CIII. (G.)

COMMENDATORY VERSES BEFORE THE "FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS."

There are no sureties, good friend, will be taken
For works that vulgar good-name hath forsaken.
A Poem and a Play too! Why, 'tis like

A Scholar that's a Poet; their names strike,
And kill outright: one cannot both fates bear.
But as a Poet, that's no Scholar, makes
Vulgarity his whiffler, and so takes

Passage with ease and state thro' both sides' prease
Of pageant-seers: or, as Scholars please,
That are no Poets more than Poets learned,
Since their art solely is by souls discern'd,
(The others' falls within the common sense,
And sheds, like common light, her influence):
So, were your Play no Poem, but a thing
Which every cobbler to his patch might sing;
A rout of nifles, like the multitude,

With no one limb of any art endued,

Like would to like, and praise you: but because
Your Poem only hath by us applause;

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Renews the Golden World, and holds through all 20 The holy laws of homely Pastoral,

Where flowers, and founts, and nymphs, and semigods,

And all the Graces, find their old abodes;
Where forests flourish but in endless verse,
And meadows nothing-fit for purchasers :
This Iron Age, that eats itself, will never
Bite at your Golden World, that others ever
Loved as itself. Then, like your Book, do you
Live in old peace: and that for praise allow.
G. Chapman.

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CIV.

THIERRY AND THEODORET: A TRAGEDY.

BY THE SAME.

THIERRY, King of France, being childless, is foretold by an Astrologer, that he shall have Children if he sacrifice the first Woman that he shall meet at sun-rise coming

out of the Temple of Diana. He waits before the Temple, and the first Woman he sees proves to be his own Wife ORDELLA.

THIERRY. MARTEL, a Nobleman.

Mart. Your grace is early stirring.
Thier. How can he sleep

Whose happiness is laid up in an hour,
He knows comes stealing towards him? Oh Martel !
Is 't possible the longing bride, whose wishes
Out-run her fears, can on that day she is married
Consume in slumbers; or his arms rust in ease,
That hears the charge, and sees the honour'd purchase
Ready to gild his valour? Mine is more,

A power above these passions; this day France,
France, that in want of issue withers with us,
And like an aged river, runs his head
Into forgotten ways, again I ransom,

And his fair course turn right.—

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Mart. Happy woman, that dies to do these things. Thier. The gods have heard me now, and those that scorn'd me,

Mothers of many children and bless'd fathers
That see their issue like the stars unnumber'd,
Their comfort more than them, shall in my praises
Now teach their infants songs; and tell their ages 20
From such a son of mine, or such a queen,

That chaste Ordella brings me.

Mart. The day wears,

And those that have been offering early prayers,
Are now retiring homeward.

Thier. Stand and mark them.

Mart. Is it the first must suffer?

Thier. The first woman.

Mart. What hand shall do it, sir?

Thier. This hand, Martel:

For who less dare presume to give the gods

An incense of this offering?

Mart. Would I were she !

For such a way to die, and such a blessing,

Can never crown my parting.

Here comes a woman.

ORDELLA comes out from the Temple, veiled. Thier. Stand, and behold her then!

30

Mart. I think a fair one.

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Thier. Move not whilst I prepare her: may her peace, Like his whose innocence the gods are pleas'd with, And, offering at their altars, gives his soul Far purer than those fires, pull heaven upon her; You holy powers, no human spot dwell in her; No love of anything, but you and goodness, Tie her to earth; fear be a stranger to her, And all weak blood's affections, but thy hope, Let her bequeath to women: hear me, heaven, Give her a spirit masculine and noble, Fit for yourselves to ask, and me to offer. O, let her meet my blow, dote on her death; And as a wanton vine bows to the pruner, That by his cutting off more may increase, So let her fall to raise me fruit! Hail, woman! The happiest and the best (if the dull will Do not abuse thy fortune) France e'er found yet. Ordel. She's more than dull, sir, less and worse than

woman,

That may inherit such an infinite

As you propound, a greatness so near goodness,
And brings a will to rob her.

