The fist of strenuous vengeance is clutch'd, Instant to fall into the rotten jaws Of chap-fall'n death. Now down looks Provi-, dence, T'attend the last act of my son's revenge. The states of Venice are so swoll'n in hate ACT V.-SCENE II. BALURDO from under the Stage. [Exit. Bal. Ho! who's above there, ho? A murrain on all proverbs. They say hunger breaks through stone walls; but I am as gaunt as lean-ribb'd famine, yet I can burst through no stone walls. Oh now, Sir Gefferey, show thy valour, break prison and be hang'd. Nor shall the darkest nook of hell contain the discontented Sir Balurdo's ghost. Well, I am out well; I have put off the prison to put on the rope. Oh poor shotten herring, what a pickle art thou in! Oh hunger, how thou domineer'st in my guts! Oh for a fat leg of ewe mutton in stew'd broth, or drunken song to feed on! I could belch rarely, for I am all wind. Oh cold, cold, cold, cold, cold! Oh poor knight! Oh, poor Sir Gefferey, sing like an unicorn before thou dost dip thy horn in the water of death. Oh cold! Oh sing! Oh cold! Oh, poor Sir Gefferey, sing, sing! [Sings. And I do find the citizens grown sick The rumour's got 'mong troop of citizens, Appears a gloating eye of much mislike; With strong imagination of, what not? Oh now Vindicta, that's the word we have, Ant. Vindicta! Bal. I am acold. Pan. Who's there? Sir Gefferey? Bal. A poor knight, God wot. The nose of thy knighthood is bitten off with cold. Oh poor Sir Gefferey, cold, cold! Pan. What chance of fortune hath tript up his heels, And laid him in the kennel, ha? Alb. I will discourse it all. Poor honest soul, Hadst thou a bever" to clasp up thy face, Thou shouldst associate3 us in masquery, And see revenge. Bal. Nay, and you talk of revenge, my stomach's up, for I am most tyrannically hungry. A bever! I have a headpiece, a skull, a brain of proof, I warrant ye. Alb. Slink to my chamber, then, and tire thee. Bal. Is there a fat leg of ewe mutton? Bal. And a clean shirt? 2 paise-poise, weight. ACT V.-SCENE III. Enter CASTILIO and FOROBOsco; two Pages, with torches; LUCIO, bare; PIERO and MARIA, GALEATZO, two Senators, and NUTRICE. PIERO to MARIA. Pie. Sit close unto my breast, heart of my love, Rich happiness that such a son is drown'd. Pie. Which he would quake to have adventur'd; Thou know'st I have Mar. Murder'd my husband. Pie. Borne out the shock of war, and done, what not, That valour durst. Dost love me, fairest? Say. note. Full red-cheek'd Bacchus, let Lyeus 2 float Skip light lavoltas 3 in your full-sapp'd veins. Now [Boy sings. The song ended, the cornets sound a cynet. Enter ANTONIO, PANDULPHO, and ALBERTO, in maskery; BALURDO, and a Torchbearer. Pie. Call Julio hither. Where's the little soul? I saw him not to-day. Here's sport alone For him, i'faith; for babes and fools, I know, Relish not substance, but applaud the show. [To the Conspirators, as they stand in rank for the measure. Gal. All blessed fortune crown your brave attempt. [TO ANTONIO. I have a troop to second your attempt. [To PANDULPHO. The Venice states join hearts unto your hands. [TO ALBERTO. By the delights in contemplation Sound still, loud music. Oh, your breath gives grace To curious feet, that in proud measure pace. Mar. Speak not, doubt not; all is above all hope. 1 firm-certain. 2 Lyeus, from the Greek (the unbender), was a surname of Bacchus, and is here used generally for wine. 3 lavolta. See note 1, p. 87, col. 1. 4 sport alone-excellent sport. Ant. Then will I dance and whirl about the air. Methinks I am all soul, all heart, all spirit. While the measure is dancing, ANDRUGIO's ghost is placed betwixt the music houses. Pie. Bring hither suckets,' candied delicates. We'll taste some sweetmeats, gallants, ere we sleep. Ant. We'll cook your sweetmeats, gallants, with tart sour sauce. And. Here will I sit, spectator of revenge, And glad my ghost in anguish of my foe. [The Maskers whisper with PIERO. Pie. Marry and shall; i'faith I were too rude, If I gainsaid so civil fashion. The maskers pray you to forbear the room Till they have banqueted. Let it be so: No man presume to visit them on death. [The Maskers whisper again. Only myself? Oh, why, with all my heart: I'll fill your consort. Here Piero sits; Come on, unmask, let's fall to. [The Conspirators bind PIERO, pluck out his tongue, and triumph over him. Ant. Murder and torture! no prayers, no entreats! Pan. We'll spoil your oratory. Out with his tongue. Ant. I have't, Pandulpho; the veins panting bleed, Trickling fresh gore about my fist. Bind fastSo, so! And. Blest be thy hand! I taste the joys of heaven, Viewing my son triumph in his black blood. Bal. Down to the dungeon with him; I'll dungeon with him! I'll fool you; Sir Gefferey will be Sir Gefferey. I'll tickle you. Ant. Behold, black dog! Pan. Grinn'st thou, thou snarling cur? Ant. To thine anguish see A fool triumphant in thy misery. Pan. He weeps; now do I glorify my hands; I had no vengeance, if I had no tears. Ant. Fall to, good duke. Oh these are worthless cates,3 You have no stomach to them; look, look here: Here lies a dish to feast thy father's gorge. Here's flesh and blood, which I am sure thou lov'st. [PIERO