C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
From ‘A New Way to Pay Old Debts’
By Philip Massinger (1583–1640)
O
I come not to make offer with my daughter
A certain portion,—that were poor and trivial:
In one word I pronounce all that is mine,
In lands or leases, ready coin or goods,
With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have
One motive to induce you to believe
I live too long, since every year I’ll add
Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too.
Lovell—You are a right kind father.
Overreach—You shall have reason
To think me such. How do you like this seat?
It is well wooded and well watered,—the acres
Fertile and rich: would it not serve for change
To entertain your friends in a summer progress?
What thinks my noble lord?
Lovell—’Tis a wholesome air,
And well built; and she that is mistress of it
Worthy the large revenues.
Overreach—She the mistress!
It may be so for a time; but let my lord
Say only that he but like it, and would have it,—
I say, ere long ’tis his.
Lovell—Impossible!
Overreach—You do conclude too fast: not knowing me,
Nor the engines that I work by. ’Tis not alone
The lady Allworth’s lands;—but point out any man’s
In all the shire, and say they lie convenient
And useful for your Lordship, and once more
I say aloud, they are yours.
Lovell—I dare not own
What’s by unjust and cruel means extorted.
My fame and credit are more dear to me,
Than so to expose ’em to be censured by
The public voice.
Overreach—You run, my lord, no hazard:
Your reputation shall stand as fair
In all good men’s opinions as now.
Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill,
Cast any foul aspersion upon yours:
For though I do contemn report myself,
As a mere sound, I still will be so tender
Of what concerns you in all points of honor,
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame,
Nor your unquestioned integrity,
Shall e’er be sullied with one taint or spot
That may take from your innocence and candor.
All my ambition is to have my daughter
Right Honorable, which my lord can make her;
And might I live to dance upon my knee
A young Lord Lovell, born by her unto you,
I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes.
As for possessions and annual rents,
Equivalent to maintain you in the part
Your noble birth and present state require,
I do remove the burden from your shoulders,
And take it on my own; for though I ruin
The country to supply your riotous waste,
The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you.
Lovell—Are you not frighted with the imprecations
And curses of whole families, made wretched
By your sinister practices?
Overreach—Yes, as rocks are
When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness.
I am of a solid temper, and like these,
Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword,
If called into the field, I can make that right
Which fearful enemies murmured at as wrong.
Now, for those other piddling complaints,
Breathed out in bitterness: as when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbor’s rights, or grand incloser
Of what was common to my private use;
Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows’ cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold:
I only think what ’tis to have my daughter
Right Honorable; and ’tis a powerful charm
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.
Lovell—I admire
The toughness of your nature.
Overreach—’Tis for you,
My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble.