SCENE VI.--_An Apartment in_ VITTORIA'S _House.

_Enter_ VITTORIA COROMBONA _with a book in her hand, and_ ZANCHE; FLAMINEO _following them._

_Flam._ What, are you at your prayers? give o'er.

_Vit. Cor._ How, ruffian!

_Flam._ I come to you 'bout worldly business: Sit down, sit down:--nay, stay, blouze,[92] you may hear it:-- The doors are fast enough.

_Vit. Cor._ Ha, are you drunk?

_Flam._ Yes, yes, with wormwood-water: you shall taste Some of it presently.

_Vit: Cor._ What intends the Fury?

_Flam._ You are my lord's executrix; and I claim Reward for my long service.

_Vit. Cor._ For your service!

_Flam._ Come, therefore, here is pen and ink; set down What you will give me.

_Vit Cor._ There. [_Writes_.

_Flam._ Ha! have you done already? 'Tis a most short conveyance.

_Vit. Cor._ I will read it: [_Reads._ "I give that portion to thee, and no other, Which Cain groaned under, having slain his brother."

_Flam._ A most courtly patent to beg by!

_Vit. Cor._ You are a villain.

_Flam._ Is't come to this? They say, affrights cure agues: Thou hast a devil in thee; I will try If I can scare him from thee. Nay, sit still: My lord hath left me yet two case[93] of jewels Shall make me scorn your bounty; you shall see them. [_Exit._

_Vit. Cor._ Sure, he's distracted.

_Zanche._ O, he's desperate: For your own safety give him gentle language.

_Re-enter_ FLAMINEO _with two case of pistols._

_Flam._ Look, these are better far at a dead lift Than all your jewel-house.

_Vit. Cor._ And yet, methinks, These stones have no fair lustre, they are ill set.

_Flam._ I'll turn the right side towards you: you shall see How they will sparkle.

_Vit. Cor._ Turn this horror from me! What do you want? what would you have me do? Is not all mine yours? have I any children?

_Flam._ Pray thee, good woman, do not trouble me With this vain worldly business; say your prayers: I made a vow to my deceasèd lord, Neither yourself nor I should outlive him The numbering of four hours.

_Vit. Cor._ Did he enjoin it?

_Flam._ He did; and 'twas a deadly jealousy, Lest any should enjoy thee after him, That urged him vow me to it. For my death, I did propound it voluntarily, knowing, If he could not be safe in his own court, Being a great duke, what hope, then, for us?

_Vit. Cor._ This is your melancholy and despair.

_Flam._ Away! Fool thou art to think that politicians Do use to kill the effects of injuries And let the cause live. Shall we groan in irons, Or be a shameful and a weighty burden To a public scaffold? This is my resolve; I would not live at any man's entreaty, Nor die at any's bidding.

_Vit. Cor._ Will you hear me?

_Flam._ My life hath done service to other men; My death shall serve mine own turn. Make you ready.

_Vit. Cor._ Do you mean to die indeed?

_Flam._ With as much pleasure As e'er my father gat me.

_Vit. Cor._ Are the doors locked?

_Zanche._ Yes, madam.

_Vit. Cor._ Are you grown an atheist? will you turn your body, Which is the goodly palace of the soul, To the soul's slaughter-house? O, the cursèd devil, Which doth present us with all other sins Thrice-candied o'er; despair with gall and stibium; Yet we carouse it off;--Cry out for help!-- [_Aside to_ ZANCHE. Makes us forsake that which was made for man, The world, to sink to that was made for devils, Eternal darkness!

_Zanche._ Help, help!

_Flam._ I'll stop your throat With winter-plums.

_Vit. Cor._ I prithee, yet remember, Millions are now in graves, which at last day Like mandrakes, shall rise shrieking.[94]

_Flam._ Leave your prating, For these are but grammatical laments, Feminine arguments: and they move me, As some in pulpits move their auditory, More with their exclamation than sense Of reason or sound doctrine.

_Zanche_ [_Aside to_ VIT.]. Gentle madam, Seem to consent, only persuade him teach The way to death; let him die first.

_Vit. Cor._ 'Tis good. I apprehend it, To kill one's self is meat that we must take Like pills, not chew't, but quickly swallow it; The smart o' the wound, or weakness of the hand, May else bring treble torments.

_Flam._ I have held it A wretched and most miserable life Which is not able to die.

_Vit. Cor._ O, but frailty! Yet I am now resolved: farewell, affliction! Behold, Brachiano, I that while you lived Did make a flaming altar of my heart To sacrifice unto you, now am ready To sacrifice heart and all.--Farewell, Zanche!

_Zanche._ How, madam! do you think that I'll outlive you; Especially when my best self, Flamineo, Goes the same voyage?

_Flam._ O, most lovèd Moor!

_Zanche._ Only by all my love let me entreat you,-- Since it is most necessary one of us Do violence on ourselves,--let you or I Be her sad taster, teach her how to die.

_Flam._ Thou dost instruct me nobly: take these pistols, Because my hand is stained with blood already: Two of these you shall level at my breast, The other 'gainst your own, and so we'll die Most equally contented: but first swear Not to outlive me.

_Vit. Cor. and Zanche._ Most religiously.

_Flam._ Then here's an end of me; farewell, daylight! And, O contemptible physic, that dost take So long a study, only to preserve So short a life, I take my leave of thee!-- These are two cupping-glasses that shall draw [_Showing the pistols._ All my infected blood out. Are you ready?

_Vit. Cor. and Zanche._ Ready.

_Flam._ Whither shall I go now? O Lucian, thy ridiculous purgatory! to find Alexander the Great cobbling shoes, Pompey tagging points, and Julius Cæsar making hair-buttons! Hannibal selling blacking, and Augustus crying garlic! Charlemagne selling lists by the dozen, and King Pepin crying apples in a cart drawn with one horse! Whether I resolve to fire, earth, water, air, Or all the elements by scruples, I know not, Nor greatly care.--Shoot, shoot: Of all deaths the violent death is best; For from ourselves it steals ourselves so fast, The pain, once apprehended, is quite past. [_They shoot: he falls; and they run to him, and tread upon him._

_Vit. Cor._ What, are you dropt?

_Flam._ I am mixed with earth already: as you are noble, Perform your vows, and bravely follow me.

_Vit. Cor._ Whither? to hell?

_Zanche._ To most assured damnation?

_Vit. Cor._ O thou most cursèd devil!

_Zanche._ Thou art caught--

_Vit. Cor._ In thine own engine. I tread the fire out That would have been my ruin.

_Flam._ Will you be perjured? what a religious oath was Styx, that the gods never durst swear by, and violate! O, that we had such an oath to minister, and to be so well kept in our courts of justice!

_Vit. Cor._ Think whither thou art going.

_Zanche._ And remember What villanies thou hast acted.

_Vit. Cor._ This thy death Shall make me like a blazing ominous star: Look up and tremble.

_Flam._ O, I am caught with a springe!

_Vit. Cor._ You see the fox comes many times short home; 'Tis here proved true.

_Flam._ Killed with a couple of braches![95]

_Vit. Cor._ No fitter offering for the infernal Furies Than one in whom they reigned while he was living.

_Flam._ O, the way's dark and horrid! I cannot see: Shall I have no company?

_Vit. Cor._ O, yes, thy sins Do run before thee to fetch fire from hell, To light thee thither.

_Flam._ O, I smell soot, Most stinking soot! the chimney is a-fire: My liver's parboiled, like Scotch holly-bread; There's a plumber laying pipes in my guts, it scalds.-- Wilt thou outlive me?

_Zanche._ Yes, and drive a stake. Through thy body; for we'll give it out Thou didst this violence upon thyself.

