Chapter V: Act II: For the scene between Beaumelle and her maids is substituted (1)

another coloquy of similar import but chastened tone. A brief scene of no especial significance is inserted at the beginning of Act III, in the interval between which and the preceding Act three weeks are supposed to have elapsed; the rest of Act III follows much the same course as the original, save that the application of Romont to Rochfort and his foiling by the stratagem of Beaumelle and Bellapert are omitted. A really notable departure is found in the discovery of the amour by Charalois. According to Sheil, Novall Junior and his mistress attempt to elope, but the note which appoints their rendezvous falls into Charalois’ hands, and he waits for the lovers and surprises them, killing Novall off-stage. The Fifth Act opens with a scene of a few lines only, in which Beaumont bears to Rochfort a request from Charalois to meet him in the church yard. Then follows a lugubrious scene in the dead of night beside the tomb of the hero’s father, to which place are transferred the reconciliation between Charalois and Romont, and the judgment of Rochfort! Beaumelle, however, does not appear during the trial, and upon the paternal sentence of doom, Charalois reveals her body, slain already by his hand. To the father he vindicates his action in much the same words as in Massinger’s last court-room scene, and then, on the appearance of Novall Senior clamoring for vengeance and accompanied by the minions of the law, stabs himself.

The version of Sheil follows with but occasional exceptions the language of the original wherever possible. It makes some slight changes in the minor characters.

Sheil’s redaction was also presented at Bath on February 18 and 21, Romont being acted by Hamblin, Charalois by Warde, Beaumelle by Miss E. Tree. “Hamblin never appeared to so much advantage--in the scene with Novall he reminded one strongly of John Kemble,” says Genest (_Hist. Dra. and Stage in Eng._, IX, 322).

At Sadler’s Wells, Samuel Phelps, who at that time was reviving a number of the old dramas, took the stage in _The Fatal Dowry_ on August 27, 1845. This, however, was Sheil’s version, and not the original play of Massinger and Field, as has been sometimes supposed. It ranked as one of his four chief productions of that year. He, too, chose for himself the part of Romont, which was considered by many his greatest quasi-tragic role. Marston appeared as Charalois, G. Bennett as Rochfort, and Miss Cooper as Beaumelle.

_The Fatal Dowry_ in substantially its own proper form does not appear ever to have been acted after Jacobean times.

* * * * *

If the stage career of _The Fatal Dowry_ has been meagre, not so the extent of its influence. Its literary parenthood begins before “the closing of the theatres” and continues even to our own day. As early as 1638 it was echoed in _The Lady’s Trial_ of Ford. Here the figures of Auria, Adurni, Aurelio, and Spinella correspond roughly with Charalois, young Novall, Romont, and Beaumelle respectively. Auria has gone to the wars, and in his absence his wife is pursued by Adurni, who sits at table with her in private, when Aurelio breaks in upon them, bursting open the doors. Spinella bitterly resents the intrusion and the aspersions of the intruder, and when, on the return home of Auria, Aurelio accuses her to him, it is without shaking his faith in her loyalty. Here the analogy ends: spite of Auria’s incredulousness there is no rupture between the friends; Spinella establishes her innocence; and Adurni, while guilty enough in his intent against her, shows himself thereafter to be an essentially noble youth, who will defend to any length the lady’s honor which has become subject to question through fault of his, and for this gallant reparation, is not only forgiven, but even cherished ever after by the husband he had sought to wrong.

The more steadily one regards the man John Ford and his work, the more probable does it appear that the relationship between _The Fatal Dowry_ and _The Lady’s Trial_ is not one of mere reminiscence or influence, but of direct parentage. That strange and baleful figure, who seems almost a modern Decadent born out of his time, had a profound interest in moral problems, to the study of which he brought morbid ethical sensibilities scarce matched before the latter nineteenth century. (Witness his conception, in _The Broken Heart_, of a loveless marriage as tantamount to adultery.) Ford’s talent for invention was deficient to the extent that he was hard put to it for plots. It is not at all unlikely that he surveyed the Massingerian tragedy, and, repelled by the conduct of its figures, exclaimed to himself: “I will write a play to centre around a situation as incriminating as that of Act III of _The Fatal Dowry_; but my personages will be worthier characters; I will show a lady who, spite of appearances, is of stainless innocence and vindicates her husband’s trust in the face of evidence; I will show a friendship strong enough to endure an honestly mistaken aspersion put upon the chastity of a wife, though the charge is not for one moment credited; I will show that even the would-be seducer may be a fine fellow at bottom, and set forth a generous emulation in magnanimity between him and the husband. See how finely everything would work out with the _right_ sort of people!” It is at least a plausible hypothesis.

Nicholas Rowe, who was the first modern editor of Shakespeare, contemplated also an edition of Massinger, but gave up the project that he might more safely plunder one of his plays. Rowe’s famous tragedy, _The Fair Penitent_, was deliberately stolen from _The Fatal Dowry_. It appeared in 1703, and spite of a ludicrous accident[13] which cut short its first run, took rank as one of the most celebrated dramas of the English stage. Rowe lived during the vogue of the “She-tragedy,” while the canons of literary criticism of his day demanded a “regular,” pseudo-classical form and a sententious tone. Accordingly, in his hands the chief figure in the play, as is evidenced by the change in title, becomes the guilty wife, here called Calista, who is “now the evil queen of the heroic plays; now the lachrymose moralizer;” the theme is indeed _her_ story, not Altamont’s (Charalois)--her seduction (prior to the nuptuals and before the opening of the play), her grief, her plight, her exposure, her death;--she holds the centre of the stage to the very end. The number of the _dramatis personae_ is cut down to eight; all touches of comedy are excised; and the double plot of the original is unified by the bold stroke of throwing back to a time before the opening of the play the entire episode of the unburied corpse and the origin of the hero’s friendship with the father of the heroine.

