University of Virginia Library

Rome for Revenge; hee's no Comedian
That acts for pleasure, but a grim Tragedian?
A foul stern Monster, which if we displease him
Death, wounds, and bloud, or nothing can appease him.
This most inhumane Passion now and than
With violence and fury hurries Man
So far from that sweet mildnesse wherewith he,
Being himselfe, should ever temper'd be.
That Man nor Devill can we terme him well,
For part he hath of earth, and part of hell.
Yet this (so much of all good men disdain'd)
Many there are have rashly entertain'd
And hugged as a sweet contenting Passion,
Though in a various and unlikely fashion.

Some are so staid they can their purpose keep
Long time conceal'd, to make the wound more deep;
And these it is not heat of bloud that blinde,
But rather the fell canker of the minde.
Some by respect to time and place are staid,
And some again by nothing are alaid;
But them mad rage oft furiously will carry,
Without respect of Friends or Sanctuary.
Then some of them are fearfull, some are bolder:
Some are too hot, and some again are colder.
Oh, I have seen, and laught at heart to see't,
Some of our hot-spurs drawing in the street,
As though they could not Passions rage withstand,
But must betake them to it out of hand.
But why i'th street? Oh, company doth heart them,
And men may see their valourous acts and part them.

And yet that humour rather I commend,
Than theirs whose fury hath no stay nor end,
Till of their lives they have bereft their foes;
The onely way to both their overthrows.
Oh, poore revenge! behold, he thou hast slain,
Sleeping in rest, lies free from care and pain.
Death is the good mans refuge, which his God
Ordain'd to be his sorrows period.
And he, perhaps, thou in revenge didst slay,
Enjoyes more blisse than thou canst take away;
Whilst thou surviving feel'st the horrid smart
Of many thousand tortures in thy heart.
For say thou scape the rigor of the law,
Thy wounded conscience will have many a flaw;
Feares thou shalt passe by day, and then at night
Dreams all of terrour thy scar'd soule affright.
Orphanes and widowes curses thou shalt have
To bring thee with confusion to thy grave.
Which if in mercy God do shield thee from,
Iustice hath set this unavoided doom,
The plague of bloudshed on thy stock shall lie,
Till she be quit in thy posterity.
Poore world, if these thy best contentments be,
Seek bloud and vengeance you that list for me.
If this be sweet, heaven grant I may forgive,
And never seek for vengeance whil'st I live.

But now (me thinks) I heare our Hacsters tell me,
With thundring words as if their breath wold fell me,
I am a Coward if I will not fight.
True, Cavalieros, you have spoken right:
And if upon good termes you urge me to it,
I have both strength and heart enough to do it,
Which you should finde; yet minded am I still
(Though I am mov'd) to punish, not to kill.

Yet breathes there to my knowledge many a man,
That in his bloudy actions glory can;
He thinks it honour to be said that he
Was the destruction of some two or three.
A brave tall man I promise ye, and may
Take Tyburne for preferment in his way.
What poore renown is there is in such a deed,
For which a good mans heart would inly bleed?
What valour's in't sith a poore flie or gnat
Doth many times performe as much as that?
But I perceive the chiefest cause of this,
Th' opinion of the rascall Vulgar is.
They puffe men up with their infectious breath,
Till swoln it break out to their shame, or death.
But though they think that he which kills his foe
Is most couragious, Reason tells them no:
For he that hath a heart that fact to doe
Is both a Tyrant and a Coward too.
But how is he a Coward (some will say)
That takes in fight anothers life away?
Thus he is one: He having by his might
A power on him with whom he haps to fight,
Thinks if he spare his life in such a case,
He one day may revenge his foule disgrace;
And that with feare of future dangers fills him,
Which to prevent, he like a Coward kills him.
Yet those whose present safety cannot be
Without the ruine of their enemy,
Blamelesse I count, fith nature gives us way,
Things violent by violence to stay.
Yet thou what e're thou be that hast a foe,
Seek not to be his wilfull ouerthrow.
Sith life's a matter of the greatest weight;
If there be any way though ne're so straight,
Whereby thou maist from such an act be free,
Part not such friends as Soule and Body be.
Rather if't may be, keep him living still,
For foes oft prove a necessary ill.
And for thy mercy thou shalt one day finde
Much comfort and contentment in thy minde.

Foes I have some, whose lives I do not grutch,
For they have done me service very much,
And will do still. These wheresoe'er I go,
Do make me carefull what I speak or doe:
And if I step aside have so much grace,
To tell me all my folly to my face:
Whereas my friend, till I were quite undone,
VVould let me still in my old vainnesse run.
Or, if he warne me, it is so in sport.
That I am scarce a whit the better for't.
But this good-evill few of us can use,
For we do better things than these abuse.
Mans natur's ill, and I have noted this,
If we upbraided be with what's amisse,
We cannot brook it, but are readier still
To hate them that reprove, than mende what's ill:
Nay, to the mildest sort men know not how
To speak their mindes without exceptions now:
We must not our mad lusty-blouds gain-say,
No, not so much as in a yea, or nay;
But presently we die for't, (if we will)
They have both hand and heart prepar'd to kill.
Let them but thinke a man to them injurious,
Although he be not so, they'l straight grow furious,
And are so quickly up in a Bravado,
They are for nothing but the Imbrocado:
And in this humor they respect not whether
They be unto them friends or foes or neither;
All are alike and their hot Choler ends
Not onely love and friendship but their friends.

