SCENE III.

_A Hall in_ DOROTHEA'_s House, with a gallery above_.

_Enter_ DOROTHEA, MACRINUS, _and_ ANGELO.

_Dor._ My trusty Angelo, with that curious eye Of thine, which ever waits upon my business, I prithee watch those my still-negligent servants, That they perform my will, in what's enjoined them To the good of others. Be careful, my dear boy.

_Ang._ Yes, my sweetest mistress. [_Exit._

_Dor._ Now, sir, you may go on.

_Mac._ I then must study A new arithmetic, to sum up the virtues Which Antoninus gracefully become. There is in him so much man, so much goodness, So much of honour, and of all things else, Which make our being excellent, that from his store He can enough lend others; yet, much ta'en from him, The want shall be as little, as when seas Lend from their bounty, to fill up the poorness Of needy rivers.

_Dor._ Sir, he is more indebted To you for praise, than you to him that owes[40] it.

_Mac._ If queens, viewing his presents paid to the whiteness Of your chaste hand alone, should be ambitious But to be parted[41] in their numerous shares; This he counts nothing: could you see main armies Make battles in the quarrel of his valour, That 'tis the best, the truest; this were nothing: The greatness of his state, his father's voice, And arm, awing Cæsarea, he ne'er boasts of; The sunbeams which the emperor throws upon him Shine there but as in water, and gild him Not with one spot of pride: no, dearest beauty, All these, heap'd up together in one scale, Cannot weigh down the love he bears to you, Being put into the other.

_Dor._ Could gold buy you To speak thus for a friend, you, sir, are worthy Of more than I will number; and this your language Hath power to win upon another woman, 'Top of whose heart the feathers of this world Are gaily stuck: but all which first you named, And now this last, his love, to me are nothing.

_Mac._ You make me a sad messenger;--but himself

_Enter_ ANTONINUS.

Being come in person, shall, I hope, hear from you Music more pleasing.

_Anton._ Has your ear, Macrinus, Heard none, then?

_Mac._ None I like.

_Anton._ But can there be In such a noble casket, wherein lie Beauty and chastity in their full perfections, A rocky heart, killing with cruelty A life that's prostrated beneath your feet?

_Dor._ I am guilty of a shame I yet ne'er knew, Thus to hold parley with you;--pray, sir, pardon. [_Going._

_Anton._ Good sweetness, you now have it, and shall go: Be but so merciful, before your wounding me With such a mortal weapon as Farewell, To let me murmur to your virgin ear, What I was loth to lay on any tongue But this mine own.

_Dor._ If one immodest accent Fly out, I hate you everlastingly.

_Anton._ My true love dares not do it.

_Mac._ Hermes inspire thee!

_Enter, in the gallery above_, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, _and_ THEOPHILUS.

_Anton._ Come, let me tune you:--glaze not thus your eyes With self-love of a vow'd virginity; All men desire your sweet society, But if you bar me from it, you do kill me, And of my blood are guilty.

_Artem._ O base villain!

_Sap._ Bridle your rage, sweet princess.

_Anton._ Could not my fortunes, Rear'd higher far than yours, be worthy of you, Methinks my dear affection makes you mine.

_Dor._ Sir, for your fortunes, were they mines of gold, He that I love is richer; and for worth, You are to him lower than any slave Is to a monarch.

_Sap._ So insolent, base Christian!

_Dor._ Can I, with wearing out my knees before him, Get you but be his servant, you shall boast You're equal to a king.

_Sap._ Confusion on thee, For playing thus the lying sorceress!

_Anton._ Your mocks are great ones; none beneath the sun Will I be servant to.--On my knees I beg it, Pity me, wondrous maid.

_Sap._ I curse thy baseness.

_Theoph._ Listen to more.

_Dor._ O kneel not, sir, to me.

_Anton._ This knee is emblem of an humbled heart: That heart which tortured is with your disdain, Justly for scorning others, even this heart, To which for pity such a princess sues, As in her hand offers me all the world, Great Cæsar's daughter.

_Artem._ Slave, thou liest.

_Anton._ Yet this Is adamant to her, that melts to you In drops of blood.

_Theoph._ A very dog!

_Anton._ Perhaps 'Tis my religion makes you knit the brow; Yet be you mine, and ever be your own: I ne'er will screw your conscience from that Power, On which you Christians lean.

_Sap._ I can no longer Fret out my life with weeping at thee, villain. Sirrah! [_Aloud._ Would, ere thy birth, the mighty Thunderer's hand Had struck thee in the womb!

_Mac._ We are betray'd.

_Artem._ Is that the idol, traitor, which thou kneel'st to, Trampling upon my beauty?

_Theoph._ Sirrah, bandog[42]! Wilt thou in pieces tear our Jupiter For her? our Mars for her? our Sol for her?

_Artem._ Threaten not, but strike: quick vengeance flies Into my bosom; caitiff! here all love dies. [_Exeunt above._

_Anton._ O! I am thunderstruck! We are both o'erwhelm'd----

_Mac._ With one high-raging billow.

