ambiguity of their testimony is noted. In all other
Scenes they merely corroborate the evidence of the other tests.

[10] This is all the more rampant in that it is suddenly called back
into activity after its period of obscuration while she yielded herself
to a cynical, immoral opportunism, and is now brought, by a fearful
shock, to confront higher ethical values and real manhood. For this
time she is given not a Novall but a Charalois to idealize.

[11] See the figure of Captain Pouts in _Woman is a Weathercock_. He
might easily have been made a mere _miles gloriosus_; instead he is a
real man,--coarse, revengeful, dissolute, quarrelsome, hectoring--no
doubt at heart a coward, but not more absurdly so in the face of his
pretensions than many of his type in actual life. For characters
clearly visualized in a few simple strokes, may be noted in the same
play Lady Ninny, Lucida, and, apart from one speech (M. 356-7) out of
character obviously for comic effect, Kate; in _Amends for Ladies_,
Ingen. Examples of Field’s power in more idealistic work may be found
in _The Knight of Malta_ in the delineation of Montferrat’s passion (I,
i) and in the scene between Miranda and Oriana (V, i).

[12] Apparently _The Fatal Dowry_ was not performed every day.

[13] During the run of this play one Warren, who was Powell’s dresser,
claimed a right of lying for his master and performing the dead part
of Lothario--about the middle of the scene Powell called for Warren;
who as loudly replied from the stage, “Here Sir”--Powell (who was
ignorant of the part his man was doing) repeated without loss of time,
“Come here this moment you Son of a Whore or I’ll break all the bones
in your skin”--Warren knew his hasty temper, and therefore without any
reply jumped up with all his sables about him, which unfortunately were
tied to the handles of the bier and dragged after him--but this was
not all--the laugh and roar began in the audience and frightened poor
Warren so much that with the bier at his tail he threw down Calista and
overwhelmed her, with the table, lamp, books, bones, &c.--he tugged
till he broke off his trammels and made his escape, and the play at
once ended with immoderate fits of laughter--Betterton would not suffer
The Fair Penitent to be played again, till poor Warren’s misconduct
was somewhat forgotten--this story was told to Chetwood by Bowman
[Sciolto]--(GENEST, II, 281-2).

[14] This, of course, may require the substitution of a capital for
a small letter, as when a mid-line word of the Quarto becomes in the
re-alignment the first word of the verse.




Footnotes: the Play


[Dramatis Personae]

G. and S. omit _Officers_, and add those roles which are enclosed in
brackets.

They add explanations of each character, also changing the order. For
_Gaoler_, S. reads _Gaolers_.

Baumont--M., f spell _Beaumont_.

C. & M. add after the list of _Dramatis Personae: The Scene_, Dijon
_in_ Burgundy.


[Act I, Scene i]

10 _As--That_ (C., M.

12, 16, etc. _then_--modernized to _than_ throughout by all later eds.

13, end s. d. _Gives him his purse_ (G., S.

19 _your--him_ (G., S.

33 _This such--This is such_ (S.

34 .--? (C., f.

45 _summes--sum_ (C., M.

46 and 47 _Dare ... oportunity?_--printed as one line in Q.

47, end s. d.: _They salute him as they pass by_ (G., S.

56, after _No_--, (C., f.

56 _’em--them_ (G., S.

70 _and in that--and, in that,_ (C., f.

71 _where--whereas_ (C, M.

90 _great men--men great_ (C., f.

92 and 93 _And ... suytor?_--printed as one line in Q.

103 _’Tis well._--G. & S. assign to _Char._ and follow with s. d.:
_Tenders his petition._ The change is uncalled for.

103 s. d., after Nouall--G. & S. insert _Advocates_.

103 and 104 _You ... againe._--printed as one line in Q.

104 _Offer’t--Offer it_ (M., f.

110 end s. d. _Aside to Cred._ (G., S.

114 _I pray heare em.--Pray hear them._ (G.--_I pray hear them._ (S.

114 _Tis--It is_ (G.

116 ;--M., f. omit.

123 _Armors--Armour_ (C., M., G.

127 _banquerout_--here and elsewhere by later eds. always _bankrupt_.

133 _Sir_--assigned to _Char._ by G., who adds s. d.: _Tenders his
petition._

136 and 137 _Yes ... hereby_--printed as one line in Q.

137 _hereby--whereby_ (M., G.

139 _You are--You’re_ (C., M.

139, after _so._--? (C., M.--! (G., S.

139 s. d.--The exit of Novall is placed earlier, at l. 136, by G. & S.

145 G. & S. omit s. d.

149, after _this_,--s. d.; _Beats him_ (G.--_Kicks him_ (S.

154 and 155 _Are ... then_--printed as one line in Q.

155, after _then_.--s. d.: _Kicks them_ (C., f.

