Complete Dramatic Works of Thomas Dekker

by Thomas Dekker

  Methinks, is armour hard enough.

  Harp. Keep from me. [Sinks a little.

  Theoph. Art posting to thy centre? down, hell-hound! down!

  Me thou hast lost. That arm, which hurls thee hence, [Harpax disappears.

  Save me, and set me up, the strong defence

  In the fair Christian quarrel!

  Enter Angelo.

  Ang. Fix thy foot there,

  Nor be thou shaken with a Cæsar’s voice,

  Though thousand deaths were in it; and I then

  Will bring thee to a river, that shall wash

  Thy bloody hands clean and more white than snow;

  And to that garden where these blest things grow,

  And to that martyr’d virgin, who hath sent

  That heavenly token to thee: spread this brave wing,

  And serve, than Cæsar, a far greater king. [Exit.

  Theoph. It is, it is, some angel. Vanish’d again!

  Oh, come back, ravishing boy! bright messenger!

  Thou hast, by these mine eyes fix’d on thy beauty,

  Illumined all my soul. Now look I back

  On my black tyrannies, which, as they did

  Outdare the bloodiest, thou, blest spirit, that lead’st me,

  Teach me what I must do, and, to do well,

  That my last act the best may parallel. [Exit.

  SCENE II.

  DIOCLESIAN’S PALACE.

  Enter Dioclesian, Maximinus, the Kings of Epire, Pontus, and Macedon, meeting Artemia; Attendants.

  Artem. Glory and conquest still attend upon

  Triumphant Cæsar!

  Diocle. Let thy wish, fair daughter,

  Be equally divided; and hereafter

  Learn thou to know and reverence Maximinus,

  Whose power, with mine united, makes one Cæsar.

  Max. But that I fear ’twould be held flattery,

  The bonds consider’d in which we stand tied,

  As love and empire, I should say, till now

  I ne’er had seen a lady I thought worthy

  To be my mistress.

  Artem. Sir, you show yourself

  Both courtier and soldier; but take heed,

  Take heed, my lord, though my dull-pointed beauty,

  Stain’d by a harsh refusal in my servant,

  Cannot dart forth such beams as may inflame you,

  You may encounter such a powerful one,

  That with a pleasing heat will thaw your heart,

  Though bound in ribs of ice. Love still is Love;

  His bow and arrows are the same: Great Julius,

  That to his successors left the name of Cæsar,

  Whom war could never tame, that with dry eyes

  Beheld the large plains of Pharsalia cover’d

  With the dead carcases of senators,

  And citizens of Rome; when the world knew

  No other lord but him, struck deep in years too,

  (And men gray-hair’d forget the loves of youth,)

  After all this, meeting fair Cleopatra,

  A suppliant too, the magic of her eye,

  Even in his pride of conquest, took him captive:

  Nor are you more secure.

  Max. Were you deform’d,

  (But, by the gods, you are most excellent,)

  Your gravity and discretion would o’ercome me;

  And I should be more proud in being prisoner

  To your fair virtues, than of all the honours,

  Wealth, title, empire, that my sword hath purchased.

  Diocle. This meets my wishes. Welcome it, Artemia,

  With outstretch’d arms, and study to forget

  That Antoninus ever was: thy fate

  Reserved thee for this better choice; embrace it.

  Max. This happy match brings new nerves to give strength

  To our continued league.

  Diocle. Hymen himself

  Will bless this marriage, which we’ll solemnize

  In the presence of these kings.

  K. of Pontus. Who rest most happy,

  To be eye-witnesses of a match that brings

  Peace to the empire.

  Diocle. We much thank your loves:

  But where’s Sapritius, our governor,

  And our most zealous provost, good Theophilus?

  If ever prince were blest in a true servant,

  Or could the gods be debtors to a man,

  Both they and we stand far engaged to cherish

  His piety and service.

