網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

I CHANCED, my dear, to come upon a day
Whilst thou wast but arising from thy bed,
And the warm snows, with comely garments cled,
More rich than glorious, and more fine than gay.
Then, blushing to be seen in such a case,
O how thy curled locks mine eyes did please;
And well become those waves thy beauty's seas,
Which by thy hairs were framed upon thy face;
Such was Diana once, when being spied
By rash Acteon, she was much commoved:
Yet, more discreet than th' angry goddess proved,
Thou knew'st I came through error, not of pride,
And thought the wounds I got by thy sweet sight
Were too great scourges for a fault so light.

AWAKE, my muse, and leave to dream of loves,
Shake off soft fancy's chains-I must be free;
I'll perch no more upon the myrtle tree, [doves;
Nor glide through th' air with beauty's sacred
But with Jove's stately bird I'll leave my nest,
And try my sight against Apollo's rays.
Then, if that ought my vent'rous course dismays,
Upon th' olive's boughs I'll light and rest;
I'll tune my accents to a trumpet now,
And seek the laurel in another field.
Thus I that once (as Beauty's means did yield)
Did divers garments on my thoughts bestow,
Like Icarus, I fear, unwisely bold,

Am purposed other's passions now t' unfold.

JOHN WEBSTER.

[Died about 1638.]

LANGBAINE only informs us of this writer, that he was clerk of St. Andrew's parish, Holborn,* and esteemed by his contemporaries. He wrote, in conjunction with Rowley, Dekker, and Marston. Among the pieces, entirely his own, are The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona, the tragedy of Appius and Virginia, the Devil's Law Case, and the Duchess of Malfi. From the advertisement prefixed to Vittoria Corombona, the piece seems not to have been successful in the representation. The author says, "that it wanted that which is the only grace and setting out of a tragedy, a full and understanding auditory." The auditory,

VITTORIA, THE MISTRESS OF BRACHIANO, RELATING HER DREAM TO HIM.

FROM VITTORIA COROMBONA, THE VENETIAN COURTESAN. Persons.-VITTORIA COROMBONA; DUKE OF BRACHIANO; COROMBONA, the mother, and FLAMINEO, the brother of VIT

TORIA.

Vittoria. To pass away the time, I'll tell your

grace

A dream I had last night.

Brachiano. Most wishedly.
Vit. A foolish idle dream:

Methought I walk'd, about the mid of night,
Into a churchyard, where a goodly yew tree
Spread her large root in ground; under that yew,
As I sat sadly leaning on a grave,
Chequer'd with cross sticks, there came stealing in
Your duchess and my husband; one of them
A pick-axe bore, th' other a rusty spade,
And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge me
About this yew.

Bra. That tree?

Vit. This harmless yew.

They told me my intent was to root up
That well-grown yew, and plant i'the stead of it
A wither'd black-thorn, and for that they vow'd
To bury me alive: my husband straight
With pick-axe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchess,

[ "Gildon, I believe, was the first who asserted that our author was clerk of St. Andrew's. I searched the registers of that church, but the name of Webster did not

it may be suspected, were not quite so much struck with the beauty of Webster's horrors, as Mr. Lamb seems to have been in writing the notes to his Specimens of our old Dramatic Poetry. In the same preface Webster deprives himself of the only apology that could be offered for his absurdities as a dramatist, by acknowledging that he wrote slowly; a circumstance in which he modestly compares himself to Euripides. In his tragedy of the Duchess of Malfi, the duchess is married and delivered of several children in the course of the five acts.

With shovel, like a fury, voided out

The earth, and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methought

I trembled, and yet for all this terror
I could not pray.

Fla. No, the devil was in your dream.

Vit. When to my rescue there arose methought A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm From that strong plant,

And both were struck dead by that sacred yew, In that base shallow grave that was their due. Fla. Excellent devil! she hath taught him, in a dream,

To make away his duchess, and her husband.

