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Well.
His looks are ghastly.
Willdo. Some little time I have spent,

under your favors,

In physical studies, and if my judgment err not,

He's mad beyond recovery. But observe him,

And look to yourselves.

Over. Why, is not the whole world Included in myself? To what use then Are friends and servants? Say there were a squadron

Of pikes, lined through with shot, when I am mounted

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Upon my injuries, shall I fear to charge them? No. I'll through the battalia, and that routed,

Flourishing his sword sheathed1 I'll fall to execution. Ha! I am feeble. Some undone widow sits upon mine arm, And takes away the use of't; and my sword, Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,

Will not be drawn. Ha, what are these? Sure, hangmen,

That come to bind my hands, and then to drag me

Before the judgment-seat. Now they are new shapes,

And do appear like Furies, with steel whips To scourge my ulcerous soul. Shall I then fall

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Ingloriously, and yield? No; spite of Fate,
I will be forced to hell like to myself.
Though you were legions of accursèd spirits,
Thus would I fly among you.

[Rushes forward, and flings
himself on the ground]
There's no help.

Well. Disarm him first, then bind him. Greedy. Take a mittimus,' And carry him to Bedlam. Lov.

How he foams!

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That I speak too. But there is something else

Beside the repossession of my land,
And payment of my debts, that I must
practise.

I had a reputation, but 'twas lost
In my loose course; and until I redeem it
Some noble way, I am but half made up.
It is a time of action. If your lordship
Will please to confer a company upon me
In your command, I doubt not in my service
To my king and country but I shall do
something

That may make me right again.
Your suit is granted,
And you loved for the motion.1

Lov.

Well. [coming forward]

wants then

But your allowance

THE EPILOGUE

Nothing

But your allowance, and in that our all
Is comprehended; it being known, nor we,
Nor he that wrote the comedy, can be free,
Without your manumission; which if you
Grant willingly, as a fair favor due

To the poet's and our labors-as you may,
For we despair not, gentlemen, of the play-
We jointly shall profess your grace hath
might

To teach us action, and him how to write. 500 [Exeunt]

1 For making it.

THE

CHRONICLE

HISTORIE

OF

PERKIN WARBECK.

A Strange Truth.

Acted (fome-times) by the Queenes

MAIESTI R S Servants at the
Phanix in Drurie lane.

Fide Honor.

LONDONY

Printed by T. F for Hugh Beeflon, and are co be fold at his Shop, heere the Caftic in Comobil, 8614. k

The Chronicle History of Perkin Warbeck was printed in 1634 soon after its acting at the Phoenix Theater in Drury Lane. Although Ford's name is not on the title, his motto or anagram Fide Honor supplies this defect. While this play is a deliberate effort to revive a species of drama extinct for nearly a generation, it is difficult to believe that Ford was not attracted to the subject largely because of its romantic and problematic character. The poet followed an admirable source in Bacon's History of King Henry VII, but went further to Halle's Chronicle for some particulars. The fine, romantic conception not only of Perkin, but of his devoted wife, Lady Katherine Gordon, her noble if testy old father and Lord Daliell are of Ford's own invention. Nor has he fallen short, though closer to his model, in the crafty, seemingly humane and outspoken Henry VII. There is only the text of the quarto for this play.

John Ford was a Devonshire man, born in 1586, of Oxford and the Middle Temple. His dramatic writing belongs between 1626 and 1639, when he drops out of sight. The play of the text is less distinctive of the peculiar and decadent art of Ford than one or two others, The Broken Heart among them. Whatever his choice of topic at times, Ford is no decadent in the beauty of his diction and the music of his verse.

The complete edition of Ford is that of Alexander Dyce, 3 vols., 1869. Also the Mermaid edition by H. Ellis, 1888.

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PROLOGUE

Studies have of this nature been of late
So out of fashion, so unfollowed, that
It is become more justice' to revive
The antic follies of the times than strive
To countenance wise industry: no want
Of art doth render wit or lame or scant
Or slothful in the purchase of fresh bays;
But want of truth in them who give the praise
To their self-love, presuming to out-do
The writer, or-for need the actors too.
But such this author's silence best befits,

Who bids them be in love with their own wits.
From him to clearer judgments we can say
He shows a history couched in a play;

A history of noble mention, known

Famous and true; most noble, 'cause our own;
Not forged from Italy, from France, from Spain,
But chronicled at home; as rich in strain
Of brave attempts as ever fertile rage
In action could beget to grace the stage.
We cannot limit scenes, for the whole land
Itself appeared too narrow to withstand
Competitors for kingdoms; nor is here
Unnecessary mirth forced to endear

A multitude: on these two rests the fate
Of worthy expectation,-truth and state.

1 Judicious.

2 Grotesque.
At need.
⚫ Trisyllabic.

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