ment bear me; [Throwing himself on the per guest, the abandoned and lost Maria brings Ground] even these are too good for such a hair, and sees the subject and the cause of bloody monster. this world of woe. Silent and motionless True. Shall fortune sever those whom he stands, as if his soul had quitted her abode, friendship joined? Thy miseries cannot lay and the lifeless form alone was left behind. thee so low, but love will find thee. Here will Barn. I groan, but murmur not. Just heawe offer to stern calamity; this place the altar, ven! I am your own; do with me what you please. and ourselves the sacrifice. Our mutual groans Maria. Why are your streaming eyes still shall echo to each other through the dreary fix'd below, as though thou'dst give the greedy vault; our sighs shall number the moments as earth thy sorrows, and rob me of my due? they pass; and mingling tears communicate such Were happiness within your power, you anguish, as words were never made to express. should bestow it where you pleased; but in Barn. Then be it so. [Rising] Since you your misery I must and will partake. propose an intercourse of woe, pour all your Barn. Oh, say not so; but fly, abhor, and griefs into my breast, and in exchange take leave me to my fate. Consider what you 'are. mine. [Embracing] Where's now the an- So shall I quickly be to you-as though I had guish that you promised? Oh, take, take some never been. of the joy that overflows my breast! True. I do, I do. Almighty Power! how hast thou made us capable to bear at once the extremes of pleasure and of pain!

Barn. To meet and part with you, I thought was all I had to do on earth. What is there more for me to do or suffer?

True. I dread to tell thee, yet it must be known!-Maria

Barn. Our master's fair and virtuous daughter?

True. The same.

Maria. When I forget you, I must be so indeed. Reason, choice, virtue, all forbid it. Let women, like Millwood, if there are more such women, smile in prosperity, and in adversity forsake. Be it the pride of virtue to repair, or to partake, the ruin such have made. True. Lovely, ill-fated maid!

Maria. Yes, fruitless is my love, and unavailing all my sighs and tears. Can they save thee from approaching death? from such a death?-Oh, sorrow insupportable!

Barn. Preserve her, heaven, and restore her peace, nor let her death be added to my crimes! [Bell tolls]—I'm summoned to my fate. Re-enter Keeper. Keep. Sir, the officers attend you. is already summoned.

Millwood

Barn. Tell 'em I'm ready. [Exit Keeper] And now, my friend, farewell. [Embracing Support and comfort, the best you can, this Barn. No misfortune, I hope, has reached mourning fair.-No more-Forget not to pray that maid! Preserve her, heaven, from every for me.-[Turning to Maria]-Would you, ill, to show mankind that goodness is your care! bright excellence, permit me the honour of a True, Thy, thy misfortunes, my unhappy chaste embrace, the last happiness this world friend, have reached her ear. Whatever you could give were mine.-[She inclines towards and I have felt, and more, if more be possi- him; they embrace] Exalted goodness! Oh, bie, she feels for you. turn your eyes from carth and me to heaven, Barn. This is indeed the bitterness of death. where virtue like yours is ever heard. Pray [Aside. for the peace of my departing soul! Early my True. You must remember (for we all ob-race of wickedness began, and soon I reached served it), for some time past, a heavy me- the summit. Thus justice, in compassion to lancholy weighed her down. Disconsolate she mankind, cuts off a wretch like me; by one seemed, and pined and languished from a such example to secure thousands, from future Cause unknown; till hearing of your dreadful ruin. fate, the long stifled flame blazed out, and in the transport of her grief discovered her own state, while she lamented yours.

lust

Barn. [Weeping] Why did not you let me die, and never know it?

True. It was impossible. She makes no secret of her passion for you; she is determined to see you ere you die, and waits for me to introduce her. [Exit.

Barn. Vain, busy thoughts, be still! What avails it to think on what I might have been? I am now what I've made myself.