157 _haue--hear_ (M.

159 _from_--omitted by C., f.

162, after _Cuckolds_--, (C., M--; (G., S.

162 _ne’er--never_ (M.

162 _prayd_--pray (G.

166 _To--T’_ (M.

168 _forhead--foreheads_ (G.

171 _then_--this form retained in C.

171 s. d. _Creditor--Creditors_ (G., S.

195 _you are--you’re_ (C., M.


[Act I, Scene ii]

first s. d., _3 Presidents--Presidents,... three Creditors_ (G., S.

1 _Lordship’s seated. May--lordships seated, may_ (G., S.

2 and 3 _prosperous ... Burgundy_.--printed as a line in Q.

7, after _resigne_--; (M., f.

13 _President--precedent_ (C., f.

13 _President they--precedent that they_ (C., M.

15 _we are--we’re_ (C., M.

35 _the--th’_ (C., M.

50 _And--I_ (G., S.

51, end --s. d.: _To Nov. sen._ (G., S.

60 _With--Which_ (C., M., G.

64 _taske--tax_ (M.

66 _become--became_ (M., f.

76 _find--finds_ (G., S.

82 and 83 _How ... Court?_--printed as one line in Q.

85 and 86 _I hope ... Lord--_--printed as one line in Q.

91, after _you_ --G. & S. insert, _sir_,

93, after _Why_ --, (C., f.

106 _tell you--tell thee_ (G.

107 _I am--I’m_ (C., M.

115 _ere--ever_ (C., M., G.

125 _purpose--purposes_ (G., S.

145, end --s. d.: _Aside to_ Charalois (G., S.

146 C., f. insert , after _counsayle_ and omit , after _it_.

180 _proud_--S. omits.

185 _enemies_--enemy’s (C., f.

186-’8 Lines in Q. are: _In ... prison._ | _Twas ... prodigall._ | _He
... Army._

187 _frô--from_ (C., f.

189 _Sufficent? My Lord,--Sufficient, my Lord?_ (C., f. G. & S. have
_lords_.

194 _They are--They’re_ (M., f.

195 _’Tis--It is_ (G., S.

201 _right_--See Notes; after _or_ --G. inserts _wish_ in brackets,
which S. accepts in text.

217 _th’ incounter--the incounter_ (C., f.

217, after _cold_--, (G., S.--a plausible but unnecessary emendation.

223 _not be--be or not_ (G.--_or not be_ (S.

234 _Lords--cords_ (C., f.

234 _a--in_ (G., S.

234 _’em--them_ (G., S.

243 _n_ in _tongue_ inverted in Q.

244 _u_ in _reuenge_ inverted in Q.

246 _never--ever_ (C., M.

247 _n_ in _answer_ inverted in Q.

After 255, s. d.: C. & M. substitute _Charalois_ for _Charmi_; G. & S.
insert _Charalois_ before _Charmi_.

264 and 265 _You ... fit_--printed as one line in Q.

266 _’tas--’t has_ (C., M., S.; _’t’as_ (G.

279 and 280 _Am ... request?_--printed as one line in Q.

288 and 289 _I follow you_--Baumont--printed as one line in Q.

290 _th’_--the (G., S.

295 and 296 _Fie ... I?_--printed as one line in Q.

296 _There is--There’s_ (G., S.


[Act II, Scene i]

2 _m_ in _iudgement_ inverted in Q.

13 _sits--sit_ (C., f.

13 and 14 _Twenty eight ... old_--printed as one line in Q.

18 _then’s_--than his (M.

25 _he--they_ (C., M., G.

28 _their--the_ (G., S.

28 _was--were_ (G., S.

40 G. & S. insert _The_ at beginning of line.

43, after _funerall_.--_?_ (G., S.

44 and 45 G. & S. punctuate with . at end of 44 and , at end of 45. The
emendation is plausible, even probable, but not warranted by necessity.

45 and 46 G. & S. omit s. d., _Recorders Musique_,

46 _interd--interr’d_ (M.--_enter’d_ (G., S. See Notes.

After 47, s. d.--G. & S. render: _Solemn music. Enter the Funeral
Procession. The Coffin borne by four, preceeded by a Priest._ Captains,
Lieutenants, Ensigns, _and_ Soldiers; Mourners, Scutcheons _&c., and
very good order_. Romont _and_ Charalois, _followed by the_ Gaolers
_and_ Officers, _with_ Creditors, _meet it_.

After 53 G. & S. insert s. d.: _To the Bearers, who set down the
Coffin_.

After 64 G. & S. insert s. d.: _To the Soldiers_.

75, after _What_ --! (C., f.

93 _Would they not so?--Would they so?_ (C., M., G.--_Would they? Not
so._ (S. See Notes.

