To behold my tragedy. How now, What noise is that?

Serv. I am come to tell you

Your brother hath intended you some sport:
A great physician, when the pope was sick
Of a deep melancholy, presented him

With several sorts of mad-men, which wild object
(Being full of change and sport) forced him to laugh,
And so th' imposthume broke: the self-same cure
The Duke intends on you.

[The Mad-men enter, and whilst they dance to suitable music, the DUCHESS, perceiving BOSOLA among them, says,

Duch. Is he mad too?

Serv. Pray question him. I'll leave you.
Bos. I am come to make thy tomb.
Duch. Ha! my tomb?

Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed
Gasping for breath. Dost thou perceive me sick?
Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy

sickness is insensible.

Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still.

Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken : Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain.

Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the
am a tomb-maker.
[living:

Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb?
Bos. Yes.

Duch. Let me be a little merry

Of what stuff wilt thou make it!

Bos. Nay, resolve me first of what fashion?

Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical on our death-bed?

Do we affect fashion in the grave?

Bos. Most ambitiously: princes' images on their tombs

Do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray, Up to heaven; but with their hands under their cheeks

(As if they died of the tooth-ache); they are not carved

With their eyes fix'd upon the stars: but as Their minds were wholly bent upon the world, The self-same way they seem to turn their faces. Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect Of this thy dismal preparation,

This talk, fit for a charnel!

Bos. Now I shall.

Here is a present from your princely brothers, [A coffin, cords, and a bell. And may it arrive welcome, for it brings

Last benefit, last sorrow.

Duch. Let me see it :

I have so much obedience in my blood,
I wish it in their veins to do them good.
Bos. This is your last presence chamber.

Cari. O my sweet lady!

Duch. Peace, it affrights not me. Bos. I am the common bellman, That usually is sent to condemn'd persons The night before they suffer.

Duch. Even now thou said'st Thou wast a tomb-maker?

Bos. 'Twas to bring you

By degrees to mortification. Listen:
Hark, now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent,
Your length in clay 's now competent;
A long war disturb'd your mind,
Here your perfect peace is sign'd;
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Their life a general mist of error;
Sin their conception, their birth weeping:

Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powder sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet;
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck:
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day,
End your groan and come away."

Cari. Hence villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas! What will you do with my lady? call for help. Duch. To whom, to our next neighbours? they Bos. Remove that noise. [are mad folks. Duch. Farewell, Cariola ;

In my last will I have not much to give

A many hungry guests have fed upon me-
Thine will be a poor réversion.

Cari. I will die with her.

Duch. I pray thee look thou givest my little boy Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl

Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please. What death?

Bos. Strangling: here are your executioners.
Duch. I forgive them :

The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' lungs,
Would do as much as they do.

Bos. Doth not death fright you?
Duch. Who would be afraid on't,
Knowing to meet such excellent company
In th' other world?

Bos. Yet, methinks,

The manner of your death should much afflict you? This cord should terrify you.

Duch. Not a whit :

What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
With diamonds? or to be smother'd

With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls ?
I know death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits; and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them both ways: any way (for
heaven's sake),

So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers
That I perceive death (now I am well awake),

Duch. Pull, and pull strongly; for your able
Must pull down heaven upon me :— [strength
Yet stay, heaven's gates are not so highly arch'd
As princes' palaces; they that enter there
Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death,
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep.
Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her.
Bos. Where's the waiting-woman?

Fetch her some other strangle the children.
Look you, there sleeps your mistress.
Cari. Oh, you are damn'd

Perpetually for this. My turn is next,
Is't not so order'd?

Bos. Yes; and I am glad
You are so well prepared for't.

Cari. You are deceived, sir,

I am not prepared for't; I will not die ;
I will first come to my answer, and know
How I have offended.

Bos. Come, despatch her!

You kept her counsel, now you shall keep ours. Cari. I will not die; I must not; I am contracted

And should I die this instant, I had lived
Her time to a minute.

Bos. It seems she was born first.
You have bloodily approved the ancient truth,
That kindred commonly do worse agree
Than remote strangers.

Ferd. Let me see her face again.
Why didst not thou pity her? what

An excellent honest man might'st thou have been,
If thou hadst borne her to some sanctuary,
Or, bold in a good cause, opposed thyself,
With thy advanced sword above thy head,
Between her innocence and my revenge!

I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits,
Go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done't.
For let me but examine well the cause:
What was the meanness of her match to me?
Only I must confess I had a hope,

Had she continued widow, to have gain'd

An infinite mass of treasure by her death;

And what was the main cause? Her marriage!
That drew a stream of gall quite through my heart.
For thee, (as we observe in tragedies,
That a good actor many times is cursed

For playing a villain's part,) I hate thee for't:
And, for my sake, say thou hast done much ill well.

Bos. Let me quicken your memory, for I perceive You are falling into ingratitude; I challenge The reward due to my service.

