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.