Complete Works of Thomas Otway

by Thomas Otway

  Sleep for a week: for the next Night (my word for’t)

  Sylla takes care that you shall rest but little.

  Gods forgive me.....

  Marry and Amen. How sound is she asleep?

  I must needs wake her. Madam! Madam! Madam!

  Now should your Lover find you in this posture,

  He’d fright you up i’faith, What? won’t it doe?

  Drest too? and in your Cloaths? and down agen?

  Nay, I must wake you. Lady! Lady! Lady!

  Alas! alas! help, help, my Lady’s dead.

  Ah! welladay that ever I was born!

  Some Aqua vitae. Hoa! my Lord.... my Lady....

  Enter Metellus.

  Metell.

  Lavinia dead?

  Nurse.

  Your onely Daughter’s dead:

  As dead as a Herring, Stock-fish, or Door-nail.

  Metell.

  Stiffe, cold, and pale. Where are thy Beauties now?

  Thy Blushes that have warm’d so many Hearts?

  All Hearts that ever felt her conqu’ring Beauty,

  Sigh till ye break: and all ye Eyes that languisht

  In my Lavinia’s Brightness, weep with me,

  Till Grief grow generall, and the World’s in Tears.

  Nurse.

  Oh Day! oh Day! oh Day! oh hatefull Day!

  Never was seen so black a day as this.

  Oh Day! oh wofull Day! oh Day like Night!

  Metell.

  No more: Thus in her Bridall Ornaments

  Drest as she is she shall be born to Buriall,

  I’ th’ Sepulchre where our Forefathers rest.

  Be’t done, whilst all things we ordain’d for Joy

  Turn from their Office, and assist in Sadness.

  [Exit.

  Nurse.

  It shall be done and done and overdone, as we are undone. And I will sigh, and cry till I am swell’d as big as a Pumkin. Nay, my poor Baby, I’ll take care thou shalt not dy for nothing: for I will wash thee with my Tears, perfume thee with my Sighs, and stick a Flower in every part about thee....

  [Ex. Nurse.

  SCENE CHANGES TO THE FORUM, WHERE IS PLACED THE CONSUL’S TRIBUNALL.

  Enter two Citizens.

  1. Cit.

  WHITHER, oh! whither shall we fly for Safety?

  Already reeking Murther’s in our Streets,

  Matrons with Infants in their Arms are butcher’d,

  And Rome appears one noisome House of slaughter.

  2. Cit.

  Hear us, ye Gods, and pity our Calamities.

  Stop, stop the Fury of this cruel Tyrant;

  Or send your Thunder forth to strike us dead,

  E’re our own Slaves are Masters of our Throats.

  1. Cit.

  Ruine draws near us: Oh my Friend! let’s fly

  To th’ Altars of our Gods, and by the hands

  Of one another dy as Romans ought.

  [Exeunt.

  Enter Ancharius the Senatour and his Grandson.

  Child.

  Hide me, my Grandsire: the ugly men are coming

  That kill’d my Mother and my Sister Thesbie.

  Will they kill you and me too?

  Anch.

  Oh my Child!

  I cannot hide thee, nor know what to doe.

  Derepit Age benums my weary Lims:

  I can’t resist, nor fly....

  Child.

  Then here we’ll sit;

  Perhaps they’ll not come yet: or if they do,

  I’ll fall upon my Knees and beg your Life.

  I am a very little harmless Boy;

  And when I cry, and talk, and hang about’em,

  They’ll pity sure my Tears, and grant me all.

  Enter several Old men in black with Cypress Wreaths, leading Virgins in white with Myrtle, who kneel before the Tribunal.

  Then enters Marius senior as Consul, Lictors, Sulpitius, and Guards.

  Mar. sen.

  I thank ye, Gods, ye have restor’d me now.

  [Mounts the Tribunal.

  What Pageantry is this, Sulpitius, here?

  Remove these Slaves, and bear’em to their Fates.

  1. Old man.

  We come not for our selves, but in the name

  Of Rome, to offer up our Lives for all.

  Pity a wretched State, thou raging God,

  And let loose all thy dreadfull Fury here.

  Mar. sen.

  I know ye all, great Senatours; ye are

  The Heads and Patrons of Rebellious Rome.

