Is hard and crooked: scarce repentance finding,
With all her holy helps, the door to enter.
Give me thy hand, what dost thou feel?

Edi. Your tears, sir;

You weep extremely; strengthen me now, justice.
Why are these sorrows, sir?

Rol. Thou'lt never love me,

If I should tell thee; yet there's no way left
Ever to purchase this blest paradise,

But swimming thither in these tears.

Edi. I stagger.

Rol. Are they not drops of blood?
Edi. No.

Rol. They're for blood then,

For guiltless blood; and they must drop, my Edith,
They must thus drop, till I have drown'd my mischiefs.
Edi. If this be true, I have no strength to touch him.
Rol. I prithee look upon me, turn not from me ;
Alas I do confess I'm made of mischiefs,
Begot with all man's miseries upon me :
But see my sorrows, maid, and do not thou,
Whose only sweetest sacrifice is softness,
Whose true condition, tenderness of nature-

Edi. My anger melts, oh, I shall lose my justice. Rol. Do not thou learn to kill with cruelty, As I have done, to murder with thine eyes, (Those blessed eyes) as I have done with malice. When thou hast wounded me to death with scorn, (As I deserve it, lady) for my true love,

When thou hast loaden me with earth for ever,
Take heed my sorrows, and the stings I suffer,
Take heed my nightly dreams of death and horror
Pursue thee not: no time shall tell thy griefs then,
Nor shall an hour of joy add to thy beauties,
Look not upon me as I kill'd thy father,

As I was smear'd in blood, do not thou hate me ;
But thus in whiteness of my wash'd repentance,

In my heart's tears and truth of love to Edith,

In my fair life hereafter.

Edi. He will fool me.

Rol. Oh, with thine angel eyes behold and bless me · On heaven we call for mercy and obtain it,

To justice for our right on earth and have it,

Of thee I beg for love, save me, and give it.

Edi. Now, heaven, thy help, or I am gone for ever! His tongue has turn'd me into melting pity.

THIERRY AND THEODORET: A TRAGEDY. BY JOHN

FLETCHER.

Thierry, King of France, being childless, is foretold by an Astrologer, that he shall have children if he sacrifice the first Woman that he shall meet at sun-rise coming out of the Temple of Diana. He waits before the Temple, and the first Woman he sees proves to be his own Wife Ordella.

THIERRY. MARTEL, a Nobleman.

Mart. Your grace is early stirring.

Thier. How can he sleep

Whose happiness is laid up in an hour

He knows comes stealing towards him? Oh Martel !
Is't possible the longing bride, whose wishes

Out-run her fears, can on that day she is married
Consume in slumbers; or his arms rust in ease
That hears the charge, and sees the honor'd purchase
Ready to guild his valor? Mine is more,

A power above these passions: this day France,
France, that in want of issue withers with us,
And like an aged river, runs his head
Into forgotten ways, again I ransom,

And his fair course turn right.

Mart. Happy woman, that dies to do these things.

Thier. The Gods have heard me now, and those that scorn'd me,

Mothers of many children and blest fathers

That see their issue like the stars unnumber'd,

Their comfort more than them, shall in my praises

Now teach their infants songs; and tell their ages

From such a son of mine, or such a queen,
That chaste Ordella brings me.

Mart. The day wears,

And those that have been offering early prayers,
Are now retiring homeward.

Thier. Stand and mark then.

Mart. Is it the first must suffer?

Thier. The first woman.

Mart. What hand shall do it, sir ?

Thier. This hand, Martel:

For who less dare presume to give the gods
An incense of this offering?

Mart. Would I were she,

For such a way to die, and such a blessing,
Can never crown my parting.

Here comes a woman.

ORDELLA comes out of the Temple veiled.

Thier. Stand and behold her then.

Mart. I think a fair one.

Thier. Move not whilst I prepare her: may her peace, Like his whose innocence the gods are pleas'd with,

And offering at their altars, gives his soul

Far purer than those fires, pull heaven upon her;
You holy powers, no human spot dwell in her ;
No love of anything, but you and goodness,
Tie her to earth; fear be a stranger to her,
And all weak blood's affections, but thy hope,
Let her bequeath to women: hear me, heaven,
Give her a spirit masculine and noble,
Fit for yourselves to ask, and me to offer.
O let her meet my blow, doat on her death;
And as a wanton vine bows to the pruner,

That by his cutting off more may increase,
So let her fall to raise me fruit. Hail woman!
The happiest and the best (if the dull will

Do not abuse thy fortune) France e'er found yet.

Ordel. She's more than dull, sir, less and worse than woman, That may inherit such an infinite

As you propound, a greatness so near goodness,

And brings a will to rob her.

Thier. Tell me this then,

Was there e'er woman yet, or may be found,
That for fair fame, unspotted memory,

For virtue's sake, and only for its self sake
Has, or dare make a story?

Ordel. Many dead, sir, living I think as many.
Thier. Say the kingdom

May from a woman's will receive a blessing,

The king and kingdom, not a private safety;

A general blessing, lady.

Ordel. A general curse light on her heart denies it.

Thier. Full of honor;

And such examples as the former ages

Were but dim shadows of and empty figures,

Ordel. You strangely stir me, sir, and were my weakness

In any other flesh but modest woman's,

You should not ask more questions; may I do it?

Thier. You may, and which is more, you must.
Ordel. I joy in't,

Above a moderate gladness; sir, you promise
It shall be honest.

Thier. As ever time discover'd.

Ordel. Let it be what it may then, what it dare,

I have a mind will hazard it.

Thier. But hark ye,

What may that woman merit, makes this blessing?
Ordel. Only her duty, sir.

Thier. 'Tis terrible.

Ordel. "Tis so much the more noble.

Thier. 'Tis full of fearful shadows.

Ordel. So is sleep, sir,

Or anything that's merely ours and mortal;
We were begotten gods else: but those fears,
Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts,

Fly, like the shapes of clouds we form, to nothing.
Thier. Suppose it death.

Ordel. I do.

Thier. And endless parting

With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness,

With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason:
For in the silent grave, no conversation,*

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers,

No careful father's counsel, nothing's heard,

Nor nothing is, but all oblivion,

Dust and an endless darkness: and dare you, woman,
Desire this place?

Ordel. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest ;

Children begin it to us, strong men seek it,

And kings from height of all their painted glories
Fall like spent exhalations to this centre:
And those are fools that fear it, or imagine,
A few unhandsome pleasures, or life's profits,
Can recompense this place; and mad that stay it,
Till age blow out their lights, or rotten humors
Bring them dispersed to the earth.

Thier. Then you can suffer?
Ordel. As willingly as say it.

Thier. Martel, a wonder!

Here is a woman that dares die. Yet tell me,

Are you a wife?

Ordel. I am, sir?

Thier. And have children? She sighs and weeps.

Ordel. O none, sir.

Thier. Dare you venture,

For a poor barren praise you neʼer shall hear,

* There is no work, no device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest. Ecclesiastes.