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Can prescribe man obedience !
Never look upon me more.

Bos. Why, fare thee well:
Your brother and yourself are worthy men ;
You have a pair of hearts are hollow graves,
Rotten, and rotting others; and your vengeance,
Like two chain'd bullets, still goes arm in arm.
You may be brothers: for treason, like the plague,
Doth take much in a blood. I stand like one
That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream.
I am angry with myself, now that I wake.

Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' th'
That I may never see thee.

Bos. Let me know

While with vain hopes our faculties we tire,
We seem to sweat in ice, and freeze in fire;
What would I do, were this to do again?
I would not change my peace of conscience
For all the wealth Europe. She stirs! here's life!
Return, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine
Out of this sensible hell. She's warm, she

Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart,
To store them with fresh colour. Who's there?
Some cordial drink! Alas, I dare not call:
So pity would destroy pity. Her eye opes,
And heaven in it seems to ope, that late was shut,
To take me up to mercy.

Duch. Antonio !

Wherefore I should be thus neglected? Sir,
I served your tyranny, and rather strove
To satisfy yourself than all the world;
And though I loathed the evil, yet I loved
You that did counsel it, and rather sought
To appear a true servant than an honest man.
Ferd. I'll go hunt the badger by owl-light:
'Tis a deed of darkness.


Antonio. I do love these ancient ruins :

Bos. He's much distracted. Off, my painted We never tread upon them but we set


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Thy body to the reverend dispose

Of some good women; that the cruel tyrant
Shall not deny me: then I'll post to Milan,
Where somewhat I will speedily enact
Worth my dejection.

These tears, I am very certain, never grew
In my mother's milk. My estate is sunk
Below the degree of fear: where were
These penitent fountains while she was living?
Oh, they were frozen up. Here is a sight
As direful to my soul as is the sword

Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come, I'll
bear thee hence,

And execute thy last will; that's deliver



Persons.-ANTONIO, DELIO, Echo from the Duchess's grave.

Delio. YOND's the cardinal's window. This

Grew from the ruins of an ancient abbey ;
And to yond side o' th' river lies a wall,
Piece of a cloister, which in my opinion
Gives the best echo that you ever heard ;
So hollow and so dismal, and withal
So plain in the distinction of our words,
That many have supposed it is a spirit
That answers.

Our foot upon some reverend history;
And, questionless, here in this open court,
Which now lies naked to the injuries
Of stormy weather, some men lie interr'd
Loved the church so well, and gave so largely to't,
They thought it should have canopied their bones
Till doomsday. But all things have their end:
Churches and cities, which have diseases like to
Must have like death that we have.

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Ant. My duchess is asleep now,
And her little ones, I hope sweetly: Oh, heaven!
Shall I never see her more?

Echo. Never see her more.

Ant. I mark'd not one repetition of the Echo But that, and on the sudden a clear light Presented me a face folded in sorrow.

Del. Your fancy, merely,

Ant. Come, I'll be out of this ague; For to live thus, is not indeed to live; It is a mockery and abuse of life:


[Born, 1586.

Died, 1640?]

It is painful to find the name of Ford a barren spot in our poetical biography, marked by nothing but a few dates and conjectures, chiefly drawn from his own dedications. He was born of a respectable family in Devonshire; was bred to the law, and entered of the Middle Temple at the age of seventeen. At the age of twenty, he published a poem, entitled Fame's Memorial, in honour of the deceased Earl of Devonshire; and from the dedication of that piece it appears that he chiefly subsisted upon his professional labours, making poetry the solace of his leisure hours. All his plays were published between the year 1629 and 1639; but before the former period he

had for some time been known as a dramatic writer, his works having been printed a considerable time after their appearance on the stage; and, according to the custom of the age, had been associated in several works with other composers. With Dekker he joined in dramatizing a story, which reflects more disgrace upon the age than all its genius could redeem; namely, the fate of Mother Sawyer, the Witch of Edmonton, an aged woman, who had been recently the victim of legal and superstitious murder

Palador, Prince of Cyprus, having fallen into melancholy from the disappointment of losing Eroclea, to whom he was attached, a masque is prepared to divert his thoughts, at the representation of which he sees a youth, passing by the name of Parthenophill, whose resemblance to his mistress strikes him.

SCENE-A Room at the Palace.
Persons-PALADOR, Prince of Cyprus; ARETUS, his tutor;
SOPHRONOS, uncle to EROCLEA; PELIAS, a courtier;
MENAPHON, Son of SOPHRONOS; AMETHUS, cousin to the
Prince; RHETIAS, servant to EROCLEA.