_Flam._ O cunning devils! now I have tried your love, And doubled all your reaches.--I am not wounded; [_Rises._ The pistols held no bullets: 'twas a plot To prove your kindness to me; and I live To punish your ingratitude. I knew, One time or other, you would find a way To give me a strong potion.--O men That lie upon your death-beds, and are haunted With howling wives, ne'er trust them! they'll re-marry Ere the worm pierce your winding-sheet, ere the spider Make a thin curtain for your epitaphs.-- How cunning you were to discharge! do you practise at the Artillery-yard?--Trust a woman! never, never! Brachiano be my precedent. We lay our souls to pawn to the devil for a little pleasure, and a woman makes the bill of sale. That ever man should marry! For one Hypermnestra[96] that saved her lord and husband, forty-nine of her sisters cut their husbands' throats all in one night: there was a shoal of virtuous horse-leeches!--Here are two other instruments.

_Vit. Cor._ Help, help!

_Enter_ LODOVICO, GASPARO, PEDRO, _and_ CARLO.

_Flam._ What noise is that? ha! false keys i' the court!

_Lod._ We have brought you a mask.

_Flam._ A matachin,[97] it seems by your drawn swords. Churchmen turned revellers!

_Carlo._ Isabella! Isabella!

_Lod._ Do you know us now?

_Flam._ Lodovico! and Gasparo!

_Lod._ Yes; and that Moor the duke gave pension to Was the great Duke of Florence.

_Vit. Cor._ O, we are lost!

_Flam._ You shall not take justice from forth my hands,-- O, let me kill her!--I'll cut my safety Through your coats of steel. Fate's a spaniel, We cannot beat it from us. What remains now? Let all that do ill, take this precedent,-- Man may his fate foresee, but not prevent: And of all axioms this shall win the prize,-- 'Tis better to be fortunate than wise.

_Gas._ Bind him to the pillar.

_Vit. Cor._ O, your gentle pity! I have seen a blackbird that would sooner fly To a man's bosom, than to stay the gripe Of the fierce sparrowhawk.

_Gas._ Your hope deceives you.

_Vit. Cor._ If Florence be i' the court, would he would kill me!

_Gas._ Fool! princes give rewards with their own hands, But death or punishment by the hands of others.

_Lod._ Sirrah, you once did strike me: I'll strike you Into the centre.

_Flam._ Thou'lt do it like a hangman, a base hangman, Not like a noble fellow; for thou see'st I cannot strike again.

_Lod._ Dost laugh?

_Flam._ Would'st have me die, as I was born, in whining?

_Gas._ Recommend yourself to Heaven.

_Flam._ No, I will carry mine own commendations thither.

_Lod._ O, could I kill you forty times a day, And use't four year together, 'twere too little! Naught grieves but that you are too few to feed The famine of our vengeance. What dost think on?

_Flam._ Nothing; of nothing: leave thy idle questions. I am i' the way to study a long silence: To prate were idle. I remember nothing. There's nothing of so infinite vexation As man's own thoughts.

_Lod._ O thou glorious strumpet! Could I divide thy breath from this pure air When't leaves thy body, I would suck it up, And breathe't upon some dunghill.

_Vit. Cor._ You, my death's-man! Methinks thou dost not look horrid enough, Thou hast too good a face to be a hangman: If thou be, do thy office in right form; Fall down upon thy knees, and ask forgiveness.

_Lod._ O, thou hast been a most prodigious comet But I'll cut off your train,--kill the Moor first.

_Vit. Cor._ You shall not kill her first; behold my breast: I will be waited on in death; my servant Shall never go before me.

_Gas._ Are you so brave?

_Vit. Cor._ Yes, I shall welcome death As princes do some great ambassadors; I'll meet thy weapon half way.

_Lod._ Thou dost tremble: Methinks fear should dissolve thee into air.

_Vit. Cor._ O, thou art deceived, I am too true a woman: Conceit can never kill me. I'll tell thee what, I will not in my death shed one base tear; Or if look pale, for want of blood, not fear.

_Carlo._ Thou art my task, black Fury,

_Zanche._ I have blood As red as either of theirs: wilt drink some? 'Tis good for the falling-sickness. I am proud Death cannot alter my complexion, For I shall ne'er look pale.