Discussions of the relative merits of _The Fair Penitent_ and its source have been almost invariably acrimonious. Nor is this to be wondered at, for after reading the old tragedy with its severe dignity and noble restraint, one can scarce peruse without irritation the cloyingly melifluous, emasculated verse of Rowe--by turns grandiloquent and sentimental. The characterization of _The Fair Penitent_ is, in the main, insipid, and while Rowe’s heroine holds a commanding place in her drama to which Beaumelle does not pretend, the latter is a great deal more natural, and indeed, for that matter, far more truly a “penitent.” An exception to the general insipidity is Lothario, who is the analogue of the insignificant Novall Junior--“the gay Lothario”--whose very name has been ever since a synonym for the graceful, graceless, devil-may-care libertine--whose figure has been the prototype of a long line of similar characters in English literature, beginning with Richardson’s Lovelace and not yet closed with Anthony Hope’s Rupert of Hentzau. Beside this striking creation, the seducer of Beaumelle shows poorly indeed; but it is doubtful if the old dramatists would have consented to paint such an attractive rogue, had they been able; they wanted their Novall to be just the cowardly, dandyfied thing they made him. Beyond the portrait of Lothario, small ground for praise can be found in _The Fair Penitent_. That part of the action of _The Fatal Dowry_ which under Rowe’s treatment antedates the rise of the curtain is narrated in the most stiffly mechanical sort of exposition; the action is developed by such threadbare theatrical devices as a lost letter and an overheard conversation; the voluble speeches of the several characters are, throughout, declamatory effusions almost unbelievably divorced from the apposite utterance of any rational human being under the circumstances. An Altamont who has been assured and reassured from his bride’s own lips of her aversion for him can fling himself from a quarrel with his life-long friend in hysterical defence of her, to seek solace in her arms--

_There if in any pause of love I rest
Breathless with bliss upon her panting breast,
In broken, melting accents I will swear,
Henceforth to trust my heart with none save her;_

a Sciolto who has given his daughter a dagger with which to end her shame, and then has arrested her willing arm with the prayer that she will not dispatch herself until he is gone from the sight of her, can thereupon take leave of her with the statement:

_There is I know not what of sad presage
That tells me I shall never see thee more._

The play, which enjoyed an immense fame, high contemporary appreciation, and a long career on the stage, remains a curious memorial of the taste of a bygone day.

It is noteworthy that in _The Fair Penitent_ Horatio, as Romont in all modern reproductions of _The Fatal Dowry_, is the great acting part--not the husband.

In 1758 was produced at the Hay market a drama entitled _The Insolvent or Filial Piety_, from the pen of Aaron Hill. In the preface it is said--according to Genest (IV, 538)--“Wilks about 30 years before gave an old manuscript play, called the _Guiltless Adulteress_, to Theo. Cibber who was manager of what then was the Summer Company--after an interval of several years this play was judged to want a revisal to fit it for representation--Aaron Hill at the request of Theo. Cibber almost new wrote the whole, and the last act was entirely his in conduct, sentiment and diction.” In reality, _The Insolvent_ is _The Fatal Dowry_ over again, altered to tragicomedy, and with the names of the characters changed. The first two Acts of Hill’s play proceed much after the manner of its prototype, with close parallels in language. From thenceforward, however, the action diverges. The bride, Amelia, resists the further attentions of her former sweetheart. They are none the less observed and suspected by her husband’s friend, who speaks of the matter to both her father and her lord. The former promises to observe her with watchful eye; Chalons, the husband, is at first resentful of the imputation, but presently yields to his friend’s advice, that he pretend a two-days’ journey, from which he will return unexpectedly. During his absence, his wife’s maid introduces the lover into her mistress’ chamber while Amelia sleeps. There Chalons surprises him kneeling beside the bed, and kills him. Amelia stabs herself, but the confession of her maid reveals her innocence, and her wound is pronounced not mortal.

It has been suggested (_Biographia Dramatica_, II, 228--quoted by Phelan, p. 59, and Schwarz, p. 74) that in Hill’s _Zara_ (adaptation of the _Zaire_ of Voltaire), also, Nerestan’s voluntary return to captivity in order to end that of his friends, whom he lacked the means to ransom with gold, was suggested by the behavior of Charalois; but this can be no more than a coincidence, as it here but reproduces what is in the French original.

A long interval, and finally, in the dawn of the twentieth century, there appeared the next and latest recrudescence of _The Fatal Dowry_. This was _Der Graf von Charolais, ein Trauerspiel_, by Richard Beer-Hofmann, disciple of the Neo-Romantic School or _Vienna Decadents_, a coterie built about the leadership of Hugo von Hofmannsthal. Beer-Hofmann’s play--a five-Act tragedy in blank verse--was produced for the first time at the Neue Theatre, Berlin, on December 24, 1904, and was received with considerable acclaim. Unlike Rowe, he gives full credit to his source, from which he has drawn no less extensively than the author of _The Fair Penitent_. Unlike Rowe, he goes back to the old dramatists in the matter of construction, placing upon the stage once more the episode of the unburied corpse and the noble son; he even outdoes _The Fatal Dowry_ in this respect, by allowing the first half of his plot three Acts instead of two, with only two Acts for the amour and its tragic consequences. In his hands the hero again becomes the central figure; in fact, the three principal versions of this _donnee_ suggest by their titles their respective viewpoints: _The Fatal Dowry_; _The Fair Penitent_; _Der Graf von Charolais_. DER GRAF VON CHAROLAIS, be it observed;--this new redaction is no longer the tale of a “fatal dowry;” no longer is the first part of the dual theme merely introductory and accessory--it is coördinate with the second. Beer-Hofmann has sought to achieve a kind of unity from his double plot by making his fundamental theme not the adulterous intrigue, but _the destiny of Charolais_, thus converting the play into a Tragedy of Fate, which pursues the hero inexorably through all his life. This strictly classical _motif_ animating the _donnee_ of a Jacobean play reproduced in the twentieth century presents, as might be expected, the aspect of an exotic growth, which is not lessened by the extreme sensuousness of treatment throughout, such as has always been one of the cardinal and distinctive qualities of the Decadent School the world over. But as a contrast in the dramatic technique and verse of Jacobean and modern times, _Der Graf von Charolais_ is extremely interesting. The difference is striking between the severe simplicity of three centuries ago, and the elaborate stagecraft of to-day, its insistence on detail, and studied care in the portraiture of minor characters. Yet minutia do not make tragedy, and while their superficial realism and the congeniality of the contemporary point of view undeniably lend to Beer-Hofmann’s redaction a palatability and a power to interest and appeal which its original does not possess to the modern reader, yet a discriminating critic will turn back to the old play with a feeling that, for all its stiffness and conventions, he breathes there a more vital air. To the enrichment of his theme Beer-Hofmann contributes every ingenious effect possible to symbolism, delicate suggestion, and scenic device; this exterior decoration is gorgeous in its color and seductive warmth, but no amount of such stuff can compensate for the fundamental flaw in the crucial episode of his tragedy. In spite of the care which he has lavished on the scene between his heroine and her seducer, the surrender of the wife--three years married, a mother, and loving both husband and child--remains insufficiently motivated and sheerly inexplicable, and by this vital, inherent defect the play must fall. Moreover, it lacks a hero. Romont can no longer play the main part he did in former versions; he is reduced to a mere shadow. In a tragedy of Fate, which blights a man’s career, phase by phase, with persistent, relentless hand, that man must necessarily be the central figure, and, of right, _should_ be an imposing figure--a protagonist at once gigantic and appealing, who will draw all hearts to him in pity and terror at the helpless, hopeless struggle of over-matched greatness and worth; whereas Charolais--

