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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
In all humanity; and, to increase the wonder,
Religious, yet a soldier,—that he should
Yield his free-living youth a captive, for
The freedom of his aged father's corpse ;
And rather chuse to want life's necessaries,
Liberty, hope of fortune, than it should
In death be kept from christian ceremony.

Mal. Come, 'tis a golden precedent in a son,
To let strong nature have the better hand,
In such a case, of all affected reason.

sit on this Charalois ?
Beaum. Twenty-eight.
For since the clock did strike him seventeen old,
Under his father's wing this son hath fought,
Serv'd and commanded, and so aptly both,
That sometimes he appear'd his father's father,
And never less than his son ; the old man's virtues

So recent in him, as the world may swear
Nought but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear.

Mal. This morning is the funeral.

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.

Beaum. They come. Observe their order. 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. And gliding softly with our windy sighs, Moves the whole frame of this solemnity! Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile; Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove Of death, thus hollowly break forth L-vouchsafe To stay awhile. Rest, rest in peace, dear earth! Thou that broughtst rest to their unthankful lives, Whose cruelty denied thee rest in death! Here stands thy poor executor, thy son, That makes his life prisoner to bail thy death; Who gladlier puts on this captivity, Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds. Of all that ever thou hast done good to, These only have good memories ; for they Remember best, forget not gratitude. I thank you for this last and friendly love. And though this country, like a vip'rous mother, Not only hath eat up ungratefully All means of thee, her son, but last thyself, Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent,

He cannot raise thee a poor monument,
Such as a flatterer or an usurer hath;
Thy worth in every honest breast builds one,
Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone.

Pont. Sir!

Char. Peace ! O peace ! This scene is wholly mineWhat! weep you, soldiers ? - blanch not. - Romont

Ha! let me see! my miracle is eas'd;
The jailors and the creditors do weep ;
E'en they that make us weep,


Be these thy body's balm : these, and thy virtue,
Keep thy fame ever odoriferous,
Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man,
Alive stinks in his vices, and, being vanish’d,
The golden calf that was an idol, deck'd
With marble pillars, jet and porphyry,
Shall quickly both in bone and name consume,
Tho' wrapt in lead, spice, cerecloth, and perfume.

Creditor. Sir!
Char. What !
away for shame

you prophane rogues Must not be mingled with these holy relics : This is a sacrifice-our show'r shall crown His sepulchre with olive, myrrh, and bays, The plants of peace, of sorrow, victory : Your tears would spring but weeds.

Rom. Look, look, you slaves ! your thankless cruelty, And savage manners of unkind Dijon, Exhaust these floods, and not his father's death.

Priest. On.

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.
Lieutenant, thou this scarf; and may it tie
Thy valour and thy honesty together,
For so it did in him. Ensign, this cuirass,

Your general's necklace once. You gentle bearers,
Divide this purse of gold : this other strew
Among the poor. Tis all I have. Romont,
Wear thou this medal of himself, that like
A hearty oak grew'st close to this tall pine,
E'en in the wildest wilderness of war,
Whereon foes broke their swords, and tir'd themselves.
Wounded and hack'd ye were, but never felld.
For me, my portion provide in heaven:
My root is earth'd, and I, a desolate branch,
Left scatter'd in the highway of the world,
Trod under foot, that might have been a column
Mainly supporting our demolish'd house.
This * would I wear as my inheritance,
And what hope can arise to me from it,
When I and it are here both prisoners ?
Only may this, if ever we be free,
Keep or redeem me from all infamy.

Jailor. You must no farther.-
The prison limits you, and the creditors
Exact the strictness.-

His father's sword.



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 promulgation of the edict.

Sim. Cleanthes,
Oh, lad, here's a spring for young plants to flourish!
The old trees must down, kept the sun from us.
We shall rise now, boy.

Cle. Whither, sir, I pray ?
To the bleak air of storms, among those trees
Which we had shelter from.

Sim. Yes, from our growth,
Our sap and livelihood, and from our fruit.
What! 'tis not jubilee with thee yet, I think ;
Thou look'st so sad on't. How old is thy father?

Cle. Jubilee ! no, indeed ; 'tis a bad 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.

Sim. These very passions I speak to my father.

Cle. Why, here's a villain,
Able to corrupt a thousand by example.
Does the kind root bleed out his livelihood

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