_Lod._ Strike, strike, With a joint motion. [_They stab_ VITTORIA, ZANCHE, _and_ FLAMINEO.

_Vit. Cor._ 'Twas a manly blow: The next thou giv'st, murder some sucking infant; And then thou wilt be famous.

_Flam._ O, what blade is't? A Toledo, or an English fox?[98] I ever thought a cutler should distinguish The cause of my death, rather than a doctor. Search my wound deeper; tent it with the steel That made it.

_Vit. Cor._ O, my greatest sin lay in my blood Now my blood pays for't.

_Flam._ Thou'rt a noble sister! I love thee now: if woman do breed man, She ought to teach him manhood: fare thee well. Know, many glorious women that are famed For masculine virtue have been vicious, Only a happier silence did betide them: She hath no faults who hath the art to hide them.

_Vit. Cor._ My soul, like to a ship in a black storm, Is driven, I know not whither.

_Flam._ Then cast anchor. Prosperity doth bewitch men, seeming clear; But seas do laugh, show white, when rocks are near. We cease to grieve, cease to be fortune's slaves, Nay, cease to die, by dying. Art thou gone? And thou so near the bottom? false report, Which says that women vie with the nine Muses For nine tough durable lives! I do not look Who went before, nor who shall follow me; No, at myself I will begin and end. While we look up to Heaven, we confound Knowledge with knowledge. O, I am in a mist!

_Vit. Cor._ O, happy they that never saw the court, Nor ever knew great men but by report! [_Dies._

_Flam._ I recover like a spent taper, for a flash, And instantly go out. Let all that belong to great men remember the old wives' tradition, to be like the lions i' the Tower, on Candlemas-day: to mourn if the sun shine, for fear of the pitiful remainder of winter to come. 'Tis well yet there's some goodness in my death; My life was a black charnel. I have caught An everlasting cold; I have lost my voice Most irrecoverably. Farewell, glorious villains! This busy trade of life appears most vain, Since rest breeds rest, where all seek pain by pain. Let no harsh flattering bells resound my knell; Strike, thunder, and strike loud, to my farewell! [_Dies._

_Eng. Am._ [_Within_]. This way, this way! break ope the doors! this way!

_Lod._ Ha! are we betrayed? Why, then let's constantly die all together; And having finished this most noble deed, Defy the worst of fate, not fear to bleed:

_Enter_ Ambassadors _and_ GIOVANNI.

_Eng. Am._ Keep back the prince: shoot, shoot. [_They shoot, and_ LODOVICO _falls._

_Lod._ O, I am wounded! I fear I shall be ta'en.

_Gio._ You bloody villains, By what authority have you committed This massacre?

_Lod._ By thine.

_Gio._ Mine!

_Lod._ Yes; thy uncle, Which is a part of thee, enjoined us to't: Thou know'st me, I am sure; I am Count Lodowick; And thy most noble uncle in disguise Was last night in thy court.

_Gio._ Ha!

_Carlo._ Yes, that Moor Thy father chose his pensioner.

_Gio._ He turned murderer!-- Away with them to prison and to torture! All that have hands in this shall taste our justice, As I hope Heaven.

_Lod._ I do glory yet That I can call this act mine own. For my part, The rack, the gallows, and the torturing wheel, Shall be but sound sleeps to me: here's my rest; I limned this night-piece, and it was my best.

_Gio._ Remove the bodies.--See, my honoured lords, What use you ought make of their punishment: Let guilty men remember, their black deeds Do lean on crutches made of slender reeds. [_Exeunt._

Instead of an EPILOGUE, only this of Martial supplies me:

_Hæc fuerint nobis præmia, si placui._[99]

For the action of the play, 'twas generally well, and I dare affirm, with the joint-testimony of some of their own quality, for the true imitation of life; without striving to make nature a monster, the best that ever became them: whereof as I make a general acknowledgment, so in particular I must remember the well-approved industry of my friend Master Perkins,[100] and confess the worth of his action did crown both the beginning and end.