_Dor._ You a soldier, And sink beneath the violence of a woman!

_Anton._ A woman! a wrong'd princess. From such a star Blazing with fires of hate, what can be look'd for, But tragical events? my life is now The subject of her tyranny.

_Dor._ That fear is base, Of death, when that death doth but life displace Out of her house of earth; you only dread The stroke, and not what follows when you're dead; There's the great fear, indeed: come, let your eyes Dwell where mine do, you'll scorn their tyrannies.

_Re-enter below_, ARTEMIA, SAPRITIUS, THEOPHILUS, _a guard_; ANGELO _comes and stands close by_ DOROTHEA.

_Artem._ My father's nerves put vigour in mine arm, And I his strength must use. Because I once Shed beams of favour on thee, and, with the lion, Play'd with thee gently, when thou struck'st my heart, I'll not insult on a base, humbled prey, By lingering out thy terrors; but, with one frown, Kill thee:--hence with them all to execution. Seize him; but let even death itself be weary In torturing her. I'll change those smiles to shrieks; Give the fool what she's proud of, martyrdom: In pieces rack that pander. [_Points to_ MACR.

_Sap._ Albeit the reverence I owe our gods and you, are, in my bosom, Torrents so strong, that pity quite lies drown'd From saving this young man; yet, when I see What face death gives him, and that a thing within me Says, 'tis my son, I am forced to be a man, And grow fond of his life, which thus I beg.

_Artem._ And I deny.

_Anton._ Sir, you dishonour me, To sue for that which I disclaim to have. I shall more glory in my sufferings gain, Than you in giving judgment, since I offer My blood up to your anger; nor do I kneel To keep a wretched life of mine from ruin: Preserve this temple, builded fair as yours is, And Cæsar never went in greater triumph, Than I shall to the scaffold.

_Artem._ Are you so brave, sir? Set forward to his triumph, and let those two Go cursing along with him.

_Dor._ No, but pitying, For my part, I, that you lose ten times more By torturing me, than I that dare your tortures: Through all the army of my sins, I have even Labour'd to break, and cope with death to the face. The visage of a hangman frights not me; The sight of whips, racks, gibbets, axes, fires, Are scaffoldings by which my soul climbs up To an eternal habitation.

_Theoph._ Cæsar's imperial daughter, hear me speak. Let not this Christian thing in this her pageantry Of proud deriding both our gods and Cæsar, Build to herself a kingdom in her death, Going laughing from us: no; her bitterest torment Shall be, to feel her constancy beaten down; The bravery of her resolution lie Batter'd, by argument, into such pieces, That she again in penitence shall creep To kiss the pavements of our paynim gods.

_Artem._ How to be done?

_Theoph._ I'll send my daughters to her, And they shall turn her rocky faith to wax; Else spit at me, let me be made your slave, And meet no Roman's but a villain's grave.

_Artem._ Thy prisoner let her be, then; and, Sapritius, Your son and that[43], be yours: death shall be sent To him that suffers them, by voice or letters, To greet each other. Rifle her estate; Christians to beggary brought grow desperate.

_Dor._ Still on the bread of poverty let me feed.

_Ang._ O! my admired mistress, quench not out The holy fires within you, though temptations Shower down upon you: Clasp thine armour on, Fight well, and thou shalt see, after these wars, Thy head wear sunbeams, and thy feet touch stars. [_Exeunt._

FOOTNOTES:

[40] _Owes_,] i. e. _owns_.

[41] _Parted_,] i. e. _endowed with a part_.

[42] _Bandog!_] A _bandog_, as the name imports, was a dog so fierce, as to require to be chained up. Bandogs are frequently mentioned by our old writers (indeed the word occurs three times in this play) and always with a reference to their savage nature. If the term was appropriated to a species, it probably meant a large dog, of the mastiff kind, which, though no longer met with here, is still common in many parts of Germany: it was familiar to Snyders, and is found in most of his hunting-pieces.

In this country the bandog was kept to bait bears: with the decline of that sport, perhaps, the animal fell into disuse, as he was too ferocious for any domestic purpose. Mr. Gilchrist has furnished me with a curious passage from Laneham, which renders any further details on the subject unnecessary. "On the syxth day of her Majestyes cumming, a great sort of _bandogs_ whear thear tyed in the utter coourt, and thyrteen bears in the inner. Whoosoever made the pannel, thear wear enoow for a queast, and one for a challenge and need wear. A wight of great wisdoom and gravitie seemed their foreman to be, had it cum to a jury: but it fell oout that they wear causd to appeer thear upon no such matter, but onlie too onswear too an _auncient quarrele between them and the bandogs_," &c. _Queen Elizabeth's Entertainment at Killingwoorth Castle, in 1575_.--GIFFORD.

[43] _Your son and_ that.] Macrinus, whom before she had called a pander. M. MASON.