Thier. 'Tis full of fearful shadows. Or any thing that's merely ours and mortal; Ordel. I do. Thier. And endless parting With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay reason: For in the silent grave, no conversation*, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, No careful father's counsel, nothing's heard, Nor nothing is, but all oblivion, Dust and an endless darkness: and dare you, woman, Ordel. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest; Children begin it to us, strong men seek it, Thier. Then you can suffer? Thier. Martel, a wonder! Here is a woman that dares die. Yet tell me, Are you a wife? Ordel. I am, sir. There is no work, no device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the Thier. And have children? She sighs and weeps. Ordel. O none, sir. Thier. Dare you venture, For a poor barren praise you ne'er shall hear, To part with these sweet hopes? Ordel. With all but heaven, And yet die full of children; he that reads me And those chaste dames that keep my memory, Singing my yearly requiems, are my daughters. Thier. Then there is nothing wanting but my knowledge, And what I must do, lady. Ordel. You are the king, sir, And what you do I'll suffer, and that blessing That you desire, the gods shower on the kingdom. kill you, The gods have will'd it so, they've made the blessing Ordel. Fear me not. Thier. And meet death like a measure. Ordel. I am stedfast. Thier. Thou shalt be sainted, woman, and thy tomb Succeeding peers of France that rise by thy fall, Ordel. I dare, sir. (Pulls off her veil; he lets fall his sword.) Thier. Ha! Mar. O, sir, you must not do it. Thier. No, I dare not. There is an angel keeps that paradise, A fiery angel friend: O virtue, virtue, Ordel. Strike, sir, strike; And if in my poor death fair France may merit, A thousand days. Thier. First let the earth be barren, And man no more remember'd. Rise, Ordella, The nearest to thy maker, and the purest heart strings *. Martel relates to Thierry the manner of Ordella's death. Mar. The griev'd Ordella, (for all other titles But take away from that) having from me, Prompted by your last parting groan, enquir'd What drew it from you, and the cause soon learn'd: For she whom barbarism could deny nothing, With such prevailing earnestness desir'd it, I have always considered this to be the finest scene in Fletcher, and Ordella the most perfect idea of the female heroic character, next to Calantha in the Broken Heart of Ford, that has been embodied in fiction. She is a piece of sainted nature. Yet noble as the whole scene is, it must be confessed that the manner of it, compared with Shakspeare's finest scenes, is slow and languid. Its motion is circular, not progressive. Each line revolves on itself in a sort of separate orbit. They do not join into one another like a running hand. Every step that we go we are stopped to admire some single object, like walking in beautiful scenery with a guide. This slowness I shall elsewhere have occasion to remark as characteristic of Fletcher. Another striking difference perceivable between Fletcher and Shakspeare, is the fondness of the former for unnatural and violent situations, like that in the scene before us. He seems to have thought that nothing great could be produced in an ordinary way. The chief incidents in the Wife for a Month, in Cupid's Revenge, in the Double Marriage, and in many more of his Tragedies, shew this. Shakspeare had nothing of this contortion in his mind, none of that craving after romantic incidents, and flights of strained and improbable virtue, which I think always betrays an imperfect moral sensibility. 'Twas not in me, though it had been my death, To hide it from her; she, I say, in whom All was, that Athens, Rome, or warlike Sparta, Have register'd for good in their best women, But nothing of their ill; knowing herself Mark'd out, (I know not by what power, but sure A cruel one) to die, to give you children; Having first with a settled countenance Look'd up to heaven, and then upon herself, (It being the next best object) and then smil'd, As if her joy in death to do you service, Would break forth, in despite of the much sorrow She shew'd she had to leave you; and then taking Me by the hand, this hand which I must ever Love better than I have done, since she touch'd it, "Go," said she, "to my lord, (and to go to him "Is such a happiness I must not hope for) "And tell him that he too much priz'd a trifle "Made only worthy in his love, and her "Thankful acceptance, for her sake to rob "The orphan kingdom of such guardians, as "Must of necessity descend from him; "And therefore in some part of recompence "Of his much love, and to shew to the world "That 'twas not her fault only, but her fate, "That did deny to let her be the mother "Of such most certain blessings: yet for proof, "She did not envy her, that happy her, "That is appointed to them; her quick end "Should make way for her :" which no sooner spoke, But in a moment this too ready engine Made such a battery in the choicest castle That ever Nature made to defend life, That straight it shook and sunk. WIT WITHOUT MONEY: A COMEDY. BY JOHN FLETCHER. The humour of a Gallant who will not be persuaded to keep his Lands, but chuses to live by his Wits rather. VALENTINE'S Uncle. Merchant, who has his Mortgage. Mer. When saw you Valentine? Unc. Not since the horse race. He's taken up with those that woo the widow. Mer. How can he live by snatches from such people? He bore a worthy mind. Unc. Alas, he's sunk, His means are gone, he wants; and, which is worse, Mer. That's strange, Unc. Runs lunatic if you but talk of states; But all a common riches; all men bound Mer. This is something dangerous. Unc. No gentleman, that has estate, to use it Grounding their fat faiths upon old country proverbs, Into more manly uses, wit and carriage; And never thinks of state or means, the ground-works: Holding it monstrous, men should feed their bodies, And starve their understandings. |