ance. Return, and observe this Millwood till to murder your uncle, rob him of life, na I come. I have your directions, and will fol- ture's first, last, dear prerogative, after which low you as soon as possible [Exit Lucy] there's no injury, then fear to take what he Trueman, you I am sure will not be idle on no longer wanted, and bring to me your pe[Exit. nury and guilt. Do you think I'll hazard my True. He only who is a friend, can judge reputation, nay my life, to entertain you? of my distress. this occasion. SCENE II.-MILLWOOD'S House. [Exit. Barn. Oh, Millwood! this from thee?But I have done-If you hate me, if you wish me dead, then are you happy; for, oh, 'tis sure my grief will quickly end me. Mill. I wish I knew the event of his design. Mill. In this madness he will discover all, The attempt without success would ruin him. and involve me in his ruin. We are on a -Well, what have 1 to apprehend from that? precipice, from whence there's no retreat for I fear too much. The mischief being only both. Then to preserve myself-[Pauses]intended, his friends, through pity of his youth, There is no other way. 'Tis dreadful; but turn all their rage on me. I should have reflection comes too late when danger's pressthought of that before. Suppose the deed done; ing, and there's no room for choice. It must then and then only I shall be secure-Or what be done. [Aside. Rings a Bell. if he returns without attempting it at all Enter a Servant. Enter BARNWELL, bloody. Fetch me an officer, and seize this villain. But he is here, and I have done him wrong. He has confess'd himself a murderer. Should His bloody hands show he has done the deed, I let him escape, I might justly be thought as but show he wants the prudence to conceal it. bad as he. [Exit Servant. Barn. Where shall I hide me? Whither Barn. Oh, Millwood! sure you do not, you shall I fly to avoid the swift unerring hand of cannot mean it. Stop the messenger; upon justice? my knees, I beg you'd call him back. 'Tis fit Mill. Dismiss your fears; though thousands I die, indeed, but not by you. I will this inhad pursued you to the door, yet being en-stant throw myself into the hands of justice, tered here, you are as safe as innocence. I indeed 1 will; for death is all I wish. But have a cavern by art so cunningly contrived, thy ingratitude so tears my wounded soul, 'tis that the piercing eyes of jealousy and revenge worse ten thousand times than death with may search in vain, nor find the entrance to torture. the safe retreat. There will I hide you, if Mill. Call it what you will; I am willing any danger's near. to live, and live secure, which nothing but Barn. Oh, hide me from myself, if it be your death can warrant. possible; for while I bear my conscience in Barn. If there be a pitch of wickedness that my bosom, though I were hid where man's sets the author beyond the reach of vengeance, eye never saw, nor light ere dawned, 'twere you must be secure. But what remains for all in vain. For, oh, that innate, that impar-me, but a dismal dungeon, hard galling fetters, tial judge, will try, convict, and sentence me an awful trial, and an ignominious death, justly for murder, and execute me with never-end- to fall, unpitied and abhorred? This I could ing torments. Behold these hands all crim- bear, nay wish not to avoid, had it but come soned o'er with my dear uncle's blood. Here's from any hand but thine. a sight to make a statue start with horror, or turn a living man into a statue! Enter BLUNT, Officer, and Attendants. Mill. Heaven defend me! Conceal a mur Mill. Ridiculous! Then it seems you are afraid of your own shadow, or what is less derer! Here, sir, take this youth into your than a shadow, your conscience. Barn. Though to man unknown I did the accursed act, what can hide me from heaven's all-secing eye? custody, I accuse him of murder, and will appear to make good my charge. [They seize him. Barn. To whom, of what, or how shall I Mill. No more of this stuff! What advan- complain? I'll not accuse her. The hand of tage have you made by his death: or what heaven is in it, and this the punishment of advantage may yet be made of it? Did you lust and parricide.. Be warn'd, ye youths, who see my sad secure the keys of his treasure, which no doubt were about him? What gold, what jewels, or what else of value have you brought me? Barn. Think you I added sad sacrilege to murder! Oh, had you seen him as his life flowed from him in a crimson flood, and heard him praying for me by the double name of nephew and of murderer; (alas, alas, he knew not then that his nephew was his murderer!) how would you have wished, as I did, though you had a thousand years of life to come, to have given them all to have lengthened his one hour. But