ISABELLA COLOUR.
The archduke Albert married the infanta Isabella, daughter of Philip II. king of Spain, with whom he had the Low Countries in dowry. In the year 1602, he laid siege to Ostend, then in the possession of the heretics, and his pious princess, who attended him in that expedition, made a vow that till the city was taken she would never change her clothes. Contrary to expectation, it was three years before the place was reduced; in which time her highness’s linen had acquired a hue, which from the superstition of the princess and the times was much admired, and adopted by the court fashionables under the name of the “Isabella-colour:” it is a whitish yellow, or soiled buff—better imagined than described.[160]
[160] Sir J. Hawkins.
Garrick Plays.
No. XV.
[From the “City Night-Cap,” a Tragi-Comedy, by Robert Davenport, 1651.]
Lorenzo Medico suborns three Slaves to swear falsely to an adultery between his virtuous Wife Abstemia, and his Friend Philippo. They give their testimony before the Duke of Verona, and the Senators.
Phil.—how soon
Two souls, more precious than a pair of worlds,
Are levell’d below death!
Abst. Oh hark! did you not hear it?
Sen. What, Lady?
Abst. This hour a pair of glorious towers is fallen
Two goodly buildings beaten with a breath
Beneath the grave: you all have seen this day
A pair of souls both cast and kiss’d away.
Sen. What censure gives your Grace?
Duke. In that I am kinsman
To the accuser, that I might not appear
Partial in judgment, let it seem no wonder,
If unto your Gravities I leave
The following sentence: but as Lorenzo stands
A kinsman to Verona, so forget not,
Abstemia still is sister unto Venice.
Phil. Misery of goodness!
Abst. Oh Lorenzo Medico,
Abstemia’s Lover once, when he did vow,
And when I did believe; then when Abstemia
Denied so many princes for Lorenzo,
Then when you swore:—Oh maids, how men can weep,
Print protestations on their breasts, and sigh,
And look so truly, and then weep again,
And then protest again, and again dissemble!—
When once enjoy’d, like strange sights, we grow stale;
And find our comforts, like their wonder, fail.
Phil. Oh Lorenzo!
Look upon tears, each one of which well-valued
Is worth the pity of a king; but thou
Art harder far than rocks, and canst not prize
The precious waters of truth’s injured eyes.
Lor. Please your Grace, proceed to censure.
Duke. Thus ’tis decreed, as these Lords have set down,
Against all contradiction: Signor Philippo,
In that you have thus grossly, Sir, dishonour’d
Even our blood itself in this rude injury
Lights on our kinsman, his prerogative
Implies death on your trespass; but, (your merit
Of more antiquity than is your trespass),
That death is blotted out; perpetual banishment,
On pain of death if you return, for ever
From Verona and her signories.
Phil. Verona is kind.
Sen. Unto you, Madam,
This censure is allotted: your high blood
Takes off the danger of the law; nay from
Even banishment itself: this Lord, your husband,
Sues only for a legal fair divorce,
Which we think good to grant, the church allowing:
And in that the injury
Chiefly reflects on him, he hath free licence
To marry when and whom he pleases.
Abst. I thank ye,
That you are favorable unto my Love,
Whom yet I love and weep for.
Phil. Farewell, Lorenzo,
This breast did never yet harbour a thought
Of thee, but man was in it, honest man:
There’s all the words that thou art worth. Of your Grace
I humbly thus take leave. Farewell, my Lords;—
And lastly farewell Thou, fairest of many,
Yet by far more unfortunate!—look up,
And see a crown held for thee; win it, and die
Love’s martyr, the sad map of injury.—
And so remember, Sir, your injured Lady
Has a brother yet in Venice.
Philippo, at an after-trial, challenges Lorenzo.
Phil.—in the integrity,
And glory of the cause, I throw the pawn
Of my afflicted honour; and on that
I openly affirm your absent Lady
Chastity’s well knit abstract; snow in the fall,
Purely refined by the bleak northern blast,
Not freer from a soil; the thoughts of infants
But little nearer heaven: and if these princes
Please to permit, before their guilty thoughts
Injure another hour upon the Lady,
My right-drawn sword shall prove it.—
Abstemia, decoyed to a Brothel in Milan, is attempted by the Duke’s Son.
Prince. Do you know me?
Abst. Yes, Sir, report hath given intelligence,
You are the Prince, the Duke’s son.
Prince. Both in one.
Abst. Report, sure,
Spoke but her native language. You are none
Of either.
Prince. How!
Abst. Were you the Prince, you would not sure be slaved
To your blood’s passion. I do crave your pardon
For my rough language. Truth hath a forehead free
And in the tower of her integrity
Sits an unvanquish’d virgin. Can you imagine,
’Twill appear possible you are the Prince?
Why, when you set your foot first in this house,
You crush’d obedient duty unto death;
And even then fell from you your respect.
Honour is like a goodly old house, which
If we repair not still with virtue’s hand,
Like a citadel being madly raised on sand,
It falls, is swallow’d, and not found.
Prince. If thou rail upon the place, prithee how camest thou hither?
Abst. By treacherous intelligence; honest men so,
In the way ignorant, through thieves’ purlieus go.—
Are you Son to such a Father?
Send him to his grave then,
Like a white almond tree, full of glad days
With joy that he begot so good a Son.
O Sir, methinks I see sweet Majesty
Sit with a mourning sad face full of sorrows,
To see you in this place. This is a cave
Of scorpions and of dragons. Oh turn back;
Toads here engender: ’tis the steam of death;
The very air poisons a good man’s breath.
Prince. Let me borrow goodness from thy lips. Farewell!
Here’s a new wonder; I’ve met heav’n in hell.
Undue praise declined.
——— you are far too prodigal in praise,
And crown me with the garlands of your merit;
As we meet barks on rivers,—the strong gale
Being best friends to us,—our own swift motion
Makes us believe that t’other nimbler rows;
Swift virtue thinks small goodness fastest goes.
[From the “Conspiracy,” a Tragedy by Henry Killigrew, 1638. Author’s age 17.]
The Rightful Heir to the Crown kept from his inheritance: an Angel sings to him sleeping.
Song.
While Morpheus thus does gently lay
His powerful charge upon each part,
Making thy spirits ev’n obey
The silver charms of his dull art;
I, thy Good Angel, from thy side,—
As smoke doth from the altar rise,
Making no noise as it doth glide,—
Will leave thee in this soft surprise;
And from the clouds will fetch thee down
A holy vision, to express
Thy right unto an earthly crown;
No power can make this kingdom less.
But gently, gently, lest I bring
A start in sleep by sudden flight,
Playing aloof, and hovering,
Till I am lost unto the sight.
This is a motion still and soft;
So free from noise and cry,
That Jove himself, who hears a thought,
Knows not when we pass by.
C. L.