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I'll to Sir Francis Acton, and inform him
Of what hath pass'd 'twixt you and his sister.
Frank. Do as you please.-How ill am I bested,
To be a widower ere my wife be dead!

[Exeunt. Enter Mrs. FRANKFORD, with JENKIN, her maid SISLY, her Coachman, and three Carters.

Mrs. A. Bid my coach stay. Why should I ride in state,

Being hurl'd so low down by the hand of fate?
A seat like to my fortunes let me have;
Earth for my chair, and for my bed a grave.

A man

Jen. Comfort, good mistress: you have watered your coach with tears already. You have but two miles now to go to your manor. cannot say by my old Master Frankford, as he may say by me, that he wants manors; for he hath three or four, of which this is one that we are going to now.

Sisly. Good mistress, be of good cheer. Sorrow, you see, hurts you, but helps you not: we all mourn to see you so sad.

Carter. Mistress, I see some of my landlord's

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Mrs A. I know the lute. Oft have I sung to thee:

We are both out of tune, both out of time.

Nich. Would that had been the worst instrument that e'er you played on! My master commends him to ye; there's all he can find that ever was yours. He hath nothing left that ever you could lay claim to but his own heart, and he could afford you that. All that I have to deliver you is this: he prays you to forget him; and so he bids you farewell.

Mrs. A. I thank him: he is kind, and ever

was.

All you that have true feeling of my grief,

That know my loss, and have relenting hearts,
Gird me about, and help me with your tears
To wash my spotted sins. My lute shall groan;
It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan.
[She plays.

Enter WENDOLL behind.

Wen. Pursu'd with horror of a guilty soul, And with the sharp scourge of repentance lash'd, I fly from mine own shadow. Oh, my stars! What have my parents in their lives deserv'd, That you should lay this penance on their son? When I but think of Master Frankford's love, And lay it to my treason, or compare My murdering him for his relieving me, It strikes a terror like a lightning's flash, To scorch my blood up. Thus I, like the owl, Asham'd of day, live in these shadowy woods, Afraid of every leaf, or murm'ring blast, Yet longing to receive some perfect knowledge How he hath dealt with her. Oh, my sad fate! Here, and so far from home, and thus attended! O God! have divorc'd the truest turtles That ever liv'd together; and, being divided, In several places make their several moan; She in the fields laments, and he at home. So poets write that Orpheus made the trees And stones to dance to his melodious harp, Meaning the rustic and the barbarous hinds, That had no understanding part in them:

So she from these rude carters tears extracts,

Making their flinty hearts with grief to rise,
And draw [down] rivers from their rocky eyes.
Mrs. A. If you return unto your master, say
(Though not from me, for I am all unworthy
To blast his name with a strumpet's tongue)
That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead:
Nay, you may say, too (for my vow is past),
Last night you saw me eat and drink my last.
This to your master you may say and swear;
For it is writ in heaven, and decreed here.

Nich. I'll say you wept: I'll swear you made me sad.

Why, how now, eyes? What now? What's here to do?

I am gone, or I shall straight turn baby too.
Wen. I cannot weep, my heart is all on fire.
Curs'd be the fruits of my unchaste desire!
Mrs. A. Go, break this lute upon my coach's
wheel,

As the last music that I e'er shall make ;
Not as my husband's gift, but my farewell
To all earth's joy; and so your master tell.
Nich. If I can for crying.
Wen. Grief, have done,

Or, like a madman, I shall frantic run.

Mrs. A. You have beheld the wofull'st wretch on earth

A woman made of tears: would you had words
To express but what you see! My inward grief
No tongue can utter; yet unto your power
You may describe my sorrow, and disclose
To thy sad master my abundant woes.
Nich. I'll do your commendations.
Mrs. A. Oh! no:

I dare not so presume; nor to my children:
I am disclaim❜d in both; alas! I am.

Oh! never teach them, when they come to speak,
To name the name of mother: chide their tongue,
If they by chance light on that hated word;
Tell them 'tis naught: for when that word they

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Mrs. A. I have no more to say.-Speak not for me;

Yet you may tell your master what you see.
Nich. I'll do't.

[Exit.

Wen. I'll speak to her, and comfort her in grief.

Oh! but her wound cannot be cur'd with words.
No matter, though; I'll do my best good will
To work a cure on her whom I did kill.

Mrs. A. So, now unto my coach, then to my home,

So to my death-bed; for from this sad hour,
I never will nor eat, nor drink, nor taste
Of

any cates that may preserve my life.

I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest; But when my tears have wash'd my black soul white,

Sweet Saviour, to thy hands I yield my sprite.
Wen. (coming forward). Oh, Mrs. Frankford!
Mrs. A. Oh, for God's sake, fly!