If any youth, like you, in future times
Shall mourn my fate, though he abhors my

crimes;

Or tender maid, like you, my tale shall hear,
And to my sorrows give a pitying tear;
To each such melting eye and throbbing heart,
Would gracious heaven this benefit impart:
Never to know my guilt, nor feel my pain,
Then must you own you ought not to
complain,

Since you nor weep, nor I shall die in vain.
[Exit Barnwell.

True. In vain

Re-enter TRUEman, with MarIA. True. Madam, reluctant I lead you to this dismal scene. This is the seat of misery and A humane, gen'rous sense of others woe, quilt. Here awful justice reserves her public Unless we mark what drew their ruin on, victims. This is the entrance to a shameful death. And, by avoiding that, prevent our own. Maria. To this sad place then, no impro-l [The Curtain descends to slow Music,

With bleeding hearts, and weeping eyes, we show

MASSINGER.

THIS excellent poet was son to Mr. Philip Massinger, a gentleman, who had some employment under the Earl of Pembroke, in whose service he died, after having spent several happy years in his family. Our author was born at Salisbury, in queen Elizabeth's reign, anno 1584, and at the age of 18, was entered a fellow-commoner of Alban Hall, in Oxford; in which station he remained three or four years, in order to complete his education, yet, though he was encouraged in the pursuit of his studies by his father's patron, the Earl of Pembroke, the natural bent of his genius lead him much more to poetry and polite literature, than to the dryer and more abstruse studies of logic and philosophy being impatient for an opportunity of moving in a more public sphere of action, and improving his poetical fancy and his knowledge of the belles lettres, by conversation with the world, and an intercourse with men of wit and genius; he quitted the university without taking any degree, and came to London, where, applying himself to writing for the stage, he presently rose into high reputation; his plays meeting with universal approbation, both for the purity of their style, and the ingenuity and oeconomy of their plots. "Those who are unacquainted with Massinger's writings," says the Biographia Dramatica, “will, perhaps be surprised to find us placing him in an equal rank with Beaumont and Fletcher, and the immortal Ben; but we flatter ourselves that, upon a perusal of his plays, their astonishment will cease, that they will acquiesce with our opinion, and think themselves obliged to us, for pointing out so vast a treasury of entertainment and delight." Massinger has certainly equal invention, equal ingenuity, in the conduct of his plots, and an equal knowledge of character and nature, with Beaumont and Fletcher; and if it should be objected, that he has less of the vis comica, it will surely be allowed, that that deficiency is amply made amends for by that purity and decorum which he has preserved, and a rejection of that looseness and obscenity which run through most of their comedies. As to Ben Jonson, we shall readily allow that he excels this author with respect to the studied accuracy and classical correctness of his style; yet Massinger has so greatly the superiority over him in fre, pathos, and the fancy and management of his plots, that we cannot help thinking the balance stands pretty even between them. Though his pieces bespeak him a man of the first-rate abilities, and well qualified both as to learning and a most perfect acquaintance with the methods of dramatic writing, yet he was at the same time a person of the most consummate modesty, which rendered him extremely beloved by all his contemporary poets, few of whom but esteemed it as an honour to join with him in the composition of their works. He died in 1659, some say 69.

THE DUKE OF MILAN.

ACTED at Black Friars, 1623. The plot is taken partly from Guicciardini, book 8, and partly from Josephus's History of the Jews, book 15, ch. 4, where will be found the story of Herod's leaving orders with his uncle Joseph to put his beloved wife Mariamne to death; from which the instructions given by Sforza to his favourite Francisco, for the murder of the Duchess Marcelia, his wife, scem evidently borrowed. This piece was altered, and produced at Covent Garden, by Mr. Cumberland, in 1799, but the additions made to it, from Fenton's Mariamne, rather injured than improved the play, and it was acted only two or three times. In its present state it was reproduced at Drury Lane, March 9, 1816; and from its reception promises to be a long and lasting favourite. Massinger seems to have been buried in obscurity, and forgotten among the number of writers of the same period, whose names were not worth calling forth from the cavern of oblivion; but when we consider, how long many of those pieces, even of the immortal Shakspeare himself, which are now the greatest ornament of the stage, lay neglected, although they wanted nothing but a judicious pruning of some few luxuriancies, some little straggling branches, which overhung the fairer flowers, and hid some of the choicest fruits, it is the less to be wondered at, that this author who though second, stands no more than second to him, should share for a while the same destiny. Thus has this precious gem been once more presented to an admiring audience, the modern taste demanding a different dress to that of former years; and the few judicious alterations which have taken place in it, have fitted it to shine in all its lustre.