The case of Charolais is peculiar. _A priori_ we should expect him to be just such a personage, yet his conduct throughout is best explainable as that of a man dominated, not by noble impulses, but by an extreme egoism--a man acutely responsive alike to his sense-impressions and his feverish imagination, and possessed of an exaggerated squeamishness towards the ugly and the unpleasant. When, in the First Act, he bursts into tears, he confesses it is not for his father that he weeps, but for his own hard lot; he suffers from his repugnance to the idea of his father’s corpse rotting above ground--a repugnance so intolerable to him that he will yield his liberty to escape it. He purposes to cashier the innkeeper because the sight of the lecherous patrons of his hostelry has disgusted him, and he alters his resolve and forgives the fellow, not from any considerations of mercy, but because the mental picture of the man’s distress tortures him. And by similar personal repugnances reacting on egoism is his behavior in the denouement to be accounted for, and in this light becomes logically credible and clearly understood. Few practices are more hazardous or unjust than judging an artist by his objective creations; but an ignoble protagonist, as Charolais is represented, is in such ill accord with any conceivable purpose on the part of Beer-Hofmann, and so unlikely to have been intended by him, that one cannot help strongly suspecting that the author unconsciously projected himself into the character and thus revealed his own nature and point of view. In any case he has presented for his hero a whimperer who can command neither our sympathy nor our respect when he cries above the bodies of his benefactor and her who is that benefactor’s daughter, his own wife, and the mother of his child:

_Ist dies Stück denn aus,
Weil jene starb? Und ich? An mich denkt keiner?_

We have come a long way from Massinger and Field and the early seventeenth century. The shadow of the old dramatists reaches far, even to our own time; we have seen their play redeveloped, but never improved upon, by pseudo-classicist, and popularizer, and Decadent hyper-aesthete. That which was the vulnerable point in the original production--its two-fold plot--has been still for every imitator a stone of stumbling. Rowe tried to escape it by the suppression of the antecedent half, and the fraction which remained in his hand was an artificial thing without the breath of life, that had to be attenuated and padded out with speechifying to fill the compass of its five Acts. Beer-Hofmann tried to escape it by superimposing an idea not proper to the story, and beneath the weight of this his tragedy collapsed in the middle, for its addition over-packed the drama, and left him not room enough to make convincing the conduct of his characters. The first essayers, who attacked in straightforward fashion their unwieldy theme, succeeded best; all attempts to obviate its essential defect have marred rather than mended. Perhaps the theme is by its nature unsuited to dramatic treatment, and yet there is much that is dramatic about that theme, as is evinced by the fact that playwrights have been unable to let it lie.

EDITOR’S NOTE ON TEXT

The present text aims to reproduce exactly the Quarto edition of 1632, retaining its punctuation, spelling, capitals, italics, and stage directions--amending only the metrical alignment.[14] Mere mistakes of printing--inverted and broken letters--are restored, but are duly catalogued in the foot notes. The division into scenes, as made by Gifford, and his affixment of the _locus_ of each, are inserted into the text, inclosed in brackets. In the foot notes are recorded all variants of all subsequent editions. Differences of punctuation are given, if they could possibly alter the meaning, but not otherwise--nor mere differences _in wording_ of stage directions, nor differences in spelling, nor elision for metre. In the Quarto the elder Novall is sometimes designated before his lines as _Novall Senior_, sometimes merely as _Novall_--no confusion is possible, since he and his son are never on the stage at the same time. Gifford and Symons always write _Novall Senior_, while Coxeter and Mason write _Novall_ alone in I, i, and _Novall Senior_ thereafter. I have not thought it worth while to note the variants of the several texts on this point.

Q.--The Quarto--1632

C.--Coxeter’s edition, 1759

M.--Monck Mason’s edition, 1779

G.--Gifford’s [2nd.] edition, 1813

S.--Symons’ (Mermaid) edition, 1893

f.--and all later editions

s.d.--stage direction

THE FATALL DOWRY:

A TRAGEDY:

_As it hath beene often Acted at the Priuate
House in Blackefryers, by his
Maiesties Seruants._

_Written by P. M. and N. F._

LONDON,

Printed by IOHN NORTON, for FRANCIS
CONSTABLE, and are to be iold at his
shop at the _Crane_, in _Pauls Churchyard_.
1632.

_Charalois._

_Romont._

_Charmi._

_Nouall Sen._

_Liladam._

_DuCroy._

_Rochfort._

_Baumont._

_Pontalier._

_Malotin._

_Beaumelle._

_Florimel._ }

_Bellapert._}

_Aymer._

_Nouall Jun._

_Aduocates._

_Creditors 3._

_Officers._

_Priest._

_Taylor._

_Barber._

_Perfumer._

[Page.]

[Presidents, Captains, Soldiers, Mourners, Gaoler, Bailiffs,
Servants.]

The Fatall Dowry:

A Tragedy:

_Act. primus._

_Scaena prima:_

[_A Street before the Court of Justice_]

_Enter_ Charaloyes _with a paper_, Romont, Charmi.

_Charmi_ Sir, I may moue the Court to serue your will,
But therein shall both wrong you and my selfe.

