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for your comfort, that if you do, there is them
livin' that will take care the lase of your own
lives will be but short." After this we dis-
persed, every man to his own home.

Reader, not many months elapsed ere I saw
the bodies of this captain, whose name was
Paddy Devan, and all those who were actively
concerned in the perpetration of this deed of
horror, withering in the wind, where they
hung gibbeted, near the scene of their nefari-
ous villany; and while I inwardly thanked
Heaven for my own narrow and almost uncle-
perved escape, I thought in my heart how sel-
dom, even in this world, justice fails to over-
take the murderer, and to enforce the right-
eous judgment of God, " that whoso sheddeth
man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed."


My Lilla gave me yester-morn
A rose methinks in Eden horn,
And as she gave it, little elf,
Blush'd like another rose herself.
Then said I. full of tenderness,

"Since this sweet rose I owe to you.
Dear girl, why may I not possess

The lovelier rose that gave it too?"

From the Italian.


[John Webster, a dramatist of the Elizabethan era.

He wrote a number of plays in conjunction with Thomas

l)ecker,Drayton.Middleton, Munday.Chettle, Hey wood,

and Wentworth Smith. Of the works written entirely by

himself the most important are The White Devil, or

Vitturia Corombona; Tlie Duchess of Malfy; and A p pint

and Virginia. Hazlitt says that the two first named

plays ''come the nearest to Shakespeare of anything

j we have upon record; the only drawback to them is that

they are too like Shakespeare, and often direct irnita

1 tions of him." The widowed Duchessof Malfy secretly

marries her steward Antonio. Her brother Ferdinand

discovers the marriage, and regarding it as a disgrace

I to the family, imprisons his sister, subjects her to ex

I cruciating mental torture, and finally causes her to be

{ strangled. The scenes quoted are the one in which the

duchess gives her hand to Antonio, and the last, in

i which she is murdered J


Duchess. Is Antonio come?

Variola. He attends you.

Duck. Good dear soul,

Leave me: but place thyself behind the arras,
Where thou may'st overhear us: wish me good speed,
For I am going into a wilderness,
Where I shall find nor path iior friendly clue
To be my guide.

[CARIOLA withdraws.

ANTONIO enters.
I sent for you: sit down.
Take pen and ink aud write. Are you ready?

Ant. Yes.

Dock. What did I say?

Ant. That I should write somewhat.

Duck. Oh, I remember.
After these triumphs and this large expense
It's fit, like thrifty husbands, we enquire
What's laid up for to morrow.

A nt. So please your beauteous excellence.

Bach. Beauteous indeed ! I thank you; I look young
For your eake. Yon have ta'en my cares upon you.

Ant. I'll fetch your grace the particulars of your
revenue and expense.

Dufh. Oh. you're an upright treasurer; but you


For when I said I meant to make inquiry
What's laid tip for to morrow, I did mean
What's laid up yonder for me.

Ant. Where?

Ditch. In heaven.

I'm making my will (as 'tis fit princes should)
In perfect memory: and I pi-ay, sir, tell me,
Were not one better make it smiling, thus,
Than in deep groans and terrible ghastly looks,
As if the gifts we parted with procured
That violent distraction ?

A nt. Oh, much better.



Duck. If I bad a husband now, this care were quit.
But I inteud to make you overseer ;
What good deed shall we first remember, say ?

Ant. Begin with that first good deed, began in the


After man's creation, the sacrament of marriage.
I'd have you first provide for a good husband ;
Give him all.

Duch. All !

Ant. Yes, your excellent self.
v Duck. In a winding sheet ?

A at. In a couple,

Duch. St. Winifred, that were a strange will.

Ant. 'Twere stranger if there were no will in you
To marry again.

Ditch. What do you think of marriage ?

Ant. I take it, as those that deny purgatory,
It locally contains or heaven or hell,
There's no third place in't.

Duch. How do you affect it?

Ant. My banishment, feeding my melancholy,
Would often reason thus.

Dueli. Pray let us hear it.

Ant. Say a man never marry, nor have children,
What take* that from him? only the bare name
Of being a father, or the weak delight
To see the little wanton ride a cock-horse
Upon a painted stick, or hear him chatter
Like a taught starling.

Duc/i. Fie, fie, what's all this?
One of your eyes is blood-shor, ; use my ring to't.
They say 'tis very sovran, 'twas my wedding-ring,
And I did vow never to part with it
But to my second husband.