seems to condole his son. Pan. Was he thy flesh, thy son, thy dearest son? Ant. So was Andrugio my dearest father. Pan. So was Felice my dearest son. Pan. Thy son? true; and which is my most joy, I hope no bastard, but thy very blood, Thy true begotten, most legitimate And loved issue-there's the comfort on't. Ant. Scum of the mud of hell! Alb. Slime of all filth! Mar. Thou most detested toad! Bal. Thou most retort and obtuse rascal! Ant. Thus charge we death at thee; remember hell, And let the howling murmurs of black spirits, Pan. Sa, sa; no, let him die, and die, and still be dying. [They offer to run all at PIERO, and on a And yet not die till he hath died and died Ant. Now pell mell; thus the hand of Heaven chokes The throat of murder. Pan. This for my son. This for my father's [He stabs PIERO. Ant. I will not lose the glory of the deed, Were all the tortures of the deepest hell Fixt to my limbs. I pierc'd the monster's heart With an undaunted hand. Pan. By yon bright spangled front of heaven 'twas I; 'Twas I sluic'd out his life-blood. Alb. Tush, to say truth, 'twas all. 2 Sen. Blest be you all, and may your honours live Religiously held sacred, even for ever and ever. Gal. (to ANTONIO). Thou art another Hercules to us, In ridding huge pollution from our state. 1 Sen. Antonio, belief is fortified With most invincible approvements of much wrong, By this Piero to thee. We have found Beadrolls of mischief, plots of villany, 1 approvements-proofs. Laid 'twixt the duke and Strotzo, which we found Too firmly acted. 2 Sen. Alas, poor orphan! Ant. Poor, standing triumphant over Beelzebub! Having large interest for blood, and yet deem'd poor? 1 Sen. What satisfaction outward pomp can yield, Or chiefest fortunes of the Venice state, Ant. We are amaz'd at your benignity; Pan. We know the world, and did we know no more, We would not live to know; but since constraint [The curtains are drawn, PIERO departeth. For her sake, here I vow a virgin bed. 2 Sen. We will attend her mournful exequies; Conduct you to your calm sequester'd life, And then Mar. Leave us to meditate on misery, Where lives the widow of the poisoned lord? And. Sound doleful tunes, a solemn hymn ad vance, To close the last act of my vengeance; May it prove gracious; may his style be deck'd By calm attention of choice audience; [Exeunt omnes. 1 departeth-i.e. we suppose, his body is carried out. PHILIP MASSINGER. [PHILIP MASSINGER, the son of Arthur Massinger, a gentleman attached in some capacity to the family of Henry, second Earl of Pembroke, was born at Wilton, the seat of the Wiltons, in the year 1584. Massinger, in all likelihood, received the rudiments of his education at the place of his birth, although little is known of his early years, and nearly as little of the rest of his life. When the dramatist was sixteen years of age, the patron of himself and his father died; but William, the third earl, continued the latter in his service probably till his death. Massinger became a student of St. Alban's Hall, Oxford, in 1602, in the eighteenth year of his age, where he was maintained apparently at the expense of his father. While at college, Anthony-à-Wood tells us that he gave his mind more to poetry and romance, for about four years or more, than to logic and philosophy, which he ought to have done.' Gifford, however, thinks he must have applied himself to study with uncommon energy, for his literary acquisitions at this early period appear to be multifarious and extensive. He left college abruptly and without taking his degree, for which various reasons are alleged, the most likely being the death of his father, which left him entirely without the means of support, the Earl of Pembroke treating him with entire neglect. Another reason urged to account both for his abruptly leaving college and for the Earl of Pembroke's neglect is, that he had become a convert to Roman Catholicism; this, however, is a mere conjecture of Mr. Gifford's, founded on certain expressions in some of his dramas, and is in every way improbable. In all likelihood Massinger went straight to London on quitting college, and there betook himself to almost the only means then available to a friendless, penniless genius for earning a livelihood-mending and writing plays. He became connected with some of the most celebrated of his contemporaries, in conjunction with several of whom he appears to have concocted several dramas,—a practice, we have seen, then very common. We have evidence of this, as well as of Massinger's necessitous condition, in a letter written about 1612 by him, in conjunction with some others, to the well-known manager and play-broker, Henslow. It is as follows: 'To our most loving friend, Mr. Philip Hinchlow, esquire, These, 'Mr. Hinchlow, 'You understand our unfortunate extremitie, and I doe not thincke you so void of cristianitie but that you would throw so much money into the Thames as wee request now of you, rather than endanger so many innocent lives. You know there is xl. more at least to be receaved of you for the play. We desire you to lend us vl. of that; which shall be allowed to you, without which we cannot be bayled, nor I play any more till this be dispatch'd. It will lose you xxl. ere the end of the next weeke, besides the hinderance of the next new play. Pray, sir, consider our cases with humanity, and now give us cause to acknowledge you our true friend in time of need. Wee have entreated Mr. Davison to deliver this note, as well to witness your love as our promises, and alwayes acknowledgement to be ever, "Your most thanckfull and loving friend, NAT. FIELD.' "The money shall be abated out of the money remayns for the play of Mr. Fletcher and ours. ROB. DABORNE.' 