But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, Dor. I have offer'd Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. I Ang. I am not: I did never Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace, Dor. A bless'd day! [This scene has beauties of so very high an order that, with all my respect for Massinger, I do not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of furnishing them. His associate Decker, who wrote Old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for any thing. The very impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of this play (like Satan among the Sons of Heaven) and which the brief scope of my plan fortunately enables me to leave out, have a strength of contrast, a raciness, and a glow in them, which are above Massinger. They set off the religion of the rest, somehow as Caliban serves to shew Miranda.] THE FATAL DOWRY: A TRAGEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER AND NATHANIEL FIELD. The Marshal of Burgundy dies in prison at Dijon for debts contracted by him for the service of the state in the wars. His dead body is arrested and denied burial by his creditors. His son, young Charalois, gives up himself to prison to redeem his father's body, that it may have honourable burial. He has leave from his prison doors to view the ceremony of the funeral, but to go no farther. Enter three gentlemen, PONTALIER, MALOTIN, and BEAUMONT, as spectators of the funeral. Mal. 'Tis strange. Beaum. Methinks so. Pont. In a man but young, Yet old in judgment; theoric and practic For since the clock did strike him seventeen old, So recent in him, as the world may swear Nought but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear. Pont. Certainly. And from this prison 'twas the sons request That his dear father might interment have. (CHARALOIS appears at the door of the prison.) See the young son interr'd, a lively grave. The funeral procession enters. Captains and soldiers, mourners. ROMONT, friend to the deceased. Three creditors are among the spectators. CHARALOIS speaks. Char. How like a silent stream shaded with night. Of death, thus hollowly break forth !—vouchsafe Here stands thy poor executor, thy son, Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds. I thank you for this last and friendly love. All means of thee, her son, but last thyself, Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent, He cannot raise thee a poor monument, Thy worth in every honest breast builds one, Char. Peace! O peace! This scene is wholly mineWhat! weep you, soldiers? - blanch not.- Romont weeps.― themselves. Ha! let me see! my miracle is eas'd; Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man, Shall quickly both in bone and name consume, Creditor. Sir! Char. What ! rogues away for shame you prophane Must not be mingled with these holy relics: Rom. Look, look, you slaves! your And savage manners of unkind Dijon, thankless cruelty, Exhaust these floods, and not his father's death. Char. One moment more, But to bestow a few poor legacies, All I have left in my dead father's right, And I have done. Captain, wear thou these spurs, That yet ne'er made his horse run from a foe. For so it did in him. Ensign, this cuirass, Whereon foes broke their swords, and tir'd themselves. For me, my portion provide in heaven : My root is earth'd, and I, a desolate branch, The prison limits you, and the creditors His father's sword. |