Keep my accounts, and order my affairs ;
They must be all your own : for you, dear sweet,
Be merry, take your pleasure at home, abroad;
Visit your neighbours ; aught that may seem good
To your own will ; down to the country ride ;
For cares and troubles lay them all aside,
And I will take them up ; it's fit that weight
Should now lie all on me: take thou the height
Of quiet and content, let nothing grieve thee ;
I brought thee nothing else, and that I'll give thee.

[Exit STEPHEN and ROBERT.

Wife. Will the tide never turn? was ever woman
Thus burden'd with unhappy happiness!
Did I from riot take him, to waste my goods,
And he strives to augnent it? I did mistake him.

Doct. Spoil not a good text with a false comment;
All these are blessings, and from heaven sent ;
It is your husband's good, he's now transform'd
To a better shade, the prodigal's return'd.
Come, come, know joy, make not abundance scant ;
You 'plain of that which thousand women want.

PHILIP MASSINGER.

(Born; 1584. Died, 1640.)

The father of this dramatic poet was attached authority of Langhaine, that he was not supto the family of Henry, the second Earl of Pem ported at all at Oxford by the Earl of Pembroke, broke, and died in the service of that honourable but by his own father, and concludes that he was house. The name of a servant carried with it withdrawn from it solely by the calamitous event no sense of degradation in those times, when the of his death. Whatever was the cause, he left great lords and officers of the court numbered the university abruptly, and coming to London, inferior nobles among their followers. On one without friends, or fortune, or profession, was, occasion the poet's father was the bearer of letters as he informs us himself, driven by his necessifrom the Earl of Pembroke to Queen Elizabeth; ties to the stage for support. a circumstance which has been justly observed to From the period of his arrival in London in indicate that he could be no mean person, consi 1606 till the year 1622, when his Virgin Martyr dering the punctilious respect which Elizabeth appeared in print, it is sufficiently singular that exacted from her courtiers.

we should have no notice of Massinger, except Massinger was born at Salisbury, or probably in one melancholy relic that was discovered by at Wilton, in its neighbourhood, the seat of the Mr. Malone in Dulwich college, namely, a letter Earl of Pembroke, in whose family he also ap subscribed by him and two other dramatic poets t, pears to have been educated. That nobleman in which they solicit the advance of five pounds died in the poet's sixteenth year, who thus unfor from the theatrical manager, to save them from tunately lost whatever chance he ever had of his the horrors of a gaol. The distressful docuprotecting kindness. His father continued indeed ment accidentally discovers the fact of Masin the service of the succeeding earl *, who was singer having assisted Fletcher in one of his an accomplished man, a votary of the muses, dramas, and thus entitles Sir Aston Cokayne's and one of the brightest ornaments of the court assertion to belief, that he assisted him in more of Elizabeth and James ; but he withheld his than one. Though Massinger therefore did not patronage from a man of genius, who had claims appear in print during the long period already to it, and would have done it honour, for reasons mentioned, his time may be supposed to have that have not been distinctly explained in the been partly employed in those confederate underscanty and sorrowful history of the poet. Mr. takings which were so common during the early Gifford, dissatisfied with former reasons alleged vigour of our stage ; and there is the strongest for this neglect, and convinced from the perusal presumptive evidence that he was also engaged of his writings that Massinger was a catholic, in plays of his own composition, which have been conjectures that it may be attributed to his lost to the world among those literary treasures having offended the earl by having apostatised that perished by the neglect of Warburton, the while at the university to that obnoxious faith. Somerset herald, and the unconscious sacrilege He was entered as a commoner of St. Alban's of his cook. Of Massinger's fame for rapidity Hall, Oxford, in his eighteenth year, where he in composition Langbaine has preserved a testicontinued only four years. Wood and Davies mony in the lines of a contemporary poet : after conclude that he missed a degree, and was sud the date of his first printed performance those of denly withdrawn from the university, in conse his subsequent works come in thick succession, quence of Pembroke's disapprobation of his and there can be little doubt that the period preattachment to poetry and romances, instead of ceding it was equally prolific. logic and philosophy. Mr. Gifford prefers the Of his private life literally nothing can be said * William, the third Earl of Pembroke.

