Engraved "by C "Wan-e iM'M aU®HS®H Of^ KS F TH E CAREFULLY SELECTED FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS WITH BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES &C.&C. THE CELEB SATED 3-LOBE THEATRE . W^ W. SWAYNE, BRGGKL.TK & NEW YORK evwDTra'vvs CONTENTS. PREFACE, , , ORIGIN" AND EARLY HISTORY OF THE BRITISH DRAMA, JOHN LILLY- BIOGRAPHICAL Notice, ........ Alexander and Campaspe, ,.....• GEORGE PEELE— Biographical Notice, .....••• The Love of King David and Fair Bethsabe, with the Tragedyof Absalon, ,....•••• ROBERT GREENE- BIOGRAPHICAL Notice, . . . The Honourable History op Fkiar Bacon and FriarBtjngay, . CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE— Biographical Notice, ......•• The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable Death of Edward the Second, King of England, ....... The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus, . . . . • BEN JONSON— Biographical Notice, ......•• The Alchemist, ......•• Epiccene ; OR, The Silent "Woman, ...... Every Man in His Humour, ....... BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER— Biographical Notice, . . . . Philaster ;.pR, Love lies A-Bleeding, ..... A King and no King, ....... The Knight of the Burning Pestle, . . . • , • JOHN WEBSTER- BIOGRAPHICAL Notice, . . • • • • The Duchess OF Malfi, . • • 41 42 58 59 76 78 97 100 127 140 142 179 209 237 240 264 291 316 317 r'4::1970 iv CONTENTS, JOHif MARSTON— PAOi Biographical Notice, • ....._. 346 Antonio and Mellida, ....... 347 Antonio's Revenge. The Second Part of the History of Antonio and Mellida, ......... 364 PHILIP MASSINGER— Biographical Notice, ....... 386 The Virgin-Martyr, . . . . . . . .386 The Duke of Milan, .,...,.. 411 A New Way to Pay Old Debts, . . . . . . "435 JOHN ford- Biographical Notice, . . . . . . , 460 The Lady's Trial, ......... 461 THOMAS HEYWOOD— Biographical Notice, . . . . . . . 483 A Woman Killed with Kindness, ...... 484 JAMES SHIRLEY- BIOGRAPHICAL Notice, ....... 503 The Traitor. A Tragedy, ....... 505 The Brothers. A Comedy, ....... 523 PREFACE. ^g^.B^EETAIN' periods in British history have been marked by the ^t^ prevalence of particular forms of literature. The present age, ^ for example, is characterized by the superabundance of prose fiction ; this is the period of the novel. During the early half of last century, the most popular and common form of literature was the short essay, which appeared in shoals in such periodicals as the Spectator and Tatlcr. It is not difficult to account for the shower of pamphlets which deluged the period comprehended in the greater part of the reign of Charles I. and the time of the Commonwealth ; while the latter half of the sixteenth, and the beginning of the seventeenth century, was em- phatically the period of the drama, during which this form of imaginative literature held supreme and unexampled sway. It would be interesting to inquire into the causes which in each age determine the groove in which its popular literature will run; for although, as in the case of the pamphleteering period, these do not always lie on the surface, still no doubt a close scrutiny would prove that they are always clear and well defined, depending mainly upon the political, social, religious, and commercial state of the country at the time. Why the reigns of Eliza- beth and James should have given birth to so many men of high and prolific genius, and why those men should spontaneously adopt the drama as the form of literature best adapted to afford an outlet for their welling- iip thoughts and fancies, we have not the space, even if we had the requisite knowledge and insight, to attempt to discover. We believe it would be found that the drama was the channel most suited to receive the overflowings of the abundant intellectual energy of the age ; although those who adopted it did not cut it out for themselves, but found it ready made to their hands. Indeed, it will be found that a great genius seldom, if ever, creates a new form of literature, into which to throw the products of his intellect ; he generally adopts that which is already popular, and consecrates it to his purpose. During the reign of Elizabeth our country had got fairly over the turmoils and distractions of the Eeformation ; it vi PREFACE. had become 'a land of settled government;' it was a time of great com- mercial prosperity and of comparative peace ; an era of unprecedented intellectual and religious freedom had dawned upon men; all the old beliefs had been shaken, and many of them dethroned. The forces which had been so vigorously at work to bring about all this were now unem- ployed ; a new-born spirit of restless, inquisitive, vigorous mental activity was abroad, prying into all things, divine and human, and bound to take some tangible form. All the circumstances of the time being considered, we think no more suitable form could have been found than the drama, peculiarly the literature of action, of restless many-sided human life, by means of which to give utterance to the multitudinous and strange thoughts and fancies engendered of this restless, unrestrainable, abun- dant mental energy. Whatever may have been the causes at work, for about sixty years after 1570, hundreds of dramas, many of them of supreme excellence, laden with deep and striking thoughts as. well as rich and exquisite fancies, were produced by a race of authors, of many of the greatest of whom almost all we know is their names ; even the biography of the very greatest among them is little else than a series of unsatisfactory conjectures. These dramatists appear to have formed a class by them- selves, mixing little with general society ; but most of them leading a strange land of wild ' Bohemian ' existence, having no fixed abode, living mostly in taverns and other strange places, and forming themselves into clubs for drinking, smoking, ' quipping,' and contriving plays. Whether this was a consequence or a cause of their being tabooed from respect- able society, we cannot say. What little we know of the lives of most of them is rather saddening : few of them lived long ; most of them were penniless, and generally in debt to the managers ; and many of them died from excessive indulgence in eating, drinking, and other gratifications. Nevertheless, they have left behind them much that men ought not ' will- ingly to let die.' Of the many hundred works produced by these old dramatists, comparatively few have reached our time, although those extant might still be counted by the hundred. Possibly we need not regret the loss, as only the most vigorous may have survived. It is needless for us to show here why those extant works of the Elizabethan dramatists are worthy of attention, and deserving of admiration ; it is long since this has been allowed by all competent critics ; and it is quite customary for all who pretend to any knowledge of English literature, to accord to them, as to other literary masterpieces, as a matter of course, the highest praise, although, we fear, many of those who talk thus do so without knowledge. However, few men perhaps are to be blamed for the want of a thorough acquaintance with the works of these dramatists, considering the many all -important matters demanding attention in PREFACE. vii the present, the great number of the dramas extant, and to men of moderate means, the comparatively great expense of even the cheapest editions. Many, too, would not care to read through the whole works of any one dramatist, and to most, such a task would be tiresome and profitless ; and therefore to such, as well as to all who desire to know wherein the glory of these old writers consisted, it is hoped the present volume will prove acceptable. The editor, assisted by the criticisms of those writers most competent to judge, has endeavoured to select from the works of the greatest of the Elizabethan dramatists those which display the highest genius, are most characteristic of their authors, and are best fitted for general perusal. With regard to this last point, he has found that the best dramas are generally the freest from impurity, and in the following pages almost nothing has been thought necessary in the way of purgation. As any one who can spare a sixpence can purchase the works of Shakespeare, they have been excluded from the selection. To ensure correctness of text, the best editions — in the case of Ben Jonson, the original quarto — have been used. Prefixed to each selection is a brief biography of the author, which, sad to say, is generally little more thaja a confession of inability to write a biography for lack of material. Where no good pur- pose was to be served by retaining the antiquated spelling, it has been modernized ; and wherever it was thought necessary to the imderstand- ing of the text by an ordinary reader, notes have been appended at the foot of the page. The editor has avoided wasting space by indulging in the note critical, or by pointing out to the reader — what he is no doubt able enough to discover for himself — the beauties of an author, and the feelings which it has been generally thought they are fitted to call forth. The notes are purely explanatory ; and where the editor has been unable to throw light on a word or passage, he has seldom attempted a con- jecture which might be misleading. Those notes which are not his own, the editor has always endeavoured to remember to acknowledge, although, no doubt, he has occasionally omitted to do so ; and to the labours of the editors of the various excellent editions of the dramatists he has been indebted for much valuable assistance. It is hoped that these notes will be found conducive to the purpose which this volume is designed to serve, viz. to enable the general reader to form an in- telligent acquaintance with, and appreciation of, the best works of our greatest dramatists. It has been thought appropriate to prefix a short Introduction, giving a brief account of the origin and early history of the British Drama ; and as the book is meant mainly for general readers, the editor has deemed it not out of place to begin by describing what is generally allowed to be viii PREFACE. the origin of the Greek, the parent of the European Drama. The chief purpose of the Introduction, however, is to endeavour to discover the germs from which arose the early British Drama, and to trace its history- down to the time when what is known as the * legitimate drama ' had taken firm root in our literature, i.e. down to about the date of our first specimen from John Lilly. Of course, with the small space which could be allotted to this purpose, the editor has been compelled to restrict him- self to a brief statement of facts ; and many things have been necessarily omitted which are highly interesting in connection with our dramatic history, but which would have been out of place in a book of this kind. All the best and most recent authorities have been consulted to obtain material for the Introduction ; but any one at all acquainted with the subject, knows that any writer on the early history of our Drama must be largely indebted to the invaluable work of Mr. J. P. Collier. In conclusion, both publisher and editor hope that, as a whole, this volume wiU be found adapted to the purpose for which it is intended. J. S. K. Edineuegh, February 1870. ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY BRITISH DRAMA. OETRY, in respect of the form -which it may assume, has been divided into three kinds — Epic, Lyric, and Dramatic: the first (from the Greek epos, a word) consisting of the stately narration of heroic actions ; the second (from the root of lyre) setting forth human emotions in such a form as admits of being set to music ; and the last (in Greek signifying ' action,' from drao, to do, to act) is concerned with the representation (as distinct from the narration) of human actions, and exhibits a number of persons, called the dramatis personcE, or persons of the drama, in continued and animated conversation, — the progress of the story, action, or plot being gathered from their sayings and doings. The two main divisions of the drama are tragedy and comedy ; the former of which Aristotle well defines as the imitation of some action that is serious, entire, and of a proper magnitude, — effecting through pity and terror the refinement of these and similar affections of the soul. Tragedy, in its best form, concerns itself with the deepest, noblest, most earnest side of man's nature, striving to elicit our strongest sympathy in behalf of others who are vividly represented before us as actually taking part in certain scenes of life which bring upon them sorrow and suffering. Comedy, on the other hand, deals with the ordinary commonplace events of everyday life, and ministers to the amusement of the spectator by exhibiting the ludicrous mistakes and follies of his fellow-men. Tragic poetry has been described as that Avhich interests the mind in the highest degree, and comic poetry as that Avhich engages us in the most complete lawlessness. In comedy, gloom, sadness, sobriety, have no recognised existence ; while gaiety, joviality, riotous mirth, are unknown in tragedy. Tragedy, consistently with its origin, as will be seen, shows us man, if we may so speak, in the ' struggle for existence,' fighting against fate, striving to hold his own against unfeeling nature and man's inhumanity ; while comedy exhibits him in a state of unconcern and self-abandonment. If it were left to mere conjecture to account for the origin of the drama, one might very naturally suppose that it took its rise partly from what appears to be an innate propensity in man, as it is certainly a universal practice, to take an interest in and to recount the sayings and doings of others. Even among the cultivated classes of the present day — and far more so is it the case among the uncultivated and uneducated, who are living examples of what all classes at one time were — when two or three are met together, are not the affairs of themselves and their friends almost invariably the staple subject of conversa- ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF tion ? And if any one with his ears open passes two gossips in conversation, he is almost sure to observe that the one is recounting to the other, in an animated and dramatic manner, some exploit of which he or she is the victorious hero or heroine. In this way, however, the origin of the epic would perhaps be more appropriately accounted for, it being essentially a narrative set forth by one narrator, generally interspersed with fragments of conversation, and resembling the drama in being concerned with the exhibition of a progressive action. The epic, we believe, was the first form of poetry, if not of all literature, and at first was probably nothing more than mere narrative vigorously and picturesquely set forth. The epic in many respects bears a considerable resemblance to, and one would fancy could not fail to suggest, the drama, which, we shall see, was not exactly the case. Theoretically, however, to account for the origin of the latter, in addition to the gossiping or story-telling propensity in man, we have also to take into consideration the earliest developed and perhaps the strongest of all his propensities — that of imitation or mimicry. This propensity is seen in earliest childhood : without it there would be no possibility of educa- tion. Are not the very games of children merely the mimicry of the serious life-business , of their elders ? Savages have been described as the children of nature ; and they do resemble children in many respects, especially in the nature of their amusements, which are generally mere imitations or representations of their most serious employments — war and the chase. Among nearly every known people on the face of the globe, from the ultra-civilised and theatre-loving Parisian down to the almost brute-like Australian, is there something to be found corre- sponding to dramatic representation, something imitative of active life. Doubtless in many instances, among savage nations, this takes a very rude form ; but even in its rudest form it is an outcome of the same propensity as the most elaborate pro- duction of the greatest dramatist, — viz. a desire to afford pleasure by representing the realities of active life. In its rudest form it is to be seen in the war-dance of the North American Indians and other savages, which is simply a representa- tion of a battle, and may be regarded as tragedy in its crudest form ; while the comic and love dances of the South Sea Islanders and others exhibit comedy in its earliest stage. Indeed, dancing seems at all times to have been intimately connected with di'amatic representation ; and one of the most important parts ot the ancient classic drama, the chorus^ takes its name from this fact. When the Spaniards visited Peru, they found the natives in possession of a drama of a comparatively advanced order. ' The Incas,' says Garcilaso de la Vega, * repre- sented upon festival days tragedies and comedies in due form, intermingling them with interludes which contained nothing low or grovelling. The subjects of their tragedies were the exploits and victories of their kings and heroes. On the other hand, their comedies were drawn from agriculture and the most com- mon actions of human life ; the whole mingled with sentences full of sense and gravity.' The Chinese are known to have had a drama from a very early period — no doubt of a somewhat grotesque kind, characteristic of the people — which to all appearance must have been of native growth ; and there is no satisfactory proof that the Indians were indebted to the Greeks for the idea of their most elaborate and certainly ancient drama. Indeed, the love of dramatic represen- tation is as prevalent and as natural to man as religion itself, with which it is very often found in some way connected, and to which the European drama, ancient and modern, owes to a large extent its origin. Notwithstanding this innate propensity to dramatize the facts of human life, it can scarcely be said that to it is to be ascribed the origin of the Greek drama, of which the modern European drama may be regarded as the lineal THE BRITISH DRAMA. xi descendant. The idea of dramatic representation was familiar to the Greeks even before the invention of the drama proper. It was customary among them to represent certain legends connected with the gods in a visible dramatic form. 'Thus,' says Ottfried Miiller, the historian of Greek literature, 'Apollo's combat with the dragon, and his consequent flight and expatriation, were represented by a noble youth of Delphi ; in Samos, the marriage of Zeus (Jupiter) and Hera (Juno) was exhibited at the great festival of the goddess. The Eieusinian Mysteries were (as an ancient writer expresses it) " a mystical drama," in which the history of Demeter and Ceres was acted, like a play, by priests and priestesses. . . . There were also mimic representations in the worship of Bacchus : thus, at the Anthesteria at Athens, the wife of the second archon, who bore the title of Queen, was betrothed to Dionysus in a secret solemnity, and in public processions even the god himself was represented by a man.' But it is to the rites connected with the worship of Bacchus that we must look for the immediate origin of the drama. It was the custom, especially among the Dorians of the Peloponnesus, to celebrate at certain seasons of the year, generally in early spring and in autumn, the worship of Dionysus (popularly identified with the Latin Bacchus), not so much as the god of wine, or the vine, but mainly as the personification of the productive force of nature. This they did at first by singing wild, impassioned songs, known as dithyrambs, generally improvised under the influence of wine, and which were accompanied with sacrifices, orgies, and rites of various kinds. ' But the worship of Bacchus,' says Miiller, ' had one quality which was more than any other calculated to give birth to the drama, and particularly to the tragedy ; namely, the enthusiasm^ which formed an essential part of it. This enthusiasm proceeded from an impassioned sympathy with the events of nature in connection with the course of the seasons ; especially with the struggle which Nature seemed to make in winter, in order that she might break forth in spring Avith renovated beauty.' About 580 B.C., Arion the lyric poet, we have good authority for . beHeving, improved upon the wild, improvised dithyrambs mentioned above, by inventing what was called the tragic chorus, being a regular choral song sung by a number of people who probably represented the companions of Bacchus, and who danced around the altar, on which a goat was sacrificed. Hence, it is said, the origin of tragedy, which thus means literally the goat-song, from the Greek tragos, a goat, and ode, a song : chorus in Greek literally means a dance, or company of dancers. This dithyrambic tragic chorus continued to chant the sorroAvs and mishaps of Bacchus as the god of nature, in his struggle for life with the adverse powers of winter, — the particular festival at Avhich it Avas sung being held at the end of Avinter or in early spring ; hence the meaning which came to be attached to the words tragic and tragedy, for it was from this particular part of the Avorship of Bacchus that tragedy Avas developed. The further development of tragedy, according to MiiUer, belongs to the Athenians ; while among the Dorians it seems to have been preserved in its original lyric form. Miiller supposes that, even in the above elementary form of tragedy, the leaders of the chorus came forward separately, and narrated the perils which threatened the god, and his final escape from or triumph over them ; the body of the chorus afterwards express- ing its feelings, as if at passing events. The next important innovation in connection with the worship of Bacchus, which indeed marks the birth of the regular tragic drama, according to all ac- counts, Avas made by Thespis, a native of Attica, about 535 B.C. To give rest to the singers, and relieve the monotony of the long effusions of the chorus, he is said to have come forward, or caused an actor to come forward, probably on a small platform, and recite a legend connected with some god or hero. * Now,' xii ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF says Miiller, * according to the idea which we have formed from the finished drama, one actor appears to be no better than none at all. When, however, it is borne in mind that, according to the constant practice of the ancient drama, one actor played several parts in the same piece (for which the linen masks intro- duced by Thespis must have been of great use) ; and, moreover, that the chorus was combined with the actor, and could maintain a dialogue with him, — it is easy to see how a dramatic action might be introduced, continued, and concluded by the speeches inserted between the choral songs.' It is thought by some authori- ties that these actors might at first be chosen from among the professional rhap- sodists who were in the habit of traversing the country, and reciting the works of Homer and other poets. This they often did with characteristic gesticulation, sometimes several together, each representing a different hero, and reciting his speeches in character. Thus was tragedy born, and in a comparatively short time it reached its full development in the works of ^schylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, all nearly contemporary during the fifth century B.C. The first of these made the next important innovation and improvement in the character of the drama, by intro- ducing another actor, — thus giving the dramatic element its due development, ' Tragedy, as he received it, was still an infant, though a vigorous one : when it passed from his hands, it had reached a firm and goodly youth.' Sophocles introduced a third actor, and otherwise improved on his predecessor. Euripides invented the prologue, which Miiller thinks was a step in the backward direction • and he and his immediate successors made further additions and improvements, tending to render the Greek tragic drama as complete in form as it could well be, consistently with the stringent rules which Greek notions of art imposed xipon it. Comedy, like tragedy, had also its origin in the worship of Bacchus, but, according to the best authorities, took its rise in an entirely different Avay, and in connection with quite another festival. Tragedy, as we have seen, had origi- nated in the winter celebrations of the worship of Bacchus, when the poAvers of nature were struggling to free themselves from the thralls of griping Avinter-; and, as in a struggle of life and death, the minds of the people seemed filled with sadness and apprehension, finding utterance in the tragic chorus. Comedy, on the other hand, took its rise in connection Avith the joyous ingathering of the vintage, the fruit of nature's triumphant efforts, when all was mirth and jollity. The festivals of this joyous period were held in autumn, and by the country people ; comedy thus, unlike tragedy, having a rustic origin. At these joyous country festivals it was the custom of the people, having drunk freely of the gifts of their generous god, to go round in procession from village to village, carrying aloft an image of the phallus, the emblem of nature's productive powers, the chorus singing songs of thanksgiving to the liberal Bacchus. After doing their god due honour, it was the custom of the people to indulge in the wildest and often most licentious revelry ; and the chorus, turning their attention to the spectators, quizzed and satirized them in the most unrestrained manner. It Avas from this custom, it is said, that the regular comedy took its rise ; its origin being generally ascribed to Susarion, a native of Megara, Avho had removed to Icaria in Attica, and who, according to one account, Avas the first to contend Avith a chorus of Icarians in order to obtain the prize — a basket of figs and a jar of wine. According to another account, quite consistent with the above, Susarion, someAvhere betAveen 580-564 B.C., Avas the first to regulate this amusement, and thus lay the foundation of regular comedy. The name applied by the Greeks to a drunken revel like the above Avas hdmos (comus), so that comedy literally means the ' revellers' song.' The THE BRITISH D.^AMA. xiii tionvation of comedy from Z-c>??iJ, a village, beonuse ic is said the H';tors wtiut jbout from village to village satirizing the follies and vices of the people, rests en no good foundation. We have no such menus of marlcing the gradual rise of comedy i '; perfection as we have in the ease of tragedy. By \\\\i\':, Bieans it was nadually developed, can only be inferred, as Mliller says, from the drama itself, V Iiich still retained much of its original organization, and from the analogy of trngedy. Comedy, however, took much longer than tragedy to attain to the perfection of art, retaining its original form — that of personal satire — till the time of the greatest Greek comedian, Aristophanes (444-380 B.C.). In this form, known as the old comedij., the characters were real persons, introduced under their o'ft-n r.amos : most of the comedies of Aristophanes .are of this class. This form of the comic drama inevitably became unbearable ; and after passing through ihe stage of what is knowii as the middle comedy^ in which real characters were introduced under assumed names, the comic art gradually reached perfection in the new comedy^ essentially resembUng the modem comic drama, iu which the characters are purely fictitious, the only requirements Being that they should be true to reality, and conformable to the rules of art. As we are not writing a history of the Greek drama, nor even of the drama in general, but have introduced the above statements only because we deemed it necessary l;>riefly to lay before the reader what is known o\ the origin of the European drama, we shall not enter into further details on this part of the subject. Sulfice it to say, that the great difference in form between the ancient Greek or classic drama, and the modern English or romantic drama, is, that in the former was introduced what is known as the chorus, Avhich, from the supreme part it played originally at the festivals of Bacchus, gradually came to be re- garded as an altogether subordinate part of the main drama. This chorus consisted of a group of persons, in some way connected with the dramatis personce, whc, at intervals in the progress of the drama, gave utterance to certain moral reflections suggested by the scene?:, or were used by the dramatist as a means of letting the audience know any details that were necessary to the full ^ander- standing of the plot. Even after the regidar Greek drama had made consider- able progress, the chorus seems to have continued to chant'its part in the play, and, true to its name, enlive?.' J the performance by dancing to its own music. Only one other difference between the classic and modem or romantic drama can we mention here : it is, that the former generally endesvoured to adhere rigidly to what are' known as the dramatic* unities of time, place, and action. The first of these enacts that, to keep up the illusion, everything represented iu the drama should happen on the same day; the second, that, for the same reason, all the actions should take place on the same spot, or very nearly so ; and the third, that there slK/iild be only . one mail!, action or plot, to which everything else must be subser\ient. This difference between th§ Greek and the English drama is not, howev^, merely formal ; it arises from .the very different principles on which ancient Greek and modern English, or rather Gothic, art is based. A writer quoted by Hazlitt says, that the great- dilVerence between ancient and modern poetry is, that the one is the poetry of form, the other of effecu 'The one seeks to identify the imitation with the external object — clings to it, is inseparable from it — is either that or nothing ; the other seeks to identify ! ae. original impression with whatever ol.'^e, within the range of thought or feeling, can strength im, relieve, adorn, or elevate it. Hence the severity and simplicity of the Greek tragedy, which excluded everything foreign or unnecessary to the ; subject. Hence the Unidcs.' "^ ORIGIN AI^D EARLY HISTORY OF it. maj not be deemed out of place to montion that the ancient theatres were mmease semicircular buikLugs, open to the sky,, the base of the semicircle being occupied by the stage, and the seats risiiig in tiers in the forui; of an amphi- theatre, and often capable of containing thousands of spectators. The actors always wore masks suited to the characters they represented, tlie mouths of tl:e masks being constructed on tlie priiiciple of the sj^eaking-trumpet, through •which the voices of the performers soi.inded in a sort of loud chant, which was 'vecessary in order that their speeches might be heard throughout the immense Liiiiding. Hence the origin of the phrase dramatis i)crson/s (t'rom the Latin jser, ihrough', and sono, to sotmd), i.e. persons, literally arid originally inasks of the ' rama, each character having its own particular mask. SaoL is t\u: origin of person, which literally m.eans a ' speaking-trumpet.' The E^mans borrowed their drama, which is mainly of the comic ordur. chiefly from the Greeks. The Greek and Koman drama flourished down to -i considerable time aft(;r the ChrLstian era, and was so extremely popular in all the provinces and colonies, and was Ijitterly of such a licentious nature, that the authorities of the Christian Church deemed it necessary to threaten with severe censure nil those who frequented the theatres, and ultimately persuaded some f the Emperors to iisue edicts against the performance of stage-plays. But ! either church censures nor imperial edicts were found sufficient to eradicate , orr; the people the i'lborn love of dramatic representation ; and therefore the ' 'ergy determined to direct this passion into what they deemed a more proper luumel, — an examp'.e which it would be wise in our modern dergy to follow C)fteaer than they do. The modem European, like the ancient Greek drama, owes its origin to religion. The first known play on a religious subject, of which sofne fr^ments in Greek iambics are still extant, is said to have been Written by Eisekiel, a Jew, shortly after the destruction of Jerusalem, It is taken from the Exodus, or the departure of the Israelites from Egypt under their leader Moses, and is supposed to have been written by Ezekiel for the purpose of animating his brethren with the hopes of a future deliverance frc>r.' their captivity under the conduct of a new Moses. The principal char; cters are, Moses, Sapphora, and ' God from the bus]i..' Moses deUvers thni^r. -..