  Ye can be humble when Affliction galls ye:

  And with that Cheat at any time ye think

  To charm a generous Mind, though ye have wrong’d it.

  False are your Safeties when indulg’d by Pow’r:

  For soon ye fatten and grow able Traitours.

  False are your Foars, and your Afflictions falser:

  For they cheat you, and make you hope for Mercy,

  Which you shall never gain at Marius’s hands.

  Who trusts your Penitence is more then Fool.

  Rebellion will renew: ye can’t be honest.

  Y’are never pleas’d but with the Knaves that cheat you,

  And work your Follies to their private ends.

  For your Religion, like your Cloaths you wear it,

  To change and turn just as the Fashion alters.

  And think you by this solemn piece of Fooling

  To hush my Rage, and melt me into Pity?

  Advance, Sulpitius: old Ancharius there,

  Who was so violent for my Destruction,

  That his Beard brussled as his Face distorted;

  Away with him. Dispatch these Triflers too.

  But spare the Virgins, ‘cause mine Eyes have seen ’em:

  Or keep ’em for my Warriours to rejoice in.

  Anch.

  Thou who wert born to be the Plague of Rome,

  What wouldst thou doe with me?

  Mar. sen.

  Dispose thee hence

  Amongst the other Offall, for the jaws

  Of hungry Death, till Rome be purg’d of Villains.

  Thou dy’st for wronging Marius. —

  Child.

  Oh my Lord!

  (For you must be a Lord, you are so angry.)

  For my sake spare his Life. I have no Friend

  But him to guard my tender years from Wrongs.

  When he is dead, what will become of me,

  A poor and helpless Orphan, naked left

  To all the Ills of the wide faithless world?

  Mar. sen.

  Take hence this Brat too; mount it on a Spear,

  And let it sprawl to make the Grandsire sport.

  Child.

  Oh cruel man! I’ll hang upon your Knees,

  And with my little dying Hands implore you.

  I may be fit to doe you some small pleasures.

  I’ll find a thousand tender ways to please you;

  Smile when you rage, and stroak you into Mildness;

  Play with your manly Neck, and call you Father:

  For mine (alas!) the Gods have taken from me.

  Mar. sen.

  Young Crocodile! Thus from their Mothers Breasts

  Are they instructed, bred and taught in Rome.

  For that old Paralitick Slave, dispatch him:

  Let me not know he breaths another moment.

  But spare this, ‘cause ‘t has learnt its Lesson well,

  And I’ve a Softness in my heart pleads for him.

  Enter Messenger.

  Well now.

  Mess.

  Metellus.

  Mar. sen.

  Hah! Metellus? what?

  Mess.

  Is found.

  Mar. sen.

  Speak, where?

  Mess.

  In an old Suburb Cottage,

  Upbraiding Heav’n, and cursing at your Fortune.

  Mar. sen.

  Haste, let him be p
reserv’d for my own Fury.

  Clap, clap your hands for joy, ye Friends of Marius.

  Ten thousand Talents for the news I’ll give thee:

  The Core and Bottom of my Torment’s found;

  And in a moment I shall be at ease.

  Rome’s Walls no more shall be besmear’d with Bloud,

  But Peace and Gladness flourish in her Streets.

  Lets go. Metellus? we have found Metellus.

  Let every Tongue proclaim aloud Metellus;

  Till I have dasht him on the Rock of Fate.

  Then be his Name forgot, and heard no more.

  [Exeunt.

  SCENE A CHURCH-YARD.

  Enter Marius junior.

  Mar. Jun.

  AS I have wander’d musing to and fro,

  Still am I brought to this unlucky place,

  As I had business with the horrid Dead:

  Though could I trust the flattery of Sleep,

  My Dreams presage some joyfull news at hand.

  My Bosome’s Lord fits lightly on his Throne,

  And all this day an unaccustom’d Spirit

  Lifts me above the ground with chearfull thoughts.

  I dream’d Lavinia came and found me dead,

  And breath’d such Life with Kisses on my Lips,

  That I reviv’d, and was an Emperour.

  Enter Catulus.

  Catul.

  My Lord already here?

  Mar. Jun.

  My trusty Catulus,

  What News from my Lavinia? speak, and bless me.

