THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 ^f)e ^tmpXt iliftrarg* 
 
 CHARLES LAMB'S 
 
 SPECIMENS OF 
 
 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS
 
 This edition is limited to Five Hu7idred copies for 
 England, and Five Hundred for America {acquired 
 by Messrs Macmillan and Co. ). 
 
 There is also a Large Paper Edition, consisting of Three 
 
 Hundred and Fifty copies, Two Hundred and Fifty 
 
 for England, and One HuJidred for America. 
 
 Of tliese numbers. One Hundred of the English 
 
 copies and Fifty of the American are Extra 
 
 Illustrated. 
 
 J. M. Dent and Co.
 
 ;!'CHARLE-S-LAMB,
 
 CHARLES LAMB'S 
 
 SPECIMENS OF 
 
 NGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 
 
 WHO LIVED ABOUT THE TIME OF SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 INCLUDING THE EXTRACTS FROM THE 
 
 GARRICK PLAYS, NOW FIRST 
 
 EDITED ANEW BY 
 
 ISRAEL GOLLANCZ, M.A., 
 Christ's college, Cambridge. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 J. M. DENT AND CO. 
 
 69 GREAT EASTERN STREET, E.C. 
 1893
 
 
 THE KEV. E. A. ABBOTT, D.D. 
 
 C THE BELOVED MASTER OF MANX WORKKKS IN 
 
 THE FIELD OF LITBBATUKE FIEST CDLTIVATED BY 
 
 THE GENIUS CF CHARLES LAMB, 
 
 THIS NEW EMTION OF THE ' SPECIMENS 
 
 3s gratefullig Se&fcatc& 

 
 " Gentlest name 
 That ever clothed itself with fiower-swcct fame. 
 Or linked itself with loftiest names of old 
 
 By right and might of loving ; I, that am 
 Less than the least of those within thy fold, 
 
 Give only thanks for them to thee, Charles Lamb."
 
 PEEFACE TO THE PEESENT EDITION 
 
 Lamb's Specimens of English Dramatic Poets, who 
 lived about the time of Shaksi)eare, tvith Notes, was 
 published by Longman in the year 1808, and again, 
 with merely a new title-jjage, by Bumpus, some five 
 years later. In the 1818 edition of his works, Lamb 
 included a few passages from the Notes, ' a few 
 desultory criticisms . . . which would best stand 
 by themselves, as requiring least immediate refer- 
 ence to the play or passage by which they were 
 suggested.' In 1827, Lamb generously contributed 
 to Hone's ' Table Book ' a long series of Extracts from 
 the Collection of plays bequeathed to the British 
 Museum by Garrick ; these Extracts he described in 
 his letter to Hone as mere 'after-gleanings,' supple- 
 mentary to the ' Specimens, ' only comprising a 
 larger peiiod ; they range in fact from Lyly to 
 Crowne and D'Urfey. 'You must be content,' he 
 wrote, ' with sometimes a scene, sometimes a song ; 
 a speech, or passage, or a poetical image, as they 
 happen to strike me. I read without order of time ; 
 I am a poor hand at dates ; and for any biography 
 of the Dramatists, I must refer to wTiters who are 
 more skilful in such matters. My business is with 
 their poetry only.' In addition to the Extracts 
 there appeared also in the last numbers of the Table 
 Book a series of 'Garrick Fragments,' comprising 
 twenty-four ' Facetise ' and forty-four ' Serious Frag- 
 ments.' The 'Garrick Extracts' are to be found in 
 most reprints of the ' Specimens ' ; by some strange 
 chance the ' Fragments ' have not been included in 
 recent editions.
 
 VUl PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 The present edition differs from its predecessors 
 in the following respects : — (1) the 'Garrick Extracts' 
 have been incorporated with the 'Specimens,' and 
 the whole has been re-arranged chronologicall}', or 
 approximately so ; * (2) erroneous statements as to 
 the authorship of Plays liave been corrected ; (3) 
 the text has been revised throughout, and countless 
 errors, due to faulty i[uartos, and often to scribal 
 carelessness, have been amended according to the 
 best editions ; (4) dates of the earliest quartos of 
 the Plays are given at the end of the volumes ; in 
 the old editions only the ' Garrick Plays ' are dated, 
 and often wrongly ; (5) the identification of the 
 ' Garrick Fragments.' 
 
 It need hardly be said that these principles of 
 editing have in no mse affected the sacred text of 
 Lamb's most precious comments ; a misreading or 
 doubtful interpretation has here and there been 
 allowed to remain untouched solely for the sake of 
 some interesting, if erroneous, piece of criticism. 
 Such instances will be found recorded and com- 
 mented on in the ' Notes ' at the end of the volumes. 
 The most ardent of Lamb's devotees will not, it is 
 ho])ed, resent the revision of the text of the Extracts : 
 it is, indeed, a matter of surprise that all these 
 years have passed and no one has before imposed 
 upon himself this act of piety. Lamb himself 
 would most certainly have wished it. ' Damnable 
 Erratum (can't you notice it?),' he wrote to Hone 
 in Mai'cli 1827, ' in the last line but two of the last 
 Extract in No. 9, Garrick Plays. ... A sun- 
 bright line spoilt. . . . Also a few lines higher 
 
 "Restrained Liberty attained is sweet " 
 
 should have a full stop. 'Tis the end of the old 
 man's speech. These little hlemishes kill srich 
 delicate things; prose feeds on grosser punctualities.' * 
 
 * The ' Extracts ' are throughout distinguished from the 
 ' Specimens' by the letter G placed at the head of the title of 
 each passage. 
 
 t Cp. Note on "Two Angry Women of Abingdon," Henry 
 Porter.
 
 PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. IX 
 
 In his ' Essaj^s ' and ' Letters ' Elia himself tells ns 
 the story of these volumes, and their intimate con- 
 nection with the whole course of his personal history 
 and literary career. There can be little doubt that 
 he, like his beloved Bridget, "was tumbled early, by 
 accident or design, into a spacious closet of good old 
 English reading, without much selection or prohibi- 
 tion, and browsed at will upon that fair and whole- 
 some pasturage." To the good Bencher, Samuel 
 Salt, Lamb probably owed his early introduction to 
 the forgotten worthies of the sixteentli and seventeenth 
 centuries, whom he was destined to rediscover, with 
 whom his own nature was so near akin, and from 
 whom his language was to win its transcendent 
 charm. 
 
 The earliest of Lamb's letters, belonging to the 
 year 1796, contain enthusiastic references to Eliza- 
 bethan dramatists, more especially to Beaumont and 
 Fletcher and Massinger. Writing to Coleridge in 
 June of that year, after quoting from the Wife for a 
 Month and from Bonduca, he adds the following in- 
 teresting observation, showing clearly that the idea 
 of a volume of ' Specimens ' had already to some 
 extent taken shape by this time : — 
 
 "It {i.e., the passage from Bonduca) just caught 
 my eye in a little extract book I keep, which is full 
 of quotations from Beaumont and Fletcher in par- 
 ticular, in which authors, I can't help thinking, 
 there is greater richness of poetical fancy than in 
 anyone, Shakespeare excepted. " He then proceeds : — 
 
 ' ' Are you acquainted with Massinger ? At a hazard 
 I will trouble you with a passage from a play of his, 
 called A Very Woman." Tlie lines referred to are 
 quoted again in November of the same year, having 
 been chosen by Lamb as the ' Motto ' under the 
 title of his ' Poems ' included in Coleridge's volume 
 of 1797 :— * 
 
 * Ainger, Letters, Vol. I., rP- 4-23, 47.
 
 X PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 "The title-page to stand thus : — 
 Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 Charles Lamb, of the India House. 
 
 Under this title the followng motto, which, for 
 want of room, I put over leaf, and desire you to 
 insert, whether you like it or no. May not a gentle- 
 man choose what arms, mottoes, or armorial Ijcarings 
 the Herald will give him leave, without consulting 
 his rejniblican friend, who might advise none ? May 
 not a 2>ublican put up the sign of the Saraccii's Head, 
 or even tliough his undiscerning neighbour should 
 prefer, as more genteel, the Cat and Gridiron? 
 
 MOTTO. 
 
 ' This beauty in the blossom of my youth, 
 When my first lire knew no adulterate incense, 
 Nor I no way to flatter but my fondness, 
 In the best language my true tongue could tell me, 
 And all the broken sighs my sick heart lend me, 
 I sued and served. Long did I love this Iadj%' * 
 
 — Massinger." 
 
 In another letter (dated July 1, 1796) ho urges 
 Coleridge to do something to bring our elder bards 
 iuto more general fame. ' ' I ^vrite with indignation," 
 he writes, "when, in books of criticism, I find no 
 mention of such men as Massinger, or Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, — men with whom succeeding dramatic 
 Avriters (Otway alone excepted) can bear no manner 
 of comparison ! " 
 
 In many of these early letters we can watch Lamb 
 gradually learning ' the great language ' of his favourite 
 authors ; he does not merely quote them ; he is con- 
 stantly, in his characteristic manner, adajjting their 
 utterances to express his own thoughts : "for myself, 
 
 * Cp. vol. ii. p. 164, 11. 1.-15 ; vide Alnger's Letters, vol, i. pp. 
 23, 47.
 
 PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. XI 
 
 I must spoil a little passage of Beaumont and Fletcher's 
 to adapt it to my feelings : — 
 
 " I am prouder, 
 That I was once your friend, tho' now forgot, 
 Than to have had another true to me." * 
 
 To Southey he sends, in 1798, in lieu of anything 
 of his own, a few lines of ' old Christopher Marlow's,' 
 taken from his tragedy, Jew of Malta ; in the com- 
 ments which follow we have the rough draft of the well- 
 known criticism, to he found on page 46, vol. i. of 
 the present edition. "The Jew is a famous character, 
 quite out of nature ; but, when we consider the 
 terrible idea our simple ancestors had of a Jew, not 
 more to be discommended for a certain discolour- 
 ing (I think Addison calls it) than the witches 
 and fairies of Marlow's mighty successor." The 
 scene quoted is betwixt Barahhas and Ithamorc. 
 In the "Specimens" Lamb wisely substituted 
 Barabbas' famous soliloquy for the lines in question, 
 in which he finds ' ' a mixture of the ludicrous and 
 the terrible, brimful of genius and antique invention, 
 that at first reminded me of your own description of 
 cruelty in hell, which was in the true Hogarthiaii 
 style." "I need not tell you," he adds, "that 
 Marlow was author of that pretty madrigal, ' Come 
 live with me and be my Love,' and of the tragedy of 
 Edward II., in which are certain lines unequalled in 
 our English tongue." Honest Walton mentions the 
 said madrigal under the denomination of ' ' certain 
 smooth verses made long since by Kit Marlow." f 
 
 The following from a letter to Wordsworth (Oct. 
 13, 1800) throws important light on the prices 
 of books and their scarcity at the begiiming of the 
 century : — " The books which you want, I calculate 
 at about £8. Ben Jonson is a guinea book. 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, in folio, the right folio, 
 not now to be met with ; the octavos are about £3. 
 As to any other dramatists, I do not know where 
 
 ' Cp. vol. ii. p. SI, 11. 10-12; Ainger's Letters, vol. i. p. 83. 
 t Cp. vol. 1. p. 92 ; and Ainger's Letters, i. 91-93.
 
 XU PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 to find tlicm, cxcei)t what are in Dodsley's ol<l 
 plaj's, wliicli arc about £;! also. Massinger I never 
 saw but at one shop, and it is now gone ; but one 
 of the editions of Dodsley contains about a fourth 
 (the best) of liis plays. Congreve, and the rest of 
 King Charles' moralists, arc cheap and accessible. 
 . . . Marlowe's plays and poems are totally 
 vanished ; only one edition of Dodsley retains one, 
 and the other two of his ])lays ; but Jolin Ford is 
 the man after Shakespeare." 
 
 ' ' Beaumont and FletcJicr in folio, the right one, 
 not to be met with;" it is impossible to pass over 
 the words without recalling Bridget's tender re- 
 collections of a certain midnight adventure: — "Do 
 you remember the brown suit which you made to 
 hang upon you, till all your friends cried shame 
 upon yon, it grew so threadbare, and all because of 
 that folio Beaumont and Fletcher, which you 
 dragged home late at night from Barker's in Covent 
 Garden ? Do you remember how we eyed it for 
 weeks before we could make up our minds to the 
 purchase, and had not come to a determination till 
 it was near ten o'clock of the Saturday night, when 
 you set off from Islington, fearing you should be too 
 late — and when the old bookseller, with some 
 grumbling, opened his shop, and by the trwinkling 
 taper (for he was setting bedwards) lighted out the 
 relic from his dusty treasures, and when you lugged 
 it home, wishing it were twice as cumbersome, and 
 when you presented it to me, and when we were 
 exploring the perfectness of it {collating, you called 
 it), and while I was repairing some of the loose 
 leaves with jtaste, which your impatience would not 
 suffer to be left till daybreak — was there no pleasure 
 in being a poor man ? or can those neat black clothes 
 which you wear now, and are so careful to keep 
 brushed, since Ave have become rich and finical, give 
 you half the honest vanity M'ith which you flaunted 
 it about in the over-worn suit — your old corbeau — 
 for four or five weeks longer than you should have 
 done, to 2)acify your conscience Tor the mighty sum
 
 PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. XUl 
 
 of fifteen or sixteen shillings, was it ? — a great affair 
 we thought it then— which you had lavished on the 
 old folio ? Kow yon can aflbrd to buy any book that 
 pleases you, but I do not see that you ever bring me 
 home any nice old purchases now." 
 
 Among its most cherished possessions the British 
 Museiim numbers this famous old folio,* doubly 
 sanctified by its associations with Lamb and with 
 another, as great, and only less beloved ; for the 
 volume is throughout enriched with Marginalia from 
 the pen of " S. T. C." One annotation in particular 
 arrests attention : — "N.B. I shall not be long here, 
 Charles ! — I gone, you will not mind my having 
 spoiled a book in order to leave a Relic. S. T. C. — 
 Oct. 1811." Among Lamb's miscellaneous frag- 
 ments t there is found ' an extract from a MS. note 
 of S. T. C. in my Beaumont and Fletcher, dated April 
 17th, 1807.' 
 
 "Midnight. 
 " God bless you, dear Charles Lamb, I am dying : 
 I feel I have not many weeks left. 
 
 "J/V* Gilman's, 
 " Righgate." 
 
 In sketching, however slightly, the story of Lamb's 
 rediscovery of the Elizabethan dramatists, it is im- 
 possible to omit reference to ' the first heirs of his 
 invention,' the 'miniature romance' of Hosamund 
 G-ray and the 'miniature drama' oi Pride's Purge, or 
 John JFoodvil. The failure of the play was as in- 
 evitable as its composition. "When I first wrote 
 John IVoodvil." Lamb himself explains in his dedica- 
 tion to Coleridge of the 1818 edition of his works, 
 "Beaumont and Fletcher and Massinger were then 
 a first love, and from what I was so freshly conversant 
 in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took 
 a tinge ? " Its failure had not cured the author's 
 pride in this first experiment in dramatic composi- 
 
 * C. 45. i. 7. 
 
 t Cp. Fitzgerald's Lamb's Letters. &c. Vol. u. p. 2-5.
 
 XIV PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 tion, this skilful mosaic of Elizabethan reminiscences. 
 "One ]>iece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish 
 in its original form, though I have heard you com- 
 plain of a certain over-imitation of the antique in the 
 style. If I could see my way of getting rid of the 
 objection, without re-writing it entirely, I would 
 make some sacrifices." The success of the romance, 
 * the secret of its charm,' as Mr Ainger has justly 
 observed, 'in the face of improbabilities and unrealities 
 of many kinds, is one of the curiosities of literature.' 
 To the list of its hetei-ogeneous materials, enumerated 
 by Lamb's biographer, I would suggest the addition 
 of Daniel's ' Story of Isulia,' from the pastoral tragi- 
 comedy of 'Hymen's Triumph.'* It is from this 
 story that the quotations in Chapter IV. are derived, 
 and I cannot help thinking that, to some extent, 
 ' Isulia ' and ' Sirthis ' are the prototypes of ' Rosa- 
 mund ' and 'Allan.' Certainly one feels in Lamb's 
 story something of that same charm which called 
 forth Coleridge's enthusiasm for Daniel's gently- 
 flowing verse. 
 
 It is an interesting fact that Lamb's copy of Daniel, 
 even as his Beaumont and Fletcher, is still extant, 
 enriched with manuseri])t notes by the same hand.f 
 " I wish every book I have," he writes in June 1807, 
 "were so noted. They have thoroughly converted 
 me to relish Danid, or to say I relish him, for after 
 all, I believe I did relish him." 
 
 ' ' I have done two books, " Lamb WTites to his 
 friend Thomas Manning, in February 1808, "since 
 the failure of my farce {i.e., 'Mr H.') ; they will 
 both be out this summer. The one is a juvenile 
 book, the Adventures of Ulysses, intended to be an 
 introduction to the reading of Tclemaehns ! It is 
 done out of the Odyssey, not from the Greek (I would 
 not mislead you), nor yet from Pope's Odyssey, but 
 
 » Cp. vol. i. p. 108. 
 
 t The volume was till recently in the jmssession of W. C. 
 Ilazlitt; at the 'Hazlitt' Sale last month it fetched £13. 10s. 
 It is sincerely to be wished that the boolt will ultimately find a 
 place by the side of ' The Beaumont and Tlctcher.'
 
 PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION, XV 
 
 from an older translation of one Chapman. The 
 Shakespeare Talcs suggested the doing of it. Godwin 
 is in both cases my bookseller. The other is done 
 for Longman, and is Spccimeiis of Unglish Dramatic 
 Facts coritcmporary with Shakespeare. Specimens are 
 becoming fashionable. We have ' Specimens of 
 Ancient English Poets,' ' Specimens of Modern 
 English Poets,' ' Specimens of Ancient English 
 Prose Writers,' without end. They used to be 
 called 'Beauties,' You have seen 'Beauties of 
 Shakespeare : ' so have many people that never saw 
 any beauties in Shakespeare. Longman is to print 
 it, and be at all the exjaense and risk, and I am to 
 share the profits after all deductions ; i.e., a year or 
 two hence I must pocket what they please to tell me 
 is due to me. But the book is such as I am glad 
 there should be. It is done out of old plays at the 
 Museum, and out of Dodsley's Collection, &c. It is 
 to have notes. So I go creeping on since I was lamed 
 with that cursed fall from otf the top of Drmy 
 Lane Theatre into the pit, something more than a 
 year ago." Some months later the ' Specimens ' was 
 ready for publication, and the year 1808 marked two 
 gi-eat events in English literary history — the re-dis- 
 covery of the forgotten dramatists of Shakespeare's 
 age, and the advent of a rare genius in the art of 
 criticism. In spite of the prevailing ignorance on all 
 matters connected with the earlier English \vriters, 
 the reception of the volume was, upon the whole, 
 distinctly favourable, though the Monthly Review 
 found "nothing very remarkable " in the notes, ex- 
 cept their style, which it pronounced ' ' formally 
 abrupt and elaborately quaint ; " " some of |;he most 
 studied attempts to display excessive feeling we had 
 noted for animadversion, but the task is imnecessary," 
 "The Monthly Review sneers at me," Lamb com- 
 plains to Coleridge in June 1809, "and asks 'ifComus 
 is not good enough for Mr Lamb ? ' because I have 
 said no serious dramas have been Avritten since the 
 tleath of Charles the First, except Samson Agonistes. 
 So, because they do not know, or won't remember,
 
 XVI PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 
 
 that Coinus mms written lono; before, I am to be set 
 down as an under-valuer of Milton ! Coleridge, do 
 kill these reviews, or they will kill us ; kill all we 
 like. Be a friend to all else, but their foe." 
 
 A more serious matter was the infamous attack of 
 the Quarterly Review for December 1811, called forth 
 by Weber's edition of Ford, in which Lamb's note on 
 the catastrophe of "The liroken Heart" was quoted 
 with apjiroval. ' ' It would be difficult, " wrote Lamb's 
 friend, Talfourd, "as well as painful, to characterise 
 the attack as it deserves." It is to be regretted that 
 modern critics, in their "excursions in criticism," 
 too often avail themselves of Lamb's "measureless 
 eulogy " in a spirit of literary iconoclasticism. It 
 is too late in the day, it is altogether too easy and 
 unjust a task, to search among Lamb's criticisms 
 for exaggerated panegyrics. In his book there will 
 always remain so much more to be praised than to be 
 pardoned. 
 
 Lamb himself was justly proud of his achieve- 
 ment ; tifteen years after the publication of the 
 "Specimens," in the facetious scrap of "Auto- 
 biography," dated 18th April 1827, the follomng 
 brief record occurs: — "He was the first to draw 
 attention to the Old English Dramatists." 
 
 When these words were written Lamb was supple- 
 menting his "Specimens " by the series of " Extracts 
 from the Garrick Plays " contributed to the pages of 
 Hone's Table Book. 
 
 In the second year of his " Hegira, or Flight from 
 Leadenhall," in September 1826, he wi'ites as follows 
 to Bernard Barton :— ' ' I am going through a course 
 of rea(li;igat the Museum : the Garrick Plays, out of 
 part of which I formed my specimens. I have two 
 thoiisand to go through : and in a few weeks have 
 despatched the tythe of 'em. It is a sort of office to 
 me : hours ten to four, the same. It does me good. 
 Man must have regular occupations, that has been 
 used to it. " "I think you told me your acquaintance 
 with the Drama was confined to Shakespeare and 
 Miss Baillie : some read only Milton and Croly. The
 
 PREFACE TO THE PRESKNT EDITION. XVII 
 
 gap is as from an anatias to a tmiiip. I have fight- 
 ing in my head the plots, characters, situations, and 
 sentiments of 400 old plays (bran-new to me) 
 which I have been digesting at the Museum, and 
 my appetite sharpens to twice as many more, which 
 I mean to course over this winter. I can scarce 
 avoid dialogue fashion in this letter. I soliloquise 
 my meditations, and habitually speak blank verse 
 without meaning it." 
 
 Lamb's Note-Books, containing the ''Extracts" 
 referred to, was in 1851 presented to the British 
 Museum by his "son-in-law," Moxon, and those who 
 cherish ' ' one grain or one drop more from the sift- 
 ings of his granary or the runnings of his well " may 
 still find something to reward their labour by a per- 
 usal of these priceless relics, — these two insignificant 
 booklets, small account - books containing some 
 twenty and fifty pages respectively.* Here the 
 student of Lamb will find, in addition to the con- 
 tril)utions to " The Table-Book," the materials of the 
 letter published in the Spectator on " Shakespeare 
 Improvers," many quaint fragments from Aphra 
 Behn, Eavenscroft, Dekker, Campion, and others, 
 together with the "Pastoral Elegy," entitled 
 "Thyi'sis," on the death of the ISToble Lady Venetia 
 Digby, written by J. Rutter, 1635. t 
 
 It is impossible to bring this Preface to an end 
 ^\^thout paying some tribute to the chief critics and 
 scholars who have carried on the work so glorious!)' 
 initiated by Lamb. To Lamb's ideal biographer and 
 editor, Mr Ainger ; to Dr Ward, the historian of 
 the English Drama ; to Mr BuUen and others who 
 have given us "perfect copies" of inaccessible texts, 
 the Editor feels it his duty to express the debt of 
 obligation which all lovers of Lamb must henceforth 
 owe them ; nor dare one pass unnoticed the match- 
 
 * Addlt.MSS. 9955, 9956. 
 
 t The Editor had hoped to print these additional extracts as 
 an Appendix to the Volumes, hut exigencies of space necessitate 
 their omission.
 
 XVni TREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION, 
 
 less verse of Mr Swinburne, wlioso " Sonnets on tlic 
 Dramatists " will long remain the joy of enthusiasts 
 for the great Elizabethans. 
 
 Finally, the Editor must thank liis sister, Miss 
 Emma GoUancz, late of Newnham College, for much 
 kind help in the laborious task of identifying the 
 sixty-eight fragments at the end of the second 
 volume. 
 
 I. G. 
 
 Cambridge, Dec. 1893.
 
 PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION. 
 
 JIOKE than a third part of the following specimens 
 are from plays which are to be found only in the 
 British Museum and in some scarce private libraries. 
 The rest are from Dodsley's and Hawkins's collec- 
 tions, and the works of Jonsou, Beaumont and 
 Fletcher, and Massinger. 
 
 I have chosen wherever I could to give entire 
 scenes, and in some instances successive scenes, 
 rather than to string together single passages and 
 •detached beauties, which I have always found weari- 
 some in the reading in selections of this nature. 
 
 To every extract is prefixed an explanatory head, 
 sufficient to make it intelligible with the help of 
 •some trifling omissions. "Where a line or more was 
 obscure, as having reference to something that had 
 gone before, which would have asked more time to 
 explain than its consequence in the scene seemed to 
 deserve, I have had no hesitation in leaving the line 
 or passage out. Sometuues where I have met with 
 a superfluous character, which seemed to burthen 
 ■without throwing any light iipon the scene, I have 
 ventured to dismiss it altogether. I have expunged, 
 •without ceremony, all that which the writers had 
 better never have written, that forms the objection 
 •so often repeated to the promiscuous reading of 
 Fletcher, Massinger, and some others. 
 
 The kind of extracts which I have sought after 
 
 xix
 
 X« PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION. 
 
 liave been, not so much passages of wit and huraonr, 
 though the old plays are rich in such, as scenes of 
 passion, sometimes of the deepest quality, interesting 
 situations, serious descriptions, that which is more 
 nearly allied to poetry than to ■\\at, and to tragic 
 rather than to comic poetry. The ]>lays which I 
 have made choice of have been, with few exceptions, 
 those which treat of human life and manners, rather 
 than masques, and Arcadian pastorals, with their 
 train of abstractions, unimpassioned deities, passion- 
 ate mortals, Claius, and Medorus, and Amintas, and 
 Amarillis. My leading design has been, to illustrate 
 what may be called the moral sense of our ancestors. 
 To show in what manner they felt, when they placed 
 themselves by the jiower of imagination in trying 
 situations, in the conflicts of duty and passion, or 
 .the strife of contending duties ; what sort of loves 
 and enmities theirs were ; how their griefs were 
 tempered, and their fuU-swoln joys abated : how 
 miich of Shakspeare shines in the great men his 
 contemporaries, and how far in his divine mind and 
 manners he surpassed them and all maukind. 
 
 Another object which I had in making these 
 selections was, to bring together the most admired 
 scenes in Fletcher and Massinger, in the estimation 
 of the world the only dramatic poets of that age 
 who are entitled to be considered after Shakspeare, 
 and to exhibit them in the same volume with the 
 more impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Heywood, 
 Tourneur, Webster, Ford, and others. To show 
 what we have slighted, while beyond all pro- 
 portion we have cried up one or two favourite 
 names. 
 
 The specimens are not accompanied with anything
 
 PREFACE TO THE ORIGINAL EDITION. XXI 
 
 in the shape of biographical notices.* I had nothing 
 of consequence to add to the slight sketches in 
 Dodsley and the Biographia Dramatica, and I was 
 unwilling to swell the volume with mere transcrip- 
 tion. The reader will not fail to observe, ft-om the 
 frequent instances of two or more persons joining in 
 the composition of the same play (the noble practice 
 of those times), that of most of the writers containe 
 in these selections it may be strictly said, that they 
 were contemporaries. The whole period, from the 
 middle of Elizabeth's reign to the close of the reign 
 of Charles I., comprises a space of little more than 
 half a century, within which time nearly all that we 
 have of excellence in serious dramatic composition 
 was produced, if we except the Samson Agonistes of 
 Milton. 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 1808. 
 
 * The few notes which are interspersed will be found to be 
 chiefly critical.
 
 LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF HONES 
 "TABLE BOOK." 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 It is not unknown to you, that about nineteen 
 years since I published "Specimens of Englisli 
 Dramatic Poets, who lived about the time of Shak- 
 speare." For the scarcer Plays I had recourse to the 
 collection bequeathed to the British Museum by Mr 
 Garrick. But my time was but short, and my sub- 
 sequent leisure has discovered in it a treasure rich 
 and exhaustless beyond what I then imagined. In 
 it is to be found almost every production in the 
 shape of a Play that has appeared in print, from the 
 time of the old Mysteries and Moralities to the days 
 of Crown and D'Urfey. Imagine the luxury to one 
 like me, who, above every other form of poetry, 
 have ever preferred the Dramatic, of sitting in the 
 princely apartments, for such they are, of poor con- 
 demned Montagu House, which I predict will not 
 speedily be followed by a handsomer, and culling at 
 will the flower of some thousand Dramas. It is like 
 having the range of a I^Tobleman's Library, with the 
 Librarian to your friend. Nothing can exceed the 
 courteousncss and attentions of the Gentleman who 
 has the chief direction of the Reading Rooms here ; 
 and you have scarce to ask for a volume, before it is
 
 LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF HONE's TABLE BOOK. Xxiii 
 
 laid before you. If the occasional Extracts which 
 I have been tempted to bring away, may find an 
 appropriate place in your Tabic Boole, some of them 
 are Aveekly at your service. By those who remember 
 the "Specimens," these must be considered as mere 
 after-gleanings, supplementary to that work, only 
 comprising a longer period. You must be content 
 with sometimes a scene, sometimes a song ; a speech, 
 or passage, or a poetical image, as they happen to 
 strike me. I read without order of time ; I am a 
 poor hand at dates ; and for any biogi-aphy of the 
 Dramatists, I must refer to Mi-iters who are more 
 skilful in such matters. My business is with their 
 poetry only. 
 
 Your well-wisher. 
 
 C. Lamp. 
 
 Januarij 27, 1827.
 
 TABLE OF REFERENCE TO THE EXTRACTS. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton, page 
 
 I. Ferrex and Porrex 1 
 
 Egbert Wilmot. 
 
 II. Tancred and Gismunda .... 5 
 
 FuLKE Geeville, Lord Brooke. 
 
 III. Alaham 7 
 
 IV. Mustapha 18 
 
 John Lily. 
 
 V. Sapho and Phao 29 
 
 VI. Love's Metamorphosis .... 32 
 
 Christopher Marlowe. 
 
 VI r. Tamburlaine 33 
 
 VIII. Faustus 35 
 
 IX. The Rich Jew of Malta .... 44 
 
 X. Edward II 46 
 
 George Peele. 
 
 XL An-aignment of Paris .... 54 
 
 XII. The Battle of Alcazar .... 59 
 
 XIII. David and Bethsabe ..... 60 
 
 XIV. Another Extract from the same . . 62 
 
 Thomas Lodge and Robert Greene. 
 
 XV. A Looking Glass for England and London 65 
 I. C XXV
 
 xxvi table of extracts. 
 
 Thomas Kyd. page 
 
 XVI. Tbe Spanish Tragedy .... 67 
 
 Author Unknown. 
 XVII. Arden of Feversham .... 73 
 
 Henry Porter. 
 XVIII. The Two Angry Women of Abingdon . 77 
 
 Authors Unknown, 
 XIX. Edward III. . 
 XX. The Wars of Cyrus 
 
 EOBERT YaRRINGTON 
 
 XXI. Two Tragedies in One 
 
 Henry Chettle and Anthony Munday. 
 XXII. The Downfall of Robert, Earl of Hunting- 
 
 80 
 84 
 
 85 
 
 don 
 
 86 
 
 Henry Chettle. 
 
 
 XXIII. Hoffman's Tragedy 
 
 89 
 
 Authors Unknown. 
 
 
 XXIV. Lust's Dominion .... 
 
 91 
 
 XXV. Doctor Dodypol .... 
 
 93 
 
 Author Uncertain (?Marston). 
 
 
 XXVI. Jack Drum's Entertainment . 
 
 . 97 
 
 Author Unknown. 
 
 
 XXVII. Sir Giles Goosecap .... 
 
 98 
 
 John Tomkins. 
 
 
 XXVIII. Lingua 
 
 99 
 
 Author Unknown. 
 
 
 XXIX. The Merry Devil of Edmonton . 
 
 . 100 
 
 LuDowicK Barry. 
 
 
 XXX. Ram Alley . . . - . 
 
 . 105
 
 TABLE OF EXTRACTS. 
 
 xxvu 
 
 Samuel Daniel. 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XXXI. Tethy's Festival 106 
 
 XXXII. Hymen's Triumph .... 107 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 XXXIII. The Case is altered .... Ill 
 
 XXXIV. Poetaster . 
 
 
 
 114 
 
 XXXV. Sejanus 
 
 
 
 . 123 
 
 XXXVI. Volpone . 
 
 
 
 . 125 
 
 XXXVII. Catiline . 
 
 
 
 . 133 
 
 XXXVIII. The Alchemist . 
 
 
 
 . 136 
 
 XXXIX. The New Inn . 
 
 
 
 . 143 
 
 XL. The Sad Shepherd 
 
 
 
 . 148 
 
 George Chapman. 
 
 XLI. Bussy d'Ambois .... 151 
 
 XLII. Further Extracts from the same 
 
 156 
 
 XLIII. All Fools 
 
 157 
 
 XLIV. The Gentleman Usher 
 
 159 
 
 XLV. Caesar and Pompey . 
 
 160 
 
 XLVI. Further Extracts from the same 
 
 162 
 
 XLVII. Byron's Conspu-acy . 
 
 164 
 
 XLVIII. Byron's Tragedy 
 
 168 
 
 XLIX. Bussy d'Ambois' Revenge . 
 
 171 
 
 George Chap .\f an and James Shirley. 
 
 L. PhihpChabot 173 
 
 LI. Further Extracts from the same . 178 
 
 John Marston. 
 
 LII. Antonio and MeUida .... 179 
 
 LIII. Antonio's Revenge 
 
 
 
 181 
 
 LIV. The Malcontent . 
 
 
 
 186 
 
 LV. The Fawn . 
 
 
 
 187 
 
 LVI. The Wonder of Women . 
 
 
 
 187 
 
 LVn. What you Will . 
 
 
 
 189 
 
 LVIII. The Insatiate Countess 
 
 
 
 191
 
 XXVlll 
 
 TABLE OF EXTRACTS. 
 
 Thomas Dekker. page 
 
 LIX. Old Fortunatus 192 
 
 LX. Satiro-Mastix 199 
 
 LXI. Further Extracts from the same . 203 
 
 LXII. The Honest Whore .... 204 
 
 LXiri. The Second Part of the Honest Whore 204 
 
 Thomas Dekker and John Webster. 
 
 LXIV. Westward Hoe 206 
 
 Thomas Heywood. 
 LXV. A Woman Killed with Kindness 
 LXVI. The Fair Maid of the Exchange 
 LXVII. The Golden Age 
 LXVIII. The Silver Age . 
 LXIX. The Brazen Age 
 LXX. The Royal King and the Loyal Subjec 
 LXXI. Further Extracts from the same 
 LXXn. The English Traveller 
 LXXIII. A Challenge for Beauty 
 LXXIV. Further Extracts from the same 
 LXXV. Further Extracts from the same 
 LXXVI. Fortune by Land and Sea . 
 LXXVIL The late Lancashire Witches 
 LXXVIII. Further Extracts from the same 
 
 Thomas Middleton. 
 
 LXXIX. Blurt, Master Constable . 
 LXXX. The Chaste Maid of Cheapside . 
 LXXXI. More Dissemblers besides Women 
 LXXXII. No Wit, no Help, like a Woman's 
 LXXX II L Women beware Women 
 LXXXIV. The Witch .... 
 