94, 95, and 96 Lines in Q.: _Wee’ll ... then_: | _No ... Rogues._ |
_Till ... damn’d._ | _Damn’d ... ha._

94 _’em--them_ (G., S.

95 _Rogues--rogue_ (S.

97 _weel’d--we would_ (M., f.

98 _Y’are--Ye’re_ (C., M.--_You are_ (G., S.

100 _shee--ye_ (M., f. The emendation is probably correct.

100, after rogues.--? (G., S.

104 _yee, ye’are--you, you’re_ (C., M., G.

105 _2 Cred.--1 Cred._ (M., probably misprint.

106 _They have--They’ve_ (C., M.

106 _We have--We’ve_ (C., f.

108 _We haue--we’ve_ (M.

111 _rights--right_ (M.

132 _both heere--here both_ (M.

134 s. d.: _Song. Musicke._--i. e. the First Song, on page
145.--introduced here in text by all editors save Gifford and Coleridge.

135 _’em--them_ (G., S.

137, after _were --at_ inserted by C., f.

137 _Saylor_--misprint for _Iaylor_,--emended by C., f.

143 _Turnes--Turn_ (M., f.


[Act II, Scene ii]

6 _eene--even_ (G., S.

12 _eene--even_ (G., S.

17 _serue--served_ (G., S. See Notes.

18 _Peepe--pip_ (M., f.

20 _ith’--in the_ (G., S.

22 _em--them_ G., S.

37 _Vd’d--Uds_--(M., f.

40 _can’t--can it_ (M., f.

48 _ith’--in the_ (G., S.

49 _please--pleases_ (C., M., G.

55 _Ile--I will_ (G., S.

55 _i’th--in the_ (M., f.

59 _your--you_ (M. (in corrigenda at end of vol. 4), f. A correct
emendation.

60 _loue? the lesse neare you.--love the less near you?_ (M., f.

63 _Humpe--Hum_ (C., M.; _Humph_ (G., S.

64, after _shoulder_, --C. & M. insert _and_.

67 Nou.--C., f. affix Junior throughout.

71 _turn’d--trimm’d_ (G., S. Emend. sug. by M.

78 _discipline falne_) _out--discipline, fallen out_ (C., f.

81 _Lord:_ Per se, _Lord--lord_ per se, _lord_! (G., S.

94 _’em--them_ (G., S.

95 _taught--caught_ (M., f.

98 _’em--them_ (G., S.

99 _i’th--in the_ (G., S.

100 _Quirpo_--thus C. & G.; M. & S. read _Querpo_.

104 _skip_--See Notes.

105 _liue to eate_--for _liue_, G. reads _flatters_; S reads _lie_,
which is probably right.

112 _Mrs.--Must_ (C., M.

122 _i’th_--in the (G., S.

125 end--s. d.: _Nov. jun. kisses her hand._ (G., S.

128 after _recant_,--s. d.: _Kisses her_ (G,. S.

131 _Cant._--i. e. the Second Song, on page 145.--introduced here in
text by all editors save Gifford and Coleridge.

144 _Th’ art--Thou art_ (G., S.

153 _teares_--thus C. & M.;--G. & S. read _fears_, which seems a fitter
word here.

153 s. d.--G. & S. read, _Aside and exit_.

159 _affected_--affectedly (S.

159, after _you_--C., M., & G. insert _will_.

161 _yee--you_ (C., f.

164 _opportunity--opportunely_ (M., f. The emendation is probably
correct.

165 _Hum hum_--omitted by C., M., & G.

172, after _me_ --C. & M. insert _to_.

174 _bile--boil_ (C., f. See Notes.

179 _breath--breath’d_ (M., f.

193 _graue--brave_ (M., f.

194 and 195 _My Lord ... see_,--printed as one line in Q.

198, after _issues_--M., f. omit ,. A correct emendation.

205 _lsoule-esse_--misprint for _soul-less_--corrected by C., f.

211 _’em--them_ (G., S.

215 _friends--friend_ (M., f.

219 _is--it_ (C., f.

219 s. d., _Seruant--Beaumont_ (G., S.

228 _man--Men_ (C., M.

242 _ha’--have_ (C., f.

250 s. d.: _Drawes a Curtayne._--G. & S. add, _and discovers a table
with money and jewels upon it_.

266 _not--no_ (G.

269 s. d.--G. & S. omit _loaden with mony_.

270 _Enfranchist--Enfranchise_ (C.

270, after _him_--G. & S. insert _to_.

277 and 278 Lines in Q.: _That ... for._ | _One ... pleaders._ |
_Honord Rochfort._

279 _bushes, cal’d--blushes, scald_ (C., G., S.--_blushes scald_ (M.

281, end . --, (G., S.

282, before _assure_--C., M., & G. insert _I_.

284 s. d. placed by G. & S. _before_ instead of _after_ line.