† Nathaniel Field and Robert Daborne.

to be known, except that his dedications bespeak stone or inscription of any kind marked the place incessant distress and dependence, while the where his dust was deposited; even the memorial recommendatory poems prefixed to his plays of his mortality is given with a pathetic brevity, address him with attributes of virtue, which are which accords but too well with the obscure and seldom lavished with fattery or falsehood on humble circumstances of his life—“ March 20, those who are poor. In one of his dedications 1639.40, buried Philip Massinger, a stranger *;" he acknowledges the bounty of Philip, Earl of and of all his admirers only Sir Aston Cokayne Montgomery, the brother to that Earl of Pem dedicated a line to his memory. Even posterity broke who so unaccountably neglected him ; but did him long injustice: Rowe, who had discovered

as Massinger's acknowledgments are, his merits in the depth of their neglect, forbore the assistance appears to have been but transi to be his editor, in the hopes of concealing his tory. On the 17th of March, 1640, having gone plagiarism from the Fatal Dowry t; and he to bed in apparent health the preceding night, seemed on the eve of oblivion, when Dodsley's he was found dead in the morning, in his own reprint of our old plays brought him faintly into house, in the Bank-side. He was buried in the that light of reputation, which has been made church-yard of St. Saviour's, and his fellow- , perfectly distinct by Mr. Gifford's edition of his comedians attended him to the grave ; but it works. does not appear from the strictest search that a

warm

FROM “ THE DUKE OF MILAN," A TRAGEDY.

Sforza, Duke of Milan, in his passionate attachment to

his wife Marcelia, cannot endure the idea of her surviving him, and being called out to war, leaves an order to his favourite Francisco, that in the event of his falling in the contest he should put the duchess to death. Marcelia's discovery of this frantic order brings on the jealousy and deaths that form the catastrophe of the piece.

MARCELIA TEMPTED BY FRANCISCO.

Fran. Let them first know themselves, and how

you are To be served and honour'd ; which, when they

confess,
You may again receive them to your favour:
And then it will show nobly.

Mar. With my thanks
The duke shall pay you his, if he return
To bless us with his presence.

Pran. There is nothing
That can be added to your fair acceptance ;
That is the prize, indeed ; all else are blanks,
And of no value. As, in virtuous actions,
The undertaker finds a full reward,
Although conferr'd upon unthankful men;
So, any service done to so much sweetness,
However dangerous, and subject to
An ill construction, in your favour finds
A wish'd, and glorious end.

Marc. From you, I take this
As loyal duty ; but, in any other,
It would appear gross flattery.

Fran. Flattery, madam!
You are so rare and excellent in all things,
And raised so high upon a rock of goodness,
As that vice cannot reach you; who but looks on
This temple, built by nature to perfection,
But must bow to it; and out of that zeal,
Not only learn to adore it, but to love it?

Marc. Whither will this fellow !

Fran. Pardon, therefore, madam,
If an excess in me of humble duty
Teach me to hope, and though it be not in
The power of man to merit such a blessing,
My piety, for it is more than love,
May find reward.

Marc. You have it in my thanks ;
And, on my hand, I am pleased that you shall take
A full possession of it: but, take heed
That you fix here, and feed no hope beyond it;
If you do, it will prove fatal.

Fran, Be it death,
And death with torments tyrants ne'er found out,
Yet I must say, I love you.

Marc. As a subject ;
And 'twill become you.

Fran. Farewell circumstance !
And since you are not pleased to understand me,
But by a plain and usual form of speech ;
All superstitious reverence laid by,
I love you as a man, and, as a man,
I would enjoy you. Why do you start, and fly me?
I am no monster, and you but a woman,
A woman made to yield, and by example
Told it is lawful : favours of this nature,
Are, in our age, no miracles in the greatest ;
And, therefore, lady-

Marc. Keep off. O you Powers !---
Libidinous beast! and, add to that, unthankful!
A crime which creatures wanting reason fly from;
Are all the princely bounties, favours, honours,
Which, with some prejudice to his own wisdom,
Thy lord and raiser hath conferr'd upon thee,
In three days' absence buried? Hath he made thee,
A thing obscure, almost without a name,

(* The real entry is, “1639. March 18. Philip Massinger, stranger"-that is, a non-parishioner ; but it bas hitherto been quoted as Mr. Campbell has quoted it.}

† In The Fair Penitent.