 LXXXV. The Game at Chess . 
 
 207 
 214 
 217 
 219 
 221 
 225 
 226 
 227 
 233 
 238 
 239 
 240 
 244 
 247 
 
 248 
 250 
 252 
 255 
 257 
 262 
 272 
 
 Thomas Middleton and William Rowley. 
 LXXXVI. A Fail- Quarrel . ... . .273
 
 LAMB'S SPECIMENS 
 
 ENGLISH DRAMATIC POETS 
 
 GORBODUC : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THOMAS SACKVILLE, LOKD BTTCKHURST, AFTER- 
 "WAIIDS EAKL OF DORSET ; AND THOMAS KORTON. 
 
 Whikt King GoHBODUC in the presence of his councillors 
 laments the death of his eldest son, Ferres, whom 
 PORREX, the >/ounger son, has slain ; Marcella, a 
 court lady, enters and relates the miserable end of 
 PORREX, stabbed by his mother in his bed. 
 
 GoRBODUC, Arostus, Eubulus, and others. 
 
 Gorh. What cruel destiny, 
 What froward fate hath sorted lis this chance ? 
 That even in those where we shoiikl comfort find, 
 Where om- delight now in onr 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. 
 
 Arost. Your grace should now, in these grave 
 years of yours, 
 Have found ere this the price of mortal joys. 
 How short they be, how fading here on earth, 10 
 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
 
 2 THOMAS SACKVILLE AND THOMAS NORTON. 
 
 Tlieir end at last ; iieitlier should nature's power 
 In other sort afjainst your heart pn^vail, 
 Than as the naked hand whose stroke assays 
 The armed breast where force doth light in vain. 
 
 Gorb. Many can yield right grave and sage advice 
 Of patient s)>rito to others wrapt in woe, 
 And can in speech lioth rule and coni|uer kind,* 
 Who, if hy proof they might feel nature's force, 
 WouM shew 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 ? 11 
 
 Marcella enters. 
 
 Marc. Oh where is ruth ? or where is pity now ? 
 Whither is gentle heart and mercy fled ? 
 Are they exil'd out of our stony breasts. 
 Never to make return ? is all the world 
 Drowned in blood, and suidc in cruelty ? 
 If not in women mercy niay lie found. 
 If not (alas) within the mother's breast 
 To her own child, to her own flesh and blood ; 
 If ruth be banished thence, if pity there 20 
 
 May have no place, if there no gentle heart 
 Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then ? 
 
 Gorb. Madam (alas) what means your woful tale ? 
 
 Marc. 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 
 Coidd rest within the cruel mother's breast, 
 With her own hand to slay her only son ? 
 But out (alas) these eyes beheld the same, 30 
 
 They saw the dreaiy 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 slumb'ring on his careful bed he rests. 
 His heart stabli'd in with knife is reft of life. 
 
 Gorb. Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours. 
 And pierce this heart with speed. hateful light, 
 loathsome life, sweet and ^velcome death. 
 Dear Eubulus, work this we thee beseech. 40 
 
 Eub. Patient your grace, perhaps he liveth yet, 
 
 ♦Nature; natural affection.
 
 GORBODUC. 3 
 
 With wound receiv'd but not of certain death. 
 
 Gorh. let us then repair unto the place, 
 And see if Porrex live, or thus be slain. {Exit. 
 
 Marc. 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 \vith a twiuk* a senseless stock I saw. 
 
 Arost. damned deed ! 
 
 Marc. But hear his ruthful end. 
 The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wound, 10 
 Out of his ■WTetched shmiber hastely start,t 
 Whose strength now failing, straight he overthrew, 
 AVhen in the fall his eyes ev'n now luiclosed. 
 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 ^vretched name 
 Of mother, and to ciy to her for aid. 
 Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound. 
 Pitying, alas, (for nought else could we do) 20 
 
 His rueful end, ran to the woful bed, 
 Despoiled straight his breast, and all we might 
 Wiped in vain vnth. napkins next at hand 
 The sudden streams of blood, that flushed fast 
 Out of the gaping wound. what a look, 
 what a ruthful steadfast eye niethought 
 He flxt upon my face, which to my death 
 Will never part from me, when with a braid 
 A deep fetch'd sigh he gave, and therewithal 
 Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight ; 30 
 And straight, pale death j^ressing within his face. 
 The fl}Tiig ghost his mortal corpse forsook. 
 
 Arost. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact. 
 
 Marc. hard and cniel hap that thus assign'd 
 Unto so worthy ^Wght 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 WTOUght. 
 queen of adamant, marble breast, 
 If not the favour of his comely face, 40 
 
 If not his princely cheer and countenance. 
 His valiant active arms, his manly breast. 
 
 Twinkling of the eye. t Started.
 
 4 THOMAS SACKVILLE AND THOMAS NORTON. 
 
 If not liis fair and seemly personage ; 
 
 His noble liniTis, in sucli proywrtion cast, 
 
 As would have rapt a silly woman's thought ; 
 
 If this miyht not liavc niov'd thy liloody heart, 
 
 And that most cruel liau<l the wretched weapon 
 
 E'en to let fall, and kissed him in the face, 
 
 With tears for ruth to reave such one by death ; 
 
 Should natiu'e yet consent to slay her son ? 
 
 O mother, thou to nmrdcr thus thy child ! 9 
 
 E'en Jove with justice nuist with light'ning flames 
 
 From heaven send down some strange revenge on thee. 
 
 Ah noble })rince, how oft have I beheld 
 
 Thee mounted on thy fierce and tranii)ling steed. 
 
 Shining in armour Ijright before the tilt, 
 
 And with thy mistress' sleeve tied on thy lieLni, 
 
 And charge tliy staff, to please thy lady's eye. 
 
 That Ijow'd the head piece 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. 20 
 
 Arost. Madam, alas, in vain these plaints are shed. 
 Rather with me depart, and help to assuage 
 The thoughtful griefs, that in the aged king 
 Must needs by nature grow, l)y death of this 
 His only son, whom he did liold so dear. 
 
 Marc. What wight is that which saw that I did 
 see, 
 And could refrain to wail Avith jilaiut and tears 1 
 Not I, alas, that heart is not in me ; 
 But let us go, for I am griev'd anew, 29 
 
 To call to mind the wretched father's woe. [Exeunt. 
 
 Chorus of aged vien. When greedy lust in royal 
 seat to reign 
 Hath reft all care of gods and eke of men ; 
 And cruel heart, wrath, treason, and disdain, 
 Within th' ambitious breast are lodged, then 
 Behold how mischief wide herself displays. 
 And with the In'other's hand the brother slays. 
 
 When blood thus shed doth stain the heaven's face, 
 Cr}dng to Jove for vengeance of.the deed. 
 The mighty God e'en moveth from his })lace 
 With wrath to wreak ; then sends he forth with speed 
 The dreadful Furies, daughters of the night, 41
 
 TANCRED AND GISMUND. 5 
 
 "With serpents girt, carrying the -svhip of ire, 
 "With hair of stinging snakes, and shining bright 
 With flames and blood, and witli a brand of tire : 
 These, for revenge of wretched murder done. 
 Doth cause the mother kill her only son. 
 
 Blood asketh blood, and death must death requit ; 
 Jove by his just and everlasting doom 
 JiTstly hath ever so requited it. 
 This times before record, and times to come 
 Shall find it true, and so doth jiresent proof 10 
 
 Pi'esent before our eyes for our behoof. 
 
 O happy wight that sutlers not the snare 
 Of murderous mind to tangle him in blood : 
 And happy he that can in time beware 
 By others' 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 style of this old plaj' is stiff and cumbersome, 
 like the dresses of its times. There may be flesh and 
 blood underneath, but we cannot get at it. Sir Philip 
 Sydney has praised it for its morality. One of its 
 authors might easily furnish that. Norton was an 
 associate to Hopkins, Sternhold, and Robert Wisdom, 
 in the Singing Psalms. I am willing to believe that 
 Lord Buckhurst supplied the more vital parts. The 
 chief beauty in the extract is of a secret nature. Mar- 
 cella obscurely intimates that the murdered prince 
 Porrex and she had been lovers.] 
 
 II. (G.) 
 
 TANCRED AND GISMUND : 
 
 ACTED BEFORE THE COLTRT BY THE GENTLEMEN OF 
 THE INNER TEMPLE ; BY R. WILMOT AND OTHERS. 
 
 A Messenger hrinf/s to Gismund a cup from (he King her 
 Father, enclosing the heart of her Lord, v;hom she had 
 espoused without his sanction. 
 
 Mess. Thy father, queen, liere in this cup hath 
 sent 
 The thing to joy and comfort thee withal, 19 
 
 Which thou lovedst best : ev'n as thou wast content 
 To comfort him with his best joy of all.
 
 6 R. WILMOT. 
 
 Gis. I thank my fatlicr, and tliee, gentle squire, 
 For this thy travail : take tiiou for thy ])ains 
 This bracelet, and commend me to tlie king. 
 
 « * 4! 4: 
 
 So, now is come the long-expected hour, 
 
 The fatal hour I have so looked for. 
 
 Now liath my father satisfied liis thirst 
 
 Willi guiltless blood, which he so coveted. 
 
 What brings tiiis cup ? ah me ! I tliought no less ; 
 
 It is my Earl's, my County's pierced heart. 
 
 Dear heart, too dearly hast thou l)ought my love, 10 
 
 Extremely rated at too high a ju-ice. 
 
 Ah, my dear heart, sweet wast thou in thy life, 
 
 But in thy death thou provest passing sweet. 
 
 A fitter hearse than this of beaten gold 
 
 Could not be 'lotted to so good a heart. 
 
 My father therefore well provided thus 
 
 To close and wrap thee uj) in massy gold. 
 
 And therewithal to send tliee unto me, 
 
 To whom of duty thou dost best belong. 
 
 My father hath in all his life bewrayed 20 
 
 A princely care and tender love to me, 
 
 But this surpasseth, in his latter days 
 
 To send me this, mine own dear heart, to me. 
 
 Wert not thou mine, dear heart, whilst that my love 
 
 Danced and }ilay'd upon thy golden strings ? 
 
 Art tliou not mine, dear heart, now tliat my love 
 
 Is fled to heaven, and got him golden wings ? 
 
 Thou art mine own, and still mine own slialt be, 
 
 Therefore my father sendeth thee to me. 
 
 Ah pleasant harborough of my heart's thoiight ! 30 
 
 Ah sweet delight, the quickener of my soul ! 
 
 Seven times accursed be the hand that wrought 
 
 Thee this desjiite, to mangle thee so foul ; 
 
 Yet in this wound I see my own true love. 
 
 And in this wound thy magnanimity, 
 
 And in this wound I see thy constancy. 
 
 Go, gentle heart, go rest thee in thy tomb ; 
 
 Receive tliis token as thy last farewell. [She kisseth it. 
 
 Thy own true heart anon will foUow thee. 
 
 Which panting lusteth for thy company. 40 
 
 Thus hast thou run, ]ioor heart, thy mortal race. 
 
 And rid thy life from fickle fortune's snares,
 
 ALAHAM. 7 
 
 Thus hast thou lost this world and worldly cares, 
 
 And of thy foe, to honour thee withal, 
 
 Receiv'd a golden gi-ave to thy desert. 
 
 Nothing doth want to thy just funeral, 
 
 But my salt tears to wasli thy bloody wound ; 
 
 Which to the end thou uiightst receive, behold, 
 
 My father scuds thee in this cup of gold ; 
 
 And thou shalt have them ; though I was resolved 
 
 To shed no tears ; but with a cheerful face 
 
 Once did I think to wet tliy funeral 10 
 
 Only with blood, and with no wee]iing eye. 
 
 This done, my soul forth^^"ith shall fly to thee ; 
 
 For therefore did my father send thee me. 
 
 [Nearly a century after the date of this Drama, 
 Drj-den produced his admirable version of the same 
 story from Boccacio. The speech here extracted may 
 he compared with the corresponding passage in the 
 Sigismonda and Guiscardo, with no disadvantage to the 
 elder performance. It is cjuite as weighty, as pointed, 
 and as passionate.] 
 
 Iir. 
 ALAHAM : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY FULKE GKEVILLE, LORD BROOKE. 
 
 Alaham, second Soil to the Ktsg of Ormus, deposes It is 
 Father : whose -Ei/eji, and the Eiies of his elder Brother 
 ZOPHI, (actiiuj npoii a maxim of Oriental Polici/), he 
 causes to he put out. They, hiind, and fcariraj fm' 
 their Lives, tninder about. In this Extremilij they are 
 separately met hy the King's Daughter C^LICA, v:ho 
 conducts them to places of Refuge; hiding her Fathier 
 amid the Vaults of a Tempjle, and guiding li^r Brother 
 to take Sanctuary at the Altar. 
 
 King. C-elica. 
 King. Caelica ; thou only child, whom I repent 
 Not yet to have liegot, thy work is vain : 
 Thou run'st against my destiny's intent. 
 Fear not my fall ; tlie steep is faii-est jilain ; 
 And error safest guide unto his end, 
 Who nothing but nuschance can have to friend. 
 We parents are but nature's nursery ; 20
 
 8 FULKE GREVILLB. 
 
 When our succession sj)rin<;-s, tlicn ripe to fall. 
 
 Privation unto age is natural. 
 
 Age there is also in a prince's state, 
 
 Which is contempt, grown of misgovernnient, 
 
 Where love of cliange hegottetii prince's hate : 
 
 For hopes nuist wither, or grow violent. 
 
 If fortune hind desires to one estate. 
 
 Then mark ! iUind, as a man : siwrn'd, as a king ; 
 
 A father's kindness loatli'd, aiid desolate : 
 
 Life without joy, or light : what can it bring, 10 
 
 But inward horror unto outward hate ? 
 
 O safety ! thou art then a hateful thing, 
 
 AVhen children's death assures the father's state. 
 
 No, safe I am not, tliougli my son were slain, 
 
 My frailty would l)oget such sons again. 
 
 Besides, if fatal he the heavens' will, 
 
 Repining M,dds more force to destiny ; 
 
 Whose iron wheels stay not on flesfdy wit, 
 
 But headlong run down steep necessity. 
 
 And as in danger, we do catch at it 20 
 
 Tliat comes to helj), and unadvisedly 
 
 Oft do our friends to our nusfortune knit. 
 
 So with the harm of those who would us gooii 
 
 Is destiny impossibly withstood. 
 
 Cielica, then cease ; iiuportune me no more : 
 
 My son, my age, the state where things are now, 
 
 Require my death. Who would consent to live 
 
 Where love cannot revenge, nor truth forgive ? 
 
 C'lcUca. Though fear see nothing but extremity, 
 Yet danger is no deep sea, but a ford, 30 
 
 Where they that yield can only drowned be 
 In v/rongs, and wounds. Sir, you are too remiss ; 
 To thrones a passive nature fatal is. 
 
 King. Occasion to my son hath turn'd her face ; 
 My inward Avants all outward sti'engths betray ; 
 And so make that impossible I may. 
 
 Cidica. Yet live : 
 Live for the state. 
 
 King. W^hose ruins glasses are. 
 Wherein see errors of myself I must, 40 
 
 And hold my life of danger, shame, and care. 
 
 Gcclica. When fear propounds, with loss men ever 
 choose.
 
 ALAHAM. y 
 
 King. Nothing is left me but myself to lose. 
 
 Cal'ka. And is it nothing then to lose the state ? 
 
 King. Where chance is ripe, there counsel comes 
 too late. 
 C;i?lica, by all thou ow'st the gods and me, 
 I do conjure thee, leave me to my chance. 
 What 's past was error's way ; the tiatth it is, 
 Wherein I wretch can only go amiss. 
 If nature saw no cause of sudden ends, 
 Slie, that but one way made to draw our Ijreath, 
 Would not have left so many doors to deatli. 10 
 
 CkIIcci. Yet, Sir, if weakness be not such a sand 
 As neither wrong nor counsel can manure ; 
 Choose and resolve what death you will endure. 
 
 King. Tliis sword, tliy hands, may otter up ni}- 
 breath 
 And plague my life's remissness in my death. 
 
 CccUca. Unto that duty if these hands be born, 
 I must think God and trutli were names of scorn. 
 Again, this justice were if life were loved, 
 Now merely grace ; since death doth but forgive 
 A life to you, which is a death to live ; 20 
 
 Pain must displease that satisfies oftence. 
 
 King. Chance liatli left death no more to spoil 
 but sense. 
 
 Gnlica. Then sword, do justice' office thorough me : 
 I offer more than that he liates to thee. 
 
 {Offers to kill herself. 
 
 King. All! stay thy hand. My state no ei[ual hath, 
 And much more matchless my strange vices be : 
 One kind of deatii becomes not thee and me. 
 Kings' plagues by chance or destiny should fall ; 
 Headlong he perish must that ruins all. 
 
 Ccelica. .No cliff or rock is so precipitate, 30 
 
 But down it eyes can lead the Ijlind away ; 
 Without me live, or with me die you may, 
 
 King. Crelica, and wilt thou Alaham exceed 1 
 His cruelty is death, you torments use ; 
 He takes my crown, you take myself from me. 
 A prince of this fall'n empire let me be. 
 
 Coelica. Then be a king, no tyrant of thyself : 
 V>G ; and be what you will ; what nature lent 
 Is still in hers, and not our government.
 
 10 
 
 FULKE GREVILLE. 
 
 King. If (lisobedicMico, and obedience both, 
 Still do nie hurt ; in what .strange state am I '< 
 But hold thy course ; it well becomes my blood, 
 To do their j)arents mischief with their good. 
 
 Coilica. Yet, Sir, haik to the j)oor oppressed tears, 
 The just men's moan, that sutler by your fall ; 
 A prince's charge is to ]irotect them all. 
 And shall it nothing be that I am yours ? 
 The world without, my heart within, doth know, 
 I never had unkind, mireverent powers. 10 
 
 If thus you yield to Alaham's treachery, 
 He ruins you : 'tis you, Sir, ruin me. 
 
 King. Cielica, call up the dead ; awake the blind ; 
 Turii back tlie time ; bid winds tell whence they come ; 
 As vainly strength sjieaks to a broken mind. 
 Fly from me, Crelica, hate all I do : 
 Misfortunes have in blood successions too. 
 
