Keep my accounts, and order my affairs; Wife. Will the tide never turn? was ever woman Thus burden'd with unhappy happiness? Did I from riot take him, to waste my goods, And he strives to augment it? I did mistake him. Doct. Spoil not a good text with a false comment; All these are blessings, and from heaven sent; It is your husband's good, he's now transform'd To a better shade, the prodigal's return'd. Come, come, know joy, make not abundance scant; You 'plain of that which thousand women want. PHILIP MASSINGER. [Born; 1584. Died, 1640.] THE father of this dramatic poet was attached to the family of Henry, the second Earl of Pembroke, and died in the service of that honourable house. The name of a servant carried with it no sense of degradation in those times, when the great lords and officers of the court numbered inferior nobles among their followers. On one occasion the poet's father was the bearer of letters from the Earl of Pembroke to Queen Elizabeth; a circumstance which has been justly observed to indicate that he could be no mean person, considering the punctilious respect which Elizabeth exacted from her courtiers. Massinger was born at Salisbury, or probably at Wilton, in its neighbourhood, the seat of the Earl of Pembroke, in whose family he also appears to have been educated. That nobleman died in the poet's sixteenth year, who thus unfortunately lost whatever chance he ever had of his protecting kindness. His father continued indeed in the service of the succeeding earl *, *. who was an accomplished man, a votary of the muses, and one of the brightest ornaments of the court of Elizabeth and James; but he withheld his patronage from a man of genius, who had claims to it, and would have done it honour, for reasons that have not been distinctly explained in the scanty and sorrowful history of the poet. Mr. Gifford, dissatisfied with former reasons alleged for this neglect, and convinced from the perusal of his writings that Massinger was a catholic, conjectures that it may be attributed to his having offended the earl by having apostatised while at the university to that obnoxious faith. He was entered as a commoner of St. Alban's Hall, Oxford, in his eighteenth year, where he continued only four years. Wood and Davies conclude that he missed a degree, and was suddenly withdrawn from the university, in consequence of Pembroke's disapprobation of his attachment to poetry and romances, instead of logic and philosophy. Mr. Gifford prefers the * William, the third Earl of Pembroke. authority of Langbaine, that he was not supported at all at Oxford by the Earl of Pembroke, but by his own father, and concludes that he was withdrawn from it solely by the calamitous event of his death. Whatever was the cause, he left the university abruptly, and coming to London, without friends, or fortune, or profession, was, as he informs us himself, driven by his necessities to the stage for support. From the period of his arrival in London in 1606 till the year 1622, when his Virgin Martyr appeared in print, it is sufficiently singular that we should have no notice of Massinger, except in one melancholy relic that was discovered by Mr. Malone in Dulwich college, namely, a letter subscribed by him and two other dramatic poets +, in which they solicit the advance of five pounds from the theatrical manager, to save them from the horrors of a gaol. The distressful document accidentally discovers the fact of Massinger having assisted Fletcher in one of his dramas, and thus entitles Sir Aston Cokayne's assertion to belief, that he assisted him in more than one. Though Massinger therefore did not appear in print during the long period already mentioned, his time may be supposed to have been partly employed in those confederate undertakings which were so common during the early vigour of our stage; and there is the strongest presumptive evidence that he was also engaged in plays of his own composition, which have been lost to the world among those literary treasures that perished by the neglect of Warburton, the Somerset herald, and the unconscious sacrilege of his cook. Of Massinger's fame for rapidity in composition Langbaine has preserved a testimony in the lines of a contemporary poet: after the date of his first printed performance those of his subsequent works come in thick succession, and there can be little doubt that the period preceding it was equally prolific. Of his private life literally nothing can be said Nathaniel Field and Robert Daborne. to be known, except that his dedications bespeak incessant distress and dependence, while the recommendatory poems prefixed to his plays address him with attributes of virtue, which are seldom lavished with flattery or falsehood on those who are poor. In one of his dedications he acknowledges the bounty of Philip, Earl of Montgomery, the brother to that Earl of Pembroke who so unaccountably neglected him ; but warm as Massinger's acknowledgments are, the assistance appears to have been but transitory. On the 17th of March, 1640, having gone to bed in apparent health the preceding night, he was found dead in the morning, in his own house, in the Bank-side. He was buried in the church-yard of St. Saviour's, and his fellowcomedians attended him to the grave; but it does not appear from the strictest search that a stone or inscription of any kind marked the place where his dust was deposited; even the memorial of his mortality is given with a pathetic brevity, which accords but too well with the obscure and humble circumstances of his life-" March 20, 1639-40, buried Philip Massinger, a stranger *;" and of all his admirers only Sir Aston Cokayne dedicated a line to his memory. Even posterity did him long injustice: Rowe, who had discovered his merits in the depth of their neglect, forbore to be his editor, in the hopes of concealing his plagiarism from the Fatal Dowry +; and he seemed on the eve of oblivion, when Dodsley's reprint of our old plays brought him faintly into that light of reputation, which has been made perfectly distinct by Mr. Gifford's edition of his works. FROM "THE DUKE OF MILAN," A TRAGEDY. Sforza, Duke of Milan, in his passionate attachment to