Bra. Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream. You are lodged within his arms who shall protect you

From all the fevers of a jealous husband,
From the poor envy of our phlegmatic duchess;
I'll seat you above law and above scandal.
Give to your thoughts the invention of delight
And the fruition, nor shall government
Divide me from you longer than a care
To keep you great: you shall to me at once
Be dukedom, health, wife, children, friends and all.
Cor. Woe to light hearts, they still forerun our
fall.

occur in them; and I examined the MSS. belonging to the Parish Clerks' Hall, in Wood Street, with as little success."-DYCE's Webster, vol. i. p. 1.-C.]

FROM THE DUCHESS OF MALFI.

The Duchess of Malfi having privately married Antonio, her own steward, is inhumanly persecuted by her brother Ferdinand, who confines her in a house of madmen, and in concert with his creature Bosola murders her and her attendant Cariola.

SCENE.-A Mad-house.

Persons.-DUCHESS OF MALFI; CARIOLA, her faithful attendant; FERDINAND, her cruel brother; BoSOLA, his creature and instrument of cruelty; Madmen, Executioners, Ser

vant.

Duch. WHAT hideous noise was that?
Cari. "Tis the wild concert

Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother
Hath placed about your lodging: this tyranny
I think was never practised till this hour.

Duch. Indeed I thank him: nothing but noise and folly

Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason
And silence make me stark mad. Sit down;
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy.

Cari. Oh, 'twill increase your melancholy.
Duch. Thou art deceived;

To hear of greater grief would lessen mine.
This is a prison?

Cari. Yes, but you shall live

To shake this durance off.

Duch. Thou art a fool:

The robin-redbreast and the nightingale
Never live long in cages.

Cari. Pray dry your eyes.

What think you of, madam?
Duch. Of nothing:

When I muse thus, I sleep.

Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes open. Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another In th' other world.

Cari. Yes; out of question.

Duch. O that it were possible we might But hold some two days' conference with the dead! From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle: I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass,

The earth of flaming sulphur; yet I am not mad.
I am acquainted with sad misery,

As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar:
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now?
Cari. Like to your picture in the gallery.
A deal of life in show, but none in practice;
Or rather like some reverend monument,
Whose ruins are even pitied.

Duch. Very proper;

And fortune seems only to have her eye-sight To behold my tragedy.

What noise is that?

How now,

Serv. I am come to tell you

Your brother hath intended you some sport:
A great physician, when the pope was sick
Of a deep melancholy, presented him

With several sorts of mad-men, which wild object
(Being full of change and sport) forced him to laugh,
And so th' imposthume broke: the self-same cure
The Duke intends on you.

[The Mad-men enter, and whilst they dance to suitable music, the DUCHESS, perceiving BOSOLA among them, says,

Duch. Is he mad too?

Serv. Pray question him. I'll leave you.
Bos. I am come to make thy tomb.
Duch. Ha! my tomb?

Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed
Gasping for breath. Dost thou perceive me sick?
Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy

sickness is insensible.

Duch. Thou art not mad sure! Dost know me? Bos. Yes.

Duch. Who am I?

Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed. . . . Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken: Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain.

Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the I am a tomb-maker. [living: Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb? Bos. Yes.

Duch. Let me be a little merry

Of what stuff wilt thou make it?

Bos. Nay, resolve me first of what fashion? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical on our death-bed?

Do we affect fashion in the grave?

Bos. Most ambitiously: princes' images on their

[blocks in formation]

A long war disturb'd your mind, Here your perfect peace is sign'd;

Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping:
Their life a general mist of error;

Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powder sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet;
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck:

"Tis now full tide 'tween night and day,
End your groan and come away."

Cari. Hence villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas!
What will you do with my lady? call for help.
Duch. To whom, to our next neighbours? they
Bos. Remove that noise.
[are mad folks.
Duch. Farewell, Cariola;

In my last will I have not much to give-
A many hungry guests have fed upon me-
Thine will be a 'poor reversion.

Cari. I will die with her.

Duch. I pray thee look thou givest my little boy Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl

Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please. What death?