285, after _see_--: (M., f.

285 _her education,--her education. Beaumelle_ (C.; & _for education
Beaumelle_ (M., these editors taking _Beau._ in Q. s. d. to be in text!

286 First _l_ in _Followes_ almost invisible in Q.

289 _take her--take her, take_ (G.

296 _participate--precipitate_ (C., f.

301 _I--me_ (C., f.

303 _know_--its _n_ is broken in the Q.

308, end--G. & S. s. d.: _Aside._

309 _met--meet_ (G., S.

310. Beau. This might be either Beaumelle or Beaumont. The Q. generally
spells the latter _Baumont_, but the present speech, none the less,
probably belongs to him, and is so assigned by C., f.

315 _yet these eares--yet these tears_ (C.--_let these tears_ (M., f.
The latter emendation is correct.

319 --M., f. punctuate: _Breath marry breath, and kisses mingle souls._

330 _Mistresse_--G. & S. insert s. d.: _As Beaumelle is going out._

336 1st. _Ile--I will_ (G., S.

346 _you haue--you’ve_ (C., M.

349 _’em--them_ (G., S.

350 G. & S. omit the third _ha_.

After 354 G. omits s. d., _Hoboyes_.


[Act III, Scene i]

3 _spoke--spoken_ (G., S.

3 and 4 _Good ... onely_.--printed as one line in Q.

9, end --; (C., f.

13, end . --omitted by M., f.

19, end --. (C., M.--, (G., S. The latter emendation seems preferable.

22, end --: (C., f.

24 _old_--M. omits.

37 and 38 _But ... Bellapert._--printed as one line in Q.

49, after _onely_----(C., f.

53 and 54 _Hows ... woman?_--printed as one line in Q.

56, after _qu_--C., f. insert s. d.: _Going._

61 _know--now_ (C., f. A correct emendation.

66, after _couch_ --G. suggests to insert _there_ in
brackets,--accepted by S.

74 _reuerence to this likening--reference to his liking_ (M., f. The
emendation appears necessary.

88, after _to_--G. inserts s. d.: _They court._

88 _Enter Romont and Florimell--Enter Romont and Florimell behind_
(G., S

88 _tis--it is_ (G., S.

91 _but due--but the due_ (G., S.

99, after _opportunity_ .--? (G., S.

99 and 100 The three speeches composing these two lines are printed in
Q. severally in three lines.

101, after Rom.--G. & S. insert s. d.: _Comes forward._

111 _makes--make_ (G., S.

116 [_thee_]--so all later editors. The word in the Q. is
illegible,--possibly _yee_.

117 _Thou wouldst--Thou’dst_ (C., f.

123 _on_--i. e., _one_; c. f. line 118. But C. keeps _on_.

124 and 125 _Vse ... other._--printed as one line in Q.

127 _for--as_ (M. in Corrigenda, vol. 4, p. 379, where are supplied ll.
126-130, which are omitted in his text.

139 _is_--G. & S. omit. See Notes.

150 and 151 _They ... otherwise._--printed as one line in Q.

159 _pointed--painted_ (C., f. See Notes.

172, after _And_--G. suggests to insert _then_ in brackets; accepted by
S.

175 _League--Leaguer_ (M., f.

180 _Deceyued--Delivered_ (C., f.

184 _thy--this_ (C., f. See Notes.

185 _twill--it will_ (G., S.

186 _You are--You’re_ (C., M.

203 _that--this_ (G., S.

204 _You haue--You’ve_ (C., M.

221 _so indeed_--C. & M. omit _so; so--indeed_, (G., S.--The Q. reading
is preferable.

222 and 223 _Women ... world._--printed as one line in Q.

223, after _world_.--G. & S. s. d.: _Aside._

231, after _inclin’d_--, (C., f.

235 s. d.--in G. & S.: _Enter_ Rochfort, _speaking to a servant within_.

241 and 242 _Your ... me?_--printed as one line in Q.

250 s. d.--in G. & S.: _Enter_ Beaumelle _and_ Bellapert, _behind_.

254 _turne--turn’d_ (M.

259, end .--_?_ (S., probably misprint for _!_

260 _This in my daughter?_--S. reads: _This is my daughter!_

260 and 261. Lines in Q.: _This ... her._ | _Now begin._ | _The ...
distance._

262 Before Beaumelle’s speech G. & S. insert s. d.: _Comes forward._

267 Rom. _A weak excuse._--G. & S. assign to Beau. with the lines which
follow. The change is without warrant and makes no improvement on Q
reading.

272, after _sport_--C. & M. insert s. d.: _Aside._

272 _Reproue_--Reproved (M., f.

278 and 279 _Does ... this?_--printed as one line in Q.

300 _the--his_ (S.

316 _you are--you’re_ (C., M.