  Catul.

  She’s very well....

  Mar. Jun.

  Then nothing can be ill.

  Something thou seem’st to know that’s terrible.

  Out with it boldly, man, What canst thou say

  Of my Lavinia?

  Catul.

  But one sad word, She’s dead.

  Here in her Kindreds Vault I’ve seen her laid,

  And have bin searching you to tell the News.

  Mar. Jun.

  Dead? is it so? then I deny you, Stars.

  Go, hasten quickly, get me Ink and Paper.

  ’Tis done: I’ll hence to night.

  Hast thou no Letters to me from the Priest?

  Catul.

  No, my good Lord.

  Mar. Jun.

  No matter, get thee gone.....

  [Ex. Catulus.

  Lavinia! yet I’ll ly with thee to night;

  But, for the means. Oh Mischief! thou art swift

  To catch the straggling Thoughts of Desp’rate men.

  I do remember an Apothecary,

  That dwelt about this Rendezvous of Death:

  Meager and very rufull were his Looks;

  Sharp Misery had worn him to the Bones;

  And in his needy Shop a Tortoise hung,

  An Allegator stufft, and other Skins

  Of ill-shap’d Fishes: and about his Shelves

  A beggarly account of empty Boxes,

  Green earthen Pots, Bladders, and musty Seeds,

  Remnants of Packthread, and old Cakes of Roses,

  Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a Show.

  Oh for a Poison now! his Need will sell it,

  Though it be present Death by Roman Law.

  As I remember this should be the House.

  His Shop is shut: with Beggars all are Holydays.

  Holla! Apothecary; hoa!

  Enter Apothecary.

  Apoth.

  Who’s there?

  Mar. Jun.

  Come hither, man.

  I see thou’rt very poor;

  Thou mayst doe any thing: here’s fifty Draohma’s,

  Get me a Draught of that will soonest free

  A Wretch from all his Cares: thou understand’st me.

  Apoth.

  Such mortal Drugs I have; but Roman Law

  Speaks Death to any he that utters ’em.

  Mar. Jun.

  Art thou so base and full of Wretchedness,

  Yet fear’st to dy? Famine is in thy Cheeks,

  Need and Oppression starveth in thy Eyes,

  Contempt and Beggary hang on thy Back;

  The World is not thy Friend, nor the World’s Law;

  The World affords no Law to make thee rich:

  Then be not poor, but break it, and take this.

  Apoth.

  My Poverty, but not my Will consents....

  [Goes in, fetches a Vial of Poison.

  Take this and drink it off, the Work is done.

  Mar. Jun.

  There is thy Gold, worse Poison to mens Souls,

  Doing more Murthers in this loathsome world

  Then these poor Compounds thou’rt forbid to sell.

  I sell thee Poison, thou hast sold me none.

  Farewell... buy Food.... and get thy self in flesh.

  Now for the Monument of the Metelli....

  [Exit.

  Scene draws off, and shews the Temple and Monument.

  Re-enters.

  It should be here: the door is open too.

  Th’ insatiate mouth of Fate gapes wide for more.

  Enter Priest, and Boy with a Mattock and Iron Crow.

  Priest.

  Give me the Mattock and the wrenching Iron:

  Now take this Letter, with what haste thou canst

  Find out young Marius, and deliver it.

  [Ex. Boy.

  Now must I to the Monument alone.

  What Wretch is he that’s entring into th’ Tomb?

  Some Villain come to rob and spoil the Dead.

  Whoe’re thou art, stop thy unhallowed purpose.

  Mar. Jun.

  Whoe’re thou art, I warn thee to be gone,

  And do not interrupt my horrid purpose.

  For else, by Heav’n, I’ll tear thee joint by joint,

  And strew this hungry Church-yard with thy Lims.

  My Mind and its Intents are savage wild,

  More fierce and more inexorable far

  Then empty Tigers or the roaring Sea.

  Priest.

  Then as a sacrilegious Slave I charge thee,

  Obey and go with me, or thou must dy.

  Mar. Jun.

  I know I must, and therefore I came hither.

  Good Reverence, do not tempt a desp’rate man.

  By Heav’n, I love thee better then my self:

  For I against my self come hither arm’d.