^ r,<- ip^y not have been I ucommon even at this early period. THE BRITISH DRAMA. It is known that from the time of Pope Gregory the Great (the eleventh century), it became quite common for the clergy to commemorate the passion of Christ by processions, choruses, chants, and dialogues, at first only in the churches, the laity taking no part in them. A writer in the Revue des Deux Mondes of July 1, 1868, says that it is in the mass, of which the dramatic character became most distinctly marked from the time of Gregory the Great, that the most recent research finds the germ of the modern drama. Ere long the gratification of the eye as well as the ear was ministered to in these periodical representations. By the side of Christ and His disciples were to be seen, figuring before the altar and in the procession, Adam and Eve bearing the tree of knowledge, John the forerunner and his lamb, Judas and his bag, the devil and the executioner, and ere long the patron saint of the locality on horseback, dragging after him some vanquished monster. Naturally this became not the least agreeable part of the service to the faithful ; and the clergy, perceiving this, soon began to represent in the churches a sort of tableaux vivants of the chief scenes in biblical history, first from the New Testament — as the miracle of Cana, that of the loaves and fishes, the Lord's Supper, the curing of the blind, the resurrection of Lazarus, and the more popular parables, such as those of the prodigal son and the fooUsh virgins. It could be shown that in France these vast representations embraced the whole of biblical history. Although these exhibitions can scarcely be said to be the origin of the religious drama — religious plays having been privately represented at an earlier period — still there is no doubt that they tended in a great degree, along with other influences, to convert it into a regular and popular institution, fostering and sanctioning with the Chmxh's approval the natural love of the people for dramatic representation. Another powerful influence tending in the same direction, and which, working along with and modifying the above, gave to a certain extent the religious drama its ultimate form, was the Feast of Fools and the Feast of the Ass, instituted by Theophylact, Patriarch of Constantinople, about 990, in order, according to Hone, to wean the people from the ancient spectacles, particularly the bacchanalian and calendary solemnities, on the principle, we suppose, of similia similibus curantur. These feasts, the orgies connected with which lasted from Christmas to the end of January, rapidly became highly popular, and were celebrated, in France at least, in the maddest, most sacrilegious, and most licentious manner. The most sacred persons and offices were burlesqued, and the churches were made the scenes of the coarsest buffoonery ; indeed, during the continuance of these feasts, the people seemed to be so many devils let loose for the purpose of holding hellish revelry, and making game of all that is generally considered sacred. ' The Feast of Fools,' says a Avriter in Blachwood^s Magazine for December 1869, ' was carried on with the utmost licence of action and language, the maskers singing obscene songs, taking lascivious postures, playing dice and eating sausages and puddings on the altar, wearing spectacles with orange-peel in place of glasses, and mocking the practice of incensing by burning an old shoe or excrement in the censer, and incensing the priest with its smoke. The mock office being finished, they leaped and danced through the church like madmen, sometimes stripping themselves qviite naked in their dances. They then recited a farce in the atrium or cemetery of the church, where they shaved their heads and arranged their beards.' The Feast of the Ass, as cele- brated in France, consisted almost entirely of dramatic show. The clergy, habited in different vestments to represent the ancient prophets and other celebrated characters, including John the Baptist, Virgil, Balaam — in honour of xvi ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF ' whose ass it was instituted — Nebuchadnezzar, and others, moved in procession through the body of the church chanting versicles, and conversing in character on the nativity of Christ, till they came into the choir. At Rouen they per- formed the miracle of the furnace : Nebuchadnezzar spoke, the sibyl appeared at the last, then an anthem was sung, which concluded the ceremony. The Feast of the Ass, as it was performed at Beauvais every year on the 14th of January, commemorated the flight of the Virgin into Egypt with the infant Jesus, To represent the Virgin, the most beautiful girl in the city, with a pretty child in her arms, was placed on an ass richly caparisoned. Thus mounted, she pre- ceded the bishop and his clergy, all marching in procession through the streets to the Church of St. Stephen. There they ranged themselves on the right side of the altar, when mass Avas performed, the various parts of the service being terminated by the burden Hin-han, to imitate the braying of an ass. At the conclusion of the service, the officiating priest, instead of saying Ita missa est, repeated Hin-han three times, and during the service various hymns were sung in praise of the ass. These facts prove, that even so early as the eleventh century, exhibitions of a dramatic nature, connected with Old and Ncav Testament subjects, were quite common in the west of Europe, and that the people took part in them both as spectators and actors. ' Originally,' says the writer above quoted, *in the church dramas proper, as distinguished from the Asinaria, the language employed was Latin. But toward the close of the eleventh century Latin began to give way to the popular tongue ; and in a dialogue between the wise and foolish virgins, written in France in the eleventh century, the Proven9al dialect is adopted. ... As the language of the people superseded the Latin, so did the wild, irregular, and undisciplined sentiment of the people overcome the restrictions of the Church, and run riot into licence and folly.' To such a scandalous extent was the farcical element in these exhibitions carried, that the Church authorities, who themselves had set the stone rolling, deemed it necessary to interfere, and endeavoured by edicts and bulls at length to piirge or put a stop to them. But this was impossible. The clergy, however, gradually withdreAv from taking any prominent part in them ; and finally the religious orgies were prohibited altogether from being performed in churches. On the withdrawal of the clergy, societies of laymen were formed for the purpose of representing plays founded on biblical subjects, such as the ' Fraternity of the Gonfalone,' founded in Rome in 1264, and the 'Brothers of the Passion' at Paris. On the whole, consistently with the most recent researches, the above is the most satisfactory way to account for the origin, or perhaps revival, of the strictly modern religious drama, — the precursor, in England at least, of what is known as the regular drama. Apparently it was in France that it received the strongest impidse, and soonest became established as a popular institution ; but by the fourteenth century the representation of miracle plays and mysteries had become common over nearly the whole of Europe : indeed, the Church itself, as a writer remarks, might be said to have become a theatre. It was mainly at the principal Church festivals that these dramas were enacted ; and it is worthy of notice how considerable a resemblance, in this and other respects, the origin and early history of the modern European religious drama bear to those of the Greek drama. Each in its origin formed an integral part of the religious services connected with the commemoration of the sufferings and triumph of One whom his worshippers considered their greatest benefactor, and for a long time each continued to be intimately associated with the festivals of the religious institution out of whose form of worship it was developed. Various other causes are given by Dibdin, the uncritical historian of the THE BRITISH DRAMA. xvii stage, and others, as contributing to the origin of the earliest form of the modern drama. About the time that it took its rise, the mad furor connected with the Crusades was at its height, and everything and everybody connected with religion enjoyed the greatest popularity. The people were never wearied of hearing the highly coloured stories narrated by the pilgrims and palmers of their adventures on their pious journeys. Menestrier, a French antiquary, quoted in Bayle's Dictionary, ascribes the origin of the mystery to the habit of the pilgrims Avho had returned from the Holy Land, the shrine St. James of Compostella, and other holy places, composing songs on their travels, mixing them with a recital of the life and death of the Son of God, or of the last judgment, miracles of saints, etc. These pilgrims, we are told, who went in companies, and who took their stand in streets and public places, where they sang with their staves in their hands, and their hats and mantles covered with shells and painted images of divers colours, formed a kind of spectacle which pleased and excited the piety of some citizens of Paris to raise a fund for purchasing a proper place to erect a theatre, in which to represent these mysteries on holy days, as well for the instruction of the people as for their diversion. It appears also to have been the custom of the merchants who frequented the many fairs held throughout Europe from the time of Charlemagne, to be accompanied with jugglers, minstrels, and buffoons, who used every art to inveigle the people to become purchasers of their masters' wares. These exhibitions soon became very popular, and for various reasons were regarded with disfavour by the clergy, who, when they saw they could not extinguish them, substituted in their stead dramatic exhibitions of a religious character. It appears to us, then, that one might venture to assert that, from the time the Greek drama was instituted by Thespis, down to the present time, dramatic representation in one form or other has been kept alive in Europe. We have seen that at a very early period of the Christian era, the clergy attempted to substitute plays of a religious character for those pagan dramas which they deemed must exercise an evil influence on the people. What little record we have, seems to authorize a presumption that the drama was kept alive in monas- teries and convents, where it was not unusual to represent subjects of a religious character, and even the plays of the Latin comedians ; for we are told that Nun Koswitha, in the tenth century, wrote the religious plays formerly referred to as a substitute for the comedies of Terence, which were favourites with the nims. But, as we have already said, what especially gave rise to the modern mystery and miracle play, was the more dramatic character assumed by the mass in the eleventh century, combined with the farcical exhibitions connected with the celebration of the Feast of Fools and the Feast of the Ass ; the other causes mentioned above no doubt contributing to render them more and more popular and common. As the reader will have perceived, what we have written above concerning the origin of the religious drama of the middle ages refers chiefly to France : we have no direct means of knowing what were the earliest causes at work in England in the same direction, althoi;gh doubtless most of the above statements would apply, to a greater or less extent, to nearly all the Catholic countries of Europe. The main reason, however, why we have been so particular in set- ting forth the influences at work in France which tended to originate the religious drama, is, that there seems to be no doubt that from that country the earliest miracle plays were imported into England. There is no record of any- thing which could in any strict sense be called a drama having existed among our stolid ancestors the Anglo-Saxons. Their gleemen, like the ancient Greek rhapsodists, went about among the palaces of the Anglo-Saxon princes, reciting xviii ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF or chanting the deeds of their heroes, and no doubt, like their prototypes, would put as much action into their recitations as possible ; but the idea of dramatic representation apparently never occurred to them. Still it is possible, nay probable, especially in the later period of Anglo-Saxon domination, that, as in the religious houses of the Continent, religious and even profane plays were performed by the monks and nuns for their own amusement : for there was a considerable amount of good scholarship among the Anglo-Saxon clergy. This, however, is mere conjecture. It would be a waste of space and time to go back to the Celtic period. The scanty records we have concur with probability in authorizing us to assign to the French the introduction of the earliest form of the modern drama into England. The Norman Conquest (1066) took place just about the time when tlio various causes above referred to were conspiring to give a regular form to, and render popular, the religious drama or miracle play. That event, we know, made French influence for the time supreme in England : all offices of any importance were taken out of the hands of the conquered Anglo- Saxons, and filled Avith the French followers of William ; and among others, all the important offices connected with the Church were speedily filled with French ecclesiastics. As there can be no doubt that both clergy and laity would bring with them from France their recently formed tastes for religious dramatic repre- sentations, we might naturally expect to find the religious drama soon becoming an English institution. Facts show that this was actually the case. According tp Mr. Collier, the learned historian of the English stage, ' no country of Europe, since the revival of letters, has been able to produce any notice of theatrical performances of so early a date as England.' Matthew Paris, writing about 1240, informs us that Geoffrey, who afterwards became Abbot of St. Albans, was at first brought from Normandy to teach the school there, but that, in consequence of some delay, he took up his residence at Dunstable ; and while there he brought out the play of St. Catherine, borrowing copes from the neighbouring monastery of St. Albans for the purpose of decorating those who took part in the play. As Geoffrey was raised to the dignity of Abbot of St. Albans in 1119, it is certain that the above performances must have taken place before that date; Warton says about the year 1110, and Collier thinks possibly even earlier. According to Bulseus, who refers to the performance of the play in his History of the University of Paris, the above performance was no novelty, sed de consuetudine magistrorum et scholarum — ' but was according to the custom of masters and scholars.' The performance of miracle plays, however, is referred to by a much earlier writer than Matthew Paris, viz. William Fitz- stephen, the biographer of Thomas a Becket, who, as he speaks of what came within his own observation, is a witness of the highest value. Fitzstephen probably wrote about the year 1180; and in giving a description of the city of London, he tells us that in that city holy plays were enacted — ' represen- tations of those miracles which were wrought by the holy confessors, or of the sufferings in which the martyrs so signally displayed their fortitude.' This latter statement shows that, so early as the twelfth century, the representation of religious plays was quite a common thing in London ; and from the former, we might infer that they were occasionally to be seen even in the provinces. The allusions to the performance of these religious plays are exceedingly rare until we come down to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries ; but the few notices that are to be met with warrant us in inferring that, during the course of the thirteenth century, they had become a recognised and regularly estab- lished amusement in England. Under the year 1258 there is a passage in the THE BRITISH DRAMA. xix Annates Bwtonenses forbidding the performance of plays by histriones, which probably here means strolling players, who were no doubt laymen, for as yet the clergy were not only the composers, but the only authorized actors of these plays. In an Anglo-French poem entitled Manuel de Peche, generally ascribed to Bishop Grossetete, who lived about the middle of the thirteenth century, there is a minute account of the authors of miracle plays, their subjects, and the circum- stances under which they were usually performed. The institution of the festival of Corpus Christi in 1264 appears to have given a strong impulse to the more general performance of miracle plays, — one of the chief features of that festival, even at the present day, being pageants and processions. It is supposed that four years after the institution of this festival, i.e. about 1268, the custom of perform- ing plays in the streets of large towns was introduced into this country ; and Collier and other authorities think that it was about this date that the annual representation of miracle plays during Whitsuntide was instituted at Chester. ' Exhibitions of a similar kind took place at Coventry, York, Newcastle-upon- Tyne, Durham, Lancaster, Leeds, Preston, Bristol, Witney, Cambridge, Man- ningtree, and other places ; and it may be conjectured that they were originally introduced into large towns nearly contemporaneously, for the purpose of dis- seminating a certain degree of knowledge of Scripture history.' During the fourteenth century frequent allusions are made to these performances in contem- porary poets, chronicles, and statutes. They are spoken of in Piers Plowman's Ci'eede, and Chaucer refers to them again and again, attending 'plays of miracles' being one of the amusements indulged in during Lent by the lusty Wife of Bath. In the latter part of the fourteenth century the choristers and scholars of St. Paul's Cathedral petitioned Eichard ii. to prohibit certain persons, probably laymen, ' from acting the history of the Old and New Testament, to the great prejudice of the clergy of the Church, who had expended considerable sums for a public representation of plays founded upon that portion of Scripture at the ensuing Christmas ;' and in 1391, according to Stow, the parish clerks of London per- formed a play at Skinner's Well, near Smithfield, in presence of the king, queen, and nobles, which lasted three days. As we are more concerned here with the literature of the drama than with the history of the stage, it is iinnecessary to pursue this part of the subject further. Sufficient evidence has been adduced to show that the earliest form of the British drama is nearly as old as the Norman Conquest ; that the custom of re- presenting miracle plays at certain Church festivals, and on other great occasions, gradually spread itself over the length and breadth of the land : the custom was almost as universal as the celebration of the Church festivals themselves. During the fifteenth century these exhibitions had made such progress, that nearly every large city had its own company of performers, generally composed of the various trade corporations ; and the king himself, and many of the nobility, kept among their retainers complete companies of players, who often went about from place to place giving performances. They continued to be as common and popular as ever during the sixteenth century, even after the regular drama had been developed, and did not cease to be represented in England till at least the begin- ning of the seventeenth century. Miracle plays have never entirely ceased to be represented on the Continent, and still continue to be acted in Germany, Spain, and Italy. Some years ago an article appeared in Macmillan's Magazine., giving a minute description of a most elaborate and well-acted religious drama on the Passion, which was represented in the open air in a most decorous manner at Oberammergau, in Bavaria, in the year 1860. This representation takes place every ten years, in fulfilment of a vow made by the inhabitants in the 17th XX ORIGIN AND EARL V HISTOR V OF century. In All the Yea?' Hound is an interesting description of one on the same subject, wliich took place at Brixlegg, in the Tyrol, in August 1868. There were 300 performers and sixteen acts : the play began at nine in the morning, and, with the exception of an hour for refreshment, lasted till four in the after- noon. The most recent English religious drama is Byron's Cain, a Mystery. As we have already remarked, miracle plays originated with the clergy; and they were for a long time mostly written and performed by them as a part of the celebration of Church festivals, of which they were a regular adjunct doAvn to the time of the Reformation. Even after the corporations of the toAvns and choristers of the churches had become the regular performers in these religious dramas, which practice probably began to be common during the fifteenth century, there is evidence that, so late as about 1540, the clergy occasionally took part in the performances, probably in the country districts ; and so long at least as the Roman Catholic religion maintained its ground, they seem generally to have acted as superintendents and directors. This we need be neither surprised nor shocked at, if we bear in mind the origin and object of these religious plays: they arose, as we have seen, from the very nature of the Roman Catholic Church service, some parts of which even at the present day are of a highly dramatic character ; and whether or not the clergy had this object in view in encouraging them, they were the only means within the reach of the great majority of the people of obtaining a knowledge of the events of Scripture history. No doubt these exhibitions gave rise to many disorders, and the language of the plays themselves was often very coarse, and even what we should call blasphemous ; but there is no doubt that, had it not been for the superintendence of the clergy, these evils would have been immeasurably aggravated : witness the ribaldry and licentiousness that charac- terized the Feasts of Fools and of the Ass mentioned above. Indeed, Collier supposes that certain great disorders, ' revellings, drunkenness, shouts, songs, and other insolences,' which took place at York during the representation of the Corpus Christ! plays previous to 1426, arose from the non-interference of the clergy. These miracle plays, the manner of their representation, and all their accompani- ments and consequences, were quite in keeping with the character of the people and the times, and were no outcome of a spirit of irreverence or irreligion : their character arose from the very materialistic notions of religion that then pre- vailed ; and we need be no more shocked at the people of those times indulging in such amusements, than we need be at an uncultured hind of the present day preferring the tumbling, grimaces, and rude jests of a clown to the performance of Shakespeare's Hamlet. It is within the memory of some still living, that scenes not unlike what attended the performance of these miracle plays, were the usual concomitants of the celebration of the Communion in many of our Scotch country districts : any one may read of them in Burns's Holy Fair. As the clergy Avere the originators, and for long the only performers, in these holy plays, so it is certain that churches and monasteries were the theatres in which they were at first represented. We formerly mentioned that the abuses which arose from the performance of those dramas were carried to such a height, that various edicts were issued by the Church authorities, forbidding the clergy to take part in them, and prohibiting the churches from being used as theatres for their performance. In the reign of Alexander ii. of Scotland, penalties were decreed against all players who desecrated by their performances either the inside of the church or the churchyard ; and in a provincial synod held at Worcester in ] 240, the clergy were forbidden to appear at such exhibitions. The Manuel de Peche\ mentioned above, expressly mentions both the interior and the cemeteries of churches as the scenes of such performances. Even long after it had become THE BRITISH DRAMA. customary to exhibit miracle plays on scaffolds or platforms constructed for the purpose, and erected in the open air, churches were occasionally made use of as theatres. So late as 1542, Bishop Bonner issued a proclamation to the clergy of his diocese, prohibiting ' all manner of common plays, games, or interludes, to be played, set forth, or declared within their churches and chapels.' From a tract published in 1572, quoted by Mr. Collier, the practice seems to have been not altogether given up even then. The author, speaking of the manner in Avhich the clergy neglect their duties, says : ' He again posteth it (the service) over as fast as he can gallop : for either he hath two places to serve, or else there are some games to be played in the afternoon, ... or an interlude to he played ; and if no place else can be gotten, it must be done in the church.' It is certain, however, that at a very early period, in the large towns the clergy ceased to take an active part in the getting up and representation of these religious plays, the task being taken up by various corporations. We have seen that in London the corporation of parish-clerks exhibited a miracle play at Skinner's Well ; but in most instances it was the trading companies of the various cities where these plays were represented that took upon them- selves the duty of management, each guild undertaking a portion of the performance, and sustaining a share in the expense. In the case of the Chester plays, for example, it Avas the duty of the tanners to represent The Fall of Lucifer; the drapers undertaking to set forth The Creation and Fall; the water- drawers of the Dee, NoaKs Flood; The Slaughter of the Innocents devolving upon the goldsmiths ; The Passion of Christ falling to the lot of the fleshers, bowyers, coopers, and strangers ; and The Crucifixion to the ironmongers. From the number of actors engaged, the elaborate nature of the ' properties,' and the amount of time consumed, the corporations must have been put to considerable expense in these representations. At an early period the representations seem at times to have taken place in the open air. The Manuel de Peche^ Avritten about the middle of the thirteenth century, alluded to above, particularly reprobates the performance of miracle plays ' in the streets of cities ; ' and it is well knoAvn that, when the acting of these plays devolved upon the city trade corporations, the performances always took place in the streets, attracting immense crowds from all the districts round about. The stage was generally a scaffold, which in its most perfectly developed form consisted of three platforms or storeys ; but on this point we shall take the liberty of quoting from Mr. Collier, still the greatest authority on aU matters connected with the early British drama. 'Miracle plays,' he says, ' were acted on temporary erections of timber, indifferently called scaffolds, stages, and pageants ; and there is no doubt that in some instances they were placed upon wheels, in order that they might be removed to various parts of large towns or cities, and the plays exhibited in succession. The testimony of Archdeacon Eogers, who wrote his account of Chester prior to the death of Elizabeth, seems decisive on this point, as far as the perform- ances there are concerned. He says that the scaffold consisted of two rooms, a higher and a lower : in the lower the performers attired themselves ; and in the higher they acted, which was open at the top in order that all might be able to see the exhibition. The same authority would lead to the conclusion that only one scaffold, stage, or pageant was present at the same time in the same place ; and doubtless such was the fact, according to the arrangement of the plays to which Archdeacon Eogers refers. It is indisputable, however, that the Chester miracle plays, as they exist in the British Museum, could not have been so represented. Some of the pieces require the employment of two, and even of xxu ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF three scaffolds, independent of other contrivances : the street also must have been used, as several of the characters enter and go out on horseback. In the Coventry Plays, " the place " and " the mid-place " are mentioned ; and there can be no doubt, from the terms of some of the stage directions, that two, three, and even four scaffolds were erected round a centre — the performers proceeding, as occasion required, from one to the other, across " the mid-place." In one Widkirk play Cain is exhibited at plough with a team of horses ; and in another it is absolutely necessary for the story that something like the interior of a cottage should be represented, with a peasant's wife in bed, who pretends to have been just delivered of a child, which lies by her side in a cradle,' Strutt, however, according to Hone, informs us that the stage consisted of three plat- forms, one above another. On the uppermost sat God the Father, surrounded by his angels ; on the second, the glorified saints ; and on the last and lowest, men who had not yet passed from this life. On one side of the lowest platform was the resemblance of a dark pitchy cavern, from which issued the appearance of fire and flames ; and when it was necessary, the audience was treated with hideous yelUngs and noises, in imitation of the bowlings and cries of wretched souls tormented by relentless demons. From this yawning cave the devils them- selves constantly ascended to delight and to instruct the spectators. Mr. Wright, editor of the Chester Plays, says that he has somewhere read of charges for coals to keep up hell-fire ; and that on one occasion hell itself took fire, and was nearly burnt down. Among other extracts from the books of accounts con- nected with the representation of some of these plays, are found the following articles of expenditure : — 'Item, paid for mending hell-mouth, 2d. ;' 'Item, paid for keeping of fire at hell-mouth, 4d. ; ' ' Paid for setting the world on fire, 5d.' This last entry would lead us to infer that the ' sensation drama' is, after all, not quite so modern as the days of Mr. Boucicault, Avho, if he were consulting some of these antiquated miracle plays, might get a few hints as to the production of certain stage effects that would completely ecUpse any ' sensation ' scene hitherto attempted. We learn from some other entries in the records connected with the performance of these plays, that the actors must have dressed in character, and also that they must have been allowed either a certain salary or so much for necessary expenses. Some of these entries will sound to modern ears ludicrously profane, but certainly no feeling of impiety or irreverence actuated those who dictated them. Thus Ave meet with such entries as, ' God's coat of white leather, (6 skins) ; ' ' Cheverel (peruke) for God ; ' ' Paid to God, 2s. ; ' ' Item, to Herod, 3s. 4d. ; ' ' Item, to the devil and to Judas, 18d. ; ' ' Item, paid to the two angels, 8d. ; ' 'Item, paid to the demon, 16d.' So rigid, indeed, were their notions of dressing in character, and so strictly did our simple ancestors adhere to the letter of Avhat is written, that in the Chester and Coventry plays on The Creation, Adam and Eve are made to appear on the stage ' in all the simplicity of immortal costume,' until, after having eaten of the forbidden fruit, they- discover their nakedness. In the Chester play, Adam, after having tasted the * griefiul' (to use an obsolete but expressive term) fruit, says : Out ! alas ! what aileth me ? I am naked, well I see ! . . . Eve. Alas, this adder hath done me [nye !]* Alas, her rede* why did I ? Naked we ben both for thy, a And of our shape ashamed. Adam, husband, I rede we take These fig-leaves for shame's sake, And to om- members a hilling* make Of them for thee and me. • nye — annoyance, injury. ^ rede — advice. ^for thy — therefore. ■* hilling — covering. THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxiii The stage directions instruct tliat ' Adam and Eve shall cover their members with leaves, hiding themselves under the trees.' Warton observes ' that this extraordinary spectacle was beheld by a numerous company of both sexes with great composure : they had the authority of Scripture for such a representation, and they gave matters just as they found them in the third chapter of Genesis.' It is only fair to mention, however, that !Mr. Wright is strongly inclined to think that it is altogether an error to suppose that the representatives of our first parents appeared in a perfectly nude condition on the stage — that the direction is merely figurative, and that they were only to be supposed to be in a state of nudity. ' Still,' he adds, ' that part of the performance which related to the fig-leaves could not be otherwise than what would now be considered very inde- corous.' Altogether, when we take into account the subjects of these miracle plays, the language put into the mouths of the dramatis personce, the actors, the stage appointments, and all the accompanying details, together with the absurd beliefs which they lead us to infer must have been held by those who looked upon them as a genuine representation of reahty, we cannot fail to be amused at the simplicity of our ancestors ; at the same time regarding them with that feeling cf tender pity with which eveiy thoughtful man is filled when he thinks on the trifles that afforded him infinite pleasure, and the absurd beliefs he cherished, in the days of his childhood and boyhood. "We must now, however, review the plays themselves, which we can afford to do briefly, as we intend to give a specimen of one. This earhest form of the British drama, as the reader will have perceived, is indifferently denominated Miracle Play or Mystery ; the latter term, however, seems to have been a late importation from France, — the only names under which these religious dramas were known to our ancestors being Miracles or Plays of Miracles. In France there was always a distinction made between the appli- cation of the two terms : the term mystery was used to designate a drama founded on some incident or story in the Old or New Testament, or in the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus ; miracle play being applied to one founded on some miraculous incident in the life of a saint. The two terms, however, as we have said, are applied indiflTerently by English writers to the same thing. The origin of the term miracle or mii'acle play as applied to these early dramas is obvious, as in most of them, from the nature of their subjects, there is a strong infusion of the supernatural. The word mystery, again, it is generally said, is appropriately used in this connection to indicate that the plays thus denominated were intended to set forth to the populace the mysteries of the Christian faith. But this is the case with very few of these dramas, most of which are founded on simple narratives devoid of all mystery, taken from both the Old and New Testaments. Moreover, in many French manuscripts the word is written mistere, — its origin, according to some of the latest and best authorities, being found in the Latin ministerium, ' service,' ' office,' pointing to the time Avhen these plays formed a regular part of religious service or worship. At all events, we know that the English mkacle play or mystery was a drama founded on some historical part of the Old or New Testament, or on some incident in the life of a saint : those extant are mostly of the former character. The oldest specimen of a miracle play extant is a fragment of that alluded to formerly as generally ascribed to Gregory Nazianzen, which has been trans- lated into French. The oldest extant specimen of a miracle play in Enghsh is, according to Mr. Collier, to be found among the Harleian Manuscripts in the British Museum, the MS. being as old as the earlier part of the reign of EdAvard in., i.e. the early half of the fourteenth century. It is founded upon the sixteenth xxiv ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF chapter of the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus — which is the source of many later ones — and relates, to the descent of Christ to hell to liberate Adam, Eve, John the Baptist, and the prophets. However, the principal extant miracle plays vmtten in English consist of three separate sets known as the Towneley or Wid- kirJc collection, consisting of thirty plays supposed to have belonged to Widkirk Abbey before the suppression of the monasteries, the manuscript of which appears to have been written about the reign of Henry vi. (1422—1461) ; the Coventry Plays, forty-two in number, consisting of miracle plays said to have been repre- sented at Coventry on the feast of Corpus Chtisti, the manuscript of which Avas written at least as early as the reign of Henry vii. (1485-1509) ; the Chester Whitsun Plays, twenty-four in number, of which the oldest extant manuscript .was written in 1581, — there being four others of the dates 1592, 1600, 1604, 1607 respectively. The first collection has been published by the Surtees Society, and the two others by the Shakespeare Society. Although the manuscripts are of the above dates, the plays themselves bear internal evidence of being very much older, although it is impossible to fix the dates with anything like certainty, especially as most of the plays have apparently been modernized and otherwise tampered with. The Chester plays, according to the prologue, were originally composed in the mayoralty of John Arnway by one Done Randall, a monk of Chester Abbey, whom certain good authorities suppose to have been no other than Eandal, Eanulph, or Ralph Higden, author of the Polych^onicon ; but this can scarcely be credited, if, as the best authorities say, Higden died about 1360. A note on one of the British Museum Manuscripts of these plays mentioned above, however, says that Higden ' was thrice at Rome before he could obtain leave of the Pope to have them in the English tongue,' which indicates that the writer of the note believed that tliese plays were not originally written in English. Warton conjectured that they mtist have been written in Latin ; but Mr. Col- lier's hypothesis, that they were originally in French, is far more likely to be the truth. This supposition he bases on certain remarkable coincidences in language between some of the Chester plays and old French plays on the same subjects, and on the fact that, at the time these are said to have been composed, French was still the prevailing fashionable and literary language. Another note, appa- rently written at the end of the sixteenth century, appended to a ' proclamation' used for these plays in the time of Henry viii., contained in another Harleian manuscript, contains the following statement : — ' Sir John Arnway, mayor, 1327 and 1328, at which time these plays were written by Randall Higgenett, a monk of Chester Abbey, and played openly in the Whitsun week.' The inference from these statements is, that when the Chester plays were first insti- tuted in 1268, the dramas exhibited were written in French, but that when English became the recognised and prevailing language of all classes under Edward iii., these plays were translated from French into English, possibly by Ralph Higden the chronicler, who may have added a few of his own composition. We know that plays were regularly performed at Chester and other large towns shortly after the institution of Corpus Christi festival; and the probability is, that the dramas now extant are those which were used from the beginning, the language having been at various periods modernized in order to suit the changes undergone by the English tongue. ' The Chester series,' says Mr. Collier, ' affords specimens of orthography of different ages, from the middle of the fourteenth to the beginning of the seventeenth century.' The Coventry plays have been altered even to a greater extent ; the Widkirk collection being the only one which has been handed down in a comparatively pure state. The dramas in these three collections are nearly all on the same subjects ; and THE BRITISH DRAMA. XXV the language and mode of treatment are in many instances so very much aUke, as to lead to the belief that they were translated or adapted from a common source. The subjects are mostly taken from the Old and New Testaments, and from the apocryphal Gospel of Nicodemus, — the Chester series, however, draw- ing very sparingly from the latter source. The language of most of these plays is very rude, and often disgustingly coarse and obscene : the most sacred and divine persons are frequently made to speak in a manner that would be now considered unbecoming even in Billingsgate, though no doubt the language was regarded by those who heard it as perfectly proper and appropriate. As the writers of these dramas were not likely to make their characters and the lan- guage they used coarser and more nauseous than what they saw and heard around them in their contemporary men and women, we may safely regard them as a very faithful picture of society at the time the plays were written. No doubt the scene between Noah and his wife in the play of The Deluge^ common to the three collections, may be regarded as a faithful picture in lan- guage and action of scenes then common in the married life of all classes of society ; and indeed, scenes not very different, and language equally forcible, are not so rare, even at the present day, between husband and wife among certain classes of society. The progress of refinement in manners and language must indeed be very slow, since even at this distance from the time at which these plays were written, improvement in these as in other respects is only slowly working its way down through the lower strata of society. In the structure and conduct of the miracle plays, as might be expected, there is little or no display of art or taste ; and although occasionally we meet with scenes and language naively natural and life-like, full of dramatic effect, ' and even of gentle and tender sentiment,' still, on the whole, they are devoid of literary merit. The composers of these plays seem to have felt bound to mix the dulce with the utile^ and therefore in almost every one of them we meet with scenes of the coarsest humour and most riotous and inappropriate fun, which no doubt well served the purpose for which they were intended, viz. to keep the rude audience in good humour by furnishing them with food for uproarious laughter. Altogether, they will seem to readers of the present day — what they certainly were not meant to be by their writers, and assuredly were not considered by the audiences who witnessed them — coarse caricatures of the most sacred persons and events in holy writ, and a lamentable picture of the state of society in the time of our ancestors. Few of them can be said to be intrinsically interesting : they soon pall upon the modern taste, and are likely to be perused with profit only by the antiquarian, diligent historian, and perse- vering student of manners. The Towneley plays are the coarsest of the three collections ; the Coventry series being the best in language, and least indelicate in sentiment ; and the Chester dramas a shade better than the Towneley. As a specimen of the subjects of these primitive dramas, we shall here transcribe the titles of the mysteries contained in the Chester collection. From these the reader will perceive that many of the most important episodes in Scripture history, and especially in the life of Christ, were dramatized, and doubtless would serve the same purpose in these dark and rude ages as the * Pictorial Bible ' does at the present day. The following are the titles of the Chester plays as they occur in the Shake- speare Society edition : — 1. The Fall of Lucifer. 2. The Creation and Fall, and Death of Abel. 3. Noah's Flood. 4. The Histories of Lot and Abraham. 5. Balaam and his Ass. XXVI ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. The Salutation and Nativity. The Play of the Shepherds. The Three Kings. The Offering and Return of the Three Kings. The Slaughter of the Innocents. The Purification of the Virgin. The Temptation, and the Woman taken in Adultery. Lazarus. Christ's Entry into Jerusalem. The Lord's Supper and Christ's Betrayal. 16. The Passion of Christ. 17. The Crucifixion. 18. The Harrowing of Hell.' 19. The Resurrection of Christ. 20. Christ and the Discij)les on the way to Emmaus. 21. Chfist's Ascension. 22. The Election of Matthias, and the Emis- sion of the Holy Spirit. 23. EzekieL 24. On the Appearance of Antichrist. 25. On the Last Judgment. As a specimen of these miracle plays, and to give the reader the means of forming for himself an idea of what they really were, we have given at the end of this Introduction the greater part of the one entitled NodlCs Flood. Having dwelt with such comparative minuteness on the origin, history, and nature of the earliest form of the British drama, we shall now briefly trace its progress through the intermediate phase of what is known as the ' morality,' till it reached its full development in that form which has been consecrated by the genius of Shakespeare and his contemporaries. As we shall give at the end of this Introduction specimens illustrating the gradual progress of the drama to what is known as its 'legitimate' form, there is no great necessity for discursiveness here. At a comparatively early period there were occasionally introduced into miracle plays characters of an abstract or allegorical nature, intended to represent virtues, vices, passions, etc. ; but when this innovation Avas first made, there is no means of ascertaining. One of the earliest specimens of a drama of this kind is to be found in the Coventry series, in the eleventh play of which Truth, Justice, Peace, and Pitt/ are introduced into the Parliament of Heaven. In other plays of the same series. Death and the Mother of Death are represented as taking part ; ' until at length such characters as Beufin and Lyon were employed, partaking of greater individuality, though still personifying the feelings and passions which are supposed to have actuated the Jews against our Saviour.' Gradually such characters became more and more numerous, until, instead of being merely subsidiary to the scriptural characters forming the dramatis personcB of the miracle play, they ultimately put the latter into the shade, and a kind of play was established in which they were the sole or chief part of the characters. This kind of drama was called a ' Moral ' or ' Moral Play,' though now it is generally known under the name of a ' Morality.' It must not, however, be imagined that these moral plays entirely superseded the mysteries, which long after the invention of the former continued to be almost as popular as ever, and, as we have seen, did not entirely cease out of the land untU. the beginning of the seventeenth century. A moral or moral play is well defined by Collier to be 'a drama, the characters of which are allegorical, abstract, or symbolical, and the story of which is intended to convey a lesson for the better conduct of human life.' Evidence can be adduced to show that early in the fifteenth century the morality was in a state of considerable advancement ; and Warton thinks it reached the highest perfection of which it was capable about the end of the same century, although, as Collier remarks, it subsequently acquired a greater degree of complication, and exhibited more labour and ingenuity in its construction. As much of what we have said with regard to miracle plays is equally applicable to moral plays, it is not necessary here to enter into a minute examination of the cha- 1 i.e. The descent of Christ into hell, to release Adam and other old saints, taken from the Gospel of Nicodemus. This is THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxvii racter and structure of the latter. In many instances tliey are characterized by as much coarseness and buffoonery as are their predecessors the mysteries, although, as might be expected from the later date, and the improvement which had taken place in literary taste generally, they manifest greater skill in the use of language, and greater art in dramatic construction. Although the change in the characters of the drama from persons to personifications might seem a step baclcAvard, yet as, from the nature of these plays, there Avas a greater necessity for distinctiveness in the portraiture of character, they were really a step in advance of the miracle play, and no doubt in this respect paved the way for the invention of the legitimate drama. Nevertheless the pure morality, we cannot but imagine, must have been a very tedious affair indeed, and could not long have maintained its populai'ity, had there not been introduced into it, perhaps from the very first, scenes of buffoonery and coarse wit such as were almost invariably mixed up with the miracle play. Many of the later moralities, Avhile still retaining their peculiar character as dramas of personification, show that vast advances had been made in the dramatic art and literary skill generally, being not unfrequently characterized by considerable force and originality of language, as well as genuine humour, while they show much insight into human nature, and power of depicting character. Still even the best of them, as compared with the regular drama, would now be considered ' stale, flat, and unprofitable,' ' tolerable, and not to be endured,' and seem as little calculated to accomplish their moral end as Richardson's Pamela. As we shall see, how- ever, they were ere long so considerably modified in their character, as to be but a little removed from the legitimate drama. What we have said with regard to the structure of the stage, and the representation of miracle plays, applies equally well to the plays under consideration. We have already said that, to relieve the tedium which must have been induced by the representation of the unmodified moral plays, scenes of coarse fun and uproarious buffoonery were frequently introduced ; and in nearly all moral plays, the great suppliers of these articles are two staple characters in nearly all dramas of this kind, known as The Devil and The Vice. Any notice of moralities would be incomplete without a description of these characters, the latter of which is frequently alluded to by the Elizabethan dramatists. We shall take the liberty of quoting Mr. Collier's account of these two stock ' moral' characters : ' The Devil was no cTou'bt imported into moral plays from the old miracle plays, where he figured so amusingly, that when a new species of theatrical diversion had been introduced, he could not be dispensed with : accordingly, we find him the leader of the Seven Deadly Sins, in one of the most ancient moral plays that have been preserved. He was rendered as hideous as possible by the mask and dress he wore ; and from Ulpian Fulwell's Like xuill to Like, 1568 (and from other sources of the same kind which need not be particularized), we learn that his exterior was shaggy and hairy, one of the characters there mistaking him for "a dancing bear." His "bottle-nose" and "evil face" are mentioned both in that piece, and in T. Lupton's All for Money, 1578 ; and that he had a tail, if it required proof, is evident from the circumstance that the Vice asks him for a piece of it to make a fly-flap. His ordinary «zclamation on entering was, "Ho, ho, ho !" and on all occasions he was prone to roaring and crying out, especially when, for the amusement of the spectators, he was provoked to it by castigation at the hands of the Vice. Malone states that "his constant attendant was the Vice," as if the Devil never appeared without him but in TJie Disobedient Child (n. d. but printed about 1560), and in one or two other morals he exhibited alone. ' Regarding the Vice, Mr. Douce is of opinion (with that sagacity and knowledge which distinguish him, and make diff'erence dangerous) that the name was derived from the nature of the character ; and certain it is that he is represented most wicked by design, and never good but by accident. As the Devil now and then appeared without the Vice, so the Vice sometimes appeared without the Devil. Malone tells us that " the principal employment of the Vice was to belabour the Devil ;" but although he was frequently so engaged, he had also higher duties. He figured now and then in the religious plays of a later date ; and in ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF The Life and Repentance of Mary Magdalen, 1567, he performed the part of her lover, before her conversion, under the name of Infidelity : in King Darius, 1565, he also acted a prominent part, by his own impulses to mischief, under the name of Iniquity, without any prompting from the representative of the principle of evil. Such was the general style of tlie Vice, and as Iniquity he is spoken of by Shakespeare and Ben Jonson. The Vice and Iniquity seem, however, sometimes to have been distinct persons, and he was not unfre- quently called by the name of particular vices. ' The Vice was wholly unknown in our " religious plays" which have hitherto gone by the name of Mysteries. 'With regard to " Moralities," it is certainly true, that in the most ancient moral plays characters of gross buftbonery and vicious propensities were inserted for the amusement and instruction of the audience; but although we hear of "the fool" in Medwall's interlude performed before Henry viii. in 1516, such a character seems very rarely to have been speci- fically called " the Vice" anterior to the Eeformation. *0n the external appearance of the Vice, Mr. Douce has observed, that "being generally dressed in a fool's habit," he was gradually and undistinguishably blended with the domestic fool ; and there is every probability that such was the result. Ben Jonson, in his Devil is an Ass, alludes to this very circumstance when he is speaking of the fools of old kept in the houses of the nobility and gentry : " Fifty years agone and six, When every great man had his Vice stand by him In his long coat, shaking his wooden dagger." The Vice here spoken of was the domestic fool of the nobility about the year 1560, to whom also Puttenham, in his A^-te of English Poesie, alludes, under the terms "buffoon or vice in plays." In the second Intermean of his Staj^le News, Ben Jonson tells us that the Vice sometimes wore "a juggler's jerkin with false skirts ;" and though Mr. Douce is unquestion- ably correct when he states that the Vice was "generally dressed in a fool's habit," he did not by any means constantly wear the parti-coloured habiliments of a fool : he was some- times required to act a gallant, and now and then to assume the disguise of virtues it suited his purpose to personate. The Vice, like the fool, was sometimes furnished with a dagger of lath, and it was not unusual that it should be gilt. 'Just preceding the mention of the "juggler's jerkin" by Ben Jonson, as part of the dress of the Vice, is an allusion to the ludicrous mode in which poetical justice was not unfrequently done to him at the conclusion of a moral. Tattle observes, " but there is never a fiend to carry him away ;" and in the first Intermean of the same play, Mirth leads us to suppose that it was a very common termination of the adventures of the Vice, for him to be carried oS to hell on the back of the Devil : "he would carry away the Vice on his back, quick to hell, in every play where he came."' Of moral plays a considerable number are still extant, some in manuscript, and some printed. The subjects or aims of them are various, though the moral of very many, especially of the earlier ones, may be expressed appropriately in a slight modification of a well-known proverb, ' Do right and shame the devil ; ' or, as the epilogue attached to one of the oldest of these plays, The Castle of Perseverance, puts it — ' All men example hereat may take. To maintain the good and menden their [ways]. Thus endeth our gamys : To save you fro sinning, Ever at the beginning. Think on your last ending Te Deum laudamus ! ' Of this class are, besides the one just mentioned, Mind, Will, mid Understanding, Manhind, Nature, The World and the Child, Hick Horner, Every Man, Lusty Juventus. Others are of a more general character, but still have for their aim to enforce various lessons for human conduct, — one of them, entitled The Nature of the Four Elements, being intended ' to bring humanity to a conviction of the necessity of studying philosophy and the sciences ; ' another. The longer thou livest, the mo7'e Fool thou art, written by a W. "Wager, probably soon after the accession of Ehzabeth, is intended to enforce the necessity of giving children a good education. One which was licensed about 1569 (but founded on one much older), and entitled The Mairiage of Art and Science, has the peculiarity which belongs to no other extant play of this class, of being regularly divided into five acts, and each act into a number of scenes. Besides Art and Science, THE BRITISH DRAMA. XXIX some of the other characters are, Reason, Experience, Instruction, Study, Dili- gence, Will, Idleness, Ignorance, and Tediousness, a Giant the deadly foe of Science. After various adventures, Art manages to strike off the head of Tediousness and presents it to Science, to whom he is then married ; Art con- cluding thus : ' My pain is past, my gladness to begin, My task is done, my heart is set at rest, My foe subdued, my lady's love possest. I thank my friends whose help I have at need ; And thus yon see how Art and Science are agreed. We twain henceforth one soul in bodies twain must dwell : Eejoice I pray you all with me, my friends, and fare ye well.' Other morals of this general character are. All for iI/one_y (printed 1578), by Thomas Lupton ; The Three Lords and Three Ladies of London (1590); and Liberality and Prodigality (1602). Some of these are scarcely entitled to be called pure morals, i.e. plays in which the characters are purely allegorical, as there are introduced into them characters with personal names, often, however, representing some particular quality or abstract idea. As we cannot afford space to give a lengthened example of a pure moral play, Ave shall, before going further, quote Mr. Collier's analysis of one, by the famous John Skelton (1460- 1529), the only important author, so far as is known, who attempted this kind of dramatic writing. Skelton probably wrote several plays of this kind, but the only one extant is that entitled Magnifcence, written very possibly before 1509. In order to show the state of the language at the time this piece was written, we shall, in the quotation, retain the original spelling, which will offer very little difficulty to the reader : — ' The moral purpose of Magmjfycence is to show the vanity of worldly grandeur. It opens with a soliloquy by Felicity, who is soon joined by Liberty ; and while they are discussing the degree to which freedom ought to be allowed, Measure enters to moderate between the disputants, and enlarges on his own importance. ' Magnificence is immediately afterwards introduced, and becomes acquainted with Fancy (who calls himself Largess), with Counterfeit-countenance, Crafty-conveyance, Cloked-coUu- sion, Courtly-abusion, and Folly, who also impose upon him under feigned names. Courtly- abusion offers to carry him to a young lady, whose virtue is not inaccessible, and whose beauty is described with some luxuriance of style : As lyly white to loke upon her heyre, Her eyen relucent as carbuncle so clere ; Her mouth embawmed dylectable and mery, Her lusty lyppes ruddy as a chery." " A fayre maystresse, That quycklyis envyvedwith rudyes of the rose, Inpurtured with features after your purpose. The strejmes of her veynes as asure Inde blewe, Eubudded with beautye and colour fresshe of hewe, ' Magnificence, ruined by his friends and retainers, falls into the hands of Adversity and Poverty, and the latter, in the following striking lines, contrasts the present with the former condition of Magnificence : That was wonte to lye on fetherbeddes of downe, Nowe must your fete lye hyer than your crowne. Where you were wonte to have cawdels for your hede, Nowe must you monche mamokes and lumpes of brede. And where you had chaxmges of ryche aray, Now lap you in a coverlet full fayno that you may. And where that ye were pomped with what that ye wolde, Nowe must ye suffre bothe hungre and colde. With courtely sylkes ye were wonte to to drawe, Nowe must ye lerne to lye on the strawe. Your skynne that was wrapped in shertes of raynes, Nowe must be stormy beten with showres and rayues." ' Despair and Mischief next encounter Magnificence, and at the suggestion of the latter, •who furnishes him with a halter and a knife, he is on the point of committing suicide, when Good-hope steps in, and stays his hand ; he is followed by Redress, Circumspection, and XXX ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF Perseverance, and they convince Magnificence of the weakness and vanity of his former state of exaltation, and he is content to move in a humbler and happier sphere. Several attempts are made to enliven the seiious part of the "interlude," hy comic incident and dialogue, the burden chiefly resting upon Fancy and Folly, who on one occasion get Crafty-conveyance into their company, and persuade him to lay a wager that Folly will not be able to laugh him out of his coat ; it is accomplished in the following humorous, but not very delicate manner : " [Sere foly makeih semhlaunt to take a lowse from crafty-conveyaimce shoulder. Fancy. What hast thou found there ? Foly. By God, a lowse. Crafty-convey. By cockes harte, I trowe thou lyste. Foly. By the masse, a spanyshe moght with a gray lyste. Fancy. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Crafty-convey. Cockes armes, it is not so, I trowe. [Here Crafty-conveyaunce putteth, ofhisgoione. ' Foly. Put on thy gowne agayne, for nowe thou hast lost. Fancy. Lo, Johna bonam, where is thy brayne ? " ' The versification is varied, and the length of the piece required that much should be done to lighten the burden. ' The moralization at the end of the piece is spoken by Eedress, Circumspection, Perse- verance, and Magnificence : "And ye that have harde this dysporte and game, Jhesus preserve you frome endlesse wo and shame," ' Skelton's aim in this moral play was against grandeur in general. ' As we have said, characters not strictly allegorical, but representative of persons, are introduced into some of the above morals, although when this innovation first took place cannot be ascertained ; probably early in the sixteenth century. The earliest instance we have seen of the introduction of the repre- sentative of a person into a moral play is in the case of The Nature of the Four Elements^ where a Taverner is one of the characters ; and in some of the others of a not very much later date, it is attempted ' to invest even symbolical repre- sentatives with metaphysical as well as physical peculiarities, and to attract for them a personal interest.' In Ulpian Ful well's Like Will to Like, not printed till 1568, besides allegorical impersonations there are characters with such names as Eafe Roister, Tom Tosspot, Philip Fleming, Cuthbert Cutpurse, etc. Other plays, generally considered as belonging to this class, but which more nearly resemble the regular drama than any above mentioned, are Tom Tiler and his Wife, The Conflict of Conscience, Jack Juggler, Cambyses, and Appius and Virginia. Tom Tiler and his Wife is a sort of comedy, the plot of which turns on the sufferings of a husband, Tom Tiler, under the affliction of a shrewish wife named Strife. It was first printed in 1578, but was probably written some years earlier, and contains among its dramatis personce, besides Destiny, Desire, and Patience, two friends of the wife known as Sturdy and Tipple, and Tom Tiler's friend Tom Tailor. The poor henpecked husband's friend proposes to Tom to cure his shrewish wife by disguising himself in the husband's clothes, and administering to Strife a sound beating. This is done to such purpose that the shrew is brought to humble submission ; but Tom Tiler goes home, and in a weak moment confesses the truth to his own cost, for she, snatching up a stick, ' lays load upon him ' most unmercifully, until he exclaims — ' wife, wife ! I pray thee save my life ! You hurt me ever, I hurted you never : For God's sake, content thee. Strife. Nay, thou shalt repent thee, That ever Tom Tayler, that ruffian and railer, "Was set to be at me : he had better had eat me. ' However, matters are brought to a happy conclusion by the intervention of Patience, who renders Tom Tiler contented with his wife, and Strife more merciful to her husband. Six songs are interspersed in various lyrical measures, but none of them, according to Collier, of peculiar merit. The Conflict of Conscience, by Nathaniel Woodes, minister of Norwich, was probably written THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxxi about 1560, and is remarkable as being one of the earliest moral plays in which a historical character is introduced. This is Francis Spiera, an Italian lawyer, who in the drama is named Philologus, and who, as the title-page expresses it, ' forsook the truth of God's gospel for fear of the loss of life and worldly goods.' Besides Spiera, other personal characters are his two sons, Cardinal Eusebius, Cacenos, a Catholic priest who speaks the Scotch dialect, etc.; the allegorical characters being Conscience, Hypocrisy, Tyranny, Sensvial Suggestion, etc. Jack Juggler^ which was printed about 1562, but probably written about ten years before that, resembles a moral mainly in its design, and in the fact that a ' vice ' Jack Juggler is introduced, — all the other characters having personal names, as Martha Bongrace, Dame Coy, Jenkin Careaway, etc., mostly significant, and indicative of the character of the persons to whom they belong. Its main peculiarity, however, is, that it is one of the very oldest pieces in EngUsh founded on a classic original, the author professing, in his prologue, to have been indebted to Plautus's first comedy. Of the other two plays mentioned above, Camhyses and Appius and Virginia, both containing a mixture of history and allegory, the latter is superior to the former both in construction and in literary merit, though neither can boast of much of these two qualities. The latter is founded on a well-known incident in Roman history, and is called by its author, whose initials R. B. only are known, a ' tragical comedy,' the exact signification of neither of these words being yet weU defined. The characters are, besides Virginijis, Virginia his daughter, her mother, Judge Appius, and Claudius ; Conscience, Haphazard, Justice, Eumour, Comfort, ReAvard, and Doctrina, and some domestics. It was written not later than 1563, and, like most plays before and for some time after this, it is in rhyme. The author apparently had no notion of dramatic propriety and decorum, as he makes Virginius weU acquainted with the events narrated in the beginning of Genesis, and makes him talk of his wife and daughter going to church like Christians ; ofie of the servants swearing ' by the mass.' Still, notwithstanding these draw- backs, it compares favourably with preceding productions of the same class, and is interesting as marking an important stage in the development of the historical drama out of the old moral play, although there was produced about the same time a drama, which, so far as the characters are concerned, is entitled to be called a regular historical play. We cannot foUow the history of moral plays further, as our only design in noticing them is to show the share they had in giving birth to the legitimate drama ; and what we have said above is sufficient for this purpose, as we have broiTght owx observations down to a point when the first regular dramas, some- what crude in form, make their appearance. We have traced the history of the miracle play, the earliest form of the British drama, down to the period when it gave birth to the morality, although the former for a long time still con- tinued to be represented, especially in the country districts ; and we have shown how the latter gradually became modified, by admitting among its allegorical impersonations, characters representative of persons, and ultimately assumed a form which could not fail to suggest the historical drama. Like the miracle play,^ the morality kept the stage for long after its legitimate child had reached its vigour, one of the last and worst of its kind being The Contention betiveen Liberality and Prodigality (1602), which was acted before Queen Elizabeth. Even in the works of some of our greatest dramatists, there are occasionally short allegorical episodes ; and the best production of George Peele, David and Bethsabe (printed in the following pages), may, so far as the subject and characters are concerned, be fairly entitled a miracle play. xxxii ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF Before concluding this Introduction, by noticing some of the earliest regu- lar dramas, Ave must go back in point of time and mention shortly a species of dramatic composition, which no doubt contributed largely to suggest the regular comedy ; indeed it might itself be regarded as the earliest form of comedy, bearing somewhat of a resemblance to the modern farce. The kind of dramatic entertainment to which we refer is known as an * Interlude,' and, as its name indicates, seems to have been intended for representation during the intervals of a longer and more serious entertainment. The term Interlude was not confined to plays of this peculiar kind, but as early as the reign of Edward IV. Avas applied to theatrical productions generally, both miracle and moral plays being sometimes so designated. The name, however, since the time of John Heywood, has been applied to a class of dramatical productions of which, Mr. Collier thinks, he lias a claim to be considered the inventor ; Heywood, at all events, is the earliest known author of interludes proper, those written by him being likewise the most meritorious. The interlude is a short farcical comedy, which Avould probably occupy not above half an hour in the performance, founded on some ludicrous or absurd incident, and carried on generally by only three or four characters. How the idea of such a composition Avas suggested to HeyAVOod is not knoAvn, although there Avas often such a mixture of comedy and even ' screaming farce ' in the old mysteries and morals, that it is not improbable the ludicrous scenes in some of these might have suggested to his merry mind the notion of the comic interlude; indeed, his earliest knoAvn composition of this kind resembles someAvhat a short comical miracle play. The date of John HeyAvood's birth is not known, but early in the reign of Henry VIII. he is found attached to the court and in receipt of a salary as a ' player on the virginals ; ' in this capacity, and also as a Avriter of plays and a professed Avit, he continued to be a retainer of the court during Henry's reign and that of his daughter Mary, and, though a zealous Catholic, Avas patronized even by the rigid Elizabeth. He died at Mechlin in Brabant in 1565. Heywood is perhaps better knoAvn as an epigrammatist than a writer of plays ; he also wrote several songs. The earliest knoAvn of his interludes is A Merry Play bettveen the Pardoner, the Friar, the Curate, and Neighbour Pratte, Avritten before 1521. The tricks and imposition of both friars and pardoners are freely exposed and ridiculed during the course of the play. HeyAVOod's best interlude is undoubtedly the one entitled The Four P^s, Avritten probably about 1530. The play turns upon a dispute betAveen a Pardoner, a Palmer, a Poticary (Apothecary), and a Pedlar. The play commences by each of the four boasting of the pre-eminence of his own profession, doing his best to cast contempt on that of his neighbours. The language here, as throughout the interlude, while sometimes highly ludicrous and full of Avit and humour, is often very coarse and filthy ; and HeyAvood, though a Catholic, does not scruple to expose the unclean lives and Ioav tricks of the priesthood. Tired of reviling each other's occupation, they resolve, at the Pedlar's suggestion, to decide their dispute for pre-eminence by aAvarding it to him Avho Avill tell the greatest lie ; and after some further Avrangling, they agree each to put his lie in the form of a story. The Poticary begins, but his tale is so full of dirt and obscenity, that it is impossible for us to give even an abstract of it in these pages. The Par- doner takes his turn next, and commences by telling them that a female friend of his having died suddenly, he resolved to find out ' in what estate her sould did stand.' For this purpose he Avent to Purgatory — he apparently never dreamt of commencing higher up — but not finding her there, he made his way to hell. THE BRITISH DRAMA. XXXIU ' And first to the devil that kept the gate I came, and spalce after tliis rate : All hail, 'Sir Devil, and made low courtesy : "Welcome, quoth he, thus smilingly. He knew me well, and I at last Eemembered him since long time past : For as good hap would have it chance, This devil and I were of old acquaintance ; Tor oft in the play of Corpus Christi, He hath played the devil at Coventry. By his acquaintance and my behaviour. He showed to me right friendly favour ; He gets liis passport, and his tale proceeds * This devil and I walked arm in arm, So far, till he had brought me thither, Where all the devils of hell together Stood in array, in such apparel As for that day there meetly fell. Their horns well gilt, their claws full clean, Their tails well kempt, and, as I ween. With sothery ' butter their bodies anointed ; I never saw devils so well appointed. The master devil sat in his jacket, And all the souls were playing at racket. None other rackets they had in hand, Save every soul a good firebrand ; Wherewith they played so prettily, That Lircifer laughed merrily ; And all the residue of the fiends Did laugh thereat full well like friends. And to make my return the shorter, I said to this devil, Good master porter, For all old love, if it lie in your power. Help me to speak with my lord and your. Be sure, quoth he, no tongue can tell. What time thou couldst have come so well : For as on this day Lucifer fell. Which is our festival in hell, Nothing unreasonable craved this day, That shall in hell have any nay. But yet beware thou come not in. Till time thou may thy passport win.