_Rom._ Why thinke you so sir?

_Charmi._ ’Cause I am familiar
With what will be their answere: they will say,
’Tis against law, and argue me of Ignorance 5
For offering them the motion.

_Rom._ You know not, Sir,
How in this cause they may dispence with Law,
And therefore frame not you their answere for them,
But doe your parts.

_Charmi._ I loue the cause so well,
As I could runne, the hazard of a checke for ’t. 10

_Rom._ From whom?

_Charmi._ Some of the bench, that watch to give it,
More then to doe the office that they fit for:
But giue me (sir) my fee.

_Rom._ Now you are Noble.

_Charmi._ I shall deserue this better yet, in giuing
My Lord some counsell, (if he please to heare it) 15
Then I shall doe with pleading.

_Rom._ What may it be, sir?

_Charmi._ That it would please his Lordship, as the presidents,
And Counsaylors of Court come by, to stand
Heere, and but shew your selfe, and to some one
Or two, make his request: there is a minute 20
When a mans presence speakes in his owne cause,
More then the tongues of twenty aduocates.

_Rom._ I haue vrg’d that.

_Enter_ Rochfort: _DuCroye_.

_Charmi._ Their Lordships here are coming,
I must goe get me a place, you’l finde me in Court,
And at your seruice

_Exit Charmi._

_Rom._ Now put on your Spirits. 25

_Du Croy._ The ease that you prepare your selfe, my Lord,
In giuing vp the place you hold in Court,
Will proue (I feare) a trouble in the State,
And that no slight one.

_Roch._ Pray you sir, no more.

_Rom._ Now sir, lose not this offerd means: their lookes 30
Fixt on you, with a pittying earnestnesse,
Inuite you to demand their furtherance
To your good purpose.--This such a dulnesse
So foolish and vntimely as--

_Du Croy._ You know him.

_Roch._ I doe, and much lament the sudden fall 35
Of his braue house. It is young _Charloyes_.
Sonne to the Marshall, from whom he inherits
His fame and vertues onely.

_Rom._ Ha, they name you.

_Du Croye._ His father died in prison two daies since.

_Roch._ Yes, to the shame of this vngrateful State; 40
That such a Master in the art of warre,
So noble, and so highly meriting,
From this forgetfull Country, should, for want
Of meanes to satisfie his creditors,
The summes he tooke vp for the generall good, 45
Meet with an end so infamous.

_Rom._ Dare you euer
Hope for like opportunity?

_Du Croye._ My good Lord!

_Roch._ My wish bring comfort to you.

_Du Croye._ The time calls vs.

_Roch._ Good morrow Colonell.

_Exeunt Roch. Du Croye._

_Rom._ This obstinate spleene,
You thinke becomes your sorrow, and sorts wel 50
With your blacke suits: but grant me wit, or iudgement,
And by the freedome of an honest man,
And a true friend to boote, I sweare ’tis shamefull.
And therefore flatter not your selfe with hope,
Your sable habit, with the hat and cloake, 55
No though the ribons helpe, haue power to worke ’em
To what you would: for those that had no eyes,
To see the great acts of your father, will not,
From any fashion sorrow can put on,
Bee taught to know their duties.

_Char._ If they will not, 60
They are too old to learne, and I too young
To giue them counsell, since if they partake
The vnderstanding, and the hearts of men,
They will preuent my words and teares: if not,
What can perswasion, though made eloquent 65
With griefe, worke vpon such as haue chang’d natures
With the most sauage beast? Blest, blest be euer
The memory of that happy age, when iustice
Had no gards to keepe off wrongd innocence,
From flying to her succours, and in that 70
Assurance of redresse: where now (_Romont_)
The damnd, with more ease may ascend from Hell,
Then we ariue at her. One Cerberus there
Forbids the passage, in our Courts a thousand,
As lowd, and fertyle headed, and the Client 75
That wants the sops, to fill their rauenous throats,
Must hope for no accesse: why should I then
Attempt impossibilities: you friend, being
Too well acquainted with my dearth of meanes,
To make my entrance that way?

_Rom._ Would I were not. 80
But Sir, you haue a cause, a cause so iust,
Of such necessitie, not to be deferd,
As would compell a mayde, whose foot was neuer
Set ore her fathers threshold, nor within
The house where she was borne, euer spake word, 85
Which was not vshered with pure virgin blushes,
To drowne the tempest of a pleaders tongue,
And force corruption to giue backe the hire
It tooke against her: let examples moue you.
You see great men in birth, esteeme and fortune, 90
Rather then lose a scruple of their right,
Fawne basely vpon such, whose gownes put off,
They would disdaine for Seruants.

_Char._ And to these
Can I become a suytor?

_Rom._ Without losse,
Would you consider, that to game their fauors, 95
Our chastest dames put off their modesties,
Soldiers forget their honors, vsurers
Make sacrifice of Gold, poets of wit,
And men religious, part with fame, and goodnesse?
Be therefore wonne to vse the meanes, that may 100
Aduance your pious ends.

_Char._ You shall orecome.

_Rom._ And you receiue the glory, pray you now practise.
’Tis well.

_Enter Old Nouall, Liladam, & 3 Creditors._

_Char._ Not looke on me!

_Rom._ You must haue patience----
Offer’t againe.

_Char._ And be againe contemn’d?

_Nou._ I know whats to be done.

_1 Cred._ And that your Lordship 105
Will please to do your knowledge, we offer, first
Our thankefull hearts heere, as a bounteous earnest
To what we will adde.

_Nou._ One word more of this
I am your enemie. Am I a man
Your bribes can worke on? ha?

_Lilad._ Friends, you mistake 110
The way to winne my Lord, he must not heare this,
But I, as one in fauour, in his sight,
May harken to you for my profit. Sir,
I pray heare em.

_Nou._ Tis well.

_Lilad._ Obserue him now.

_Nou._ Your cause being good, and your proceedings so, 115
Without corruption; I am your friend,
Speake your desires.

_2 Cred._ Oh, they are charitable,
The Marshall stood ingag’d vnto vs three,
Two hundred thousand crownes, which by his death
We are defeated of. For which great losse 120
We ayme at nothing but his rotten flesh,
Nor is that cruelty.