 Calica. Will you do that which Alaham cannot ? 
 He hath no good ; you have no ill, but he : 
 This mar-right yielding 's honour's tyranny. 20 
 
 King. Have I not done amiss ? am I not ill. 
 That ruin'd have a king's authority ? 
 And not one king alone : since jjrinces all 
 Feel part of those scorns, whereby one doth fall. 
 Treason against me cannot treason be : 
 All laws have lost authority in me. 
 
 Ccelica. The laws of power chain'd to men's 
 humours be. 
 The good have conscience ; the ill (like instruments) 
 Are, in the hands of wise authority. 
 Moved, divided, used, or laid downi ; 30 
 
 Still, with desire, kept subject to a crown. 
 Stir up all states, all spirits : hojie and fear. 
 Wrong and revenge, are current everjavhere. 
 
 King. Put down my son : for that must be the 
 way : 
 A father's shame : a prince's tyranny ; 
 The sceptre ever shall misjudged be. 
 
 Ccelica. Let them fear rumoin- that do work amiss ; 
 Blood, tonnents, death, horrors of cruelty. 
 Have time, and place. Look tln-ough these skins of 
 
 fear, 
 Which still persuade the better side to bear. 40
 
 ALAHAM. 11 
 
 And since thy son thus trait'rously conspires, 
 Let him not prey on all thy race, and thee : 
 Keep ill example from posterity. 
 
 King. Danger is come ; and must I now unarm, 
 And let in hope to weaken resolution ? 
 Passion ! be thou my legacy and -will ; 
 To thee I give my life, crown, reputation ; 
 My pomps to clouds ; and (as forlorn with men) 
 My strength to women ; hoping this alone, 9 
 
 Though fear'd, sought, and a king, to live unkno^\^l. 
 C?elica, all these to thee : do thou bestow 
 This living darkness, wherein I do go. 
 
 Ccclica. My soul now joys. Doing breathes horror 
 out. 
 Absence must be our first step. Let us fly. 
 A pause in rage makes Alahani to doubt ; 
 "Which doubt may stir in people hope, and fear, 
 "With love, or hate, to seek you everywhere. 
 For jjrinces' lives are fortune's misery : 
 As dainty sjiarks, wliich till men dead do know, 
 To kindle for himself each man doth blow. 20 
 
 But hark ! what 's this ? Malice doth never sleep : 
 I hear the spies of power drawing near. 
 Sir, follow me : Misfortune's worst is come ; 
 Her strength is change: and change yields better doom. 
 Choice now is past. Hard by there is a pile. 
 Built under colour of a sacrihce ; 
 If God do grant, it is a ])lace to save ; 
 If God denies, it is a ready grave. 
 
 ZOPHI cqqKars. 
 CceJica. "What see I here ? more spectacles of woe ! 
 And are my kindred only made to be 30 
 
 Agents and patients in iniquity 1 
 Ah forlorn wretch ! ruin's example right ! 
 Lost to thyself, not to thy enemy, 
 "Whose hand e'en M-hile thou fliest thou fall'st into ; 
 And with thy fall thy father dost undo. 
 Save one I may : Nature would save them both ; 
 But Chance hath many wheels, Rage many eyes. 
 What, shall I tlien abandon Innocents ? * 
 Not help a helpless brother thrown on me ? 
 
 • Zophi is represented as a prince of weak understanding.
 
 12 FULKE OREVILLE. 
 
 Is nature nari'ow to advt-r.sity ? 
 
 No, no. Our God left duty for a law ; 
 
 Pity, at large ; love, in autiiority ; 
 
 Desj)air, in bonds ; fear, of itself in awe : 
 
 That rage of time, and power's strange liberty, 
 
 Oppressing good men, might resistance find : 
 
 Nor can I to a brother be less kind. 
 
 Dost tliou, tliat canst not see, hope to escajie ? 
 
 Disgrace can have no friend ; contemjjt no guide ; 
 
 Right is thy guilt ; thy judge iniquity ; 10 
 
 "Which desolation casts on them that see. 
 
 Zophi. Make calm thy rage : pity a ghost distrest : 
 Jly right, my liberty, I freely give : 
 Give him, tliat never harm'd thee, leave to live. 
 
 Ccclica. Nay, God, the world, thy jiarents it deny ; 
 A brother's jealous heart ; usurped might 
 Grows friends with all the world, except thy right. 
 
 Zojjhi. Secure thyself. Exile me from this coast : 
 My fault, suspicion is ; my judge, is fear ; 
 Occasion, with myself, away I bear. 20 
 
 Ccclica. Fly unto God : for in humanity 
 Hope there is none. Reach me thy fearftil hand : 
 I am thy sister ; neither fiend, nor spy 
 Of tyi'ant's rage ; but one that feels despair 
 Of thy estate, which thou dost only fear. 
 Kneel down ; embrace this holy mystery, 
 A refuge to the worst for rajie and l)lood, 
 And yet, I fear, not hallow'd for the good. 
 
 Zophi. Help, God ! defend thine altar ! since thy 
 In earth, leaves innocents no other right. [might, 
 
 Ccclica. Eternal God ! that see'st thyself in us, 31 
 If vows be more than saciifice of lust, 
 Rais'd from the smokes of hope and fear in us, 
 Protect this Innocent, calm Alaham's rage ; 
 By miracles faith goes from age to age. 
 Affection trembles ; reason is oppressed ; 
 Nature, methinks, doth her own entrails tear ; 
 In resolution ominous is fear. 
 
 Alaham causes search to he made after Ms Father and 
 Brother. ZoPHi is discovered', and C^LlCAy 7oho, 
 heiiKj questioned hii AlaHAM cohere she has hid her 
 Father, dissembles as thoiujh she thought that the King 
 icas dead; but being threatened with the rack, her
 
 ALAHAM. 13 
 
 Exclamations call her Father from his hiding-place; 
 who, together with her, and her Brother ZOPHI, are 
 sentenced hy Alaham to the fMines. 
 
 Alaham. Attendants. 
 Alaham. Sirs, seek the city, examine, torture, rack ; 
 Sanctuaries none let there he ; make darkness knoAvn ; 
 Pull down the roofs, dig, luirn, jiut all to wrack ; 
 And let the guiltless for the guilty groan. 
 Change, shame, misfortune, in tlieir 'scaping lie. 
 And in their finding our prosperity. 
 
 He sees C.ELICA. 
 Good fortune welcome ! We have lost our care, 
 And found our loss : Cpelica distract I see. 
 The king is near : She is her father's eyes. 
 
 He sees ZoPHI. 
 Behold ! the forlorn wretch, half of my fear, 10 
 
 Takes sanctuary at holy altar's feet : 
 Lead him apart, examine, force, and try ; 
 These bind the subject not the monarchy. 
 Cielica ! awake : that God of whom you crave 
 Is deaf, and only gives men what they have. 
 
 Ccelica. Ah cruel wretch ! guilty of jiarcnt's blood ! 
 Might I, poor innocent, my father free, 
 My murther yet were less impiety. 
 But on ; devour : fear only to be good : 
 Let lis not 'scaj)e : thy glory then doth rise, 20 
 
 When thou at once thy house dost sacrifice. 
 
 Alaham. Tell me where thy father is. 
 
 Ccelica. liloody scorn, 
 Must he be kill'd again that gave thee breath ? 
 Is duty notliing else in thee but death? 
 
 AlaJiam. Leave off tliis mask ; deceit is never 
 wise ; 
 Though he be blind, a king hath many eyes. 
 
 Ocelica. twofold scorn ! God be reveng'd for 
 me. 
 Yet since my father is destroy'd by thee. 
 Add still more scorn, it sorrow multiplies. 30 
 
 Alaham. Passions are learn'd, not born within the 
 That method keep : Order is quiet's art. [heart, 
 
 Tell where he is : for, look, what love conceals. 
 Pain out of nature's labyrinths reveals.
 
 14 FULKE GREVILLE. 
 
 Ctclica. Tliis is reward which tliou dost threaten nie ; 
 If terror then wilt threaten, ])roniisp joys. 
 
 Alaham. Smart cools these boiling styles of 
 vanity. 
 
 Ca:Ju:a. And if my father I no more shall see, 
 Help me nnto the phiee wliere he remains : 
 To liell l)elow, or to the sky above, 
 The way is easy where the guide is love. 
 
 Alaham. Confess ; where is he hid ? 
 
 Calica. Rack not my woe. 
 Tliy glorious pride of this unglorious deed 10 
 
 Doth mischief ripe, and therefore falling, shew. 
 
 Alaham. Bodies have jjlacc, and blindness must 
 be led. 
 Graves be the thrones of kings when they be dead. 
 
 Civlica. He was (unhaiijiy) cause that thou art 
 now ; 
 Thou art, ah wicked ! cause that he is not ; 
 And fear'st thou parricide can lie forgot ? 
 Bear witness, thou Almighty God on high, 
 And you black powers inhabiting below, 
 That for his life myself would yield to die. 
 
 Alaham. Well, Sirs, go seek the dark and secret 
 caves, 20 
 
 The holy temples, sanctified cells. 
 All parts wherein a living corpse may dwell. 
 
 Ctdica. Seek him amongst the dead, you placed 
 him there : 
 Yet lose no jjains, good souls, go not to hell ; 
 And, but to heaven, you may go every where. 
 Giiilty, with you, of his blood let me be, 
 If any more I of my father know. 
 Than that he is Avhere you would have him go. 
 
 A lakam. Tear up the vaults. Behold her agonies ! 
 Sorrow subtracts, and multiplies, the spirits ; 30 
 
 Care, and desire, do under anguish cease ; 
 Doubt curious is, affecting piety ; 
 Woe loves itself ; fear from itself M'ould fly. 
 Do not these trembling motions witness bear, 
 That all these 2>rotestations be of fear ? 
 
 Ccelica. If aught be quick in "toe, move it with 
 scorn : 
 Nothing can come amiss to thoughts forlorn.
 
 ALAHAM. 15 
 
 Alaham. Confess in time. Revenge is merciless. 
 
 CccUca. Reward and pain, fear and desire too, 
 Are vain in things impossible to do. 
 
 Alaham. Tell yet where thon thy father last did 
 see. 
 
 Ccclica. Even where he by his loss of eyes hath ^\•on 
 That he no more shall see his monstrous son. 
 First in per}»etual night thou mad'st him go ; 
 His flesh the grave ; his life the stage, where sense 
 Plays all the tragedies of pain and woe. 
 And wouldst thou trait'rously thyself exceed, 10 
 
 By seeking thus to make his ghost to bleed ? 
 
 Alaham. Bear her away ; devise ; add to the rack 
 Torments, that both call death and turn it back. 
 
 C'a'licn. The flattering glass of power is others' 
 jjain. 
 Perfect thy work ; that heaven and hell may know. 
 To worse I cannot, going from thee, go. 
 Eternal life, that ever liv'st above ! 
 If sense there be with thee of hate, or love. 
 Revenge my king and father's overthrow. 
 father ! if that name reach up so high, 20 
 
 And be more than a proper word of art, 
 To teach respects in our humanity, 
 Accept these pains, whereof you feel no smai-t. 
 
 The King comex forth. 
 
 Kincj. What sound is this of Crelica's distress ? 
 Alaham, \viong not a silly sister's faith. 
 'Tis plague enough that she is innocent ; 
 My child, thy sister ; l)orn (by thee and me) 
 With shame and sin to have affinity. 
 Break me ; I am the prison of thy thought : 29 
 
 Crowns dear enough with father's blood are bought. 
 
 Alaham. Now feel thou shalt, thou ghost un- 
 natural, 
 Those wounds which thou to my heart thendid'st give. 
 When, in despite of God, this state, and me, 
 Thou did'st from death mine elder brother free. 
 The smart of king's oppression doth not die : 
 Time rusteth malice ; rust wounds cruelly. 
 
 King. Flatter thy wickedness ; adorn thy rage ; 
 To wear a crown, tear up thy father's age.
 
 16 FULKE GUEVILLE. 
 
 Kill not thy sister ; it is lack of wit 
 To do an ill that hrings no good with it. 
 Alaham. Go, lead them hence. Prepare the 
 funeral. 
 Hasten the sacrifice and jiomp of woe. 
 Where she did hide him, thither let them go. 
 
 A NuNTius [or Messenger) relates to Alaham the manner 
 of his Father's, Brothers, and Sister's deaths; and 
 the popular discoii tents which followed. Alaham hy 
 the sudden working of Remorse is distracted, and 
 imagiaes that he sees their Ghosts. 
 
 Alaham. Xuntius. 
 
 Nuntius. The first which burnt, as Cain '■'' his next 
 of kin, 
 In blood your brother, and your ])rince in state, 
 Drew wonder from men's hearts, brought horroi' in. 
 This innocent, this soul too meek for sin, 
 Yet made for others to do harm withal, 10 
 
 AVith his self-pity tears drew tears from us ; 
 His blood compassion had ; his wrong stirr'd hate : 
 Deceit is odious in a king's estate. 
 Repiningly he goes unto his end : 
 Strange visions rise ; strange furies haunt the flame ; 
 People cry out, Echo repeats, his name. 
 These words he spake, even breathing out his breath : 
 " Unhappy weakness ! never innocent ! 
 " If in a crown, yet but an instrument. 
 " People ! observe ; this fact may make vou see, 20 
 " Excess hath ruin'd what itself did buil'd : 
 " But ah ! the more op))ressed the more j^ou yield." 
 The next was he whose age had reverence, 
 His gesture something more than priv-ateness ; 
 Guided by one, whose stately grace did move 
 Compassion, even in hearts that could not love. 
 As soon as these approached near the flame. 
 The wind, the steam, or furies, rais'd their veils ; 
 And in their looks this image did ajipear : 
 Each unto other, life to neither, dear. 30 
 
 * The execution, to make it plausible to the people, is coloured 
 with the pretext, that the being burnt is a voluntary sucrifici of 
 themselves by the victims at the funeral of Cain a" b;ishaw and 
 relative.
 
 ALAHAM. 17 
 
 These ■words he spake. " Behold one that hath lost 
 " Himself within ; and so the world without ; 
 ' ' A king, that brings authority in doubt : 
 " This is the fruit of power's misgovernment. 
 " People ! my fall is just ; yet strange your fate, 
 " That, under worst, will hope for better state." 
 Grief roars aloud. Your sister yet remain'd ; 
 Helping in death to him in whom she died ; 
 Then going to her own, as if she gain'd. 
 These mild words spake with looks to heaven bent. 
 "OGod! 'Tis thou that surrest here, not we : 11 
 " AVroug doth but like itself in working thus : 
 " At thy will. Lord ! revenge thyself, not us." 
 The fire straight upward bears the souls in breath : 
 Visions of horror circle in the flame 
 
 With shapes and figures like to that of Death, 
 
 But lighter-tongued and nimbler-wing'd than Fame. 
 
 Some to the church ; some to the people fly ; 
 
 A voice cries out ; ' ' Revenge and liberty. 
 " Princes, take heed ; your glory is your care ; 20 
 " And power's foundations, strengths, not vices, are." 
 A hiham. What cliange is this, that now I feel within ? 
 
 Is it disease that works this fall of spirits ? 
 
 Or works this fall of spirits my disease ? 
 
 Things seem not as they did ; horror appears. 
 
 What Sin embodied, what strange sight is this ? 
 
 Doth sense bring back but what within me is ? 
 
 Or do I see those shapes which haunt the flame ? 
 
 What siimmons up remorse ? Shall conscience rate 
 
 Kings' deeds, to make them less than their estate ? 
 
 Ah silly ghost ! is 't you that swarm about ? 31 
 
 Would'st thou, that art not now, a father be ? 
 
 These body laws do with the life go out. 
 
 What thoughts l)e these that do my entrails tear ? 
 
 Yoir wand'iing sjjirits frame in me your hell ; 
 
 I feel my brother and my sister there.
 
 18 FULKE GUEVILLE. 
 
 IV. 
 MUSTAPHA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 KOSSA, Wife to SOLYMAN the Tvrkish Eii(2)er<ir, permades 
 her Hushiind, that Mustapha, his Son hy a former 
 Marriage, and Heir to his Croicu, seeks his life: 
 that she may make icai/, hi/ the death of MusTAi'HA, 
 for the udraneement of her owu children, ZangEK and 
 C'amena. Camena, the cirtuous davghter of Rossa, 
 defends the Innocence of Mustapha, in a Conference 
 which she holds with the Emperor. 
 
 Camena. Solyman. 
 Cam. They that from youth do suck at fortune's 
 breast, 
 And nurse their empty hearts with seeking higher, 
 Like droiisy-fed, tlieir thiist doth never rest ; 
 For still, liy getting, they beget desire : 
 Till thoughts', like wood, while they maintain the flame 
 Of liigh desires, grow ashes in the same. 
 But virtue ! those that can behold thy beauties. 
 Those that suck, from their youth , thy milk of goodness. 
 Their minds grow strong against the storms of fortune, 
 And stand, like rocks in winter-gusts, unshaken ; 10 
 Not with the Ijlindness of desire mistaken. 
 
 virtue therefore ! whose thrall I think fortune. 
 Thou who despisest not the sex of women. 
 Help me out of these riddles of my fortune, 
 "Wherein (methinks) you with yourself do pose me : 
 Let fates go on : sweet virtue ! do not lose me. 
 My mother and my husljand have conspired, 
 
 For brother's good, the ruin of my brother : 
 
 JNIy father by my mother is inspired, 
 
 For one child to seek niin of another. 20 
 
 1 that to help by nature am required. 
 