  Artem. Sir, the governor

  Brooks sadly his son’s loss, although he turn’d

  Apostata in death; but bold Theophilus,

  Who for the same cause, in my presence, seal’d

  His holy anger on his daughters’ hearts;

  Having with tortures first tried to convert her,

  Dragg’d the bewitching Christian to the scaffold,

  And saw her lose her head.

  Diocle. He is all worthy:

  And from his own mouth I would gladly hear

  The manner how she suffer’d.

  Artem. ‘Twill be deliver’d

  With such contempt and scorn, (I know his nature,)

  That rather ‘twill beget your highness’ laughter,

  Than the least pity.

  Diocle. To that end I would hear it.

  Enter Theophilus, Sapritius, and Macrinus.

  Artem. He comes; with him the governor.

  Diocle. O, Sapritius,

  I am to chide you for your tenderness;

  But yet, remembering that you are a father,

  I will forget it. Good Theophilus,

  I’ll speak with you anon. — Nearer, your ear.

  [To Sapritius.

  Theoph. [aside to Macrinus.] By Antoninus’ soul, I do conjure you,

  And though not for religion, for his friendship,

  Without demanding what’s the cause that moves me,

  Receive my signet: — By the power of this,

  Go to my prisons, and release all Christians,

  That are in fetters there by my command.

  Mac. But what shall follow?

  Theoph. Haste then to the port;

  You there shall find two tall ships ready rigg’d,

  In which embark the poor distressed souls,

  And bear them from the reach of tyranny.

  Enquire not whither you are bound: the Deity

  That they adore will give you prosperous winds,

  And make your voyage such, and largely pay for

  Your hazard, and your travail. Leave me here;

  There is a scene that I must act alone:

  Haste, good Macrinus; and the great God guide you!

  Mac. I’ll undertake ‘t; there’s something prompts me to it;

  ’Tis to save innocent blood, a saint-like act:

  And to be merciful has never been

  By moral men themselves esteem’d a sin. [Exit.

  Diocle. You know your charge?

  Sap. And will with care observe it.

  Diocle. For I profess he is not Cæsar’s friend,

  That sheds a tear for any torture that

  A Christian suffers. Welcome, my best servant,

  My careful, zealous provost! thou hast toil’d

  To satisfy my will, though in extremes:

  I love thee for ‘t; thou art firm rock, no changeling.

  Prithee deliver, and for my sake do it,

  Without excess of bitterness, or scoffs,

  Before my brother and these kings, how took

  The Christian her death?

  Theoph. And such a presence,

  Though every private head in this large room

  Were circled round with an imperial crown,

  Her story will deserve, it is so full

  Of excellence and wonder.

  Diocle. Ha! how is this?

  Theoph. O! mark it, therefore, and with that attention,

  As you would hear a
n embassy from heaven

  By a wing’d legate; for the truth deliver’d,

  Both how, and what, this blessed virgin suffer’d,

  And Dorothea but hereafter named,

  You will rise up with reverence, and no more,

  As things unworthy of your thoughts, remember

  What the canonized Spartan ladies were,

  Which lying Greece so boasts of. Your own matrons,

  Your Roman dames, whose figures you yet keep

  As holy relics, in her history

  Will find a second urn: Gracchus’ Cornelia,

  Paulina, that in death desired to follow

  Her husband Seneca, nor Brutus’ Portia,

  That swallow’d burning coals to overtake him,

  Though all their several worths were given to one,

  With this is to be mention’d.

  Max. Is he mad?

  Diocle. Why, they did die, Theophilus, and boldly;

  This did no more.

  Theoph. They, out of desperation,

  Or for vain glory of an after-name,

  Parted with life: this had not mutinous sons,

  As the rash Gracchi were; nor was this saint

  A doting mother, as Cornelia was.