The envy of great fortunes ? Have I graced thee, Upon my weak credulity, tell me, rather,
Beyond thy rank, and entertain’d thee, as

That the earth moves; the sun and stars stand still; A friend, and not a servant ? and is this,

The ocean keeps nor floods nor ebbs; or that This impudent attempt to taint mine honour, There's

peace between the lion and the lamb; The fair return of both our ventured favours ! Or that the ravenous eagle and the dove Fran. Hear my excuse.

Keep in one aerie, and bring up their young; Marc. The devil may plead mercy,

Or anything that is averse to nature: And with as much assurance, as thou yield ope. And I will sooner credit it, than that Burns lust so hot in thee? or is thy pride

My lord can think of me, but as a jewel, Grown up to such a height, that, but a princess, He loves more than himself, and all the world. No woman can content thee ; and, add to it, Fran. O innocence abused ! simplicity cozen'd! His wife and princess, to whom thou art tied It were a sin, for which we have no name, In all the bonds of duty?—Read my life,

To keep you longer in this wilful error. And find one act of mine so loosely carried,

Read his affection here ;-[Gives her a paper.] That could invite a most self-loving fool,

--and then observe Set off with all that fortune could throw on him, How dear he holds you! 'Tis his character, To the least hope to find way to my favour ; Which cunning yet could never counterfeit. And, what's the worst mine enemies could wish me, Marc. 'Tis his hand, I'm resolved of it. I'll try I'll be thy strumpet.

What the inscription is. Fran. 'Tis acknowledged, madam,

Fran. Pray you, do so. That your whole course of life hath been a pattern Marc. (reads.) You know my pleasure, and the For chaste and virtuous women. In your beauty, hour of Marcelia's death, which fail not to execute, Which I first saw, and loved, as a fair crystal, as you will ansver the contrary, not with your head I read your heavenly mind, clear and untainted ; alone, but with the ruin of your whole family. And And while the duke did prize you to your value,

this, written with mine own hand, and signed with Could it have been in man to pay that duty,

my pridy signet, shall be your sufficient warrant. I well might envy him, but durst not hope

LODOVICO SFORZA. To stop you in your full career of goodness : I do obey it ; every word's a poniard, But now I find that he's fall'n from his fortune, And reaches to my heart.

[She swoons. And, howsoever he would appear doting,

Fran. What have I done! Grown cold in his affection; I presume,

Madam ! for heaven's sake, madam!—0 my fate! From his most barbarous neglect of you,

I'll bend her body : this is, yet, some pleasure : To offer my true service. Nor stand I bound, I'll kiss her into a new life. Dear lady !To look back on the courtesies of him,

She stirs. For the duke's sake, for Sforza's sakeThat, of all living men, is most unthankful.

Marc. Sforza's! stand off ; though dead, I will Marc. Unheard-of impudence!

And even my ashes shall abhor the touch [be his, Fran. You'll say I am modest,

Of any other.-0) unkind, and cruel ! When I have told the story. Can he tax me, Learn, women, learn to trust in one another; That have received some worldly trifles from him, There is no faith in man : Sforza is false, For being ungrateful ; when he, that first tasted, False to Marcelia ! And hath so long enjoy’d, your sweet embraces, Fran. But I am true, In which all blessings that our frail condition And live to make you happy. All the pomp, Is capable of, are wholly comprehended,

State, and observance you had, being his, As cloy'd with happiness, contemns the giver Compared to what you shall enjoy, when mine, Of his felicity! and, as he reach'd not

Shall be no more remember'd. Lose his memory, The masterpiece of mischief which he aims at, And look with cheerful beams on your new creature; Unless he pay those favours he stands bound to, And know, what he hath plotted for your good, With fell and deadly hate!-You think he loves you Fate cannot alter. With unexampled fervour ; nay, dotes on you, Take not his life, at his return he dies, As there were something in you more than woman: And by my hand; my wife, that is his heir, When, on my knowledge, he long since hath wish'd Shall quickly follow :— then we reign alone! You were among the dead ;-and I, you scorn so, For with this arm I'll swim through seas of blood, Perhaps, am your preserver.