318 s. d.--G. & S. read: _Aside to them, and exit._

322 _Now the fashion--The fashion now_ (G., S.

324 _Rogues_ in Q. begins the succeeding line.

328 _shall--should_ (G., S.

334 _grown--grow_ (G., S.

334 and 335 _Take ... you._--printed as one line in Q.

335 _Gods--Gads_ (C., M., G.

339 and 340 _Will ... disgrace?_--printed as one line in Q.

342 _I am--I’m_ (C., f.

350 _reflects--reflect_ (G., S.

352 _’em--them_ (C., f.

352 _beate--bait_ (M.

354 ,--omitted by C., f.,--a probably correct emendation.

356 _detect--defect_ (C., f.,--a correct emendation.

356 _right--rightly_ (M., f.,--an unnecessary emendation for the sense,
but probably correct, as it improves the metre.

357 and 358 --the ( )’s are omitted by M., f.

372 _a_--C. & M. omit.

373 _They are--They’re_ (C., M.

395, end--. (C., f.

396 _Ile--I will_ (G.

398 _Hump--Hum_ (C., f.

403 _you_--C., f. make obvious correction to _your_.

405 _whatsoeuer--whatsoe’er_ (M., f.

409, after _with_ . --_?_ (G., S.

410 _heare_--G. & S. read _heard_. The final _e_ is blurred in Q., but
certainly _e_, not _d_.

412 and 413 _Why ... possibility_--printed as one line in Q.

416 _u_ in _your_ inverted in Q.

417 _my_--G. & S. omit.

419 _Tye--tied_ (G.

432 _’em--him_ (M., f. See Notes.

434 _yee--you_ (C., f.

434 _eene--even_ (G., S.

436 _ha--have_ (M., f.

460 _my--thy_ (C., f.--The emendation is probably correct.

461 _I administer--I did administer_ (M., f. The Ms. reading may have
been: _administer’d_.

464 _Praecipuce--precipice_ (C., f.

467 _liue--lived_ (G., S. See Notes.

471 _Puffe--Phoh_ (C., M., G.

473 _Bleed--Blood_ (C., M.

482 _this: sir,--this, sir!_ (C., G., S.--_this, sir?_ (M.

483 _Thou art--Thou’rt_ (C., M.

484 _thou art--thou’rt_ (C., M.


[Act IV, Scene i]

_Enter Nouall_, etc.--G. & S. introduce the scene with the following
variant s. d., also omitting s. d. of lines 5-8 of Q.: Noval _junior
discovered seated before a looking-glass, with a Barber and_ Perfumer
_dressing his hair, while a Tailor adjusts a new suit which he wears._
Liladam, Aymer, _and_ a Page _attending_.

13 _Cell_--See Notes.

14 _will--wit_ (C., f. The emendation is probably correct.

19, end--G. & S. insert s. d.: _Aside_, as also after the speeches of
_Page_ ending lines, 25, 36, 40, 62, 66, and 70.

26 _haire breadth’s--hair’s breadth’s_ (C., M., G.--_hair’s breadth_ (S.

29 _’em--them_ (G., S.

30, after _Lordship_--_;_ (C., f.

34 _t’ee--t’ye_ (C., f.

36 _’em--them_ (G., S.

39 _I--Ay_ (G., S.

41 _misters--mistress’s_ (C., M.--_mistress’_ (G., S.

48 _a--O_ (C., M.--_o’_ (G., S.

59 after _then--a_ inserted by C., f.

66 _a--the_ (G.

67 _a--o_ (G., S.

71, after _Flatters,--!_ (G., S.

72 _should--shouldst_ (G., S.

74 _forme--form_ (C., f.

76 _shouldst--should_ (C., f. See Note on l. 72.

77 _oth’--o’ the_ (G., S.

80 _i’th--in the_ (G., S.

84 _pown’d--pounded_ (M.

86 _w’ee--with you_ (C., M.--_wi’ ye_ (G., S.

86 _not take it well--take it not well_ (C., M.

88 _d’ee--d’ye_ (C., f.

90 _ne’re--never_ (M., f.

91 and 92 _Art ... Surgeon?_--printed as one line in Q.

94 _Humph--Hum_ (G., S.

95 _’em--them_ (G., S.

96 _ouer throwne_--overflown (M., f. See Notes.

100 _Thou’ idst--Thou’ldst_ (C., f.

102, _end_ .--omitted by C., f.

103 G. makes _Trim_ last word of line 102, and lengthens _’twere_ to
_It were_.

110 _towne talkes--Town-Talk_ (C., M.

110, after _beleeue_--G. & S. insert _it_.

111 _you are--you’re_ C., M.

116 _Sent_--i. e. _Scent_; so all later editors.

123 _ha’--have_ (G., S.

125 _I am--I’m_ (C., M.