at such a time? being dead, I fled the sight of what my hands Blunt. Would I had been so too! Lucy had done; nor could I, to have gained the will soon be here; and I hope to thy confuempire of the world, have violated by theft sion, thou devil! his sacred corpse. Attendants. Mill. Where's Lucy? Why is she absent Mill. Insolent! This to me! Mill. Whining, preposterous, canting villain!) ! Blunt. The worst that we know of the devil is, that he first seduces to sin, and then Thorow. I hear you. Pray go on. betrays to punishment. [Exit Blunt. Mill. I have been informed he had a violent Mill. They disapprove of my conduct then. passion for her, and she for him; but till now My ruin is resolved. I see my danger, but I always thought it innocent. I know her scorn both it and them. I was not born to poor, and given to expensive pleasures. Now, fall by such weak instruments. [Going, who can tell but she may have influenced the amorous youth to commit this murder, to supply her extravagancies. It must be so. I now firm it. I'll have her, and a man-servant whom [Offers to go. Enter THOROWGOOD. Thorow. Where is the scandal of her own recollect a thousand circumstances that sex, and curse of ours? con Mill. What means this insolence? Whom I suspect as an accomplice, secured immediado vou seek for? Thorow. Millwood! Mill. Well, you have found her then, I am Millwood! Thorow. Then you are the most impious wretch that e'er the sun beheld! tely. Thorow. Madam, you pass not this way. I see your design, but shall protect them from your malice. Mill. I hope you will not use your influence, and the credit of your name, to screen Mill. From your appearance I should have such guilty wretches. Consider, sir, the wickexpected wisdom and moderation: but your edness of persuading a thoughtless youth to manners belie your aspect. What is your such a crime! business here? I know you not. Thorow. Hereafter you may know me better. I am Barnwell's master. Mill. Then you are master to a villain; which, I think, is not much to your credit. Thorow. Had he been as much above thy arts, as my credit is superior to thy malice, I need not have blushed to own him. Thorow. I do-and of betraying him when it was done. Mill. That which you call betraying him, may convince you of my innocence. She who loves him, though she contrived the murder, would never have delivered him into the hands of justice, as I, struck with horror at his crimes, have done. Mill. My arts! I don't understand you, sir. Thorow. How should an unexperienced If he has done amiss, what's that to me? Was youth escape her snares? Even I, that with he my servant, or yours? You should have just prejudice came prepared, had by her arttaught him better. ful story been deceived, but that my strong Thorow. Why should I wonder to find such conviction of her guilt makes even a doubt uncommon impudence in one arrived to such a impossible. [Aside] Those whom subtilely you height of wickedness? Know, sorceress, I'm not would accuse, you know are your accusers; ignorant of any of the arts by which you first and, which proves unanswerably their innodeceived the unwary youth. I know how, step cence and your guilt, they accused you before by step, you've led him on, reluctant and un- the deed was done, and did all that was in wuling, from crime to crime, to this last horrid their power to prevent it. act, which you contrived, and by your cursed Mill. Sir, your are very hard to be conwiles even forced him to commit. Mill. Ha! Lucy has got the advantage, and accused me first. Unless I can turn the accusation, and fix it upon her and Blunt, I am last. vinced; but I have a proof, which, when produced, will silence all objection. [Exit Millwood. Enter LUCY, TRUEMAN, BLUNT, Officers, etc. [Aside. Lucy. Gentlemen, pray place yourselves, Thorow. Had I known your cruel design some on one side of that door, and some on uner, it had been prevented. To see you the other; watch her entrance, and act as your punished, as the law directs, is all that now prudence shall direct you. This way; [To remains. Poor satisfaction! For he, innocent Thorowgood] and note her behaviour; I have as he is, compared to you, must suffer too. observed her; she's driven to the last extremMill. I find, sir, we are both unhappy in ity, and is forming some desperate resoluservants. I was surprised at such ill treat-tion. I guess at her design, Berat without cause, from a gentleman of your appearance, and therefore too hastily retarned it, for which I ask your pardon. I Bow perceive you have been so far imposed as to think me engaged in a former correspondence with your servant, and some way or other accessary to his undoing. Re-enter MILLWOOD with a Pistol, TRUEMAN secures her. True. Here thy