Would straight condemn me: argue oaths no more;
My oath is high, for to the King I swore.

Cal. Must I betray my chastity, so long
Clean from the treason of rebelling lust?
O husband, O my father, if poor I

Must not live chaste, then let me chastely die.

Fath. Ay, here's a charm shall keep thee chaste; come,

come!

Old Time hath left us but an hour to play

Our parts; begin the scene. Who shall speak first?
Oh, I-I play the King, and kings speak first:
Daughter, stand thou here, thou son Terill there;
We need no prologue, the King entering first
He's a most gracious prologue: marry, then
For the catastrophe, or epilogue,

There's one in cloth of silver, which no doubt
Will please the hearers well when he steps out;
His mouth is filled with words: see where he stands:
He'll make them clap their eyes besides their hands.
But to my part: suppose who enters now,

A king whose eyes are set in silver; one

That blusheth gold, speaks music, dancing walks,

Now gathers nearer, takes thee by the hand,

When straight thou think'st the very orb of heaven
Moves round about thy fingers; then he speaks,
Thus-thus-I know not how.

Cal. Nor I to answer him.

Fath. No, girl, know'st thou not how to answer him?

Why, then, the field is lost, and he rides home
Like a great conqueror: not answer him!
Out of thy part already! foiled the scene!
Disranked the lines! disarmed the action!

Ter. Yes, yes, true chastity is tongued so weak, 'Tis overcome ere it know how to speak.

Fath. Come, come, thou happy close of every wrong, 'Tis thou that canst dissolve the hardest doubt; 'Tis time for thee to speak, we all are out. Daughter, and you the man whom I call son, I must confess I made a deed of gift

To Heaven and you, and gave my child to both;
When on my blessing I did charm her soul
In the white circle of true chastity,

Still to run true till death: now, sir, if not,
She forfeits my rich blessing, and is fined
With an eternal curse; then I tell you,

She shall die now, now whilst her soul is true.
Ter. Die?

Cal. Ay, I am Death's echo.

Fath. O my son!

I am her father; every tear I shed

Is threescore ten years old; I weep and smile
Two kinds of tears; I weep that she must die,
I smile that she must die a virgin: thus
We joyful men mock tears, and tears mock us.
Ter. What speaks that cup?

Fath. White wine and poison.

Ter. Oh!

That very name of poison poisons me.

Thou winter of a man, thou walking grave,

Whose life is like a dying taper, how

Canst thou define a lover's labouring thoughts?

What scent hast thou but death? what taste but earth?

The breath that purls from thee is like the steam

Of a new-opened vault: I know thy drift;

Because thou'rt travelling to the land of graves,
Thou covet'st company, and hither bring'st
A health of poison to pledge Death: a poison
For this sweet spring; this element is mine,
Th... is the air I breathe; corrupt it not;

This heaven is mine-I bought it with my soul
Of him that sells a heaven to buy a soul.

Fath. Well, let her go; she's thine, thou call'st her thine,
Thy element, the air thou breath'st; thou know'st
The air thou breath'st is common; make her so.
Perhaps thou'lt say none but the King shall wear
Thy night-gown, she that laps thee warm with love;
And that kings are not common: then to show
By consequence he cannot make her so.

Indeed, she may promote her shame and thine,
And with your shames speak a good word for mine.
The King shining so clear, and we so dim,
Our dark disgraces will be seen through him.
Imagine her the cup of thy moist life,
What man would pledge a king in his own wife?

Ter. She dies! that sentence poisons her: O life!
What slave would pledge a king in his own wife?

Cal. Welcome, O poison! physic against lust,
Thou wholesome medicine to a constant blood;
Thou rare apothecary that canst keep
My chastity preserved within this box
Of tempting dust, this painted earthen pot
That stands upon the stall of the white soul,
To set the shop out like a flatterer,

To draw the customers of sin: come, come,
Thou art no poison, but a diet-drink
To moderate my blood.

White-innocent Wine,

Art thou made guilty of my death? Oh, no,
For thou thyself art poison; take me hence,

For Innocence shall murder Innocence.

[Drinks.

Ter Hold, hold! thou shalt not die, my bride, my wife!

O stop that speedy messenger of Death!

O let him not run down that narrow path
Which leads unto thy heart, nor carry news
To thy removing soul that thou must die.

Cal. "Tis done already!-the spiritual court
Is breaking up; all offices discharged,
My soul removes from this weak standing-house
Of frail mortality.-Dear father, bless
Me now and ever!-Dearer man, farewell!
I jointly take my leave of thee and life:
Go tell the King thou hast a constant wife!
Fath. Smiles on my cheeks arise,

To see how sweetly a true virgin dies.

Thomas Decker and John Webster.

WESTWARD HOE! A

COMEDY.

Pleasure the General Pursuit.

SWEET Pleasure!

Delicious Pleasure! earth's supremest good,

The spring of blood, though it dry up our blood!
Rob me of that (though to be drunk with pleasure,
As rank excess even in best things is bad,

Turns man into a beast), yet, that being gone,
A horse, and this (the goodliest shape), all one.

We feed; wear rich attires; and strive to cleave
The stars with marble towers; fight battles; spend
Our blood to buy us names; and in iron hold
Will we eat roots to imprison fugitive gold :
But to do thus what spell can us excite?
This the strong magic of our appetite :
To feast which richly, life itself undoes.
Who'd not die thus?

Why, even those that starve in voluntary wants,
And, to advance the mind, keep the flesh poor,
The world enjoying them, they not the world;
Would they do this, but that they are proud to suck
A sweetness from such sourness?....

John Webster.

DUCHESS OF MALFY.

The Duchess of Malfy marries her Steward; the Marriage being discovered by her Brother FERDINAND, he shuts her up in a Prison, and torments her with various Trials of studied Cruelty. By his Command, BOSOLA, the Instrument of his Devices, shows her the Bodies of her Husband and Children, counterfeited in Wax, as dead.

DUCHESS, BOSola.

Bos. He doth present you this sad spectacle,

That now you know directly they are dead,

Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve

For that which cannot be recovered.

Duch. There is not between heaven and earth one wish

I

stay for after this: it wastes me more

Than were't my picture fashioned out of wax,