MASSINGER.

THIS excellent poet was son to Mr. Philip Massinger, a gentleman, who had some employment under the Earl of Pembroke, in whose service he died, after having spent several happy years in his family. Our author was born at Salisbury, in queen Elizabeth's reign, anno 1584, and at the age of 18, was entered a fellow-commoner of Alban Hall, in Oxford; in which station he remained three or four years, in order to complete his education, yet, though he was encouraged in the pursuit of his studies by his father's patron, the Earl of Pembroke, the natural bent of his genius lead him much more to poetry and polite literature, than to the dryer and more abstruse studies of logic and philosophy; being impatient for an opportunity of moving in a more public sphere of action, and improving his poetical fancy and his knowledge of the belles lettres, by conversation with the world, and an intercourse with men of wit and genius; he quitted the university without taking any degree, and came to London, where, applying himself to writing for the stage, he presently rose into high reputation; his plays meeting with universal approbation, both for the purity of their style, and the ingenuity and oeconomy of their plots. "Those who are unacquainted with Massinger's writings," says the Biographia Dramatica, "will, perhaps be surprised to find us placing him in an equal rank with Beaumont and Fletcher, and the immortal Ben; but we flatter ourselves that, upon a perusal of his plays, their astonishment will cease, that they will acquiesce with our opinion, and think themselves obliged to us, for pointing out so vast a treasury of entertainment and delight." Massinger has certainly equal invention, equal ingenuity, in the conduct of his plots, and an equal knowledge of character and nature, with Beaumont and Fletcher; and if it should be objected, that he has less of the vis comica, it will surely be allowed, that that deficiency is amply made amends for by that purity and decorum which he has preserved, and a rejection of that looseness and obscenity which runs through most of their comedies. As to Ben Jonson, we shall readily allow that he excels this author with respect to the studied accuracy and classical correctness of his style; yet Massinger has so greatly the superiority over him in fire, pathos, and the fancy and management of his plots, that we cannot help thinking the balance stands pretty even between them. Though his pieces bespeak him a man of the first-rate abilities, and well qualified both as to learning and a most perfect acquaintance with the methods of dramatic writing, yet he was at the same time a person of the most consummate modesty, which rendered him extremely beloved by all his contemporary poets, few of whom but esteemed it as an honour to join with him in the composition of their works. He died in 1659, some say 69.

THE DUKE OF MILAN.

ACTED at Black Friars, 1623, The plot is taken partly from Guicciardini, book 8, and partly from Josephus's History of the Jews, book 15, ch. 4, where will be found the story of Herod's leaving orders with his uncle Joseph to put his beloved wife Mariamne to death; from which the instructions given by Sforza to his favourite Francisco, for the murder of the Duchess Marcelia, his wife, seem evidently borrowed. This piece was altered, and produced at Covent Garden, by Mr. Cumberland, in 1799, but the additions made to it, from Fenton's Mariamne, rather injured than improved the play, and it was acted only two or three times. In its present state it was reproduced at Drury Lane, March 3, 1816; and from its reception promises to be a long and lasting favourite. Massinger seems to have been buried in obscurity, and forgotten among the number of writers of the same period, whose names were not worth calling forth from the cavern of oblivion; but when we consider, how long many of those pieces, even of the immortal Shakspeare himself, which are now the greatest ornament of the stage, lay neglected, although they wanted nothing but a judicious pruning of some few luxuriancies, some little straggling branches, which overhung the fairer flowers, and hid some of the choicest fruits, it is the less to be wondered at, that this author who though second, stands no more than second to him, should share for a while the same destiny. Thus has this precious gem been once more presented to an admiring audience, the modern taste demanding a different dress to that of former years; and the few judicious alterations which have taken place in it, have fitted it to shine in all its lustre.

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

ACT I.

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

SCENE I-An outer Room in the Cas le. Enter GRACCHO, JULIO, and GIOVANNI, with

Flagons.

Grac. TAKE every man his flagon; the oath

give

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

Julio. Very good, sir;

But say he be a sexton?

Grac. If the bells

Grac. It is capital treason;

Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay

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

And the duke himself, I dare not say dis-
temper'd,

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

And so, dear friends, co-partners in my travails,
Drink bard; and let the health run through
the city,

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

sleep;

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

meet

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

Enter TIBERIO and STEPHANO.
Julio. Here are two lords! what think you?
Shall we give the oath to them?

Grac. Fie! no; I know them:

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

Stands bound to take his rouse. Long live They are unseasonable.

But one continual pilgrimage through dangers,
Affrights, and horrors, which his fortune, Enter FRANCISCO, ISABELLA, and MARIANA.
Mari. I will not go; I scorn to be a spot

By his strong judgment, still hath overcome), In her proud train.