Thier. Tell me this then;

Was there e'er woman yet, or may be found,

That for fair fame, unspotted memory,

For virtue's sake, and only for its self sake,

Has, or dare make a story?

Ordel. Many dead, sir; living, I think, as many. Thier. Say the kingdom

May from a woman's will receive a blessing,

The king and kingdom, not a private safety,

A general blessing, lady?

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30

Ordel. A general curse light on her heart denies it. Thier. Full of honour;

And such examples as the former ages

Were but dim shadows of and empty figures?

Ordel. You strangely stir me, sir, and were my weakness

In any other flesh but modest woman's,

You should not ask more questions; may I do it? Thier. You may; and which is more, you must. 40 Ordel. I joy in 't,

Above a moderate gladness; sir, you promise

It shall be honest.

Thier. As ever Time discover'd.

Ordel. Let it be what it may then, what it dare, I have a mind will hazard it.

Thier. But hark ye,

What may that woman merit, makes this blessing? Ordel. Only her duty, sir.

Thier. 'Tis terrible.

Ordel. 'Tis so much the more noble.
Thier. 'Tis full of fearful shadows.
Ordel. So is sleep, sir,

Or anything that 's merely ours and mortal;
We were begotten gods else: but those fears,
Feeling but once the fires of nobler thoughts,
Fly, like the shapes of clouds we form, to nothing.
Thier. Suppose it death.

Ordel. I do.

Thier. And endless parting

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With all we can call ours, with all our sweetness, 20 With youth, strength, pleasure, people, time, nay,

reason:

For in the silent grave, no conversation,*

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers,

No careful father's counsel, nothing's heard,

Nor nothing is, but all oblivion,

Dust and an endless darkness: and dare you, woman, Desire this place?

Ordel. 'Tis of all sleeps the sweetest;

Children begin it to us, strong men seek it,

And kings from height of all their painted glories 30
Fall, like spent exhalations, to this centre:
And those are fools that fear it, or imagine,
A few unhandsome pleasures, or life's profits,
Can recompense this place; and mad that stay it,
Till age blow out their lights, or rotten humours
Bring them dispers'd to the earth.

Thier. Then you can suffer?
Ordel. As willingly as say it.

Thier.

Martel, a wonder!

* There is no work, no device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.-Ecclesiastes.

Here is a woman that dares die? Yet tell me,

Are you a wife?

Ordel. I am, sir.

Thier.

And have children? She sighs and weeps.

Ordel. O none, sir.

Thier. Dare you venture,

For a poor barren praise you ne'er shall hear,
To part with these sweet hopes?

Ordel. With all but heaven,

And yet die full of children; he that reads me
When I am ashes, is my son in wishes:

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And those chaste dames that keep my memory,
Singing my yearly requiems, are my daughters.
Thier. Then there is nothing wanting but my
knowledge,

And what I must do, lady.

Ordel. You are the king, sir,

And what you do I'll suffer, and that blessing
That you desire, the gods shower on the kingdom!
Thier. Thus much before I strike then, for I must

kill you;

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The gods have will'd it so, they've made the blessing
Must make France young again, and me a man.
Keep up your strength still nobly.

Ordel.

Fear me not.

Thier. And meet death like a measure.
Ordel. I am steadfast.

Thier. Thou shalt be sainted, woman, and thy

tomb

Cut out in crystal pure and good as thou art;
And on it shall be graven, every age,

Succeeding peers of France that rise by thy fall,
Till thou liest there like old and fruitful Nature. 30
Darest thou behold thy happiness?

Ordel. I dare, sir.

Thier.

[Pulls off her veil; he lets fall his sword. Ha!

Mar. O, sir, you must not do it.

Thier. No, I dare not.

There is an angel keeps that paradise,
A fiery angel, friend: O virtue, virtue,
Ever and endless virtue.

Ordel. Strike, sir, strike;