Do what thou wilt, 'tis in thy choice; what say ye?
Fer. Pish, do you come to try me? tell me first,
Will you but grant a kiss?

Bian. Yes, take it; that,

Or what thy heart can wish: I am all thine.

Fer. Oh me- -come, come, how many women, pray, Were ever heard or read of, granted love,

And did as you protest you will?

Bian. Fernando !

Jest not at my calamity: I kneel :

By these dishevel'd hairs, these wretched tears,
By all that's good, if what I speak, my heart
Vows not eternally; then think, my Lord,
Was never man sued to me I denied,
Think me a common and most cunning whore,
And let my sins be written on my grave,
My name rest in reproof. Do as you list.

Fer. I must believe ye; yet I hope anon,
When you are parted from me, you will say
I was a good cold easy-spirited man,
Nay, laugh at my simplicity: say, will ye?

Bian. No; by the faith I owe my bridal vows :
But ever hold thee much much dearer far

Than all my joys on earth; by this chaste kiss.

Fer. You have prevailed: and heaven forbid that I
Should by a wanton appetite profane

This sacred temple. 'Tis enough for me,
You'll please to call me servant.

Bian. Nay, be thine:

Command my power, my bosom, and I'll write

This love within the tables of my heart.

Fer. Enough: I'll master passion, and triumph

In being conquer'd, adding to it this,

In you my love as it begun shall end.

Bian. The latter I new vow- -but day comes on:

What now we leave unfinish'd of content,

Each hour shall perfect up.

Fer. Best Life, good rest.

Sweet, let us part.

[Kneels.

THE CHRONICLE HISTORY OF PERKIN WARBECK.
BY JOHN FORD.

Perkin Warbeck and his Followers are by Lord Dawbney presented to King Henry as Prisoners.

Dawb. Life to the King, and safety fix his throne.

I here present you, royal Sir, a shadow

Of majesty, but in effect a substance
Of pity; a young man, in nothing grown
To ripeness, but th' ambition of your mercy :
Perkin; the christian world's strange wonder!
King H. Dawbney,

We observe no wonder; I behold ('tis true)
An ornament of nature, fine, and polisht,

A handsome youth indeed, but not admire him.
How came he to thy hands?

Dawb. From sanctuary

At Bewley, near Southampton; registred,

With these few followers, for persons privileged.

King H. I must not thank you, Sir; you were to blame

To infringe the liberty of houses sacred:

Dare we be irreligious?

Dawb. Gracious Lord,

They voluntarily resign'd themselves,

Without compulsion.

King H. So? 'twas very well;

'Twas very well. Turn now thine eyes,
Young man, upon thyself and thy past actions.
What revels in combustion through our kingdom
A frenzy of aspiring youth hath danced:

Till wanting breath, thy feet of pride have slipt
To break thy neck.

Warb. But not my heart: my

my heart

Will mount, till every drop of blood be frozen
By death's perpetual winter. If the sun
Of majesty be darkned, let the sun
Of life be hid from me, in an eclipse
Lasting, and universal. Sir; remember,

There was a shooting in of light, when Richmond
(Not aiming at the crown) retired, and gladly,
For comfort to the Duke of Bretagne's Court.
Richard, who sway'd the sceptre, was reputed
A tyrant then; yet then, a dawning glimmer'd
To some few wand'ring remnants, promising day,
When first they ventur'd on a frightful shore,
At Milford Haven.

Dawb. Whither speeds his boldness ?
Check his rude tongue, great Sir.

King H. O let him range:

The player's on the stage still; 'tis his part:
He does but act.- -What follow'd?

Warb. Bosworth field:

Where at an instant, to the world's amazement,
A morn to Richmond and a night to Richard
Appear'd at once. The tale is soon applied:
Fate which crown'd these attempts, when least assured,
Might have befriended others, like resolved.

King H. A pretty gallant! thus your Aunt of Burgundy,

Your Duchess Aunt, inform'd her nephew; so

The lesson prompted, and well conn'd, was moulded

Into familiar dialogue, oft rehears'd,

Till, learnt by heart, 'tis now received for truth.

Warb. Truth in her pure simplicity wants art

To put a feigned blush on; scorn wears only
Such fashion, as commends to gazers' eyes
Sad ulcerated novelty, far beneath
The sphere of majesty: in such a court
Wisdom and gravity are proper robes,

By which the sovereign is best distinguish'd
From zanies to his greatness.

King H. Sirrah, shift

Your antick pageantry, and now appear

In your own nature; or you'll taste the danger

Of fooling out of season.

Warb. I expect

No less than what severity calls justice,

And politicians safety; let such beg,

As feed on alms: but if there can be mercy
In a protested enemy, then may it

Descend to these poor creatures,* whose engagements
To the bettering of their fortunes, have incurr'd
A loss of all: to them if any charity

Flow from some noble orator, in death
I owe the fee of thankfulness.

King H. So brave?

What a bold knave is this!

We trifle time with follies.

Urswick, command the Dukeling, and these fellows,
To Digby, the Lieutenant of the Tower :
With safety let them be convey'd to London.
It is our pleasure, no uncivil outrage,
Taunts, or abuse, be suffer'd to their persons:
They shall meet fairer law than they deserve.
Time may restore their wits, whom vain ambition
Hath many years distracted.

Warb. Noble thoughts

Meet freedom in captivity. The Tower :

Our childhood's dreadful nursery!

King H. Was ever so much impudence in forgery?

The custom sure of being styl'd a King,

Hath fast'ned in his thoughts that he is such.

Warbeck is led to his Death.

Oxford. Look ye, behold your followers, appointed

To wait on ye in death.

Warb. Why, Peers of England,

We'll lead 'em on courageously. I read

A triumph over tyranny upon

Their several foreheads. Faint not in the moment

Of victory our ends, and Warwick's head,

Innocent Warwick's head (for we are prologue

But to his tragedy), conclude the wonder

Of Henry's fears: and then the glorious race.

* His Followers.

Of fourteen kings Plantagenets, determines

In this last issue male. Heaven be obey'd.
Impoverish time of its amazement, friends:
And we will prove as trusty in our payments,
As prodigal to nature in our debts.

Death! pish, 'tis but a sound; a name of air ;
A minute's storm; or not so much; to tumble
From bed to bed, be massacred alive

By some physicians for a month or two,
In hope of freedom from a fever's torments,
Might stagger manhood; here, the pain is past
Ere sensibly 'tis felt. Be men of spirit;
Spurn coward passion: so illustrious mention

Shall blaze our names, and style us Kings o'er Death.

"TIS PITY SHE'S A WHORE: A TRAGEDY, BY JOHN FORD.

Giovanni, a Young Gentleman of Parma, entertains an illicit love fur his Sister. He asks counsel of Bonaventura, a Friar.*

FRIAR. GIOVANNI.

Friar. Dispute no more in this, for know, young man, These are no school-points; nice philosophy

May tolerate unlikely arguments,

But heaven admits no jests! wits that presumed
On wit too much, by striving how to prove
There was no God, with foolish grounds of art,
Discover'd first the nearest way to hell;
And fill'd the world with devilish atheism.
Such questions, youth, are fond; far better 'tis
To bless the sun, than reason why it shines ;
Yet he thou talk'st of is above the sun.

* The good Friar in this Play is evidently a Copy of Friar Lawrence in Romeo and Juliet. He is the same kind Physician to the Souls of his young Charges; but he has more desperate Patients to deal with.