Clotair. You have done ill, And must be taught so; you capitulate Not with your equal, Clovis, she's thy queen.
Clovis. Upon my knees I do acknowledge her Queen of my thoughts and my affections. O pardon me, if my ill-tutor'd tongue Has forfeited my head; if not, behold Before the sacred altar of thy feet I lie, a willing sacrifice. Aphelia. Arise :
And henceforth, Clovis, thus instruct thy soul; There lies a depth in fate which earthly eyes May faintly look into, but cannot fathom : You had my vow till death to be your wife, You being dead my vows were cancelled, And I, as thus you see, bestow'd.
I will no more offend you would to God Those cruel hands, not enough barbarous, That made these bleeding witnesses of love, Had set an endless period to my life too! Clotair. Where there's no help it's bootless to complain;
Clovis, she's mine; let not your spirit war Or mutiny within you; because I say't; Nor let thy tongue from henceforth dare presume To say she might, or ever should be thine; [day. What's past once more I pardon, 'tis our wedding- Clovis. A long farewell to love: thus do I break [Breaks the ring.
Your broken pledge of faith; and with this kiss,, The last that ever Clovis must print here, Unkiss the kiss that seal'd it on thy lips. Ye powers, ye are unjust, for her wild breath, That has the sacred tie of contract broken, Is still the same Arabia that it was.
[The king, CLOTAIR, pulls him Nay, I have done : beware of jealousy! I would not have you nourish jealous thoughts; Though she has broke her faith to me, to you, Against her reputation, she'll be true: Farewell my first love lost, I'll choose to have No wife till death shall wed me to my grave. Come, Strephon, come and teach me how to die, That gavest me life so unadvisedly.
[Born, 1596. Died, 1606.]
JAMES SHIRLEY was born in London. He was educated at Cambridge*, where he took the degree of A.M. and had a curacy for some time at or near St. Alban's, but embracing popery, became a schoolmaster [1623] in that town. Leaving this employment, he settled in London as a dramatic writer, and between the years 1625 and 1666 published thirty-nine plays. In the civil wars he followed his patron, the Earl of Newcastle, to the field; but on the decline of the royal cause returned to London, and, as the
theatres were now shut, kept a school in Whitefriars, where he educated many eminent characters. At the re-opening of the theatres he must have been too old to have renewed his dramatic labours; and what benefit the Restoration brought him as a royalist, we are not informed. Both he and his wife died on the same day, immediately after the great fire of London, by which they had been driven out of their house, and probably owed their deaths to their losses and terror on that occasion+.
FROM THE TRAGEDY OF "THE CARDINAL."
Persons-The Duchess ROSAURA and her ladies VALERIA and CELINDA.
Valeria. SWEET madam, be less thoughtful;
To passion will destroy the noblest frame Of beauty that this kingdom ever boasted. Celinda. This sadness might become your other habit,
And ceremonies black for him that died. The times of sorrow are expired, and all
* He had studied also at Oxford, where Wood says that Laud objected to his taking orders, on account of a mole on his left cheek, which greatly disfigured him. This fastidiousness about personal beauty is certainly beyond the Levitical law. [As no mention of Shirley occurs in any of the public records of Oxford, the duration of his residence at St. John's College cannot be determined.-DYCE's Life, p. v.]
The joys that wait upon the court-your birth, And a new Hymen that is coming towards you, Invite a change.
Duch. Ladies, I thank you both.
I pray excuse a little melancholy That is behind. My year of mourning hath not So clear'd my account with sorrow, but there may Some dark thoughts stay with sad reflections Upon my heart, for him I lost. Even this New dress and smiling garment, meant to show A peace concluded 'twixt my grief and me, Is but a sad remembrance: but I resolve
[ Shirley was the last of a great race, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common. A new language, and quite a new turn of tragic and comic interest, came in with the Restoration.-LAMB.]
To entertain more pleasing thoughts, and if You wish me heartily to smile, you must Not mention grief: not in advice to leave it. Such counsels open but afresh the wounds You would close up, and keep alive the cause Whose bleeding you would cure; let's talk of something
That may delight. You two are read in all The histories of our court; tell me, Valeria, Who has thy vote for the most handsome man. Thus I must counterfeit a peace, when all [Aside. Within me is at mutiny.
All that are candidates for praise of ladies, But find-may I speak boldly to your grace, And will you not return it, in your mirth, To make me blush?
Duch. No, no; speak freely.
Val. I will not rack your patience, madam, but Were I a princess, I should think Count D'Alvarez Had sweetness to deserve me from the world.
Duch. Alvarez ! she's a spy upon my heart.