Appears now shaken, it deserves no wonder: Isa. Shall I, that am his mother,
All that his youth hath labour'd for, the harvest Be so indulgent as to wait on her
Sown by his industry ready to be reap'd too, That owes me duty?
Being now at stake; and all his hopes con-
firm'd

SCENE III-A State Room in the same. A

magnificent Banquet.

Marc. My lord!
Sfor. To doubt,

Is but to antedate those miseries

Flourish. Enter TIBERIO, STEPHANO, FRAN - Is worse than to have lost; and to despair,
CISCO, LUDOVICO SFORZA, MARCELIA, ISA-That must fall on us.
BELLA, MARIANA, and Attendants.
Sfor. You are the mistress of the feast;
here,

O my soul's comfort!
Let me glory in

The cause consider'd,

sit Why should I fear? The French are bold and strong,

My happiness, and mighty kings look pale
With envy, while I triumph in mine own.
O mother, look on her! sister, admire her!
For sure this present age yields not a woman
Worthy to be her second.

Fran. Your excellence,

Their numbers full, and in their councils wise;
But then, the haughty Spaniard is all fire,
Hot in his executions, fortunate
In his attempts, married to victory.
Ay, there it is that shakes me.
Marc. Speak to him, Francisco,
Fran. Excellent lady,

[Aside. [Apart.

One gale of your sweet breath will easily

Though I confess you give her but her own, Disperse these clouds; and, but yourself, there's

Forces her modesty to the defence

Of a sweet blush.

Sfor. It need not, my Marcelia;

When most I strive to praise thee, I appear
A poor detractor: for thou art, indeed,
So absolute in body and in mind

That, but to speak the least part to the height,
Would ask an angel's tongue, and yet then end
In silent admiration!

Isa. You still court her

As if she were a mistress, not your wife.
Sfor. A mistress, mother! she is more to me,
And every day deserves more to be sued to.
Marc. My worthiest lord !

My pride, my glory, in a word, my all !
Bear witness, heaven, that I esteem myself
In nothing worthy of the meanest praise
You can bestow, unless it be in this,
That in my heart I love you, and desire,
When you are sated with all earthly glories,
And age and honours make you fit for heaven,
That one grave may receive us.

Sfor. 'Tis believ'd— Believ'd, my blest one.

Mari. How she winds herself Into his soul !

Sfor. Sit all. Let others feed
On those gross cates, while Sforza
with

Immortal viands ta'en in at his eyes.
I could live ever thus.

From whence?

Enter a Courier.

Cour. From Pavia, my dread lord.
Sfor. Speak, is all lost?

My lord!

Sfor. Ha! pardon me, Marcelia, I am trou-
bled;

And stand uncertain, whether I am master
Of aught that's worth the owning.

Marc. I am yours, sir;

And I have heard you swear, I being safe,
There was no loss could move you.
This
day, sir,

Is by your gift made mine. Can you revoke
A grant made to Marcelia? your Marcelia?
For whose love, nay, whose honour, gentle sir,
All deep designs, and state affairs deferr'd,
Be, as you purpos'd, merry.

Sfor. Out of my sight!

[Throws away the Letter, And all thoughts that may strangle mirth,

Cour. [Delivers a Letter] The letter

inform you.

Fran. How his hand shakes,,

As he receives it!

Mari. This is some allay

To his hot passion.

[Exit.

That wears one furrow in his face.

Come, make me happy once again. I am rapt-
'Tis not to-day, to-morrow, or the next,

But all my days and years shall be employ'd
To do thee honour.

[ATrumpet without.

Another post! hang him

I will not interrupt my present pleasures,
will Although his message should import my head.
Marc. Nay, good sir, I am pleas'd
To grant a little intermission to you:
[Aside. Who knows but he brings news we wish to
hear,

[Aside. To heighten our delights.
Sfor. As wise as fair!

Sfor. Though it bring death, I'll read it.

[Reads.

May it please your excellence to understand, that the very hour I wrote this, I heard a bold defiance delivered by a herald from the emperor, which was cheerfully received by the king of France. The battles being ready to join, and the very of this, and prayers, van guard committed to my charge, en- To guard your excellency from certain dangers, forces me to end abruptly. Your high- He ceased to be a man. ness's humble servant. GASPERO. Sfor. All that my fears

[Music. Erit.

Ready to join!-By this, then, I am nothing. Could fashion to me, or my enemies wish, Or my estate secure. [Aside. Is fallen upon me. Silence that harsh music;

Sorrow and ruin.

Marc. Bless us, heaven!
Isa. My son.

Marc. What sudden change is this?
Sfor. All leave the room;

I'll bear alone the burden of

my grief,

And must admit no partner. I am yet obedience? Your prince, where's your

Think, think, Marcelia, what a cursed thing
I were, beyond expression!