his wife Marcelia, cannot endure the idea of her surviving him, and being called out to war, leaves an order to his favourite Francisco, that in the event of his falling in the contest he should put the duchess to death. Marcelia's discovery of this frantic order brings on the jealousy and deaths that form the catastrophe of the piece. MARCELIA TEMPTED BY FRANCISCO. Fran. LET them first know themselves, and how you are To be served and honour'd; which, when they confess, You may again receive them to your favour: Mar. With my thanks The duke shall pay you his, if he return Fran. There is nothing That can be added to your fair acceptance; An ill construction, in your favour finds Marc. From you, I take this As loyal duty; but, in any other, Fran. Flattery, madam! You are so rare and excellent in all things, As that vice cannot reach you; who but looks on This temple, built by nature to perfection, Not only learn to adore it, but to love it? Fran. Pardon, therefore, madam, Marc. You have it in my thanks; And, on my hand, I am pleased that you shall take A full possession of it: but, take heed That you fix here, and feed no hope beyond it; If you do, it will prove fatal. Fran. Be it death, And death with torments tyrants ne'er found out, Yet I must say, I love you. Marc. As a subject; And 'twill become you. Fran. Farewell circumstance ! And since you are not pleased to understand me, I love you as a man, and, as a man, I would enjoy you. Why do you start, and fly me? I am no monster, and you but a woman, Marc. Keep off. O you Powers !—— [* The real entry is, "1639. March 18. Philip Massinger, stranger"—that is, a non-parishioner; but it has hitherto been quoted as Mr. Campbell has quoted it.] In The Fair Penitent. The envy of great fortunes? Have I graced thee, Upon my weak credulity, tell me, rather, Marc. The devil may plead mercy, Set off with all that fortune could throw on him, Fran. 'Tis acknowledged, madam, That your whole course of life hath been a pattern When I have told the story. Can he tax me, Marc. Bless me, good angels, Or I am blasted! Lies so false and wicked, That the earth moves; the sun and stars stand still; How dear he holds you! "Tis his character, Fran. Pray you, do so. Marc. (reads.) You know my pleasure, and the hour of Marcelia's death, which fail not to execute, as you will answer the contrary, not with your head alone, but with the ruin of your whole family. And this, written with mine own hand, and signed with my privy signet, shall be your sufficient warrant. LODOVICO SFORZA. I do obey it; every word's a poniard, [She swoons. Fran. What have I done! Fran. But I am true, And live to make you happy. All the pomp, Marc. Thou art a villain! All attributes of archvillains made into one, Pure and unspotted in my true love to him; Nor will I part with innocence, because Fran. Thou, then, art nothing: Thy life is in my power, disdainful woman! Marc. No, though thou wert now To play thy hangman's part.-Thou well may'st be For such employment; but ne'er hope to have But how I should begin, or in what language Cleo. And still continue ignorant ; If I should teach you. Leost. Yet it must be spoken, Or you will chide my slackness. You have fired me Cleo. May it yet burn here, And, as a seamark, serve to guide true lovers, Leost. "Tis a happiness My duty to my country, and mine honour, Cleo. Alas! I then was witty To plead against myself; and mine eye, fix'd A petty wreath myself, I rob you of A certain triumph, which must fall upon you, How is my soul divided! to confirm you Leost. Sweet, take comfort! And what I offer you, you must vouchsafe me, I can encounter in the war, are trifles; The dreadful foes, that have the power to hurt me, Cleo. With me? Leost. Nay, in you, In every part about you, they are arm'd To fight against me. Cleo. Where? Leost. There's no perfection That you are mistress of, but musters up Cleo. This is strange ! Leost. But true, sweet; Excess of love can work such miracles! Ten thousand rivals, and these suns command I may be tempted? Leost. You were never proved. For me, I have conversed with you no further Cleo. And 'twas That modesty that took me and preserves me, Like a fresh rose, in mine own natural sweetness; Which, sullied with the touch of impure heads, Loses both scent and beauty. Leost. But, Cleora, When I am absent, as I must go from you Of loose temptations; when the memory Cleo. Will you then confirm That love and jealousy, though of different natures, And spoil him of his birthright? 'tis not well. From my just anger. Leost. What will you do? Cleo. Obey me, Or from this minute you are a stranger to me; Now bind them sure ;-nay, do't: [lle binds her eyes.] If, uncompell'd, I loose this knot, until the hands that made it Now to my chamber, My tomb, if you miscarry there I'll spend My hours in silent mourning, and thus much Shall be reported of me to my glory, And you confess it, whether I live or die, My chastity triumphs o'er your jealousy. Enter PISANDER, speaking, at the door, to the Pisander. He that advances A foot beyond this, comes upon my sword : Her fears may kill her else. Pisan. Now Love inspire me ! Still shall this canopy of envious night Obscure my suns of comfort? and those dainties Of purest white and red, which I take in at My greedy eyes, denied my famish'd senses ?— The organs of your hearing yet are open; And you infringe no vow, though you vouchsafe To give them warrant to convey unto Your understanding parts, the story of A tortured and despairing lover, whom Not fortune but affection marks your slave: Shake not, best lady! for believe't, you are As far from danger as I am from force: All violence I shall offer, tends no further Than to relate my sufferings, which I dare not Presume to do, till, by some gracious sign, You show you are pleased to hear me. Timand. If you are, Hold forth your right hand. [CLEORA holds forth her right hand. Timand. See, she bows [CLEORA bows, The occasion of the war, (my fires increasing [CLEORA starts. Or take my wishes here, (nay, fear not, madam; True love 's a servant, brutish lust a tyrant,) I dare not touch those viands that ne'er taste well, But when they're freely offer'd only thus much, |