* thus : But of my friend I saw no whit, Nor durst not ask for her as yet. Anon all this rout was brought in silence, And 1 by an usher brought in presence Of Lucifer : then low, as well I could, I kneeled, which he so well allowed. That thus he becked, and by Saint Anthony He smiled on me well favouredly. Bending his brows as broad as barn-ddors. Shaking his ears as rugged as burrs ; Rolling his eyes as round as two bushels ; Flashing the fire out of his nostrils ; Gnashing his teeth so vaingloriously. That methought time to fall to flattery. Wherewith I told, as I shall tell. ' He beseeches Lucifer to tell him where her name, exclaims : * Now, by our honour, said Lucifer, No devil in hell shall withhold her ; And if thou wouldst have twenty mo, Wer't not for justice, they should go. For all we devils within this den Have more to do with two women. Than with all the charge we have beside : Wherefore if thou our friend will be tried. Apply thy pardons to women so That unto us there come no mo. To do my best I promised by oath ; Which I have kept, for as the faith goeth At this day, to heaven I do procure Ten women to one man, be sure. Then of Lircifer my leave I took. And straight unto the master-cook ; I was had, into the kitchen. For Margery's office was therein. All things handled there discreetly. For eveiy soul beareth office meetly : Which might be seen to see her sit So basely turning of the spit. his friend is ; the devil, after hearing For many a spit here hath she turned. And many a good spit hath she burned : And many a spit full hoth liath roasted ; Before the meat could be half roasted, And ere the meal were half roasted indeed, I took her then from the spit with speed. But when she saw this brought to pass, To tell the joy wherein she was ; And of all the devils for joy how they Did roar at her delivery, And how the chains in hell did ring. And how all the souls therein did sing ; And how we were brought to the gate, And how we took our leave thereat, Be sure lack of time sutt'ereth not To rehearse the twenty part of that. Wherefore this tale to conclude briefly, This woman thanked me chiefly That she was rid of this endless death. And so we departed on Newmarket Heath. And if that any man do mind her. Who list to seek her, there shall he find her. ' The Palmer allows that the Pardoner's tale is ' all much perilous,' but marvels how the devils could complain ' that women put them to such pain.' ' Whereby much marvel to me ensueth. That women in hell such shrews can be, And here so gentle as far as I see. Yet have I seen many a mile. And many a woman in the while. Not one good city, town, nor borough, In Christendom, but I have been thorough ; And this I would ye should understand, I have seen women five hundred thousand, And oft with them have long time tarried. Yet in all places where I have been, Of all the women that I have seen, I never saw nor knew in my conscience, Any one woman out of patience. jottery— savoury. xxxiv ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF Poticary. By the mass, there is a great lie. Palmer. Sir, whether that I lose or get, Pardoner. I never heard a greater, by our For my part judgment shall be prayed. Lady. , Pardoner. And I desire as he hath said. Pedlar. A greater ! nay, know ye any so Poticary. Proceed, and ye shall be obeyed. ' great The Pedlar then proceeds to give his award, and of course decides in favour of the Palmer, who has thus unwittingly, by the confession of all, told the greatest lie: ' Thus I award by way of judgment : Of all the lies ye all have spent. His lie to be most excellent. ' Notwithstanding the rudeness of the language and the coarseness of the fun of this unique play, it is full of humour, sarcasm, liveliness, and vigour of expres- sion, and is, on the whole, not an unworthy harbinger of the regular British comic drama. Besides the two above spoken of, other interludes by Hey wood are — A play hetiveen John the husband, Tyh his wife, and Sir John the priest ; it is a * merry play,' resembling in its structure and composition a one-act farce ; The Play of the Weather, written to enforce and illustrate a point of natural philosophy, and under' the name of Jupiter, to vindicate Providence in the course and distribution of the seasons. Both these were printed in 1533, but probably written much earlier. The last interlude we shall notice is one of some importance, in so far as it bears the same relation to the serious di'ama that Heywood's productions do to comedy. It was published about 1530, and bears the following title : * A new comedy in English, in manner of an interlude, right elegant and full of craft of rhetoric, wherein is showed and described, as well the beauty and good properties of women, as their vices and evil conditions, with a moral conclusion and exhortation to virtue. ' The characters are the hero Calisto, the heroine Melibea, Danio her father, Sempronio, a parasite, and a procuress Celestina. The following is Mr. Collier's account of the plot : ' The story is simply this : Calisto, a gay young man, is in love with Melibea, the daughter of Danio, but she dislikes him. By the advice of a parasite, called Sempronio, he engages by gifts old Celestina, who keeps a common brothel, on his side. She endeavours to seduce the heroine into her house to meet Calisto, but failing, pretends that he has a dreadful fit of the toothache, which cannot be cured without the loan of the relic-hallowed girdle of Melibea, aided by the maiden's prayers. Melibea, thus importuned, consents to lend her girdle (which seems to be taken figuratively fo;- a much less innocent concession), and immediately after she has given it, she repents her rashness, confesses her fault to her father, puts up prayers to Heaven for assistance and forgiveness, and the performance ends with a moralization and warning to old and young by Danio. ' ■ There are several other interludes extant, written about the same time as these just mentioned, but we have not space to go further into the subject ; and indeed, considering the aim of this Introduction, more details on this point are unnecessary, as we have said enough to show that early in the sixteenth century English comedy had come into being, though in a sufficiently crude state. It is the writer's fault if the reader has not also been able to understand clearly the influences which were at work about the middle of the sixteenth century, tending to give rise to a kind of serious drama, whose characters would be entirely distinct both from the scriptural and saintly personages of the miracle play and the tiresome abstractions of the morality. Into the latter, as we have seen, were gradually introduced, alongside the abstract impersonations peculiar to the moral, characters taken both from everyday life and from history ; and THE BRITISH DRAMA. xxxv to us it seems that this must have had a considerable share in suggesting the forms of the regular drama, known as Tragedy and History. There may have been other influences at work which we have now no means of ascertaining, and previous to the appearance of the first regular tragedy, there may have existed moral plays much more nearly resembling it in their characters and construc- tion than any now extant. Still, we think that the mixed moral plays which have come down to us, containing, as some of them do, a serious or tragical element, — combined with the interludes and earlier comedies, which in their construction approximate closely to the form of the legitimate drama, — would of themselves be to a great extent suggestive of the earliest form assumed by the regular serious drama. No doubt, however, the greater attention given to the Greek and Koman classics, consequent on the revival of learning, during the fifteenth and beginning of the sixteenth centuries, had its share in giving birth to the last form assumed by the English drama. One of the interludes, Thyestes^ took its title from a Homeric hero, and the moral Jack Juggler is founded on a comedy of Plautus. It is also known the Andrea of Terence was not only translated but acted before the middle of the sixteenth century ; and somewhat later a drama appeared having for its title Julius Ccesar. Later still, we learn from Gosson's School of Abuse, published in 1579, there existed dramas bearing such titles as Ccesar and Fompey, The Fabii, Cupid and Psyche, etc. ; and Gosson also informs us that ' comedies in Latin, French, Italian, and Spanish, have been thoroughly ransacked to furnish the playhouses in London.' These statements show that someAvhere about the middle of the sixteenth century the attention of British play-writers was attracted not only to the dramatic and other productions of Greece and Eome, but also to the theatrical productions of the continental nations, in some of which the regular drama had begun to flourish. While, then, the British drama of the latter half of the sixteenth century is doubtless the legitimate child of the later moral plays, it appears highly probable that the influences just mentioned had some- thing to do in helping to give it birth, and in bestowing upon it the character which ultimately marked it. The English drama, it is well known, in reference to subject, is divided into ti'agedy, comedy, and a species which may partake of the nattire of either of these, known as history or chronicle-history. The use of the terms tragedy and comedy was well enough defined both by the Greek and Eoman dramatists ; but in the earlier days of the English drama they appear to have been used in- differently to designate any kind of play, and were sometimes also applied to poetical compositions of other kinds. The play of Appius and Virginia is styled by its author a ' tragical comedy ; ' and Bale calls his miracle play, God's Promises, a tragedy, and his Christ's Temptation a comedy. Before his time, ' tragedy ' was used to signify any serious narrative in verse, and even late in the reign of Elizabeth the term was applied to other besides dramatic productions. Dante, we know, calls his Inferno a commedia. The terms, however, with the rise of the regular drama, began to be generally confined to theatrical productions ; and although we have already attempted to define them, we shall here take the liberty of quoting a paragraph from the work of Mr. Collier, in which he describes the terms with particular reference to their use in the English drama : * By tragedy and comedy, I mean theatrical productions, the characters in which are either drawn from life, or are intended to represent life, whetlier those characters be actual or imaginary ; the terms include also a species of di'ama, well known of old in the literature of this country, called "history," or "chronicle-history," which consisted of certain passages, or events detailed by annalists, put into a dramatic form, often without regard to the course in which they happened ; the author sacrificing chronology, situation, and xxxvi ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF circumstance to the superior object of prodiicing an attractive play. It is tlie disregard of the trammels of the unities which constitutes our "romantic drama," whether the story be real or iictitious ; and from the earliest period to the time of Shakespeare, there is not a play in our language in which they are strictly observed. The words "romantic drama" have reference to form and construction merely, and do not in any respect relate to senti- ment or language. ' In order to connect this Introduction with the body of the work, we shall conclude by noticing one or two of the earhest extant regular comedies and tragedies. As we shall give specimens of these, our remarks here will be brief. Judging from the remains that have reached our time, comedy had its birth at least ten years before tragedy. The earliest extant regular English comedy, discovered not many years ago, is entitled Ralph Roister Doister; it was certainly in existence in 1551, though probably written some years earlier. Its author was Nicholas Udall, a native of Hampshire, who was born in 1506, matriculated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, in 1520, and died about 1557, after having been successively Master of Eton and Westminster Schools. He appears to have written other comedies, but this is the only one which has come down to us, and in the prologue the author calls it a comedy or interlude. From this prologue we might infer that the comedies of Plautus and Terence were the models which he endeavoured to imitate. Before the discovery of Udall's play, the palm of precedence in point of time was given to Gammer GurtorCs Needle^ a comedy by Bisliop Still, written not much earlier than 1566, and much inferior both in plot, construction, and literary merit to Ralph Roister Doister. The latter is regularly divided into five acts and scenes ; and whereas Still's play depicts the manners of coarse rustic life, the scene of Udall's comedy is in London, and it possesses much interest as representing in no slight degree the manners of more polished society, exhibiting some of the peculiarities of thinking and acting in the metropolis at the period when it Avas written. The plot is interesting and well condu.cted, the language on the whole natural and vigorous, the characters marked by considerable individuality. As we shall give as much of this comedy as will enable the reader to judge of its merits for himself, it is unnecessary to notice it more minutely ; it is certainly a great advance on the meagre interlude. It is written in rhyme, but it Avas not till the time of Marlowe that the stage was fairly freed from this trammel, and even Shakespeare himself sometimes con- cludes his speeches Avith a jingle. There Avas an interval of ten years before the next regular extant drama made its appearance. Not that during this time no other theatrical productions besides morals made their appearance, — the probability is that there were ; and Mr. Collier thinks that the play we are about to notice was preceded by a tragedy upon Luigi da Porto's famous novel of Romeo and Juliet; and it is known that in 1559 and 1560 respectively, appeared translations of two of Seneca's tragedies. The Troas and Thyestes, by Jasper HeyAvood, son of the author of the Interludes. Between 1559 and 1566, other eight translations from the same author appeared by various hands. HoAvever, Ave are speaking only of those dramas that have reached our OAvn time. The earliest extant drama Avhich may be regarded as the harbinger of the regular tragedy, Avas played before the queen at Whitehall, by the members of the Inner Temple, on the 18th of January 1561, and Avas first printed in 1565 under the title of The Tragedy of Govhoduc, although in the second edition of 1571 it is entitled The Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex. The author of this piece Avas Thomas Sackville, afterwards Lord Buckhurst and Earl of Dorset, who appears to have been assisted by Thomas Norton, although it is probable that the latter had a very THE BRITISH DRAMA. small share in its composition. Thomas Sackville, the only son of Sir Richard Sackville, was born at Buckhnrst, in Sussex, in 1536; studied at Oxford and Cambridge, where he acquired a high reputation as a poet, both in Latin and Enghsh ; and afterwards became a student of the Inner Temple. It was while a student there that he wrote his tragedy. He was the author of two other poems, — The Induction^ a noble and dignified preface to the Mirror for Magistrates^ and The Complaint of the Duke of Buckingham. After travelling in France and Italy, he returned to England, and entered public life, and soon after 1566 was created Lord Buckhurst. He became a great favourite with the queen ; and after the death of Burleigh, succeeded him as Lord High Treasurer. In 1604 he was created Earl of Dorset by King James, died in 1608, and was buried in West- minster Abbey. The play of Gorboduc is regularly divided into five acts and scenes, and is so far an imitation of the classical drama that it has a chorus of ' four ancient and sage men of Britain,' although in the main it may be regarded as an early example of the romantic drama. Preceding each act there is a dumb show intended to prefigure what is to occur, although, as Warton re- marks, 'it is not always typical of the ensuing incidents.' In that which precedes Act V., the impropriety has been committed of introducing a troop of soldiers, 600 years before Christ, with fire-arms, which are discharged to indi- cate the bloodshed about to ensue. Such anachronisms were frequent enough in the old miracle and moral plays, and, as is well known, Shakespeare himself occasionally ' nods ' in this respect. ' Dumb show ' was not entirely disused even in the more advanced days of the stage. The subject of this drama is taken from the early legendary history of Britain, and the following is Hawkins' abstract of the plot : ' Gorboduc, a king of Britain about 600 years before Christ, made in his lifetime a division of his kingdom to his sons Fei-rex and Porrex. The two young princes within five years quarrelled for universal sovereignty. A civil war ensued, and Porrex slew his elder brother Ferrex. Their mother Viden, who loved Ferrex best, revenged his death by enter- ing Porrex's chamber in the night, and murdering him in his sleep. The people, exaspe- rated at the cruelty and treachery of this murder, rose in rebellion and killed both Viden and Gorboduc. The nobility then assembled, collected an army, and destroyed the rebels. An intestine war commenced between the chief lords ; the succession of the crown became uncertain and arbitrary for want of the lineal royal issue ; and the country, destitute of a king, and wasted by domestic slaughter, was reduced to a state of the most misei-able desolation. ' The tragedy ought properly to have ended with the fourth act, for there the catastrophe is complete ; but the author has eked out the play, ' certainly not very amusingly, by various harangues and narrations, relative to the civil war which followed the death of all the members of the royal family.' Although no doubt vastly superior in design and execution to most of the preceding and contemporary theatrical performances, ' it cannot,' says Mr. Collier, ' be disputed that the story proceeds with laborious sluggishness, and that the dialogue is generally as weighty as the plot it developes. The speeches are usually of most tedious extent, and the thoughts and sentiments more than sufficiently trite and commonplace.' Still, considering the circumstances under which this drama was produced,, taking into account the rubbish which had possession of the stage at the time, the wretched examples which the author had before him for imitation, as the foundation of our regular tragic drama, it must be considered on the whole a creditable performance. Notwith- standing its inflated language, bad taste, and want of individuality in the characters, the language is occasionally vigorous, and often sweet and musical. This great improvement it has on its predecessors, which, however, was not generally adopted for many years after, viz. its want of rhyme ; it is written in ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF blank verse. As we have seen before, Marlowe was the first to introduce this improvement on the public stage. A few extracts from this play will be found at the end of this Introduction. At the same time as Gorboduc, or possibly a little earlier, was written a comedy which exists in manuscript in a mutilated state, and is spoken of with approval by Mr. CpUier. It is entitled Misogonus, and is probably founded on an Italian novel. Another dramatist, who wrote about the same time as Sackville, was Richard Edwardes, born 1523, died 1566; he was a native of Somersetshire, and was educated at Oxford. Little else appears to be known about him, except that he was the author of several plays, the names of only two of which have come down to us, Palemon and Arcite, and Damon and Pythias^ the latter alone being extant. It was acted in 1564, but was probably written somewhat earlier. It is a tragi- comedy wi'itten in rhyme, and is full of all kinds of dramatic improprieties and absurdities, but contains some sweet and fanciful though conceited poetry ; alto- gether, it is a fair production for the time, and may be regarded as one step in advance towards the perfection of the regular drama. In 1566 appeared Bishop Still's Gammer Gurton's Needle, a comedy of the same class as Ralph Roister Doister, though much inferior to that production. The plot turns on the loss of Gammer Gurton's needle, which, after much talk and searching, is found sticking in the seat of her servant Hodge's breeches. The language is even more coarse and antiquated than in its predecessor, which may be accounted for by the lower class of characters that form the dramatis personcB. It contains one of the earliest drinking songs in the language, which, as it has considerable merit and a jolly ring about it. we shall make bold to quote here : ' Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go cold : But belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old. I cannot eat, but little meat, My stomach is not good; But sure 1 think, that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I am nothing a cold; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, etc. I love no roast, but a nut-brown toast, And a crab laid in the fire ; A little bread shall do me stead. Much bread I not desire. No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow. Can hurt me if I wold, I am so wrapt, and throughly lapt Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, etc. And Tyb my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, Full oft drinks she, till ye may see The tears run down her cheek; Then doth she trowl to me the bowl. Even as a malt worm should; And saith, sweet heart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, etc. Now let them drink, till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do. They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to : And all poor souls, that have scom-ed bowls. Or have them lustily trold, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old. Back and side go bare, etc. ' In the same year as Bishop Still's play appeared, there were represented at Gray's Inn two plays by George Gascoigne (born 1536, died 1577) ; the one entitled The Supposes, being a translation from Gli Suppositi of Ariosto, and the other Jocasta, adapted from the Phainissce of Euripides by Gascoigne and a poet named Francis Kinwelmarsh. The former is mainly a close translation from the original, and is remarkable chiefly as being the earliest extant specimen of an English play written in prose. The Sv2)poses, which is more of an adapta- tion than a translation, is, like Gorboduc, written in blank verse, and contains THE BRITISH DRAMA. XXXIX many passages of spirit, force, and harmony. We quote the following descrip- tion of the fight between Eteocles and Polynices (Act V.) : ' Oh blind imbridled search of sovereignty, Oh tickle train of evil attained state ! Oh fond desire of princely dignity ! Who climbs too soon, he oft repents too late. The golden mean the happy doth suffice ; They lead the poasting day in rare delight. They fill (not feed) their uncontented eyes, They reap such rest as doth beguile the nisht : They not envy the pomp of haughty train, Nor dread the dint of proud usurping swords ; But plast alow more sugred joys attain, Tlian sway of lofty sceptre can aiford. Cease to aspire, then ^ cease to soar so high. And shun the plague that pierceth noble breasts. To glittering courts what fondness is to fly When better state in baser towers rests ! ' We cannot afford to notice more in detail the productions which appeared previous to the time when the ' great race' of Elizabethan dramatists, commenc- ing with Lilly, began to pour forth their unequalled productions ; indeed there are few pieces extant, produced dviring that time, of any great merit in them- selves, and we have noticed those above mentioned chiefly to show the reader when and how the regular di'ama came into being. Enough has been said to prove that shortly after 3 560 it was fairly afloat on the sea of literature; and as a proof that the morality was being rapidly superseded by its more vigorous and life-like successor, as well as of the immense productiveness of the period between 1560 and 1580, we may mention that while, during that time, only six moralities were represented at court, there Avere enacted forty-six regular tragedies and comedies, none of which are now extant. As we are mainly concerned here with the drama as a form of literature, we have not thought it necessary, and, indeed, we have not space, to give any details concerning it in its theatrical aspect. With regard to theatres, it must suffice to say that long after the commencement of the regular drama, moralities and even regular plays were played in public on stages erected in the open air, very often in inn yards. The Bell& Savage in London was a favourite locality for such performances. It would appear, however, that latterly it was customary to represent plays in private in such places as the Inns of Court, and the residences of the sovereign and the nobility. The first regularly licensed theatre was opened at Blackfriars in 1576; and in a very short time it had about half a dozen rivals, as The Theatre in Shoreditch, The Curtain near Belle Savage, Paris Garden, Whitefriars, and others. The Glohe theatre, with which Shakespeare was connected, was erected on the Bankside in Southwark about 1593, where also were erected Tlte Rose, The Hope, and The Sivan theatres. In the time of Shakespeare there would appear to have been at least a dozen of these buildings. ' The theatres were con- structed of wood, of a circular form, open to the weather, excepting over the stage, Avhich was covered with a thatched roof. Outside, on the roof, a flag was hoisted during the time of the performance, which commenced at three o'clock, at the sounding or flourish of trumpets. The cavaliers and fair dames of the court of Elizabeth sat in boxes below the gallery, or were accommodated with stools on the stage, where some of the young gallants also threw themselves at length on the rush-strewn floors, while their pages handed them pipes and tobacco, then a fashionable and highly-prized luxury. The middle classes were crowded in the pit or yard, Avhich was not furnished with seats. Moveable sceneiy was first introduced by Davenant after the Eestoration, but rude imita- tions of towers, woods, animals, or furniture, served to illustrate the scene. To point out the place of action, a board containing the name, painted or written in large letters, was hung out during the performance.' Actresses were not seen on the stage till after the Eestoration, the female parts being taken by boys xl ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF or effeminate-looking young men. It was customary for the king or queen and some of the nobles to retain companies of actors in their service for their own entertainment, although they were also allowed to act in public ; hence the phrases attached to the titles of many old plays, ' Acted by the Queen's Majesty's Servants,' ' the Earl of Leicester's Servants,' etc. As will be seen in the following pages, many of the dramatists were actors as well. SPECIMENS OF EARLY ENGLISH DRAMAS. In order to illustrate the preceding remarks, and enable the reader to judge for himself of the nature and progress of the early English drama, we shall here give specimens of a miracle play, and of an early comedy and tragedy. We have not space to introduce a morality ; but as, with the exception of the characters, it differed but little from a miracle play, an example of a morality can be dispensed with, especially as we have given an abstract of one or two in the Introduction, which we have also done in the case of one of the best Interludes. The miracle play we have selected is the one entitled NoaJi's Flood, from the Chester series ; it was played by the ' Water Leaders and the Drawers of the Dee.' The whole series appears to have been played at one time, and to have occupied a number of days. Previous to the commencement of their exhibi- tion, were read the Banes or proclamation, which gives an account of the sup- posed origin of the plays, and assigns to each of the trade-companies the part it is to take in the performance. Noah's Flood was the third in the order of performance, being preceded by The Fall of Lucifer, and The Creation and the Fall. The first speaker is God, who laments the universal wickedness of the world, declaring his determination to exterminate ' man, beast, worm, and fowl.' He then gives Noah the details of the construction of the ark, and the play pro- ceeds as follows : — ' NOAIT. ' Lord, I thank tbee loud and still, That to me art in such will, And spares me and my household to spill, As I now soothly find. Thy bidding. Lord, I shall fulfil, And never more tbee grieve nor grill,' That such grace hatb sent me till Amongst all mankind. Have done, you men and women all, Hie you, lest this water fall. To work this ship, chamber and hall, As God hatb bidden us do. Shesi. Father, I am all ready bowne ;* An axe I have, by my crown ! As sharp as any in all this town, For to go thereto. Ham. I have a hatchet wondrous keen, To bite well, as may be seen, A better groixnd one, as I ween, Is not in all this town. Japheth. And I can make well a pin, And with this hammer knock it in ; Go we work but din * And I am ready bound. Noah's Wife. And we shall bring timber too, For we must nothing else do ; Women be weak to undergo Any great travail. S hem's Wife. Here is a good hackiag stock, On this you may hew and knock Shall none be idle in this flock; Nay, now may no man fail. Ham's Wife. And I will go gather slyche,'' The ship for to caulk and pitch, Anointed it must be with stick, Board, tree, and pine. 1 grill — provoke. * but rfira— without din, i.e. without any more noise or talk. 2 bowne— xc&Ay. * slyche— sVime, mud, or lime. THE BRITISH DRAMA. xli Japheth's Wife. Wife, we shall in this vessel be kept, My children and thou I would ye in leapt. And I will gather chips here To make a fire for you in fere.' Noah's Wife. And for to dight- your dinner, Against your coming in. In faith, Noah, I would as lief thou slept ! For all thy frynish* fare, Tlien Noah beginneth to build the ark, and I will not do after thy rede.* speaketh Noah : Noah. Noah. Now in the name of God, I begin Good wife, do now as I thee bid. • To make the ship that we shall in. Noah's Wife. That we may be ready for to swim At the coming of the flood : By Christ ! not or I see more need. These boards here I pin together. Though thou stand all day and stare. To bear us safe from the weather, That we may row hither and thither, Noah. And safe be from the flood. Of this tree will I make the mast, Lord, that women be crabbed aye. Tied with cables that will last. And none are meek I dare well say ; With a sail yard for each blast. That is well seen by me to-day, And each thing in their kind : In witness of you each one. With topcastle and bowsprit. Good wife, let be all this beare. Both cords and ropes I have all mette,' That thou makest in this place here ; To sail forth at the next wet. For all they ween that thou art master. This ship is at an end. And so thou art, by Saint John ! ' God then gives Noah a list of all the animals he is to take with him into the ark, concluding by declaring that he shall cause rain to fall for forty days and nights in order that men may be destro)' ed for their ' itnrights.' ' Noah. They shall not drown, by Saint John ' ' Lord, to thy bidding I am beane,* Seeing no other grace will gain. It will I fulfil fain, ^ For gracious 1 thee find ; A hundred winter and twenty An I may save their life. They loved me full well, by Christ ! But "thou let them into thy chest, Else row now where thou list, And get thee a new wife. This ship making tarried have I : Noah. If through amendment thy mercy Would fall to mankind. Shem, son, lo ! thy mother is wroth ; By God, such another I do not know ! Then Noah shall go into the ark with all his Shem. family, his wife excepted, and the ark must be boarded round about, and on the boards Father, I shall fetch her in, I trow. all the beasts and fowls painted. Withouten any fail. — Motker, my father after thee sends, Shem. And bids thee into yonder ship wend. Sir, here are lions, leopards in, Look up and see the wind, Horses, mares, oxen, and swine ; For we be ready to sail. Goat and calf, sheep and kine ; Here sitting thou may see. Noah's Wife. Ham. Shem, go again to him, I say; I will not come therein to-day. Camels, asses, man may find, Buck and doe, hart and hind. Noah. And beasts of all manner kind, Come in, wife, in twenty devils' way ! Here be, as thinketh me. Or else stand there all day. Noah. Ham. Wife, come in : why stand thoii there ? Shall we all fetch her in? Thou art ever froward, I dare well swear; Noah. Come in, in God's name ! half time it were, For fear lest we drown. Tea, sons, in Christ's blessing and mine ! I would you hied you betime, Noah's Wife. For of this flood I am in doubt. Tea, sir, set up your sail, The Good Gossip's Song. And row forth with evil hail. For withouten fail The flood comes flitting in full fast, I will not out of this town ; On every side that spreads full far ; But I have my gossips every one, For fear of drowning I am aghast; One foot further I will not go : Good gossips, let us draw near. 1 tn/er«— in company. '^ dight —prepare. ^ me«e— measured. * /rynUh— nice. * rede- -advice. * heane— obedient. xlii ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF And let us drink or we depart, For ofttinies we have done so ; For at a draught thou drinks a quart, And so will I do or I go. Here is a pottle full of Malmser good and strong; It will rejoice both heart and tongue ; Though Noah think us never so long, Here we will drink alike. Japheth. Mother, we pi'ay you all together. For we are here, your own children. Come into the ship for fear of the weather. For his love that you bought ! Noah's Wife. That will I not, for all your call, Eut' I have my gossips all. Shem. In faith, mother, yet you shall, "Whether thou wilt or not. NOAII. Welcome, wife, into this boat. Noah's Wife. Have thou that for thy note!