_THE DUCHESS OF MALFI._

Webster's tragedy of _The Duchess of Malfi_--"the perfect and exact Copy, with diverse things printed, that the length of the Play would not bear in the Presentment"--was printed in 1623, having been acted by the King's servants at Blackfriars and the Globe, Burbadge playing the part of Ferdinand. It was printed again in 1640 and in 1678. Theobald published an adaptation of it, called _The Fatal Secret_, in 1735. _The Duchess of Malfi_ was revived at the Haymarket in 1707, and again at Sadler's Wells in 1850. Concerning its performance at the latter theatre Professor Ward remarks, "I remember, not many years ago, seeing _The Duchess of Malfi_ well acted by Miss Glyn; the impression which the tragedy produces on the stage is indescribable."

The story of this play is in the _Novelle_ of Bendello, Part I., N. 26. Through Belleforest's French version it found its way into Paynter's _Palace of Pleasure_. Lope de Vega in 1618 wrote _El Mayordomo de la Duquesa de Amalfi_.

To the Rt. Hon. GEORGE HARDING, Baron Berkeley,[101] _Of Berkeley Castle, and Knight of the Order of the Bath to the illustrious Prince Charles._

My Noble Lord,

That I may present my excuse why, being a stranger to your lordship, I offer this poem to your patronage, I plead this warrant:--men who never saw the sea yet desire to behold that regiment of waters, choose some eminent river to guide them thither, and make that, as it were, their conduct or postilion: by the like ingenious means has your fame arrived at my knowledge, receiving it from some of worth, who both in contemplation and practice owe to your honour their clearest service. I do not altogether look up at your title; the ancientest nobility being but a relic of time past, and the truest honour indeed being for a map to confer honour on himself, which your learning strives to propagate, and shall make you arrive at the dignity of a great example. I am confident this work is not unworthy your honour's perusal; for by such poems as this poets have kissed the hands of great princes, and drawn their gentle eyes to look down upon their sheets of paper when the poets themselves were bound up in their winding-sheets. The like courtesy from your lordship shall make you live in your grave, and laurel spring out of it, when the ignorant scorners of the Muses, that like worms in libraries seem to live only to destroy learning, shall wither neglected and forgotten. This work and myself I humbly present to your approved censure, it being the utmost of my wishes to have your honourable self my weighty and perspicuous comment; which grace so done me shall ever be acknowledged

By your lordship's in all duty and observance,

JOHN WEBSTER.

_COMMENDATORY VERSES._

IN THE JUST WORTH OF THAT WELL-DESERVER, MR. JOHN WEBSTER, AND UPON THIS MASTER-PIECE OF TRAGEDY.

In this thou imitat'st one rich and wise, That sees his good deeds done before he dies: As he by works, thou by this work of fame Hath well provided for thy living name. To trust to others' honourings is worth's crime, Thy monument is raised in thy life-time; And 'tis most just; for every worthy man Is his own marble, and his merit can Cut him to any figure, and express More art than death's cathedral palaces Where royal ashes keep their court. Thy note Be ever plainness; 'tis the richest coat: Thy epitaph only the title be, Write DUCHESS, that will fetch a tear for thee; For who e'er saw this Duchess live and die, That could get off under a bleeding eye? In Tragædiam. Ut lux ex tenebris ictu percussa tonantis, Illa, ruina malis, claris fit vita poetis. THOMAS MIDDLETONUS, Poeta et Chron. Londinensis.

* * * * *

TO HIS FRIEND MR. JOHN WEBSTER, UPON HIS "DUCHESS OF MALFI."

I never saw thy Duchess till the day That she was lively bodied in thy play: Howe'er she answered her low-rated love Her brothers' anger did so fatal prove, Yet my opinion is, she might speak more, But never in her life so well before. WIL. ROWLEY.

* * * * *

TO THE READER OF THE AUTHOR, AND HIS "DUCHESS OF MALFI."

Crown him a poet, whom nor Rome nor Greece Transcend in all their's for a masterpiece; In which, whiles words and matter change, and men