Ant. You have parted with it now.

Duch. Yes, to help your eye sight.

Ant. You have made me stark blind.

Duch. How?

Ant. Tli ere is a saucy and ambitious devil,
Is dancing in this circle.

Duch. Remove him.

Ant. How?

Duch. There needs small conjuration,when your finger
May do it ; thus : is it fit?

[She puts the ring on his finger.

Ant. What said you.

[He L-neelt.

Duch. Sir !

This goodly roof of yours is too low built ;
I cinnot stand upright in't nor discourse,
Without I raise it higher: raise yourself;
Or, if you please, my hand to help you : so.

Ant. Ambition, madam is a great man's madness,
That is not kept in chains and close pent rooms.
But in fiir lightsome lodgings and is girt
With the wild noise of prattling visitants.
Which makes it lunatic beyond all cure.
Conceive not I'm eo stupid, but I aim
Whereto your favours tend : but lie's a fool
That, being a-cold, would thrust his hands in the fire
To warm them.

Duch. So, now the ground's broke.
You may discover what a wealthy mine
I make you lord of.

Ant. Oh my unworthiness!

Duch. You were ill to sell yourself.
This darkening of your worth is not like that
Which tradesmen use in the city ; their false lights
Are to rid bad wares of: and I must tell you,
If you will know where breathes a complete man
(I speak it without flattery) turn your eyes,
And progress through yourself.

A nt. Were there nor heaven nor hell,
I should be honest : I have long served virtue,
And never ta'eii wages of her

Duch. Now she pays it.
The misery of us that are born great !
We are forced to woo, because none dare woo us :
And as a tyrant doubles with his words,
And fearfully equivocates; so we
Are forced to express our violent passions
In riddles and in dreams, and leave the path
Of simple virtue, which was never made
To seem the thing it is not. Go, go, brag
You have left me heartless ; mine is in your bosom ;
I hope 'twill multiply love there: you do tremble:
Make not your heart so dead a piece of flesh,
To fear more than to love me ; sir, be confident.
What is it that distracts you? This is flesh and bio.>d.


'Tis not the figure cut in alabaster,
Kneels at my husband's tomb. Awake, awake, man;
I do here put off all vain ceremony,
And only do appear to you a young widow ;
I use but half a blush iu't.

Ant. Truth speak for me ;
I will remain the constant sanctuary
Of your good name.

Duch I thank you, gentle love;
And 'cause you shall not come to me in debt
(Being now my steward) here upon your lips
I sign your quietus ist: this you bhould have begg'd


I have seen children oft eat sweetmeats thus,
As fearful to devour them too soon.

A nt. But, for your brothers

Duch Do not think of them.
All discord, without this circumference,
Is only to be pitied, and not fear'd:
Yet should they know it, time will easily
Scatter the tempest

Ant. These words should be mine,
And all the parts you have spoke ; if some part of it
Would not have savour'd flattery.

[CARIOLA conies forwa. d.

Duch. Kneel.

A nt. Hah !

Duch. Be not amaz'd ; this woman's of my council.
I have heard lawyers ?ay. a contract in a cnamber
Per rerba prcetenti is absolute marriage:
Bless Heaven this sacred Gordian, which let violence
Never untwine.



Ant. And may our sweet affections, like the spheres,
Be still iu motion.

Ditch. Quickening, and make
The like soft music.

Car. Whether the spirit of greatness, or of woman,
Reign most in her, I know not; but it shows
A fearful madness: I owe her much of pity.


Duck. What hideous noise was that?

Car. Tis the wild consort
Of madmen, lady; which your tyrant brother
Hath placed about your lodging: this tyranny
1 think was never practised till this hour.

Duch. Indeed I thank him; nothing but noise and


Can keep me in my right wits, where is reason
And silence make me stark mail: sit down,
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy.

Car. O 'twill increase your melancholy.

Duch. Thou art deceived.
To hear of greater grief would lessen mine.
This is a prison ?

Car. Yes: but thou shalt live
To shake this durance off.

Duch, Thou art a fool.
The robin-redbreast and the nightingale
Never live long in cages.

Car. Pray, dry your eyes.
What think you of, madam?

Duch. Of nothing:
When I muse thus I sleep. .

Car. Like a madman, with your eyes open?

Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another
In the other world ?

Car. Yes, out of question.