- NOAII. Ha, ha! many, this is hot! [It] is good for to be still. Ha ! children, methinks my boat removes, Our tarrying here highly me grieves, Over the land the water spreads ; God do as he will. Ah ! great God, thou art so good. That works not thy will is wood,^ Now all this world is one flood, As I see well in sight. This window I will shut anon, And into my chamber I will go, Till this water so great mone * Be slacked through thy might. Then shall Noah shut the window of the ark, and for a little space be silent, and afterwards looking round about shall say : Noah. Lord God, in majesty, That such grace hath granted me, Where all was born false to be, Therefore now I am bound,- My wife, my children, and my meanye,* With sacrifice to honour thee. Of beasts, fowls, as thou may'st see And full devotion. God. Noah, to me thou art full able,* And to my sacrifice acceptable. For I have found thee true and stable ; On thee now must I mind ; ' Warray * earth I will no more. For man's sins that grieves me sore. You shall now grow and multiply, On earth again to edify ; My bow between you and me In the firmament shall be. By every token that you shall see. That such vengeance shall cease. Man shall never more Be wasted with water, as be hath been before ; But for sin that grieveth me sore, Therefore this vengeance was. My blessing, Noah, I give thee here, To thee, Noah, my servant dear ; For vengeance shall no more appear, And now farewell, my darling dear. We shall next present to the reader so much of the earliest extant English comedy (Ralph Roister Doister) as will enable him to form a notion of its merits as a drama. ^rsmatis ^trsojta. Men. Ealph Koister Doister. Matthew Mekrygreeice. Gavin Goodlucive. Sym Suresbt. Tristram Trusty. Dobinet Doughtle. Truepenny. Harpax. A Scrivener. Women. Christian Custance. Madge Mumblecrust. Tibet Talkapace. Annot Alyface. ACT I.— SCENE I. Matthew Mekrygreeke (entereth singing). As long liveth the merry man (they say), As doth the sorry man, and longer by a day. Aft€r a few more lines in this strain, he says: ' £!;<— -without, unless. 3 wood—ma.i. « able— fit, proper. 2 note—di) head or nose. She evidently makes him feel the -weight of her * mone — may. * meanye — menage, household. ^ mind — think. * Warray — -wax with, curse. THE BRITISH DRAMA. xliii Enow ye, that for all this merry note of mine, He might pose me now that should ask where I dine. My Uving lieth here and there, of God's grace: Sometime with this good man, sometime in that place ; But this day on Ealph Eoister Bolster's, by his leave. For truly of all men he is my chief banker. Both for meat and money, and my chief sheet- anchor. For sooth Koister Bolster in that he doth say. And require what ye will, ye shall have no nay. But now of Eoister Doister somewhat to express. That ye may esteem him after his worthiness, In these twenty towns, and seek them through- out, Is not the like stock whereon to graft a lout. All the day long is he facing and craking ' Of his great acts in fighting and fraymaking ; But when Eoister Doister is put to his proof. To keep the queen's peace is more for his behoof. If any woman smile or cast on him an eye, Up is he to the hard ears in love by and by. And in all the hot haste must she be his wife. Else farewell his good days, and farewell his life: Master Ealph Eoister Doister is but dead and gone. Except she on him take some compassion. I will seek him out. But, lo, he cometh this way. I have yonder espied him sadly coming, And in love for twenty pouud by his glooming. ACT I.— SCENE II. Ealph Eoister Doister ; Matthew Merry- GREEKE. R. Roister. Come, death, when thou wilt: I am weary of my life. M. Merry. What is it then ? Are ye in danger of debt to any man ? If ye be, take no thought, nor be not afraid : Let them hardly take thought how they shall be paid. R. Roister. Tut, I owe nought. 31. Merry. What then? fear ye imprisonment? R. Roister. No. M. Merry. No, I wist, ye offend not so to be shent.^ But if he had, the Tower could not you so hold. But to break out at all times ye would be bold. What is it? hath any man thi-eatened you to beat? R. Roister. What is he that durst have put me in that heat ? He that beateth me, by his arms, shall well find, That I will not be far from him, nor run behind. M. Merry. That thing know all men, ever since ye overthrew The fellow of the lion which Hercules slew. But what is it then ? R. Roister. Of love I make my moan. M. Merry. Ah, this foolish love! wil't ne'er let us alone ? But because ye were refused the last day. Ye said ye would ne'er more be entangled that way. I would meddle no more, since I find all so unkind. ^ craking — boasting. - shent — disgraced. R. Roister. Yea, but I cannot so put love out of my mind. M. Merry. What is her name ? R. Roister. Her yonder. M. Mei~ry. Who ? R. Roister. Mistress ah — M. Merry. Fie, fie for shame ! Love ye and know not whom ? but her yonder, a woman ? We shall then get you a wife, I cannot tell when. R. Roister. The fair woman, that supped with us yesternight ; And I heard her name twice or thrice, and had it right. M. Merry. Yea, ye may see ye ne'er take me to good cheer with you ; If ye had, I could have told you her name now. R. Roister. I was to blame indeed, but tho next time perchance. And she dwelleth iu this house. M. Merry. What, Christian Custance ? R. Roister. Except I have her to my wife, I shall run mad. M. Merry. Nay, unwise, perhaps, but I war- rant you for mad. R. Roister. I am utterly dead unless I have my desire. M. Merry. Where be the bellows that blew this sudden fire ? R. Roister. I hear she is worth a thousand pound and more. M. Merry. Yea, but learn this one lesson of me afore : An hundred pound of marriage money doubtless. Is ever thirty pound sterling, or somewhat less ; So that her thousand pound, if she be thrifty. Is much near about two hundred and fifty. Howbeit, wooers and widows are never poor. R. Roister. Is she a widow ? I love her better therefore. M. Merry. But I hear she hath made promise to another. R. Roister. He shall go without hei", and he were my brother. 31. 3Ierry. I have heard say, I am right well advised. That she hath to Gavin Goodlucke promised. R. Roister. What is that Gavin Goodlucke ? 3f. Merry. A merchant man. Yet a fitter wife for your ma'ship ' might be found. R. Roister. I am sorry God made me so comely, doubtless. For that maketh me each where so highly favoured, And all women on me so enamoured. M. 31erry. Enamoured, quoth you ? have ye spied out that ? Ah, sir, many now I see you know what is what. Enamoured, ka ? 2 Marry, sir, say that again ; But I thought not ye had marked it so plain. R. Roister. Yes, each where they gaze all upon mo and stare. 31. Merry. Yea, Malkyn, I warrant you as much as they dare. And ye will not believe what they say in the street, When your ma'ship passeth by all such as I meet. That sometimes I can scai-ce find what answer to make. ' ma'i/jjp— mastership. 2 ka — quoth'a. xliv ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF Matthew then tells Ealph what great heroes the women mistake him for, and proceeds thus : Lord ! (say some) that the sight of his face we lack. It is enough for you (say I) to see his back. His face is for ladies of high and noble parages, With whom he hardly 'soapeth great marriages. With much more than this, and much otherwise. R. Roister. I can thee thank that thou canst such answers devise : But I perceive thou dost me throughly know. M. Merry. I mark your manners for mine own learning, I trow ; But such is your beauty, and such are your acts. Such is your personage, and such are your facts, That all women, fair and foul, more and less, They eye you, they love you, they talk of you doubtless. Your pleasant look maketh them all merry, Ye pass not by, but they laugh till they be weary ; Yea and money could I have, the truth to tell. Of many to bring you that way where they dwell. R. Roister. Merrygreeke, for this thy report- ing well of me — M. Merry. What should I else, sir ? it is my duty, pardee. R. Roister. I promise thou shaft not lack, while I have a groat. M. Merry. Faith, sir, and I ne'er had more need of a new coat. R. Roister. Thou shalt have one to-morrow, and gold for to spend. M. Merry. Then I trust to bring the day to a good end. M. Merry. What if Christian Custance will not have you, what ? R. Roister. Have me ? yes I warrant you, never doubt of that. 1 know she loveth me, but she dare not speak. Sh e looked on me twenty times yesternight. An d laughed so. M. Merry. In the meantime, sir, if you please, I will home. And call your musicians ; for in this your case. It would set you forth, and all your wooing grace : Ye may not lack your instruments to play and sing. ACT I.— SCENE III. Madge Mumelecrust spinning on the distaff; Tibet Talicapace sewing ; Annot Alyface knitting; E. Koisteu. TAfter some sharp practice between Madge, Tibet, and Ealph, the latter and Madge are left alone.] R. Roister. Ah, good sweet nurse. M. Mumhl. Ah, good sweet gentleman. R. Roister. What ? M. Mumbl. Nay, I cannot tell, sir ; but what thing would you ? R. Roister. How doth sweet Custance, my heart of gold, tell me how ? M. Mumbl. She doth very well, sir, and com- mand me to you. R. Roister. To me .' M. Mumbl. Yea, to you, sir. 7?. Roister. To me ? Nurse, tell me plain, To me ^ M. Mumhl. Yea. R. Roister. That word maketh me alive again. I promise thee, nurse, I favour her. M. Mumhl. E'en so, sir. R. Roister. Bid her sue to me for marriage. M. Mumhl. E'en so, sir. R. Roister. And surely for thy sake she shall speed. M. Mumhl. E'en so, sir. R. Roister. 1 shall be contented to take her. M. Mumhl. E'en so, sir. R. Roister. But at thy request, and for thy sake. M. Mumhl. E'en so, sir. R. Roister. And come, hark in thine ear what to say. M. Mumhl. E'en so, sir. [Here let him tell her a great long tale in her ear. ACT I.— SCENE IV. Matthew Merrygreeke ; Dobinet Doughtie ; Ealph Eoister ; Madge Mumblecrust; Harpax. 31. Meri-y. Come on, sirs, apace, and quit your- selves like men. Your pains shall be rewarded. But with whom is he now so sadly rounding i yond .' B. Dough. With Nohs Nicehecetur Miserere fond. M. 3Ierry. God be at your wedding: be yo sped already ? I did not suppose that your love was so greedy. I perceive now ye have choice of devotion, And joy have ye, lady, of your promotion.! R. Roister. Tush, fool, thou art deceived : this is not she. M. Merry. Well, make much of her, and keep her well, I advise ye. I will take no charge of such a fair piece keeping. M. Mumhl. What aileth this fellow? he driveth me to weeping. M. Merry. What, weep on the wedding day ? be merry, -woman : Though I say it, ye have chosen a good gentle- man. R. Roister. What meanest thou man? tut, a whistle. M. Merry. Ah sir, be good to her, she is but a gristle. Ah, sweet lamb and coney. R. Roister. Tut, thou art deceived. M. Merry. Weep no more, lady, ye shall bo well received. Up with some merry noise, sirs, to bring home the bride. R. Roister. Gogs arms ! knave, art thou mad ? I tell thee, thou art wide. R. Roister. This same is the fair widow's nurse, of whom ye wot. M. Merry. Is she but a nurse of a house ? ' Now so seriously whispering yonder. THE BRITISH DRAMA. xlv R. Roister. This is our best friend, man. M. 3Ierry. Then teach her what to say. M. Mumhl. I am taught already. M. Mumhl. And what shall I show your mastership's name is ? R. Roister. Nay, she shall make suit, ere she shall know that, ywis. AT. Mumhl. Yet, let me somewhat Icnow. M. Merry. This is he, iinderstand, That killed the blue spider in Blanchepouder land. M. Mumhl. Tea, Jesus, William, zee law ! did he zo law ? 31. Merry. Yea, and the last elephant that ever he saw, As the beast passed by, he start out of a buske,^ And e'en with pure strength of arms pluck'd out his great tusk. M. Mumhl. Jesus, Nomine Patris, what a thing was that ! R. Roister. Yea, but Merrygreeke, one thing thou hast forgot. M. MeiTy. What ? R. Roister. Of the other elephant. M. Merry. Oil, him that fled away ? R. Roister. Yea. M. Merry. Yea, he knew that his match was in place that day. 3f. Mumhl. Oh Lord! my heart quaketh for fear, he is so sore. R. Roister. Thou makest her too much afraid, Merrygreeke ; no more. This tale would fear my sweetheart Custance right evil. R. Roister. Now, nurse, take this same letter here to thy mistress ; And as my trust is in thee, ply my business. 3f. Mumhl. It shall be done. M. Merry. Who made it ? R. Roister. I wrote it each whit. M. 3Terry. Then needs it no mending. R. Roister. No, no. 3f. Mei~ry. No, I know your wit. R. Roister. I warrant it well. 31. 3Iumbl. It shall be delivered ; But, if ye speed, shall I be considered.' M. Merry. Whough! dost thou doubt of that? 3{. 3lumhl. What shall I have ? 3t. Merry. An hundred times more than thou canst devise to crave. 31. 3Iumhl. Shall I have some new gear ? for my dole is all spent. 3T. Merry. The worst kitchen wench shall go in ladies' raiment. 31. 3Iumbl. Yea ? 31. 3Ierry. And the worst drudge in the house shall go better Thau your mistress doth now. 31. Mumhl. Then I trudge with your letter. R. Roister. Now may I repose me: Custance is mine own. Let us sing and play homeward, that it may be known. 3f. 3Ierry. But, are you sure that your letter is well enough ? R. Roister. I wrote it myself. 31. 3ferry. Then sing we to dinner. [//ere they sing, and go out singing. The letter is delivered to Christian Custance, who refuses to open it ACT IL-SCENE L DOBINET DOUGHTIE. D. Dough. Where is the house I go to, before or behind ? I know not where, nor when, nor how I shall it find. If I had ten men's bodies, and legs, and strength, This trotting that I have must needs lame me at length. And now that my master is new set on woo- ing, I trust there shall none of us find lack of doing : Two pair of shoes a day will now be too little To serve me, I must trot to and fro so mickle. ' Go, bear me this token ; carry me this letter; ' Dobinet then meets with Truepenny, Tibet, and Annot, and persuades them to convey Ealph's token to their mistress, who rewards them with a sound scolding. Now this is the best way; now that way is better. ' Up before day, sirs, I charge you, an hour or twain ; Trudge, do me this message, and bring word quick again.' And now am I sent to Dame Christian Cus- tance ; But I fear it will end with a mock for pastance.* I bring her a ring, with a token in a clout ; And, by all guess, this same is her house out of doubt. I know it now perfect, I am in my right way ; And lo ! yonder the old nurse, that was with us last day. C. Custance. Well, ye naughty girls, if ever I perceive That henceforth ye do letters or tokens receive. To bring unto me, from any person or place. Except ye first show me the party face to face. Either thou or thou, full truly abide thou shalt. Tih. Talk. Pardon this, and the next time powder me in salt. C. Custance. I shall make all gii'ls, by you twain, to beware. Tih. Talk. If I ever offend again, do not me spare. But, if ever I see that false boy any more, By your mistresship's licence, I tell you afore, I will I'ather havemy coat twenty times swinged, Than on the naughty wag not to be avenged. C. Custance. Good wenches would not so ramp abroad, idly, But keep within doors, and ply their work earnestly. If one would speak with me, that is a man likely, Ye shall have right good thank to bring me word quickly ; ' iusJce — buah. * jjastowce— pastime. xlvl ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF But, otherwise, wifh. messag.es to come in post, From henceforth, I promise you, shall be to your cost. Get you in to your work. Tib. and Annot. Yes, forsooth. C. Custance. Now will I in too, for I think, so God me mend, This will prove some foolish matter in the end. [^Exeunt. ACT III.— SCENE II. Tibet; M. Mereygreeke; Christian Custance. Tib. Talk. Ah! that I might but once in my life have a sight Of him who made us all so ill shent ; by this light. He should never escape, if I had him by the ear, But, even from his head, I would it bite or tear. Tea, and if one of tbem were not enough, I would bite them both off, I make God a vow. C. Custance. In at dooi's ! Tib. Talk. I am gone. VExit. M. Merry. Dame Custance, God ye save. C. Custance. Welcome, friend Merrygreeke: and, what thing would ye have ? M. Merry. I am come to you, a little matter to break. C. Custance. No creature hath my faith and troth but one. That is Gavin Goodlucke : and if it be not he, He hath no title this way, whatever he be. For I know none to whom I have such word spoken. M. Merry. Ye know him not you, by his letter and token ? C. Custance. Indeed true it is, that a letter I have, But I never read it yet, as God me save. M. Merry. Ye a woman, and your letter so long unread ! C. Ctistance. Ye may thereby know what haste I have to wed. But now, who is it for my hand, I know by guess. M. Merry. Ah ! well, I say. C. Custance. It is Eoister Doister, doubtless. M. Merry. Will ye never leave this dissimu- lation ? Ye know him not ? C. Custance. But by imagination; For, no man there is, but a very dolt and lout, That to woo a widow would so go about. He shall never have me his wife while he do live. M. Merry. Then will he have you if he may, so might I thrive ; And he biddeth you send him word by me, That ye humbly beseech him ye may his wife be. And that there shall be no let in you, nor mistrust. But to be wedded on Sunday next if he list ; And biddeth you to look for him. C. Custance. Doth he bid so ? M. Merry. When he Cometh, ask him whether he did or no. C. Custance. Go say, that I bid him keep him warm at home, For, if he come abroad, he shall cough me a mome.i My mind was vexed, I 'shrew his head, sottish dolt. M. Merry. He hath in his head — C. Custance. As much brain as a burbolt.^ 31. Merry. Well, Dame Custance, if he hear you thus play choplogic. C. Custance. What will he ? M. Merry. Play the devil in the horologe.^ C. Custance. I defy him, lout. M. Merry. Shall 1 tell him what ye say ? C. Custance. Yea, and add whatsoever thou canst, 1 thee pray. And I will avouch it whatsoever it be. M. Merry. Then let me alone ; we will laugh well, ye shall see : It will not be long ere he will hither resort. C. Custance. Let him come when him list, I wish no better sport- Fare ye well, I will in, and read my great letter : I shall to my wooer make answer the better. \_Exeunt. Matthew goes and gives Ralph an exaggerated version of Custance's answer, taking the opportunity of letting his silly friend know his own real opinion of his character. Under cover of Christian's answer, Ealph is called The veriest dolt that ever was horn ; And veriest lubber, sloven, and beast. Living in this world, from the west to the east ; Yet, of himself hath he such opinion. That in all the world is not the like minion. He thinketh each woman to be brought in dotage. With the only sight of his goodly personage : Yet, none that will have him : we do him lout and flock. And make him among us, our common sporting- stock ; And so would I now (quo' she), save only be- cause, — ' Better nay,' (quo' I) — ' I list not meddle with daws.' ' Ye are happy (quo' I) that ye are a woman, This would cost you your life in case ye were a man.' R. Roister. I will go home and die. M. Merry. Then shall I bid toll the bell ? R. Roister. No. M. Merry. God have mercy on your soul : ah, good gentleman, That e'er you should thus die for an unkind woman ! Will you drink once ere you go ? R. Roister. No, no, I will none. M. Merry. How feel your soul to God ? R. Roister. I am uigh gone. M. Merry. And shall we hence straight ? 1 A mome is another word for a fool, and the phrase ' cough me a fool ' is common in old plays. 2 A iiurboU is a bird-bolt, or arrow with which boys knocked down birds ; it had a nob at the end. * 'To play the devil in the horologue,' or in the clock, is an expression to indicate the making of confusion. 'The divell is in th' orloge, the houres to trye : Searche houres by the sun, the devyll's dyal will lie.' J. Heywood's Proverbs, 1562. THE BRITISH DRAMA. xlvii R. Roister. Yea. M. Merry. Placebo dilexi. \ut infra} Master Eoister Doister will straight go home and die. R. Roister. Hech how, alas! the pangs of death my heart do break. 3f. Merry. Hold your peace, for shame, sir! a dead man may not speak. Nequando: What mourners and what torches shall we have ? R. Roister. None. M. Merry. Dirige. He will go darkling to his grave, — Neque lux, neque crux, neque mourners, neque clink. He will steal to heaven, unknowing to God, I think, A porta inferi. "Who shall your goods possess ? R. Roister. Thou shalt be my sectour,^ and have all, more and less. M. Merry. Requiem xternam. Now God reward your mastership. And I will cry halfpenny dole for your worship. . . . All men take heed by this one gentleman, How you set your love upon an unkind woman : For these women be all such mad, peevish elves. They will not be won, except it please them- selves. But, in faith, Custance, if ever ye come in hell, Master Koister Doister shall serve you as well. And will ye needs go from us thus in very deed? R. Roister. Yea, in good sadness. Ealph is however persuaded to live, and by Matthew's advice resolves to try what a personal interview with Christian will do. Matthew tells him not to . . . Speak with a faint heart to Custance, But with a lusty breast and countenance, That she may know she hath to answer to a man. Ye must have a portly brag after your estate. ACT III.— SCENE IV. Custance ; Mekrygeeeke ; Eoister Doistek. C. Custance. Get ye home, idle folks. M. Merry. Why may not we be here ? 'Nay and ye will haze, haze ; ' otherwise, I tell you plain, And ye will not haze, then give us our gear again. C. Custance. Indeed I have of yours much gay things, God save all. R. Roister. Speak gently unto her, and let her take all. M. Meii-y. Ye are too tender-hearted : shall she make us daws ? Nay dame, I wiU be plain with you in my friend's cause. R. Roister. Let all this pass, sweetheart, and accept my service. C. Custance. I vdll not be served with a fool in no wise. When I choose a husband, I hope to take a man. M. Merry. Ye know not whei-e your prefer- ment lieth, I see. He sendeth you such a token, ring, and letter. C. Custance. Marry, here it is, ye never saw a better. M. Merry. Let us see your letter. C. Custance. Hold, read it if ye can, And see what letter it is to win a woman, M. Merry. ' To mine own dear coney bird, sweetheart, and pigsny. Good Mistress Custance, present these by and by.' Of this superscription do ye blame the style ? C. Custance. With the rest, as good stuff as ye read a great while. M. Merry. ' Sweet Mistress, whereas I love you nothing at all, Kegardiug your substance and riches chief of all; Eor your personage, beauty, demeanour, and wit, I commend me unto you never a whit. Sorry to hear report of your good welfare, For (as I hear say) such your conditions are, That ye be woi-thy favour of no living man, To be abhon-ed of every honest man. To be taken for a woman inclined to vice. Nothing at all to virtue giving her due price. Wherefore concerning marriage, ye are thought Such a fine paragon, as ne'er honest man bought. And now by these presents I do you advertise That I am minded to marry you in nowise. For your goods and substance, I could be content To take you as ye are. If ye mind to be my wife.' . . . The letter goes on thus to some length, it being capable of affording two very different senses, according to the punctuation. C. Custance. Might not a woman be proud of such a husband ? 31. Merry. Ah, that ye would in a letter show such despite. R. Roister. Oh, I would I had him here, the which did it indite ! M. Merry. Why, ye made it yourself, ye told me, by this light. R. Roister. Yea, I meant I wrote it mine own self yesternight. C. Custance. Yes, sir, I would not have sent you such a mock. R. Roister. Ye may so take it, but I meant it not so, by cock. M. Merry. Who can blame this woman to fume, and fret, and rage ? C. Custance. God be with you both, and seek no more to me. \^Exeat. R. Roister. Wough ! she is gone for ever, I shall her no more see ! M. Merry. What weep ? fie for shame ! and blubber ? for manhood's sake Never let your foe so much pleasure of you take. Kather play the man's part, and do love refrain : If she despise you, e'en despise ye her again. 1 Meaning at the end of the play, where ' the Psalmodie ' is inserted, which is supposed to be sung below. * i.e. executor. ^ jjaze means 'ha' us,' or ' have us.' xlviii ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF R. Roister. By gosse, and for thy sake I defy her indeed. 31. Merry. Yea, and perchance that way ye shall much sooner speed. For one mad property these women have, in faith. When ye will, they will not ; will not ye, then will they. R. Roister. Thou dost the truth tell. M. Merry. Well, I lament. R. Roister. So do I. M. Merry. Wherefore ? R. Roister. For this tliicg; Because she is gone. 31. Merry. I mourn for another thing. R. Roister. What is it, Merrygreeke, whore- fore dost thou grief take ? 3L 3Ierry. That I am not a woman myself for your sake. For though I say it, a goodly person ye he. R. Roister. No, no. 31. 3ferry. Yes, a goodly man as e'er I did see. JR. Roister. No, I am a poor homely man, as God made me. M. 3Ierry. By the faith that I owe to God, sir, but ye be. Would I might, for your sake, spend a thousand pound land. R. Roister. I daresay thou wouldst have me to thy husband. 3f. 3Ierry. Yea; and I were the fairest lady in the shire. And knew you as I know you, and see you now her'e. Well, I say no more. R. Roister. Gramercies, with all my heart. M. 3ferry. But since that cannot be, will ye play a wise part ? R. Roister. How should I ? 3f. 3Ierry. Kefrain from Custance awhile DOW, And I warrant her soon right glad to seek to you: Tou shall see her anon come on her knees creeping, And pray you to be good to her, salt tears weeping. R. Roister. But what and she come not ? M. 3terry. In faith, then farewell she ; Or else, if ye be wroth, ye may avenged be. R. Roister. But I would be avenged in the mean space. On that vile scribbler, that did my wooing disgrace. 31. Merry. Scribbler (quo' you) ? Indeed, he is worthy no less. I will call him to you, and ye bid me, doubtless. R. Roister. He shall never 'scape death on my sword's point. Though I should be torn therefor joint by joint. They then have an interview with the Scrivener, whom Ralph tries to bully, but is made to eat humble-pie. The Scrivener reads the letter, pointing it so as to bring out a sense different from Ealph's copy. Matthew and Ealph then resolve to have another interview with Christian, and put her right as to the letter. ACT IV.— SCENE I. Sym Suresby. Sym Suresby. My master, Gavin Goodlucke, after me a day, Because of the weather, thought best his ship to stay ; And now that I have the rough surges so well past, God grant I may find all things safe here at last; Then will I think all my travel well spent. Now, the first point wherefore my master hath me sent Is to salute Dame Chi-istian Custance, his wife Espoused ; whom he tendereth no less than his life. But lo, forth Cometh herself happily indeed. ACT IV.— SCENE II. Chkistiak Custance; Sym Suresby-. C. Custance. I come to see if any more stirring be here. But what stranger is this, which doth to me appear ? Sy7n Sure. 1 will speak to her. — Dame, the Lord you save and see. C. Custance. What, friend Sym Suresby? Forsooth, right welcome ye be. How doth mine own Gavin Goodlucke ? I pray thee tell. Sym Sure. AVhen he knoweth of yoiir health he will be perfect well. C. Custance. If he have perfect health, I am as I would be. Sym Sure. Such news will please him well, this is as it should be. C. Custance. I think now long for him. Sym Swe. And he as long for you. C. Custance. When will he be at home ? Sym Sure. His heart is here e'en now ; His body cometh after. C. Custance. I would see that fain. Sym Sure. As fast as Avind and sail can carry it amain. But what two men are yonder, coming hither- ward .'' C. Custance. Now, I shrew their best Christmas cheeks both toaetherward ! ACT IV.— SCENE III. Christian Custance; Sym Suresby; Kalph KoisTER Doister ; Matthew Merrygreeke; Truepenny. C. Custance. What mean these lewd fellows thus to trouble me still ? Sym Suresby here perchance shall thereof deem some ill. And shall suspect me in some point of naughti- ness, An they come hitherward. R. Roister. Well found, sweet wife (I trust), for all this your soiir look. C. Custance. Wife ! why call ye me wife ? Sym Sure. Wife ! This gear goeth a-crook. THE BRITISH DRAMA. xlfx M. Merry. Nay, Mistress Custance, I warrant you, our letter Is not as we read e'en now, but much better. C. Custance. I did not refuse him for the letter's sake. E. Roister. Then ye are content me for your husband to take. C. Custance. You for my husband to take? Nothing less truly. But what prate I with fools? have I nought else to do ? Come in with me, Sym Suresby, to take some repast. Spn Sure. I must, e'er I drink, by your leave, go in all haste To a place or two with earnest letters of his. C. Custance. Then come drink here with me. Sum Su7-e. I thank you. C. distance. Do not miss. You shall have a token to your master with you. Si/m Sure. No tokens this time, gramercies. God be with you. \_Exeat. C. Custance. I will be even Avitli thee, thou beast, thou may be bold. R. Roister. Will ye have us, then ? C. Custance. I will never have thee. R. Roister. Then will I have you? C. Custance. No, the devil shall have thee. I have got this hour more shame and harm by thee. Than all thy life days thou canst do me honesty. Faith, rather than to marry with such a doltish lout, I would match myseK with a beggar out of doubt. R. Roister. Yes, dame, I will have you whether ye will or no. I command you to love me, wherefore should ye not ? Is not my love to yoii chafing and burning hot ? M. Merry. To her, that is well said. R. Roister. Shall I so break my brain To dote upon you, and ye not love us again ? M. Merry. Well said yet. C. Custance. Go to, thou goose. R. Roister. I say, Kit Custance, In case ye will not haze, well, better yes per- chance. C. Custance. Avaimt, lozell, pick thee heuce. M. Merry. Well, sir, ye perceive, For all your kind offer, she will not you receive. R. Roister. Then a straw for her, and a straw for her again. She shall not be my wife, would she never so fain. No, and though she would be at ten thousand pound cost. M. Merry. Lo, dame, ye may see what a husband ye have lost. C. Custance. Yea, no force; a jewel much better lost than found. M. Merry. Ah, ye will not believe how this doth my heart wound. How should a marriage between you be toward. If both parties draw back, and become s-o froward ? R. Roister. Nay, dame, I will fire thee out of thy house, and destroy Thee and all thine, and that by and by. 31. Merry. Nay, for the passion of God, sir, do not so. R. Roister. Yes, except she will say yea to that she said no. Christian then sends for Tristram Trusty, and she and her maids resolve that if Ralph makes his appearance again they will give him a warm reception. Trusty meantime endeavours to console her ; Merry greeke joins them, and assures Christian that he takes part in Ralph's wooing merely for sport and pastime. C. distance. I'll ache your heads both ! I was never wearier. Nor never more vexed since the first day I was born. M. Merry. Hither will he repair with a sheep's look full grim. By plain force and violence to drive you to yield. C. Custance. If ye two bid me, we will with him pitch afield, And my maids together. M. Merry. Let us see ; be bold. C. Custance. Ye shall see women's war. T. Trusty. That fight will I behold. M. Merry. If occasion serve, taking his part full brim, I will strike at you, but the rap shall light on When we first appear — [him. C. Custance. Then will I run away, As though I were afraid. M, Merry. A stomach, quoth you : he that will that deny, I know, was never at dinner in your company. R. Roister. Nay, the stomach of a man it is that I mean. M. Merry. Nay, the stomach of a horse or a dog, I wean. R. Roister. Nay, a man's stomach with a weapon mean I. M. Merry. Ten men can scarce match you with a spoon in a pie. R. Roister. Nay, the stomach of a man to try in strife. M. Merry. 1 never saw your stomach cloyed yet in my life. R. Roister. Tush, I mean in strife or fighting to try. M. Merry. We shall see how ye will strike now being angry. R. Roister. Nay, as for they, shall every mother's child die. And in this my fume a little thing might make me To beat down house and all, and else the devil take me. M. Merry. Be not at one with her upon any amends.' 1 That is, be not reconciled with her upon any amends 1 ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF R. Roister. No, though, she make to me never so many friends ; Not if all the world for her would undertake : No, not God himself neither, shall not her peace make. On, therefore! march forward! Soft, stay a while yet. M. Merry. On. R. Roister. Tarry. M. Merry. On. R. Roister. Soft. Now forward set. C. Custance. What business have we here? Out, alas, alas! R. Roister. Ha, ha, ha, ha,' ha ! Didst thou see that, Merrygreeke, how afraid she was ? Didst thou see how she fled apace out of my sight ? Ah, good sweet Custance! I pity her, by this light. M. Merry. That tender heart of yours will mar altogether ; " Thus will ye be turned with wagging of a feather. R. Roister. On, sirs, keep your ray. M. Merry. On forth, while this gear is hot. R. Roister. Soft, tho Arms of Calais, I have one thing forgot. M. Merry. What lack we now ? R. Roister. Eetire, or else ■vve be all slain. M. Merry. Back, for the passion of God! back, sirs, back again ! What is the great matter ? R. Roister. This hasty forthgoing Had almost brought us all to utter undoing : It made me forget a thing most necessar3^ M. Merry. Well remembered of a captain, by Saint Mary. R. Roister. It is a thing must be had. M. Merry. Let us have it then. R. Roister. But I wot not ■v^rhere, nor how. M. Merry. Then wot not I when. But what is it? R. Roister. Of a chief thing I am to seek. M. Merry. Tut so will ye be, when ye have studied a week. But tell me what it is. R. Roister. I lack yet an headpiece. 31. Merry. The kitchen coUocavit,i the best hens to grace. Run, fetch it, Dobinet, and come at once withal, And bring with thee my potgun, hanging by the wall. I have seen your head with it, full many a time. Covered as safe as it had been with a screen ; And I warrant it save your head from any stroke. Except perchance to be amazed with the smoke. I warrant your head therewith, except for the mist. As safe as if it were locked up in a chest. And lo, here our Dobinet cometh with it now. D. Dough. It will cover me to the shoulders well enough. M. Merry. Let me see it on. R. Roister. In faith, it doth metely well. M. Merry. There can be no fitter thing. Now ye must us tell What to do. R. Roister. Now forth in array, sirs, and stop no more. M. Merry. Now, Saint George to borrow ! - Drum, dubbe a dubbe afore. • It is not at all clear what kitchen utensil is here meant— pcrliaps a culendcr. 2 To borrow is to protect or guard. Thus in Every T. Trusty. What mean you to do, sir ? Com- mit manslaughter ? R. Roister. To kill forty such is a matter of laughter. T. Trusty. And who is it, sir, whom ye intend thus to spill ? R. Roister. Foolish Custance here forceth me against my will. T. Trusty. And is there no means your ex- treme wrath to slake ? She shall some amends unto your good ma'shij) make. R. Roister. I will none amends. T. Trusty. Is her offence so sore ? M. Merry. And he were a lout she could have done do more. She hath called him fool, and dressed him like a fool, Mocked him like a fool, used him Uke a fool. 7'. Tritsty. Well yet the sheriff, the justice, or constable, Her misdemeanour to punish might be able. R. Roister. No, sir, I mine own self will in this present cause Be sheriff, and justice, and whole judge of the laws. This matter to amend, all oflacers be I shall, Constable, bailiff, sergeant. ACT IV.