Bos. Strangling: here are your executioners.
Duch. I forgive them :

The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' lungs,
Would do as much as they do.

Bos. Doth not death fright you?

Duch. Who would be afraid on't, Knowing to meet such excellent company In th' other world?

Bos. Yet, methinks,

The manner of your death should much afflict you? This cord should terrify you.

Duch. Not a whit:

What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
With diamonds? or to be smother'd

With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?
I know death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits; and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them both ways: any way, (for
heaven's sake,)

So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers
That I perceive death (now I am well awake)
Best gift is they can give, or I can take.

I would fain put off my last woman's fault :
I'll not be tedious to you.

Exec. We are ready.

Duch. Dispose my breath how please you; but | Bestow upon my women, will you? [my body Exec. Yes.

Duch. Pull, and pull strongly; for your able Must pull down heaven upon me :— [strength Yet stay, heaven's gates are not so highly arch'd As princes' palaces; they that enter there Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death, Serve for mandragora to make me sleep. Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out, They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her. Bos. Where's the waiting-woman? Fetch her some other strangle the children. Look you, there sleeps your mistress.

[blocks in formation]

died young.

Bos. I think not so; her infelicity

Seem'd to have years too many.

Ferd. She and I were twins;

And should I die this instant, I had lived
Her time to a minute.

Bos. It seems she was born first.

You have bloodily approved the ancient truth,
That kindred commonly do worse agree
Than remote strangers.

Ferd. Let me see her face again.
Why didst not thou pity her? what

An excellent honest man might'st thou have been,
If thou hadst borne her to some sanctuary,
Or, bold in a good cause, opposed thyself,
With thy advanced sword above thy head,
Between her innocence and my revenge!
I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits,
Go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done't.
For let me but examine well the cause:
What was the meanness of her match to me?
Only I must confess I had a hope,
Had she continued widow, to have gain'd
An infinite mass of treasure by her death;
And what was the main cause? Her marriage!

[blocks in formation]

That not the fear of Him which binds the devils Can prescribe man obedience!

Never look upon me more.

Bos. Why, fare thee well:

Your brother and yourself are worthy men:
You have a pair of hearts are hollow graves,
Rotten, and rotting others; and your vengeance,
Like two chain'd bullets, still goes arm in arm.
You may be brothers: for treason, like the plague,
Doth take much in a blood. I stand like one
That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream.
I am angry with myself, now that I wake.

Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' th' That I may never see thee. [world,

Bos. Let me know

Wherefore I should be thus neglected? Sir,
I served your tyranny, and rather strove
To satisfy yourself than all the world;
And though I loathed the evil, yet I loved
You that did counsel it, and rather sought
To appear a true servant than an honest man.
Ferd. I'll go hunt the badger by owl-light:
"Tis a deed of darkness.

[Exit. Bos. He's much distracted. Off, my painted honour

While with vain hopes our faculties we tire,
We seem to sweat in ice, and freeze in fire;
What would I do, were this to do again!
I would not change my peace of conscience
For all the wealth of Europe. She stirs! here's life!
Return, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine
Out of this sensible hell. She's warm, she breathes.
Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart,

To store them with fresh colour. Who's there?
Some cordial drink! Alas, I dare not call:
So pity would destroy pity. Her eye opes,
And heaven in it seems to ope, that late was shut,
To take me up to mercy.

[blocks in formation]

Oh, sacred innocence! that sweetly sleeps
On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty conscience
Is a black register, wherein is writ
All our good deeds, and bad; a perspective
That shows us hell, that we cannot be suffer'd
To do good when we have a mind to it!
This is manly sorrow;

These tears, I am very certain, never grew
In my mother's milk. My estate is sunk
Below the degree of fear: where were
These penitent fountains while she was living?
Oh, they were frozen up. Here is a sight
As direful to my soul as is the sword

Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come, I'll bear thee hence,

And execute thy last will; that's deliver
Thy body to the reverend dispose

Of some good women; that the cruel tyrant
Shall not deny me: then I'll post to Milan,
Where somewhat I will speedily enact
Worth my dejection.