The devil doth come to tempt me ere I die.
My coach-This sin, that with an angel's face
Conjur'd mine honour, till he sought my wrack,
In my repentant eye seems ugly, black.

[Exeunt all except WENDOLL and JENKIN;
the Carters whistling.

Jen. What! my young master, that fled in his shirt? How come you by your clothes again? You have made our house in a sweet pickle, ha'

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May in their height abate, I will return:
And I divine (however now dejected),

My worth and parts being by some great man prais'd,

At my return I may in court be rais'd. [Exit. Enter Sir FRANCIS ACTON, Sir CHARLES MOUNTFORD, CRANWELL, MALBY, and SUSAN.

Sir F. Brother, and now my wife, I think these troubles

Fall on my head by justice of the heavens,
For being so strict to you in your extremities;
But we are now aton'd.1 would my sister
Could with like happiness o'ercome her griefs
As we have ours.

Susan. You tell us, Mr. Cranwell, wondrous things

Touching the patience of that gentleman;
With what strange virtue he demeans his grief.
Cran. I told you what I was a witness of;
It was my fortune to lodge there that night.
Sir F. Oh, that same villain, Wendoll! 'twas
his tongue

That did corrupt her: she was of herself
Chaste, and devoted well. Is this the house?

Cran. Yes, sir. I take it, here your sister lies.

Sir F. My brother Frankford show'd too mild & spirit

In the revenge of such a loathed crime.

Less than he did, no man of spirit could do.
I am so far from blaming his revenge,
That I commend it. Had it been my case,
Their souls at once had from their breasts been
freed:

Death to such deeds of shame is the due meed.

Enter JENKIN and SISLY.

Jen. Oh, my mistress, mistress! my poor mistress!

Sisly. Alas! that ever I was born; what shall I do for my poor mistress?

Sir C. Why, what of her?

Jen. O Lord, sir! she no sooner heard that her brother and her friends were come to see how she did, but she, for very shame of her guilty conscience, fell into such a swoon, that we had much ado to get life in her.

Susan. Alas! that she should bear so hard a fate.

Pity it is repentance comes too late.

1aton'd-made at one, reconciled.

Sir F. Is she so weak in body?

Jen. Oh, sir! I can assure you there's no hope of life in her; for she will take no sustenance: she hath plainly starv'd herself, and now she's as lean as a lath. She ever looks for the good hour. Many gentlemen and gentlewomen of the country are come to comfort her.

Enter Mrs. FRANKFORD, in her bed. Mal. How fare you, Mistress Frankford? Mrs. A. Sick, sick! oh, sick! give me some air. I pray,

Tell me, oh! tell me, where is Master Frankford?

Will he not deign to see me ere I die?

Mal. Yes, Mistress Frankford: divers gentlemen,

Your loving neighbours, with that just request
Have mov'd, and told him of your weak estate:
Who, though with much ado to get belief,
Examining of the general circumstance,
Seeing your sorrow and your penitence,
And hearing therewithal the great desire
You have to see him ere you left the world,
He gave to us his faith to follow us,
And sure he will be here immediately.

Mrs. A. You have half reviv'd ine with the pleasing news.

Raise me a little higher in my bed.—
Blush I not, brother Acton? Blush I not, Sir
Charles?

Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek?
Is not my crime there? Tell me, gentlemen.

Sir C. Alas! good mistress, sickness hath not left you

Blood in your face enough to make you blush. Mrs. A. Then, sickness, like a friend, my fault would hide.

Is my husband come? My soul but tarries
His arrive, then I am fit for heaven.

Sir F. I came to chide you, but my words of hate

Are turn'd to pity and compassionate grief.
I came to rate you; but my brawls, you see,
Melt into tears, and I must weep by thee.-
Here's Master Frankford now.

Enter FRANKford.

Frank. Good morrow, brother; morrow, gentle

men.

God, that hath laid this cross upon our heads, Might (had He pleas'd) have made our cause of meeting

On a more fair and more contented ground;
But He that made us, made us to this woe.

Mrs. A. And is he come? Methinks that voice I know.

Frank. How do you, woman?

Mrs. A. Well, Master Frankford, well; but shall be better,

I hope, within this hour. Will you vouchsafe (Out of your grace and your humanity) To take a spotted strumpet by the hand?

Frank. This hand once held my heart in faster bonds

Than now 'tis grip'd by me. God pardon them That made us first break hold.

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I was so impudent to wish you here;
And race more beg your pardon. Oh, good man,
And father to my children, pardon me.
Pardon, oh! pardon me: my fault so heinous is,
That if you in this world forgive it not,
Heaven will not clear it in the world to come.
Faintness hath so usurp'd upon my knees,
That kneel I cannot; but in my heart's knees
My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet,
To beg your gracious pardon. Pardon, oh,
pardon me!