— SCENE VIII. M. Merrygreeke ; 0. Custance ; E. Eoister; Tibet Talk. ; An. Alyface ; M. Mubible- CRUST; Truepenny; Dobinet Douqhtib; Harpax. Two drums with their Ensigns. C. Custance. What caitiffs are those that shake my house wall ? M. Merry. Ah, sirrah, now Custance, if ye had so much wit, I would see you ask pardon, and yourselves submit. C. Custance. Have I still this ado with a couple of fools ? M. Merry. Here ye what she saith ? C. Custance. Maidens, come forth with your tools In array. M. Merry. Dubbadub, sirrah. R. Roister. In array ! They come suddenly on us. M. Merry. Dubbadub. R. Roister. In array ! That ever I was born ! we are taken tardy. M. Merry. Now, sirs, quit ourselves like taU men aud hardy. C. Custance. On afore. Truepenny, hold thine own, Annot, On toward them, Tibet, for escape us they can- not. Come forth, Madge Mumblecrust : so, stand fast together. M. Merry. God send us a fair day. R. Roister. See, they march on hither. Tib. Talk. But mistress — C. Custance. What sayst you ? Tih. Talk. Shall I go fetch our goose ? C. Custance. What to do ? Tih. Talk. To yonder captain I will turn her loose. Man, ' Fro payne it wyll you borouie.' Shakespeare in Richard ii. has the exclamation, ' Saint George to thrive,' which has much the same meaning. THE BRITISH DRAMA. li And sho gape and hiss at liim, as she doth at me, I durst jeopard my hand, she will make him flee. C. distance. On, forward. R. Roister. They come. M. Merry. Stand. R. Roister. Hold. M. Merry. Keep. R. Roister. There. M. Merry. Strike. R. Roister. Take heed. " C. Custance. Well said, Truepenny. Truepenny. Ah, whoresons! C. Custwtwe. Well done, indeed. 31. Merry. Hold thine own, Harpax : down with them, Dobinet. C. Custance. Now Madge, there Annot ; now stick them, Tibet. Tih. Talk. All my chief quarrel is to this same little knave. That beguiled me last day : nothing shall him save. D. Dough. Down with this little quean, that hath at me such spite : Save you from her, master, it is a very sprite. C. Custance. I myself will mounsire grand captain * undertake. R. Roister. They win ground. M. Merry. Save yourself, sir, for God's sake ! R. Roister. Out, alas, I am slain ! help ! 2r. Merry. Save yourself ! R. Roister. Alas ! M. Merry. Nay then, have at you, mistress. R. Roister. Thou hittest me, alas. M. Merry. I will strike at Custance here. R. Roister. Thou hittest me. M. Merry. So I will. Nay, Mistress Custance. R. Roister. Alas, thou hittest me still. Hold! 3/. 3ferry. Save yourself, sir! R. Roister. Help ! Out alas, I am slain. 31. 3Ieri-y. Truce, hold your hands ! How, how say you, Custance, for saving of your life, Will ye yield and grant to be this gentleman's wife ? C. Custance. He told me he loved me : call ye this love ? M. 31erry. He loved a while, even like a turtle-dove. C. Custance. Gay love, God save it, so soon hot, so soon cold. M. Merry. I am sorry for you : he could love you yet, so he could. R. Roister. Nay, she shall be none of mine. 31. Merry. Why so ? R. Roister. Come away, by the mass, she is mankine." I durst adventure the loss of my right hand. If she did not slay her other husband. And see if she prepare not again to fight. 3f. 3Ierry. What then ? Saint George to borrow, our lady's knight. R. Roister. Slay else whom she will, by Gog, she shall not slay me. M. 3Ierry. How then ? R. Roister. Kather than to be slain, I will flee. C. Custance. To it again, my knightnesses : down with them all ! R. Roister. Away, away, away ! she will else kill us all. 1 That is, Monsieur grand Capitaine. - ' She is mankine,' or of the male species. So Sicinius, in Coriolanus, Act iv. scene 2, asks Volumnia, ' Are you mankind ? ' — See the notes upon this passage. 31. 31erry. Nay, stick to it, like an hardy man and a tall. R. Roister. Oh, bones ! thou hittest me. Away, or else die we shall. 31. 3Ierry. Away, for the passion of our sweet Lord Jesus Christ. C. Custance. Away, lout and lubber, or I shall be thy priest. So, this field is ours, we have driven them all away. Now Roister Bolster will no more wooing begin. [Exeunt. ACT v.— SCENE II. 0. Custance; Gavin Goodlxjcke; Stm SURESBY. C. Custance. I come forth to see and hearken for news good ; For about this hour is the time, of likelihood. That Gavin Goodlucke, by the sayings of Suresby, Would be at home ; and lo ! yonder I see him I. What, Gavin Goodlucke ! the only hope of my life. Welcome home, and kiss me, your true espoused wife. G. Good. Nay, soft. Dame Custance; I must first, by your licence. See whether all things be clear in your con- science. I hear of your doings to me very strange. C. Custance. What! fear ye that my faith towards you should change ? G. Good. I must needs mistrust ye be else- where entangled. For I hear that certain men with you have wrangled About the promise of marriage by you to them made. Sym Sure. If ye be honest, my words can hurt you nothing ; But what I heard and saw, I might not but report. C. Custance. Why, Tristram Trusty, sir, your true and faithful friend. Was privy both to the beginning and the end. Let him be the judge, and for me testify. G. Good. I will the more credit that he shall verify : And, because I will the truth know, e'en as it is, I will to him myself, and know all, without miss. Come on, Sym Suresby, that before my friend thou may Avouch thee the same words, which thou didst to me say. [Exeunt. . ACT v.— SCENE IV. Gavin Goodlucke ; Teistkam Trusty ; 0. Custance ; Sym Suresby. G. Good. And was it none other than ye to me report ? T. Trusty. No ; and here were ye wished, to have seen the sport. G. Good. Would I had, rather than half of that in my purse. Sym Sure. And I do much rejoice the matter was no worse ; Hi ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OP And like as to open it I was to you faithful, So of Dame Custance honest truth I am joyful. For, God forfend that I should hurt her by false report. G. Good. Well, I will no longer hold her in discomfoi't. C. Custance. Now come they hitherward: I trust all shall be well. G. Good. Sweet Custance, neither heart cau think, nor tongue tell. How much I joy in your constant fidelitj'. Come now, kiss mo, the pearl of perfect honesty. C. Custance. God let me no longer to continue in life. Than I shall towards you continue a true wife. In the last scene Ralph is badgered, and at last pardoned, and allowed to take part in the general merrymaking. Our last example of the early regular English drama, is Thomas Sackville's (Lord Buckhurst) Ferrex and Porrex, the oldest extant tragedy. GoRBODUC, King o/" Great Britain. ViDENA, Queen, and Wife to King GoR- BODUC. Ferrex, J^lder Son to King Goeboduc. Porrex, Younger Son to King Gorboduc. Clotyn, Duke q/" Cornwall. Fergus, Duke o/ Albany. Mandud, Duke q/Loegris. GwENARD, Duke o/" Cumberland. EuBULUS, Secretary/ to the King. Arostus, a Counsellor to the King. DoRDAN, a Counsellor asslffned by the King to his Eldest Son Ferkkx. Philander, a Counsellor assigned hy the King to his Youngest Son Porrex. Both being of the old King's Council before. Hermon, a Parasite remaining with Ferrex. Tyndar, a Parasite remaining with Porrex. NuNTius, a Messenger of the Elder Brother's Death. _ NuNTius, a Messenger of Duke Fergus rising in arms. Marcei.la, a Lady of the Queens Privy C/unnber. Chorus, four ancient and sage men of Britain. ACT I.— SCENE I. Videna ; Ferrex. Vid. The silent night that brings the quiet pause. From painful travails of the weary day. Prolongs my careful thoughts, and makes me blame The slow Aurore, that so for love or shame Doth long delay to show her blushing face ; And now the day renews my grieful plaint. Fer. My gracious lady, and my mother dear, Pardon my grief for your so grieved mind To ask what cause tormenteth so j'our heart. Vid. So great a wrong, and so unjust despite. Without all cause against all course of kind ! i Fer. Such causeless wrong, and so unjust despite. May have redress, or, at the least, revenge. Vid. Neither, my son; such is the froward will. The person such, such my mishap and thine. Fer. Miue ! know I none, but grief for your distress. Vid. Yes ; mine for thine, my son. A father.' No: In kind a father, not in kindliness. Fer. My father ? why, I know nothing at all. Wherein I have misdone unto his grace. Vid. Therefore, the more unkind to thee and me. For, knowing well, my son, the tender love That I have ever borne, and bear to thee. He, grieved thereat, is not content alone To spoil thee of my sight, my chiefest joy. But thee, of thy birthright and heritage. Causeless, unkindly, and in wrongful wise. Against all law and right, he will bereave : Half of his kingdom he will give away. Fer. To whom ? * kind— natme. Vid. Even to Porrex, his younger son ; Whose growing pride I do so sore suspect, That, being rais'd to equal rule with thee, Methinks 1 see his envious heart to swell, Fill'd with disdain and with ambitious hope. Fer. Madam, leave care and careful plaint for me. Just hath my father been to every wight : His first injustice he will not extend To me, I trust, that give no cause thereof ; My brother's pride shall hurt himself, not me. Vid. So grant the gods ! But yet, thy father so Hath firmly fixed his unmoved mind, That plaints and prayers can no whit avail ; For those have I essay'd ; but even this day He will endeavour to pi-ocure assent Of all his council to his fond devise. Fer. Their ancestors from race to race have borne True faith to my forefathers and their seed : I trust they eke will bear the like to me. Vid. There resteth all. But if they fail thereof, And if the end bring forth an ill success. On them and theirs the mischief shall befall, And so I pray the gods requite it them ; And so they will, for so is wont to be. When lords and trusted rulers under kings. To please the present fancy of the prince. With wrong transpose the course of gover- nance. Murders, mischief, or civil sword at length, Or mutual treason, or a just revenge. When right Succeeding line returns again. By Jove's just judgment and deserved wrath, Brings them to cruel and reproachful death. And roots their names and kindreds from the earth. Fer. Mother, content you, you shall see the end. Vid. The end ! thy end I fear: Jove end me first! THE BRITISH DRAMA. liii The second act is occupied with long speeches from Gorboduc, Arostus, Philander, and Eubulus, concerning the king's proposed division of the king- dom between his two sons. Gorboduc concludes thus : Gor. I take your faithful hearts in thankful part : But since I see no cause to draw my mind, To fear the nature of my loving sons, Or to misdeem that envy or disdain Can there work hate, where nature planteth love; In one self purpose do I still abide. My love extendeth equally to both, My land sufficeth for them both also. Humber shall part the marches of their realms : The southern part the elder shall possess, The northern shall Porrex, the younger, rule. In quiet I will pass mine aged days. Free from the travail, and the painful cares, That hasten age upon the worthiest kings. But lest the fraud, that ye do seem to fear, Of flattering tongues, corrupt their tender youth, And writhe them to the ways of youthful lust, To climbing pride, or to revenging hate, Or to neglecting of their careful charge, Lewdly to live in wanton recklessness, Or to oppressing of the rightful cause, Or not to wreak the wrongs done to the poor. To tread down truth, or favour false deceit ; I mean to join to either of my sons Some one of those, whose long approved faith And wisdom tried, may well assure my heai't, That mining fraud shall find no way to creep Into their fencekd ears with grave advice. This is the end; and so I pray you all To bear my sons the love and loj'alty That I have found within your faithful breasts. \Exeunt. ACT II.— SCENE I. Ferrex ; Hermon ; Dordan. Fer. I marvel much what reason led the king. My father, thus, without all my desert, To reave ' me half the kingdom, which by course Of law and nature should remain to me. Her. If you with stubborn and untamed pride Had stood against him in rebelling wise ; Or if, with grudging mind, you had envied So slow a sliding of his aged years ; Or sought before your time to haste the course Of fatal death upon his royal head ; Or stain'd your stock with murder of your kin ; Some face of reason might perhaps have seem'd To yield some likely cause to spoil ye thus. Dor. Ne yet your father, most noble prince. Did ever think so foul a thing of you ! Eor he, with more than father's tender love, While yet the fates do lend liim life to rule (Who long might live to see your ruling well), To you, my lord, and to his other son, Lo, he resigns his realm and royalty ; Which never would so wise a prince have done, If he had once misdeem'd that in your heart There ever lodged so unkind a thought. But tender love, my lord, and settled trust Of your good nature, and your noble mind, Made him to place you thus iu roj'al throne, And now to give you half his realm to guide ; Yea, and that half which, in abounding store Of things that serve to make a wealthy realm, In stately cities, and in fruitful soil. In temperate breathing of the milder heaven. In things of needful use, which friendly sea Transports by traffic from the foreign parts, In flowing wealth, in honour, and in force, Doth pass the double value of the pai't That Porrex hath allotted to his reign. Such is your case, such is your father's love. Fer. Ah love, my friends ! Love wrongs not whom he loves. Dor. Ne yet ho wrongeth you, that giveth you So large a reign, ere that the course of time Bring you to kingdom by descended right. Which time perhaps might end your time before. Fer. Is this no wrong, say you, to reave from me My native right of half so great a realm, And thus to match his younger son with me In equal pow'r, and in as great degree .' Yea, and what son ? The son whose swelling pride Would never yield one point of reverence, When I, the elder, and apparent heir, Stood in the likelihood to possess the whole ; Yea, and that son which from his childish age Envieth mine honour, and doth hate my life, What will he now do, when his pride, his rage, The mindful malice of his grudging heart Is arm'd with force, with wealth, and kingly state ? Dor. Alas, my lord, what grieful thing ia this, That of your brother you can think so ill ? I never saw him utter likely sign, Whereby a man might see or once misdeem Such hate of you, nor such unyielding pride. Ill is their counsel, shameful be their end. That raising such mistrustful fear in you, Sowing the seed of such unkindly hate, Travail by reason to destroy you both. Wise is your brother, and of noble hope, Worthy to wield a large and mighty realm. So much a stronger friend have you thereby. Whose strength is your strength if you 'gree in one. Hermon, in a long insidious speech, advises Ferrex to Attempt redress by arms, and wreak yourself Upon his life that gaineth by your loss, Who now to shame of you, and grief of us, In your own kingdom triumphs over you. But if you like not yet so hot device, 1 reavt — tereave of. Ne list to take such vantage of the time, But, though with peril of your own estate, You will not be the first that shall invade ; Assemble yet your force for your defence. And for your safety stand upon your guard. Dor. heaven! was there ever heard or known So wicked counsel to a noble prince ? Let me, my lord, disclose unto your grace liv ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF This heinous tale, what mischief it contains; Your father's death, your brother's, and your own, Your present murder, and eternal shame. Hear me, king, and suffer not to sink So high a treason in j^our princely breast. Fer. The mighty gods forbid that ever I Should once conceive such mischief in my heart. The gods forbid, I say : Cease you to speak so any more to me ; Nor you, my friend, with answer once repeat So foul a tale : in silence let it die. But, since I fear my younger brother's rage, And since, perhaps, some other man may give Some like advice, to move his grudging head At mine estate ; which counsel may perchance Take greater force with him, than this with me; I will in secret so prepare myself, As, if his malice or his lust to reign Break forth in arms or sudden violence, I may withstand his rage and keep mine own. \Extunt. ACT II.— SCENE II. PoKEEX; Tyndar; Philander. For. And is it thus .' and doth he so prepare Against his brother as his mortal foe? And now, while yet his aged father lives, Neither regards he him, nor fears he me ? War would he have ? and he shall have it so. Tyn. I saw myself the great prepared store Of horse, of armour, and of weapons there. The rascal numbers of unskilful sort Are filled with monstrous tales of you and yours. In secret, I was counsell'd by my friends To haste me thence, and brought you, as you know. Letters from those that both can truly tell. And would not write unless they knew it well. Fhil. My lord, yet ere you move unkindly war. Send to your brother, to demand the cause. Perhaps some traitorous tales have filled his ears With false reports against your noble grace ; Which, once disclos'd, shall end the gi'owing strife. That else, not stay'd with wise foresight in time. Shall hazard both your kingdoms and your lives. Send to your father eke, he shall appease Your kindled minds, and rid you of this fear. For. Rid me of fear! I fear him not at all; Nor will to him, nor to my father send. If danger were for one to tarry there, Think ye it safety to return again ? In mischiefs, such as Ferrex now intends. The wonted courteous laws to messengers Are not observ'd, which in just war they use. Sball I so hazard any one of mine.' Shall I betray my trusty friends to him. That have disclosed his treason unto me? Let him entreat that fears ; I fear him not. Or shall I to the king, my father, send ? Yea, and send now, while such a mother lives, That loves my brother, and that hateth me ? Shall I give leisure, by my fond delays. To Ferrex to oppress me all unaware ? I will not ; but I will invade his realm, And seek the traitor prince within his court. Mischief for mischief is a due reward. His wretched head shall pay the worthy price Of this his treason and his hate to me. Shall I abide, and treat, and send, and pray. And hold my yieldiug throat to traitor's kuife, While I, with valiant mind and conquering force, ]\Iight rid myself of foes, and win a realm ? Yet rather, when I have the wretch's head. Then to the king, my father, will I send. The bootless case may yet appease his wrath : If not, I will defend me as I may. \Exeunt Poreex and Titndar. Phil. Lo, here the end of these two youthful kings ! The father's death ! the ruin of their realms ! But I will to the king, their father, haste, Ere this mischief come to the likely end. ACT III.— SCENE L Gor.BODUC; Eubulus; Akostus. Gor. cruel fates, mindful wrath of gods, Whose vengeance neither Simois' stained streams Flowing with blood of Trojan princes slain, Nor Phrygian fields made rank with corpses dead Of Asian kings and lords, can yet appease; Nor slaughter of unhappy Priam's race, Nor llion's fall, made level with the soil, Can yet suffice : but still continued rage Pursues our lives, and from the farthest seas Doth chase the issues of destroyed Troy. ' Oh, no man happy till his end be seen.' If any flowing wealth and seeming joy In present years might make a happy wight, Happy was Hecuba, the wofull'st wretch That ever lived to make a miiTor of; And happy Priam, with his noble sons ; And happy I, till now, alas ! I see And feel my most unhappy wretchedness. Behold, my lords, read ye this letter here; Lo, it contains the ruin of our realm. If timely speed provide not hasty help. A letter is read from Eubulus making known the resolution taken by Ferrex, immediately after which. Philander enters and announces that Porrex In haste prepareth to invade His brother's land, and with unkindly war Threatens the murder of your eldest son. After some tedious speechifying, a messenger enters and tells the king, THE BRITISH DRAMA. Iv Porrex, your younger son, With sudden force invaded hatli the land That you to Ferres did allot to rule ; And with his own most bloody hand he hath His brother slain, and doth possess his realm. Gor. O heavens, send down the flames of your revenge ! Destroy, I say, with flash of wreakful fire The traitor son, and then the wretched sire ! But let us go, that yet perhaps I may Die with revenge, and 'pease t^e hateful gods. \Ex&imi. ACT IV.— SCENE I. ViDENA sola. Why should I live, and linger forth my time In longer life to double .my distress.' But whereunto waste I this ruthf ul speech. To thee that hast thy brother's blood thus shed? Shall I still think that from this womb thou sprung ? That I thee bare ? or take thee for my son ? No, traitor, no ; I thee refuse for mine : Murderer, I thee renounce ; thou art not mine. Never, wretch, this womb conceived thee ; Nor never bode I painful throes for thee. Changeling to me thou art, and not my child. Nor to no wight that spark of pity knew. Euthless, unkiud, monster of nature's worlc. Thou never suck'd the milk of woman's breast; .But, from thy birth, the cruel tiger's teats Have nursed thee ; nor yet of flesh and blood Form'd is thy heart, but of hard iron wrought ; And wild and desert woods breed thee to life. But canst thou hope to 'scape my just revenge ? Or that these hands will not be wroke ' on thee .' Dost thou not know that Ferrex' m.other lives. That loved him more dearly than herself ? And doth she live, and is not 'venged on thee ? ACT IV.— SCENE 11. GoKBODUc; Akostus. Gor. We marvel much, whereto this ling'ring stay Falls out so long. . . . Aros. Lo, where he comes, and Eubulus with him. E^iie,' IVbulus and Porrex. E'uh. According to your highness's best to me, Here have I Porrex brought, even in such sort As from his wearied horse he did alight. For that your grace did will such haste therein. Gor. We like and praise this speedy will in you. To work the thing that to your charge we gave. Porrex, if we so far should swerve from kind, And from those bounds which law of nature sets. As thou hast done by vile and wretched deed, In cruel murder of thy brother's life; Our present hand could stay no longer time. But straight should bathe this blade in blood of thee. As just revenge of thy detested crime. No ; we should not offend the law of kind, If now this sword of ours did slay thee here : For thou hast murder'd him, whose heinous death Even nature's force doth move us to revenge By blood again ; and justice forceth us To measure death for death, thy due desert. Yet since thou art our child, and since as yet In this hard case what word thou canst allege For thy defence, by us hath not been heard, We are content to stay our will for that Which justice bids us presently to work. And give thee leave to use thy speech at full, If ought thou have to lay for thine excuse. Porrex then, in a long speech, endeavours to exculpate himself by urging that what he had done was purely in self-defence. Gor. Oh cruel wight, should any cause prevail To make thee stain thy hands with brother's blood.? But what of thee we will resolve to do Shall yet remain unknown. Thou in the mean Shalt from our royal presence banish'd be. Until our piincely pleasure further shall To thee be show'd. Depart therefore our sight. Accursed child ! '[£'a;ii! Porrex. J What cruel destiny. What froward fate hath sorted " us this chance. That even in those, where we should comfort find. Where our delight now in our aged days Should rest and be, even there our only grief And deepest sorrows to abridge our life. Most pining cares and deadly thoughts do grow. Aros. Your grace shall now, in these grave years of yours, HaVe found ere this the pi-ice of mortal joys ; How short they be, how fading here in earth, How full of change, how brittle our estate, Of nothing sure, save only of the death. To whom both man and all the world doth owe Their end at last ; neither shall nature's power In other sort against your heart prevail, Than as the naked hand whose stroke essays The armed breast where force doth light in vain. Gor. Many can yield right sage and grave advice Of patient spirit to others wrapp'd in woe. And can in speech both rule and conquer kind ; Who, if by proof they might feel ntlture's force. Would show themselves men as they are indeed. Which now will needs be gods. But what doth mean The sorry cheer of her that here doth come ? Enter Marcella. Mar. Oh where is ruth ? or where is pity now ? Whither is gentle heart and mercy fled "i Are they exil'd out of our stony breasts, Never to make return .? is all the world Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty? If not in women mercy may be found. If not, alas, within the mother's breast. To her own child, to her own flesh and blood; If ruth be banish'd thence, if pity there May have no place, if there no gentle heart Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then ? Gor. Madam, alas, what means yoiu- woful tale ? 1 wroke — wreak'd, revenged. - sorted — allotted. VI ORIGIN AND HISTORY OF THE BRITISH DRAMA. Mar. silly woman I ! why to this hour Have kind and fortune thus deferr'd my breath, That I should live to see this doleful day ? Will ever wight believe that such hard heart Could rest within the cruel mother's breast, "With her own hand to slay her only son ? But out, alas ! these eyes beheld the same : They saw the dreary sight, and are become Most ruthful records of the bloody fact. Porrex, alas, is by his mother slain, And with her hand, a woful thing to tell. While slumbering on his careful bed he rests. His heart stabb'd in with knife is I'eft of life. Gor. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours. And pierce this heart with speed ! hateful light, loathsome life, sweet and welcome death ! Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech! Euh. Patience, your grace ; perhaps he liveth yet, With wound receiv'd, but not of certain death. . Gor. Oh let us then repair unto the place, And see if Porrex live, or thus be slain. \_Exexint Gorboduc and Eubulus. Mar. Alas, he liveth not ! it is too true. That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince. Son to a king, and in the flower of youth. Even with a twink a senseless stock I saw. Aros. Oh damned deed! Mar. But hear this ruthful end : The noble prince, pierc'd with the sudden wound. Out of his wretched slumber hastily start, Whose strength now failing straight he over- threw, When in the fall his eyes, e'en new unclos'd. Beheld the queen, and cried to her for help. We then, alas, the ladies which that time Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed. And hearing him oft call the wretched name Of mother, and to cry to her for aid. Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound. Pitying, alas (for nought else could we do), His ruthful end, ran to the woful bed, Dispoiled straight his breast, and all we might Wiped in vain, witli napkins next at hand. The sudden streams of blood that flushed fast Out of the gaping wound. Oh what a look ! Oh what a ruthful steadfast eye methought He fixed upon my face, which to my death Will never part from me, when with a braid ' A deep-fetched sigh he gave, and therewithal Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight, And straight pale death pressing within his face, The flying ghost his mortal corpse forsook ! Aros. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact. Mar. Oh hard and cruel hap, that thus assigned Unto so worthy a wight so wretched end ; But most hard cruel heart, that could consent To lend the hateful destinies that hand, By which, alas, so heinous crime was wrought. queen of adamant, marble breast, If not the favour of his comely face. If not his princely cheer^ and countenance, His valiant active arms, his manly breast, If not his fair and seemly personage, His noble limbs in such proportion cast As would have wrapt a silly woman's thought ; If this might not have moved thy bloody heart, And that most cruel hand the wretched weapon Even to let fall, and kissed him in the face. With tears for ruth to reave such one by death; Should nature yet consent to slay her son? Oh mother, thou to murder thus thy child ! . . . Ah, noble prince, how oft have I beheld Thee mounted on thy fierce and trampling steed, Shining in armour bright before the tilt. And with thy mistress' sleeve tied on' thy helm, And charge thy staff to please thy lady's eye. That bowed the headpiece of thy friendly foe ! How oft in arms on horse to bend the mace, How oft in arms on foot to break the sword. Which never now these eyes may see again ! Aros. Madam, alas, in vain these plaints are shed; Kather with me depart, and help to swage The thoughtful griefs that in the aged king Must needs by nature grow by death of this His only son, whom he did hold so dear. Mar. What wight is that which saw that I did see. And could refrain to wail with plaint and tears ? Not I, alas, that heart is not in me : But let us go, for I am grieved anew. To call to mind the wretched father's woe. {Exeunt. Chorus. Oh happy wight, that suffers not the snare Of murderous mind to tangle him in blood ! And happy he that can in time beware By other's harms, and turn it to his good. But woe to him that, fearing not to offend, Doth serve his lust, and will not see the end. The fifth act concludes with the following couplet, Tennysonian in style and sentiment : For right will always live, and rise at length, But wrong can never take deep root to last. ' a braid — a stai-t. * cheei — appearance, face. JOHN LILLY. [John Lilly or Ltly, probably the earliest regular dramatist after Lord Buckliurst, was born in Kent about 1553. He became a student of Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1569 ; took liis degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1573, and his Master's degree in 1575. According to Anthony a Wood, he appears not to have been a very hard student, ' but alwaj'S averse to the crabbed studies of logic and philosophy. ' There is extant among the Lansdowne manu- scripts a letter, in very good Latin, dated 1574, written by Lilly to Lord Burghley, desiring his Lordship's patronage and assistance ; with what result is not kno^vn. Burghley, how- ever, seems afterwards to have conferred upon him some office connected with his own house- hold. From two letters extant, written by LUly to Queen Elizabeth, it is inferred that he was a candidate for the office of Master of the Eevels, probably with no success. After leaving college, he appears to have spent most of his time in London, supporting himself by his pen. "When he died is unknown, probably somewhere about the beginning of the seventeenth century. Mr. Fairholt, editor of Lilly's dramatic works, infers from certain allusions in a work of Nash's, that our author ' was a little man, was married, and fond of tobacco. ' The works by which Lilly is now best known are his two prose works, entitled Euphues ; or, the Anatomy of Wit, and Euphues and his England, which gave rise to the term and the affected style of writing known as Eiqjhuism. However tedious and trifling these works may appear to modern readers, there can be no doubt that Lilly's contem- poraries admired and imitated them to an incredible extent. Euphuism became the rage, even Shakspeare being smitten by the fever. Blount, the editor of an edition of his plays published in 1632, says 'that beauty in court which could not parley Euphuisme, was as little regarded as she which now there speaks not French ; ' and Anthony a Wood tells us that ' in these books of Euphues, 'tis said that our nation is indebted for a new English in them, which the flower of the youth thereof learned. ' By most of his contemporaries he seems to have been held in great estimation. * The chief characteristic of his style, ' says Mr. Collier, 'besides its smoothness, is the emplojrment of a species of fabulous or un- natm-al natural philosophy, in which the existence of certain animals, vegetables, and minerals with peculiar properties is presumed, in order to afford similes and illustrations. ' As far as the dramatic style allows, Lilly's dramas are to a great extent disfigured by this painfully unnatural fine writing, although there is comparatively little of it in the work we have selected. Campaspe, or Alexander and Campaspe, as it is sometimes entitled, has some claim to be considered a historical play, in that the dramatis personce are mostly his- torical characters. The incident on which the play is founded is mentioned by Pliny ; and the plot, though slight, is, on the whole, well wrought out by the author. Although the scene is laid in Athens, in the time of Alexander the Great, the persons of the drama are, in character and manners. Englishmen of Lilly's own time. It is one of the best and most interesting of the author's plays, some of the characters, such as Diogenes and his servant Manes, being drawn with considerable force and distinctness ; and the wit is sometimes clever, amusing, and original. Hazlitt says of it : ' This play is a very pleasing transcript of old manners and sentiment. It is full of sweetness, and point, of Attic salt and the honey of Hymettus.' Although, when compared with many of his contemporaries, Lilly cannot be ranked very high as a dramatist, still he affords a not unpalatable foretaste of the rich feast of wit and wisdom which immediately followed. As we learn from the pro- 4L 42 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. logueS and' ejiilp^ues, this play was written in haste, for representation at court, after which it made its' appearance at Blackfriars theatre. . Eesiiosi Gampaspe, first printed in 1584, Lilly wrote the following dramas : — Sapho and 'Fh'co '(1584) ■ '-Mdywhri (1591) ; Galathea (1592) ; Midas (1592) ; Mother Bombie (1594) ; The Maid's Metamorphosis (1600) ; Lovers Metamorphosis (1601). It is doubtful whether Lilly was the author 4)f the last two.] CAMPASPE PLAtED BEFORE THE QUEEN'S MAJESTY ON" NEW YEAR'S DAY, AT NIGHT, BY HER MAJESTY'S CHILDREN, AND THE CHILDREN OF ST. PAUL'S. Imprinted at London for Thomas Cadman, 1584. . THE PROLOGUE AT THE BLACK- FRIARS. They that fear the stinging of wasps make fans of peacocks' tails, whose spots are like eyes ; and Lepidus, which could not sleep for the chattering of birds, set up a beast, whose head was like a dragon ; and we, which stand in awe of report, are compelled to set before our owl Pallas's shield, thinking by her virtue to cover the other's deformity. It was a sign of famine to Egypt when Nylus flowed less than twelve cubits, or more than eighteen ; and it may threaten despair unto us, if we be less courteous than you look for, or more cumbersome. But as Theseus, being promised to be brought to an eagle's' nest, and travelling all the day, found but a wi-en in a hedge, yet said, This is a bird ; so we hope, if the shower of our swelling moun- tain seem to bring forth some elephant, perform but a mouse, you will gently say. This is a beast! Basil softly touched yieldeth a sweet scent, but chafed in the hand, a rank savour. We fear, even so, that our labours, slily^ glanced on, will breed some content, but examined to the proof, small commendation. The haste in per- forming shall be our excuse." There went two nights to the begetting of Hercules. Feathers appear not on the Phcenis under seven months, and the mulberry is twelve in budding ; but our travails^ are like the hare's, who at one time bringeth forth, nourisheth, and engendereth again; or like the brood of Trochilus, whose eggs in the same moment that they are laid be- come birds. But howsoever we finish our work, we crave pardon if we offend in matter, and patience if we transgress in manners. We have mixed mirth with counsel, and discipline with 1 SWy glanced on — react superficially. - It was, as we have said, written in haste for per- formance at court. delight, thinking it not amiss in the same garden to sow pot-herbs that we set flowers. But we hope, as harts that cast their horns, snakes their skins, eagles their bills, become more fi-esh for any other labour; so our charge being shaken off, we shall be fit for greater matters. But lest, like the Myndians, we make our gates greater than our towns, and that our play runs out at the preface, we here conclude, wishing that although there be in your precise judgments an universal mislike, yet we may enjoy by your wonted cointesies a general silence. THE PROLOGUE AT THE COURT. We are ashamed that our bird, which fluttereth by twilight, seeming a swan, should be proved a bat set against the sun. But as Jupiter placed Silenus's ass among the stars, and Alcibiades covered his pictures, being owls and apes, with a curtain embroidered with lions and eagles, so are we enforced upon a rough discourse to di-aw on a smooth excuse, resembling lapidaries, who think to hide the crack in a stone by setting it deep in gold. The gods supped once with poor Baucis, the Persian kings soniitiraes shaved sticks: our hope is yoiu- Highness will at this time lend an ear to an idle pastime. Appion, raising Homer from hell, demanded only who was his father ; and we, calling Alexander from his grave, seek only who was his love. What- soever we present, we wish it may be thought the dancing of Agrippa his shadows, who, in the moment, they were seen, were of any shape one would conceive ; or Lynccs, who having a quick sight to discern, have a short memory to forget. With us it "is like to fare as with these torches which, giving light to others, consume them- selves ; and we, showing dehght to others, shamo ourselves. JOHN LILLY. ^ramatis p^rsouaj. Warriors. Alexander, King of Macedon. Hephestion, Aw General. Olytus, "i Parmenio, MiLECTUS, Phrygius, ) Melippus, Chamberlain to Alexander. Aristotle, Diogenes, Crisippus, Crates, )■ Philosophers. Cleanthes, Anaxarchus, Ckysus, Apelles, a Painter. Solinus,! ^.,. , ,,, Sylvius,! ^'*'~'"' "-f '^^^'^''^^ Perim, i MiLO, [ Sons to Sylvius. Trico, S Granichus, Servant to Plato. Manes, Servant to Diogenes. PsYLLUS, Seri'atit to Apelles. Page to Alexander. Citizens of Athens. CaBBPASPE,) ^7 , r- ,■ TmocLEA,)- ^^'^^"'^ Captives. Lais, a Courtezan. Scene — Athens. ACT I.