Can prescribe man obedience! Never look upon me more.

Bos. Why, fare thee well:

Your brother and yourself are worthy men ;
You have a pair of hearts are hollow graves,
Rotten, and rotting others; and your vengeance,
Like two chain'd bullets, still goes arm in arm.
You may be brothers: for treason, like the plague,
Doth take much in a blood. I stand like one
That long hath ta'en a sweet and golden dream.
I am angry with myself, now that I wake.
Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' th'
That I may never see thee.
[world,

Bos. He's much distracted. Off, my painted honour!

While with vain hopes our faculties we tire,
We seem to sweat in ice, and freeze in fire ;
What would I do, were this to do again?
I would not change my peace of conscience
For all the wealth of Europe. She stirs ! here's life!
Return, fair soul, from darkness, and lead mine
Out of this sensible hell. She's warm, she
breathes.

Upon thy pale lips I will melt my heart,

To store them with fresh colour. Who's there?
Some cordial drink! Alas, I dare not call:
So pity would destroy pity. Her eye opes,
And heaven in it seems to ope, that late was shut,
To take me up to mercy.

Bos. Oh, she's gone again: there the cords of life broke.

Oh, sacred innocence ! that sweetly sleeps
On turtles' feathers, whilst a guilty conscience
Is a black register, wherein is writ

All our good deeds, and bad; a perspective
That shows us hell, that we cannot be suffer'd
To do good when we have a mind to it!
This is manly sorrow;

These tears, I am very certain, never grew
In my mother's milk. My estate is sunk
Below the degree of fear: where were
These penitent fountains while she was living?
Oh, they were frozen up. Here is a sight
As direful to my soul as is the sword

Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come, I'll bear thee hence,

And execute thy last will; that's deliver

Thy body to the reverend dispose

Of some good women; that the cruel tyrant Shall not deny me: then I'll post to Milan, Where somewhat I will speedily enact Worth my dejection.

FROM THE SAME.

ACT V. SCENE III.

Persons.-ANTONIO, DELIO, Echo from the Duchess's grave.
This

Delio. YOND'S the cardinal's window.
fortification

Grew from the ruins of an ancient abbey ;
And to yond side o' th' river lies a wall,
Piece of a cloister, which in my opinion
Gives the best echo that you ever heard ;
So hollow and so dismal, and withal
So plain in the distinction of our words,
That many have supposed it is a spirit
That answers.

Antonio. I do love these ancient ruins :
We never tread upon them but we set
Our foot upon some reverend history;
And, questionless, here in this open court,
Which now lies naked to the injuries
Of stormy weather, some men lie interr'd
Loved the church so well, and gave so largely to't,
They thought it should have canopied their bones
Till doomsday. But all things have their end:
Churches and cities, which have diseases like to
Must have like death that we have.

Echo. Like death that we have.
Del. Now the echo hath caught you.
Ant. It groan'd, methought, and gave
A very deadly accent.

Echo. Deadly accent.

Del. I told you 'twas a pretty one. A huntsman, or a falconer, a musician, Or a thing of sorrow.

Echo. A thing of sorrow.

Ant. Ay, sure that suits it best.
Echo. That suits it best.

Ant. 'Tis very like my wife's voice.
Echo. Ay, wife's voice.

Del. Come, let's walk farther from't:

[men,

You may [make it

Ant. My duchess is asleep now,

And her little ones, I hope sweetly: Oh, heaven! Shall I never see her more?

Echo. Never see her more.

Ant. I mark'd not one repetition of the Echo But that, and on the sudden a clear light Presented me a face folded in sorrow.

Del. Your fancy, merely,

Ant. Come, I'll be out of this ague; For to live thus, is not indeed to live ; It is a mockery and abuse of life:

I will not henceforth save myself by halves, Lose all or nothing.

Del. Your own virtue save you.

I'll fetch your eldest son, and second you.
It may be that the sight of his own blood,
Spread in so sweet a figure, may beget
The more compassion.

However, fare you well!

Though in our miseries Fortune have a part, Yet, in our noble suff'rings, she hath none; Contempt of pain, that we may call our own.

[Born, 1586.

Ir is painful to find the name of Ford a barren spot in our poetical biography, marked by nothing but a few dates and conjectures, chiefly drawn from his own dedications. He was born of a respectable family in Devonshire; was bred to the law, and entered of the Middle Temple at the age of seventeen. At the age of twenty, he published a poem, entitled Fame's Memorial, in honour of the deceased Earl of Devonshire; and from the dedication of that piece it appears that he chiefly subsisted upon his professional labours, making poetry the solace of his leisure hours. All his plays were published between the year 1629 and 1639; but before the former period he

Died, 1640?]

had for some time been known as a dramatie writer, his works having been printed a considerable time after their appearance on the stage; and, according to the custom of the age, had been associated in several works with other composers. With Dekker he joined in dramatizing a story, which reflects more disgrace upon the age than all its genius could redeem; namely, the fate of Mother Sawyer, the Witch of Edmonton, an aged woman, who had been recently the victim of legal and superstitious murder

Nil adeo fœdum quod non exacta vetustas
Ediderit.