Duch. O that it were possible we might
But hold some tw-o days' conference with the dead,
From them I should learn somewhat I am sure
I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle;
I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow.
Th' heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass,
The earth of naming sulphur, yet I am not mad;
I am acquainted with sad misery,
As the tann'd galley slave is with his oar;
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now?

Car. Like to your picture in the gallery;
A deal of life in show, but none in practice:
Or rather, like some reverend monument
Whose ruins are even pitied.

Duch. Very proper.

And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight,
To behold my tragedy: how now,
What noise is that?

A Servant enters.

Sent. I am come to tell you.
Your brother hath intended you some sport.
A great physician, when the pope was sick
Of a deep melancholy, presented him

With several sorts of madmen, which wild object
(Being full of change and sport) forced him to laugh,
And so the imi>osthume broke: the selfsame cure
The duke intends on you.
Duch. Let them come in.

Here fallows a Dance of sundry tortt of madmen, iri'.'i
music answerable thereto: after which BOSOLA (like an
old man) enters.

Duch. Is he mad too?

Bos. I am come to make thy tomb.

Duch. Ha! my tomb?
Thou speak' st as if I lay upon my deathbed
Gasping for breath; do^t thou perceive me sick?

B',s. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sick*
ness is insensible.

Duch. Thou art not mad sure: dost know me?

Bos. Yes.

Duch. Who am I?

Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed; at best but asal-
vatory of green mummy. What's this flesh? a little
crudded milk, fantastical puff paste. Our bodies are
weaker than those paper prisons boys use to keep flies
in; more contemptible; since ours is to preserve earth-
worms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage? Such is
the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf of
grass; and the heaven o'er our heads, like her looking-
glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small
compass of our prison.

Duch. Am not I thy duchess?

B^s. Thou art some great woman sure, for riot be-
gins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) twenty
years sooner than on a merry milk-maid's. Thon
sleepest worst, than if a mouse should be forced to take
up her lodging in a cat's ear : a little infant that breed
its teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out as if
thou wert the more unquiet bed-fellow.

Duch. I am Duchess of Malfy still !

Bog. That makes thj sleeps *o broken :
Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright ;
But, look'd to near, have neither heat iior light.

Duch. Thou art very plain.

Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the liTing.
I am a tomb-maker.

Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb?

Bos. Yes.

Duch. Let me be a little merry.
Of what stuff wilt thou make it?

Bos. Nay, resolve me fi-st : of what fashion?

Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our deathbed?
Do we affect fashion in the grave ?

Bw. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their
tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray
up to heaven : but with their hands under their cheeks
(as if they died of the toothache) : they are not carved
with their eyes fixed upon the stars ; but, as their mind
were wholly bent upon the world, the self-same way
they seem to turn their faces

Duch Let me know fully therefore the effect of this
Thy dismal preparation.
Tliis talk, fit for a charuel.



Sot. Now I shall.

A Coffin, Curds, and a B-U tsroduced.
Here is a present from your princely brothers;
And may it arrive welcome, for it brings
Last benefit, last sorrow.
!>t"-/t Let me see it :
I have so much obedience in my blood.
1 wish it iii their veins to do them good.
Bos. This is your last presence clumber.
Cur. O my sweet lady.
Duck. Peace, it affrights not me.
JioK. I am the common bell-man.
That usually is sent to condemn'd persons
The night before they suffer.

! >nflt. Even now thou saidst,
Thou wast a torab-maker.

JitiK. 'Twas to bring you
By degrees to mortification : listen.


Hark, now every thing is still;
The screech-owl, and the whistler bin-ill,
Call upon our dame aloud.
And bid her quickly d'on her shroud.
Much you had of laud and rent.
Your length in clay's now competent.
A lon^ war disturb'd your mind :
Here your perfect peace is sigu'd.
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin, their conception ; their birth, weepi -.;
Their life, a general mist of error;
Their death, a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
D on clean linen, bathe your feet :
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck.
"Tis now full tide 'tween night and day :
End your groan, and come away.
Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers: alas!
What will you do with my lady? Call for help.
Duck. To whom? to our next neighbours?

They aie mad folks.
Farewell, Cariola.

I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy
Some syrop f.>r his cold ; and let the girl
Say her pray'rs ere she sleep. Now, what you please ;
What death?

B . Strangling. Here are your executioners.
Duck. I forgive them ;
The a)toplexy, cat:ir.h, or cough o' the lungs
Would do as much as they do.
Bnt. Doth not death fright you?
Duch. Who would be afraid o'nt,
Knowing to meet such excellent company
In th' other world ?

