Lapas attēli
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I might, or give to you, or else receive,
A little lawful comfort.

Vir. Thy discretion

In this may answer for me: Look on Naples, The country where we both were born and bred; Naples, the Paradise of Italy,

As that is of the earth; Naples, that was

The sweet retreat of all the worthiest Romans, When they had shared the spoils of the whole world;

This flourishing kingdom, whose inhabitants,
For wealth and bravery, lived like petty kings;
Made subject now to such a tyranny,

As that fair city that received her name
From Constantine the Great, now in the power
Of barbarous infidels, may forget her own,
To look with pity on our miseries;

So far in our calamities we transcend her:
For since this Arragonian tyrant, Ferrand,
Seized on the government, there's nothing left us
That we can call our own, but our afflictions.
Jul. And hardly those; the king's strange cru-
elty

Equals all precedents of tyranny.

Vir. Equals, say you?'

He has out-gone the worst: Compared to him, Nor Phalaris, nor Dionysius,

Caligula, nor Nero can be mention'd.

They yet as kings abused their regal power,
This as a merchant; all the country's fat
He wholly does engross unto himself:

Our oils he buys at his own price, then sells them
To us at dearer rates; our plate and jewels,
Under a feign'd pretence of public use,

He borrows; which denied, his instruments force.

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The races of our horses he takes from us,"
Yet keeps them in our pastures; rapes of matrons,
And virgins, are too frequent; never man
Yet thank'd him for a pardon; for religion,
It is a thing he dreams not of.

Jul. I have heard

(How true it is I know not) that he sold
The bishoprick of Tarent to a Jew,
For thirteen thousand ducats.

Vir. I was present,

And saw the money paid. The day would leave me
Ere I could number out his impious actions,
Or what the miserable subject suffers:

And can you entertain, in such a time,

A thought of dalliance? Tears, and sighs, and groans,

Would better now become you.

Jul. They indeed are

The only weapons our poor sex can use,

When we are injured; and they may become us: But for men, that were born free, men of rank,

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* The races of our horses he takes from us,

Yet keeps them in our pastures.] Seward supposes the word races corrupt, and says, "The old folio reads rases, so that the present reading is probably only a conjecture. But as it has possession I would not disturb it, only offer the following conjectures to the reader's choice. The choicest, or the bravest, or the rarest, or the racers of our horses. The Neapolitan horses are light, and if this last is not thought too stiff, it seems to bid fair for having been the original." There is something rather hard in the text; but the poet seems to mean, that the tyrant takes from his subjects the use of the horses, which he obliges them to maintain.The labour of a horse may in poetry be called his race.-Ed. 1778.

I see no difficulty in this passage. By the races of our horses, Virolet means the breed of our horses. A common acceptation of the word race, is a family, breed, or generation. I cannot agree with the editors, in supposing that, even in poetry, the races of our horses can mean the labour of them.--Muson.

(That would be register'd fathers of their country, And to have on their tombs, in golden letters, The noble style 3 of "Tyrant-killers" written,) To weep like fools and women, and not like wise

men

To practise a redress, deserves a name
Which fits not me to give.

Vir. Thy grave reproof,

If what thou dost desire were possible
To be effected, might well argue it

As wise as loving; but if

you consider,

With what strong guards this tyrant is defended,
Ruffians, and malcontents drawn from all quarters,
That only know to serve his impious will;
The citadels built by him in the neck
Of this poor city; the invincible strength
Nature, by Art assisted, gave this castle;
And above all his fear; admitting no man
To see him, but unarm'd, it being death
For any to approach him with a weapon;
You must confess, unless our hands were cannons,
To batter down these walls; our weak breath
mines,

To blow his forts up; or our curses lightning,
To force a passage to him, and then blast him;
Our power is like to yours, and we, like you,
Weep our misfortunes.

Jul. Walls of brass resist not

A noble undertaking; nor can Vice

Raise any bulwark, to make good the place
Where Virtue seeks to enter: Then to fall
In such a brave attempt, were such an honour
That Brutus, did he live again, would envy.

3

Style.] i. e. title, an heraldic phrase. So in Heywood's Golden Age:

"I will create lords of a greater style,”

Were my dead father in you, and my brothers,
Nay, all the ancestors I am derived from,

(As you, in being what you are, are all these,)
Ì had rather wear a mourning garment for you,
And should be more proud of my widowhood,
You dying for the freedom of this country,
Than if I were assured I should enjoy
A perpetuity of life and pleasure
With you, the tyrant living.

Vir. Till this minute,

I never heard thee speak! Oh, more than woman, And more to be beloved! can I find out

A cabinet to lock a secret in,

Of equal trust to thee? All doubts and fears,
That scandalize your sex, be far from me!
Thou shalt partake my near and dearest counsels,
And further them with thine,

Jul. I will be faithful.

Vir. Know then, this day (stand Heaven propitious to us)

Our liberty begins.

Jul. In Ferrand's death?

Vir. 'Tis plotted, love, and strongly; and, believe it,

For nothing else could do it, 'twas the thought How to proceed in this design, and end it, That made strange my embraces.

Jul. Curs'd be she

That's so indulgent to her own delights,
That, for their satisfaction, would give
A stop to such a glorious enterprize!

For me, I would not for the world, I had been
Guilty of such a crime: Go on, and prosper !
Go on, my dearest lord! I love your honour
Above my life; nay, yours. My prayers go with

you;

Which I will strengthen with my tears. The

wrongs

Of this poor country edge your sword! oh, may it
Pierce deep into this tyrant's heart! and then
When you return, bath'd in his guilty blood,
I'll wash you clean with fountains of true joy.
But who are your assistants? though I am
So covetous of your glory, that I could wish
You had no sharer in it.
[Knocking.

Vir. Be not curious.

They come; however you command my bosom, To them I would not have you seen.

Jul. I am gone, sir.

Be confident; and may my resolution

Be present with you!

Vir. Such a masculine spirit,

[Exit.

With more than woman's virtues, were a dower

To weigh down a king's fortune.

Enter BRISSONET, CAMILLO, and RONVERE.

Bris. Good day to you!

Cam. You are an early stirrer.

Vir. What new face

Bring you along?

Rone. If I stand doubted, sir,

As by your looks I guess it, you much injure
A man that loves, and truly loves, this country,
With as much zeal as you do; one that hates
The prince by whom it suffers, and as deadly;
One that dares step as far to gain my freedom,
As any he that breathes that wears a sword
As sharp as any's.

Cam. Nay, no more comparisons.

Ronv. What you but whisper, I dare speak aloud,

Stood the king by; have means to put in act too,

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