 While I do help, nuist needs still hurt a brother. 
 While I see who conspire, I seem conspired 
 Against a husband, father, and a mother. 
 Tnith bids me run, by truth I am retired ; 
 Shame leads me both the one way, and the other. 
 In what a labyrinth is honour cast,
 
 MUSTAPHA. 19 
 
 Drawn divers ways with sex, with time, with state. 
 In all which, error's course is infinite, 
 By hope, by fear, by spite, by love, and hate ; 
 And Ijut one only way unto the right, 
 A thorny way, where pain must be the guide, 
 Danger the light, offence of power the praise : 
 Such are the golden hopes of iron days. 
 Yet virtue, I am thine, for thy sake gi'ieved 
 (Since basest thoughts, for their ill-plac'd desires, 
 In shame, in danger, death, and tormentj ^lory) 10 
 That I cannot with more pains write thy story. 
 Chance, therefore, if thou scornest those that scorn thee ; 
 Fame, if thou hatest those that force thy trumpet 
 To sound aloud, and yet despise thy sounding ; 
 Laws, if yon love not those that be examples 
 Of nature's laws, whence you are fall'n corrupted ; 
 Conspire that I, against you all conspired, 
 Joined with tyi-ant virtue, as you call her, 
 That I, by your revenges may he named, 
 For virtue, to be ruin'd, and defamed. 20 
 
 My mother oft and diversely I warned, 
 "What fortunes were upon such courses Inxilded : 
 That fortune still must be with ill maintained, 
 Which at the first vnth any ill is gained. 
 I Rosten * warn'd, that man's self-loving thought 
 Still creepeth to the nide-embracing might 
 Of princes' grace : a lease of glories let, 
 "Which shining burns ; breeds sereness when 'tis set. 
 And, by this creature of my mother's making, 
 This messenger, I Mustapha have warn'd, 30 
 
 That innocence is not enough to save, 
 AVhere good and gi-eatness, fear and envy have. 
 Till now, in reverence I have forborne 
 To ask, or to presume to guess, or know 
 isiy father's thoughts ; whereof he might think scorn : 
 For dreadful is that power that all may do ; 
 Yet they, that all men fear, are fearful too. 
 Lo where he sits ! Virtue, work thou in me. 
 That what thou seekest may accomplish'd be. 39 
 
 Solym. Ah death ! is not thyself sufficient anguish, 
 But thou must borrow fear, that threatning glass, 
 Which, while it goodness hides, and mischief shows. 
 * Her Husband.
 
 20 FULKE GREVILLE. 
 
 Doth lighten wit to lionour's overthrows ? 
 
 But liush ! niethinks away Caniena steals ; 
 
 Murther, belike, in me itself re-veals. 
 
 Caniena ! whither now ? wliy haste you from me ? 
 
 Is it so strange a thing to be a father '? 
 
 Or is it I that am so strange a father ? 
 
 Gam. My lord, methought, nay, sure I saw you 
 busy : 
 Your child presumes, iincall'd, that comes unto you. 
 
 Solym. Who may presume with fathers, but their 
 own. 
 Whom nature's law hath ever in protection, 10 
 
 And gilds in good belief of dear aifection, 
 To make it greater, and the better known ? 
 
 Cam. Nay, reverence, Sir, so children's wortli 
 dotli hide, 
 As of the ftithers it is least espied. 
 
 Solym. I think 'tis true, who know their children 
 least. 
 Have greatest reason to esteem them liest. 
 
 Ga7)i. How so, my lord ? since love in knowledge 
 lives. 
 Which nnto strangers therefore no man gives. 
 
 Solym. The life we gave them soon they do forget. 
 While they think onr lives do their fortunes let. 20 
 
 Cam. The tenderness of life it is so great. 
 As any sign of death we hate too much ; 
 And unto parents sons, perchance, are such. 
 Yet nature meant her strongest unity 
 'T\nxt sons and fathers ; making parents cause 
 Unto the sons of their humanity ; 
 And children pledge of their eternity. 
 Fathers should love this image in their sons. 
 
 Solym. But streams back to their springs do never 
 run. 
 
 Cam. Pardon, my lord, doubt is succession's foe : 
 Let not her mists poor children overthrow. 31 
 
 Though streams from springs do seem to run away, 
 'Tis nature leads them to their mother sea. 
 
 Solym. Doth nature teach them, in aml)ition's strife. 
 To seek his death, by whom they have tlieir life ? 
 
 Cam. Things easy to Desire impossible do seem : 
 Why should Fear make impossible seem easy ? 
 
 Solym-. Monsters yet be, and being are believed.
 
 MUSTAPHA. 21 
 
 Cam. Incredible hath some inordinate progre=!sion : 
 Blood, doctrine, age, corru])tiiig liberty, 
 Do all concur, wliere men such monsters be. 
 Pardon me, Sir, if duty do seem angry : 
 Affection must breathe out afflicted breath, 
 "Where iminitation hath such easy faith. 
 
 Soli/m. JIustapha is he that hath detil'd his uest ; 
 The wrong the gi-eater for I loved him best. 
 He hath devised that all at once should die. 
 Rosten, and Rossa, Zanger, thou, and I. 10 
 
 Cam. Fall none but angels suddenly to hell ? 
 Are kind and order grown jirecipitate ? 
 Did ever any other man but he 
 In instant lose the use of doing well ? 
 Sir, these be mists of greatness. Look again : 
 For kings that, in their fearful icy state, 
 Behold their cliildren as their winding-sheet, 
 Do easily doubt ; and what they doubt, they hate. 
 
 Solym. Camena ! thy sweet youth, that knows no 
 ill. 
 Cannot believe thine elders, when they say, 20 
 
 That good belief is gieat estates' decay. 
 Let it suffice, that I, and Rossa too. 
 Are privy what your brother means to do. 
 
 Cam. Sir, pardon me, and nobly, as a father, 
 "What I shall say, and say of holy mother ; 
 Know I shall say it, but to right a brother. 
 My mother is your wife : duty in her 
 Is love : she loves : which not well govern'd, bears 
 The evil angel of misgiving fears ; 
 "Whose many eyes, whilst but itself they see, 30 
 
 Still make the worst of possibility : 
 Out of this fear she Mustai>ha accuseth : 
 Unto this fear, perchance, she joins the love 
 "Which doth in mothers for their children move. 
 Perchance, when fear hath shew'd her yours must fall, 
 In love she sees that hers must rise withal. 
 Sir, fear a frailty is, and may have grace, 
 And over-care of you cannot be blamed ; 
 Care of our own in nature hath a place ; 
 Passions are oft mistaken and misnamed ; 40 
 
 Things simply good gi-ow evil with misplacing. 
 Though laws cut off, and do not care to fashion,
 
 22 FULKE GREVILLE. 
 
 Humauity of error hath compassion. 
 Yet God forl)icl, that either fear, or care, 
 Shoiikl ruin tlios(! that true and faultless are. 
 
 Solym. Is it no fault, or fault I may forgive, 
 For son to seek the father should not live ? 
 
 Cam. Is it a fault, or fault for you to know, 
 My mother douhts a thing that is not so ? 
 These ugly works of monstrous parricide, 
 Mark from what hearts they rise, and where they hide : 
 Violent, desjiair'd, where honour broken is ; 10 
 
 Fear lord, time death ; where hope is misery ; 
 Doubt having stopped all honest ways to bliss, 
 And custom shut the windows up of shame, 
 That craft may take upon her wisdom's name, 
 Comjiare noAV Mustapha with this despair : 
 Sweet youth, sure ho])es, honoin-, a father's love, 
 No infamy to move, or banish fear, 
 Honour to stay, hazard to hasten fate : 
 Can horrors work in such a child's estate ? 
 Besides, the gods, whom kings should imitate, 20 
 Have placed you high to nde, not overthrow ; 
 For us, not for yourselves, is your estate : 
 Mercy must hand in hand with power go. 
 Your sceptre should not strike with arms of fear, 
 AVhich fathoms all men's imbecility, 
 And mischief doth, lest it should mischief bear. 
 As reason deals within with frailty. 
 Which kills not passions that rebellious are, 
 But adds, subtracts, keeps down ambitious spirits. 
 So must power form, not ruin instruments : 30 
 
 For flesh and blood, the means 'twixt heav'n and hell, 
 Unto extremes extremely racked be ; 
 Which kings in art of government should see : 
 Else they, which circle in themselves with death, 
 Poison the air wherein they draw their breath. 
 Pardon, my lord, pity becomes my sex : 
 Grace with delay grows weak, and fury wise. 
 Remember Theseus' wish, and Neptune's haste, 
 Kill'd innocence, and left succession waste. 39 
 
 Solym. If what were best for them that do offend. 
 Laws did enquire, the answer must be grace. 
 If mercy be so large, where 's justice' place ? 
 
 0am. Where love despairs, and where God's 
 promise ends.
 
 MUSTAPHA. 23 
 
 For mercy is tlie highest reach of wit, 
 A safety unto them that save with it : 
 Boru out of God, and unto human eyes, 
 Like God, not seen, till fleshly passion dies. 
 
 Solym. God may forgive, whose being, and whose 
 harms 
 Are far removed fi'oni reach of fleshly arms : 
 But if God equals or successors had, 
 Even God of safe revenges would be glad. 
 
 Cam. While he is yet alive, he may be slain ; 
 But from the dead no flesh comes back again. 10 
 
 Salym, While he remains alive, I live in fear. 
 
 Cam. Though he were dead, that doubt still 
 living were. 
 
 Solym. None hath the power to end what he begun. 
 
 Cam. Tlie same occasion follows every sou. 
 
 Solym. Their greatness, or their worth, is not so 
 much. 
 
 Cam. And shall the best be slain for being such ? 
 
 Solym. Thy mother, or thy brother, are amiss ; 
 I am betray'd, and one of them it is. 
 
 Cam. My mother if she errs, errs virtuously ; 
 And let her err, ere Mustapha should die. 20 
 
 Solym. Kings for their safety must not blame 
 mistrust. 
 
 Cam. Nor for surmises sacrifice the just. 
 
 Solym. Well, dear Camena, keep this secretly : 
 I vnW be well advised before he die. 
 
 Heli a Priest acqitaiata Mustapha with the intensions of 
 his Father towards him, and counsels him to seek his 
 safety in the Destruction of RossA and her Faction. 
 Mustapha refuses to save his Life at (he Fxpvise of 
 the Public Peace; and being sent for hy his Father, 
 obeys the Mandate to his 1 )estruct inn. 
 
 Priest. Thy father purposeth thy death. 
 
 Must. What have I to my father done amiss ? 
 
 Priest. That wicked Rossa thy step-mother is. 
 
 Must. Wherein have I of Rossa ill-deserved ? 30 
 
 Priest. In that the em}iire is for thee reserved. 
 
 Must. Is it a fault to be my father's son ? 
 Ah foul ambition ! which like water floods 
 Not channel-bound dost neighbours over-run. 
 And growest nothing when tliy rage is done.
 
 24 FULKE GREVILLE. 
 
 Must Rossa's heirs out of my ashes rise ? 
 
 Yet, Zaiif^er, I acquit thee of uiy blood ; 
 
 For I helieve, thy lieait liath no im])re.s.sion 
 
 To ruin iMusta2)ha for his succession. 
 
 But tell what colours tlicy against nie use, 
 
 And how my father's love they lirst did wound ? 
 
 Priest. Of" treason towards him they thee accuse : 
 Thy fame and greatness gives their malice ground. 
 
 Must. Good world, where it is danger to be good ! 
 Yet gi'udge I not power of myself to ])ower : 10 
 
 This baseness only in mankind I blame, 
 That indignation should give laws to fame. 
 Shew me the truth. To what rules am I bound ? 
 
 Priest. No man commanded is by God to die, 
 As long as he may persecution Hy. 
 
 Must. To fly, hath scorn, it argues guiltiness, 
 
 Iidierits fear, weakly abandons friends. 
 
 Gives tyrants fame, takes honour from distress 
 
 Death do thy worst ! thy greatest pains have end. 
 
 Priest. Mischief is like the cockatrice's eyes, 20 
 Sees first, and kills ; or is seen first, and dies. 
 Fly to thy strength, which makes misfortune vain. 
 Rossa intends tliy ruin. What is she ? 
 Seek in her bowels for thy father lost : 
 Who can redeem a king with viler cost ? 
 
 Must. false and wicked colours of desire ! 
 Eternal bondage unto him that seeks 
 To be possessed of all things that he likes ! 
 Shall I, a son and subject, seem to dare, 
 For any selfness, to set realms on fire, 30 
 
 Which golden titles to rebellions are ? 
 Heli, even you have told me, wealth was given 
 The wicked, to corrupt themselves and others ; 
 Greatness and health to make flesh proud and cruel ; 
 Where in the good, sickness mows clown desire, 
 Death glorifies, misfortune humbles. 
 Since tlierefore life is but the throne of woe. 
 Which sickness, pain, desire, and fear inherit. 
 Ever most worth to men of weakest spirit ; 
 Shall we, to languish in this brittle jail, 40 
 
 Seek, by ill deeds, to shun ill destiny ; 
 And so, for toys, lose immortality ? 
 
 Priest. Fatal necessity is never known
 
 MUSTAPHA. 25 
 
 Until it strike ; and till that blow be come, 
 Who falls is by false visions overtlirown. 
 
 Must. Blasphemous love ! safe conduct of the ill ! 
 What power hath given man's mckedness such 
 skill ? 
 
 Priest. Ah servile men ! how are your thoughts 
 bewitch'd 
 With hopes and fears, the price of your subjection, 
 That neither sense nor time can make you see, 
 The art of power will leave you nothing free ! 
 
 Must. Is it in us to rule a Sultan's will ? 
 
 Priest. AVe made them first for good, and not for 
 ill. 10 
 
 Must. Our Gods they are, their God remains 
 above. 
 To think against anointed power is death. 
 
 Priest. To worship tyrants is no work of faith. 
 
 Must. 'Tis rage of folly that contends with fate. 
 
 Priest. Yet hazard something to preserve the state. 
 
 Must. Sedition wounds what shouhl preserved be. 
 
 Priest. To wound power's humours, keeps their 
 honours free. 
 
 Must. Admit this true : what sacrifice prevails ? 
 
 Priest. Force the petition is that never fails. 19 
 
 Must. Where then is nature's place for innocence ? 
 
 Priest. Prosperity, that never makes ofi"ence. 
 
 Must. Hath destiny no wheels Init mere occasion ? 
 
 Priest. Could east u j)on the west else make invasion ? 
 
 Must. Confusion follows where obedience leaves. 
 
 Priest. The tyrant only that event deceives. 
 
 Must. And are the ways of truth and honour such ? 
 
 Priest. Weakness doth ever think it owes too much. 
 
 Must. Hatli fame her glorious colours out of fear ? 
 
 PrieM. What is the world to him tliat is not there ? 
 
 Must. Tempt me no more. Good-will is then a pain, 
 When her words beat the heart and cannot enter. 31 
 I constant in my counsel do remain, 
 And more lives for my own life ■will not ventui'e. 
 My fellows, rest : our Alcoran doth bind. 
 That I alone should first my father find. 
 A Messenger enters. 
 
 Messenger. Sir, by our lord's commandment, here I 
 To guide you to his presence, [wait.
 
 Zb FULKE GREVILLE. 
 
 Where, like a king and father, he intends 
 To liniioiir and acijuaint you witli liis ends. 
 
 Mnst. Ileli, farewell, all fates are from above 
 Chain'd unto Immonrs that must rise or fall. 
 Think what we will, men do but what they shall. 
 
 AcHMAT describes the manner o/Mustapha's Execution 
 
 to Zanger. 
 
 AcHMAT. Zanger. 
 
 Aehm. When Soljonan, by cunning spite 
 Of Rossa's witchcrafts, from his heart had banish'd 
 Justice of kings, and lovingness of fathers. 
 To wage and lodge such camps of heady passions, 
 As that sect's cunning practices could gather ; 10 
 Envy took hold of worth : doubt did misconstrue ; 
 Renown was made a lie, and yet a terror : 
 Nothing could calm his rage, or move com])assion : 
 JIustapha must die. To wliich end fetch'd he was 
 Laden with hojies and promises of favour. 
 So vile a thing is craft in every heart, 
 As it makes power itself descend to art. 
 While Mustapha, that neither hoped nor feared, 
 Seeing the storms of rage and danger coming, 
 Yet came ; and came accompanied with power. 20 
 But neither power, which warranted his safety, 
 Nor safety, that makes violence a justice, 
 Could hold him from oliedience to this throne : 
 A gulf, which hath devoured many a one. 
 
 Zang. Alas ! could neither truth appease his fury, 
 Nor his unlook'd humility of coming, 
 Nor any secret-witnessing remorses ? 
 Can nature from herself make such divorces ? 
 Tell on, that all the world may rue and wonder. 
 
 Achm. There is a place enWroned with trees, 30 
 Upon whose shadow'd centre there is jiitch'd 
 A large enibroider'd sumptuous i)avilion ; 
 The stately throne of tyranny and miirder ; 
 Where mighty men are slain, before they know 
 That they to other than to honour go. 
 Mustapha no sooner to the port did come, 
 But thither he is sent for and conducted 
 By six slave eumichs, either taught to colour 
 Mischief with reverence, or forced, by nature,
 
 MUSTAPHA. 27 
 
 To reverence true virtue in niisfortime. 
 
 While Mustai)lia, Avhose heart was now resolved, 
 
 Not fearing death, which he might have prevented 
 
 If he to disobedience had consented ; 
 
 Nor craving life, which he might well have gotten. 
 
 If he would other duties have forgotten ; 
 
 Yet glad to speak his last thoughts to his father. 
 
 Desired the eunuchs to entreat it for him. 
 
 They did ; wept they, and kneeled to his father. 
 
 But bloody rage that glories to be cruel, 10 
 
 And jealousy that fears she is not fearful. 
 
 Made Soljnnan refuse to liear, or pity. 
 
 He bids them haste their charge : and bloody-eyed 
 
 Beholds his son, while lie obeying died. 
 
 Zang. How did that doing heart endure to suffer .- 
 Tell on. 
 
 Quicken my powers, harden'd and dull to good, 
 AVhich, yet unmoved, hear tell of brother's blood. 
 
