Which is the end I aim at: being to die too,
What instrument more glorious can I wish for,
Than what is made sharp by my constant love
And true affection? It may be, the duty
And loyal service, with which I pursued her,
And seal’d it with my death, will be remember’d
Among her blessed actions; and what honour
Can I desire beyond it?
Enter a Guard bringing in Dorothea, a Headsman before her; followed by Theophilus, Sapritius, and Harpax.
See, she comes;
How sweet her innocence appears! more like
To heaven itself, than any sacrifice
That can be offer’d to it. By my hopes
Of joys hereafter, the sight makes me doubtful
In my belief; nor can I think our gods
Are good, or to be served, that take delight
In offerings of this kind: that, to maintain
Their power, deface the master-piece of nature,
Which they themselves come short of. She ascends,
And every step raises her nearer heaven.
Sap. You are to blame
To let him come abroad.
Mac. It was his will;
And we were left to serve him, not command him.
Anton. Good sir, be not offended; nor deny
My last of pleasures in this happy object,
That I shall e’er be blest with.
Theoph. Now, proud contemner
Of us, and of our gods, tremble to think,
It is not in the Power thou serv’st to save thee.
Not all the riches of the sea, increased
By violent shipwrecks, nor the unsearch’d mines,
(Mammon’s unknown exchequer), shall redeem thee:
And, therefore, having first with horror weigh’d
What ’tis to die, and to die young; to part with
All pleasures and delights; lastly, to go
Where all antipathies to comfort dwell,
Furies behind, about thee, and before thee;
And, to add to affliction, the remembrance
Of the Elysian joys thou might’st have tasted,
Hadst thou not turn’d apostata to those gods
That so reward their servants; let despair
Prevent the hangman’s sword, and on this scaffold
Make thy first entrance into hell.
Anton. She smiles,
Unmoved, by Mars! as if she were assured
Death, looking on her constancy, would forget
The use of his inevitable hand.
Theoph. Derided too! despatch, I say.
Dor. Thou fool!
That gloriest in having power to ravish
A trifle from me I am weary of,
What is this life to me? not worth a thought;
Or, if it be esteem’d, ’tis that I lose it
To win a better: even thy malice serves
To me but as a ladder to mount up
To such a height of happiness, where I shall
Look down with scorn on thee, and on the world;
Where, circled with true pleasures, placed above
The reach of death or time, ‘twill be my glory
To think at what an easy price I bought it.
There’s a perpetual spring, perpetual youth:
No joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat,
Famine, nor age, have any being there.
Forget, for shame, your Tempe; bury in
Oblivion your feign’d Hesperian orchards: —
The golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon,
Which did require a Hercules to get it,
Compared with what grows in all plenty there,
Deserves not to be named. The Power I serve
Laughs at your happy Araby, or the
Elysian shades; for he hath made his bowers
Better in deed, than you can fancy yours.
Anton. O, take me thither with you!
Dor. Trace my steps,
And be assured you shall.
Sap. With my own hands
I’ll rather stop that little breath is left thee,
And rob thy killing fever.
Theoph. By no means;
Let him go with her: do, seduced young man,
And wait upon thy saint in death; do, do:
And, when you come to that imagined place,
That place of all delights — pray you, observe me,
And meet those cursed things I once call’d Daughters,
Whom I have sent as harbingers before you;
If there be any truth in your religion,
In thankfulness to me, that with care hasten
Your journey thither, pray you send me some
Small pittance of that curious fruit you boast of.
Anton. Grant that I may go with her, and I will.
Sap. Wilt thou in thy last minute damn thyself?
Theoph. The gates to hell are open.
Dor. Know, thou tyrant,
Thou agent for the devil, thy great master,
Though thou art most unworthy to taste of it,
I can, and will.
Enter Angelo, in the Angel’s habit.
Harp. Oh! mountains fall upon me,
Or hide me in the bottom of the deep,
Where light may never find me!
Theoph. What’s the matter?
Sap. This is prodigious, and confirms her witchcraft.
Theoph. Harpax, my Harpax, speak!
Harp. I dare not stay:
Should I but hear her once more, I were lost.
Some whirlwind snatch me from this cursed place,
To which compared, (and with what now I suffer,)
Hell’s torments are sweet slumbers! [Exit.
Sap. Follow him.
Theoph. He is distracted, and I must not lose him.
Thy charms upon my servant, cursed witch,
Give thee a short reprieve. Let her not die,
Till my return. [Exeunt Sap. and Theoph.
Anton. She minds him not; what object
Is her eye fix’d on?
Mac. I see nothing.
Anton. Mark her.
Dor. Thou glorious minister of the Power I serve!
(For thou art more than mortal,) is ‘t for me,
Poor sinner, thou art pleased awhile to leave
Thy heavenly habitation, and vouchsafest,
Though glorified, to take my servant’s habit? —
For, put off thy divinity, so look’d
My lovely Angelo.