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

Till doomsday. But all things have their end:
Churches and cities, which have diseases like to
Must have like death that we have.

Echo. Like death that we have.
Del. Now the echo hath caught you.

Ant. It groan'd, methought, and gave
A very deadly accent.

Echo. Deadly accent.

Del. I told you 'twas a pretty one. make it

A huntsman, or a falconer, a musician,

Or a thing of sorrow.

Echo. A thing of sorrow.

Ant. Ay, sure that suits it best.

Echo. That suits it best.

Ant. "Tis very like my wife's voice.

Echo. Ay, wife's voice.

Del. Come, let's walk farther from't:

[men,

You may

[blocks in formation]

Echo. Oh, fly your fate.

Del. Hark: the dead stones seem to have pity And give you good counsel.

Ant. Echo, I will not talk with thee,

For thou art a dead thing.

Echo. Thou art a dead thing.

Ant. My duchess is asleep now,

[on you,

And her little ones, I hope sweetly: Oh, heaven! Shall I never see her more?

Echo. Never see her more.

Ant. I mark'd not one repetition of the Echo But that, and on the sudden a clear light Presented me a face folded in sorrow.

Del. Your fancy, merely,

Ant. Come, I'll be out of this ague;
For to live thus, is not indeed to live;
It is a mockery and abuse of life:

I will not henceforth save myself by halves,
Lose all or nothing.

Del. Your own virtue save you.

I'll fetch your eldest son, and second you,
It may be that the sight of his own blood,
Spread in so sweet a figure, may beget
The more compassion.

However, fare you well!

Though in our miseries Fortune have a part,
Yet, in our noble suff'rings, she hath none;
Contempt of pain, that we may call our own.

WILLIAM ROWLEY.

[Born, 15. Died, 1640 ?]

Or William Rowley nothing more is known than that he was a player by profession, and for several years at the head of the Prince's* company of comedians. Though his name is found in one instance affixed to a piece conjointly with Shakspeare's, he is generally classed only in the third rank of our dramatists. His Muse is evidently a plebeian nymph, and had not been educated in the school of the Graces. His most tolerable production is the "New Wonder, or

SCENE FROM THE COMEDY OF "A NEW WONDER, OR A WOMAN NEVER VEXT." Persons.-The WIDOW and DOCTOR.

Doct. You sent for me, gentlewoman?
Wid. Sir, I did; and to this end:
I have scruples in my conscience;
Some doubtful problems which I cannot answer
Nor reconcile; I'd have you make them plain.
Doct. This is my duty: pray speak your mind.
Wid. And as I speak, I must remember heaven,
That gave those blessings which I must relate:
Sir, you now behold a wondrous woman;
You only wonder at the epithet;

I can approve it good; guess at mine age.
Doct. At the half-way 'twixt thirty and forty.

Prince Charles, afterwards Charles I. The play in which his name is printed conjointly with Shakspeare's is called The Birth of Merlin.

a Woman never vext." Its drafts of citizen life and manners have an air of reality and honest truth-the situations and characters are forcible, and the sentiments earnest and unaffected. The author seems to move in the sphere of life which he imitates, with no false fears about its dignity, and is not ashamed to exhibit his broken merchant hanging out the bag for charity among the debtors of a prison-house.

Wid. "Twas not much amiss; yet nearest to the How think you then, is not this a wonder? [last. That a woman lives full seven-and-thirty years Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow, Now widow'd, and mine own, yet all this while From the extremest verge of my remembrance, Even from my weaning hour unto this minute, Did never taste what was calamity?

I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought
An hundred ways for its acquaintance: with me
Prosperity hath kept so close a watch,

That even those things that I have meant a cross,
Have that way turn'd a blessing. Is it not strange?
Doct. Unparallel'd; this gift is singular,
And to you alone belonging: you are the moon,
For there's but one, all women else are stars,
For there are none of like condition.
Full oft, and many, have I heard complain
Of discontents, thwarts, and adversities,

« 上一頁繼續 »