_1 Cred._ I haue a sonne,
That talkes of nothing but of Gunnes and Armors,
And sweares hee’ll be a soldier, tis an humor
I would diuert him from, and I am told 125
That if I minister to him in his drinke
Powder, made of this banquerout Marshalls bones,
Provided that the carcase rot aboue ground
’Twill cure his foolish frensie.

_Nou._ You shew in it
A fathers care. I haue a sonne my selfe, 130
A fashionable Gentleman and a peacefull:
And but I am assur’d he’s not so giuen,
He should take of it too, Sir what are you?

_Char._ A Gentleman.

_Nou._ So are many that rake dunghills.
If you haue any suit, moue it in Court. 135
I take no papers in corners.

_Rom._ Yes
As the matter may be carried, and hereby
To mannage the conuayance----Follow him.

_Lil._ You are rude. I say, he shall not passe.

_Exit Nouall, Char: and Aduocates_

_Rom._ You say so.
On what assurance? 140
For the well cutting of his Lordships cornes,
Picking his toes, or any office else
Neerer to basenesse!

_Lil._ Looke vpon mee better,
Are these the ensignes of so coorse a fellow?
Be well aduis’d.

_Rom._ Out, rogue, do not I know, (_Kicks him_) 145
These glorious weedes spring from the sordid dunghill
Of thy officious basenesse? wert thou worthy
Of anything from me, but my contempt,
I would do more then this, more, you Court-spider.

_Lil._ But that this man is lawlesse;
he should find that I am valiant. 150

_1 Cred._ If your eares are fast,
Tis nothing. Whats a blow or two? As much--

_2 Cred._ These chastisements, as vsefull are as frequent
To such as would grow rich.

_Rom._ Are they so Rascals?
I will be-friend you then.

_1 Cred._ Beare witnesse, Sirs. 155

_Lil._ Trueth, I haue borne my part already, friends.
In the Court you shall haue more.

_Exit._

_Rom._ I know you for
The worst of spirits, that striue to rob the tombes
Of what is their inheritance, from the dead.
For vsurers, bred by a riotous peace: 160
That hold the Charter of your wealth & freedome,
By being Knaues and Cuckolds that ne’re prayd,
But when you feare the rich heires will grow wise,
To keepe their Lands out of your parchment toyles:
And then, the Diuell your father’s cald vpon, 165
To inuent some ways of _Luxury_ ne’re thought on.
Be gone, and quickly, or Ile leaue no roome
Vpon your forhead for your hornes to sprowt on,
Without a murmure, or I will vndoe you;
For I will beate you honest.

_1 Cred._ Thrift forbid. 170
We will beare this, rather then hazard that.

_Ex: Creditor._

_Enter Charloyes._

_Rom._ I am some-what eas’d in this yet.

_Char._ (Onely friend)
To what vaine purpose do I make my sorrow,
Wayte on the triumph of their cruelty?
Or teach their pride from my humilitie, 175
To thinke it has orecome? They are determin’d
What they will do: and it may well become me,
To robbe them of the glory they expect
From my submisse intreaties.

_Rom._ Thinke not so, Sir,
The difficulties that you incounter with, 180
Will crowne the vndertaking--Heaven! you weepe:
And I could do so too, but that I know,
Theres more expected from the sonne and friend
Of him, whose fatall losse now shakes our natures,
Then sighs, or teares, (in which a village nurse 185
Or cunning strumpet, when her knaue is hangd,
May ouercome vs.) We are men (young Lord)
Let vs not do like women. To the Court,
And there speake like your birth: wake sleeping justice,
Or dare the Axe. This is a way will sort 190
With what you are. I call you not to that
I will shrinke from my selfe, I will deserue
Your thankes, or suffer with you--O how bravely
That sudden fire of anger shewes in you!
Give fuell to it, since you are on a shelfe, 195
Of extreme danger suffer like your selfe.

_Exeunt._

[SCENE II]

[_The Court of Justice_]

_Enter Rochfort_, _Nouall Se. Charmi_, _Du Croye_, _Aduocates_, _Baumont_, _and Officers_, _and 3. Presidents_.

_Du Croye._ Your Lordship’s seated. May this meeting proue prosperous
to vs, and to the generall good
Of _Burgundy_.

_Nou. Se._ Speake to the poynt.

_Du Croy._ Which is,
With honour to dispose the place and power
Of primier President, which this reuerent man 5
Graue _Rochfort_, (whom for honours sake I name)
Is purpos’d to resigne a place, my Lords,
In which he hath with such integrity,
Perform’d the first and best parts of a Iudge,
That as his life transcends all faire examples 10
Of such as were before him in _Dijon_,
So it remaines to those that shall succeed him,
A President they may imitate, but not equall.

_Roch._ I may not sit to heare this.

_Du Croy._ Let the loue
And thankfulnes we are bound to pay to goodnesse, 15
In this o’recome your modestie.

_Roch._ My thankes
For this great fauour shall preuent your trouble.
The honourable trust that was impos’d
Vpon my weaknesse since you witnesse for me,
It was not ill discharg’d, I will not mention, 20
Nor now, if age had not depriu’d me of
The little strength I had to gouerne well,
The Prouince that I vndertooke, forsake it.

_Nou._ That we could lend you of our yeeres.

_Du Croy._ Or strength.

_Nou._ Or as you are, perswade you to continue 25
The noble exercise of your knowing iudgement.

_Roch._ That may not be, nor can your Lordships goodnes,
Since your imployments haue confer’d vpon me
Sufficient wealth, deny the vse of it,
And though old age, when one foot’s in the graue, 30
In many, when all humors else are spent
Feeds no affection in them, but desire
To adde height to the mountaine of their riches:
In me it is not so, I rest content
With the honours, and estate I now possesse, 35
And that I may haue liberty to vse,
What Heauen still blessing my poore industry,
Hath made me Master of: I pray the Court
To ease me of my burthen, that I may
Employ the small remainder of my life, 40
In liuing well, and learning how to dye so.

_Enter Romont, and Charalois._

_Rom._ See sir, our Aduocate.

_Du Croy._ The Court intreats,
Your Lordship will be pleasd to name the man,
Which you would haue your successor, and in me,
All promise to confirme it.