SCENE. For the first and second Acts, in MILAN; during part of the third, in the Im perial Camp near PAVIA; the rest of the Play, in MILAN and its Neighbourhood.

Grac. TAKE every man his flagon;
the oath
To all you meet; I am this day the state drunkard,
I am sure against my will; and if

you
A man at ten that's sober, he's a traitor,
And, in my name, arrest him.
Julio. Very good, sir;

But say he be a sexton?

Grac. If the bells

Julio. But think you 'tis a fault
To be found sober?

Grac. It is capital treason;

Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay

Forty crowns to the poor; but give a pension
To all the magistrates find
you singing catches
Or their wives dancing; for the courtiers

reeling,

dis

And the duke himself, I dare not say
find
temper'd,

But kind, and in his tottering chair carousing
They do the country service.

And so, dear friends, co-partners in my travails,
Drink hard; and let the health run through
the city,

Ring out of tune, as if the streets were burning,
And he cry, Tis rare music!" bid him Until it reel again, and with me cry,
"Long live the dutchess!"

sleep;

Tis a sign he has ta'en his liquor: and if you

meet

An officer preaching of sobriety,
Unless he read it in Geneva spirit,
Lay him by the heels.

Enter TIBERIO and STEPHANO. Julio. Here are two lords! what think you Shall we give the oath to them?

Grac. Fie! no; I know them:

You need not swear them; your lord, by his Are these loud triumphs? in my weak opinion,

Long live They are unseasonable.
Tib. I judge so too;

But only in the cause to be excus'd.

Steph. The cause of this? but yesterday the It is the dutchess' birth-day, once a year

Solemniz'd with all pomp and ceremony;
In which the duke is not his own, but hers:
Nay, every day, indeed, he is her creature;
For never man so doted.

Steph. She knows it,
And how to prize it.

Tib. She bear's herself with such a majesty,
That Sforza's mother, that would lose no part
Of what was once her own, nor his fair sister,
Will brook it well.

Come, let us to the court;

We there shall see all bravery and cost
That art can boast of,

Steph. I'll bear you company.

But one continual pilgrimage through dangers,
Affrights, and horrors, which his fortune, Enter FRANCISCO, ISABELLA, and MARIANA.
Mari. I will not go; I scorn to be a spot

By his strong judgment, still hath overcome), In her proud train.
Appears now shaken, it deserves no wonder: Isa. Shall I, that am his mother,
All that his youth hath labour'd for, the harvest Be so indulgent as to wait on her
Sown by his industry ready to be reap'd too, That owes me duty?
Being now at stake; and all his hopes con-

And, madam, if you please, receive my counsel, him;

His guards are strong and sure, and though As Sforza is your son, you may command

In most parts of our western world, there is And, as a sister, you may challenge from No enemy near us.

Sfor. You are the mistress of the feast; sit Why should I fear? The French are bold

My happiness, and mighty kings look pale
With envy, while I triumph in mine own.
O mother, look on her! sister, admire her!
For sure this present age yields not a woman
Worthy to be her second,

Fran. Your excellence,

and strong,

Their numbers full, and in their councils wise;
But then, the haughty Spaniard is all fire,
Hot in his executions, fortunate

In his attempts, married to victory.
Ay, there it is that shakes me.
Marc. Speak to him, Francisco.
Fran. Excellent lady,

Aside. [Apart.

One gale of your sweet breath will easily Though I confess you give her but her own, Disperse these clouds; and, but yourself, there's Forces her modesty to the defence

Of a sweet blush.

