For of himself he 's terrible enough,
But call to mind a Lady like yourself,
And think how ill in such a beauteous soul,
Upon the instant morrow of her nuptials,
Apostacy and wild revolt would show.
Withal, imagine that she had a lord
Jealous, the air should ravish her chaste looks;
Doting, like the Creator in his models,
Who views them every minute, and with care
Mixt in his fear of their obedience to him.
Suppose he sung through famous Italy,
More common than the looser songs of Petrarch,
To every several Zany's instrument:
And he poor wretch, hoping some better fate
Might call her back from her adulterate purpose,
Lives in obscure and almost unknown life;
Till hearing that she is condemn'd to die,
For he once lov'd her, lends his pined corpse
Motion to bring him to her stage of honour,
Where, drown'd in woe at her so dismal chance,
He clasps her: thus he falls into a trance.
Isabella. O my offended lord, lift up your eyes;
But yet avert them from my lothed sight.
Had I with you enjoyed the lawful pleasure,
To which belongs nor fear nor public shame,
I might have liv'd in honour, died in fame.
Your pardon on my faltering knees I beg;
Which shall confirm more peace unto my death,
Than all the grave instructions of the Church.
Roberto. Freely thou hast it. Farewell, my Isabella ;
Let thy death ransome thy soul, O die a rare example.
The kiss thou gav'st me in the church, here take:
As I leave thee, so thou the world forsake.
Executioner. Madam, tie up your hair.
Isabella. O these golden nets,
That have insnared so many wanton youths!
Not one but has been held a thread of life,
And superstitiously depended on.
Executioner. Madam, I must intreat you blind your Isabella. I have lived too long in darkness, my friend; And yet mine eyes with their majestic light,
Have got new Muses in a Poet's spright.
They've been more gaz'd at than the God of day;
Their brightness never could be flattered:
Yet thou command'st a fixed cloud of lawn
To eclipse eternally these minutes of light.
I am prepared.—
Who would have thought it? She that could no more
Forsake my company, than can the day
Forsake the glorious presence of the sun,
When I was absent, then her galled eyes
Would have shed April showers, and outwept
The clouds in that same o'er-passionate mood
When they drown'd all the world: yet now forsakes
Women, your eyes shed glances like the sun; [me.
Now shines your brightness, now your light is done.
On the sweet'st flowers you shine, 'tis but by chance,
And on the basest weed you'll waste a glance.
CESAR AND POMPEY.
A TRAGEDY. BY GEORGE CHAPMAN.
Imperial Cæsar, at your sacred charge
I drew a milk white ox into the Temple,
And turning there his face into the East,
(Fearfully shaking at the shining light)
Down fell his horned forehead to his hoof.
When I began to greet him with the stroke
That should prepare him for the holy rites,
With hideous roars he laid out such a throat
As made the secret lurkings of the God
To answer, Echo-like, in threat'ning sounds :
I struck again at him, and then he slept ;
His life-blood boiling out at every wound
In streams as clear as any liquid ruby.
-the beast cut up, and laid on the altar,
His limbs were all lickt up with instant flames;
Not like the elemental fire that burns
In household uses, lamely struggling up,
This way and that way winding as it rises,
But right and upright reacht his proper sphere
Where burns the fire eternal and sincere.
Joys unexpected, and in desperate plight,
Are still most sweet, and prove from whence they come ;
When earth's still moon-like confidence in joy
Is at her full: True Joy descending far
From past her sphere, and from the highest heaven
That moves and is not moved.
Inward help the best help.
On others' legs, nor build one joy without me.
If ever I be worth a house again,
I'll build all inward: not a light shall ope
The common out-way; no expense, no art,
No ornament, no door, will I use there;
But raise all plain and rudely like a rampire,
Against the false society of men,
All reason piece-meal; and, for earthly greatness
All heavenly comforts rarifies the air.
I'll therefore live in dark; and all my light,
Like ancient Temples, let in at my top.
That where to turn one's back to all the world,
And only look at heaven.
When our diseas'd affections
Harmful to human freedom, and storm-like
Inferring darkness to th' infected mind,
Oppress our comforts : 'tis but letting in
The light of reason, and a purer spirit
Take in another way; like rooms that fight
With windows 'gainst the wind, yet let in light.
BUSSY D'AMBOIS.
A TRAGEDY. BY GEORGE CHAPMAN.
A Nuntius (or Messenger) in the presence of KING HENRY THE THIRD of France and his court tells the manner of a combat, to which he was witness, of three to three; in which D'AMBOIS remained sole survivor: begun upon an affront passed upon D'AMBOIS by some courtiers.
HENRY, GUISE, BEAUPRE, NUNTIUS, &c.
Nuntius. I saw fierce D'Ambois and his two brave
friends
Enter the field, and at their heels their foes,
Which were the famous soldiers, Barrisor,
L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, great in deeds of arms:
All which arriv'd at the evenest piece of earth
The field afforded, the three challengers
Turn'd head, drew all their rapiers, and stood rank'd ;
When face to face the three defendants met them,
Alike prepar'd, and resolute alike.
Like bonfires of contributory wood
Every man's look shew'd, fed with other's spirit;
As one had been a mirror to another,
Like forms of life and death each took from other :
And so were life and death mix'd at their heights,
That you could see no fear of death (for life)
Nor love of life (for death): but in their brows
Pyrrho's opinion in great letters shone ;
That "life and death in all respects are one."
Henry. Past there no sorts of words at their encounter?
Nuntius. As Hector twixt the hosts of Greece and
When Paris and the Spartan king should end [Troy,
The nine years' war, held up his brazen lance
For signal that both hosts should cease from arms,
And hear him speak: so Barrisor (advis'd)
Advanc'd his naked rapier 'twixt both sides,
Ript up the quarrel, and compar'd six lives
Then laid in balance with six idle words;
Offer'd remission and contrition too :
Or else that he and D'Ambois might conclude
The others' danger. D'Ambois lik'd the last :
But Barrisor's friends, (being equally engag'd
In the main quarrel,) never would expose
His life alone to that they all deserv'd.
And (for the other offer of remission)
D'Ambois (that like a laurel put in fire
Sparkled and spit) did much much more than scorn
That his wrong should incense him so like chaff
To go so soon out, and, like lighted paper,
Approve his spirit at once both fire and ashes:
So drew they lots, and in them fates appointed
That Barrisor should fight with fiery D'Ambois;
Pyrrhot with Melynell; with Brisac L'Anou:
And then like flame and powder they commixt,
So sprightly, that I wish'd they had been Spirits ;
That the ne'er-shutting wounds, they needs must open,
Might as they open'd shut, and never kill.*
But D'Ambois' sword (that light'ned as it flew)
Shot like a pointed comet at the face
Of manly Barrisor; and there it stuck :
Thrice pluck'd he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts
From him, that of himself was free as fire;
Who thrust still, as he pluck'd, yet (past belief)
He with his subtil eye, hand, body, 'scap'd;
At last the deadly bitten point tugg'd off,
On fell his yet undaunted foe so fiercely
That (only made more horrid with his wound)
Great D'Ambois shrunk, and gave a little ground:
But soon return'd, redoubled in his danger,
And at the heart of Barrisor seal'd his anger.
Then, as in Arden I have seen an oak
Long shook with tempests, and his lofty top
Bent to his root, which being at length made loose
(Even groaning with his weight) he 'gan to nod
This way and that, as loth his curled brows
(Which he had oft wrapt in the sky with storms)
Should stoop; and yet, his radical fibres burst,
*One can hardly believe but that these lines were written after Milton had described his warring angels.
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