Or make a bridge, arch'd with the bones of men, Marc. Bless me, good angels,

But I will grasp my aims in you, my dearest, Or I am blasted! Lies so false and wicked, Dearest, and best of women ! And fashion’d to so damnable a purpose,

Marc. Thou art a villain ! Cannot be spoken by a human tongue.

All attributes of archvillains made into one, My husband hate me! give thyself the lie, Cannot express thee. I prefer the hate False and accursed! Thy soul, if thou hast any, Of Sforza, though it mark me for the grave, Can witness, never lady stood so bound

Before thy base affection. I am yet To the unfeign d affection of her lord,

Pure and unspotted in my true love to him ; As I do to my Sforza. If thou wouldst work Nor shall it be corrupted, though he's tainted :

If the emperor

NG RA, TY

How is my soul divided ! to confirm you
In the opinion of the world, most worthy
To be beloved, (with me you're at the height,
And can advance no further,) I must send you
To court the goddess of stern war, who, if
She see you with my eyes, will ne'er return you,
But grow enamour'd of you.

Leost, Sweet, take comfort !
be And what I offer you, you must vouchsafe me,

Or I am wretched : All the dangers that

I can encounter in the war, are trifies ; e, My enemies abroad to be contemn'd;

The dreadful foes, that have the power to hurt me,
I leave at home with you.

Cleo. With me? en,

Leost. Nay, in you,
In every part about you, they are arm'd
To fight against me.

Cleo. Where !

Leost. There's no perfection
That you are mistress of, but musters up
A legion against me, and all sworn
To my destruction.

Cleo. This is strange !

Leost. But true, sweet ;
Excess of love can work such miracles !
Upon this ivory forehead are intrench'd
Ten thousand rivals, and these suns command
Supplies from all the world, on pain to forfeit
Their comfortable beams; these ruby lips,
A rich exchequer to assure their pay;

This hand, Sibylla's golden bough to guard them me Through hell, and horror, to the Elysian springs ;

Which who'll not venture for? and, should I name

Such as the virtues of your mind invite,
nd Their numbers would be infinite.
'd, Cleo. Can you think

I may be tempted ?
Leost. You were never proved.

I have conversed with you no further
Than would become a brother. I ne'er tuned
Loose notes to your chaste ears; or brought rich
For my artillery, to batter down (presents
The fortress of your honour ; nor endeavour'd
To make your blood run high at solemn feasts
With viands that provoke ; the speeding philtres :
I work'd no bawds to tempt you; never practised
The cunning and corrupting arts they study,
That wander in the wild maze of desire ;
Honest simplicity and truth were all
The agents I employ'd ; and when I came
To see you, it was with that reverence
As I beheld the altars of the gods :
And Love, that came along with me, was taught
To leave his arrows and his torch behind,
Quench'd in my fear to give offence.

Cleo. And 'twas
That modesty that took me and preserves me,
Like a fresh rose, in mine own natural sweetness;
Which, sullied with the touch of impure heads,
Loses both scent and beauty.

Leost. But, Cleora,

For me,

FROM THE SAME.

When I am absent, as I must go from you (Such is the cruelty of my fate), and leave you, PISANDER DECLARING HIS PASSION FOR Unguarded, to the violent assaults

CLEORA, IN TILE INSURRECTION OF THE

SLAVES OF SYRACUSE.
Of loose temptations; when the memory
Of my so many years of love and service
· Is lost in other objects ; when you are courted

Enter PISANDER, speaking, at the door, to the By such as keep a catalogue of their conquests,

Insurgents. Won upon credulous virgins; when nor father

Pisander. He that advances Is here to owe you, brother to advise you.