Ang. Know, I am the same;
And still the servant to your piety.
Your zealous prayers and pious deeds first won me
(But ’twas by His command to whom you sent them)
To guide your steps. I tried your charity,
When in a beggar’s shape you took me up,
And clothed my naked limbs, and after fed,
As you believed, my famish’d mouth. Learn all,
By your example, to look on the poor
With gentle eyes! for in such habits, often,
Angels desire an alms. I never left you,
Nor will I now; for I am sent to carry
Your pure and innocent soul to joys eternal,
Your martyrdom once suffer’d; and before it,
Ask any thing from me, and rest assured,
You shall obtain it.
Dor. I am largely paid
For all my torments. Since I find such grace,
Grant that the love of this young man to me,
In which he languisheth to death, may be
Changed to the love of heaven.
Ang. I will perform it;
And in that instant when the sword sets free
Your happy soul, his shall have liberty.
Is there aught else?
Dor. For proof that I forgive
My persecutor, who in scorn desired
To taste of that most sacred fruit I go to;
After my death, as sent from me, be pleased
To give him of it.
Ang. Willingly, dear mistress.
Mac. I am amazed.
Anton. I feel a holy fire,
That yields a comfortable heat within me;
I am quite alter’d from the thing I was.
See! I can stand, and go alone; thus kneel
To heavenly Dorothea, touch her hand
With a religious kiss. [Kneels.
Re-enter Sapritius and Theophilus.
Sap. He is well now,
But will not be drawn back.
Theoph. It matters not,
We can discharge this work without his help.
But see your son.
Sap. Villain!
Anton. Sir, I beseech you,
Being so near our ends, divorce us not.
Theoph. I’ll quickly make a separation of them:
Hast thou aught else to say?
Dor. Nothing, but to blame
Thy tardiness in sending me to rest;
My peace is made with heaven, to which my soul
Begins to take her flight: strike, O! strike quickly;
And, though you are unmoved to see my death,
Hereafter, when my story shall be read,
As they were present now, the hearers shall
Say this of Dorothea, with wet eyes,
“She lived a virgin, and a virgin dies.”
[Her head is struck off.
Anton. O, take my soul along, to wait on thine!
Mac. Your son sinks too. [Antoninus falls.
Sap. Already dead!
Theoph. Die all
That are, or favour this accursed sect:
I triumph in their ends, and will raise up
A hill of their dead carcasses, to o’erlook
The Pyrenean hills, but I’ll root out
These superstitious fools, and leave the world
No name of Christian.
[Loud music: Exit Angelo, having first laid his hand upon the mouths of Anton. and Dor.
Sap. Ha! heavenly music!
Mac. ’Tis in the air.
Theoph. Illusions of the devil,
Wrought by some witch of her religion,
That fain would make her death a miracle;
It frights not me. Because he is your son,
Let him have burial; but let her body
Be cast forth with contempt in some highway,
And be to vultures and to dogs a prey. [Exeunt.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
THEOPHILUS DISCOVERED SITTING in his Study: books about him.
Theoph. Is ‘t holiday, O Cæsar, that thy servant,
Thy provost, to see execution done
On these base Christians in Cæsarea,
Should now want work? Sleep these idolaters,
That none are stirring? — As a curious painter,
When he has made some honourable piece,
Stands off, and with a searching eye examines
Each colour, how ’tis sweeten’d; and then hugs
Himself for his rare workmanship — so here,
Will I my drolleries, and bloody landscapes,
Long past wrapt up, unfold, to make me merry
With shadows, now I want the substances.
My muster-book of hell-hounds. Were the Christians,
Whose names stand here, alive and arm’d, not Rome
Could move upon her hinges. What I’ve done,
Or shall hereafter, is not out of hate
To poor tormented wretches; no, I’m carried
With violence of zeal, and streams of service
I owe our Roman gods. This Christian maid was well,
Enter Angelo with a basket filled with fruit and flowers.
A pretty one; but let such horror follow
The next I feed with torments, that when Rome
Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound
May feel an earthquake. How now? [Music.
Ang. Are you amazed, sir?
So great a Roman spirit — and doth it tremble!
Theoph. How cam’st thou in? to whom thy business?
Ang. To you:
I had a mistress, late sent hence by you
Upon a bloody errand; you entreated,
That, when she came into that blessed garden
Whither she knew she went, and where, now happy,
She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you
Some of that garden fruit and flowers; which here,
To have her promise saved, are brought by me.
Theoph. Cannot I see this garden?
Ang. Yes, if the master
Will give you entrance. [He vanishes.
Theoph. ’Tis a tempting fruit,
And the most bright-cheek’d child I ever view’d;
Sweet smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are these?