[Aside. Val. He's young and active, and composed most sweetly.
Duch. I have seen a face more tempting. Val. It had then
Too much of woman in't; his eyes speak movingly, Which may excuse his voice, and lead away All female pride his captive. His black hair, Which naturally falling into curls-
Duch. Prithee no more, thou art in love with him. The man in your esteem, Celinda, now.
Cel. Alvarez is, I must confess, a gentleman Of handsome composition, but with His mind (the greater excellence) I think Another may delight a lady more,
If man be well consider'd, that's Columbo, Now, madam, voted to be yours.
Duch. My torment !
Val. She affects him not.
Cel. He has a person and a bravery beyond All men that I observe.
A rough-hewn man, and may show well at distance; His talk will fright a lady: war and grim- Faced Honour are his mistresses-he raves To hear a lute-Love meant him not his priest. Again your pardon, madam: we may talk, But you have art to choose and crown affection. [Exeunt.
Duch. What is it to be born above these ladies, And want their freedom? They are not constrain'd, Nor slaved by their own greatness, or the king's, But let their free hearts look abroad and choose By their own eyes to love. I must repair My poor afflicted bosom, and assume The privilege I was born with, which now prompts To tell the king he hath no power nor art
Our mutual vows, thou canst suspect it possible I should revoke a promise made to heaven And thee, so soon? This must arise from some Distrust of thy own faith.
D'Alv. Your grace's pardon:
To speak with freedom, I am not so old In cunning to betray, nor young in time Not to see where and when I am at loss, And how to bear my fortune and my wounds; Which, if I look for health, must still bleed inward, A hard and desperate condition.
I am not ignorant your birth and greatness Have placed you to grow up with the king's grace And jealousy, which to remove his power Hath chosen a fit object for your beauty To shine upon-Columbo, his great favourite.
I am a man on whom but late the king
Has pleased to cast a beam, which was not meant To make me proud, but wisely to direct And light me to my safety. Oh, dear madam, I will not call more witness of my love, If you will let me still give it that name, Than this, that I dare make myself a loser, And to your will give all my blessings up. Preserve your greatness, and forget a trifle, That shall at best, when you have drawn me up, But hang about you like a cloud, and dim The glories you are born to.
Of birth and state! that I could shift into A meaner blood, or find some art to purge That part which makes my veins unequal. Yet Those nice distinctions have no place in us; There's but a shadow difference, a title ;
Thy stock partakes as much of noble sap
As that which feeds the root of kings; and he That writes a lord, hath all the essence of Nobility.
D'Alv. 'Tis not a name that makes Our separation-the king's displeasure Hangs a portent to fright us, and the matter That feeds this exhalation is the cardinal's Plot to advance his nephew; then Columbo, A man made up for some prodigious act, Is fit to be consider'd: in all three There is no character you fix upon But has a form of ruin to us both.
Duch. Then you do look on them with fear? D'Alt. With eyes
That should think tears a duty to lament Your least unkind fate; but my youth dares boldly Meet all the tyranny of the stars, whose black Malevolence but shoot my single tragedy; You are above the value of many worlds Peopled with such as I am.
Duch. What if Columbo,
Engaged in war, in his hot thirst of honour,
Find out the way to death?
D'Ale. "Tis possible.
Card. What lethargy could thus unspirit him? I am all wonder. Do not believe, madam, But that Columbo's love is yet more sacred To honour and yourself, than thus to forfeit What I have heard him call the glorious wreath To all his merits, given him by the king, From whom he took you with more pride than ever He came from victory; his kisses hang Yet panting on your lips, and he but now Exchanged religious farewell, to return But with more triumph to be yours.
You do believe your nephew's hand was not Surprised or strain'd to this?
Card. Strange arts and windings in the world- most dark
And subtle progresses. Who brought this letter? Duch. I inquired not his name. I thought it not Considerable to take such narrow notice.
Card. Desert and honour urged it here, nor can I blame you to be angry; yet his person Obliged you should have given a nobler pause Before you made your faith and change so violent From his known worth, into the arms of one, However fashion'd to your amorous wish,
Duch. Or say, no matter by what art or motive, Not equal to his cheapest fame, with all He gives his title up, and leave me to
My own election.
D'Alv. If I then be happy
To have a name within your thought, there can Be nothing left to crown me with new blessing. But I dream thus of heaven, and wake to find My am'rous soul a mockery, when the priest Shall tie you to another, and the joys Of marriage leave no thought at leisure to Look back upon Alvarez, that must wither For loss of you yet then I cannot lose So much of what I was once in your favour, But in a sigh pray still you may live happy. Duch. My heart is in a mist; some good star Upon my resolution, and direct
Two lovers in their chaste embrace to meet. Columbo's bed contains my winding-sheet.