power of doing mischief ends, deceitful, cruel, bloody woman! Mill. Fool, hypocrite, villain, man! Thou canst not call me that. True. To call thee woman were to wrong Thurow. I charge you as the cause, the wse cause of all his guilt, and all his suffer- thy sex, thou devil! L of all he now endures, and must endure, Mill. That imaginary being is an emblem a violent and shameful death shall put a of thy cursed sex collected. A mirror, wheredreadful period to his life and miseries together. in each particular man may see his own likeMail Tis very strange! But who's secure ness, and that of all mankind. froms scandal and detraction? So far from Thorow. Think not by aggravating the faults tributing to his ruin, I never spoke to him of others, to extenuate thy own, of which the this fatal accident, which I lament as abuse of such uncommon perfections of mind mach as you. Tis true I have a servant, on whose and body is not the least. arount he hath of late frequented my house. Mill. If such I had, well may I curse your If she has abused my good opinion of her, am I to barbarous sex, who robbed me of 'em ere I ame? Has not Barnwell done the same by you? knew their worth; then left me, too late, to tal SIDCE count their value by their loss.-Another, and Thorow. These are the genuine signs of another spoiler came, and all my gain was true repentance; the only preparatory, the cerpoverty and reproach. My soul disdained, and tain way to everlasting peace. Barn. What do I owe for all your generous kindness? But though I cannot, heaven can and will reward you. yet disdains, dependence and contempt. Riches, no matter by what means obtained, I saw secured the worst of men from both; I found it therefore necessary to be rich, and Thorow. To see thee thus, is joy too great to that end I summoned all my arts. You call 'em wicked; be it so; they were such as my conversation with your sex had furnished me withal. Thorow. Sure none but the worst of men conversed with thee! for words. Farewell-Heaven strengthen thee! -Farewell. Barn. Oh, sir, there's something I would say, if my sad swelling heart would give me leave. Thorow. Give it vent awhile, and try. Barn. I had a friend-'tis true I am un Mill. Men of all degrees, and all profes-worthy-yet methinks your generous example sions, I have known, yet found no difference, might persuade. Could I not see him once, but in their several capacities; all were alike, before I go from whence there's no return? wicked to the utmost of their power. What Thorow. He's coming, and as much thy are your laws of which you make your boast, friend as ever. I will not anticipate his sorbut the fool's wisdom, and the coward's va- row; too soon he'll see the sad effects of this lour, the instrument and screen of all your contagious ruin. - This torrent of domestic villanies? By them you punish in others what misery bears too hard upon me. I must reyou act yourselves, or would have acted, had tire, to indulge a weakness I find impossible you been in their circumstances. The judge, to overcome. [Aside] Much loved-and much who condemns the poor man for being a thief, lamented youth!-Farewell. - Heaven strengthhad been a thief himself had he been poor.- en thee!-Eternally farewell. Thus you go on deceiving and deceived, har- Barn. The best of masters, and of menrassing, plaguing, and destroying one another. Farewell. While I live let me not want your But women are your universal prey: Women, by whom you are, the source of joy, With cruel arts you labour to destroy: A thousand ways our ruin you pursue, Yet blame in us those arts first taught by you. Oh, may from hence each violated maid, When robb'd of innocence and virgin fame, ACT V. SCENE I.-A Dungeon, a Table, and a Lamp. prayers. Bear a Thorow. Thou shalt not. Thy peace being made with heaven, death is already vanquished. little longer the pains that attend this transitory life, and cease from pain fo rever. [Exit Barn. Perhaps I shall. I find a power within, that bears my soul above the fears of death, and, spite of conscious shame and guilt gives me a taste of pleasure more than mortal. Enter TRUEMAN. SO Barn. Trueman!-My friend, whom I wished to see; yet, now he's here, I dare not look upon him. [Weeps True. Oh, Barnwell, Barnwell! Barn. Mercy! mercy! gracious heaven! For death, but not for this was I prepared. True. What have I suffered since I saw thee last!-What pain has absence given me! -But oh, to see thee thus! Enter THOROGOOD, at a Distance. Thorow. There see the bitter fruits of pas- Barn. I know it is dreadful! I feel the ansion's detested reign, and sensual appetite in- guish of thy generous soul:-But I was born dulged: severe reflections, penitence, and tears. to murder all who love me. [Both weep. Barn. My honoured, injured master, whose True. I come not to reproach you; I thought goodness has covered me a thousand times to bring you comfort. Oh, had you trusted with shame, forgive this last unwilling disre- me when first the fair seducer tempted you spect. Indeed I saw you not. all might have been prevented. Thorow. 