_Roch._ I embrace it, 45
As an assurance of their fauour to me,
And name my Lord Nouall.

_Du Croy._ The Court allows it.

_Roch._ But there are suters waite heere, and their causes
May be of more necessity to be heard,
And therefore wish that mine may be defer’d, 50
And theirs haue hearing.

_Du Croy._ If your Lordship please
To take the place, we will proceed.

_Charm._ The cause
We come to offer to your Lordships censure,
Is in it selfe so noble, that it needs not
Or Rhetorique in me that plead, or fauour 55
From your graue Lordships, to determine of it.
Since to the prayse of your impartiall iustice
(Which guilty, nay condemn’d men, dare not scandall)
It will erect a trophy of your mercy
With married to that Iustice.

_Nou. Se._ Speaks to the cause. 60

_Charm._ I will, my Lord: to say, the late dead Marshall
The father of this young Lord heer, my Clyent,
Hath done his Country great and faithfull seruice,
Might taske me of impertinence to repeate,
What your graue Lordships cannot but remember, 65
He in his life, become indebted to
These thriftie men, I will not wrong their credits,
By giuing them the attributes they now merit,
And fayling by the fortune of the warres,
Of meanes to free himselfe, from his ingagements, 70
He was arrested, and for want of bayle
Imprisond at their suite: and not long after
With losse of liberty ended his life.
And though it be a Maxime in our Lawes,
All suites dye with the person, these mens malice 75
In death find matter for their hate to worke on,
Denying him the decent Rytes of buriall,
Which the sworne enemies of the Christian faith
Grant freely to their slaues; may it therefore please
Your Lordships, so to fashion your decree, 80
That what their crueltie doth forbid, your pittie
May giue allowance to.

_Nou. Se._ How long haue you Sir
Practis’d in Court?

_Charmi._ Some twenty yeeres, my Lord.

_Nou. Se._ By your grosse ignorance it should appeare,
Not twentie dayes.

_Charmi._ I hope I haue giuen no cause 85
In this, my Lord--

_Nou. Se._ How dare you moue the Court,
To the dispensing with an Act confirmd
By Parlament, to the terror of all banquerouts?
Go home, and with more care peruse the Statutes:
Or the next motion fauoring of this boldnesse, 90
May force you to leape (against your will)
Ouer the place you plead at.

_Charmi._ I foresaw this.

_Rom._ Why does your Lordship thinke, the mouing of
A cause more honest then this Court had euer
The honor to determine, can deserue 95
A checke like this?

_Nou. Se._ Strange boldnes!

_Rom._ Tis fit freedome:
Or do you conclude, an aduocate cannot hold
His credit with the Iudge, vnlesse he study
His face more then the cause for which he pleades?

_Charmi._ Forbeare.

_Rom._ Or cannot you, that haue the power 100
To qualifie the rigour of the Lawes,
When you are pleased, take a little from
The strictnesse of your fowre decrees, enacted
In fauor of the greedy creditors
Against the orethrowne debter?

_Nou. Se._ Sirra, you that prate 105
Thus sawcily, what are you?

_Rom._ Why Ile tell you,
Thou purple-colour’d man, I am one to whom
Thou owest the meanes thou hast of sitting there
A corrupt Elder.

_Charmi._ Forbeare.

_Rom._ The nose thou wearst, is my gift, and those eyes 110
That meete no obiect so base as their Master,
Had bin, long since, torne from that guiltie head,
And thou thy selfe slaue to some needy Swisse,
Had I not worne a sword, and vs’d it better
Then in thy prayers thou ere didst thy tongue. 115

_Nou. Se._ Shall such an Insolence passe vnpunisht?

_Charmi._ Heere mee.

_Rom._ Yet I, that in my seruice done my Country,
Disdaine to bee put in the scale with thee,
Confesse my selfe vnworthy to bee valued
With the least part, nay haire of the dead Marshall, 120
Of whose so many glorious vndertakings,
Make choice of any one, and that the meanest
Performd against the subtill Fox of France,
The politique _Lewis_, or the more desperate Swisse,
And ’twyll outwaygh all the good purpose, 125
Though put in act, that euer Gowneman practizd.

_Nou. Se._ Away with him to prison.

_Rom._ If that curses,
Vrg’d iustly, and breath’d forth so, euer fell
On those that did deserue them; let not mine
Be spent in vaine now, that thou from this instant 130
Mayest in thy feare that they will fall vpon thee,
Be sensible of the plagues they shall bring with them.
And for denying of a little earth,
To couer what remaynes of our great soldyer:
May all your wiues proue whores, your factors theeues, 135
And while you liue, your riotous heires vndoe you,
And thou, the patron of their cruelty.
Of all thy Lordships liue not to be owner
Of so much dung as will conceale a Dog,
Or what is worse, thy selfe in. And thy yeeres, 140
To th’ end thou mayst be wretched, I wish many,
And as thou hast denied the dead a graue,
May misery in thy life make thee desire one,
Which men and all the Elements keepe from thee:
I haue begun well, imitate, exceed. 145

_Roch._ Good counsayle were it, a prayse worthy deed.

_Ex. Officers with Rom._

_Du Croye._ Remember what we are.

_Chara._ Thus low my duty
Answeres your Lordships counsaile. I will vse
In the few words (with which I am to trouble
Your Lordships eares) the temper that you wish mee. 150
Not that I feare to speake my thoughts as lowd,
And with a liberty beyond _Romont_:
But that I know, for me that am made vp
Of all that’s wretched, so to haste my end,
Would seeme to most, rather a willingnesse 155
To quit the burthen of a hopelesse life,
Then scorne of death, or duty to the dead.
I therefore bring the tribute of my prayse
To your seueritie, and commend the Iustice,
That will not for the many seruices 160
That any man hath done the Common wealth
Winke at his least of ills: what though my father
Writ man before he was so, and confirmd it,
By numbring that day, no part of his life,
In which he did not seruice to his Country; 165
Was he to be free therefore from the Lawes,
And ceremonious forme in your decrees?
Or else because he did as much as man
In those three memorable ouerthrowes
At _Granson_, _Morat_, _Nancy_, where his Master, 170
The warlike _Charloyes_ (with whose misfortunes
I beare his name) lost treasure, men and life,
To be excus’d, from payment of those summes
Which (his owne patri mony spent) his zeale,
To serue his Countrey, forc’d him to take vp? 175

_Nou. Se._ The president were ill.