A foot beyond this, comes upon my sword : Nor your poor servant by, to keep such off,

You have had your waye, disturb not mine.
By lust instructed how to undermine,

Timandra. Speak gently,
And blow your chastity up; when your weak senses, Her fears may kill her else.
At once assaulted, shall conspire against you, Pisan. Now Love inspire me!
And play the traitors to your soul, your virtue; Still shall this canopy of envious night
How can you stand? ’Faith, though you fall, and I

Obscure my suns of comfort ? and those dainties The judge, before whom you then stood accused,

Of purest white and red, which I take in at I should acquit you.

My greedy eyes, denied my famish'd senses ?Cleo. Will you then confirm

The organs of your hearing yet are open ; That love and jealousy, though of different natures,

And you infringe no vow, though you vouchsafe Must of necessity be twins ; the younger

To give them warrant to convey unto Created only to defeat the elder,

Your understanding parts, the story of And spoil him of his birthright ? 'tis not well.

A tortured and despairing lover, whom But being to part, I will not chide, I will not ;

Not fortune but affection marks your slave : Nor with one syllable or tear, express

Shake not, best lady! for believe't, you are How deeply I am wounded with the arrows

As far from danger as I am from force : Of your distrust : but when that you shall hear,

All violence I shall offer, tends no further At your return, how I have borne myself,

Than to relate my sufferings, which I dare not And what an austere penance I take on me, Presume to do, till, by some gracious sign, To satisfy your doubts ; when, like a vestal,

You show you are pleased to hear me. I show you, to your shame, the fire still burning,

Timand. If you are, Committed to my charge by true affection,

Hold forth your right hand. The people joining with you in the wonder ;

(CLEORA holds forth her right hand. When by the glorious splendour of my sufferings, Pisan. So 'tis done ; and I The prying eyes of jealousy are struck blind,

With my glad lips seal humbly on your foot, The monster too that feeds on fears, e'en starved

My soul's thanks for the favour : I forbear For want of seeming matter to accuse me ; To tell you who I am, what wealth, what honours Expect, Leosthenes, a sharp reproof

I made exchange of, to become your servant : From my just anger.

And, though I knew worthy Leosthenes Leost. What will you do?

(For sure he must be worthy, for whose love Cleo. Obey me,

You have endured so much) to be my rival ; Or from this minute you are a stranger to me ; When rage and jealousy counsellid me to kill him, And do't without reply. All-seeing sun,

Which then I could have done with much more ease, Thou witness of my innocence, thus I close Than now, in fear to grieve you, I dare speak it, Mine eyes against thy comfortable light,

Love, seconded wité duty, boldly told me Till the return of this distrustful man!

The man I hated, fair Cleora favourd : Now bind them sure ;-nay, do't: [lle binds her And that was his protection.

(CLEORA bous, eyes.] If, uncompellid,

Timand. See, she bows I loose this knot, until the hands that made it Her head in sign of thankfulness. Be pleased to untie it, may consuming plagues Pisan. He removed by Fall heavy on me! pray you guide me to your lips. The occasion of the war, (my fires increasing This kiss, when you come back, shall be a virgin By being closed and stopp'd up,) frantic affection To bid you welcome ; nay, I have not done yet : Prompted me to do something in his absence, I will continue dumb, and, you once gone, That might deliver you into my power, No accent shall come from me. Now to my Which you see is effected ; and, even now, chamber,

When my rebellious passions chide my dulness, My tomb, if you miscarry : there I'll spend And tell me how much I abuse my fortunes, My hours in silent mourning, and thus much

Now it is in my power to bear you hence, Shall be reported of me to my glory,

[CLEORA starts And you confess it, whether I live or die,

Or take my wishes here, (nay, fear not, madam; My chastity triumphs o'er your jealousy.

True love 's a servant, brutish lust a tyrant,)
I dare not touch those viands that ne'er taste well,
But when they're freely offer'd: only thus much,