131 and 132 _Farewell ... you._--printed as one line in Q.

133 _louing--living_ (G., S.

137 _d’ee--d’ye_ (C., f.

138 _D’ee--D’ye_ (C., M.--_Do you_ (G., S.

139 In Q., _For_ is last word of line 138.

139 _ya’re--you’re_ (G., S.

145 _of--o’_ (C., f.

147 _arme--aim_ (M., f.

150, end--G. & S. insert s. d.: _Going._

158 _’em--them_ (G., S.

161 _And doore’s--And your door’s_ (G., S.

162-164 --printed as two lines in Q.: _But ... do_ | _Beseach ...
circumstance._

163 --this line is omitted in M.

168 _Tell you why sir--Tell you? why sir?_ (C., M.--_Tell you! why,
sir._ G., S.

171. s. d. _dag.--dagger_ (C., M.

174 _I am--I’m_ (C., M.

178 _wrongs--wooing_ (M., f. Perhaps the Ms. reading was _wooings_.

180 and 181 _But ... assurance?_--printed as one line in Q.

188, after _see_ ,--omitted by G. & S.

189, end G. & S. insert s. d.: _Reading_.

194, after _So_--, (C., M.--_!_ (G., S.

198 _blabbers, ruine--blabber’s ruin_ (M., f. The emendation is
plausible, but not absolutely required.

202, s. d. _Exit_--C., f. place at end of line 200, its obviously
correct position, as would undoubtedly Q., but for insufficient margin
in the page at this point.

203 G. & S. give s. d.: _Enter_ Bellapert, _hastily_.

204 _Coach--caroch_ (G., S.

205 _D’ee--D’ye_ (C., M.--_Do you_ (G., S.

211 _loue--Jove_ (C., f.


[Act IV, Scene ii]

6 _on_--omitted by C., M.

9 , following _something_ transferred to follow _else_ by C., f.

31 _of it--of’t_ (G., S.

32 and 33 _He ... him._--printed as one line in Q.

33, s. d.--G. & S. read: _Enter_ Aymer, _speaking to one within_.

45, after _ayre._--G. & S. insert s. d.: _To the_ Musicians _within_.

48 _consent--content_ (C., f--a correct emendation.

48 _Y’are--You are_ (G., S.

48, end--G. & S. insert s. d.: _To the_ Musicians.

Before 49 --S. inserts s. d.: _Aside._

After 50, s. d.: _Song_--i. e. the _Cittizens Song of the Courtier_, on
page 146.--introduced here in text by Cunningham and S.

52, end--C. & M. punctuate with--; G. & S. with ..

54, after _thanks_--G. & S. insert s. d.: _Aside._

58, end--G. & S. insert s. d.: _Aside._

62 _Pray sing--Pray you sing_ (G.

s. d. after 62, _Song below--Song by Aymer_ (G., S.; it is the
_Courtiers Song of the Citizen_, page 146.--introduced here in text by
Cunningham and S.

63 and 64 _Doe ... doubtfull?_--printed as one line in Q.

66 _they are--they’re_ (C., f.

67, s. d.--_Enter Nouall Iu. Charaloys_,--_Enter_ Charalois, _with his
sword drawn, pursuing_ Novall _junior_, etc. (G., S.

68 _Vndone foreuer--Undone, undone, forever!_ (G.--C. & M. give this
speech to _Bellapert_.

74 _th’--the_ (G., S.

82 M., f. omit _,_’s after _honest_ and _valiant_.

86 _daring looke--daring._ _Look_ (C., f.

89 and 90 _No ... flesh_--printed as one line in Q.

93 _of_--its _f_ is almost invisible in Q.

95 _haue_--its _e_ is almost invisible in Q.

96 _:_ --_?_ (G.

96, after _shall_ G. & S. insert s. d.: _Exeunt_ Beaumont _and_
Bellapert, _with the body of Nouall_; _followed by Beaumelle_.

97 _Y’are--you are_ (G., S.

97, end G. & S. insert s. d.: _Re-enter Beaumont._


[Act IV, Scene iii]

3 _not--nor_ (C.

8 .--_?_ (C., f.


[Act IV, Scene iv]

4 and 5 _Nor ... but--_ --printed as one line in Q.

6, end--C., f. insert s. d.: _Exit_ Beaumont.

7, end--C., f. insert s. d.: Beaumelle _kneels_.

8 _worthy--worth_ (G., S.

30 _th’--the_ (G., S.

33 variously emended for defective metre: _That you have done but
what’s warranted,_ (C., M.; _That you have done but what is warranted,_
(G.; _You have done merely but what’s warranted,_ (S.

36 _of me in--in me of_ (C., M., S. The emendation is unnecessary.

38 _now they--they now_ (G.

50 _thou wert--you were_ (G., S.

60, after _was_--; (C., f.