'Tis well; I hope you are better Barn. Alas, thou knowest not what a wretch employed in viewing of yourself; your jour- I've been. Breach of friendship was my first ney's long, your time for preparation almost and least offence. So far was I lost to goodspent. I sent a reverend divine to teach you ness, so devoted to the author of my ruin to improve it, and should be glad to hear of that had she insisted on my murdering thee his success. I think I should have done it. Barn. The word of truth, which he recomTrue. Pr'ythee aggravate thy faults no more mended for my constant companion in this Barn. I think I should! Thus good and gemy sad retirement, has at length removed the nerous as you are, I should have murdered doubts I laboured under. From thence I have you! learned the infinite extent of heavenly mercy. True. We have not yet embraced, and may How shall I describe my present state of mind? be interrupted. Come to my arms. I hope in doubt, and trembling I rejoice; 1 Barn. Never, never will I taste such joys feel my_grief increase, even as my fears give on earth; never will I sooth my just remorse. way. Joy and gratitude now supply more Are those honest arms and faithful bosom fi tears than the horror and anguish of despair to embrace and support a murderer? These before. iron fetters only shall.clasp, and flinty pave ים ! 1 ment bear me; [Throwing himself on the per guest, the abandoned and lost Maria brings Ground] even these are too good for such a despair, and sees the subject and the cause of bloody monster. all 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 gricts into my breast, and in exchange take leave me to my fate. Consider what you are. ame. 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! Maria. When I forget you, I must be so True. I do, I do. Almighty Power! how indeed. Reason, choice, virtue, all forbid it. 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 daugh ter? True. The same. 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. Millwood is already summoned. 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, ll, 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, ble, she feels for you. turn your eyes from earth 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 bancholy weighed her down. Disconsolate she mankind, cuts off a wretch like me; by one med, and pined and languished from a such example to secure thousands from future cause unknown; till hearing of your dreadful fate, the long stifled flame blazed out, and in the transport of her grief discovered her own host state, while she lamented yours. 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 deterned to see you ere you die, and waits for to introduce her. Barn. [Exit. Vain, busy thoughts, be still! What as it to think on what I might have been? I am now what I've made myself. ruin. If any youth, like you, in future times crimes; Or tender maid, like you, my tale shall hear, Since you nor weep, nor I shall die in vain. With bleeding hearts, and weeping eyes, we Re-enter TRUEMAN, with MARIA. True. Madam, reluctant I lead you to this show vnd scene. This is the seat of misery and A humane, gen'rous sense of others woe, walt. Here awful justice reserves her public Unless we mark what drew their ruin on, ems. This is the entrance to a shameful death. And, by avoiding that, prevent our own. Maria. To this sad place then, no impro- [The Curtain descends to slow Music, 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 runs 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 fire, 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 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, seem 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 no 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 faire. 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, ACT L. SCENE I.-An outer Room in the Cas le. Julio. But think you 'tis a fault To be found sober? Grac. It is capital treason; Enter GRACCHO, JULIO, and GIOVANNI, with Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay Flagons. Forty crowns to the poor; but give a pensior reeling, And the duke himself, I dare not say dis But kind, and in his tottering chair carousing And so, dear friends, co-partners in my travails the city, Until it reel again, and with me cry, Enter TIBERIO and STEPHANO, Julio. Here are two lords! what think you! Shall we give the oath to them? |