_Chara._ And yet, my Lord, this much
I know youll grant; After those great defeatures,
Which in their dreadfull ruines buried quick, _Enter officers._
Courage and hope, in all men but himselfe,
He forst the proud foe, in his height of conquest, 180
To yield vnto an honourable peace.
And in it saued an hundred thousand liues,
To end his owne, that was sure proofe against
The scalding Summers heate, and Winters frost,
Illayres, the Cannon, and the enemies sword, 185
In a most loathsome prison.

_Du Croy._ Twas his fault
To be so prodigall.

_Nou. Se._ He had frô the state
Sufficent entertainment for the Army.

_Char._ Sufficient? My Lord, you sit at home,
And though your fees are boundlesse at the barre: 190
Are thriftie in the charges of the warre,
But your wills be obeyd. To these I turne,
To these soft-hearted men, that wisely know
They are onely good men, that pay what they owe.

_2 Cred._ And so they are.

_1 Cred._ ’Tis the City Doctrine, 195
We stand bound to maintaine it.

_Char._ Be constant in it,
And since you are as mercilesse in your natures,
As base, and mercenary in your meanes
By which you get your wealth, I will not vrge
The Court to take away one scruple from 200
The right of their lawes, or one good thought
In you to mend your disposition with.
I know there is no musique in your eares
So pleasing as the groanes of men in prison,
And that the teares of widows, and the cries 205
Of famish’d Orphants, are the feasts that take you.
That to be in your danger, with more care
Should be auoyded, then infectious ayre,
The loath’d embraces of diseased women,
A flatterers poyson, or the losse of honour. 210
Yet rather then my fathers reuerent dust
Shall want a place in that faire monument,
In which our noble Ancestors lye intomb’d,
Before the Court I offer vp my selfe
A prisoner for it: loade me with those yrons 215
That haue worne out his life, in my best strength
Ile run to th’ incounter of cold hunger,
And choose my dwelling where no Sun dares enter,
So he may be releas’d.

_1 Cred._ What meane you sir?

_2 Aduo._ Onely your fee againe: ther’s so much sayd 220
Already in this cause, and sayd so well,
That should I onely offer to speake in it,
I should not bee heard, or laught at for it.

_1 Cred._ ’Tis the first mony aduocate ere gaue backe,
Though hee sayd nothing.

_Roch._ Be aduis’d, young Lord, 225
And well considerate, you throw away
Your liberty, and ioyes of life together:
Your bounty is imployd vpon a subiect
That is not sensible of it, with which, wise man
Neuer abus’d his goodnesse; the great vertues 230
Of your dead father vindicate themselues,
From these mens malice, and breake ope the prison,
Though it containe his body.

_Nou. Se._ Let him alone,
If he loue Lords, a Gods name let him weare ’em,
Prouided these consent.

_Char._ I hope they are not 235
So ignorant in any way of profit,
As to neglect a possibility
To get their owne, by seeking it from that
Which can returne them nothing, but ill fame,
And curses for their barbarous cruelties. 240

_3 Cred._ What thinke you of the offer?

_2 Cred._ Very well.

_1 Cred._ Accept it by all meanes: let’s shut him vp,
He is well-shaped and has a villanous tongue,
And should he study that way of reuenge,
As I dare almost sweare he loues a wench, 245
We haue no wiues, nor neuer shall get daughters
That will hold out against him.

_Du Croy._ What’s your answer?

_2 Cred._ Speake you for all.

_1 Cred._ Why let our executions
That lye vpon the father, bee return’d
Vpon the sonne, and we release the body. 250

_Nou. Se._ The Court must grant you that.

_Char._ I thanke your Lordships,
They haue in it confirm’d on me such glory,
As no time can take from me: I am ready,
Come lead me where you please: captiuity
That comes with honour, is true liberty. 255

_Exit Charmi, Cred. & Officers._

_Nou. Se._ Strange rashnesse.

_Roch._ A braue resolution rather,
Worthy a better fortune, but howeuer
It is not now to be disputed, therefore
To my owne cause. Already I haue found
Your Lordships bountifull in your fauours to me; 260
And that should teach my modesty to end heere
And presse your loues no further.

_Du Croy._ There is nothing
The Court can grant, but with assurance you
May aske it and obtaine it.

_Roch._ You incourage
A bold Petitioner, and ’tis not fit 265
Your fauours should be lost. Besides, ’tas beene
A custome many yeeres, at the surrendring
The place I now giue vp, to grant the President
One boone, that parted with it. And to confirme
Your grace towards me, against all such as may 270
Detract my actions, and life hereafter,
I now preferre it to you.

_Du Croy._ Speake it freely.

_Roch._ I then desire the liberty of _Romont_,
And that my Lord _Nouall_, whose priuate wrong
Was equall to the iniurie that was done 275
To the dignity of the Court, will pardon it,
And now signe his enlargement.

_Nou. Se._ Pray you demand
The moyety of my estate, or any thing
Within my power, but this.

_Roch._ Am I denyed then--
My first and last request?

_Du Croy._ It must not be. 280

_2 Pre._ I haue a voyce to giue in it.

_3 Pre._ And I.
And if perswasion will not worke him to it,
We will make knowne our power.

_Nou. Se._ You are too violent,
You shall haue my consent--But would you had
Made tryall of my loue in any thing 285
But this, you should haue found then--But it skills not.
You haue what you desire.

_Roch._ I thanke your Lordships.

_Du Croy._ The court is vp, make way.

_Ex. omnes, praeter Roch. & Beaumont._

_Roch._ I follow you--_Baumont_.

_Baum._ My Lord.

_Roch._ You are a scholler, _Baumont_,
And can search deeper into th’ intents of men, 290
Then those that are lesse knowing--How appear’d
The piety and braue behauior of
Young _Charloyes_ to you?

_Baum._ It is my wonder,
Since I want language to expresse it fully;
And sure the Collonell--

_Roch._ Fie! he was faulty-- 295
What present mony haue I?

_Baum._ There is no want
Of any summe a priuate man has use for.