I will not henceforth save myself by halves,
Lose all or nothing.

Del. Your own virtue save you.


Are. THE prince is thoroughly moved.
I never saw him


So much distemper'd.


I'll fetch your eldest son, and second you.
It may be that the sight of his own blood,
Spread in so sweet a figure, may beget
The more compassion.



What should this young man be,
Or whither can he be convey'd ?
"Tis to me
A mystery; I understand it not.
Nor I.

However, fare you well!

Though in our miseries Fortune have a part,
Yet, in our noble sufferings, she hath none;
Contempt of pain, that we may call our own.

Enter PALADOR, AMETHUS and PELIAS. Pal. You have consented all to work upon The softness of my nature; but take heed:

Nil adeo fœdum quod non exacta vetustas

The time of his death is unknown.

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* I have declined obtruding on the reader some passages in Ford's plays which possess a superior power to the present scene, because they have been anticipated by Mr. Lamb in his Dramatic Specimens. Even if this had not been the case, I should have felt reluctant to give a place to one dreadfully beautiful specimen of his affecting powers, in the tragedy of the Brother and Sister. Better that poetry should cease, than have to do with such subjects. The Lover's Melancholy has much of the grace and sweetness that distinguishes the genius of Ford. ("Mr. Campbell speaks favourably of the poetic portion of this play; he thinks and I fully agree with him, that it has much of the grace and sweetness which distinguish the genius of Ford. It has also somewhat more of the sprightliness in the language of the secondary characters, than is commonly found in his plays."-GIFFORD.]







ery im.

, or

Cunning impostor !
Untruth hath made thee subtle in thy trade:
If any neighb'ring greatness hath seduced
A free-born resolution, to attempt

Some bolder act of treachery, by cutting
My weary days off; wherefore, (cruel mercy !)
Hast thou assumed a shape, that would make treason
A piety, guilt pardonable, bloodshed

As holy as the sacrifice of peace ?


Ero. The incense of my love-desires is flamed in Upon an altar of more constant proof.

Sir, O sir! turn me back into the world,
Command me to forget my name, my birth,
My father's sadness, and my death alive,
If all remembrance of my faith hath found
A burial, without pity, in your scorn.

Pal. My scorn, disdainful boy, shall soon unweave
The web thy art hath twisted. Cast thy shape off;
Disrobe the mantle of a feigned sex,
And so I may be gentle as thou art,
There's witchcraft in thy language, in thy face,
In thy demeanours. Turn! turn from me, pr'ythee:
For my belief is arm'd else. Yet, fair subtilty,
Before we part (for part we must), be true;
Tell me thy country.







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At last, and ends in sorrow: but the life,
Weary of riot, numbers every sand,
Wailing in sighs, until the last drop down;
So to conclude calamity in rest.

Pal. What echo yields a voice to my complaints?
Can I be nowhere private ?

Let the substance
As suddenly be hurried from your eyes,
As the vain sound can pass your ear,
If no impression of a troth vow'd yours
Retain a constant memory.


Stand up!

'Tis not the figure, stamp'd upon thy cheeks,
The cozenage of thy beauty, grace, or tongue,
Can draw from me a secret, that hath been
The only jewel of my speechless thoughts.

Ero. I am so worn away with fears and sorrows,
So winter'd with the tempests of affliction,
That the bright sun of your life-quickening presence
Hath scarce one beam of force to warm again
That spring of cheerful comfort, which youth once
Apparel'd in fresh looks.



Ero. Meleander.



Th' unfortunate Eroclea.


There is danger

In this seducing counterfeit. Great Goodness!
Hath honesty and virtue left the time?
Are we become so impious, that to tread

The path of impudence, is law and justice?

Thou vizard of a beauty ever sacred,

Give me thy name!

Whilst I was lost to memory,
Parthenophill did shroud my shame in change

Ha! thy father?


Hast a name?

A name of misery;

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[Born, 15. Died, 1640 ?]

Persons. The WIDOW and DOCTOR.

Doct. You sent for me, gentlewoman? Wid. Sir, I did; and to this end: I have scruples in my conscience; Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain.

In Cyprus.-Come! to trial, if thou beest
Eroclea; in my bosom I can find thee.

Ero. As I, prince Palador, in mine: this gift
[She shows him a tablet.
His bounty bless'd me with, the only physic
My solitary cares have hourly took
To keep me from despair.