61 _Within--Which in_ (M., f.

77, _post_--The three s. d.’s are made by C., f. to follow respectively
lines 76, 77, and 78.

89 _be for--before_ (C., M.

90 _destruction--induction_ (G., S., following the suggestion of M.

91, s. d.--G. & S. omit phrase _with Nouals body_. and affix to s. d.
_with Servants bearing the Body of_ Novall _junior_.

92, after _seate_,--G. & S. insert s. d.: _Exeunt Servants._

93 _me_--the _e_ is obliterated in Q.

93 _?_--,(C., f.

96, end--C. & M. insert s. d.: _He hoodwinks_ Rochfort. G. & S. place a
similar s. d. at the end of the following line.

101 and 102 _It ... iustice_--printed as one line in Q.

121, end--G. & S. insert s. d.: Charalois _unbinds his eyes_.

131 _With--Which_ (M., f.

131, after _thy_--G. says a monosyllable has been lost here. S. inserts
_foul_. But an acceptable rhythm is secured by the natural stress of
the voice, which emphasizes and dwells upon _thy_, and again stresses
_kept_.

133 _owne--one_ (M., f.

140, after _her_ .--? (C., f.

141 _liue no--liue. No_ (C., M.--_liue_: _no_ (G., S.

143 _on--one_ (C., f.

147, end--G. & S. insert _out_, changing first word of l. 148 to _Of_.
C. & M. make _Off_ of l. 148 conclude 147, and insert _From_ to begin
l. 148. It is preferable to let the line stand as it is, letting the
voice, in reading, dwell and pause upon _are_.

148 s. d., _He kils her_. transferred to end of line by C., f.

149 _I am. Sure--I am sure_ (M.--_I’m sure_ (G., S.

154, after _nourished_. --C., f. inserts s. d.: _Dies._

156 and 157 _True ... doome_--printed as one line in Q.

158 _and friend--and a friend_ (C., f.

175 _Flinty- -- Flint-_ (G., S.

175 and 176 _Nature ... vertue._--printed as one line in Q.

177, after _of_--C., f. insert _your_. But the change is not required
by the sense; nor by the metre, if the voice be allowed to dwell on
_heart_.

184 s. d.: _Enter Nouall_, etc.--G. & S. place after _doors_ in next
line.

185, before _Force_ --G. & S. insert s. d.: _Within._

190 and 191 _Call ... blood._--printed as one line in Q.


[Act V, Scene i]

_Enter_, etc. _Officers--two_ Bailiffs. (G., S.

2 _T’arrest--To arrest_ (G., S.

4 _for me--for form_ (M., f.

16 _you haue--you’ve_ (C., M.

22 _them--him_ (C., f. The Q. reading is preferable in every way.

24 _so_--M. omits.

26 _You are--You’re_ (C., M.

32, after _and_--G. & S. insert _the_.

33 _are these--or thief_ (M.--_and thief_ (G., S., which seems slightly
the more probable correction.

34 _Synonima--synonymous_ (C., M.

36, end s. d.--C., f. place s. d. after _selfe_.

39 _I will--I’ll_ (C., m.

47 _reueng’d--un-revenged_ (C., f.,--an obviously correct emendation.

57, end .--, (C., f.

61 _’Tas--It has_ (M., f.

68 _obiect--abject_ (C., f.

70 and 71 _Away ... deadly:_--printed as one line in Q.

71, after _know_--G. & S. insert _thee_, which secures a smoother
metre, but is not warranted.

79 _I am--I’m_ (C., f.

84 _sits_--M. reads _fits_, the first letter in Q. not being certainly
distinguishable as _s_ or _f_.

85 _cape--cap_ (C., f.

86 _sate.--sat,_ (C., f.

93 Offi.--1 Bail. (G., S.

97 _Hath--Have_ (M., G.

105 _ones--one_ (C., f.

106 _Additions--Addition_ (C., f.


[Act V, Scene ii]

2 _thou thinkst--you think_ (G., S.

7 _new--now_ (M.

15, after _Nouall_ .--_?_ (G., S.

18 _grieue--grieved_ (M., f., a correct emendation.

23, after _haue_--C., f. insert , .

23 _promis’d--promise_ (C., f.

26 _heires_--i. e., of course, _hairs_;--so modernized by C., f.

33 _worrhy_--Q. misprint for _worthy_;--corrected by C., f.

39, after _people_--C., f. insert ,.

42, after _knowing_--M., f. insert _too_.

55, after _cause_--.--(C., M.--?--(G., S., which is right.

67 _I am--I’m_ (C., M.

68, after _man_--M. inserts , , and G. & S. ;--.

76, end G. & S. omit , .

77, after _But_--G. & S. insert , .

80 and 81 _You ... cause._--printed as one line in Q.