 Aclim. While these six eunuchs to tliis charge a})- 
 pointed, 
 (Whose hearts had never used their hands to pity, 20 
 Wliose hands, now only, trembled to do murder,) 
 With reverence and fear stood still amazed ; 
 Loth to cut off such worth, afraid to save it : 
 IMustapha, ^\•ith thoughts resolved and united, 
 Bids tlieni fulfil their charge and look no further. 
 Their hearts afraid to let their hands be doing, 
 The cord, that hateful instrument of murder. 
 They lifting up let fall, and falling lift it : 
 Each sought to help, and helping hinder'd other. 
 Till Slustapha, in haste to be an angel, 30 
 
 With heavenly smiles, and quiet woi-ds, foreshows 
 The joy and peace of those souls where he goes. 
 His last words were ; "0 father now forgive me ; 
 ' ' Forgive them too that wrought my overthrow : 
 " Let my grave never minister offences. 
 '• For since my father coveteth my death, 
 " Behold with joy I offer him my breath." 
 The eunuchs roar : Solyman his rage is glutted : 
 His thoughts divdne of vengeance for this murder : 40 
 Rumour flies up and <\o\\\\ : tlie people murmur : 
 Sorrow gives laws liefore men know the truth : 
 Fear prophesies aloud, and threatens ruth.
 
 28 FCTLKE GREVILLE. 
 
 ROSTEN desrrihes to AchmaT the popular Fury which 
 followed upon the exeiutioii ofMusTAPHA. 
 
 ROSTEN. ACHJIAT. 
 
 Eos. AVlieii Jlu.staiilui was liy the eumiclis strangled, 
 Fortlnvitli his cann) <rre\v doubtful of his absence : 
 The guard of Solyiuau hiiuself did nuimmr : 
 People began to search their prince's counsels : 
 Fury gave laws : the laws of duty vanished : 
 Kind fear of him they lov'd self-fear had banished. 
 The headlong sjiirits were the heads that guided : 
 He that most disobeyed, was most obeyed. 
 Fury so suddenly became united, 
 As while her forces nourished confusion, 10 
 
 Confusion seem'd with discipline delighted. 
 Towards Solyman they run : and as the waters, 
 That meet with l>anks of snow, make snow gi'ow 
 
 Avater : 
 So, even those guards, that stood to interrupt them, 
 Give easy passage, and pass on amongst them. 
 Solyman, who saw this storm of miscliief coming. 
 Thinks absence his best argument unto them : 
 Retires himself, and sends me to demand. 
 What they demanded, or what meant their coming ? 
 I speak : they cry'd for Mustapha and Achmat. 20 
 Some bid away ; some kill ; some save ; some hearken. 
 Those that cried save, were those that sought to kill 
 
 me. 
 Who cried hark, were those that first brake silence : 
 They held that l)ade me go. Humility was guilty ; 
 Words were reproach ; silence in me was scornful ; 
 They answer'd ere they ask'd ; assured, and doubted. 
 I fled ; their fury follow'd to destroy me ; 
 Fury made haste ; haste multiplied their fury ; 
 Each would do all ; none would give place to other. 
 The hindmost stroke ; and while the foremost lifted 
 Their arms to strike, each weapon hinder'd other : 31 
 Their running let then- strokes, strokes let their 
 
 running. 
 Desire, mortal enemy to desire, 
 Made them that sought my life, give life to me. 
 
 [These two Tragedies of Lord Brooke might with 
 more propriety have been termed political treatises, than
 
 SAPHO AND PHAO. 29 
 
 plays. Their author has strangely contrived to make 
 passion, character and interest, of the highest order, 
 subservient to the expression of state dogmas and 
 mysteries. He is nine parts Machiavel and Tacitus, for 
 one part Sophocles or Seneca. In this writer's estimate 
 of the faculties of his own mind, the understanding 
 must have held a most tyrannical pre-eminence. 
 Whether we look into his plays, or his most passionate 
 love-poems, we shall find all frozen and made rigid with 
 intellect. The finest movements of the human heart, 
 the utmost grandeur of which the soul is capable, are 
 essentially comprised in the actions and speeches of 
 Cselica and Camena. Shakespeare, who seems to have 
 had a peculiar delight in contemplating womanly per- 
 fection, whom for his many sweet images of female 
 excellence all women are in an especial manner bound 
 to love, has not raised the ideal of the female character 
 higher than Lord Brooke in these two women has done. 
 But it requires a study equivalent to the learning of a 
 new language to understand their meaning when they 
 speak. It is indeed hard to hit ; 
 
 Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day 
 Or seven though one should musing sit. 
 
 It is as if a being of pure intellect should take upon him 
 to express the emotions of oiu- sensitive natures. There 
 ■would be all knowledge, but sympathetic expression 
 would be wanting.] 
 
 V. (G.) 
 
 SAPHO AND PHAO : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY JOHN LILY. 
 
 Phao, a poor Ferryman, jyrakis his condition. — He ferries 
 
 over Venus ; n-ho injlames Sapho and him icith a mutual 
 
 passion. 
 
 Phao. Thou art a ferryman, Phao, yet a freeman ; 
 possessing for riches content, and for honours quiet. 
 Thy thoughts are no higher than thy fortunes, nor thy 
 desires greater than thy calling. Who climbetli, 
 standeth on glass, and falleth on thorn. Thy heart's 
 thirst is satisfied with thy hand's thrift, and thy gentle 
 labours in the day turn to sweet slumbers in the night. 
 As mucli doth it delight thee to rule thy oar in a calm 
 stream, as it doth Sapho to sway the sceptre in her
 
 30 JOHN LILY. 
 
 brave court. Envy never casteth her eye low, anil)i- 
 tioii jiointeth always upward, and revenge barketh only 
 at stars. Thou farest delicately, if thou have a fare 
 to Iniy any tiling. Thine angle is ready, when thy 
 oar is idle ; and as sweet is the tish which thou get- 
 test in the river, as the fowl which others buy in the 
 market. Thou needest not fear poison in thy glass, 
 nor treason in thy guard. The wind is thy gi-eatest 
 enemy, whose might is withstood Ijy i>oliey. sweet 
 life ! seldom found under a golden covert, often under 
 a thatched cottage. But liere cometh one ; I will 
 withdraw myself aside ; it may be a passenger. 12 
 
 Venus, Phao : She, as a mortal. 
 
 Ven. Pretty youth, do you keep the feriy, that 
 conducteth to Syracusa ? 
 
 I'hao. The ferry, fair lady, that conducteth to Syra- 
 cusa. 
 
 Veil. I fear, if the water should begin to swell, thou 
 wilt want cunning to giude. 
 
 Phao. These waters are commonly as the passen- 
 gers are ; and therefore, carrying one so fair in .show, 
 there is no cause to fear a rough sea. 21 
 
 Vcn. To pass the time in thy boat, canst thou de- 
 vise any pastime ? 
 
 Pluto. If the wind be with me, I can angle, or tell 
 tales : if against me, it will be pleasure for you to see 
 me take pains. 
 
 Ven. I like not fishing ; yet was I born of the sea. 
 
 Phao. But he may bless fishing, that caught such 
 an one in the sea. 
 
 Ven. It was not with an angle, my lioy, but with 
 a net. 31 
 
 Phao. So, was it said, that Vulcan caught Mars 
 with Venus. 
 
 Ven. Did'st thou hear so ? it was some tale. 
 
 Phao. Yea, Madam ; and that in the boat did I 
 mean to make my tale. 
 
 Ven. It is not for a fei-ryriian to talk of the Gods' 
 Loves : but to tell how thy father "could dig, and thy 
 mother spin. But come, let us away. 
 
 Phao. I am ready to wait — 40
 
 SAPHO AND PHAO. 31 
 
 Sapho, sleepless for loee o/PhaO, who loves her as much, 
 consults uith him about so7ne medicinal herh : She, 
 a great Lady ; He, the poor Ferryman, hut now 
 promoted to be her Gardener. 
 
 Sa2)ho. What herbs have you brought, Phao ? 
 
 PJiao. Such as will make you sleej^, Madam ; 
 though they cainiot make mo slumber. 
 
 Sa2)ho. AVhy, how can you cure me, when you 
 cannot remedy yourself ? 
 
 Phao. Yes, Madam ; the causes are contrary. 
 For it is only a dryness in your brains, that keepeth 
 you from rest. But — • 
 
 Sapho. But what ? 
 
 Phao. Nothing : but mine is not so — 10 
 
 Sapho. Nay then, I despair of help, if our disease 
 be not all one. 
 
 Phao. I would our diseases were all one ! 
 
 SajJho. It goes hard \\-ith the patient, when the 
 physician is desperate. 
 
 Phao. Yet Medea made the ever-waking dragon to 
 snort, when she (poor soul) could not wink. 
 
 Sapho. Medea was in love, and nothing could 
 cause her rest but Jason. 
 
 Phao. Indeed I know no herb to make lovers sleep 
 liut Heart's Ease : which, because it groweth so high 
 I cannot reach, for — '^2 
 
 Sapho. For whom ? 
 
 Phao. For such as love — 
 
 Sapho. It stoopeth very low, and I can never stoop 
 to it, that — 
 
 Phao. That what? 
 
 Sapho. That I may gather it. But why do you 
 sigh so, Phao 'i 
 
 Phao. It is mine use, Madam. 30 
 
 Sapho. It will do you harm, and me too : for I 
 never hear one sigh, but I must sigh also. 
 
 Phao. It were best then that your Ladyship give 
 me leave to be gone : for I can but sigh — 
 
 Sapho. Nay, stay ; for now I begin to sigh, I shall 
 not leave, though you be gone. But what do you 
 think best for your sighing, to take it away. 
 
 Phao. Yew, Madam. 
 
 Sapho. Me !
 
 32 JOHN LILY. 
 
 Phao. No Madam ! Yew of the tree. 
 
 Saj^ho. Then will I love Yew the lietter. Ami 
 indeed I think it would make me sleep too ; there- 
 fore, all otlicr simples set aside, I will sini2)ly use 
 only Yew. 
 
 Phao. Do, Madam ; for I think nothing in the 
 world so good as Yew. 
 
 Sapho. Farewell, for this time. 
 
 Sapho questions her lotc-pla^ed Affcclion. 
 Sapho. Into the nest of an Halcyon no bird can 
 enter but the Halcyon : and into the heart of so great 
 a Lady can any creep but a great Lord ? 1 1 
 
 Cupid. Sapho cured of her love hy the pity of Venus. 
 
 Cupid. But what will you do for Phao ? 
 
 Sapho. I will wish him fortunate. This will I do 
 for Phao, because I once loved Phao : for never shall 
 it be said, that Sapho loved to hate : or that out of 
 love she could not be as comieous, as she Avas in love 
 passionate. 
 
 Thao's fnal lesolution. 
 
 Phao. Sapho, thou hast Cupid in thy arms, I in 
 my heart ; thou kissest him for sport, I must curse 
 him for spite ; yet will I not curse him, Sapho, whom 
 thou kissest. This shall be my resolution, wherever 
 I wander, to be as I were ever kneeling before Sapho : 
 my loyalty unspotted, though unrewarded. AVith as 
 little malice will I go to my grave, as I did lie withal 
 in my cradle. My life shall be spent in sighing and 
 wishing ; the one for my bad fortune, the other for 
 Sapho's good. 27 
 
 VL (g.) 
 
 LOVE'S METAMORPHOSIS : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Love half-denied is Love half- co7if est. 
 NiSA. NiOBB, her maid. 
 Nisa. I fear Niobe is in love. 
 Niobe. Not I, madam ; yet must I confess, that 
 oftentimes I have had sweet thoughts, sometimes hard
 
 TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT. 33 
 
 conceits ; betwixt both, a kind of yielding ; I know 
 not what ; but certainly I think it is not love : sigh 
 I can, and find ease in melancholy : smile I do, and 
 take pleasure in imagination : I feel in myself a pleas- 
 ing pain, a chill heat, a delicate bitterness ; how to 
 terra it I know not ; without doubt it may be Love ; 
 sure I am it is not Hate. 
 
 VII. 
 
 TAMBURLAINE THE GREAT ; or, THE 
 SCYTHIAN SHEPHERD. 
 
 IN TWO PARTS. BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 Tamburlaine's person described. 
 
 Of stature tall, and straightly fashioned, 
 Like his desire, lift* upwards and divine, 
 So large of limbs, his joints so strongly knit, 10 
 
 Such breadth of shoulders, as might mainly bear 
 Old Atlas' burthen. 'Twixt his manly pitch, 
 A pearl more worth than all the world is placed : 
 Wherein by cm'ious sovereignty of art 
 Are fixed his piercing instruments of sight : 
 Whose fiery cu'cles bear encompassed 
 A heaven of heavenly bodies in their spheres, 
 That guides his steps and actions to the throne, 
 Where Honour sits invested royally. 
 Pale of complexion, 'WTOught in him \\\t\\ passion, 20 
 Thirsting with sovereignty and love of arms. 
 His lofty brows in folds do figure death ; 
 And in their smoothness amity and life. 
 About them hangs a knot of amber hair. 
 Wrapped in cui-ls, as fierce Achilles' was ; 
 On which the breath of lieaven delights to play, 
 Making it dance with wanton majesty. 
 His anus and fingers, long, and sinewy. 
 Betokening valour and excess of strength ; 
 In every part i^rojiortioned like the man 30 
 
 Should make the world subdue to Tambuiiaiue. 
   Lifted. 
 I. C
 
 34 CHHISTOPUER MARLOWE. 
 
 Jlis custom in war. 
 
 The lirst clay when he pitohcth down his tents, 
 
 Wliite is their hue ; and on his silver crest 
 
 A snowy feather spangled white he bears ; 
 
 To signify the mildness of his mind, 
 
 That, satiate with spoil, refuseth blood : 
 
 But when Aurora mounts the second time, 
 
 As red as scarlet is his furniture ; 
 
 Then must his kindled wrath be quench'd with blood, 
 
 Not sparing any that can manage arms : 
 
 But if these threats move not submission, 10 
 
 Black are his colours, lilack pavilion. 
 
 His spear, his shield, his horse, his armour, plumes, 
 
 And jetty feathers, menace death and hell ; 
 
 Without res})ect of sex, degree or age, 
 
 He rasetli all his foes with fire and sword. 
 
 [I had the same difficulty (or rather much more) in 
 culling a few sane lines from this as from the preceding 
 Play. The lunes of Tamburlaine are perfect "mid- 
 summer madness. " Nebuchadnazar's are mere modest 
 pretensions compared %vitli the thundering vaunts of 
 this Scythian Shepherd. He comes in (in the Second 
 Part) drawn by conquered kings, and reproaclics these 
 pampered jades of Asia that tkey can draw hut ticcnty 
 miles a day. Till I saw this passage with my own eyes, 
 I never believed that it was anything more than a plea- 
 sant burlesque of Mine Ancient's. But I assure my 
 readers that it is soberly set down in a Play which their 
 Ancestors took to be serious. I have subjoined the 
 genuine speech for their amusement. Enter Tambur- 
 laine, drawn in his chariot lii/ Trehizon and >Soria, icith 
 bits in their mouths, reins in his left hand, in his right hand 
 a whip, with which he scourgeth them. 
 
 Tamb. Holla ye pamper'd jades of Asia ! 
 What ! can ye draw but twenty miles a day, 
 And have so proud a chariot at your heels, 
 And such a coachman as great Tamburlaine, 
 But from Asphaltis, where I conquered you, 20 
 
 To Byron here, where thus I honour you ! 
 The horse that guide the golden eye of heaven, 
 And blow the morning from thejr nosterils, 
 Making their fiery gate above the clouds, 
 Are not so honour'd in their governor 
 As you, ye slaves, in mighty Tamburlaine.
 
 DOCTOR FAUSTUS. 35 
 
 The headstrong jades of Thrace Alcides tamed, 
 
 Tliat King Egeus fed with human tiesh, 
 
 And made so wanton that they knew their strengths. 
 
 Were not subdued with valour more divine, 
 
 Than you by this unconquer'd ami of mine. 
 
 To make you fierce and fit my appetite. 
 
 You shall be fed with flesh as raw as blood, 
 
 And drink in pails the strongest muscadel : 
 
 If you can live with it, then live and draw 
 
 My chariot swifter than the racking clouds : 10 
 
 If not, then die like beasts, and fit for nought 
 
 But perches for the black and fatal ravens. 
 
 Thus am I right the scourge of highest Jove. &c.] 
 
 VIII. 
 
 THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE 
 AND DEATH OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 Eolo Favstvs fell to the study of magic. 
 -born of parents base of stock, 
 
 In Germany, within a town called Rhodes : 
 
 At riper years to Wittenberg he went. 
 
 Whereas his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. 
 
 So much he profits in Divinity, 
 
 Tliat shortly he was gi-aced with Doctor's name, 
 
 Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute 20 
 
 In th' heavenly matters of theology : 
 
 Till swoln with cunning and a self-conceit. 
 
 His waxen wings did mount above his reach. 
 
 And melting, heaven conspired his overthrow : 
 
 For falling to a devilish exercise, 
 
 And glutted now with Learning's golden gifts, 
 
 He surfeits on the cursed necromancy. 
 
 Nothing so sweet as magic is to him, 
 
 Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss. 
 
 Faustus, m his study, runs through the circle of the 
 sciences; and being satisfied with none of them, 
 determines to addict himself to magic. 
 Faust. Settle thy studies, Faustus, and begin 
 
 To sound the depth of tliat thou \\ilt profess ; 
 
 Having commenc'd, be a Divine iu show,
 
 36 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Yet level at the end of every art, 
 
 And live and die in Aristotle's works. 
 
 Sweet Analytics, 'tis thou hast ravish'd me. 
 
 Bene disserere est finis Logiee.i. 
 
 Is to dis])ute well. Logic's chiefest end ? 
 
 Affords this art no greater miracle ? 
 
 Then read no more ; thou hast attain'd that end. 
 
 A gi-eater subject fitteth Faustus' wit. 
 
 Bid 0)1 cat rue on farewell : Galen come. 
 