Frank. As freely, from the low depth of my
soul,

As my Redeemer hath forgiven his death,
I pardon thee. I will shed tears for thee;
Pray with thee; and, in mere pity of thy weak
estate,

I'll wish to die with thee.

All. So do we all.

Nich. So will not I;

I'll sigh and sob, but, by my faith, not die.

Sir F. Oh, Master Frankford, all the near
alliance

I lose by her, shall be supplied in thee:
You are my brother by the nearest way;
Her kindred hath fall'n off, but yours doth stay.
Frank. Even as I hope for pardon, at that day
When the Great Judge of heaven in scarlet sits,
So be thou pardon'd. Though thy rash offence
Divorc'd our bodies, thy repentant tears
Unite our souls.

Sir C. Then comfort, Mistress Frankford.
You see your husband hath forgiven your fall;

Part equally amongst us: storms divided
Abate their force, and with less rage are guided.
Cran. Do, Master Frankford: he that hath
least part,

Will find enough to drown one troubled heart.
Sir F. Peace with thee, Nan. -Brothers and
gentlemen

(All we that can plead interest in her grief),
Bestow upon her body funeral tears.
Brother, had you with threats and usage bad
Punish'd her sin, the grief of her offence
Had not with such true sorrow touch'd her heart.
Frank. I see it had not: therefore, on her
grave

Will I bestow this funeral epitaph,

Which on her marble tomb shall be engrav'd.
In golden letters shall these words be fill'd:
Here lies she whom her husband's kindness kill'd.

EPILOGUE.

An honest crew, disposed to be merry,

Came to a tavern by, and call'd for wine: The drawer brought it (smiling like a cherry), And told them it was pleasant, neat and fine. 'Taste it,' quoth one: he did so; 'Fio!' (quoth he)

'This wine was good; now't runs too near the lee.'

Then, rouse your spirits and cheer your fainting Another sipp'd to give the wine his due,

soul.

Susan. How is it with you?

Sir F. How d'ye feel yourself?

Mrs. A. Not of this world.

Frank. I see you are not, and I weep to see it.
My wife, the mother to my pretty babes!
Both those lost names I do restore thee back,
And with this kiss I wed thee once again.
Though thou art wounded in thy honour'd name,
And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest,
Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest.

Mrs. A. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in
heaven art free:

Once more thy wife dies thus embracing thee

[Dies. Frank. New married, and new widow'd.-Oh! she's dead,

And a cold grave must be her nuptial bed.
Sir C. Sir, be of good comfort, and your heavy

sorrow

And said unto the rest it drank too flat:
The third said, it was old; the fourth, too new;
'Nay,' quoth the fifth, the sharpness likes me
not.'

Thus, gentlemen, you see how, in one hour,
The wine was new, old, flat, sharp, sweet, and

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JAMES SHIRLEY.

[JAMES SHIRLEY, the last of the 'great race' of what are called the Elizabethan dramatists, was descended from the Shirleys of either Sussex or Warwickshire, and was born in September 1596, in or near the parish of St. Mary Woolchurch, London. In October 1608, when twelve years old, he was admitted into Merchant-Taylors' School, where he remained till June 1612, giving diligent attention to his studies. On leaving school he is said to have proceeded to St. John's College, Oxford; the only authority for this assertion being Anthony Wood, who makes the following statement regarding Shirley:- At the same time,' says Wood, 'Dr. William Laud presiding that house, he had a very great affection for him, especially for the pregnant parts that were visible in him; but then having a broad or large mole upon his left cheek, which some esteemed a deformity, that worthy doctor would often tell him that he was an unfit person to take the sacred function upon him, and should never have his consent so to do.' If Shirley ever was at Oxford, he quitted it without taking his degree, and became a student at Catherine Hall, Cambridge, where he graduated Bachelor of Arts, and afterwards took his M.A. Notwithstanding the objections of Laud, Shirley, on having completed his course at college, took holy orders, and was appointed to a living at or near St. Alban's, Hertfordshire. Here, however, he remained but a very short time, as soon after, apparently from conscientious and disinterested motives, he became a convert to the Roman Catholic Church. Abandoning the clerical profession, he obtained the appointment of Master in the Grammar School of St. Alban's, which he held during the years 1623, 1624, which employment also,' says Wood, 'he finding uneasy to him, he retired to the metropolis, lived in Gray's Inn, and set up for a play-maker.' There is reason to believe that while still teaching at St. Alban's, his comedy of Love's Tricks was performed in London. Shirley appears to have led a steady life, and, according to Wood, gained not only a considerable livelihood from his dramas, but also attracted the attention of 'persons of quality,' especially of Queen Henrietta Maria, 'who made him her servant.' He appears, however, to have been too independent to take proper advantage of these opportunities of advancement. 'I never,' he says in the dedication to The Maid's Revenge, affected the ways of flattery; some say, I have lost my preferment by not practising that court sin.' Regarding his domestic circumstances, it is only known that he was twice married, and had several children. From the time that he gave up teaching, Shirley continued industriously writing for the stage, his extant works filling six octavo volumes; besides which, a considerable number have been lost. About 1637 he visited Ireland, under the patronage of the Earl of Kildare, and while there brought out on the Dublin stage his drama, Royal Master. In 1642 Parliament ordered the suppression of stage-plays, thus cutting off the occupation of Shirley and other dramatists, as well as of the actors. As might be expected, both dramatists and actors, almost to a man, took the side of the king in the important struggle which followed, many of them attaining to a respectable rank in the royal army. When the rebellion broke out,' says Wood, and Shirley thereupon forced to leave London, and so consequently his wife and children (who afterwards were put to their shifts); he was invited by his most noble patron, William, Earl (afterwards Marquis and Duke) of Newcastle, to take his fortune with him in the wars; for that Count had engaged him so much by his generous liberality towards him, that he thought he could not do a worthier act than to serve him, and so consequently his prince.' After the king's cause had declined, Shirley returned to London,

