For till some happy means relieve his state,

There he must stick, and bide the wrath of Fate.

Parting in Amity.

... Let our parting

Be full as charitable as our meeting was;

That the pale envious world, glad of the food
Of others' miseries, civil dissensions,

And nuptial strifes, may not feed fat with ours.

Cyril Tourneur.

THE REVENGER'S TRAGEDY.

The Brothers VINDICI and HIPPOLITO threaten their Mother with death for consenting to the dishonour of their Sister.

Vin. O thou for whom no name is bad enough!

Moth. What mean my sons? What! will you murther

me?

Vin. Wicked, unnatural parent!

Hip. Friend of women!

Moth. Oh! are sons turned monsters ?-Help!

Vin. In vain.

Moth. Are ye so barbarous to set iron nipples

Upon the breast that gave you

Vin. That breast

Is turned to quarlèd poison.

suck?

Moth. Cut not your days for't. Am not I your mother? Vin. Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud,

For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd.

Moth. A bawd! O name far loathsomer than hell!

Hip. It should be so, knew'st thou thy office well.
Moth. I hate it.

Vin. Ah, is it possible, you powers on high,
That women should dissemble when they die?
Moth. Dissemble!

Vin. Did not the duke's son direct

A fellow of the world's condition hither,
That did corrupt all that was good in thee?
Made thee uncivilly forget thyself,

And work our sister to his purpose?

Moth. Who, I?

That had been monstrous.

For any such intent.

I defy that man

None lives so pure,

But shall be soiled with slander.

Good son, believe it not.

Vin. Oh, I'm in doubt

Whether I am myself or no !—

Stay, let me look again upon this face.

Who shall be saved when mothers have no grace?

[Resumes his disguise.

Hip. "Twould make one half despair.

Vin. I was the man.

Defy me now; let's see, do't modestly.

Moth. Oh, hell unto my soul !

Vin. In that disguise, I, sent from the duke's son, Tried you, and found you base metal,

As any villain might have done.

Moth. Oh, no,

No tongue but yours could have bewitched me so.

Vin. O nimble in damnation, quick in turn!

There is no devil could strike fire so soon.

I am confuted in a word.

Moth. O sons,

Forgive me! to myself I'll prove more true;
You that should honour me, I kneel to you.

Vin. A mother to give aim to her own daughter!
Hip. True, brother; how far beyond nature 'tis,
Though many mothers do it!

Vin. Nay, and you draw tears once, go you to bed; Wet will make iron blush, and change to red. Brother, it rains,-'twill spoil your dagger; house it. Hip. 'Tis done.

Vin. I'faith, 'tis a sweet shower; it does much good. The fruitful grounds and meadows of her soul

Have been long dry: pour down, thou blessed dew! Rise, mother; troth, this shower has made you higher. Moth. O you Heavens!

Take this infectious spot out of my soul;

I'll rinse it in seven waters of mine eyes.
Make my tears salt enough to taste of grace.
To weep is to our sex naturally given;
But to weep truly, that's a gift from heaven.

Vin. Nay, I'll kiss you now. Kiss her, brother:
Let's marry her to our souls, wherein's no lust,
And honourably love her.

Hip. Let it be.

Vin. For honest women are so seld and rare, 'Tis good to cherish those poor few that are.

O you

of easy wax! do but imagine,

Now the disease has left you, how leprously

That office would have clinged unto your forehead!
All mothers that had any graceful hue,

Would have worn masks to hide their face at you.
It would have grown to this, at your foul name

Green-coloured maids would have turned red with shame.

Hip. And then our sister, full of hire and baseness-
Vin. There had been boiling lead again!

The duke's son's great concubine!

A drab of state, a cloth-o'-silver slut,

To have her train borne up, and her soul trail in the dirt! Hip. To be great, miserable;—to be rich, eternally

wretched!

Vin. O common madness!

Ask but the thriving'st harlot in cold blood,
She'd give the world to make her honour good.
Perhaps you'll say, but only to the duke's son
In private; why, she first begins with one
Who afterwards to thousands proves a whore:
Break ice in one place, it will crack in more.
Moth. Most certainly applied.

Hip. O brother, you forget our business.

Vin. And well remembered. Joy's a subtle elf;
I think man's happiest when he forgets himself.
Farewell, once dry, now holy-watered mead;
Our hearts wear feathers that before wore lead.
Moth. I'll give you this: that one I never knew
Plead better for, and 'gainst the devil than you.
Vin. You make me proud on't.

Hip. Commend us in all virtue to our sister.

Vin. Ay, for the love of Heaven, to that true maid.
Moth. With my best words.

Vin. Why, that was motherly said.

While CALANTHA* (Princess of Sparta) is celebrating the Nuptials of PROPHILUS and EUPHRANEA, at Court, with music and dancing, one enters to inform her that the King her Father is dead; a second brings the news that PENTHEA (Sister to ITHOCLES) is starved; and a third comes to tell that ITHOCLES himself (to whom the Princess is contracted) is cruelly murdered.

CALANTHA, PROPHILUS, EUPHRANEA, NEARCHUS, Crotolon, CHRISTALLA, PHILEMA, and others.

Cal. We miss our servant Ithocles, and Orgilus; On whom attend they?

Crot. My son, gracious princess,

Whispered some new device, to which these revels
Should be but usher: wherein, I conceive,

Lord Ithocles and he himself are actors.

Cal. A fair excuse for absence: as for Bassanes, Delights to him are troublesome; Armostes

Is with the king.

Crot. He is.

Cal. On to the dance!

(To NEARCHUS.) Dear cousin, hand you the bride; the bridegroom must be

Intrusted to my courtship: be not jealous,

Euphranea; I shall scarcely prove a temptress.

Fall to our dance!

*The princess is won by the solicitations of Penthea, and by the real deserts of Ithocles, to requite his love, and they are contracted with the consent of the king her father.