And as an east wind leave them all behind us Out-stripp'd the people's praises, won the garlands Like proud seas under us; our good swords now, Arc. No, Palamon, Pal. Those hopes are prisoners with us; here we are, Loaden with kisses, arm'd with thousand Cupids, To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them 97. Philip Massinger. 1584-1640. (Manual, p. 170.) FROM THE VIRGIN MARTYR. Angelo, an Angel, attends Dorothea as a Page. ANGELO. DOROTHEA. The time, midnight. Dor. My book and taper. Ang. Here, most holy mistress. Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. Were every servant in the world like thee, And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest; Dor. And force the wakeful moon to lose her eyes, Be nigh me still, then. In golden letters down I'll set that day, Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, This little, pretty body, when I coming Forth of the temple, heard my beggar-boy, My sweet-faced, godly beggar-boy, crave an alms, Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand; And when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom Methought was fill'd with no hot wanton fire, But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, On wings of cherubims, than it did before. Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye So likes so poor a servant. Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents; Ang. I am not: I did never Dor. Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace, A bless'd day. 98. John Ford. 1586-1639. (Manual, p. 171.) FROM THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY. Contention of a Bird and a Musician. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Which poets of an elder time have feign'd To glorify their Tempe, bred in me To Thessaly I came, and living private, Without acquaintance of more sweet companions I day by day frequented silent groves This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute Nature's best skill'd musiciar, undertakes The challenge; and, for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her down ; He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument, than she The nightingale did with her various notes Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Whom art had never taught cliffs, moods, or notes, So many voluntaries, and so quick, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method The bird (ordain'd to be Music's first martyr) strove to imitate These several sounds: which when her warbling throat Fail'd in, for grief down dropt she on his lute And brake her heart. It was the quaintest sadness, To weep a funeral elegy of tears. He looks upon the trophies of his art, Then sigh'd, then wiped his eyes, then sigh'd, and cried, This cruelty upon the author of it. Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood, Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end :" and in that sorrow, I suddenly stept in. 99. John Webster. Fl. 1623. (Manual, p. 172.) FROM THE DUCHESS OF MALFY. The Duchess's marriage with Antonio being discovered, her brother Ferdinand shuts her up in a prison, and torments her with various trials of studied cruelty. By his command, Bosola, the instrument of his devices, shows her the bodies of her husband and children counterfeited in wax, as dead. Bos. He doth present you this sad spectacle, That now you know directly they are dead, Duch. There is not between heaven and earth one wish Bos. In some foul dunghill; and 'yond's an excellent property What's that? Duch. If they would bind me to that lifeless trunk, Bos. And let me freeze to death. Come, you must live. Leave this vain sorrow. Things being at the worst begin to mend. When he hath shot his sting into your hand, Duch. Good comfortable fellow, Bos. Persuade a wretch that's broke upon the wheel For I do play a part in 't 'gainst my will. Come, be of comfort; I will save your life. I will go pray.-No: I'll go curse. Bos. O fie! Duch. I could curse the stars! Bos. O fearful. Duch. And those three smiling seasons of the year To its first chaos. Plagues (that make lanes through largest families) Let them like tyrants Ne'er be remember'd but for the ill they've done! Let all the zealous prayers of mortified Churchmen forget them! Let heaven a little while cease crowning martyrs, To punish them! go, howl them this; and say, I long to bleed: It is some mercy when men kill with speed. She is kept waking with noises of Madmen, and, at last, is strangled by common |