Conference of the Duchess and the Cardinal, after the Duchess has sent a letter to Columbo, praying him to renounce her, and has received an answer from the camp, complying with the request.
The gloss of blood and merit.
Duch. This comparison,
My good lord cardinal, I cannot think Flows from an even justice, it betrays You partial where your blood runs.
Card. I fear, madam,
Your own takes too much license, and will soon Fall to the censure of unruly tongues. Because Alvarez has a softer cheek, Can, like a woman, trim his wanton hair, Spend half a day with looking in the glass To find a posture to present himself,
And bring more effeminacy than man
Or honour, to your bed-must he supplant him Take heed, the common murmur, when it catches The scent of a lost fame,-
Duch. My fame, lord cardinal!
It stands upon an innocence as clear
As the devotions you pay to heaven.
I shall not urge, my lord, your soft indulgence At my next shrift.
Card. You are a fine court lady.
Duch. And you should be a reverend churchman. Card. One that, if you have not thrown off mo- Would counsel you to leave Alvarez. [desty,
Duch. 'Cause you dare do worse Than marriage, must not I be admitted what
Card. The king speaks of a letter that has brought The church and law allows me ? A riddle in't-
Duch. 'Tis easy to interpret.
Card. From my nephew. May I deserve the favour? [Gives him the letter,
Duch. He looks as though his eyes would fire
They are a pair of burning glasses, and His envious blood doth give them flame.
Card. Insolent! then you dare marry him? Duch. Dare! let your contracted flame and malice, with
Columbo's rage higher than that, meet us When we approach the holy place, clasp'd hand In hand,-we'll break through all your force, and fix Our sacred vows together there.
When with as chaste a brow you promised fair To another-You are no dissembling lady. Duch. Would all your actions had no falser lights About 'em-
[loud. Duch. The people would not talk and curse so Card. I'll have you chid into a blush for this. Duch. Begin at home, great man, there's cause You turn the wrong end of the perspective [enough. Upon your crimes to drive them to a far
And lesser sight; but let your eyes look right, What giants would your pride and surfeit seem, How gross your avarice, eating up whole families. How vast are your corruptions and abuse
Of a king's ear, at which you hang a pendant, Not to adorn, but ulcerate; whilst the honest Nobility, like pictures in the arras,
Serve only for court-ornament: if they speak, 'Tis when you set their tongues, which you wind up Like clocks to strike at the just hour you please. Leave, leave, my lord, these usurpations, And be what you were meant, a man to cure, Not let in agues to religion.
Look on the church's wounds
Card. You dare presume,
In your rude spleen to me, to abuse the church? Duch. Alas! you give false aim, my lord; 'tis your Ambition and scarlet sins that rob
Her altar of the glory, and leave wounds Upon her brow which fetches grief and paleness Into her cheeks; making her troubled bosom Pant with her groans, and shroud her holy blushes Within your reverend purples.
Card. Will you now take breath?
Duch. In hope, my lord, you will behold yourself In a true glass, and see those unjust acts That so deform you, and by timely cure Prevent a shame before the short-hair'd men Do crowd and call for justice, I take leave. [Exit. Card. This woman has a spirit that may rise To tame the devil's,-there's no dealing with Her angry tongue,-'tis action and revenge Must calm her fury. Were Columbo here I could resolve,-but letters shall be sent To th' army, which may wake him into sense Of his rash folly, or direct his spirit Some way to snatch his honour from this flame; All great men know "the soul of life is fame."
To doubt. I must be plain; Florence has not Been kind to Naples to reward us with Affront for love; and Theodosia must not Be any prince's mockery. Duke. I can
Take boldness too, and tell you, sir, it were More for her honour she would mock no prince. I am not lost to Florence yet, though I Be Naples' guest; and I must tell him here, I came to meet with fair and princely treaties Of love, not to be made the tale of Italy, The ground of scurril pasquils, or the mirth Of any lady who shall pre-engage
Her heart to another's bosom, and then sneak Off like a tame despised property When her ends are advanced.
King. I understand not
This passion, yet it points at something
That may be dangerous; to conclude, Theodosia Is Naples' sister, and I must not see
Her lost to honour, though my kingdom bleed To rescue her.
Duke. Now you are passionate.
This must be repair'd, my name is wounded, And my affection betray'd: your sister, That looks like a fair star within love's sky, Is fall'n, and by the scattering of her fires Declares she has alliance with the earth, Not heavenly nature.