— SCENE I. Clytus, Parsienio, Timoclea, Campaspe, Alexander, Hephestion. Clytus. Parmenio, I cannot tell whether I Bliould more commend in Alexander's victories courage or courtesy ; in the one being a resolu- tion without feai% in the other a liberality above custom : Thebes is razed, the people not i-acked, towers thrown down, bodies not thrust aside, a conquest without conflict, and a cruel war in a mild peace. Par. Clytus, it becometh the son of Philip to be none other than Alexander is ; therefore see- ing in the father a full perfection, who could have doubted in the son an excellency ? For as the moon can borrow nothing else of the sun but light ; so of a sire, in whom nothing but virtue was, ^vhat could the child receive but singular ^^ It is for turkies^ to stain each other, not for diamonds ; in the one to be made a dif- ference in goodness, in the other no comparison. Clytus. You mistake me, Parmenio, if, whilst I commend Alexander, you imagine I call Philip into question ; unless happily^ you conjectm-e (which none of judgment will conceive) that, because I like the fruit, therefore I heave at the tree ; or coveting to kiss the child, I therefore go alDout to poison the teat. Par. Ay, but Clytus, I perceive you are born in the east, and never laugh but at the sun rising ; which argueth though a duty where you ought, yet no great devotion where you might. Clytus. AVe will make no conti'oversy of that of which there ought to be no question ; only this shall be the opinion of us both, that none was worthy to be the father of Alexander but Philip, nor any meet to be the son of Philip but Alex- ander. Par. Soft, Clytus, behold the spoils and pri- soners ! — a pleasant sight to us, because profit is joined with honour ; not much painful to them, because their captivity is eased by mercy. Timo. Fortune, thou didst never yet deceive virtue, because virtue never yet did trust fortune. Sword and fire will never get spoil, whei-e wis- dom and fortitude bear sway. Thebes, thy walls were raised by the sweetness of the harp, but razed by the shrillness of the trumpet. Alex- ander had never come so near the walls, had 1 singular — what is singular, rare, or excellent. * Turquoises. 3 happily — haply, perhaps ; from ftap— chance. Epaminondas' walked about the walls; and yet might the Thebans have been merry in their streets, if he had been to watch their towers. But destiny is seldom foreseen, never prevented. We are here now captives, Avhose necks are yoked by force, but whose hearts cannot yield by death. Come, Campaspe and the rest, let us not be ashamed to cast our eyes on him, on whom we feared not to cast our darts. Par. Madam, you need not doubt ; it is Alex- ander that is the conqueror. Timo. Alexander hath overcome, not con- quered. Par. To bring all under his subjection is to conquer. Timo. He cannot subdue that which is divine. Par. Thebes was not. Timo. Virtue is. Clytus. Alexander, as he tendreth - virtue, so he will you ; he drinketh not blood, but thirsteth after honour ; he is greedy of victory, but never satisfied with mercy ; in fight terrible, as be- cometh a captain ; in conquest mild, as beseemeth a king. In all things, than which nothing can be greater, he is Alexander. Camp. Then, if it be such a thing to be Alex- ander, I hope it shall be no miserable thing to be a virgin ; for if he save our honours, it is more than to restore our goods. And rather do I wish he preserve our fame than our lives ; which, if he do, we will confess there can be no greater thing than to be Alexandei'. Alex. Clytus, are these prisoners ? of whence these spoils ? Clytus. Like^ your Majesty, they are prisoners, and of Thebes. Alex. Of what calling or reputation ?* Clytus. I know not, but they seem to be ladies of honour. Alex. I will know. — Madam, of whence you are I knov.r^ but who, I cannot tell. Timo. Alexander, I am the sister of Theagines, who fought a battle with thy father before the city of Chieronte, where he died, I say, which none can gainsay, valiantly. Alex. Lady, there seem in your words sparks of your brother's deeds, but worser fortune in your life than his death. But fear not, for you shall live without violence, enemies, or necessity.* 1 One of the greatest Greeks. He raised Thebes to the supremacy of Greece, which she lost almost as soon as he died, B.C. 362. - tendreth — has a tender regard for, loveth. 3 Like your Majesn/— may it please your Majesty. * reputation — repute or rank. ^ want or poverty. 44 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. — But what are you, fair lady — another sister to Theagines ? Camp. No sister to Theagines, but an humble handmaid to Alexander, born of a mean parent- age, but to exti-eme fortune. Alex. Well, ladies (for so your virtues show you), whatsoever your births be, you shall be honourably entreated. • Athens shall be your Thebes, and you shall not be as abjects2 of war, but as subjects to Alexander. Parmenio, con- duct these honourable ladies into the city, chai'ge the soldiers not so much as in words to offer them any offence, and "^ let all wants be supplied 60 far forth as shall be necessary for such persons and my prisoners. \_Extunt Parmenio and cap- tives.'] Hephestion, it resteth now that we have as great care to govern in peace as conquer in war ; that, whilst arms cease, arts may flourish, and, joining letters with lances, we endeavour to bo as good philosophers as soldiers, knowing it no less praise to be wise than commendable to be valiant. Hep. Your Majesty therein showeth that you have as great desire to rule as to subdue ; and needs must that commonwealth be fortunate whose captain is a philosopher, and whose phi- losopher a captain. \_Exeunt.~\ ACT I.— SCENE 11. Mamies, Granichus, Psyllus. Manes. I serve instead of a master,^ a mouse, whose house is a tub, whose dinner is a crust, and whose bed is a board. Psyllus. Then art thou in a state of life which philosophers commend. A crumb for thy supper, an hand for thy cup, and thy clothes for thy sheets. For natura paucis contenia.*^ Gran. Manes, it is pity so proper a man should be cast away upon a philosopher : but that Diogenes, that dog, should have Manes, that dog-bolt,' it grieveth nature and spiteth art : the one having found thee so dissolute, absolute, I would say, in body, the other so single, singular in mind. Manes. Are you merry .' It is a sign by the trip of your tongue, and the toss of your head, that you have done that to-day which I have not done these three days. Psyllus. What's that? Manes. Dined. Gran. I think Diogenes keeps but cold cheer. Manes. I would it were so, but he keepeth neither hot nor cold. Gran. What then, lukewarm ? That^ made Manes run from his master the last day. Psyllus. Manes had reason ; for his name fore- told as much. Manes. My name ? how so, sir boy ? Psyllus. You know that it is called Mons a Movendo,'' because it stands still. Manes. Good. 1 entreated — treated. * captives or slaves. 3 It is a curious inconsistency that Diogenes, the cynic and despiser of luxury, should here be made to teep a servant in his tub. ^ ' Nature is content with a few things.' 5 dog-bolt — evidently a terni of reproach, nearly syno- nymous with dog, only perhaps more contemptuous. Butler uses it as an adj., in the sense of base. — Nares. " Dodsley reads tohat here. 7 ' Mountain from moving,' on the lucus a non lucendo principle. Lilly here, in jest or earnest, makes Psyllus derive mons (mountain) from Lat. moveo, to move. Following out the principle, Psyllus tries to make a wretched joke, and raise the laugh against Manes, by deriving his name from Lat. maneo, to remain. Psyllus. And thou art named Manes, a Manen- do, because thou runnest away. Manes. Passing* reasons ! I did not run away, but retire. Psyllus. To a prison, because thou wouldst have leisure to contemplate. Manes. I will prove that my body was immor- tal, because it was in prison. Gran. As how ? Manes. Did your masters never teach you that the soul is immortal ? Gran. Yes. Manes. And the body is the prison of the soul ? Gran. True. Manes. Why then, thus to make my body im- mortal, I put it in prison. Gran. Oh bad ! Psyllus. Excellent ill ! Manes. You may see how duU a fasting wit is ; therefore, Psyllus, let us go to supper with Granichus : Plato is the best fellow of all philo- sophers. Give me him that reads in the morning in the school, and at noon in the kitchen. Psyllus. And me. Gran. Ah ! sirs, my master is a king in his parlour for the body, and a god in his study for the soul. Among all his men, he commendeth one that is an excellent musician ; then stand I by, and clap another on the shoulder, and say, this is a passing good cook. Manes. It is well done, Granichus ; for, give me pleasure that goes in at the mouth, not the ear; I had rather fill my guts than my brains. Psyllus. I serve Apelles, who feedeth me, as Diogenes doth Manes; for at dinner, the one preacheth abstinence, the other commendeth counterfeiting.^ When I would eat meat, he paints a spit ; and when I thirst, ' Oh,' saith he, ' is not this a fair pot .'' and points to a table which contains the banquet of the gods, where are many dishes to feed the eye, but not to fill the gut Gran. What doest thou then ? Psyllus. This doth he then, bring in many examples that some have lived by savours, and proveth that much easier it is to fat by colours, and tells of birds that have been fatted by painted grapes in winter; and how many have so fed their eyes with their mistress's piicture, that they never desired to take food, being glutted with the delight in their favours.' Then doth he show me counterfeits,* such as have surfeited with their filthy and loathsome vomits, and with the riotous bacchanals of the god Bacchus, and his disorderly crew, which are painted all to the life in his shop. To conclude, I fare hardly, though I go richly, which maketh me, when I should begin to sha- dow* a lady's face, to draw a lamb's head, and sometime to set to the body of a maid a shoulder of mutton; for semper animus meus est in pa- tinis.^ Manes. Thou art a god to me ; for, could I see but a cook's shop painted, I would make mine eyes fat as butter. For I have nought but sen- tences to fill mj'' maw : as, plures occidit crapula quam gladius ;'' musa jejunantibus arnica;^ re- pletion killeth delicately ; a;nd an old saw of 1 Passing reasons— fine reasoning indeed. 2 counterfeiting — painting. 3 f avows — graces ; beauties. * Counterfeits — pictures or portraits. ' Shadoio — outline. ^ 'My mind is always among the stew-pans,' or 'my belly is always crying cupboard.' — From Terence. ' 'Surfeit (or intemperance) slayeth more than the sword.' * ' The Muse is a friend to the fasting.' JOHN LILLY. 45 abstinence by Socrates, The telly is the head's grave. Thus with sayings, not with meat, ho maketh a galliniafray.' Gran. But how dost thou then live ? Manes. With fine jests, sweet air, and the dogs' alms. Gran. Well, for this time I will stanch thy gut, and, among pots and platters, thou shalt see what it is to serve Plato. Psyllus. For joy of it, Granichus, let's sing. Manes. My voice is as clear in the evening as in the morning. Gran. Another commodity- of emptiness. SoxG. Gran. for a bowl of fat canary, Rich Palermo, sparkling sherry. Some nectar else, from Juno's dairy, O these draughts would make us merry. Psyllus. for a wench (I deal in faces, And in other daintier things) ; Tickled am I with her embraces, Fmo dancing in such fairy rings. Manes. for a plump fat leg of mutton. Veal, lamb, capon, pig, and coney ;^ None is happy but a glutton, None an ass but who wants money. Clior. Wines (indeed) and girls are good, But brave victuals feast the blood ; For wenches, wine, and lusty cheer, Jove would leap down to surfeit here. ACT I.— SCENE III. Melipi'US, Plato, Aristotle, Crisippus, Crates, Cleanthes, Anaxarchus, Alexander, He- PHESTION, PARMENIO, ClYTUS, DiOGENES. Melip. I had never such ado to warn scholars to come before a king. First, I came to Crisippus, a taU, lean, old mad man, willing ^ him presently to appear before Alexander. He stood staring on my face, neither moving his eyes nor his body. I urging him to give some answer, ho took up a book, sat down, and said nothing. Melissa, his maid, told me it was his manner, and that oftentimes she was fain to thrust meat into his mouth, for that he would rather starve than cease study. Well, thought I, seeing bookish men are so blockish, and great clerks such simple courtiers, I will neither be partaker of their commons nor their commendations. From thence I came to Plato and to Aristotle, and to divers other ; none refusing to come, saving an old ob- scure fellow, who, sitting in a tub turned towards the sun, read Greek to a young boy. Him, when 1 willed to appear before Alexandei', he answered, ' If Alexander would fain see me, let him come to me ; if learn of me, let him come to me ; what- soever it be, let him come to me.' ' Why,' said I, he is a king.' He answered, ' Why, I am a philo- sopher.' ' Why, but he is Alexander.' ' Ay, but I am Diogenes.' I was half angry to see one so crooked in his shape, to be so crabbed in his sayings. So, going my way, I said, ' Thou shalt repent it, if thou comest not to Alexander.' ' Nay,' smiling, answered he, ' Alexander may repent it if he come not to Diogenes : virtue must be sought, not offered.' And so, turning himself to his cell, he grunted I know not what, like a pig 1 galUmafray — hash, or hodge-podge, a mixture of many ingredients ; used also metaphorically. 2 commodity — advantage, or convenience. 3 coney — rabbit; pronounced here kun'e. < willing— OiQsixmg, under a tub. But I must be gone, the philoso- phers are coming. \^Exit.'\ Plato. It is a difficult controversy, Aristotle, and rather to be wondered at than believed, how natural causes should work supernatural effects. Aris. I do not so much stand upon the appari- tion* is seen in the moon, neither the Bemonium of Socrates, as that I cannot by natural reason give any reason of the ebbing and flowing of the sea ; which makes me, in the depth of my studies, to cry out, ' ens entium miserere mei.^ '^ Plato. Cleanthes, and you attribute so much to nature, by searching for things which are not to be found, that, whilst you study a cause of your own, you omit the occasion itself. There is no man so savage, in whom resteth not this divine particle, that there is an omnipotent, etei-nal, and divine mover, which may be called God. Cleant. I am of this mind, that that first mover, which you term God, is the instrument of all the movings which we attribute to nature. The earth, which is mass, swimmeth on the sea, seasons divided in themselves, fruits growing in themselves, the majesty of the sky, the whole firmament of the world, and whatsoever else appeareth miraculous, what man, almost of mean capacity, but can prove it natural ? Anax. These causes shall be debated at our philosophers' feast, in which controversy I will take part with Aristotle, that there is Natura nalurans,^ and yet not God. Cra. And I with Plato, that there is Deus optimus maximus,'^ and not nature. Aris. Here cometh Alexander. Alex. I see, Hephestion, that these philosophers are here attending for us. Hej}. They are not philosophers if they know not their duties. Alex. But I much marvel Diogenes should be so dogged. Hep. 1 do not think but his excuse will be better than Melippus' message. Alex. 1 will go see him, Hephestion, because I long to see him that would command Alexander to come, to whom all the world is like to come. Aristotle and the rest, sithence^ my coming from Thebes to Athens, from a place of conquest to a palace of quiet, I have resolved with myself in my court to have as many philosophers as I had in my camp soldiers. My court shall be a school, wherein I will have used as great doctrine in peace as I did in war discipline. Aris. We are all here ready to be commanded, and glad we are that we are commanded, for that nothing better becometh kings than litera- ture, which maketh them come as near to the gods in wisdom as they do in dignity. Alex. It is so, Aristotle ; but yet there is among you, yea, and of your bringing up, that sought to destroy Alexander: Calistenes, Aris- totle, whose treasons against his prince shall not be borne out with the reasons of his iDhilosophy. Aris. If ever mischief entered into the heart of Calistenes,^ let Calistenes suffer for it; but that Aristotle ever imagined any such thing of Calistenes, Aristotle doth deny. 1 Probably which should be inserted before is. 2 ' Being of beings, pity me.' 2 Somewhat equivalent to the Force of certain modem philosophers. ■• ' God, the Best and Greatest.' ^ sithence — since. ^ Callisthenes was a pupil and relation of Aristotle, and rendered himself so obnoxious to Alexander by his arrogance and independence, that he was accused of being privy to a plot to assassinate the king. 46 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. Alex. Well, Aristotle, kindred may blind thee, and affection me ; but in kings' causes I will not stand to scliolars' arguments. This meeting shall be for a commandment, that you all fre- quent my court, instruct the young with rules, confirm the old with reasons. Let your lives be answerable ' to your learnings, lest my proceed- ings be contrary to my promises. Hep. You said you would ask every one of them a question, which yesternight none of us could answer. Alex. I will. Plato, of all beasts, which is the subtilest ." Plato. That which man hitherto never knew. Alex. Aristotle, how should a man be thought a god ? Aris. In doing a thing impossible for a man. Alex. Crisippus, which was first, the day or the night ? Cris. The day, by a day. Alex. Indeed ! strange questions must have strange answers. Cleanthes, what say you, is life or death the stronger ? Cle. Life, that suffereth so many troubles. Alex. Crates, how long should a man live ? Crates. Till he think it better to die than to live. Alex. Anaxarchus, whether doth the sea or the earth bring forth most creatures ? Anax. The earth, for the sea is but a part of the earth. Alex. Hephestion, methinks they have answered all well, and in such questions I mean often to try them. Hep. It is better to have in your court a wise man than in your ground a golden mine. There- fore would I leave war to studj' wisdom, were I Alexander. Alex. So would I, were I Hephestion. But come, let us go and give release, as I promised, to our Theban thrall.2 [Exeunt. Plato. Thou art fortunate, Aristotle, that Alex- ander is thy scholar. Aris. And all you happy, that he is your sove- reign. Cris. I could like the man well, if he could be contented to be a man. Aris. He seeketh to draw near to the gods in knowledge ; not to be a god. Enter Diogenes. Plato. Let us question a little with Diogenes, why he went not with us to Alexander. Dio- genes, thou didst forget thy duty, that thou went'st not with us to the king. Diog. And you your profession that went to the king. Plato. Thou takest as great pride to be peevish as others do glory to be vu-tuous. Diog. And thou as great honour, being a philo- sopher, to be thought court-like, as others shame that be courtiers to be accounted philosophers. Aris. These austere manners set aside; it is well known that thou didst counterfeit money. Diog. And thou thy manners, in that thou didst not counterfeit money. Aris. Thou hast reason to contemn the court, being, both in body and mind, too crooked for a courtier. Diog. As good be crooked, and endeavour to make myself straight from' the court; as be straight, and learn to be crooked at the court. 1 answerable to, ifec— in accordance with your teach- ings. - thrall — prisoner. Probably Timoclea is meant. 3 from — away from. Cris. Thou thinkest it a grace to be opposite against Alexander. Diog. And thou to be jump' with Alexander. Anax. Let us go ; for in contemning him, we shall better please him than in wondering at him. Aris. Plato, what doest thou think of Diogenes? Plato. To be Socrates, furious.^ Let us go. [Exeunt philosophers. ACT II.— SCENE L Diogenes, Psyllus, Manes, Granichus. Psyllus. Behold, Manes, where thy master is ; seeking either for bones for his dinner, or pins for his sleeves. I will go salute him. Manes. Do so ; but mum, not a word that you saw Manes. Cran. Then stay thou behind, and I will go with Psyllus. Psyllus. All hail, Diogenes, to your proper' person. Diog. All hate to thy peevish conditions. Gran. O dog! Psyllus. What dost thou seek for here ? Diog. For a man and a beast. Gran. That is easj^, withoiit thy light, to be found. Be not all these men ? Diog. Called men. Gran. What beast is it thou lookest for ? Diog. The beast, my man. Manes. Psyllus. He is a beast indeed that will serve thee! Diog. So is he that begat thee. Gran. What wouldst thou do if thou shouldst find Manes .' Diog. Give him leave to do as he hath done before. Gran. What's that .' Diog. To run away. Psyllus. Why, hast thou no need of Manes ? Diog. It were a shame for Diogenes to have need of Manes, and for Manes to have no need of Diogenes. Gran. But put the case he were gone, wouldst thou entertain any of us two ? Diog. Upon condition. Psyllus. What? Diog. That you shoiild tell me wherefore any of you both were good. Gran. Why, I am a scholar, and well seen- in philosophy. Psyllus. And I a 'prentice, and well seen in painting. Diog. Well then, Granichus, be thou a painter to amend thine ill face ; and thou, Psyllus, a philosopher, to correct thine evil manners. But who is that Manes ? Manes. I care not who I were, so I were not Manes. Gran. You are taken tardy.* Psyllus. Let us slip aside, Granichus, to see the salutation between Manes and his master. Diog. Manes, thou knowest the last day I threw away my dish, to drink in my hand, be- cause it was superfluous ; now I am determined to put away my man, and serve myself; quia non egeo tui vel te.^ 1 to be jump — to agree; Scotch Ji'm^, exact. 2 furious — raging, or intemperate. 3 proper — comely ; handsome. < Well seen — have good insight; well skilled. ^ ' You have turned lazy.' * ' For I don't want eitlier thyself or thy service.' JOHN LILL Y. 47 Manes. Master, you know a while ago I ran away ; so do I mean to do again, quia scio tihi non esse argentum} Diog. I know I liave no money, neither will I have ever a man ; for I was resolved long si thence^ to put away both my slaves, money and Manes. Manes. So was I determined to shake off Loth my dogs, hunger and Diogenes. Psyllus. sweet consent^ between a crowd* and a Jew's harp. Gran. Come, let us reconcile them. Psyllus. It shall not need, for this is their use, now do they dine one upon another. \_Exit Diogenes. Gran. How no^i Manes, art thou gone from thy master ? Manes. No, I did but now bind myself to him. Psyllus. Why, you are at mortal jars. Manes. In faith no ; we brake a bitter jest one upon another. Gran. Why, thou art as dogged as he. Psyllus. My father knew them both little whelps. Manes. Well, I will hie me after my master. Gran. Why, is it supper time with Diogenes .' Manes. Ay, with him at all time when he hath meat. Psyllus. Why then, every man to his home ; and let us steal out again anon. Gran. Where shall we meet? Psyllus. Why, at Ala vendibili suspensa hxdera non est opus.^ Manes. O Psyllus, haheo te loco parentis,'^ thou blessest me. [_Exeuut. ACT II.— SCENE II. Alexander, Hephestion, Page, Diogenes, Apelles. Alex. Stand aside, sir boy, till you be called. Hephestion, how do you like the sweet face of Campaspe ? Hep. 1 cannot but commend the stout courage of Timoclea. Alex. Without doubt Campaspe had some great man to her father. Hep. You know Timoclea had Theagines to her brother. Alex. Timoclea still in thy mouth ! Art thou not in love ? Hep. Not I. Alex. Not with Timoclea you mean ; wherein you resemble the lapwing, who crieth most where her nest is not.? And so you lead me from espy- ing your love with Campaspe, you cry Timoclea. Hep. Could I as well subdue kingdoms as I can my thoughts, or were I as far from ambition as I am from love, all the world would account mo as valiant in arms, as I know myself moderate in affection. Alex. Is love a vice ? Hep. It is no virtue. 1 ' Because I know you're jrot no money.' 2 ' since.' 3 consent — harmony. * Crowd — a musical insti-ument like a fiddle, with six strings; Welsh crwth—a, bulge, a fiddle; Gael, cruit — a hunch, fiddle. 5 Possibly this may be meant as an alehouse motto or sign; cila should be alx, and the literal translation is, ' There is no need of hanging ivy over saleable ale ; ' or more freely rendered, ' Good wine needs no bush.' The ivy was sacred to Bacchus, and formerly used to be painted over tavern doors as a sign, as the spruce is in GeiTuan}' at the present day. ^ 'I look upon you as my father.' ' Dodsley says that this simile perhaps occurs more frequently in our old -(viiters than any other. Alex. Well, now shalt thou see what small difference I make between Alexander and He- phestion. And sith i thou hast been always par- taker of my triumphs, thou shalt be partaker of my torments. I love, Hephestion, I love ! I love Campaspe, a thing far unfit for a Macedonian, for a king, for Alexander. Why hangest thou down thy head, Hephestion ? Blushing to hear that which I am not ashamed to tell ? Hep. Might my words crave pardon and my counsel credit, I would both discharge the duty of a subject, for so I am, and the office of a friend, for so I will. Alex. Speak, Hephestion ; for whatsoever is spoken, Hephestion speaketh to Alexander. Hep. I cannot tell, Alexander, whether the re- port be more shameful to be heard, or the cause sorrowful to be believed ? What ! is the son of Philip, king of Macedon, become the subject of Campaspe, the captive of Thebes ? Is that mind, whose greatness the world could not contain, di-awn within the compass of an idle alluring eye.? Will you handle the spindle with Her- cules,2 when you should shake the spear with Achilles ? Is the warlike sound of drum and trump turned' to the soft noise of lyre and lute ? the neighing of barbed steeds, whose loudness filled the air with terror, and whose breaths dimmed the sun with smoke, converted to deli- cate tunes and amorous glances ? Alexander ! that soft and jaeldingmind should not be in him, whose hard and unconquered heart hath made so many yield. But you love, — ah grief! but whom? Campaspe? — ah shame! a maid forsooth unknown, unnoble, and who can tell whether immodest ? whose eyes are framed by art to enamour, and whose heart was made by nature to enchant. Ay, but she is beautiful ; yea, but not therefore chaste : ay, bvxt she is comely in all parts of the body ; but she may be crooked in some part of the mind : ay, but she is wise ; yea, but she is a woman : beauty is like the blackberry, which seemeth red, when it is not ripe, resembling precious stones that are polished with honey, which the smoother they look, the sooner they break. It is thought wonderful among the sea-men, that Mugill,^ of all fishes the swiftest, is found in the belly of the Bret,* of all the slowest : and shall it not seem monstrous to wise men that the heart of the greatest con- queror of the world should be found in the hands of the weakest creature of nature ? of a woman ? of a captive ? Hermyns s have fair skins, but foul livers ; sepulchres fresh colours, but rotten bones ; women fair faces, but false hearts. Remember, Alexander, thou hast a camp to govern, not a chamber; fall not from the armour of Mars to the arms of Venus ; from the fiery assaults of war, to the maidenly skii-mishes of love ; from displaying the eagle in thine en- sign, to set down the sparrow. I sigh, Alex- ander, that where fortune could not conquer, folly should overcome. But behold all the per- fection tha(t may be in CamjDaspe : a hair curling by natm-e, not art ; sweet, alluring eyes ; a fair face made in despite ^ of Venus, and a stately port in disdain of Juno ; a wit apt to conceive, and quick to answer; a skin as soft as silk, and as 2 Hercules is said to have spun, and done other effemi- nate things, when living with Omphalc. 3 Mugil — a Latin word, probably mullet. * Bret— twYhot or halibut ; the word is still used in some districts. ^ Hermyns — ermines. 6 in despite of—m defiance, in disdain of—m mockery or contempt. 48 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS, smooth as jet ; a long white hand, a line little foot; to conclude, all parts answerable to the best part; what of this? Though she have heavenly gifts, virtue and beauty, is she not of earthly metal, flesh and blood ? You, Alexander, that would be a god, show yourself in this worse than a man, so soon to be both overseen and over- taken in a woman,^ whose false tears know their true times, whose smooth words wound deeper than sharp swords. There is no surfeit so dan- gerous as that of honey, nor any poison so deadly as that of love ; in the one physic cannot prevail, nor in the other counsel.^ Ahx. My case were light, Hephestion, and not worthy to be called love, if reason were a remedy, or sentences could salve, that sense cannot con- ceive. Little do you know, and therefore slightly do you i-egard the dead embers in a pi-ivate per- son, or live coals in a great prince, whose passions and thoughts do as far exceed others in extremity as their callings do in majesty. An eclipse iu the sun is more than the falling of a star : none can conceive the torments of a king, unless he be a king, whose desires are not inferior to their dignities. And then judge, Hephestion, if the agonies of love be dangerous in a subject, whether thej' be not more than deadly unto Alexander, whose deep and not -to -be -con- ceived sighs cleave the heart in shivers, whose wounded thoughts can neither be expressed nor endured. Cease then, Hephestion, with argu- ments to seek to refell* that which with their deity the gods cannot resist ; and let this suihce to answer thee, that it is a king that loveth, and Alexander ; whose affections are not to be mea- sured by reason, being immortal ; nor, I fear me, to be borne, being intolerable. Hep. I must needs yield, when neither reason nor counsel can be heard. Alex. Yield, Hephestion, for Alexander doth love, and therefore must obtain. Hep. Suppose she loves not you ; affection cometh not by appointment or birth ; and then, as good hated as enforced. Alex. I am a king, and will command. Hep. You may, to yield to lust by^ force ; but to consent to love by fear, you cannot Alex. Why, what is that which Alexander may not conquer as he list ? Hep. Why, that which you say the gods can- not resist — love. Alex. I am a conqueror, she a captive ; I ns fortunate as she fair. My greatness may answer her wants, and the gifts of my mind the modesty of hers. Is it not likely, then, that she should love ? Is it not reasonable "i Hep. You say that in love there is no reason, and therefore there can be no likelihood. Alex. No more, Hephestion ; in this case I will use mine own counsel, and in all other thine ad- vice. Thou may'st be a good soldier, but never good lover. Call my page. {Enter page.'\ Sirrah, go presently to Apelles, and will him to come to me without either delay or excuse. Page. I go. Alex. In the mean season,* to recreate my spirits, being so near, we will go see Diogenes. And see where his tub is. — Diogenes ! * cmsioerahU to — corresponding to. 2 overseen and overtaken in a woman — tricked or de- ceived, and captivated or intoxicated by a woman. 3 This long harangue is a fair example of the tedious and affected style of the author's Euphues. * /Jf/eW— disprove or refute ; from Lat. refello, to dis- prove, from fallo, to deceive, and re, denoting an un- doing. * mean ieosore— meantime. Diog. Who calleth .' Alex. Alexander. How happened it that you would not come out of your tub to my palace ? Diog. Because it was as far from my tub to your palace, as from your palace to my tub. Alex. Why, then, dost thou owe no reverence to kings ? Diog. No. Alex. Why so ? Diog. Because they be no gods. A lex. They be gods of the earth. Diog. Yea, gods of earth. Alex. Plato is not of thy mind. Diog. I am glad of it. Alex. Why.> Diog. Because I would have none of Diogenes' mind, but Diogenes. Alex. If Alexander have anything that may pleasure Diogenes, let me know, and take it. Diog. Then take not from me that you cannot give me — the light of the world. Alex. What dost thou want? Diog. Nothing that you have. Alex. I have the world at command. Diog. And I in contempt. Alex. Thou shalt live no longer than I will. Diog. But I shall die whether you will or no. Alex. How should one learn to be content ? Diog. Unlearn to covet. Alex. Hephestion, were I not Alexander, I would wish to be Diogenes. Hep. He is dogged, but discreet ; I cannot tell how 1 sharp, with a kind of sweetness ; full of wit, yet too wayward. Alex. Diogenes, when I come this way again, I will both see thee and confer with thee. Diog. Do. Alex. But here cometh Apelles. — How now, ApeUes ; is Venus' face yet finished ? Apel. Not yet ; beauty is not so soon shadowed,- whose perfection cometh not within the compass either of cunning or of colour. Alex. Well, let it rest unperfect, and come you with me, where I will show you that finished by natui-e that you have been trifling about by art. ACT III.— SCENE I. Apelles, Campaspe. Apel. Lady, I doubt whether there be any colour so fresh, that may shadow a countenance so fair. Camp. Sir, I had thought you had been com- manded to paint with your hand, not to glose^ with your tongue ; but, as I have heard, it is the hardest thing in painting to set down a hard favour,* which maketh you to despair of my face ; and then shall you have as great thanks to spare your labour as to discredit your art. Apel. Mistress, you neither differ from your- self nor your sex ; for, knowing your own per- fection, you seem to dispraise that which men most commend, drawing them by that mean into an admiration, where, feeding themselves, they fall into an ecstasy ; your modesty being the cause of the one, and of the other, your affections.