'I have ever found you a true loving friend to mee, and in soe small a suite, it becinge honest, I hope you will not fail us. PHILIP MASSINGER.' Indorsed 'Received by mee Robert Davison of Mr. Hinchlow for the use of Mr. Daboerne, Mr. Feeld, Mr. Messenger, the sum of vl. ROB. DAVISON.' Massinger left college about 1606, and the earliest known play of his still extant is The Virgin Martyr, which did not appear in print till 1622; but it is certain that previous to this he must have written or helped to write many others, which have been either lost or cannot now be identified. A Mr. Warburton, Somerset Herald of last century, formed an extensive collection of the writings of our old dramatists, which fell into the hands of his cook; and when Warburton ‘after a lapse of years condescends to revisit his hoards, he finds they have been burnt, from an economical wish to save him the charges of more valuable brown paper.' In this sacrilegious way, it has been conjectured, were consumed about twelve of Massinger's plays, besides forty other manuscript plays of various authors. Of these lost twelve, no doubt a number must have been written previous to 1622. After this he continued industriously writing plays till his death, eighteen altogether being still extant. Although neglected by the Earl of Pembroke, he found other patrons, who appear to have added a little to the very slender income he derived from the sale of his plays; but withal, and notwithstanding that he seems to have led a more correct life than was the case with most of his contemporaries, it appears to have been one of poverty, misfortune, and sadness. He probably never married, and to all appearance, after his father's death, he had no relation of any kind alive. His death, like his life, was mysterious and lonely; it took place on the 17th of March 1640. He went to bed, says Langhaine, in good health, and was found dead in the morning in his own house on the Bankside. Such is the received account,' says Hartley Coleridge; but he seems to have had none to care for him, none to mark his symptoms, or to detect the slow decay which he might conceal, in despair of sympathy.' He was buried in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, and the comedians paid the last sad duty to his name, by attending him to the grave. No stone or inscription of any kind marked his resting-place; but, on the authority of Sir Aston Cockayne, one of Massinger's most intimate acquaintance and his warm admirer, he was buried in the grave of his brother dramatist Fletcher. His death is thus entered in the parish register:- March 20, 1639-40, buried Philip Massinger, a stranger.' This entry has been pathetically commented on by Gifford and others; but Mr. Collier has shown that the word 'stranger' was applied to every person who was buried in a parish to which he did not belong. Massinger's best known plays are The Virgin Martyr (printed 1622); The Duke of Milan (1623); The Bondman (acted 1622, printed 1624); The Fatal Dowry (1632); The City Madam (acted 1632); A New Way to Pay Old Debts (1633). The chief merits of Massinger's plays are their unusual earnestness and religiousness of tone, the power of deep reflection, and of depicting with a master hand the tenderer human emotions which they display, and the richness, beauty, music, and often stateliness of their language. His dramas display far more care and elaboration than those of Beaumont and Fletcher, on at least an equal level with whom we are inclined to place him. As we esteem Massinger one of the greatest and most worthy of our dramatists, we shall take the liberty of appending a somewhat minute list of the qualities displayed in his works, taken from the volume of the Cabinet Cyclopædia on the British Dramatists:-'1. His style is natural, yet elegant; it is easy, clear, flowing, and unaffected. Its great beauty, indeed, is perspicuity; he does not rise into bombast; but he does sometimes descend lower than he ought. 2. If his plots are sometimes intricate, they are always connected; circumstances apparently of trifling import, are made the hinges of important events. 3. And he observes the unities more than the writers of his age, Ben Jonson and one or two more excepted. Of these, unity of action is always essential. He has rarely under-plots; and when he has, they are so skilfully allied with the pervading one, as not to affect the simplicity and clearness of the action. Sometimes, indeed, he has too much incident; and this hurries the piece so much that we have not leisure enough to dwell on the delineation of character. 4. Of his learning, |