_Roch._ ’Tis well:
I am strangely taken with this _Charaloyes_;
Me thinkes, from his example, the whole age
Should learne to be good, and continue so. 300
Vertue workes strangely with vs: and his goodnesse
Rising aboue his fortune, seemes to me
Princelike, to will, not aske a courtesie.

_Exeunt._

_Act. secundus._

_Scæna prima:_

[_A Street before the Prison_]

_Enter Pontalier_, _Malotin_, _Baumont_.

_Mal._ Tis strange.

_Baum._ Me thinkes so.

_Pont._ In a man, but young,
Yet old in iudgement, theorique, and practicke
In all humanity (and to increase the wonder)
Religious, yet a Souldier, that he should
Yeeld his free liuing youth a captiue, for 5
The freedome of his aged fathers Corpes,
And rather choose to want lifes necessaries,
Liberty, hope of fortune, then it should
In death be kept from Christian ceremony.

_Malo._ Come, ’Tis a golden president in a Sonne, 10
To let strong nature haue the better hand,
(In such a case) of all affected reason.
What yeeres sits on this Charolois?

_Baum._ Twenty eight,
For since the clocke did strike him 17 old
Vnder his fathers wing, this Sonne hath fought, 15
Seru’d and commanded, and so aptly both,
That sometimes he appear’d his fathers father,
And neuer lesse then’s sonne; the old man’s vertues
So recent in him, as the world may sweare,
Nought but a faire tree, could such fayre fruit beare. 20

_Pont._ But wherefore lets he such a barbarous law,
And men more barbarous to execute it,
Preuaile on his soft disposition,
That he had rather dye aliue for debt
Of the old man in prison, then he should 25
Rob him of Sepulture, considering
These monies borrow’d bought the lenders peace,
And all their meanes they inioy, nor was diffus’d
In any impious or licencious path?

_Bau._ True: for my part, were it my fathers trunke, 30
The tyrannous Ram-heads, with their hornes should gore it,
Or, cast it to their curres (than they) lesse currish,
Ere prey on me so, with their Lion-law,
Being in my free will (as in his) to shun it.

_Pont._ Alasse! he knowes him selfe (in pouerty) lost: 35
For in this parciall auaricious age
What price beares Honor? Vertue? Long agoe
It was but prays’d, and freez’d, but now a dayes
’Tis colder far, and has, nor loue, nor praise,
Very prayse now freezeth too: for nature 40
Did make the heathen, far more Christian then,
Then knowledge vs (lesse heathenish) Christian.

_Malo._ This morning is the funerall.

_Pont._ Certainely!
And from this prison ’twas the sonnes request
That his deare father might interment haue. 45

_Recorders Musique,_

See, the young sonne interd a liuely graue.

_Baum._ They come, obserue their order.

_Enter Funerall. Body borne by 4. Captaines and Souldiers,
Mourners, Scutchions, and very good order. Charolois, and Romont
meet it. Char. speaks. Rom. weeping, solemne Musique, 3 Creditors._

_Char._ How like a silent streame shaded with night,
And gliding softly with our windy sighes;
Moues the whole frame of this solemnity! 50
Teares, sighs, and blackes, filling the simily,
Whilst I the onely murmur in this groue
Of death, thus hollowly break forth! Vouchsafe
To stay a while, rest, rest in peace, deare earth,
Thou that brought’st rest to their vnthankfull lyues, 55
Whose cruelty deny’d thee rest in death:
Heere stands thy poore Executor thy sonne,
That makes his life prisoner, to bale thy death;
Who gladlier puts on this captiuity,
Then Virgins long in loue, their wedding weeds: 60
Of all that euer thou hast done good to,
These onely haue good memories, for they
Remember best, forget not gratitude.
I thanke you for this last and friendly loue.
And tho this Country, like a viperous mother, 65
Not onely hath eate vp vngratefully
All meanes of thee her sonne, but last thy selfe,
Leauing thy heire so bare and indigent,
He cannot rayse thee a poore Monument,
Such as a flatterer, or a vsurer hath. 70
Thy worth, in euery honest brest buyldes one,
Making their friendly hearts thy funerall stone.

_Pont._ Sir.

_Char._ Peace, O peace, this sceane is wholy mine.
What weepe ye, souldiers? Blanch not, _Romont_ weepes. 75
Ha, let me see, my miracle is eas’d,
The iaylors and the creditors do weepe;
Euen they that make vs weepe, do weepe themselues.
Be these thy bodies balme: these and thy vertue
Keepe thy fame euer odoriferous, 80
Whilst the great, proud, rich, vndeseruing man,
Aliue stinkes in his vices, and being vanish’d,
The golden calfe that was an Idoll dect
With marble pillars Iet, and Porphyrie,
Shall quickly both in bone and name consume, 85
Though wrapt in lead, spice, Searecloth and perfume

_1 Cred._ Sir.

_Char._ What! Away for shame: you prophane rogues
Must not be mingled with these holy reliques:
This is a Sacrifice, our showre shall crowne 90
His sepulcher with Oliue, Myrrh and Bayes
The plants of peace, of sorrow, victorie,
Your teares would spring but weedes.

_1 Cred._ Would they not so?
Wee’ll keepe them to stop bottles then:

_Rom._ No; keepe ’em
For your owne sins, you Rogues, till you repent: 95
You’ll dye else and be damn’d.

_2 Cred._ Damn’d, ha! ha, ha.

_Rom._ Laugh yee?

_3 Cred._ Yes faith, Sir, weel’d be very glad
To please you eyther way.

_1 Cred._ Y’are ne’re content,
Crying nor laughing.

_Rom._ Both with a birth shee rogues.

_2 Cred._ Our wiues, Sir, taught vs. 100

_Rom._ Looke, looke, you slaues, your thanklesse cruelty
And sauage manners, of vnkind _Dijon_,
Exhaust these flouds, and not his fathers death.

_1 Cred._ Slid, Sir, what would yee, ye’are so cholericke?

_2 Cred._ Most soldiers are so yfaith, let him alone: 105
They haue little else to liue on, we haue not had
A penny of him, haue we?

_3 Cred._ ’Slight, wo’d you haue our hearts?

_1 Cred._ We haue nothing but his body heere in durance
For all our mony.

_Priest._ On.