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Cast any

Over. You do conclude too fast; not knowing me,
Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone
The Lady Allworth's lands: but point out any man's
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient
And useful for your lordship; and once more
say aloud, they are yours.

Lov. I dare not own
What's by unjust and cruel means extorted :
My fame and credit are more dear to me,
Than so to expose 'em to be censured by
The public voice.

Over. You run, my lord, no hazard :
Your reputation shall stand as fair
In all good men's opinions as now :
Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill,

foul aspersion upon yours.
For though I do contemn report myself,
As a mere sound; I still will be so tender
Of what concerns you in all points of honour,
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame,
Nor your unquestioned integrity,
Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot
take from


innocence and candor. As my

ambition is to have my daughter
Right honourable; which my lord can make her:
And might I live to dance upon my knee

Lord Lovell, born by her unto you,
I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes.
As for possessions and annual rents,
Equivalent to maintain you in the port
Your noble birth and present state require,
I do remove that burden from

your shoulders,

And take it on mine own: for though I ruin
The country to supply your riotous waste,

of prodigals (want) shall never find you.
Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations
And curses of whole families, made wretched
By your sinister practices ?

Over. Yes, as rocks are,
When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness.
I am of a solid temper, and, like these,
Steer on a constant course : with mine own sword,
If called into the field, I can make that right,
Which fearful enemies murmured at as wrong.
Now, for those other piddling complaints,
Breathed out in bitterness; as, when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser
Of what was common to my private use;
Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold :
I only think what 'tis to have my daughter
Right honourable ; and 'tis a powerful charm,
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.

Lov. I admire
The toughness of your nature.

Over. 'Tis for you,
My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble.





The Marskul of Burgundy dies in Prison at Dijon, for Debts con

tracted by him for the service of the State in the Wars. His dead Body is arrested and denied Burial by his Creditors. His Sun, young CHARALOIs, gives up himself to Prison, to redeem his Father's Body, that it inay have honourable Burial. He has leave, from his Prisoridoors, to view the Ceremony of the Funeral, but to go no farther.

Enter three Gentlemen, PONTALIER, MALOtin, and Beau

MONT, as Spectators of the Funeral.
Mal. 'Tis strange!
Beaum. Methinks so.

Pont. In a man but young,
Yet old in judgment; theoric and practic
In all humanity; and, to increase the wonder,
Religious, yet a soldier,--that he should
Yield his free-living youth a captive, for
The freedom of his aged father's corpse ;
And rather choose to want life's necessaries,
Liberty, hope of fortune, than it should
In death be kept from Christian ceremony.

Mal. Come, 'tis a golden precedent in a son,
To let strong Nature have the better hand,
In such a case, of all affected reason.
What years sit on this Charalois ?

Beaum. Twenty-eight.
For since the clock did strike him seventeen old,
Under his father's wing this son hath fought,
Served, and commanded, and so aptly both,
That sometimes he appeared his father's father,
And never less than his son; the old man's virtues

So recent in him, as the world may swear
Naught but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear.

Mal. This morning is the funeral ?

Pont. Certainly,
And from this prison ;—'twas the son’s request.

[CHARALois appears at the door of the prison.
That his dear father might interment have,
See, the young son entered a lively grave.
Beaum. They come.

Observe their order

The funeral Procession enters. Captain and Soldiers, Mourners. RoMONT, Friend to the Deceased.

Three Creditors are among the SpecCHARAL013 speaks.


Char. How like a silent stream, shaded with night,
And gliding softly with our windy sighs,
Moves the whole frame of this solemnity!
Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile;
Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove
Of death, thus hollowly break forth !-Vouchsafe
To stay

awhile. Rest, rest in peace, dear earth!
Thou that brought'st rest to their unthankful lives,
Whose cruelty denied rest in death!
Here stands thy poor executor, thy son,
That makes his life prisoner to bail thy death;
Who gladlier puts on this captivity,
Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds.
Of all that ever thou hast done good to,
These only have good memories; for they
Remember best, forget not gratitude.
I thank you for this last and friendly love;
And though this country, like a viperous mother,
Not only hath eat up ungratefully

All means of thee, her son, but last thyself,
Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent,
He cannot raise thee a poor monument,
Such as a flatterer or an usurer hath;
Thy worth in every honest breast builds one,
Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone.

Pont. Sir!

Char. Peace! O peace! This scene is wholly miue.What! weep you, soldiers ?--blanch not;

Romont weeps.
Ha ! let me see! my miracle is eased;
The jailors and the creditors do weep;
E’en they that make us weep,


Be these thy body's balm : these, and thy virtue,
Keep thy fame ever odoriferous,
Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man
Alive stinks in his vices, and, being vanished,
The golden calf that was an idol, decked
With marble pillars, jet and porphyry,
Shall quickly both in bone and name consume,
Though wrapped in lead, spice, cerecloth, and perfume.

Creditor. Sir !

Char. What! away for shame !-you, profane rogues, Must not be mingled with these holy relics : This is a sacrifice-our shower shall crown His sepulchre with olive, myrrh, and bays, The plants of peace, of sorrow, victory : Your tears would spring but weeds. Rom. Look, look, you

slaves !


thankless cruelty, And savage manners of unkind Dijon, Exhaust these floods, and not his father's death.

Priest. On !
Char. One moment more,

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