The time of his death is unknown.

Palador, Prince of Cyprus, having fallen into melancholy from the disappointment of losing Eroclea, to whom he was attached, a masque is prepared to divert his thoughts, at the representation of which he sees a youth, passing by the name of Parthenophill, whose resemblance to his mistress strikes him.

SCENE-A Room at the Palace.

Persons-PALADOR, Prince of Cyprus; ARETUS, his tutor; SOPHRONOS, uncle to EROCLEA; PELIAS, a courtier; MENAPHON, son of SOPHRONOS; AMETHUS, cousin to the Prince; RHETIAS, servant to EROCLEA.

Though I can sleep in silence, and look on
The mockery you make of my dull patience;
Yet you shall know, the best of ye, that in me
There is a masculine, a stirring spirit,
Which [once] provoked, shall, like a bearded
comet,

Set ye at gaze, and threaten horror.

Good sir.

Pel. Pal. Good sir! 'tis not your active wit or language,

* I have declined obtruding on the reader some passages in Ford's plays which possess a superior power to the present scene, because they have been anticipated by Mr. Lamb in his Dramatic Specimens. Even if this had not been the case, I should have felt reluctant to give a place to one dreadfully beautiful specimen of his affecting powers, in the tragedy of the Brother and Sister. Better that poetry should cease, than have to do with such subjects. The Lover's Melancholy has much of the grace and sweetness that distinguishes the genius of Ford. ["Mr. Campbell speaks favourably of the poetic portion of this play; he thinks and I fully agree with him, that it has much of the grace and sweetness which distinguish the genius of Ford. It has also somewhat more of the sprightliness in the language of the secondary characters, than is commonly found in his plays."-GIFFORD.]

Rhetias, thou art acquainted with my griefs;
Parthenophill is lost, and I would see him :
For he is like to something I remember
A great while since, a long, long time ago.

Rhe. I have been diligent, sir, to pry into every corner for discovery, but cannot meet with him. There is some trick, I am confident.

Pal. There is, there is some practice, slight, or plot.

Rhe. I have apprehended a fair wench, in an odd private lodging in the city, as like the youth in face as can by possibility be discerned.

Pal. How, Rhetias?

Rhe. If it be not Parthenophill in long coats, 'tis a spirit in his likeness; answer I can get none from her you shall see her.

Pal. The young man in disguise, upon my life, To steal out of the land. Rhe.

I'll send him to you.

[Exit RHETIA3.

Enter behind EROCLEA (PARTHENOPHILL) in female

altire.

Let the substance As suddenly be hurried from your eyes, As the vain sound can pass your ear, If no impression of a troth vow'd yours Retain a constant memory.

Stand up!

[Kneels.

Pal.
"Tis not the figure, stamp'd upon thy cheeks,
The cozenage of thy beauty, grace, or tongue,
Can draw from me a secret, that hath been
The only jewel of my speechless thoughts.

Ero. I am so worn away with fears and sorrows,
So winter'd with the tempests of affliction,
That the bright sun of your life-quickening presence
Hath scarce one beam of force to warm again
That spring of cheerful comfort, which youth once
Apparel'd in fresh looks.

Pal.
Cunning impostor!
Untruth hath made thee subtle in thy trade:
If any neighb'ring greatness hath seduced
A free-born resolution, to attempt

Some bolder act of treachery, by cutting
My weary days off; wherefore, (cruel mercy!)
Hast thou assumed a shape, that would make treason
A piety, guilt pardonable, bloodshed
As holy as the sacrifice of peace?

Ero. The incense of my love-desires is flamed
Upon an altar of more constant proof.
Sir, O sir! turn me back into the world,
Command me to forget my name, my birth,
My father's sadness, and my death alive,
If all remembrance of my faith hath found
A burial, without pity, in your scorn.

Pal. My scorn, disdainful boy, shall soon unweave The web thy art hath twisted. Cast thy shape off; Disrobe the mantle of a feigned sex,

:

In everything created, contrariety:

So likewise is there unity and league
Between them in their kind; but man, the abstract
Of all perfection, which the workmanship
Of heaven hath modell'd, in himself contains
Passions of sev'ral qualities; the music
Of man's fair composition best accords
When 'tis in concert, not in single strains.
My heart has been untuned these many months,
Wanting her presence, in whose equal love
True harmony consisted; living here,
We are heav'n's bounty all, but fortune's exercise.
Ero. Minutes are number'd by the fall of sands,
As by an hour-glass; the span of time
Doth waste us to our graves, and we look on it.
age of pleasures, revell'd out, comes home

An