 Be a physician, Faustus, lieap up gold, 10 
 
 And he eternis'd for some wond'rons cure. 
 
 Stimmum bonum viedicince sanikcs: 
 
 The end of physic is our body's health. 
 
 Why, Faustus : hast thou not attain'd that end ? 
 
 Are not tliy bills hung up as monuments, 
 
 Whereby whole cities have escap'd the plague, 
 
 And thousand desperate maladies been cured ? 
 
 Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man. 
 
 Couldst thou make men to live eternally, 
 
 Or being dead raise them to life again, 20 
 
 Then this profession were to be esteem'd. 
 
 Physic, farewell. Where is Justinian ? 
 
 Si una cadeinque res legatur diwhus. 
 
 Alter rem, alter valorem rei, dec. 
 
 A petty case of paltry legacies. 
 
 ExheredUare fili'uni non 2}otest pater, nisi, <bc. 
 
 Such is the subject of the Institute, 
 
 And universal body of the Law. 
 
 This study fits a mercenary drudge, 
 
 Who aims at nothing but external trash, 30 
 
 Too servile and illiberal for me. 
 
 When all is done, Divinity is best. 
 
 Jeromes Biljle, Faustus : view it well. 
 
 Stijyendium 2)eceati mors est : ha! Stipendium, d-c. 
 
 The reward of sin is death : that 's hard. 
 
 Si pcccasse negamus, fallinuir, et nulla est in nobis 
 
 Veritas. 
 If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, 
 
 and thei-e is no truth in us. 
 Why then belike we must sin, and so consequently die. 
 Aye, we nmst die an everlasting death. 
 What doctrine call you this ? Che sera sera : 40 
 
 What will be shall be. Divinity adieu.
 
 DOCTOR FAUSTUS. 37 
 
 These Metaphysics of Magicians, 
 And necromantic books, are heavenly. 
 Lines, Circles, Scenes, Letters, and Characters : 
 Aye, these are those that Fanstns most desires. 
 
 ^vhat a world of profit and delight, 
 Of power, of honour, of omnipotence, 
 Is promised to the studious artizan ! 
 
 All things that move between the quiet poles 
 Shall be at my command. Emperor and Kings 
 Ai'e but obeyed in their several pro\ances, 10 
 
 Nor can they raise the wind or rend the clouds ; 
 But his dominion that exceeds in this 
 Stretcheth as far as doth the mind of man : 
 A sound Magician is a Demigod. 
 Here, Faustus, tii"e thy brains to gain a deity. 
 
 ***** 
 How am I glutted with conceit of this ! 
 Shall I make Spirits fetch me what I please ? 
 Resolve me of all amliiguities ? 
 Perform Avhat desperate enterprise"" I will ? 
 
 1 '11 have them fly to India for gold, 20 
 Ransack the ocean for orient pearl, 
 
 And search all corners of the new-found world 
 
 For pleasant friuts and jirincely delicates. 
 
 I '11 have them read me strange philosophy ; 
 
 And tell the secrets of all foreign kings : 
 
 1 11 have them wall all Germany with brass, 
 
 And make swift Rhine circle fair Wittenberg : 
 
 I '11 have them fill the public schools with silk, 
 
 Where^^ith the students shall be bravely clad : 
 
 I '11 levy soldiers with the coin they bring, 30 
 
 And chase the Prince of Parnra from our land ; 
 
 And reign sole king of all our provinces ; 
 
 Yea, sti'anger engines for the brunt of Avar, 
 
 Than was the fiery keel at Antwerp bridge, 
 
 I '11 make my servile Si)irits to invent. 
 
 Enter Valdes and COKNELIUS. 
 Come, German Valdes, and Cornelius, 
 And make me wise with your sage conference. 
 Valdes, sweet Valdes, and Cornelius, 
 Know that yom- words have won me at the last 
 To practise magic and concealed Arts. 40
 
 38 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Philosophy is odious and obscure : 
 
 Both Law and Physic are for petty wits : 
 
 'Tis Magic, Magic, that hatli ravish'd nie. 
 
 Tlicn gentle friends aid luc in this attempt ; 
 
 And I that have with subtle syllogisms 
 
 Gravell'd the Pastors of the German Church, 
 
 And made the flowering [>ride of Wittenberg 
 
 Swarm to my })roblems, as th' infernal Spirits 
 
 On sweet Mus;vus when he came to hell, 
 
 Will be as cunning as Agrippa was, 10 
 
 Whose shadows made all Europe honour him. 
 
 Vald. Faustus, these books, thy wit, and our 
 ex})erience, 
 Shall make all nations to canonize us. 
 As Indian Moors obey their Spanish Lords, 
 So shall the spirits of every Element 
 Be always serviceable to us three : 
 Like Lions shall they guard us when we please ; 
 Like Almain Rutters with their horsemen's staves, 
 Or Lapland Giants trotting by our sides : • 
 Sometimes like Women, or unwedded Maids, 20 
 
 Shadowing nioi-e beauty in their airy brows 
 Thau have the white breasts of the Queen of Love. . . , 
 
 Corn. The miracles that magic will perform. 
 Will make thee vow to study nothing else. 
 He that is grounded in astrology, 
 Enricht with tongues, well seen in minerals, 
 Hath all the jirinciples magic doth requii'e. . . . 
 
 Faust. Come, show me some demonstrations 
 magical. 
 That I may conjure in some bushy gi-ove, 
 And have these joys in full possession. 30 
 
 Fald. Then haste thee to some solitary grove, 
 And bear wise Bacon's and Albanus' works, 
 The Hebrew Psalter, and New Testament ; 
 And whatsoever else is requisite 
 We will inform thee, ere our conference cease. 
 
 Faustus being instructed in the elements of magic by his 
 friends Valdes and Cornelius, sells his sold to the 
 devil, to have an Evil Spirit at hii command for twenty- 
 four years. — Wh^;n ike years are e.vpired, the devils 
 claim his soxd.
 
 DOCTOR FAUSTUS. 39 
 
 FaVSTVS— the niyht of his death. Wagner, his Servant. 
 
 Faust. Say, AVagner, thou hast perused my vnW, 
 How dost thou like it ? 
 
 Wag. Sir, so wondrous well, 
 As in all humble duty I do yield 
 My life and lasting service for your love. [Exit. 
 
 Faust. Gramercy, AVagner. 
 
 Three Scholars enter. 
 Welcome, Gentlemen. 
 
 First Sell. Now, worthy Faustus, methinks your 
 looks are chang'd. 
 
 Faust. Ah, Gentlemen. 
 
 Sec. Sell. What ails Faustus ? 10 
 
 Faust. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived 
 with thee, then had I lived still, but now must 
 I die eternally. Look, Sirs, comes he not ? comes he 
 not? 
 
 First Sch. Oh my dear Faustus, what imports this 
 fear ? 
 
 Sec. Sch. Is all our pleasure turned to melancholy ? 
 
 Third Sch. He is not well ^\•ith lieing over solitary. 
 
 Sec. Sch. If it ])e so, we will have physicians, and 
 Faustus shall be cured. 20 
 
 TJmrl Sch. 'Tis but a surfeit, Sir ; fear notliing. 
 
 Faust. A surfeit of deadly sin that hath danm'd 
 both body and soul. 
 
 Sec. Sch. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven ; re- 
 member God's mercy is infinite. 
 
 Faust. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned. 
 The serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not 
 Faustus. Gentlemen, hear me with patience, and 
 tremble not at my speeches ! Though my heart pants 
 and quivers to rememlier that I have been a student 
 here these thirty years, oh, would I had ne'er seen 
 Wittenberg, never read book ! and what wonders 
 I have done, all Germany can watness, yea, all the 
 world : for which, Faustus hath lost both Germany 
 and the world : yea, heaven itself, heaven, the seat of 
 God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy, 
 and must remain in hell for ever, Hell, ah. Hell, for 
 ever. Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus 
 being in Hell for ever ? 39
 
 40 CHRISTOl'HER JIARI.OWE. 
 
 Sec. Sch. Yet, Faustus, call on God. 
 
 Faust. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured ? on 
 God, wlioni Faustus liath l)hisiiliemed ? my God, I 
 would weep, liut the (h!vil (haws in my tears. Gvisli 
 forth bh)0(l instead of tears, yea life and soul. Oh, 
 he staj's my tongue : I would lift uj) my hands, Imt 
 see, they hold 'em, they hold 'em. 
 
 Scholars. Who, Faustus ? 
 
 Faust. "Why, Lucifer and Mephistophilis. 
 gentlemen, I gave them my soul for my cunning. 10 
 
 Scholars, God forbid ! 
 
 Faust. God forbade it indeed, but Faustus hath 
 done it : for the vain pleasure of four-and-twenty 
 years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I 
 writ them a bill with mine own blood, the date is ex- 
 pired : this is the time, and he will fetch me. 
 
 First Sch. Why did not Faustus tell us of this 
 before, that Divines might have prayed for thee ? 
 
 Faust. Oft have I thought to have done so ; but the 
 devil threatened to tear me in pieces if I named God ; 
 to fetch me body and soul if I once gave ear to divinity ; 
 and now 'tis too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you 
 perish with me. 23 
 
 Sec. Sch. what may Ave do to save Faustus ? 
 
 Faust. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and 
 depart. 
 
 Third Sch. God will strengthen me, I will stay with 
 Faustus. 
 
 First Sch. Tempt not God, sweet friend, but let us 
 into the next room and jiray for him. 30 
 
 Faust. Aye, })ray for me, jiray for me ; and what 
 noise soever ye hear, come not unto me, for nothing 
 can rescue me. 
 
 Sec. Sch. Pray thou, and we will pray, that God may 
 have mercy upon thee. 
 
 Faust. Gentlemen, farewell ; if I live till morning, 
 I '11 visit you : if not — Faustus is gone to hell. 
 
 Scholars, Faustus, farewell. 
 
 Faustus alone. — The clock strikes eleven. 
 
 Faust. Fau.^tus, 
 Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, 40 
 
 And then thou must be damn'd perpetually.
 
 DOCTOR FAUSTUS, 41 
 
 Stand still you ever-moving spheres of heaven, 
 That time may cease, and midnight never come. 
 Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make 
 Perpetual day : or let tliis hour be but 
 A year, a montli, a week, a natural day, 
 Tliat Faustus may repent and save his soul. 
 O lente, lente, currite noctis equi. 
 The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike. 
 The devil M-ill come, and Faustus must be daniu'd. 
 I will leap to my God ! Who pulls me down ? 10 
 See Avhere Christ's blood streams in the firmament : 
 One drop of blood would save my soul — lialf a drop : 
 
 ah, my Christ ! 
 Ah, rend not my heart for naming of my Christ ! 
 Yet will I call on him : spare me, Lucifer. — 
 Wliere is it now ? 'tis gone ; and see where God 
 Stretcheth out liis arm, and bends his ireful brows ! 
 Mountains and hills come, come, and tall on me, 
 And hide me from tlie heavy wTatli of God ! 
 No ! no ! Then will I headlong run into the earth : 
 Gape, earth. no, it will not harbour me. 20 
 
 You stars that reign'd at my nativity, 
 "Whose influence have alloted death and hell, 
 Now draw u]> Faustus like a foggy mist 
 Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud ; 
 That when you vomit forth into the air. 
 My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths. 
 So that my soul may but ascend to heaven. 
 
 The clock strikes the half-hour. 
 
 half the hour is past : 'twill all be 2)ast anon ! 
 
 OGod! 
 
 If thou wilt not Iiave mercy on my soul, 30 
 
 Yet for Christ's sake whose blood hath ransomed me, 
 
 Impose some end to my incessant pain. 
 
 Let Faustus live in hell a tliousand years, 
 
 A hundred thousand, and at last be saved : 
 
 0, no end is limited to damned souls. 
 
 Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ? 
 
 Or Avliy is this immortal that thou hast ? 
 
 Oil, P3'thagoras' Metempsychosis ! were that true. 
 
 This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd 
 
 Into some brutish beast. All Ijeasts are happy, 40
 
 42 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 For wlieii they die, 
 
 Tlieir souls are soon dissolv'd in elements : 
 But mine must live still to be plagued in hell. 
 Curst be the jiarents that engender'd me : 
 No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer, 
 Tliat hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven. 
 
 The clock sdikes Hvelve. 
 
 It strikes, it strikes ; now, l)ody, turn to air, 
 Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell. 
 
 soul, be chang'd into small water drops, 
 
 And fall into tlie ocean ; ne'er be found. 10 
 
 f Thunder, and enter the Devils. 
 
 My God ! my God ! look not so fierce on me. 
 Adders and seri^ents, let me breathe awliile : 
 Ugly liell gape not ; come not Lucifer : 
 
 1 '11 burn my hooks : Oh Meiihistophilis ! 
 * » * * * 
 
 Enter SCHOLARS. 
 
 First Sell. Come gentlemen, let us go visit Fanstus, 
 For such a dreadful night was never seen 
 Since first the world's creation did begin ; 
 Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard. 
 Pray heaven the Doctor have escai)ed the danger. 
 
 Sec. Sch. help us heavens ! see here are Faustus' 
 limbs 20 
 
 All torn asunder by the hand of death. 
 
 Third Sch. Tlie devil whom Faustus serv'd hath 
 torn him thus : 
 For 'tA^-ixt the hours of twelve and one, methought 
 I heard him shriek, and call aloud for help ; 
 At which self time the house seem'd all on fire 
 AVith dreadful horror of these damned fiends. 
 
 Sec. Sch. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end 
 be such 
 As every Christian heart laments to think on, 
 Yet, for he was a scholar once admired 
 For wondrous knowledge in our German schools, 30 
 We '11 give his mangled limlis due' burial : 
 And all the scholars, cloth'd in mourning black. 
 Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.
 
 DOCTOR FAUSTUS. 43 
 
 Enter Chorus. 
 
 Cut is the branch that might have gi'O-mi full straight, 
 
 Aud burned is Apollo's laurel bough 
 
 That sometime grew ^\'ithin this learned man. 
 
 Faustus is gone ! Regard his hellish fall, 
 
 Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the Mise 
 
 Only to wonder at unlawful things : 
 
 Whose deepness doth entice si;ch forward wits 
 
 To practise more than heavenly power permits. 
 
 [The growing- horrors of Faustus are awfully marked 
 by the hours and half houi-s as they expire and bring 
 him nearer and nearer to the exactment of his dire 
 compact. It is indeed an agony and bloody sweat. 
 
 Marlowe is said to have been tainted with atheistical 
 positions, to have denied God and the Trinity. To such 
 a genius the history of Faustus must have been delec- 
 table food : to wander in fields where curiosity is for- 
 bidden to go, to approach the dark g-\ilf near enough 
 to look in, to be busied in speculations which are 
 the rottenest part of the core of the fruit that fell 
 from the tree of knowledge. Barabas the Jew, and 
 Faustus the conjurer, are offsprings of a mind which at 
 least delighted to dally with interdicted subjects. 
 They both talk a language which a believer would have 
 been tender of putting into the mouth of a character 
 though but in fiction. But the holiest minds have 
 sometimes not thought it blameable to counterfeit im- 
 piety in the person of another, to bring Vice in upon 
 the stage speaking her own dialect, and, themselves 
 being armed with an Unction of self-confident impunity, 
 have not scrupled to handle and touch that familiarly 
 which would be death to others. Milton, in the person 
 of Satan, has started speculations hardier than any 
 which the feeble armoury of the atheist ever furnished : 
 and the precise,, straight-laced Richardson has strength- 
 ened Vice, from the mouth of Lovelace, with entangling 
 sophistries and abstruse pleas against her adversary 
 Virtue, which Sedley, Villiers, and Rochester wanted 
 depth of libertinism sufficient to have invented.]
 
 44 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, 
 
 IX. 
 
 THE RICH JEW OF MALTA : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 I)Y TH15 SAME, 
 
 BaRABAs, the Jlich Jew, in Ins Counting-hovse, with heaps of 
 gold before him ; in contemplation of his u-ealth. 
 
 Bar. So that of thus much that return was made ; 
 And of the third ])art of the Persian ships 
 There was a venture summ'd and satisfied. 
 As to tliose Sabans, and the Men of Uzz, 
 That hought my Sjjanish oils and Avines of Greece, 
 Here have I purst their jialtry silverlings. 
 Fie, what a trouble 'tis to count this trash ! 
 "Well fare the Arabians, who so richly jtay 
 The things they traffic for with wedge of gold, 
 "Whereof a man may easily in a day 10 
 
 Tell that which may maintiain him all his life. 
 The needy gioom, tliat never finger'd groat, 
 "Would make a miracle of thus much coin : 
 But he whose steel-lmrr'd coffers are cramm'd full. 
 And all his life-time hath been tired, 
 "Wearying liis fingers' ends with telling it, 
 "Would in his age be loth to laliour so, 
 And for a pound to sweat himself to death. 
 Give me the merchants of the Indian mines, 
 That trade in metal of the purest mould ; 20 
 
 The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks 
 "Without control can jiick his riches up, 
 And in his house heajf pearl like pebble-stones. 
 Receive them free and sell them liy the weight ; 
 Bags of fiery opals, sajjjjhires, amethysts, 
 Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-gi'een emeralds. 
 Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds. 
 And seld-seen costly stones of so great price. 
 As one of them, inrJifterently rated. 
 And of a carat of this quality, 30 
 
 May serve in peril of calamity 
 To ransom great kings from captivity. 
 This is the ware wherein consists my wealth : 
 And thus methinks should men of judgment frame
 
 THE RICH JEW OF MALTA. 45 
 
 Their means of traffic from the vulgar trade, 
 
 And, as their wealth inereaseth, so inclose 
 
 Infinite riches in a little room. 
 
 But now how stands the wind ? 
 
 Into what corner peers my halcyon's bill ? 
 
 Ha ! to the east ? yes : see, how stand the vanes ? 
 
 East and by south : why then, I hope my ships, 
 
 I sent for Egypt and the Itordering isles, 
 
 Are gotten up by Nilus' winding Imnks. 
 
