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 vant; 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!

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 Let women, like Millwood, if there are more extremes of pleasure and of pain!

Enter Keeper.

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!

Keep. Sir. True. I come. [Exit Keeper. Maria. Yes, fruitless is my love, and unaBarn. Must you leave me?"Death would vailing all my sighs and tears. Can they save soon have parted us for ever. thee from approaching death?-from such a True. Oh, my Barnwell, there's yet another death?-Oh, sorrow insupportable! task behind. Again your heart must bleed for others woes.

Barn. Preserve her, heaven, and restore her peace, nor let her death be added to my crimes! Barn. To meet and part with you, I thought-[Bell tolls]-I'm summoned to my fate. 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 kaown!-Maria

Barn. Our master's fair and virtuous daughter?

True. The same.

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, 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, 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 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 fate, the long stifled flame blazed out, and in the transport of her grief discovered her own lost state, while she lamented yours.

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

no

True. It was impossible. She makes 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 ails 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
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, guilt. 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.

With bleeding hearts, and weeping eyes, we show

Maria. To this sad place then, no impro- [The Curtain descends to slow Music,

MASSINGER.

THIS excellent poèt was son to Mr. Philip Massinger, a gentleman, who had some employment under the Ear of Pembroke, in whose service he died, after having spent several happy years in his family. Our author was bor 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 was encouraged in the pursuit of his studies by his father's patron, the Earl of Pembroke, the natural bent of his ge nius lead him much more to poetry and polite literature, than to the dryer and more abstruse studies of logic philosophy; being impatient for an opportunity of moving in a more public sphere of action, and improving poetical fancy and his knowledge of the belles lettres, by conversation with the world, and an intercourse with men wit and genius; he quitted the university without taking any degree, and came to London, where, applying hims 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 Ma singer's writings," says the Biographia Dramatiça, “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, ther 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 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 ra through most of their comedies, As to Ben Jonson, we shall readily allow that he excels this author with respect the studied accuracy and classical correctness of his style; yet Massinger has so greatly the superiority over him 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 bạt 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 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 Imperial Camp near PAVIA; the rest of the Play, in MILAN and its Neighbourhood.

ACT I.

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

SCENE L-An outer Room in the Cas le.

Flagons.

Grac. It is capital treason;

Enter GRACCHO, JULIO, and GIOVANNI, with Or, if you mitigate it, let such pay Forty crowns to the poor; but give a pension give To all the magistrates you find singing catches, Or their wives dancing; for the courtiers reeling,

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 find
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

Ring out of tune, as if the streets were burning,

And the duke himself, I dare not say dis-
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,

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 opipatent,

nion,

Stands bound to take his rouse. Long live They are unseasonable,

the dutchess!

Tib. I judge so too;

[Exeunt Graccho, Julio, and Giovanni. 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.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Another Room in the same.

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

guided

By his strong judgment, still hath overcome), In her proud train.

Ayears now shaken, it deserves no wonder: Isa. Shall I, that am his mother,
Be so indulgent as to wait on her
That owes me duty?

A that his youth hath labour'd for, the harvest
Sewn by his industry ready to be reap'd too,
beng now at stake; and all his hopes con-
firm'd

Or lost for ever.

Steph. I know no such hazard:

guards are strong and sure, and though war rages

most parts of our western world, there is Sc enemy near us.

Ib. Dangers that we see

To threaten ruin, are with ease prevented;
Bat those strike deadly that come unexpected.
The wars so long continued between
The emperor Charles, and Francis, the French
king,

Have interest'd, in either's cause, the most
Of the Italian princes; among which, Sforza,
As one of greatest power, was sought by both;
But with assurance, having one his friend,

The other lived his enemy.

Steph. Tis true;

And 'twas a doubtful choice.

Tib. But be, well knowing
And hating too, it seems, the Spanish pride,
Lent his assistance to the king of France;
Which hath so far incens'd the emperor,
That all his hopes and honours are embark'd
With his great patron's fortune.
Steph. Which stands fair,
Faught I yet can hear.

To. But should it change,

The duke's undone. They have drawn to the

field

Teroral armies, full of fiery youth,
equal spirit to dare, and power to do;
intrench'd, that 'tis beyond all hope
Obaman counsel they e'er can be severed,
Tel it be determin'd by the sword

Dear

o hath the better cause; for the success adudes the victor innocent, and the vanquish'd

stmiserably guilty. Steph. But why, then,

such a time, when every knee should bend the success and safety of his person,

Fran. Tis done to the duke, And not to her; and, my sweet wife, remember, And, madam, if you please, receive my counsel, As Sforza is your son, you may comma him; And, as a sister, you may challenge from

him

A brother's love and favour: but this granted,
Consider he's the prince, and you his subjects,
And not to question or contend with her
Whom he is pleas'd to honour. Private men
Prefer their wives; and shall he, being a prince,
And blest with one that is the paradise
Of sweetness, and of beauty,
Not use her like herself?

Isa. You are ever forward
To sing her praises.

Mari. Others are as fair;
I am sure as noble.

Fran. I detract from none

In giving her what's due. Were she deform'd,
Yet, being the dutchess, I stand bound to
serve her;

But as she is, to admire her. Never wife
Met with a purer heat her husband's fervour;
A happy pair, one in the other blest!
She confident in herself he's wholly hers,
And cannot seek for change; and he secure
That 'tis not in the power of man to tempt
her.