  Stay not, be gone.... Live, and hereafter say,

  A Mad-man’s Mercy gave thee honest Counsell.

  Priest.

  I do defy thy Mercy and thy Counsell,

  And here will seize thee as a Thief and Robber.

  Mar. Jun.

  Wilt thou provoke me? then here, take thy Wages.

  [Kills him.

  Priest.

  I’m kill’d. Oh Marius! now too late I know thee.

  Thou’st slain the onely man could doe thee good.

  Lovinia.... oh!...

  [Dies.

  Mar. Jun.

  Let me peruse this Face.

  It is the honest Priest that joyn’d our hands,

  In a Disguize conceal’d. Give me thy Hand,

  Since in ill Fate’s black Roll with me thou’rt writ,

  I’ll bury thee in a triumphant Grave.

  Thou detestable Maw, thou Womb of Death,

  Gorg’d with the dearest Morsell of the Earth,

  Thus will I force thy rotten Jaws to open,...

  Pulls down the side of the Tomb.

  And spite of thee yet cram thee with more Food.

  Oh gorgeous Palace! oh my Love! my Wife!

  Death has had yet no pow’r upon thy Beauty;

  That is not conquer’d. Beauty’s Ensign yet

  Is Crimson in thy Lips and in thy Cheeks;

  And the pale Flag is not advanc’d yet there.

  Why art thou still so fair? shall I believe

  That the lean Monster Death is amorous,

 
And keeps thee here in Darkness for his Paramour?

  For fear of that, I’ll stay with thee for ever.

  Come, bitter Conduct, thou unsavoury Guide:

  Here’s to my Love.....

  [Drinks the Poison.

  And now Eyes look your last.

  Arms take your last Embrace, whilst on these Lips

  I fix the Seal of an eternall Contract....

  She breaths and stirs.....

  [Lavinia wakes.

  Lavin.

  in the Tomb.

  Where am I? bless me, Heav’n!

  ’Tis very cold; and yet here’s something warm.....

  Mar. Jun.

  She lives, and we shall both be made immortall.

  Speak, my Lavinia, speak some heav’nly news,

  And tell me how the Gods design to treat us.

  Lavin.

  Oh! I have slept a long Ten thousand years.

  What have they done with me? I’ll not be us’d thus;

  I’ll not wed Sylla. Marius is my Husband.

  Is he not, Sir? Methinks you’re very like him.

  Be good as he is, and protect me.

  Mar. Jun.

  Hah!

  Wilt thou not own me? am I then but like him?

  Much, much indeed I’m chang’d from what I was;

  And ne’r shall be my self, if thou art lost.

  Lavin.

  The Gods have heard my Vows; it is my Marius.

  Once more they have restor’d him to my Eyes.

  Hadst thou not come, sure I had slept for ever.

  But there’s a soveraign Charm in thy Embraces,

  That might doe Wonders, and revive the Dead.

  Mar. Jun.

  Ill Fate no more, Lavinia, now shall part us,

  Nor cruel Parents, nor oppressing Laws.

  Did not Heav’n’s Pow’rs all wonder at our Loves?

  And when thou toldst the tale of thy Disasters,

  Was there not Sadness and a Gloom amongst’em?

  I know there was: and they in pity sent thee,

  Thus to redeem me from this vale of Torments,

  And bear me with thee to those Hills of Joys.

  This World’s gross air grows burthensome already.

  I’m all a God: such heav’nly Joys transport me,

  That mortal Sense grows sick and saints with lasting.

  [Dies.

  Lavin.

  Oh! to recount my Happiness to thee,

  To open all the Treasure of my Soul,

  And shew thee how ’tis fill’d, would waste more time

  Then so impatient Love as mine can spare.

  He’s gone; he’s dead; breathless: alas! my Marius.

  A Vial too: here, here has bin his Bane.

  Oh Churl! drink all? not leave one friendly Drop

  For poor Lavinia? Yet I’ll drain thy Lips.

  Perhaps some welcom Poison may hang there,

  To help me to o’retake thee on thy Journy.

  Clammy and damp as Earth. Hah! stains of Bloud?

  And a man murther’d? ’Tis th’unhappy Flamen.

  Who fix their Joys on any thing that’s Mortall,