Doct. This is my duty: pray speak your mind. Wid. And as I speak, I must remember heaven, That gave those blessings which I must relate: Sir, you now behold a wondrous woman; You only wonder at the epithet;

Pal. We are but fools To trifle in disputes, or vainly struggle With that eternal mercy which protects us. Come home, home to my heart, thou banish'd peace! My ecstacy of joys would speak in passion, But that I would not lose that part of man, Which is reserved to entertain content. Eroclea, I am thine: O, let me seize thee As my inheritance. Hymen shall now Set all his torches burning, to give light Throughout this land, new-settled in thy welcome.

I can appprove it good: guess at mine age.
Doct. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty.
Wid. 'Twas not much amiss; yet nearest to the
How think you then, is not this a wonder? [last.
That a woman lives full seven-and-thirty years
Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow,
Now widow'd, and mine own, yet all this while
From the extremest verge of my remembrance,


a Woman never vext." Its drafts of citizen life and manners have an air of reality and honest truth-the situations and characters are forcible, and the sentiments earnest and unaffected. The author seems to move in the sphere of life which he imitates, with no false fears about its dignity, and is not ashamed to exhibit his broken merchant hanging out the bag for charity among the debtors of a prison-house.


Even from my weaning hour unto this minute,
Did never taste what was calamity?

I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought
An hundred ways for its acquaintance with me
Prosperity hath kept so close a watch,

That even those things that I have meant a cross,
Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange?

And to you alone belonging: you are the moon,
Doct. Unparallel'd; this gift is singular,
For there's but one, all women else are stars,
For there are none of like condition.
Full oft, and many, have I heard complain
Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities,
But a second to yourself I never knew :
To groan under the superflux of blessings,
To have ever been alien unto sorrow.
No trip of fate? Sure it is wonderful.

Wid. Ay, sir, 'tis wonderful: but is it well? For it is now my chief affliction.

[* Prince Charles, afterwards Charles I. The play in

I have heard you say, that the child of heaven
Shall suffer many tribulations;

which his name is printed conjointly with Shakspeare's is Nay, kings and princes share them with their sub[jects:

called The Birth of Merlin.]

And baited fishes with thy silver flies;

Lost, and fetch'd more: why, this had been my joy, eme. Perhaps at length thou wouldst have wasted my store;

Why, this had been a blessing too good for me. Steph. Content thee, sweet, those days are gone, wen; Ay, even from my memory;

n to



I have forgot that e'er I had such follies,
And I'll not call 'em back: my cares are bent
To keep your state, and give you all content.
Roger, go, call your fellow-servants up to me,
And to my chamber bring all books of debt;
I will o'erlook, and cast up all accounts,
That I may know the weight of all my cares,
And once a year give up my stewardship.

-om t it




Steph. Oh, nephew, are you come! the welcomest wish

tle, He a nephew uncle. But, my sweet self, My slow request you have anticipated

That my heart has; this is my kinsman, sweet.
Wife. Let him be largely texted in your love,
That all the city may read it fairly:

You cannot remember me, and him forget;
We were alike to you in poverty.


Steph. I should have begg'd that bounty of your Though you had scanted me to have given't him ; For we are one, I an uncle nephew,

With proffer'd kindness; and I thank you for it.
But how, kind cousin, does your father use you?
Is your name found again within his books?
Can he read son there?

Rob. "Tis now blotted quite :

For by the violent instigation

Of my cruel step-mother, his vows and oaths
Are stamp'd against me, ne'er to acknowledge me,
Never to call, or bless me as a child;

But in his brow, his bounty and behaviour
I read it all most plainly.

[at home,

Steph. Cousin, grieve not at it; that father lost You shall find here; and with the loss of his inheYou meet another amply proffer'd you ; [ritance, Be my adopted son, no more my kinsman : (To his Wife.) So that this borrow'd bounty do From your consent. [not stray

Wife. Call it not borrow'd, sir; 'tis all your own;
Here 'fore this reverend man I make it known,
Thou art our child as free by adoption,

As derived from us by conception,
Birth, and propinquity; inheritor
To our full substance.

11 Rob. You were born to bless us both;
My knee shall practise a son's duty
Even beneath a son's; giving you all
The comely dues of parents; yet not
Forgetting my duty to my father:
Where'er I meet him he shall have my knee,
Although his blessing ne'er return to me.


Steph. Come then, my dearest son, I'll now give
A taste of my love to thee: be thou my deputy,
The factor and disposer of my business;

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