I know twere vaine if I should tell to these
The peacefull minde of ancient Socrates:
Or if I should Lycurgus vengeance show,
How he behav'd himselfe unto his foe.
'Twere but much labour lost; forthere's no doubt
Our Bedlam Gallants would but grin and flout
At their well-temper'd passions, sith they deem
Nought but their brainlesse humours worth esteem.
The small discretion that doth guide this age,
Hath left them so to their unbridled rage
That men most foolish desperate, who care
For nought, but little wit enough to dare
Some beast-like combate (without lawfull ground)
Are now the onely men that are renown'd
Amongst the vulgar. And forsooth, to gain
A little fame that way, though ne'er so vain,
They'l put their lives in danger: nay, there's some
Had rather have it than the life to come.

Alas, poore men, what hath bewitch't your mind?
How are you grown so senselesse and so blinde,
Thus to affect vain shadows, and let slide
The truer substance as a thing unspi'd?
Is Reason in you grown so great a stranger,
To suffer an affection of such danger,
To settle in you? Banish't from your brest,
And there let mercy and forgivenesse rest;
It is a token of a humane mildenesse:
But vengeance is a signe of Brutish wildenesse,
Not fitting any but the Tyger, Beare,
Or such like creatures that remorselesse teare
What ere they light on. Cast it from you then,
Be in condition, as in shape ye'are Men,
And stand unmov'd, for innocence ere long,
Will shew herselfe abroad in spight of wrong:
When of your patience you shall not repent,
But be avenged to your own content.

Yet some may say, the counsell I have given,
Is hard to follow, strict, and too uneven;
And whatsoever show I seem to make,
Such as my selfe would hardly undertake.
Know you that think so, I am not afraid,
If that it be a burthen I have laid
To bear't my selfe; nay, I have undergone,
If this be hard, a more uneasie one.
For, but of late a friend of mine in show,
Being (indeed) a spightfull secret foe;
I know not why, (for I did ne're in ought
Wrong him so much as in a word or thought)
Yet this man having wisely watcht his time,
When I (a stranger in another Clime)
Left mine own Countrey: did mean while repaire
To my best friends, and with dissemblings faire,
And shows of love and griefe, did there unfold
The grossest slander ever villain told.
A damn'd invention, so exceeding vile,
That Gallants, 'twould have made your bloud to boil
And out of your abused bodies start,
I know it would have broken veins or heart.
If you had felt that tongues envenom'd sting,
You would have fret, fum'd, stampt, done any thing,
Or angry, rag'd, like mad-men in your fit,
Till mercilesse revenge had quenched it.
And what did I? At first I must confesse,
I was extreamly mov'd, who could be lesse?
But when I felt my troubled thoughts begin
To joyne with brutish Passion's force within,
And raise disquiet humours in my breast,
I fear'd if I should yeeld 'twould mar my rest.
And therefore to my selfe I patience took,
Which, whilst I have about me, I can brook
Any misfortune. Then that patience
Grew so much stronger through my innocence,
That I, as much as flesh and bloud could do,
Forgot both injurie and vengeance too.
Yet might I wanted not to do him ill;
All the defect that was, was in my will.
It is well known the Coward dares not stand,
T'abide the Vengeance of my wronged hand,
Were his strength tripled: nay, were I in bands
Of impotencie wrapt and had no hands.
Yet I have friends (whom if I had not prai'd,
And beg'd unto to have their fury stai'd)
Had heapt confusion on him for my sake.
Yea I am halfe perswaded he would quake
A twelve-moneth after; had he but the daring
To thinke upon the Vengeance was preparing
For that lewd slanderous tale of his which he
Aswell might raise on one unborne, as me.

But when that course my Reason did gaine-say,
I was allow'd Revenge a better way.
Both Law and Iustice profer'd me the scourge,
To whip him for it: which though friends did urge,
(Shewing me motives to allure me to it)
Yet was I much unwilling still to doe it:
For though I might (beside submission) gaine
No little summes, my heart doth much disdaine
To adde unto my substance through his shame;
Or raise it with the ruine of his fame.
Yet cause perhaps there's some may thinke I faine,
Or speake a matter fram'd out of my braine:
Know; this backe-biter lives and may doe long
To doe me more, and many others wrong.
And but that I am loth to staine my Verse,
The name of such a Monster to rehearse;
For others satisfaction (to disgrace it)
Vpon the Margent here my pen should place it.
Yet that perhaps would Vengeance counted be,
For that would never be reveng'd by me.
Nor had I thus much said but to make knowne,
So truly these opinions are mine owne,
That I doe wish no other men unto,
More then I gladly of my selfe would doe.
Thus was I wronged and I thus withstood
My own mad Passion in the heat of bloud:
Yet thinke my selfe in as good case as those,
That have reveng'd themselves with stabs and blows.