In Dioclesian’s gardens, the most beauteous,
Compared with these, are weeds: is it not February,
The second day she died? frost, ice, and snow,
Hang on the beard of winter: where’s the sun
That gilds this summer? pretty, sweet boy, say,
In what country shall a man find this garden? —
My delicate boy, — gone! vanish’d! within there,
Julianus! Geta! —
Enter Julianus and Geta.
Both. My lord.
Theoph. Are my gates shut?
Geta. And guarded.
Theoph. Saw you not
A boy?
Jul. Where?
Theoph. Here he enter’d; a young lad;
A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes:
A smoothfaced, glorious thing, that brought this basket.
Geta. No, sir!
Theoph. Away — but be in reach, if my voice calls you. [Exeunt Jul. and Geta.
No! — vanish’d, and not seen! — Be thou a spirit,
Sent from that witch to mock me, I am sure
This is essential, and, howe’er it grows,
Will taste it. [Eats of the fruit.
Harp. [within.] Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Theoph. So good I’ll have some more, sure.
Harp. Ha, ha, ha, ha! great liquorish fool!
Theoph. What art thou?
Harp. A fisherman.
Theoph. What dost thou catch?
Harp. Souls, souls; a fish call’d souls.
Theoph. Geta!
Re-enter Geta.
Geta. My lord.
Harp. [within.] Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Theoph. What insolent slave is this, dares laugh at me?
Or what is ‘t the dog grins at so?
Geta. I neither know, my lord, at what, nor
whom; for there is none without, but my fellow
Julianus, and he is making a garland for Jupiter.
Theoph. Jupiter! all within me is not well;
And yet not sick.
Harp. [within.] Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Theoph. What’s thy name, slave?
Harp. [at one end of the room.] Go look.
Geta. ’Tis Harpax’ voice.
Theoph. Harpax! go, drag the caitiff to my foot,
That I may stamp upon him.
Harp. [at the other end.] Fool, thou liest!
Geta. He’s yonder, now, my lord.
Theoph. Watch thou that end,
Whilst I make good this.
Harp. [in the middle.] Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Theoph. Search for him. [Exit Geta.] All this ground, methinks, is bloody,
And paved with thousands of those Christians’ eyes
Whom I have tortured; and they stare upon me.
What was this apparition? sure it had
A shape angelical. Mine eyes, though dazzled,
And daunted at first sight, tell me, it wore
A pair of glorious wings; yes, they were wings;
And
hence he flew: — — ’tis vanish’d! Jupiter,
For all my sacrifices done to him,
Never once gave me smile. — How can stone smile?
Or wooden image laugh? [music.] Ha! I remember,
Such music gave a welcome to mine ear,
When the fair youth came to me:— ’tis in the air,
Or from some better place; a Power divine,
Through my dark ignorance, on my soul does shine,
And makes me see a conscience all stain’d o’er,
Nay, drown’d and damn’d for ever in Christian gore.
Harp. [within.] Ha, ha, ha!
Theoph. Again! — What dainty relish on my tongue
This fruit hath left! some angel hath me fed:
If so toothful, I will be banqueted. [Eats again.
Enter Harpax, in a fearful shape, fire flashing out of the Study.
Harp. Hold!
Theoph. Not for Cæsar.
Harp. But for me thou shalt.
Theoph. Thou art no twin to him that last was here.
Ye Powers, whom my soul bids me reverence, guard me!
What art thou?
Harp. I am thy master.
Theoph. Mine!
Harp. And thou my everlasting slave: that Harpax,
Who hand in hand hath led thee to thy hell,
Am I.
Theoph. Avaunt!
Harp. I will not; cast thou down
That basket with the things in ‘t, and fetch up
What thou hast swallow’d, and then take a drink,
Which I shall give thee, and I’m gone.
Theoph. My fruit!
Does this offend thee? see! [Eats again.
Harp. Spit it to the earth,
And tread upon it, or I’ll piecemeal tear thee.
Theoph. Art thou with this affrighted? see, here’s more. [Pulls out a handful of flowers.
Harp. Fling them away, I’ll take thee else, and hang thee
In a contorted chain of icicles,
In the frigid zone: down with them!
Theoph. At the bottom
One thing I found not yet. See!
[Holds up a cross of flowers.
Harp. Oh! I am tortured.
Theoph. Can this do ‘t? hence, thou fiend infernal, hence!
Harp. Clasp Jupiter’s image, and away with that.
Theoph. At thee I’ll fling that Jupiter; for, methinks,
I serve a better master: he now checks me
For murdering my two daughters, put on by thee.
By thy damn’d rhetoric did I hunt the life
Of Dorothea, the holy virgin-martyr.
She is not angry with the axe, nor me,
But sends these presents to me; and I’ll travel
O’er worlds to find her, and from her white hand
Beg a forgiveness.
Harp. No; I’ll bind thee here.
Theoph. I serve a strength above thine; this small weapon,
Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker Page 184