You are here
قراءة كتاب A Select Collection of Old English Plays, Volume 5
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 2
href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@45794@[email protected]#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">[3]
Cotton alludes to this play even as late as in the prologue to his "Scoffer Scoff'd"—
"Old tales and songs and an old jest,
Our stomachs easily digest,
And of all plays Hieronymo's the best,"
Our stomachs easily digest,
And of all plays Hieronymo's the best,"
which shows that then it was remembered.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
- The Ghost of Andrea.
- Revenge.
- King of Spain.
- Viceroy of Portingal.
- Don Cyprian, Duke of Castile.
- Hieronimo, Marshal of Spain.[5]
- Balthazar,[6] the Viceroy's Son, in love with Bell'-Imperia.
- Lorenzo, Duke of Castile's Son.
- Horatio, Hieronimo's Son.
- Alexandro.
- Villuppo.
- Pedringano.
- Serbebine.
- Old Man.
- Painter.
- Page.
- Hangman.
- Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants.
- Isabella, Hieronimo's Wife.
- Bell'-Imperia, Lorenzo's Sister.
THE SPANISH TRAGEDY, &c.
ACT I.
Enter the Ghost of Andrea, and with him Revenge.
Ghost.
When this eternal substance of my soul
Did live imprison'd in my wanton[7] flesh,
Each in their function serving other's need,
I was a courtier in the Spanish court:
My name was Don Andrea; my descent,
Though not ignoble, yet inferior far
To gracious fortunes of my tender youth:
For there in prime and pride[8] of all my years,
By duteous service and deserving love,
In secret I possess'd a worthy dame,
Which hight sweet Bell'-Imperia by name.
But, in the harvest of my summer[9] joys,
Death's winter nipp'd the blossoms of my bliss,
Forcing divorce betwixt my love and me;
For in the late conflict with Portingal,
My valour drew me into danger's mouth,
Till life to death made passage through my wounds.
When I was slain, my soul descended straight
To pass the flowing stream of Acheron;
But churlish Charon, only boatman there,
Said that, my rites of burial not perform'd,
I might not sit amongst his passengers.
Ere Sol had slept three nights in Thetis' lap,
And slak'd[10] his smoking chariot in her flood,
By Don Horatio, our knight marshal's son,
My funerals and obsequies were done:
Then was the ferryman of hell content
To pass me over to the slimy strand,
That leads to fell Avernus' ugly waves;
There, pleasing Cerberus with honey'd speech,
I pass'd the perils of the foremost porch.
Not far from hence, amidst ten thousand souls,
Sat Minos, Æacus, and Rhadamant;
To whom no sooner 'gan I make approach,
To crave a passport for my wand'ring ghost,
But Minos, in graven leaves of lottery,
Drew forth the manner of my life and death.
This knight, quoth he, both liv'd and died in love;
And for his love try'd fortune of the wars;
And by war's fortune lost both love and life.
Why then, said Æacus, convey him hence,
To walk with lovers in our fields of love,
And spend the course of everlasting time
Under green myrtle-trees and cypress shades.
No, no, said Rhadamant, it were not well,
With loving souls to place a martialist:
He died in war, and must to martial fields,
Where wounded Hector lives in lasting pain,
And Achilles' myrmidons do scour the plain.
Then Minos, mildest censor[11] of the three,
Made this device to end the difference:
Send him, quoth he, to our infernal king,
To doom him as best seems his majesty.
To this effect my passport straight was drawn,
In keeping on my way to Pluto's court,
Through dreadful shades of ever-glooming night,[12]
I saw more sights than thousand tongues can tell,
Or pens can write, or mortal hearts can think.
Three ways there were: that on the right-hand side
Was ready way unto the 'foresaid fields,
Did live imprison'd in my wanton[7] flesh,
Each in their function serving other's need,
I was a courtier in the Spanish court:
My name was Don Andrea; my descent,
Though not ignoble, yet inferior far
To gracious fortunes of my tender youth:
For there in prime and pride[8] of all my years,
By duteous service and deserving love,
In secret I possess'd a worthy dame,
Which hight sweet Bell'-Imperia by name.
But, in the harvest of my summer[9] joys,
Death's winter nipp'd the blossoms of my bliss,
Forcing divorce betwixt my love and me;
For in the late conflict with Portingal,
My valour drew me into danger's mouth,
Till life to death made passage through my wounds.
When I was slain, my soul descended straight
To pass the flowing stream of Acheron;
But churlish Charon, only boatman there,
Said that, my rites of burial not perform'd,
I might not sit amongst his passengers.
Ere Sol had slept three nights in Thetis' lap,
And slak'd[10] his smoking chariot in her flood,
By Don Horatio, our knight marshal's son,
My funerals and obsequies were done:
Then was the ferryman of hell content
To pass me over to the slimy strand,
That leads to fell Avernus' ugly waves;
There, pleasing Cerberus with honey'd speech,
I pass'd the perils of the foremost porch.
Not far from hence, amidst ten thousand souls,
Sat Minos, Æacus, and Rhadamant;
To whom no sooner 'gan I make approach,
To crave a passport for my wand'ring ghost,
But Minos, in graven leaves of lottery,
Drew forth the manner of my life and death.
This knight, quoth he, both liv'd and died in love;
And for his love try'd fortune of the wars;
And by war's fortune lost both love and life.
Why then, said Æacus, convey him hence,
To walk with lovers in our fields of love,
And spend the course of everlasting time
Under green myrtle-trees and cypress shades.
No, no, said Rhadamant, it were not well,
With loving souls to place a martialist:
He died in war, and must to martial fields,
Where wounded Hector lives in lasting pain,
And Achilles' myrmidons do scour the plain.
Then Minos, mildest censor[11] of the three,
Made this device to end the difference:
Send him, quoth he, to our infernal king,
To doom him as best seems his majesty.
To this effect my passport straight was drawn,
In keeping on my way to Pluto's court,
Through dreadful shades of ever-glooming night,[12]
I saw more sights than thousand tongues can tell,
Or pens can write, or mortal hearts can think.
Three ways there were: that on the right-hand side
Was ready way unto the 'foresaid fields,


