THE OLD LAW: A COMEDY. BY PHILIP MASSINGER, THOMAS MIDDLETON, AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. The Duke of Epire enacts a law, that all men who have reached the age of fourscore, shall be put to death, as being adjudged useless to the commonwealth. Simonides, the bad, and Cleanthes, the good son, are differently affected by the promul gation of the edict. Sim. Cleanthes, Oh, lad, here's a spring for young plants to flourish! Cle. Whither, sir, I pray ? To the bleak air of storms, among those trees Sim. Yes, from our growth, Our sap and livelihood, and from our fruit. year with me. Sim. Prithee, how old's thy father? then I can tell thee. Cle. I know not how to answer you, Simonides. He is too old, being now expos'd Unto the rigour of a cruel edict; And yet not old enough by many years, 'Cause I'd not see him go an hour before me. Cle. Why, here's a villain, Able to corrupt a thousand by example. Does the kind root bleed out his livelihood In parent distribution to his branches, To comfort his old limbs in fruitless winter? Cleanthes, to save his old father, Leonides, from the operation of the law, gives out that he is dead, celebrating a pretended funeral, to make it believed. DUKE. COURTIERS. CLEANTHES, as following his father's body to the grave. Duke. Cleanthes? Court. Tis, my lord, and in the place Of a chief mourner too, but strangely habited. Light colours and light cheeks-who should this be? Cle. O my lord! Duke. He laugh'd outright now. Was ever such a contrariety seen In natural courses yet, nay, profess'd openly? That ever son was born too. Duke. How can that be? Cle. I joy to make it plain-my father's dead. Court. Old Leonides? Cle. In his last month dead. He beguil'd cruel law the sweetliest That ever age was blest to. It grieves me that a tear should fall upon't, Broke, I did not so much, but leap'd for joy All reputation by false sons and widows. Naming but death, I shew myself a mortal, That can, when joy looks on, steal forth a grief. Duke. Well, perform it? The law is satisfied: they can but die. Cleanthes conceals Leonides in a secret apartment within a wood, where himself, and his wife Hippolita, keep watch for the safety of the old man. This coming to the duke's knowledge, he repairs to the wood and makes discovery of the place where they have hid Leonides. The Wood.-CLEANTHES listening, as fearing every sound. Cle. What's that? Oh, nothing but the whisp'ring wind Breathes thro' yon churlish hawthorn, that grew rude As if it chid the gentle breath that kiss'd it. For in these woods lies hid all my life's treasure, Though it be never lost; and if our watchfulness The nerves of confidence; he that hides treasure, When 'tis a thing least minded; nay, let him change There will the fear keep still. Yonder's the store-house A dear one to me. HIPPOLITA enters. Precious chief of women! How does the good old soul? has he fed well? Hip. Beshrew me, sir, he made the heartiest meal to day, Much good may't do his health. Cle. A blessing on thee, Both for thy news and wish. Is better'd wond'rously, since his concealment. Cle. Heav'n has a blessed work in't. Come, we're safe here. I prithee, call him forth, the air is much wholesomer. Hip. Father. LEONIDES comes forth. Leon. How sweetly sounds the voice of a good woman! It is so seldom heard, that, when it speaks, It ravishes all senses. Lists of honour, I've a joy weeps to see you, 'tis so full, Cle. I hope to see you often, and return Ha! A Horn is heard. Leon. What was't disturb'd my joy? Leon. 'Tis nothing but a symptom of thy care, man. Cle. Alas! you do not hear well. Leon. What was't, daughter? Hip. I heard a sound, twice. Cle. Hark! louder and nearer. In, for the precious good of virtue, quick, sir. Louder and nearer yet; at hand, at hand; |