Marc. Do not feed

Those jealous thoughts; the only blessing that
Heav'n hath bestow'd on us, more than on beasts,
Is, that 'tis in our pleasure when to die.
Besides, were I now in another's power,
I would not live for one short minute his;
I was born only yours, and I will die so.
Sfor. Angels reward the goodness of this

woman!

Re-enter FRANCISCO.

All I can pay is nothing. Why, uncall'd for?
Fran. It is of weight, sir, that makes me
thus press

Upon your privacies. Your constant friend,
[Exeunt Tiberio, Stephano, Fran- The marquis of Pescara, tir'd with haste,
cisco, Isabella, Mariana, and At-Hath business that concerns your life and for-

tendants.

Stay, Marcelia;

I cannot be so greedy of a sorrow,
In which you must not share.

Marc. And cheerfully

I will sustain my part. Why look you pale?
Where is that wonted constancy and courage,
That dar'd the worst of fortune? where is Sforza,
To whom all dangers that fright common men,
Appear'd but panic terrors? why do you eye me,
With such fix'd looks? Love, counsel, duty,
service,

May flow from me, not danger.
Sfor. O Marcelia!

It is for thee I fear; for thee, thy Sforza
Shakes like a coward: for myself, unmov'd
I could have heard my troops were cut in pieces,
My general slain, and he, on whom my hopes
Ofrule, of state, of life, had their dependence,
The king of France, my greatest friend, made
prisoner

To so proud enemies.

Marc. Then you have just cause
To show you are a man.

Sfor. All this were nothing,
Though I add to it, that I am assured,
For giving aid to this unfortunate king,
The emperor, incens'd, lays his command
On his victorious army, flesh'd with spoil,
And bold of conquest, to march up against me,
And seize on my estates: suppose that done too,
The city ta'en, the kennels running blood,
Myself bound fast in chains, to grace their
triumph;

I would be Sforza still. But when I think
That my Marcelia, to whom all these
Are but as atoms to the greatest hill,
Must suffer in my cause, and for me suffer!
All earthly torments, nay, even those the damn'd
Howl for in hell, are gentle strokes, compar'd
To what I feel, Marcelia.

Marc. Good sir, have patience :

I can as well partake your adverse fortune,
As I thus long have had an ample share
In your prosperity. Tis not in the power
Of fate to alter me; for while I am,
In spite of it, I'm yours.

Sfor. But should that will

To be so-forced, Marcelia; and I live
To see those eyes I prize above my own,
Dart favours, though compell'd, upon another;
Or those sweet lips, yielding immortal nectar,
Be gently touch'd by any, but myself;

tunes, And with speed to impart.

Sfor. Wait on him hither. [Exit Francisco.
And, dearest, to thy closet. Let thy prayers
Assist my councils.

Marc. To spare imprecations
Against myself, without you I am nothing.

[Exit.
Sfor. The marquis of Pescara! a great soldier;
And though he serv'd upon the adverse party,
Ever my constant friend.

Re-enter FRANCISCO, with PESCARA.
Fran. Yonder he walks,
Full of sad thoughts.

[Apart.

Pes. Blame him not, good Francisco,
end so,
He hath much cause to grieve; would I might
And not add this to fear!

[Apart

Sfor. My dear Pescara;
A miracle in these times! a friend, and happy,
Cleaves to a falling fortune!

Pes. If it were

As well in my weak power, in act, to raise it,
As 'tis to bear a part of sorrow with you,
You then should have just cause to say, Pes-

cara

Look'd not upon your state, but on your virtues,
When he made suit to be writ in the list
Of those you favour'd. But my haste forbids
All compliment; thus then, sir, to the purpose:
The cause that, unattended brought me hither,
Was not to tell you of your loss or danger
(For fame hath many wings to bring ill tidings,
And I presume you've heard it), but to give

you

Such friendly counsel, as, perhaps, may make
Your sad disaster less.

Sfor. You are all goodness;
think fit.
wisdom
And I give up myself to be dispos'd of,
As in your
you
Pes. Thus, then, sir;

To hope you can hold out against the emperor,
Were flattery in yourself, to your undoing;
Therefore, the safest course that you can take,
Is, to give up yourself to his discretion,
Before you be compell'd; for rest assur'd,
A voluntary yielding may find grace,
And will admit defence, at least, excuse:
But should you linger doubtful, till his powers
Have seiz'd your person and estates perforce,
You must expect extremes.

Sfor. I understand you;

For I have ever found you true and thankful,
Which makes me love the building I have rais'd
In your advancement; and repent no grace
I have conferr'd upon you. And, believe me,
Though now I should repeat my favours to you,
The titles I have given you, and the means
Suitable to your honours; that I thought you
Worthy my sister and my family,

And in my dukedom made you next myself;
It is not to upbraid you; but to tell you

I find you are worthy of them, in your love
And service to me.

Fran. Sir, I am your creature;

And any shape that you would have me wear, One smile of hers would make a savage tame;