  This lost no husband, in whose overthrow

  Her wealth and honour sunk; no fear of want

  Did make her being tedious; but, aiming

  At an immortal crown, and in His cause

  Who only can bestow it; who sent down

  Legions of ministering angels to bear up

  Her spotless soul to heaven, who entertain’d it

  With choice celestial music, equal to

  The motion of the spheres; she, uncompell’d,

  Changed this life for a better. My lord Sapritius,

  You were present at her death; did you e’er hear

  Such ravishing sounds?

  Sap. Yet you said then ’twas witchcraft,

  And devilish illusions.

  Theoph. I then heard it

  With sinful ears, and belch’d out blasphemous words

  Against his Deity, which then I knew not,

  Nor did believe in him.

  Diocle. Why, dost thou now?

  Or dar’st thou, in our hearing ——

  Theoph. Were my voice

  As loud as is His thunder, to be heard

  Through all the world, all potentates on earth

  Ready to burst with rage, should they but hear it;

  Though hell, to aid their malice, lent her furies,

  Yet I would speak, and speak again, and boldly:

  I am a Christian; and the Powers you worship,

  But dreams of fools and madmen.

  Max. Lay hands on him.

  Diocle. Thou twice a child! for doting age so makes thee,

  Thou couldst not else, thy pilgrimage of life

  Being almost past through, in this last moment

  Destroy whate’er thou hast done good or great —

  Thy youth did promise much; and, grown a man,

  Thou mad’st it good, and, with increase of years,

  Thy actions still better’d: as the sun,

  Thou didst rise gloriously, kept’st a constant course

  In all thy journey; and now, in the evening,

  When thou shouldst pass with honour to thy rest,

  Wilt thou fall like a meteor?

  Sap. Yet confess

  That thou art mad, and that thy tongue and heart

  Had no agreement.

  Max. Do; no way is left, else,

  To save thy life, Theophilus.

  Diocle. But, refuse it,

  Destruction as horrid, and as sudden,

  Shall fall upon thee, as if hell stood open,

  And thou wert sinking thither.

  Theoph. Hear me, yet;

  Hear, for my service past.

  Artem. What will he say?

  Theoph. As ever I deserved your favour, hear me,

  And grant one boon; ’tis not for life I sue for;

  Nor is it fit that I, that ne’er knew pity

  To any Christian, being one myself,

  Should look for any; no, I rather beg

  The utmost of your cruelty. I stand

  Accomptable for thousand Christians’ deaths;

  And, were it possible that I could die

  A day for every one, then live again

  To be again tormented, ‘twere to me

  An easy penance, and I should pass through

  A gentle cleansing fire; but, that denied me,

  It being beyond the strength of feeble nature,

  My suit is, you would have no pity on me.

  In mine own house there are a thousand engines

  Of studied cruelty, which I did prepare

  For miserable Christians; let me feel,

  As the Sicilian did his brazen bull,

  The horrid’st you can find; and I will say,

  In death, that you are merciful.

  Diocle. Despair not;

  In this thou shalt prevail. Go fetch them hither:

  [Exit some of the Guard.

  Death shall put on a thousand shapes at once,

  And so appear before thee; racks, and whips! ——

  Thy flesh, with burning pincers torn, shall feed

  The fire that heats them; and what’s wanting to

  The torture of thy body, I’ll supply

  In punishing thy mind. Fetch all the Christians

  That are in hold; and here, before his face,

  Cut them in pieces.

  Theoph. ’Tis not in thy power:

  It was the first good deed I ever did.

  They are removed out of thy reach; howe’er,

  I was determined for my sins to die,

  I first took order for their liberty;

  And still I dare thy worst.

  Re-enter Guard with racks and other instruments of torture.

  Diocle. Bind him, I say;

  Make every artery and sinew crack:

  The slave that makes him give the loudest shriek,

  Shall have ten thousand drachmas: wretch! I’ll force thee

  To curse the Power thou worship’st.

  Theoph. Never, never:

  No breath of mine shall e’er be spent on Him,

  [They torment him.