And therefore to contest with her, that is
The stronger and the better part of him,
Is more than folly: you know him of a nature
Not to be play'd with; and, should you forget
To obey him as your prince, he'll not re-

member

SCENE III-A State Room in the same. A

magnificent Banquet.

Flourish. Enter TIBERIO, STEPHANO, FRAN-
CISCO, LUDOVICO SFORZA, MARCELIA, ISA-
BELLA, MARIANA, and Attendants.
Sfor. You are the mistress of the feast;
here,

O my soul's comfort!
Let me glory in

sit Why should I fear? The French are b and strong,

Their numbers full, and in their councils w
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,
One gale of your sweet breath will easily
Though I confess you give her but her own, Disperse these clouds; and, but yourself, the

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,

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 fo me,
And every day deserves more to be sued to.
Marc. 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

[Aside. banquets

Cour. Delivers a Letter] The letter will
inform you.
[Exit.

Fran. How his hand shakes,

As he receives it!

Mari. This is some allay

To his hot passion.

none'

That dare speak to him.

Marc. I will run the hazard.

My lord!

[As ΓΑΡ

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

And stand uncertain, whether I am maste
Of aught that's worth the owning.

Marc. I am yours, sir;

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

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

Sfor. Out of my sight!

[Throws away the Le And all thoughts that may strangle m forsake me.

Fall what can fall, I dare the worst of fa
Though the foundation of the earth sh
shrink,

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

That wears one furrow in his face.
Come, make me happy once again, I am ra
'Tis not to-day, to-morrow, or the next,
But all my days and years shall be emp
To do thee honour. [A Trumpet will
Another post! hang him-

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 wis
hear,

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

Sfor. Though it bring death, I'll read it.

[Reads.

Enter another Courier.

From Gaspero?

Cour. That was, my lord.

Sfor. How? dead?'

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 van guard committed to my charge, en- To guard your excellency from certain dan Your high- He ceased to be a man. GASPERO. Sfor. All that my fears

forces me to end abruptly. ness's humble servant.

Cour. [Delivers a Letter] With the very of this, and prayer

[Music.

Ready to join!-By this, then, I am nothing. Could fashion to me, or my enemies wis

Or my estate secure.

[Aside. Is fallen upon me. Silence that harsh m

Tis now unseasonable: a tolling bell,
As a sad harbinger to tell me that

is pamper'd lump of flesh must feast the
worms,

Is fitter for me: I am sick.
Marc. My lord!

Sfor. Sick to the death, Marcelia. Remove These signs of mirth: they were ominous, and but usher'd

Syrew and ruin. ·

Verc. Bless us, heaven!
Ian, My son.

Marc. What sudden change is this?
Stor. All leave the room;

bear alone the burden of my grief, Asi must admit no partner. I am yet Iar prince, where's your obedience?

Think, think, Marcelia, what a cursed thing
I were, beyond expression!
Marc. Do not feed

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.
Besides, were I now in another's power,
I would not live for one short minute his;
I was born only yours, and I will die so.
Sfor. Angels reward the goodness of this
woman!

Re-enter FRANCISCO.
All I can pay is nothing. Why, uncall'd for?
Fran. It is of weight, sir, that makes me
thus press

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-

tendants.

d have heard my troops were cut in pieces, general slain, and he, on whom my hopes, rule, of state, of life, had their dependence, The king of France, my greatest friend, made prisoner

To so proud enemies.

Marc. Then you have just cause
To show you are a man.

Sfor. All this were nothing,
Though I add to it, that I am assured,
For giving aid to this unfortunate king,
The emperor, incens'd, lays his command
On his victorious army, flesh'd with spoil,
And bold of conquest, to march up against me,
4d seize on my estates: suppose that done too,
The city ta'en, the kennels running blood,
Mself bound fast in chains, to grace their
triumph;

I would be Sforza still. But when I think
1st my Marcelia, to whom all these
Are but as atoms to the greatest hill,
Mad suffer in my cause, and for me suffer!
Ataly torments, nay, even those the damn'd
in hell, are gentle strokes, compar'd
That I feel, Marcelia.

Marc. Good sir, have patience:
Le as well partake your adverse fortune,
A thus long have had an ample share

prosperity. Tis not in the power e to alter me; for while I am,

de of it, I'm yours.

Jor. But should that will

30-forced, Marcelia; and I live

see those eyes I prize above my own, favours, though compell'd, upon another; teose sweet lips, yielding immortal nectar, gently touch'd by any but myself;

tunes,

And with speed to impart.

Sfor. Wait on him hither. [Exit Francisco.
And, dearest, to thy closet. Let thy prayers
Assist my councils.

Marc. To spare imprecations
Against myself, without you I am nothing.

Exit.
Sfor. The marquis of Pescara! a great soldier;
And though he serv'd upon the adverse party,
Ever my constant friend.

Re-enter FRANCISCO, with PESCARA.
Fran. Yonder he walks,
Full of sad thoughts.

[Apart.

Pes. Blame him not, good Francisco,
He hath much cause to grieve; would I might
end so,
And not add this to fear!

[Apart.

Sfor. My dear Pescara;
A miracle in these times! a friend, and happy,
Cleaves to a falling fortune!

Pes. If it were

To hope you can hold out against the emperor,
Were flattery in yourself, to your undoing;
Therefore, the safest course that you can take,
Is, to give up yourself to his discretion,
Before you be compell'd; for rest assur'd,
A voluntary yielding may find grace,
And will admit defence, at least, excuse:
But should you linger doubtful, till his powers
Ilave seiz'd your person and estates perforce,
You must expect extremes.

Sfor. I understand you;