Sfor. It need not, my Marcelia;
When most I strive to praise thee, I appear
A poor detractor: for thou art, indeed,
So absolute in body and in mind
That, but to speak the least part to the height,
Would ask an angel's tongue, and yet then end
In silent admiration!

Isa. You still court her

As if she were a mistress, not your wife.
Sfor. A mistress, mother! she is more to me,
And every day deserves more to be sued to.
Mare. My worthiest lord!

My pride, my glory, in a word, my all!
Bear witness, heaven, that I esteem myself
In nothing worthy of the meanest praise
You can bestow, unless it be in this,
That in my heart I love you, and desire,
When you are sated with all earthly glories,
And age and honours make you fit for heaven,
That one grave may receive us.

Sfor. 'Tis believ'd

Believ'd, my blest one.

Mari. How she winds herself Into his soul!

Sfor. Sit all. Let others feed On those gross cates, while Sforza with

Immortal viands ta'en in at his eyes.

I could live ever thus.

none

That dare speak to him.

Marc. I will run the hazard.

My lord!

[Apart. Apart

Sfor. Ha! pardon me, Marcelia, I am trou-
bled;

And stand uncertain, whether I am master
Of aught that's worth the owning.
Marc. I am yours, sir;

This

And I have heard you swear, I being safe,
There was no loss could move you.
day, sir,

Is by your gift made mine. Can you revoke
A grant made to Marcelia? your Marcelia?
For whose love, nay, whose honour, gentle sir,
All deep designs, and state affairs deferr'd,
Be, as you purpos'd, merry.

Sfor. Out of my sight!

[Throws away the Letter. And all thoughts that may strangle mirth, forsake me.

Fall what can fall, I dare the worst of fate: Though the foundation of the earth should shrink,

The glorious eye of heaven lose his splendour, [Aside. Supported thus, I'll stand upon the ruins, And seek for new life here. Why are you sad? Some music there! by heaven he's not my friend,

banquets

Cour. [Delivers a Letter] The letter will

inform you.

Fran. How his hand shakes,

As he receives it!

Mari. This is some allay

[Exit.

That wears one furrow in his face.
Come, make me happy once again. I am rapt-
Tis not to-day, to-morrow, or the next,
But all my days and years shall be employ'd
To do thee honour. [A Trumpet without.
Another post! hang him-

head.

I will not interrupt my present pleasures,
Although his message should import my
Marc. Nay, good sir, I am pleas'd
To grant a little intermission to you:
[Aside. Who knows but he brings news we wish to
hear,

[Aside. To heighten our delights.
Sfor. As wise as fair!

Enter another Courier.

From Gaspero?

Cour. That was, my lord.

To his hot passion. Sfor. Though it bring death, I'll read it. [Reads. May it please your excellence to understand, that the very hour I wrote this, I heard a bold defiance delivered by a herald from the emperor, which was cheerfully received by the king of France. The battles being ready to join, and the very of this, and prayers, can guard committed to my charge, en- To guard your excellency from certain dangers, forces me to end abruptly. Your high- He ceased to be a man. GASPERO. Sfor. All that my fears.

ness's humble servant.

Sfor. How? dead?'

Cour. [Delivers a Letter] With the deli

[Music. Exit.

Ready to join!-By this, then, I am nothing. Could fashion to me, or my enemies wish, Or my estate secure. [Aside. Is fallen upon me. Silence that harsh music;

Those jealous thoughts; the only blessing that
Heav'n hath bestow'd on us, more than on beasts,
Is, that 'tis in our pleasure when to die.

Sfor. Sick to the death, Marcelia. Remove Besides, were I now in another's power, These signs of mirth: they were ominous, and I would not live for one short minute his; but usher'd

Upon your privacies. Your constant friend, [Exeunt Tiberio, Stephano, Fran- The marquis of Pescara, tir'd with haste, cisco, Isabella, Mariana, and At-Hath business that concerns your life and for