88 _chalenge--challenged_ (G., S.--a correct emendation.

91 _Tygre--tigress_ (C., M.

104 _breed--bread_ (C., f. The Q. reading is perfectly satisfactory.

117 _You haue--You’ve_ (C., M.


[Act V, Scene iii]

_Scaena 3_--omitted by G. & S.,--and correctly so, for there is no
change in place from the preceding, and the action is uninterrupted.

18, after _that_--M., f. insert _when_. See Notes.

30 _fain’d-- -famed_ (M., f.

32 --, after _neyghbour-hood_ in Q. is placed after _ill_ by C., f.

35 _by--my_ (C., f.

44, after _pray_--G. & S. insert _you_.

47 _dis-become--mis-become_ (C., M.

50 --_u_ in _accuser_ is inverted in Q.

51 _or--nor_ (C., f.

59 _motion--motion’s_ (C., f.

60 --_n_ in _confesse_ is inverted in Q.

68 _freed--feed_ (M., f.

68, end--_?_ (C., f.

73 _courtesie--courtesies_ (C., f. Q. reading is preferable. See
Glossary.

77 _that--they_ (S.

88 _dowry--dower_ (G., S.

91 _could preserue--could not preserve_ (C., f. The emendation is
clearly required.

137, after _truth_ ,--. (M., f.

138, after _begin_ .--, (G., S.--C. & M. inclose _For ... begin_ in
( )’s.

139 _n_ in _French_ is inverted in Q.

150 _appou’d_--i. e., _approu’d_; in Q. the _r_ is wanting as above.
Later editors correct.

166 _more--mere_ (C., f. See Notes.

168 _fall--fail_ (M.

169 _like_--omitted by G. & S.

170 _signe--signs_ (S.

180 _against--’gainst_ (G., S.

184 _had_--omitted by G.

190 _bands--bawds_ (C., f.

190 s. d. _Enter Aymer_, etc.--_Enter Officers with_ Aymer, etc. (G., S.

190, _tooke--ta’en_ (G.

201 _iniurie:_--C., f. read _injuries_, the colon in the Q. being
blurred to appear like a broken _s_.

205, end. --C., f. insert s. d.: _Stabs him._

206 _I am--I’m_ (C., M.

207, end--C., f. insert s. d.: _Stabs Pontalier._ See Notes.

215 after _mee_.--C., f. insert s. d.: _Dies._

215-217 --lines in Q. are: _I ... loue_ | _Not ... of._

217 _worthy, worthy of--worthy of_ (C., M.

217, after _of_.--C., f. insert s. d.: _Dies._

217 _We are--We’re_ (C., M.

220 _We are--We’re_ (C., M.

227 _As--A_ (M., misprint.

228 _Be set--Or be set_ (C., M., G.--_Be or set_ (S.


[Songs]

These songs are printed thus in an Appendix at the end of the play
in Q., G., and the edition of Hartley Coleridge. The _First Song_ is
inserted at its proper point in the text--II, i, after line 134--by
C., M., Cunningham, and S.;--so, too, the _Second Song_, after line
131 of II, ii. The other two songs were omitted in C., and appear in
an appendix of vol. 4 of M.,--there wrongly assigned (by D.) to the
“passage over the stage” which closes Act II. Gifford correctly assigns
them to follow respectively IV, ii, 50; and IV, ii, 62;--where they are
printed in the text of Cunningham and S.

_First Song_--A DIRGE (G., S.

_Second Song_--A SONG BY AYMER (G., S.

_A_ ... Nouall, _and_ Beaumelle.--_A ... a Man and a Woman._ (C., f.

2-4 --lines in Q.: _From ... begat’st._ | _I dare ... line,_ | _Each
word ... hooke,_.

7 _doest--dost_ (C., f.

8 _Come strangled--Come, strangle_ (M., f.

(_Citizens Song_) 3 and 4: _If ... state,_--printed as one line in Q.

7 _seruants_--its _u_ is inverted in Q.

(_Courtiers Song_) 16: _Tradesmen--tradesman_ (M.




       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber’s Notes

In the play itself all apparent printing errors have been retained; no
attempt has been made to standardise formatting.

In the front and end matter, simple typographical errors have been
corrected; variant spelling, punctuation, and inconsistent hyphenation
have been preserved as printed.

On some reading devices, inline stage directions are set off from the
text by parentheses added by the transcriber. Footnote headings and
navigational [links] in brackets were also added.

The following shows the changed text below the original text:

  Page 34:
  the repentent sinner
  the repentant sinner

  Page 163:
  --life-like. II, i, 232.
  --life-like. II, ii, 232.

  Page 164:
  _skills_, signifies, matters. I, i, 286.
  _skills_, signifies, matters. I, ii, 286.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Fatal Dowry, by 
Philip Massinger and Nathaniel Field

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