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where he lived in comparative obscurity, resuming his old occupation of teaching, by means of which, and by the publication of some early poems and a few of his dramas, as well as of a grammar and other works, he managed to earn a scanty livelihood. The restoration of Charles II. does not appear to have bettered in any respect the condition of Shirley. On the opening of the theatres, which were eagerly attended by the people, several of his pieces were revived with success; but his declared resolution of never again attempting dramatic poetry was not to be shaken. He continued to earn a livelihood by teaching his school; while a degenerate race of playwrights arose, to delight with bombast and obscenity a tasteless and licentious age.'

'At length,' Wood tells us, 'after Mr. Shirley had lived in various conditions, and had seen much of the world, he, with his second wife, Frances, were driven by the dismal conflagration that happened in London, AN. 1666, from their habitation near to Fleet Street, into the parish of St. Giles's-in-the-Fields, in Middlesex, where being in a manner overcome with affrightments, disconsolations, and other miseries, occasioned by that fire and their losses, they both died within the compass of a natural day; whereupon their bodies were both buried in one grave in the yard belonging to the said church of St. Giles's, on the 29th of October 1666.' At his death Shirley had just entered on his seventy-first year. As we have already said, Shirley seems to have led a comparatively blameless life; 'gentle, modest, and full of sensibility, he seems to have conciliated the affection of all his associates.”

Thirty-three regular dramas written by Shirley are still extant: of these the principal are The Brothers (licensed 1626); The Wedding (printed 1629); The Grateful Servant (licensed 1629); The Traitor (licensed 1631); The Changes, or Love in a Maze (licensed 1632); Hyde Park (licensed 1632); The Duke's Mistress (licensed 1636); The Humorous Courtier (published 1640); The Cardinal (licensed 1641); The Sisters (licensed 1642); Honoria and Mammon, and The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses for the Shield of Achilles (published 1659).

Notwithstanding Dryden's unscrupulous sneer in his MacFlecknoe at this dramatist, Shirley undoubtedly deserves to rank honourably among his great contemporaries and predecessors. He is certainly superior to Heywood, and in several respects puts one in mind of the grace and ease of Beaumont and Fletcher, as well as of their power of depicting the manners of good society. He also, we are sorry to say, resembles these dramatists in another less commendable point, viz., the obscenity with which their plays are disfigured, although his language is seldom so gross and coarse, and, as compared with many of his immediate successors, is purity itself. Though he occasionally,' says Dyce, 'fails in giving vigour and individuality to his characters, the dramatis persona of his best productions are strongly drawn and clearly discriminated. In the extrication of the fable he sometimes betrays carelessness and haste; but his plots are generally conducted with admirable art and judgment. He abounds in brilliant thoughts, in noble and majestic sentiments, yet exhibits little of profound reflection. His imagination seldom takes a lofty flight; he loves to crowd his dramas with events of romantic beauty; but he shows no fondness for the ideal world, its ghosts and magic wonders. His fancy was exuberant. His scenes are rich in delicate imagery and picturesque similes; and even in those plays where character is somewhat faintly delineated, his eloquent and softly-coloured dialogue bestows a charm.' Though he was the last of this 'great race' of Titanic dramatists, he is by no means the least.

We have selected, as being two of his best productions, The Traitor and The Brothers.

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