THE FATAL DOWRY: A TRAGEDY. The Marshal of Burgundy dies in Prison at Dijon, for Debts contracted by him for the service of the State in the Wars. His dead Body is arrested and denied Burial by his Creditors. His Son, young CHARALOIS, gives up himself to Prison, to redeem his Father's Body, that it may have honourable Burial. He has leave, from his Prisondoors, to view the Ceremony of the Funeral, but to go no farther. Enter three Gentlemen, PONTALIER, MALOTIN, and BEAUMONT, as Spectators of the Funeral. Mal. "Tis strange! Beaum. Methinks so. Pont. In a man but young, Yet old in judgment; theoric and practic What years sit on this Charalois ? Beaum. Twenty-eight. For since the clock did strike him seventeen old, So recent in him, as the world may swear Naught but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear. Pont. Certainly, And from this prison ;-'twas the son's request. [CHARALOIS appears at the door of the prison. That his dear father might interment have, See, the young son entered a lively grave. Char. How like a silent stream, shaded with night, Of death, thus hollowly break forth!-Vouchsafe Who gladlier puts on this captivity, Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds. I thank you for this last and friendly love; All means of thee, her son, but last thyself, He cannot raise thee a poor monument, Thy worth in every honest breast builds one, Pont. Sir! Char. Peace! O peace! This scene is wholly mine.soldiers ? blanch not; Romont weeps. What! weep you, The jailors and the creditors do weep; E'en they that make us weep, do weep themselves. Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man. Shall quickly both in bone and name consume, Char. What! away for shame!-you, profane rogues, His sepulchre with olive, myrrh, and bays, Rom. Look, look, you slaves! your thankless cruelty, And savage manners of unkind Dijon, Exhaust these floods, and not his father's death. Priest. On! Char. One moment more, But to bestow a few poor legacies, All I have left in my dead father's right, And I have done.-Captain, wear thou these spurs, For so it did in him.-Ensign, this cuirass, Your general's necklace once.—You, gentle bearers, A hearty oak grew'st close to this tall pine, Whereon foes broke their swords, and tired themselves: For me, my portion provide in heaven: My root is earthed, and I, a desolate branch, Left scattered in the highway of the world, Trod under foot, that might have been a column *His father's sword. James Shirley. THE LADY OF PLEASURE: A COMEDY. SIR THOMAS BORNEWELL expostulates with his Lady on her Extravagance and Love of Pleasure. BORNEWELL; ARETINA, his Lady. Are. I am angry with myself; To be so miserably restrained in things, To see me satisfied. Bor. In what, Aretina, Dost thou accuse me? have I not obeyed For a lady of my birth and education? Bor. I am not ignorant how much nobility Flows in your blood; your kinsmen great and powerful Madam, to give the dignity of your birth All the best ornaments which become my fortune; And be the fable of the town, to teach To serve your vast expenses. Are. Am I then Brought in the balance? so, sir. |