A hunting here! 'tis strange! I never knew (LEONIDES goes in.) Hip. Now let them come, and spare not. Enter DUKE, Courtiers, Attendants, as if hunting. Cle. Ha! 'tis- -is't not the Duke? ingly. -look spar Hip. 'Tis he, but what of that? alas! take heed, sir; Your carê will overthrow us. Cle. Come, it shall not. Let's set a pleasant face upon our fears, Though our hearts shake with horror. Ha ha! ha! Duke. Hark! Cle. Prithee, proceed; I'm taken with these light things infinitely, Since the old man's decease.-Ha! ha! ha!— Duke. Why, how should I believe this? Look, he's merry, As if he had no such charge. One with that care with. Court. Aye, he may laugh, my lord; That only he has over-reach'd the law. Duke. If a contempt can be so neatly carried, It gives me cause of wonder. Cleanthes Cle. My lov'd lord— Duke. Not mov'd a whit! Constant to lightning still!-'tis strange to meet you Upon a ground so unfrequented, sir: This does not fit your passion; you are for mirth, Cle. But finding it Grow to a noted imperfection in me (For any thing too much is vicious), I come to these disconsolate walks of purpose Duke. It seems then you take pleasure in these walks, sir? Cle. Contemplative content I do, my lord: Duke. So, sir Cle. Which is a kind of grave delight, my lord. The least delight that has a name. Cle. My lord Duke. In your excess of joy you have express'd Which might be death, a little more incensed. But all that's known to be contentful to thee, Into these walks again -aye, or that woman I'll have them watch'd a purpose. 1st Court. Now, now, his colour ebbs and flows. 2nd Court. Mark hers too. Hip. Oh! who shall bring food to the poor old man now? Speak somewhat, good sir, or we are lost for ever. (Apart to CLEANTHES.) Cle. Oh! you did wondrous ill to call me again. (Apart to HIPPOLITA.) 1st Court. You have struck them dumb, my lord. 2nd Court. Look how guilt looks! Cle. He is safe still, is he not? Hip. Oh! you do ill to doubt it. Apart. Cle. Thou art all goodness. 2nd Court. Now does your grace believe? Duke. 'Tis too apparent. Search, make a speedy search; for the imposture Cannot be far off, by the fear it sends. Cle. Ha! 2nd Court. He has the lapwing's cunning, I'm afraid, my lord, That cries most when she is farthest from the nest. Cle. Oh! we are betrayed. [There is an exquisiteness of moral sensibility, making one to gush out tears of delight, and a poetical strangeness in all the improbable circumstances of this wild play, which are unlike any thing in the dramas which Massinger wrote alone. The pathos is of a subtler edge. Middleton and Rowley, who assisted in this play, had both of them finer geniuses than their associate.] THE TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT, ADMIRAL OF FRANCE BY GEORGE CHAPMAN, AND JAMES SHIRLEY. The Admiral is accused of treason, a criminal process is instituted against him, and his faithful servant Allegre is put on the rack to make him discover : his innocence is at length established by the confession of his enemies; but the disgrace of having been suspected for a traitor by his royal Master, sinks so deep into him, that he falls into a mortal sickness. ADMIRAL. ALLEGRE, supported between two. Adm. Welcome my injured servant: what a misery Have they made on thee! Al. Though some change appear Upon my body, whose severe affliction Hath brought it thus to be sustain'd by others, My heart is still the same in faith to you, Adm. Alas poor man. Were all my joys essential, and so mighty, More grief, than all my imagination Could let before into me. Didst not curse me Al. Good my lord, let not The thought of what I suffer'd dwell upon Your memory; they could not punish more Lost to his hopes and honour, not the man Arm'd with fierce lightning and the power of thunder, There's more death in that falling eye, than all blast, What accident, sir, can Can be so black and fatal, to distract The calm, the triumph, that should sit upon Time to conspire with fate, since you were rescued Those garlands, that now grow about your forehead, Adm. Allegre, thou dost bear thy wounds upon thee In wide and spacious characters, but in The volume of my sadness thou dost want Thy manly sinews, which some time may cure. The flatteries of court, of fame, or honours. |