* Camp. I am too young to understand your > In some editions there is a semicolon after haw. - sAadowcd— depicted. 3 gtose— flatter ; generally said to be allied to gloss — explain; but in meaning rather connected with gloss— glitter; polish. * favour — look or countenance. s Dodsley (ed. 1744) XQ3.6.S perfectioM. JOHN LILLY. 49 speech, though old enough to withstand your device. You have been so long used to colours, you can do nothing but colour. A-pd. Indeed, the colours I see I fear will alter the colours I have. But come, Madam, will you draw near ? for Alexander will be here anon. Psyllus, stay you here at the window ; if any inquire for me, answer, Non lubet esse dovii.^ \_Exeunt. ACT III.— SCENE II. PSTLLUS, MaMES. Psyllus. It is always my master's fashion, when any fair gentlewoman is to be drawn within, to make me to stay without. But if he should paint Jupiter like a bull, like a swan, like an eagle, then must Psyllus with one hand grind colours, and with the other hold the candle. But let him aloue; the better he shadows- her face, the more will he burn his own, heart. And now, if any man could meet with Manes, who, I dare say, looks as lean as if Diogenes dropped out of his nose — Manes. And here comes Manes, who hath as much meat in his maw as thou hast honesty in thy head. Psyllus. Then I hope thou art very hungry. Manes. They that know thee know that. Psyllus. But dost thou not remember that we have certain liquor to confer^ withal ? Manes. Ay, but I have business ; I must go cry a thing. Psyllus. Why, what hast thou lost ? Manes. That which I never had — my dinner ! Psyllus. Foul lubber, wilt thou cry for thy dinner ? Manes. I mean, I vtmsi cry; not as one would say cry,* but cry, that is, make a noise. Psyllus. Why, fool, that is all one ; for if thou cry, thou must needs make a noise. Manes. Boy, thou art deceived : Cry hath divers significations, and may be alluded^ to many things; knave but to one, and can be applied but to thee. Psyllus. Profound M anes ! Manes. We Cynics are mad fellows ; didst thou not find I did quip " thee .' Psyllus. No, verily ; why, what's a quip ? Manes. We great girders' call it a short saying of a sharp wit, with, a bitter sense in a sweet word. Psyllus. How canst thou thiis divine, divide, define, dispute, and all on the sudden ? Manes. Wit will have his swing ; I am be- witched, inspired, inflamed, infected. Psyllus. Well, then will I not tempt thy gibing spirit. 3Ianes. Do not, Psyllus, for thy dull head will be but a grindstone for my quick wit, which, if thou whet with overthwarts,* periisti, actum est de te.^ I have drawn blood at one's brains with a bitter bob.'" Psyllus. Let mo cross myself, for I die if I cross thee. 1 ' It is not his pleasure to tie at home.' - ' depicts.' ^ con/ei — discuss, consume. * c?'2/— weep. * aWurfed— referred. * quip— ta,unt or retort upon. A quip is a cut or smart stroke of wit ; it is allied to whip. ' girder — one who girds, gibes, or uses sarcasm. To gird is to cut with a switch, to lash with wit. Anglo- Saxon, geard, gird, and German, gerte — switch or rod. 8 overthwarts — cross or sharp answers. 8 ' Thou art done for, it's all over with thee.' 10 bob — taunt or scoff. Manes. Let me do my business ; I myself am afraid lest my wit should wax warm, and then must it needs consume sqme hard head with tine and pretty jests. I am sometimes in such a vein, that for want of some duU pate to work on, I begin to gird' myself. Psyllus. The gods shield me from such a fine fellow, whose words melt wits like wax ! Manes. Well, then, let us to the matter. In faith, my master meaneth to-moi'row to fly. Psyllus. It is a jest. Manes. Is it a jest to fly? should'st thou fly so soon, thou should'st repent it in earnest. Psyllus. Well, I will be the cryer. Manes and Psyllus, one after another. Oyez, Oyez, Oyez,- All manner of men, women, or chil- dren, that will come to-morrow into the market- place, between the hours of nine and ten, shall see Diogenes, the Cynic, Qy. Psyllus. I do not think he will fly. Manes. Tush ! say fly.^ Psyllus. Fly. Manes. Now let us go, for I will not see him again till midnight. I have a back way into his tub. Psyllus. Which way callest thou the back way, when every way is open ? Manes. I mean to come in at his back. Psyllus. Well, let us go away, that we may return speedily. [_Exeunt. ACT III.— SCENE III. Apelles, Cabipaspe. Apel. I shall never draw your eyes well, be- cause they blind mine. Camp. Why then, paint me without eyes, for I am blind. Ajiel. Were you ever shadowed before of any ? Camp. No. And would you could so now shadow me that I might not be perceived of any. Apel. It were pity but that so absolute* a face should furnish Venus's temple amongst these pictures. Camp. What are these pictures ? Apel. This is Lseda, whom Jove deceived in likeness of a swan. Camp. A fair woman, but a foul deceit. Apiel. This is Alcmena, unto v/hom Jupiter came in shape of Amphitrion, her husband, and begat Hercules. Camp. A famous son, but an infamous fact. Apel. He might do it because he was a god. Camp. Nay, therefore it was evil done, because he was a god. Apel. This is Danae, into whose prison Jupiter drizzled a golden shower, and obtained his desire. Camp. What gold can make one yield to desire.' Apel. This is Europa, whom Jupiter ravished ; this Antiopa. Camp. Were all the gods like this Jupiter ? _ Ajwl. There were many gods in this like Jupiter. Camp. I think, in those days, love was well ratified = among men on earth, when lust was so full authorized by the gods in heaven. Ai>el. Nay, you may imagine there were women 1 gird — ^jibe at. 2 Oyez is French— hear ye; the form used at the com- mencement of public proclamations. " Psyllus is no doubt supposed to have hesitated to say fly. ■i absolute — ^perfect. '' ratijied — established. 50 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. passing amiable when there were gods exceeding amorous. Camp. Were women never so fair, men would be false. Apel. Were women never so false, men would be fond. Camp. What counterfeit' is this, Apelles? Apel. This is Venus, the goddess of love. Camp. What ! be there also loving goddesses ? Apel. This is she that hath power to command the very affections of the heart. Camp. How is she hired? by prayer, by sacri- fice, or bribes ? Apd. By prayer, sacrifice, and bribes. Camp. What prayer ? Apel. Vows irrevocable. Camp. What sacrifice ? Apel. Hearts ever sighing ; never dissembling. Camp. What bribes ? Apel. Koses and kisses. But were you never in love ? Camp. No ; nor love in me. Apel. Then have you injured many! Camp. How so ? Apel. Because you have been loved of many. Camp. Flattered, perchance, of some. Apel. It is not possible that a face so fair and a wit so sharp, both without comparison, should not be apt to love. Camp. If you begin to tip your tongue with cunning, I pray dip your pencil in colours, and faU to that you must do, not that you would do. ACT III.— SCENE IV. Clttus, Parmenio, Alexander, Hephestion, Crysus, Diogenes, Apelles, Campaspe. Clytus. Parmenio, I cannot tell how it coipeth to pass that in Alexander, now-a-days, there groweth an unpatient kind of life : in the morn- ing he is melancholy, at noon solemn, at all times either more sour or severe than he was accustomed. Par. In king's causes, I rather love to doubt than conjecture, and think it better to be ignorant than inquisitive. They have long ears and stretched arms in whose head suspicion is a proof, and to be accused is to be condemned. Clytus. Yet, between us, there can be no danger to find out the cause, for that there is no malice to withstand it. It may be an unquenchable thirst of conqueiing maketh him unquiet: it is not imlikely his long ease hath altered his humour. That he should be in love, it is not impossible. Par. In love, Clytus ? No, no ; it is as far from his thought as ti-eason in ours : he, whose ever waking eye, whose never tired heart, whose body patient of labour, whose mind unsatiable of vic- tory hath always been noted, cannot so soon be melted into the weak conceits of love. Aristotle told him there were many worlds, and that he hath not conquered one that gapeth for all, galleth Alexander. But here he cometh. Alex. Parmenio and Clytus, I would have you both ready to go into Persia about an ambassage,^ no less profitable to me than to yourselves honour- able. Clytus. We are ready at all commands ; wishing nothing else but continually to be commanded. Alex. Well, then, withdraw yourselves till I have further considered of this matter. [Exeunt Clytus and Parmenio.'] Now we will see how ' counterfeit — picture or portrait. • about an ambassage — on an embassy, or business. Apelles goeth forward : I doubt me that natiu'e hath overcome art, and her countenance his cunning. Hej). You love, and therefore think anything. Alex. But not so far in love with Campaspe as with Bucephalus, if occasion serve either of con- flict or of conquest. Hep. Occasion cannot want, if will do not. Behold all Persia swelling in the pride of their own power; the Scythians careless what courage or fortune can do ; the Egyptians dreaming in the soothsayings of their augurs, and gaping over the smoke of their beasts' entrails.' All these, Alexander, are to be subdued, if that world bo not slipped out of your head, which you have sworn to conquer with that hand. Alex. I confess the labour's fit for Alexander, and yet recreation necessary among so many assaults, bloody wounds, intolerable troubles : give me leave a little, if not to sit, yet to breathe. And doubt not but Alexander can, when he wUl, throw affections as far from him as he can cowardice. But behold Diogenes talking with one at his tub ! Crysus. One i^enny, Diogenes; I am a Cynic. Diog. He made thee a beggar that first gave thee anything. Crysus. Why, if thou wilt give nothing, nobody will give thee. Bioff. 1 want nothing till the springs dry and the earth perish. Crysus. I gather for the gods. Diog. And I care not for those gods which want money. Crysus. Thou art not a right Cynic that wilt give nothing. Diog. Thou art not, that wilt beg anything. Crysus. Alexander, King Alexander, give a poor Cynic a groat. Alex.' It is not for a king to give a groat. Crysus. Then give me a talent. Alex. It is not for a beggar to ask a talent. Away. — Apelles ! Apel. Here. Alex. Now gentlewoman? doth your beauty put the painter to his trump ? ^ Camp. Yes, my lord, seeing so disordered a countenance, he feareth he shall shadow ^ a de- formed countei'feit. Alex. Would he could colour the life with the feature.* And, methinketh, Apelles, were you as cunning as report saith you are, you may paint flowers as well with sweet smells as fresh colours, observing in your mixture such things as should draw near to their savours. Apiel. Your Majesty must know it is no less hard to paint savours than virtues : colours can neither speak nor think. Alex. Where do you first begin when you draw any picture .' Apel. The proportion of the face in just com- pass, as I can. Alex. I would begin with the eye, as a light to all the rest. Apel. If you will paint, as you are a king, your Majesty may begin where you please ; but, as you would be a painter, you must begin with the face. Alex. Aurelius would in one hour colour four faces. Apel. I marvel in half an hour he did not four. 1 Alluding to the method of augury by Inspection of the entrails of animals. 2 put the painter to his trump — make him play his tnimp card, i.e. put him to his last push. 3 sliadoio, &c. — paint an untnie likeness. * colour the life, &c. — paint the features to the life. JOHN LILLY. 51 Alex. Why, is it so easy ? Apd. No ; but he doth it so homely.* Alex. When will you finish Campaspe ? Apd. Never finish ; for ahvays in absolute beauty there is somewhat above art. Alex. Why should not I, by labour, be as cunniug2 as Apelles? Apel. God shield' you should have eause to be so cunning as Apelles ! Alex. Methinketh four colours are sufficient to shadow any countenance, and so it was in the time of Phidias. Apel. Then had men fewer fancies, and women not so many favours. For now, if the hair of her eyebrows be black, yet must the hair of her head be yellow :* the attire of her head must be different from the habit of her bodj', else would the picture seem like the blazon of ancient armoui-y, not like the sweet delight of new-found amiableness. For as, in garden knots,^ diversity of odours make a more sweet savour, or as, in music, divers strings cause a more delicate con- sent,^ so in painting, the more coh 'urs the better counterfeit ; observing black for 11. ground, and the rest for grace. Alex. Lend me thy pencil, Zpelles; I will paint, and thou shalt judge. Apel. Here. Alex. The coal^ breaks. Apel. You lean too hard. Altx. Now it blacks not. Apel. You lean too soft. Alex. This is awry. Apel. Your eye goeth not with your hand. Alex. Now it is worse. Apel. Your hand goeth not with your mind. Alex. Nay, if all be too hard or soft, so many rules and regards,^ that one's hand, one's eye, one's mind must all draw together, I had rather be setting of a battles than blotting of a board.'" But how have I done here ? Apel. Like a king. Alex. I think so; but nothing more unlike a painter. Well, Apelles, Campaspe is finished as I wish; dismiss her, and bring presently her counterfeit after me. Apel. I will. Alex. Now, Hephestion, doth not this matter cottonii as I would ? Campaspe looketh plea- santly ; liberty will increase her beauty, and my love shall advance her honour. Hep. I will not contrary'- you, your Majesty ; for time must wear out that'' love hath wrought, and reason wean what appetite nui'sed. Alex. How stately she passeth by, yet how soberly ! a sweet consent'* in her countenance with a chaste disdain !'^ desire mingled with coy- 1 homily — commonly, poorly. 2 cunning — skilful. ' shield — guard against, forbid. * Allucling to the fashion, preTalent in the time of LiUy, of dyeing the hair yellow, which was the natural colour of Queen Elizabeth's. Yellow hair was much admired in ancient times, and has come into fashion again at the present day. '5 It was fashionable in Elizabeth's time to arrange flower-beds in intricate knotted convolutions. * consent — harmony. ' Charcoal was used as a pencil to outUne a picture. * Things to be regarded or attended to. 9 setting of a battle — arranging an army for battle, 'o blotting of a board — painting a picture. In old times, pictures were painted on boards or panels. 11 cotton — succeed, or go on prosperously ; probably from the finishing of cloth, which, when it cottons, or rises to a nap, is quite complete. 12 ' contradict.' " that — what. 1* consent — acquiescence, or compliance. ** disdain — pride or reserve. , ness ! and I cannot tell how to term it, a curst' yielding modesty ! Hep. Let her pass. Alex. So she shall for the fairest on the earth. [Exeunt. ACT IIL— SCENE V. PsYLLUs, Maxes, Apelles. Psyllus. I shall be hanged for tarrying so long. Manes. I pray God my master be not flown before I come. Psyllus. Away, Manes ! my master doth come. Apel. Where have you been all this while ? Psyllus. Nowhere but here. Ajiel. Who was here eithens my coming ? Psyllus. Nobody. Apel. Ungracious wag, I perceive you have been aloitering. Was Alexander nobody ? Psyllus. He was a king; I meant no mean body. Apel. I will cudgel your body for it, and then will I say it was no body, because it was no honest body. Away in. \_Exit Psyllus.'] Un- fortunate Apelles, and therefore unfortunate because Apelles! Hast thou, by drawing her beauty, brought to pass that thou canst scarce draw thine own breath ? And by so much the more hast thou increased thy care, by how much the more thou hast showed thy cunning : was it not sufficient to behold the fire, and warm thee, but with Satyrus thou must kiss the fire and burn thee.? Campaspe, Campaspe, art must yield to nature, reason to appetite, wisdom to affection ! Could Pygmalion 2 entreat by prayer to have his ivory turned into flesh ? and cannot Apelles obtain by plaints' to have the picture of his love changed to life ? Is painting so far inferior to carving .' or dost thou, Venus, more delight to be hewed with chisels then shadowed with colours.' What Pygmalion, or what Pyrgoteles,' or what Lysippus is he, that ever made thy face so fair, or spread thy fame so far as I ? unless Venus, in this thou enviest mine art, that in colouring my sweet Campaspe, I have left no place by cunning to make thee so ami- able. But alas ! she is the paramour to a prince : Alexander, the mouai'ch of the earth, hath both her body and affection. For what is it that kings cannot obtain by prayers, threats, and promises ? Will not she think it better to sit under a cloth of estate^ like a queen, than in a poor shop like a housewife? and esteem it sweeter to be the concubine of the lord of the world, than spouse to '-• a painter in Athens? Yes, yes, Apelles, thou mayest swim against the stream with the crab, and feed against the wind with the deer, and peck against the steel with the cockatrice :* stars are to be looked at, not reached 1 Dodsley (ed. 1744) reads courteous : yielding modesty, i.e. modesty without pmdery. ' Pygmalion, a king of Cyrus, is said to have fallen in love with the ivory image of a maiden, which he himself had, made; and, on Venus answering his- prayer to breathe life into, it, married the maiden. 3 plaints — lamentations, or violent entreaties. * Pyrgoteles was a celebrated gem engraver, and Ly- sippus a distinguished statuary of ancient Greece, both contemporaries of Apelles. 5 The canopy placed over royalty. 6 cockatrice — from cock, and Anglo-Saxon ater, a snake; supposed to be produced from a cock's egg, with the head of a cock and body of a sei-pent. It was said to have a deadly eye, and many fables are told about it. It was supposed to have the power to pierce steel by peckmg at it. 52 THE ENGLISH DRAMATISTS. at ; princes to be yielded unto, not contended with ; Campaspe to be honoured, not obtained ; to be painted, not possessed of thee. fair face ! unhappy hand ! and why didst thou draw it so fair a face ? beautiful countenance ! the express image of Venus, but somewhat fresher : the only pattern of that eternity which Jupiter, dreaming asleep, could not conceive again wak- ing. Blush, Venus, for I am ashamed to end thee. Now must I paint things unpossible for mine art, but agreeable with my affections : deep and hollow sighs, sad and melancholy thoughts, wounds and slaughters of conceits, a life posting to death, a death galloping from life, a wavering constancy, an unsettled resolution, and what not, Apelles ? And what but Apelles ? But as they that ai'e shaken with a fever are to be warmed with clothes, not groans, and as he that melteth in a consumption is to be recured by colices,' not conceits ; so the feeding canker of my care, the never-dying worm of my heart, is to be killed by counsel, not cries ; by applying of remedies, not by replying of reasons. And sith in cases desperate there must be used medicines that !are extreme, I will hazard that little life that is left, to restore the greater part that is lost ; and this shall be my first practice, for wit must work where authority is not. As soon as Alexan- der hath viewed this portraiture, I will, by device, give it a blemish, that by that means she may come again to my shop; and then as good it were to utter my love, and die with denial, as conceal it, and live in despair. Song by Apelles. Cupid and my Campaspe play'd At cards for kisses, Cupid paid; He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; Loses them too ; then down he throws The coral of his lip, tlie rose Growing on's cheek (but none knows how), With these, the crystal of his brow, And tlien the dimple of his chin : All these did my Campaspe win. At last he set- her both his eyes; She won, and Cupid blind did rise. O love ! has she done this to thee ? What shall, alas ! become of me ? ACT IV.— SCENE I. SOLINUS, PSTLLUS, GkANICHUS, ManES, Diogenes, Populus (the People). Sol. This is the place, the day, the time, that Diogenes hath appointed to fly. Psylhis. I will not lose the flight of so fair a fowl as Diogenes is, though my master cudgel my no body, as he threatened. Gran. What, Psyllus, mil the beast wag his wings to-day ? Psyllus. We shall hear ; for here cometh Manes. — Manes, will it be ? Mams. Be ! he were best be as cunning as a bee, or else shortly he will not be at all. Gran. How is • he furnished to fly ? hath he feathers ? Manes. Thou art an ass ! capons, geese, and 1 coUces. Cullis was a strong broth for invalids, strained or gelatinized. French couCis — a broth, or jelly, from confer, to strain. It was most elaborately prepared, containing, among many other more edible and savoury ingredients, pieces of gold, ambergi'is, and dust of oriental pearls. * Set as a stake. owls have feathers. He hath found Dedalus' old waxen wings, and hath been piecing them th"is month, he is so broad in the shoulders. 0, you shall see him cut the air even like a tortoise. Sol. Methinks so wise a man should not be so mad ; his body must needs be too heavy. Manes. Why, he hath eaten nothing this seven- night but cork and feathers. Psyllus. Touch him. Manes. Manes. He is so light that he can scarce keep him from flying at midnight. Populus intrat (the Populace enters). Manes. See, they begin to flock; and behold, my master bustles himself to fly. Diog. Tou wicked and bewitched Athenians, whose bodies make the earth to groan, and whose breaths infect the air with stench. Come ye to see Diogenes fly ? Diogenes cometh to see you sink : yea, call me dog ; so I am, for I long to gnaw the bones in your skins. Ye term me a hater of men : no, I am a hater of your manners. Your lives dissolute, not fearing death, will prove your deaths desperate, not hoping for life. What do you else in Athens but sleep in the day, and surfeit in the night : back-gods in the morning with pride, in the evening belly-gods with glut- tony! You flatter kings, and call them gods; speak truth of yourselves, and confess you are de^'ils! From the bee you have taken not the honey, but the wax, to make your religion ; framing it to the time, not to the truth. Your filthy lust you coloiu: under a courtly colour of love ; injuries abroad under the title of policies at home ; and secret malice creepeth under the name of public justice. You have caused Alexander to diy up springs and plant vines, to sow rocket and weed endive, to shear sheep, and shrine' foxes. All conscience is sealed at Athens. Swearing cometh of a hot mettle ; lying of a quick wit; flattery of a flowing tongue ; indecent talk of a merry disposition. All things are law- ful at Athens. Either you think there are no gods, or I must think ye are no men. You build as though you should live for ever, and surfeit as though you should die to-morrow. None teacheth true philosophy but Aristotle, because he was the king's schoolmaster! times! men ! corruption in manners ! Eemember that green grass must turn to dry hay. When you sleep, you are not sure to wake ; and when you rise, not certain to lie down. Look you never so high, your heads must lie level with your feet. Thus have I flown over your dis- ordered lives; and if you will not amend your manners, I will study to fly farther from you, that I may be nearer to honesty. Sol. Thou ravest, Diogenes, for thy life is different from thy words. Did not I see thee come out of a brothel house ? was it not a shame ? Diog. It was no shame to go out, but a shame to go in. Gran. It were a good deed, Manes, to beat thy master. Manes. You were as good eat my master. One of the people. Hast thou made us all fools, and wiit thou not fly ? Diog. I tell thee, unless thou be honest, I will ^ s?irine — enshrine or deify. 'He means,' says Nares, ' that the Athenians had occasioned Alexander to en- courage luxury in preference to utility, and the plunder of the innocent, while he exalted or deified the wicked; this he calls shearing,' &c. JOHN LILLY. 53 People. Dog ! dog ! take a bone ! Diog. Thy father need fear no dogs, but dogs thy father. People. We will tell Alexander that thou re- provest him behind his back. Diog. And I will tell him that you flatter him before his face. People. We will cause all the boys in the street to hiss at thee. Diog. Indeed, I think the Athenians have their children ready for any vice, because they be Athe- nians. Manes. Why, master, mean you not to fly ? Diog. No, Manes, not without wings. Manes. Everybody will account you a liar. Diog. No, I warrant you; for I will always say the Athenians are mischievous. Psyllus. I care not, it was sport enough for me to see these old huddles ' hit home. Gran. Nor I. Psyllus. Come, let us go ! and hereafter, when I mean to rail upon any body openly, it shall be given out, I will fly. [Exeunt. ACT IV.— SCENE II. Casipaspe, Apelles. Camp, [alone.'] Campaspe, it is hard to judge whether thy choice be more unwise, or thy chance unfortunate. Dost thou prefer — but stay, utter not that in words which maketh thine ears to glow with thoughts. Tush ! better thy tongue wag, than thy heart break ! Hath a painter crept further into thy mind than a prince ? Apelles, than Alexander? Fond wench! the baseness of thy mind bewrays" the meanness of thy birth. But alas! affection is a fire, which kindleth as well in the bramble as in the oak ; and catcheth hold where it first lighteth, not where it may best burn. Larks that mount aloft in the air, build their nests below in the earth ; and women that cast their eyes upon kings, may place their hearts upon vassals. A needle will become thy fingers better than a lute, and a distaff is fitter for thy hand than a sceptre. Ants live safely till they have gotten wings, and juniper is not blown up till it hath gotten an high top. The mean estate is without care as long as it con- tinueth without pi'ide. But here cometh Apelles, in whom I would thei-e were the like affection. Apel. Gentlewoman, the misfortune I had with your picture will put you to some pains to sit again to be painted. Camp. It is small pains for me to sit still, but infinite for you to draw still. Apel. No, Madam. To paint Venus was a plea- sure ; but to shadow the sweet face of Campaspe, it is a heaven ! Camp. If your tongue were made of the same flesh that your heart is, your words would be as your thoughts are ; but such a common thing it is amongst you to commend, that oftentimes, for fashion's sake, you call them beautiful whom you know black. Apel. What might men do to be believed ? Camp. Whet their tongue on their hearts. Apel. So they do, and speak as they think. Camp. I would they did ! Apel. I would they did not ! 1 huddle — a term of contempt applied to old decrepid persons; possibly from having tlieir clothes huddled about them, or from being bent or huddled together with age. * bewrays — betrays. Camp. Why, would you have them dissemble ? Apel. Not in love, but their love.^ But will you give me leave to ask you a question without offence ? Camp. So that you will answer me another without excuse. Apel. Whom do you love best in the world ? Camp. He that made me last in the world. Apel. That was a god. Camp. I had thought it had been a man. But whom do you honour most, Apelles ? Apel. The thing that is likest you, Campaspe. Camp. My picture ? Apel. I dare not venture upon your person. But come, let us go in, for Alexander will think it long till we return. [Exeunt. ACT -IV.— SCENE III. Clttus, Parmenio. Clytus. We hear nothing of our embassage ; - a colour^ belike to blear* our eyes, or tickle our ears, or inflame our hearts. But what doth Alex- ander in the mean season, but use for tantara^ — sol, fa, la ; for his hard couch, down beds ; for his handful of water, his standing cup of wine ? Par. Clytus, I mislike this new delicacy and pleasing peace ; for what else do we see now than a kind of softaess in every man's mind ; bees to make their hives in soldiers' helmets, our steeds furnished with foot-cloths of gold' instead of saddles of steel ; more time to be required to scour the rust off our weapons, thah there was wont to be in subduing the countries of our enemies. Sithence ' Alexander fell from his hard armour to his soft robes, behold the face of his court : youths that were wont to carry devices of victory in their shields, engrave now posies^ of love in their rings ; they that were accustomed on trotting horses to charge the enemy with a lance, now in easy coaches ride up and down to court ladies ; instead of sword and target to hazard their lives, use pen and paper to paint their loves. Yea, such a fear and faintness is grown in court, that thej' wish rather to hear the blowing of a horn to hunt, than the sound of a trumpet to fight. O Philip, wert thou alive to see this alteration, — thy men turned to women, thy soldiers to lovers, gloves worn in velvet caps,8 instead of plumes in graven helmets, — thou would'st either die among them for sorrow, or confound them for anger. Clytus. Cease, Parmenio, lest, in speaking what becometh thee not, thou feel what liketh thee not. Truth is never without a scratch'd face, whose tongue, although it cannot be cut out, yet must it be tied up. Par. It grieveth me not a little for Hephestion, who thirsteth for honour, not ease ; but such is his fortune and nearness in friendship to Alex- ander, that he must lay a pillow under his head 1 This sentence may mean that there should be no dissembling in true love, but that there may be in men's love, which is false. - embassage — embassy. ^ colour belike — pretence likely. * blear our ey«s— make our eyes water. * use for tantara, achiev'd — won, or reached. GEORGE PEELE. 63 That for so little service he should faint, And seek, as cowards, refuge of his home : Nor are his thoughts so sensually stu-r'd, To stay the arms with which the Lord would smite And fill their circle with his conquer'd foes, For wanton bosom of a flattering wife. Dav. Urias hath a beauteous sober wife, Then go, Urias, solace in her love ; Whom God hath knit to thee, tremble to loose. Ur. The king is much too tender of my ease : The ark, and Israel, and Judah dwell In palaces and rich pavilions ; But Joab and his brother in the fields, Suffering the wrath of winter and the sim : And shall Urias (of more shame than they) Banquet, and loiter in the work of heaven ? As sm-e as thy soul doth live, my lord, Mine ears shall never lean to such delight. When holy labour calls me forth to fight. Dav. Then be it with Urias' manly heart As best his fame may shine in Israel. Ur. Thus shall Urias' heart be best content. Till thou dismiss me back to Joab's bands : This ground before the king my master's doors Shall be my couch, and this unwearied arm The proper pillow of a soldier's head ; [Lies down. For never will I lodge within my house, Till Joab triumph in my secret vows. Dav. Then fetch some flagons of our purest wine, That we may welcome home our hardy friend With full carouses to his fortunes past. And to the honours of his future arms ; Then wiU I send him back to Eabbah siege. And follow with the strength of Israel. Enter one with flagons of wine. Arise, Urias ; come and pledge the king. Ur. If David think me worthy such a gi*ace, I wiU be bold and pledge my lord the king. [Rises. Dav. Absalon and Cusay both shaU drink To good Urias and his happiness. Ahs. We will, my lord, to please Urias' soul. Dav. I will begin, Urias, to thyself. And all the treasure of the Ammonites, Which here I promise to impart to thee. And bind that promise with a full carouse. [Drinks. Ur. What seemeth pleasant in my sovereign's eyes, That shall Urias do till he be dead. Dav. Fill him the cup. [Ukias drinhs.l — Follow, ye lords that love Your sovereign's health, and do as he hath done. Ahs. Ill may he thrive, or live in Israel, That loves not David, or denies his charge. — Urias, here is to Abisai's health. Lord Joab's brother and thy loving friend. [Drinks. Ur. I pledge Lord Absalon and Abisai's health. [Drinks. Cu. Here now, Urias, to the health of Joab, And to the pleasant jom-ney we shall have When we return to mighty Eabbah siege. [Drinks. Ur. Cusay, I pledge thee with aU my heart. — Give me some drink, ye servants of the king ; Give me my diink. [Drinks. Dav. Well done, my good Urias ! drink thy fill. That in thy fulness David may rejoice. Ur. I will, my Lord. Ahs. Now, Lord Urias, one carouse to me. Ur. No, SU-, I'll drink to the king ; Tour father is a better man than you. Dav. Do so, Urias ; I will pledge thee straight Ur. 1 will indeed, my lord and sovereign ; I'll once in my days be so bold. Dav. Fill him his glass. Ur. Fill me my glass. Dav. Quickly, I say. Ur. Quickly, I say.— Here, my lord, by your favour now I drink to you. [Drinks. Dav. I pledge thee, good Urias, presently. [Drinks. Als. Here, then, Urias, once again for me. And to the health of David's childfen. [Drinks. Ur. David's chUdren ! Ahs. Ay, David's children: wilt thou pledge me, man ? Ur. IPledge me, man ? Abs. Pledge me, I say, or else thou lov'st us not. Ur. What, do you talk .' do you talk ? I'll no more ; I'll lie down here. Dav. Bather, Urias, go thou home and sleep. Ur. 0, ho, sir ! would you make me break my sentence? [Lies down.'] Home, sir ! no, indeed, sir : I'll sleep upon mine arm, like a soldier ; sleep lilve a man as long as I live in Israel. Dav. [aside.~\ If naught will serve to save his wife s renown, I'll send him with a letter unto Joab To put him in the forefront of the wars, That so my purposes may take effect. — Help him in, sirs. [Exeunt David and Absalox. Cu. Come rise, Urias ; get thee in and sleep. Ur. I will not go home, sir ; that's flat. Cu. Then come and rest thee upon David's bed. Ur. On afore, my lords, on afore. [Exeunt. Enter Choeus. Chorus. O proud revolt of a presumptuous man, Laying his bridle in the neck of sin, Eeady to bear him past his grave to hell ! Like as the fatal raven, that in his voice Carries the dreadful summons of our deaths, Flies by the fair Arabian spiceries. Her pleasant gardens and delightsome parks. Seeming to curse them with his hoarse exclaims, And yet doth stoop with hungry violence Upon a piece of hateful can-ion ; So wretched man, displeas'd with those delights Would yield a quickening savour to his soul, Pursues with eager and unstanch^d thirst The greedy longings of his loathsome flesh. If holy David so shook hands with sin. What shall om- baser spirits glory in ? This kingly giving lust her rein Pursues the sequel with a greater ill. Urias in the forefront of the wars Is murdered by the hateful heathens' sword. And David joys his too dear Bethsabe. Suppose this past, and that the child is born, Whose death the prophet solemnly doth mourn. [Exit. Enter Bethsabe with her Maid. Beth. Mourn, Bethsabe, bewail thy foolishness, Thy sin, thy shame, the sorrow of thy soul : Sin, shame, and soitow swarm about thy soul ; And, in the gates and entrance of my heart, Sadness,with wreathed arms, hangs her complaint. No comfort from the ten-string'd instrument. The tinkling cymbal, or the ivory lute; Nor doth the sound of David's kingly harp Make glad the broken heart of Bethsabe : Jerusalem is fill'd with thy complaint. And in the streets of Sion sits thy grief. The babe is sick, sick to the death, I fear. The fruit that sprung from thee to David's house; Nor may the pot of honey and of oil 64 THE ENGLISH DRAMA TISTS. Glad David or his handmaid's countenance. Urias — wo is me to think hereon ! F