Whilst I do bring my dreadful furies forth,
To spread the table to this bloody feast.

(They come to cover.)

(The while they cover.)

Come forth and cover, for the time draws on;
Dispatch, 1 say, for now I must employ ye,
To be the ushers to this damned train.
Bring forth the banquet and that lustful wine,
Which in pale mazors made of dead men's sculls,
They shall carouse to their destruction :
By this they're enter'd to this fatal door;
Hark how the ghastly fearful chimes of night
Do ring them in: and with a doleful peal

(Here some strange solemn music like bells is heard
within.)

Do fill the roof with sounds of tragedy:
Dispatch I say and be their ushers in.

(The Furies go to the door and meet them; first the
Furies enter before, leading them dancing a soft
dance to the solemn music; next comes Lust
before Brown leading Mistress Sanders in a black
veil: Chastity all in white, pulling her back
softly by the arm: then Drury thrusting away
Chastity, Roger following; they mareh about
and then sit to the table. The Furies fill wine;
Lust drinks to Brown, he to Mistress Sanders;
she pledges him. Lust embraces her, she thrust-
eth Chastity from her, Chastity wrings her hands
and departs. Drury and Roger embrace one
another. The Furies leap and embrace one
another, &c.)

The following scene, which takes place immediately after Brown has committed the murder, and when he is eager to enjoy the advantages he sought to obtain by it, contains one of those admirable touches of nature in which the old dramatic writers excelled, and is equal to any thing in the compass of our stage poetry.

Scene before SANDERS's house.

Enter SANDERS'S

Young Son, and another boy from school,

Boy. Go to, where shall we play?

Young San, Here at our door.

Boy. What, if your father find us?

Young San. No, he's at Woolwich, and will not come home to night.

Enter to them BROWN and ROGER.

Brown. Is she so out of patience as thou say'st?
Roger. Wonderful Sir, I have not seen the like.
Brown. What does she mean by that? nay what mean I
To ask the question? Has she not good cause?
Oh yes! and we have every one just cause

To hate and be at variance with ourselves,
But come, I long to see her.

Roger. How now Captain?

(He spies the boys.)

Why stop you on the sudden? Why go you not? What makes you look so ghastly towards the house? Brown. Is not the foremost of those pretty boys One of George Sauders' sons?

Roger. Yea, 'tis his youngest.

Brown. Both youngest and eldest are now fatherless
By my unlucky hand :-I prithee go

And take him from the door, the sight of him
Strikes such a terror in my guilty conscience,
As I have not the heart to look that way,

Nor stir my foot until he be removed,
Methinks in him I see his father's wounds
Fresh bleeding in my sight; nay he doth stand
Like to an angel with a fiery sword,

To bar my entrance at that fatal door:

I prithee step, and take him quickly thence.

Present Master Barnes, Master James, and others, with John Beane, wounded in a chair :— enter to them the Mayor of Rochester, with Brown a prisoner.

Barnes. As I take it, Master Mayor of Rochester.
Mayor. The same, good Master Barnes.

Barnes. What happy fortune sent you here to Woolwich:
That yet your company may give us comfort,
In this sad time?

Mayor. Believe me, sad indeed, and very sad:-
Sir, the council's warrant lately came to me,
About the search for one Captain George Brown,
As it should seem suspected of this murder,
Whom in my search I hapt to apprehend,
And hearing that the bodies of the murdered
Remained here, I thought it requisite,
To make this in my way unto the court,
Now going thither with the prisoner,

Barnes. Believe me Sir, ye have done right good service,
And shewn yourself a painful gentleman,

And shall no doubt deserve well of the state. James. No doubt you shall, and I durst assure you so, The council will accept well of the same.

Barnes. Good master Mayor, this wretched man of mine
Is not yet dead; look you where now he sits,
But past all sense, and labouring to his end.

Mayor. Alas, poor wretch!

Barnes. Is this that Brown that is suspected to have done the murder?- -a goodly man, believe me :

Too fair a creature for so foul an act.

Brown. My name is Brown, Sir.

James. I know you well, your fortunes have been fair,
As any gentleman's of your repute.

But Brown, should you be guilty of this fact,—
As this your flight has given shrewd suspicion,-
Oh Brown your hands have done the bloodiest deed
That ever was committed.

Brown. He doth not live dare charge me with it.

James. Pray God there be not.

Mayor. Serjeants bring him nearer, see if this poor soul know him,

Barnes. It cannot be, these two days space he knew no

creature.

Brown. Swounds! lives the villain yet?

(aside.)

O how his very sight affrights my soul!
His very eyes will speak had he no tongue,
And will accuse me.

Barnes. See how his wounds break out afresh in

Which now be fifteen mouths that do accuse me :

In every wound there is a bloody tongue,

Which will all speak, although he hold his peace;
By a whole jury I shall be accused.

Barnes. John, dost thou hear? Know'st thou this man?

John. Yea, this is he that murdered me

and Master Sanders.

James. O hold him up!

Mayor, John comfort thyself!

James. Bow him ;-give him air.

Barnes. No, he is dead.

(He sinks down.)

Brown. Methinks he is so fearful in my sight,

That were he now but where I saw him last, For all this world I would not look upon bim. Barnes. The wondrous work of God!-that the poor creature not speaking for two days, yet now should speak to accuse this man, and presently yield up his soul.

James. 'Tis very strange.

Mayor. Serjeants away!-prepare you for the court,
And I will follow you immediately.

Barnes. Sure the revealing of this murder's strange.
James. It is so Sir; but in the case of blood,

God's justice hath been still miraculous:
Mayor. I have heard it told, that digging up a grave,
Wherein a man had twenty years been buried,
By finding of a uail knock'd in the scalp,
And due enquiry who was buried there,

The murther yet at length did come to light.

Barnes. I have heard it told, that once a traveller Being in the hands of him that murdered him, Told him, the fern that then grew in the place, If nothing else, yet that would sure reveal him : And seven years after, being safe in London, There came a sprig of fern borne by the wind, Into the room wheras the murderer was,