King. Are my senses perfect? Be clearer, sir; teach me to understand This prodigy. You do not scorn our sister?
Duke. Not I! as she has title to your blood, She merits all ambition; she's a princess, Yet no stain to her invention, we are parallels, Equal, but never made to meet.
Duke. Truth is my witness, I did mean No ceremonious love until I found
Her heart was given from me, though your power Contract our bodies.
King. Stay, and be advised;
And if your doubts, by some malicious tongue Framed to abuse my sister and yourself, Have raised this mutiny in your thoughts, I have A power to cure all.
King. Not to court thee for her husband, wert possess'd
Of all o'er which our eagle shakes his wings, But to set right her honour; and ere I challenge Thee by thy birth, by all thy hopes and right To fame to tell me what malicious breath Has poison'd her, hear what my sister sends By me so late, Time is not old in minutes, The words yet warm with her own breath-Pray tell
The Duke, she says, although I know not from What root his discontents grow to devote him To Domitilla
I did contract my heart when I thought his Had been no stranger to his tongue, and can Not find within it since what should divert His princely thoughts from my first innocence, Yet such is my stern fate I must still love him. And though he frame his heart to unkind distance, It hath embracing virtue upon mine,
And with his own remove draws my soul after him. If he forget I am a princess, pray
Let Naples do so too, for my revenge
Shall be in prayers, that he may find my wrong, And teach him soft repentance and more faith. Duke. All this must not betray my freedom, sir. King. You'll not accuse our sister of dishonour? Duke. I would not grieve you, sir, to hear what I Could say; and press me not for your own peace; Fames must be gently touch'd.
King. As thou art Florence, speak. Duke. I shall displease,
Yet I but tell her brother that doth press me ; Lucrece was chaste after the rape, but where The blood consents there needs no ravisher. King. I do grow faint with wonder. To blast an apprehension, and shoot A quaking through the valiant soul of man. My sister's blood accused, and her fair name, Late chaste as trembling snow, whose fleeces clothe Our Alpine hills-sweet as the rose's spirit, Or viclet's cheek, on which the morning leaves A tear at parting, now begins to wither As it would haste to death and be forgotten. This Florence is a prince that does accuse her, And such men give not faith to every murmur Or slight intelligence that wounds a lady In her dear honour. But she is my sister; Think of that too, credit not all, but ask Of thy own veins what guilty flowings there May tempt thee to believe this accusation.
FROM THE COMEDY OF "THE GRATEFUL SERVANT."
Persons-The DUKE of SAVOY, and FOSCARI.
Enter FOSCARI disguised, and kisses the DUKE's hand.
Fosc. Your pardon, royal sir; it will Concern your highness to permit me walk In some eclipse.
Duke. How?
Fosc. Be pleased to grant
A little freedom to my speech, I shall Demonstrate the necessity of this Action. I said I had a message
I come from Cleona.
Duke. From Cleona !
Fosc. From her, indeed; and in her name I must Propound a question, to which she prays You would be just and noble in your answer. Duke. Without disputing your commission, Upon mine honour.
Fosc. Princes cannot stain it : D'ye love her?
Duke. Do I love her? strange !
Fosc. Nay, she would have you pause, and think
You give her resolution; for she bade me tell you She has been much afflicted, since you left her, About your love.
Duke. About my love? I pray thee Be more particular.
Fosc. I shall. So soon
As you were gone, being alone, and full Of melancholy thoughts,-
Duke. I left her so.
Fosc. Willing to ease her head upon her couch, Through silence and some friendship of the dark, She fell asleep, and, in a short dream, thought Some spirit told her softly in her ear, You did but mock her with a smooth pretence Of love.
Fosc. More that you were fall'n from your honour,
Have taken impious flames into your bosom ; That y' are a bird of prey, and while she hath No household Lar to wait upon her threshold, You would fly in and seize upon her honour. Duke. I hope she hath no faith in dreams. Fosc. And yet
Divinity hath oftentimes descended Upon our slumbers, and the blessed troops
Foscari. You are a gracious prince, and this Have, in the calm and quiet of the soul,
Conversed with us, taught men and women happy Ways to prevent a tyrant's rage and lust.
Duke. But this was some false, malicious spirit, That would insinuate with her white soul : There's danger if she cherish the infusion. Fosc. She cannot tell. She hath some fears,
Great men have left examples of their vice, And yet no jealousy of you, but what A miracle doth urge, if this be one. If you but once more say you love Cleona, And speak it unto me and to the angels, Which in her prayers she hath invoked to hear you, She will be confident, and tell her dream
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