In my opinion it is now as well
As if that I should pack his soule to hell
With danger of mine owne, and here remaine
To grieve and wish he were alive againe;
Nay, now 'tis best, for why? he may repent,
Whil'st I with a safe conscience live content.

But grant that some misdeem'd my innocence,
(Because they saw that I with Patience
Endur'd the wrong) by thinking I did know
Myselfe in fault because I tooke it so:
What's that to me? Indeed if all my care,
But to make shew of what I should be were,
I might be much displeased when I see
Men thinke me not, what I would seeme to be.
But he whose onely aime is Vertues path,
And that true aime by his endeavour hath
(Which God grant me) so much sweet comfort gains
Within his conscience, that he nought complaines
Of Mens opinions; but above them borne,
Doth both their censures and supposings scorne.
And why should I doe lesse who never weigh'd
My innocence by that which others said?
Whether I patient were, or storm'd at it
It quits me of the slander ne'er awhit.

He that condemnes my milde and gentle course,
May in his wisdome light upon a worse.
I must confesse I let his errour passe;
Nor have I done amisse; for say an Asse
Had struck me with his heels; how should I quit
The harme he doth me? You would blame my wit
If I should kill him. If I went to law
Who would not count me the most Asse? a Daw,
Or worst of fools? And pray, what were I lesse
If I had don't to his unworthinesse?
One that's so ignorant of his offence,
He seems as if hee had no spark nor sense
Of understanding: one, whom if I touch,
Or offer to lay hands on, tis as much
As if I in my anger would begin
To break the stool that erst had broke my shin.

In this and that I found the cause was one,
And therefore did I let revenge alone:
Onely I mark't him (for this cause indeed)
That other men might (knowing him) take heed;
And he himselfe, with a repining shame,
Reading his follies Emblem in his name,
Might grieve he did into that errour run.
Which hoping he by this time now hath done,
I cease to brand him, and forgive him too:
Others might thus by my example do.

But to thy task my Muse, for there remain
Mad humours many more yet to explain;
Such as are theirs who use to take in hand
A lawlesse pilgrimage to Calice sand;
And think if they by tricks can blinde the Law,
Of God they never need to stand in awe.
These onely deale in blows. But there be other
Who their revengefull mindes as ill can smother;
Yet cause they have not hearts to deale with swords,
Like valiant Champions fight it out with words.
Such fraies have made me oftentimes to smile,
And yet they prove shrewd combates other-while:
For from such brawls do sudden stabs arise,
And sometimes in revenge the quart-pot flies;
Ioyn'd-stools and glasses make a bustling rumour,
Yea, this is grown a Gentle-man-like humour.
But in my minde he that so well can fight,
Deserveth to be dub'd an Alchouse-knight.

Is't not a shame that men should at their meeting
Welcome each other with a friendly greeting,
As I have seen, and yet before they part,
Bandy their swords at one anothers heart?
Wondrous inhumane! Oh, the savage Bore,
Or wilde Armenian herds can do no more:
But such beleeve not it is God hath said,
Vengeance is mine and I will see't repaid.
For if they did they would not dare to be
Such carvers for themselves as now we see.

No good remaines, if long this fit endure,
Friendship is quite extinguished: and sure
The Devill doth so much possesse them than,
They have no honest thought of God or man:
Which you may note, if you do ever see
Two hare-brain Ruffians when at ods they be,
All th' ones ambition is the others fall,
Without compassion or respect at all.
Which fury so unlimited doth prove,
They have to man-ward not a sparke of love:
Nor no regard of God shall you espie,
If you observe their damned blasphemy,
When Standers by would stop their bloudy will;
Stark mad with rage, the heav'ns wide eares they fill
With horrid, bloudy, fearefull cannon-oathes,
Such as no honest Christian man but loathes
Almost to heare them nam'd. Yea seeme to teare
Christs man-hood peece-meale from him when they sweare
For foote, heart, nailes, still using God withall
Their fowle-mouth'd-rackets, like a tennis-ball
Doe bandy to and fro: His bloud and wounds,
Adde to their hellish bravings such strange sounds,
As if the powers of heaven they did contemne,
And meant in this wilde fit to challenge them.

Oh base proud clay! who by their deeds can gather
These men beleeve a power above, but rather
That they are viler than the brutest creature:
For that is taught more reverence by nature.
But these bold Champions dare him: yea when they
Cannot have Vengeance their desired way
(As if they scorn'd the threatning of his rod)
Thus thinke they to avenge themselves on God;
Who were he not as mercifull as just,
Might with a blast consume them into dust.