Bos. Yet nil-thinks.

The manner of your doath should much afflict you,
This cord should terrify you.

Duch. Not a whit.

What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut
With diamonds? or to oa smothered
With cassia? or to be shot to death with peir's?
I Iinow death hath ten thousand several tloors

For men to take their exits : and 'tis found,
They go oil such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them U>th ways : any way ; (for heavn


So I were out of your whispering: tell my brothers,
That I perceive, death (now I'm well awake)
Best gift is, they can give or I can take.
I would fain put off my last woman's fault ;
I'd not be tedious to } ou.
Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strengih
Must pull down heaven upon me.
Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd
As princes' palaces; they that enter there
Must go upon their knees Come, violent death,
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep.
Go tell my brothers ; when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet.

[They strangle her, kntelinfj.

Ferd. Is she dead?

Bos. She is what you would have her.
Fix your eye here.

Ferd. Constantly.

Bog. Do you not weep ?
Other sin only BJ eak ; murder shrieks out;
The element of water moistens the earth,
But blood flies upwards and bedews the heavens.

Ferd. Cover her face: mine eyes dazzle: the died

But. I think not so ; her infelicity
Seem'd to have years too many.

Ferd. She and I were twins :
And should I die this instant, I had lived
Her time to a minute.


" Marian's married, yet I am here.
Alive and merry at forty year." Thacleiay.

Sweet things depart and die,

Sweet things depart;
Life with a smile and sigh.

Flies from the heart.

Then, with a tear, we take

Dust unto dust !
Humbly we go, and break

Idols in trust!

So. turning home a?ain,

Light shining down.
E'en through the thorns and pain

See we the crown.

S'.veet things depart awhile

Is it our loss?
See the eternal smile,

What is our cross?






At 15. Dimpled cheeks, sparkling eyes,
coral lips, and ivory teeth a sylph in figure.
All anxiety for coming out looks about her
with an arch yet timid expression, and blushes
amazingly upon the slightest provocation.

16. Bolder and plumper draws, sings,
plays the harp, dines at table when there are
small parties gets fond of plays, to which she
goes in a private box dreams of a hero hates
her governess is devoted to poetry.

17. Having no mother who values herself
on her youth, is presented by an aunt first
terrified, then charmed. Comes out Almack's
Opera begins to flirt selects the most
agreeable but most objectionable man in the
room as the object of her affections he, emi-
nently pleasant, but dreadfully poor talks of
love in a cottage, and a casement window all
over woodbine.

18. Discards the sighing swain, and fancies
herself desperately devoted to a Lancer, who
has amused himself by praising her perfections.
Delights in fetes and dejeuners dances herself
into half a consumption. Becomes an intimate
friend of Henry's sister.

19. Votes Henry stupid too fond of him-
self to care for her talks a little louder than
the year before takes care to show that she
understands the best-concealed bon-mdtfi of the
French plays shows off her bright eyes, and
becomes the centre of four satellites who nicker
round her.

20. Begins to wonder why none of the
sighers propose gets a little peevish becomes
a politician rallies the Whigs avows Toryism
all women are Tories, except two or three
who may be anything gets praised beyond
measure by her party discards Italian music,
and sings party songs called charming, de-
lightful, and "so natural."

21. Enraptured with her new system
pursues it with redoubled ardour takes to
riding constantly on horseback canters every
day half way to the House of Lords with the
dear earl, through St. James' Park by the side
of her uncle makes up parties and excursions
becomes a comet instead of a star, and
changes her satellites for a Tail, by which she
is followed as regularly as the great Agitator
is. Sees her name in the papers as the pro-
poser of pic-nics and the patroness of fancy

1 See the Bachelor's Thermometer, Library, vol. ii. p.

22. Pursues the same course autumn
comes country-house large party of shooting
men j uxtaposition constant association
sociability in the evening sportive gambols
snug suppers an offer which, being made
by the only dandy she did not care about in
the meUe, she refuses.

23. Regrets it tries to get him back he
won't come, but marries a rich grocer's widow
for her money. Takes to flirting desperately
dresses fantastically tries a new style of sing-
ing affects a taste lives with the Italians,
calls them divine and charming gets her
uncle to give suppers.

24. Thinks she has been too forward
retires, and becomes melancholy affects sen-
timent, and writes verses in an Annual makes
acquaintances with the so/vans, and the authors
and authoresses wonders she is not married.

