Seeking me treach'rous man, yet no man neither,
Though in an outward show of such appearance,
But am a dev'l indeed, for so this deed

Of wronged love and friendship rightly makes me.
I may compare my friend to one that's sick,
Who, lying on his death-bed, calls to him
His dearest-thought friend, and bids him go
To some rare-gifted man that can restore
His former health; this his friend sadly hears,
And vows with protestations to fulfil
His wish'd desires with his best performance;
But then no sooner seeing that the death
Of his sick friend would add to him some gain,
Goes not to seek a remedy to save,
But like a wretch hides 1 him to dig his
As I have done for virtuous Carracus.
Yet, Albert, be not reasonless to indanger
What thou may'st yet secure.
The crime of thy licentious appetite?

grave;

Who can detect

I hear one's pace; 'tis surely Carracus.

Enter CARRACUS.

Car. Not find my friend! sure some malignant planet Rules o'er this night, and envying the content

Which I in thought possess, debars me thus

From what is more than happy, the lov'd presence
Of a dear friend and love.

Alb. 'Tis wronged Carracus by Albert's baseness :

I have no power now to reveal myself.

Car. The horses stand at the appointed place, And night's dark coverture makes firm our safety. My friend is surely fallen into a slumber

On some bank hereabouts; I will call him.

Friend, Albert, Albert.

Alb. Whate'er you are that call, you

know my name.

Car. Ay, and thy heart, dear friend. [Maria appears above. Mar. My Carracus, are you so soon return'd?

I see, you'll keep your promise.

Car. Who would not do so, having pass'd it thee,

Cannot be fram'd of aught but treachery.

Fairest, descend, that by our hence departing

We may make firm the bliss of our content.

Mar. Is your friend Albert with you?
Alb. Yes, and your servant, honour'd Lady.

1 1 [Dodsley, 1874: "hies".]

Mar. Hold me from falling, Carracus.

Car. Come, fair Maria, the troubles of this night
Are as fore-runners to ensuing pleasures.
And, noble friend, although now Carracus
Seems, in the gaining of this beauteous prize,
To keep from you so much of his lov'd treasure,
Which ought not to be mixed; yet his heart
Shall so far strive in your wish'd happiness,
That if the loss and ruin of itself

Can but avail your good

[She descends.

Alb. O friend, no more; come, you are slow in haste.
Friendship ought never be discuss'd in words,

Till all her deeds be finish'd. Who, looking in a book,
And reads but some part of it only, cannot judge
What praise the whole deserves, because his knowledge
Is grounded but on part-as thine, friend, is,
Ignorant of that black mischief I have done thee.

[Aside. [Exeunt. [Act i.]

Albert, after the marriage of Carracus, struck with remorse for the injury he has done to his friend, knocks at Carracus's door, but cannot summon resolution to see him, or to do more than inquire after his welfare.

Alb. Conscience, thou horror unto wicked men,
When wilt thou cease thy all-afflicting wrath,
And set my soul free from the labyrinth

Of thy tormenting terror? O, but it fits not!
Should I desire redress, or wish for comfort,
That have committed an act so inhuman,
Able to fill Shame's spacious chronicle ?

Who but a damn'd one could have done like me ?
Robb'd my dear friend in a short moment's time
Of his love's high-prized gem of chastity;
That which so many years himself hath staid for.
How often hath he, as he lay in bed,
Sweetly discours'd to me of his Maria!

And with what pleasing passions did he suffer
Love's gentle war-siege: then he would relate
How he first came unto her fair eyes' view;
How long it was ere she could brook affection;
And then how constant she did still abide.
I then at this would joy, as if my breast
Had sympathiz'd in equal happiness

1[Dodsley, ed. Hazlitt, 1874, vol. xi.]

With my true friend. But now, when joy should be,
Who but a damn'd one would have done like me?
He hath been married now at least a month;

In all which time I have not once beheld him.

This is his house.

I'll call to know his health, but will not see him;
My looks would then betray me, for, should he ask
My cause of seeming sadness or the like,

I could not but reveal, and so pour on
Worse unto ill, which breeds confusion.1

A Servant opens.

Alb. Is the master of the house within ?

[He knocks.

Serv. Yes, marry, is he, sir: would you speak with him?
Alb. My business is not so troublesome :

Is he in health with his late espoused wife?

Serv. Both are exceeding well, sir.

