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The engine is not seen that wounds thy master;
Past all the remedy of art, or time,
The flatteries of court, of fame, or honours.
Thus in the summer a tall flourishing tree,
Transplanted by strong hand, with all her leaves
And blooming pride upon her, makes a show
Of spring, tempting the eye with wanton blossoms :
But not the sun with all her amorous smiles,
The dews of morning, or the tears of night,
Can root her fibres in the earth again;
Or make her bosom kind, to growth and bearing:
But the tree withers; and those very beams,
That once were natural warmth to her soft verdure,
Dry up her sap, and shoot a fever through
The bark and rind, till she becomes a burden
To that which gave her life : so Chabot, Chabot -

Al. Wander in apprehension! I must
Suspect your health indeed.

Adm. No, no, thou shalt not Be troubled : I but stirr'd thee with a moral, That's 'empty ; contains nothing. I am well : See, I can walk; poor, man, thou hast not strength yet. The father of the Admiral makes known the condition his son

is in to the king.

Father. King.
King. Say, how is my admiral?
The truth upon thy life.

Fath. To secure his, I would you had.
King. Ha! who durst oppose him?
Fath. One that hath power enough, hath practis'd on

him,
And made his great heart stoop.

King. I will revenge it
With crushing, crushing that rebellious power
To nothing: Name him.

Fath. He was his friend.
· King. What mischief bath engender'd
New storms?

Fath.

Fath. 'Tis the old tempest.

King. Did not we
Appease all horrors that look'd wild upon him?

Fath. You drest his wounds, I must confess, but made
No cure; they bleed afresh : pardon me, sir;
Although your conscience have closed too soon,
He is in danger, and doth want new surgery :
Though he be right in fame, and your opinion,
He thinks you were unkind.

King. Alas, poor Chabot :
Doth that afflict him ?

Fath. So much, though he strive
With most resolv'd and adamantine nerves,
As ever human fire in flesh and blood
Fory'd for example, to bear all; so killing
The arrows that you shot were (still, your pardon)
No centaur's blood could rankle so.

King. If this
Be all, I'll curé him. Kings retain
More balsam in their soul, than hurt in anger.

Fath. Far short, sir; with one breath they uncreate :
And kings, with only words, more wounds can make
Than all their kingdom made in balm can heal.
'Tis dangerous to play too wild a descant
On numerous virtue; though it become princes
To assure their adventures made in every thing.
Goodness, confin'd within poor flesh and blood,
Hath but a queazy and still sickly state;
A musical hand should only play on her,
Fluent as air, yet every touch command.

King. No more:
Commend us to the admiral, and say
The king will visit him, and bring health.

Fath. I will not doubt that blessing, and shall move
Nimbly with this command.

The King visits the Admiral.
King. Admiral. His wife, and father.
King. No ceremonial knees :

: Give

Give me thy heart, my dear, my honest Chabot ;
And yet in vain I challenge that; 'tis here
Already in my own, and shall be cherish'd
With care of my best life: no violence
Shall ravish it from my possession;
Not those distempers that intirm my blood
And spirits, shall betray it to a fear :
When time and nature join to dispossess
My body of a cold and languishing breath ;
No stroke in all my arteries, but silence
In every faculty ; yet dissect me then,
And in my heart the world shall read thee living ;
And, by the virtue of thy name writ there,
That part of me shall never putrify,
When I am lost in all my other dust.

Adm. You too much honour your poor servant, sir;
My heart despairs so rich a monument,
But when it dies-

King. I wo'not hear a sound
Of any thing that trenched upon death..
He speaks the funeral of my crown, that prophesies
So unkind a fate : we'll live and die together.
And by that duty, which hath taught you hitherto
All loyal and just services, I charge thee,
Preserve thy heart for me, and thy reward,
Which now shall crown thy merits.

Adm. I have found
A glorious harvest in your favour, sir;
And by this overflow of royal grace,
All my deserts are shadows and fly from me:
I have not in the wealth of my desires
Enough to pay you now

King. Express it in some joy then.

Adm. I will strive
To shew that pious gratitude to you, but

King. But what?

Adm. My frame hath lately, sir, been tane a pieces, And but now put together; the least force

of

ness?

Of mirth will shake and unjoint all my reason.
Your patience, royal sir.

King. I'll have no patience,
If thou forget the courage of a man.

Adm. My strength would flatter me.

King. Physicians,
Now I begin to fear his apprehension.
Why how is Chabot's spirit fall’n ?
Adm. Who would not wish to live to serve your good-

ness?
Stand from me. You betray me with your fears.
The plummets may fall off that hang upon
My heart, they were but thoughts at first; or if
They weigh me down to death, let not my eyes
Close with another object than the king.

King. In a prince
What a swift executioner is a frown,
Especially of great and noble souls !
How is it with my Philip ?

Adm. I must beg
One other boon.

King. Upon condition
My Chabot will collect his scatter'd spirits,
And be himself again, he shall divide
My kingdom with me.

Adm. I observe
A fierce and killing wrath engender'd in you;
For my sake, as you wish me strength to serve you,
Forgive your chancellor ;112 let not the story
Of Philip Chabot, read hereafter, draw
A tear from any family ; I beseech
Your royal mercy on his life, and free
Remission of all seizure upon his state.
I have no comfort else.

King. Endeavour
But thy own health ; and pronounce general pardon
To all through France.

Adm. 112 Chabot's accuser.

Adm. Sir, I must kneel to thank you;
It is not seal'd else. Your blest hand: live happy,
May all you trust have no less faith than Chabot.
Oh!

(Dies.) Wife. His heart is broken.

Father, And kneeling, sir;
As his ambition were in death to shew
The truth of his obedience.

THE MAID'S REVENGE. A TRAGEDY. BY JAMES

SHIRLEY.113

Sebastiano invites Antonio to Avero Castle.

SEBASTIANO. ANTONIO.
Seb. The noble courtesies I have receiv'd
At Lisbon, worthy friend, so much engage me,
That I must die indebted to your worth,
Unless you mean to accept what I have studied,
Although but partly, to discharge the sum
Due to your honour'd love.

Ant. How now, Sebastiano, will you forfeit
The name of friend, then? I did hope our love
Had out-grown compliment.

Seb. I spake my thoughts ;
My tongue and heart are relatives ; I think

I have

113 Shirley claims a place amongst the worthies of this period, not so much for any transcendent genius in himself, as that he was the last of a great race, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common. A new language and quite a new turn of tragic and comic interest came in with the Restoration.

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