25. Goes abroad with her uncle and a de-
lightful family so kind and so charming
stays the year there.

26. Comes home full of new airs and graces
more surprised than ever that she is still
single, and begins to fancy she could live very
comfortably, if not in a cottage, at least upon
a very moderate scale.

27. Thinks the conversation of rational
men infinitely preferable to flirting.

28. Looks at matrimony as desirable in
the way of an establishment, in case of the death
of her uncle leaves off dancing generally
talks of getting old.

29. Same system still ineffective still
talks of getting aged surprised that men do
not laugh as they did, when she said so a year
or two before.

30. Begins to inquire when a spinster be-
comes an old maid.

31. Dresses more fantastically than ever
rouges a little country-house not so agreeable
as it used to be goes everywhere in town
becomes good-natured to young girls, and joins
in acting charades and dumb proverbs.

32. Hates balls, or, if she goes to them,
likes to sit still and talk to clever middle-aged

33. Wonders why men of sense prefer flirt-
ing with girls to the enjoyment of rational
conversation with sensible women.

34. Uncle dies break-up of establishment
remains with her aunt feels old enough to
go about without a chaperon.

35. Takes to cards, where they are played
gives up harp, pianoforte, and singing
beaten out of the field by her juniors.

36. Quarrels with her cousin, who is just
married to the prize marquis of the season



goes into Wales on a visit to a distant rela-

37. Returns to London tries society
fancies herself neglected, and "never goes out"
makes up little tea-parties at her aunt's
very pleasant to everybody else, but never
satisfactory to herself.

38. Feels delight in recounting all the
unhappy marriages she can recollect takes a
boy out of an orphan-school, dresses him up in
a green jacket, with three rows of sugar-loaf
buttons,and calls him a page patronizes a poet.

39. Gets fractious resolves upon making
the best of it turns gourmand goes to every
dinner to which she either is or is not invited
relishes port wine; laughs at it as a good
joke stays in London all the year.

40. Spasmodic camphor -julep a little
more rouge fancies herself in love with a cap-
tain in the Guards lets him know it he not
susceptible she uncommonly angry makes
up a horrid story about him and some poor
innocent girl of her acquaintance they are
eternally separated by her means she happy.

41. Takes to wearing "a front" port wine
gets more popular avows a resolution never
to marry who would sacrifice her liberty?
quite sure she has seen enough of that sort of
thing Umph!

42. Turns moralist is shocked at the vices
of the world establishes a school out of the
produce of a fancy fair subscribes consults
with the rector excellent man he endeavours
to dissuade her from an extravagant course of
proceeding which she has adopted her regard
turns to hate, and she puts herself under the
spiritual guidance of a Ranter.

43. Learns the Unknown Tongues, and
likes them sees none of her old friends
continues during the whole season enveloped
in her new devotions. Her page, having out-
grown his green inexpressibles, is dismissed at
the desire of her new pastor.

44. Renounces the Oly Oly Bom school of
piety, and gets a pug and a poodle meets the
man she refused when she was two-and-twenty
he grown plump and jolly, driving his wife
and two great healthy-looking boys, nearly
men ; and two lovely girls, nearly women
recollects him he does not remember her
wishes the family at Old Nick comes home
and .pinches her poodle's ears.

45. Returns to cards at the Dowager's
parties, and smells to snuff if offered her.

46. Her aunt dies.

47. Lives upon her relations; but by the
end of the season feels assured that she must
do something else next year.

48. Goes into the country and selects a
cousin, plain and poor proposes they should
live together scheme succeeds.

49. Retires to Cheltenham house in a row
near the promenade subscribes to everything
takes snuff arid carries a box all in fun
goes out to tea in a fly plays whist loses
comes back at eleven camphor-julep, and to
bed but not to sleep.

50. Finds all efforts to be comfortable un-
availing vents all herspleen upon her unhappy
cousin, and lavishes all her affections upon a
tabby cat, a great, fat, useless Tommy, with a
blue riband and a bell round its neck. And
there, so far as I have traced it, ends my
Spinster's progress up to fifty.


" O WHA will shoe my fair foot,

And wha will glove my han'
And wha will lace my middle jimp

Wi' a new-made London ban' ?

" Or wha will kame my yellow hair

Wi' a new-made silver kame?
Or wha'll be father to my young bairn,

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