Alb. I am truly glad on't: farewell, good friend.

Serv. I pray you, let's crave your name, sir; I may else have

anger.

Alb. You may say, one Albert, riding by this way, only inquired their health.

Serv. I will acquaint so much.

Alb. How like a poisonous doctor have I come
To inquire their welfare, knowing that myself
Have giv'n the potion of their ne'er-recovery;
For which I will afflict myself with torture ever.
And since the earth yields not a remedy
Able to salve the sores my lust hath made,
I'll now take farewell of society,

may

And the abode of men, to entertain a life
Fitting my fellowship in desert woods,
Where beasts like me consort; there
Far off from wronging virtuous Carracus.
There's no Maria, that shall satisfy
My hateful lust the trees shall shelter

:

I live,

This wretched trunk of mine, upon whose barks
I will engrave the story of my sin.

And there this short breath of mortality

I'll finish up in that repentant state,

Where not the allurements of earth's vanities

Can e'er o'ertake me: there's no baits for lust,

No friend to ruin; I shall then be free

1 [A line and a half omitted.]

[Exit serv.

From practising the art of treachery.
Thither then, steps, where such content abides,
Where penitency not disturb'd may grieve,

Where on each tree and springing plant I'll carve
This heavy motto of my misery,

Who but a damn'd one could have done like me?

[Act ii]

LINGUA. A COMEDY BY ANTHONY BREWER [PUBLISHED 1607, NOT BY BREWER BUT BY JOHN TOMKINS: FLOURISHED 1610]

Languages.

The ancient Hebrew, clad with mysteries;
The learned Greek, rich in fit epithets,
Blest in the lovely marriage of pure words;
The Chaldee wise, the Arabian physical,
The Roman eloquent, and Tuscan grave,

The braving Spanish, and the smooth-tongued French

Tragedy and Comedy.

- fellows both, both twins, but so unlike

As birth to death, wedding to funeral :
For this that rears himself in buskins quaint,
Is pleasant at the first, proud in the midst,
Stately in all, and bitter death at end.

[Act i., Sc. 1.1]

That in the pumps doth frown at first acquaintance,
Trouble the midst, but in the end concludes

Closing up all with a sweet catastrophe.

This grave and sad, distain'd with brinish tears;

That light and quick, with wrinkled laughter painted:
This deals with nobles, kings, and emperors,

Full of great fears, great hopes, great enterprizes ;
This other trades with men of mean condition,
His projects small, small hopes, and dangers little :
This gorgeous, broider'd with rich sentences;
That fair, and purfled round with merriments.
Both vice detect, and virtue beautify,

By being death's mirror, and life's looking-glass.

1[Dodsley, ed. Hazlitt, vol. ix.]

[Act iv., Sc. 2.]

THE TRAGEDY OF NERO [FIRST PRINTED 1624].
AUTHOR UNCERTAIN

Scenical Personation.

"Tis better in a play

Be Agamemnon, than himself indeed.
How oft, with danger of the field beset,
Or with home-mutinies, would he un-be
Himself; or, over cruel altars weeping,
Wish, that with putting off a vizard he
Might his true inward sorrow lay aside!
The shows of things are better than themselves.
How doth it stir this airy part of us
To hear our poets tell imagin'd fights

And the strange blows that feigned courage gives!
When I Achilles hear upon the Stage
Speak honour and the greatness of his soul,
Methinks I too could on a Phrygian 'spear
Run boldly, and make tales for after times:
But when we come to act it in the deed,
Death mars this bravery, and the ugly fears
Of th' other world sit on the proudest brow;
And boasting valour loseth his red cheek.

[Act iii., Sc. 3.1]

THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON [PUBLISHED 1608]. AUTHOR UNCERTAIN 2

Millisent the fair daughter of Clare was betrothed, with the consent of her parents, to Raymond, son of Mounchensey; but the elder Mounchensey being since fallen in his fortunes, Clare revokes his consent, and plots a marriage for his daughter with the rich heir of Jerningham. Peter Fabel, a good magician, who had been Tutor to young Raymond Mounchensey at College, determines by the aid of his art to assist his pupil in obtaining fair Millisent.

PETER FABEL, solus.

Fab. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill,

That for thy bounty, and thy royal parts,

2

ton.

[Ed. Walker, Temple Dramatists.]

"It has been ascribed without much proof to Shakspeare, and to Michael Dray