  But what shall speak His majesty or mercy.

  I’m honour’d in my sufferings. Weak tormentors,

  More tortures, more: — alas! you are unskilful —

  For heaven’s sake more; my breast is yet untorn:

  Here purchase the reward that was propounded.

  The irons cool, — here are arms yet, and thighs;

  Spare no part of me.

  Max. He endures beyond

  The sufferance of a man.

  Sap. No sigh nor groan,

  To witness he hath feeling.

  Diocle. Harder, villains!

  Enter Harpax.

  Harp. Unless that he blaspheme, he’s lost for ever.

  If torments ever could bring forth despair,

  Let these compel him to it: — Oh me!

  My ancient enemies again! [Falls down.

  Enter Dorothea in a white robe, a crown upon her head, led in by Angelo; Antoninus, Calista, and Christeta following, all in white, but less glorious; Angelo holds out a crown to Theophilus.

  Theoph. Most glorious vision! —

  Did e’er so hard a bed yield man a dream

  So heavenly as this? I am confirm’d,

  Confirm’d, you blessed spirits, and make haste

  To take that crown of immortality

  You offer to me. Death! till this blest minute,

  I never thought thee slow-paced; nor would I

  Hasten thee now, for any pain I suffer,

  But that thou keep’st me from a glorious wreath,

  Which through this stormy way I would creep to,

  And, humbly kneeling, with humility wear it.

&n
bsp; Oh! now I feel thee: — blessed spirits! I come;

  And, witness for me all these wounds and scars,

  I die a soldier in the Christian wars. [Dies.

  Sap. I have seen thousands tortured, but ne’er yet

  A constancy like this.

  Harp. I am twice damn’d.

  Ang. Haste to thy place appointed, cursed fiend!

  [Harpax sinks with thunder and lightning.

  In spite of hell, this soldier’s not thy prey;

  ’Tis I have won, thou that hast lost the day.

  [Exit with Dor. &c.

  Diocle. I think the centre of the earth be crack’d —

  Yet I stand still unmoved, and will go on:

  The persecution that is here begun,

  Through all the world with violence shall run.

  [Flourish. Exeunt.

  The Sun’s Darling (1624)

  In collaboration with John Ford

  The Sun’s Darling was first licensed for performance by Henry Herbert, the Master of the Revels, on 3 March 1624 for the Lady Elizabeth’s Men at the Cockpit Theatre. It was published in quarto in 1656 by Andrew Pennycuicke, who commissioned T. Bell to print the work. Pennycuicke was a successful actor, bookseller and publisher during the mid-seventeenth century; he acted in plays right up until the closure of theatres at the beginning of the English Civil War in 1642. After the theatres closed, Pennycuicke needed to find a new profession and so he moved into publishing and bookselling; during the 1650’s he was involved in publishing works by Philip Massinger and Robert Davenport, as well as John Ford and Dekker. There had been speculation by some scholars that The Sun’s Darling was simply a revision of a play Dekker wrote at the end of the sixteenth century, but this notion has been refuted and critics now believe that it was written as a collaboration between the playwrights shortly before it was first staged.

  Pennycuicke dedicated the 1656 quarto edition of the play to Lady Newton (Sir Henry Newton’s wife) and Thomas Wriothesley, 4th Earl of Southampton. The Sun’s Rising is a masque — a form of dramatic entertainment, often presented to the King or Queen, consisting of dancing, music and acting. It was described as a ‘moral masque’ on the title page of 1656 quarto. The plot tells the story of Raybright, the favoured offspring of the Sun, who is given the opportunity to sample earthly delights for a year to help alleviate his melancholy. Of course, Raybright makes poor decisions while under bad and untrustworthy influences and must learn the error of his ways…

  Thomas Wriothesley, 4th Earl of Southampton by the School of Peter Lely, c. 1660

  CONTENTS

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  ACT I.

  SCENE I. A temple with an altar.

  ACT II.