 Mine argosies from Alexandria, 10 
 
 Loaden with spice and silks, now under sail, 
 
 Are smoothly gliding dowm by Candy shore 
 
 To Malta, through our Mediterranean sea. 
 
 Certain Merchants enter, and inform Barabas that his 
 ships from rarioiis ports are safe arrived, and riding in 
 Malta roads. — He descants on the temporal condition of 
 the Jexvs, how they thrive and attain to i/reat vwldly 
 2rrosperiti/, in spite of the curse denounced agaiTist them. 
 
 Thus ti'owls our fortune in by land and sea, 
 
 And thus are we on every side enrich'd. 
 
 These are the blessings promis'd to the Jews, 
 
 And herein w^is old Abram's happiness. 
 
 What more may heaven do for earthly man, 
 
 Than thus to pour out plenty in their laps, 
 
 Ripping the bowels of the earth for them, 20 
 
 ^Making the sea their servants, and the winds 
 
 To drive their sul istance with successful blasts ! 
 
 Who hateth me but for my happiness ? 
 
 Or who is houour'd now^ but for his wealth ? 
 
 Rather had I, a Jew, be hated thus. 
 
 Than pitied in a Christian poverty : 
 
 For I can see no fruits in all their faith, 
 
 But malice, falsehood, and excessive jiride. 
 
 Which methinks fits not their profession. 
 
 Haply some hajiless num hath conscience, 30 
 
 And for his conscience lives in beggary. 
 
 They say we are a scatter'd nation : 
 
 I cannot telll; but we have scambled u}) 
 
 More wealth by far than those that brag of faith. 
 
 There 's Kirriah Jairim, tlie gi-eat Jew of Greece, 
 
 Obed in Bairseth, Nones in Portugal 
 
 Myself in Malta, some in Italy, 
 
 Many in France, and wealthy every one
 
 46 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Aye, -wealtliier far than any Christian. 
 I must confess, we come not to be kings ; 
 That 's not our fault ; alas ! our nimiber 's few ; 
 And crowns come eitlier by .succession, 
 Or urged by force ; and nothing violent, 
 Oft liave I heard tell, can be jjemianent. 
 Give us a peaceful rule ; make Christians kings, 
 That thirst so nuich for principality. 
 
 [Marlowe's Jew does not approach so near to Shaks- 
 peare's as bis Edward II. does to Richard II. Shylock, 
 in the midst of his savage purpose, is a man. His mo- 
 tives, feelings, resentments, have something human in 
 them. " If you wrong us, shall we not revenge ? " 
 Barabas is a mere monster, brought in with a large 
 painted nose, to please the rabble. He kills in sport, 
 poisons whole nunneries, invents infernal machines. He 
 is just such an exhibition as a century or two earlier 
 might have been played before the Londonei-s by the 
 lioyal cotiunand, when a general pillage and massacre 
 of the Hebrews had been previously resolved on in the 
 cabinet. It is curious to see a superstition wearing out. 
 The idea of a Jew (which our pious ancestors contem- 
 plated with such horror) has nothing in it now revolt- 
 ing. We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared 
 its_ nails, and now we take it to our arms, fondle it, 
 write plays to flatter it : it is visited by princes, affects 
 a taste, patronises the arts, and is the only liberal and 
 gentleman-like thing in ChiTstendom.] 
 
 X. 
 
 EDWARD THE SECOND : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Gaveston shews what pleasures those are which the King 
 chiefly delights in, 
 
 Gav. I must have wanton poets, pleasant wits, 
 Musicians, that with touching of a string 10 
 
 May draw the pliant King which ■Way I please. 
 Music and poetry are his delight ; 
 Therefore I '11 have Italian masks by night,
 
 EDWARD THE SECOND. 47 
 
 Sweet speeches, comedies, and pleasing shows ; 
 
 And in the day, when he shall Avalk abroad, 
 
 Like Sylvan nymphs my jiages shall be clad ; 
 
 My men, like satyis gi-azing on the lawns, 
 
 Shall with their goat-feet dance the antick hay. 
 
 Sometimes a lovely boy in Dian's shape, 
 
 "With hair that gilds the water as it glides, 
 
 CrowTaets of pearl abont his naked arms, 
 
 And in his sportfnl hands an olive tree 
 
 To hide those parts which men delight to see, 10 
 
 Shall bathe him in a spring, and there hard by, 
 
 One like Acteon, peeping thro' the grove, 
 
 Shall by the angry goddess be transform'd, 
 
 And rnnniug in the likeness of an hart. 
 
 By yelping honnds pnll'd down, shall seem to die ; 
 
 Such things as these best please his majesty. 
 
 2%e yoxmgtr Mortimer repines at the insolence 
 of Gaveston. 
 
 Moi't. sen. Nephew, I must to Scotland, thou stay'st 
 here. 
 Leave now to oppose thyself against the King. 
 Thou seest by nature he is mild and calm. 
 And seeing his mind so dotes on Gaveston, 20 
 
 Let him without controlment have his mil. 
 The mightiest kings have had their minions : 
 Great Alexander lov'd Hephestion ; 
 The conquering Hercules for his Hylas wept. 
 And for Patroclus stern Achilles droo})'d. 
 And not kings only, but the ^dsest men ; 
 The Roman TuUy lov'd Octavius ; 
 Grave Socrates \x\\& Alcibiades. 
 Then let his grace, whose youth is flexible, 
 And })romiseth as much as we can wish, 30 
 
 Freely enjoy tliat vain light-headed earl. 
 For riper years will wean him from such toys. 
 
 Mort. jim. Uncle, his wanton humour gi'ieves not 
 me ; 
 But this I scorn, that one so basely born. 
 Should by his sovereign's favour gi'ow so pert 
 And riot witli the treasure of the realm. 
 While soldiers mutiny for want of pay, 
 He wears a lord's revenue on his back,
 
 48 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 And i\Ii(:las-liko, he jets it in the court, 
 
 With l)ase outlandish eullions at iiis heels, 
 
 Whose proud fantastic liveries make such show, 
 
 As if that Proteus, god of shapes, ajjpear'd. 
 
 I have not seen a da])per jack so lirisk ; 
 
 He wears a short Italian hooded cloak, 
 
 Larded with pearl, and in his Tuscan cap 
 
 A jewel of more value than the crown. 
 
 While others walk below, the king and he, 
 
 From out a window, laugh at such as we, 10 
 
 And flout our train, and jest at our attire. 
 
 Uncle, 'tis this that makes me impatient. 
 
 Tht Barons reproach the King with the calamities which 
 the real'iii encUives from the ascendency of his vnckecl 
 favourite Gaveston. 
 
 King Edward, Lancaster, Warwick. The Mortimers, 
 and other Lords. 
 
 Mart. jun. Nay, stay, my lord, I come to bring you 
 Mine uncle is taken prisoner by the Scots. [news. 
 
 Udw. Then ransom him. 
 
 Lan. 'Twas in your wars ; you should ransom him. 
 
 Morf. jnn. And you shall ransom him, or else 
 
 KcMt. Wha.t, ^Mortimer, you will not threaten him ? 
 
 Udic. Quiet yourself, you shall have the broad seal, 
 To gather for him thoroughout the realm. 20 
 
 Lan. Your minion Gaveston hath taught you this. 
 
 Mart. jun. My Lord, the family of the Mortimers 
 Are not so poor, but, would they sell their land, 
 'Twould levy men enough to anger you. 
 We never beg, liut use such prayers as these. 
 
 Edto. Shall I still be haunted thus ? 
 
 Mart. jun. Nay, now you are here alone, I 'U speak 
 my mind. 
 
 Lcm. And so will I, and then, my lord, farewell, 
 
 Ilort. The idle triumphs, masks, lascivious shows. 
 And prodigal gifts bestow'd on Gaveston, 30 
 
 Have drawn thy treasure dry, and made thee M'eak ; 
 The murmuring commons, overstretched, break. 
 
 Lan. Look for rebellion, look to be depos'd ; 
 Thy garrisons are beaten out of France, 
 And lame and poor lie groaning at the gates. 
 The wild Oneyl, with swarms of Irish kerns,
 
 EDWARD THE SECOND. 49 
 
 Live iincontioU'd within the English pale. 
 Unto the walls of York the Scots make road, 
 And unresisted draw away rich spoils. 
 
 Mort. jun. The hauglity Dane commands the nar- 
 row seas, 
 While in the harl)our ride thy ships unrigg'd. 
 
 La7i. What foreign prince sends thee embassadors ? 
 
 Mort. Who loves thee, but a sort of flatterers ? 
 
 La)i. Thy gentle queen, sole sister to Valois, 
 Complains that thou hast left her all forlorn. 
 
 Mort. Thy court is naked, being bereft of those 10 
 That make a king seem glorious to the world : 
 I mean the peers, whom thou shouldst dearly love. 
 Libels are cast against thee in the street : 
 Ballads and rhymes made of thy overthrow. 
 
 Lmi. The Northern borderers seeing tlieir houses 
 bm-nt, 
 Their wives and children slain, run up and down 
 Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston. 
 
 Mort. When wert thou in the field with banner 
 sj^read. 
 But once ? and then thy soldiers march'd like players. 
 With garish robes, not armour ; and thyself, 20 
 
 Bedaub'd with gold, rode laughing at the rest, 
 Nodding and shaking of thy spangled crest, 
 Where women's favours hung like labels down. 
 
 Lan. And thereof came it, that the fleering Scots, 
 To England's high disgi'ace, have made this jig : 
 Maids of Ung/aiui, sore may you mourn, 
 For your lemans you have lost at Bannock's bourn, 
 JFlth a heave and a ho ! 
 IVliat weeiieth the king of England, 
 So soon to have won Scotlaiul, 30 
 
 With a rombelow ? 
 
 Mort. Wigmore* shall fly, to set my uncle fi-ee. 
 
 Lan. And when 'tis gone, oxir swords shall purchase 
 more. 
 If ye be mov'd, revenge it as you can ; 
 Look next to see us with our ensigns spread. 
 
 [Exeunt Nobles. 
 
 * A principal manor belonging to the Mortimers. 
 
 I.
 
 50 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 The King lei »g deposed, snireiideiS hi.t croieu into (he Jia)ids 
 of the Bishop of Winchester and the Earl op 
 Leicester at Kllllngico,th Castle. 
 
 Lei. B(^ jiatient, good my lord, cease to lament, 
 Imagine Killingwortli castle were your court. 
 And that you lay for jileasure here a space. 
 Not of compulsion or necessity. 
 
 Edic. Leicester, if gentle words might comfort me, 
 Thy speeches long ago had eas'd my sorrows ; 
 For kind and loving hast thou always been. 
 The griefs of private men are soon allay'd, 
 But not of kings. The forest deer being struck, 
 Runs to an herb that close th up the wounds ; 10 
 
 But when the imperial lion's flesh is gor'd. 
 He rends and tears it with his wrathful i)aw. 
 And highly scorning that the lowly eartli 
 Should drink his blood, mounts up into the air. 
 And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind 
 Th' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb, 
 And that unnatural queen, false Lsabel, 
 That thus hath pent and mew'd me in a jnison : 
 For such outrageous passions cloy my soul. 
 As -with the wings of rancour and disdain, 20 
 
 Full often am I soaring up to heav'n, 
 To plain me to the gods against them both. 
 But when I call to mind I am a king, 
 Methinks I should revenge me of the wrongs 
 That Mortimer and Lsaljel have done. 
 But what are kings, when regiment is gone, 
 But perfect shadows in a sunshine day 1 
 My nobles rule, I bear the name of king ; 
 I wear the crown, but am controU'd by them, 
 By Mortimer, and my unconstant queen, 30 
 
 Who spots my nuptial bed with infamy, 
 Whilst I am lodg'd within this cave of care, 
 Where sorrow at my elbow still attends, 
 To company my heart with sad laments, 
 That bleeds within me for this strange exchange. 
 But tell me, must I now resign my crown. 
 To make usurjjing Mortimer a king ? 
 
 Bish. Your grace mistakes, it is for England's good. 
 And princely Edward's right, we crave the croT,vn. 
 
 Edw. No, 'tis for Mortimer, not Edward's head ; 40
 
 EDWARD THE SECOND. 51 
 
 For he 's a lamb, encompassed by wolves, 
 
 Which in a moment will abridge his life. 
 
 But if proud ^lortimer do wear this cro\m, 
 
 Heav'ns turn it to a blaze of quenchless tire, 
 
 Or like the snaky wreath of Tisiphon, 
 
 Engirt the temples of his hateful head ; 
 
 So shall not England's vine be perished, 
 
 But Edward's name survive, though Edward dies. 
 
 Lei. My lord, why waste you thus the time away ? 
 They stay your answer ; will you yield your crown ? 
 
 Edw. Ah, Leicester, weigh how hardly I can brook 
 To lose my crown and kingdom without cause ; 12 
 To give ambitious Mortimer my right. 
 That like a mountain overwhelms my bliss. 
 In which extreme my mind here nuirther'd is. 
 But what the heavens appoint, I mxist obey. 
 Here, take my cro^^^l ; the life of Edward too ; 
 Two kings in England cannot reign at once. 
 But stay awhile, let me be king till night, 
 That I may gaze uj^on this glittering crown ; 20 
 
 So shall my eyes receive their last content, 
 My head the latest honour due to it, 
 And jointly both yield up their wished right. 
 Continue ever, thou celestial sun ; 
 Let never silent night jDossess this clime ; 
 Stand still, you watches of the element ; 
 AH times and seasons, rest you at a stay. 
 That Edward may be still fair England's king. 
 But day's bright beam doth vanish fast away, 
 And needs I must resign my mshed crown ; 30 
 
 Inhuman creatures ! nm-s'd with tiger's milk ! 
 Why gape you for your sovereign's overthrow ? 
 My diadem I mean, and guiltless life. 
 See, monsters, see, I '11 wear my cro\vn again. 
 What, fear you not the fury of your king ? 
 But, hapless Edward, thou art fondly led, 
 They pass not for thy frowns as late they did, 
 But seek to make a new-elected king ; 
 Wliich fills mymind with strange despairing thoughts, 
 Which thoughts are martjTed with endless torments. 
 And in this torment comfort find I none, 4 1 
 
 But that I feel the crown upon my head ; 
 And therefore let me wear it yet awhile.
 
 52 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 Messenger. My lord, the parliament must have 
 present news, 
 And therefore say, will yon resign or no ? 
 
 Edw. I '11 not resign ! bnt whilst I live l>e king. 
 Traitors be gone ! and join with Mortimer ! 
 Elect, conspire, install, do what yon will ; 
 Their blood and yonrs shall seal these treacheries ! 
 
 Bish. This answer we '11 return, and so farewell. 
 
 Lei. Call them again, my lord, and speak tliem fair ; 
 For if they go, the prince shall lose his right. 
 
 Edw. Call thou them back, I have no power to speak. 
 
 Lei. My lord, the king is willing to resign. 1 1 
 
 Bish. If he be not, let him choose. 
 
 Edw. would I might ! but heaven and earth 
 conspii-e 
 To make me miserable ! here, receive my crown ; 
 Receive it ? no, these innocent hands of mine 
 Shall not be guilty of so foul a crime. 
 He of you all that most desires my blood, 
 And will be called the murderer of a king. 
 Take it. What, are you mov'd ? pity you me ? 
 Then send for unrelenting Mortimer, 20 
 
 And Isabel, whose eyes, being turned to steel, 
 Will sooner sparkle fire than shed a tear. 
 Yet stay, for rather than I'll look on them. 
 Here, here ! Now sweet God of heav'n, 
 rvlake me despise this transitory pomp. 
 And sit for ever enthroniz'd in heav'n ! 
 Come death, aud with thy fingers close my eyes, 
 Or, if I live, let me forget myself. 
 
 Berkeley Castle. The King is left alone icith Light- 
 born, a ninrderer. 
 
 Edw. Who 's there ? what light is that ? wherefore 
 com'st thou ? 29 
 
 Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. 
 
 Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks : 
 Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me. 
 
 Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord ! 
 Far is it from my heart to do you harm. 
 The queen sent me to see how you were used, 
 For she relents at this your misery : 
 And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears, 
 To see a king in this most piteous state.
 
 EDWARD THE SECOND. 53 
 
 Ed%v. Weep'st thou already ? list a wliile to me 
 And then thy heart, were it as Giirney's * is, 
 Or as Matrevis',* \\ew\\ from the Caucasus, 
 Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale. 
 This dungeon where they keep me is a sink 
 Wherein the filth of all the castle falls. 
 
 Light. villains ! 
 
 Ediv. And there, in mire and puddle have I stood 
 This ten days' space ; and lest that I should sleep, 
 One plays continually upon a drum. 10 
 
 They give me bread and water, being a king ; 
 So that, for want of sleep and sustenance. 
 My mind 's distemper'd, and my body 's numb'd, 
 And whether I have limbs or no, I know not. 
 
 would my blood dropped out from every vein, 
 As doth tliis water from my tattered robes. 
 Tell Isabel the queen, I look'd not thus, 
 "Wlien for her sake I ran at tilt in France, 
 
 And there unhors'd the duke of Cleremont. 
 Light. speak no more, my lord ! this breaks my 
 heart. 20 
 
 Lie on this bed, and rest yourself awhile. 
 
 Edw. These looks of thine can harbour nought but 
 death : 
 
 1 see my tragedy written in thy brows. 
 Yet stay awhile, forbear tliy bloody hand, 
 And let me see the stroke before it comes, 
 That even then when I shall lose my life. 
 My mind may be more stearlfast on my God. 
 
 Light. What means your highness to mistrust me 
 
 tlnis ? 
 Edw. AVhat mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus ? 
 Light. These hands were never stain'd with inno- 
 cent blood, 30 
 Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's. 
 
 Edw. Forgive my thought, for having such a 
 thought. 
 One jewel have I left, receive thou this. 
 Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause, 
 But every joint shakes as I give it thee. 
 if thou harbour'st murder in thy heart. 
 Let the gift change tliy mind, and save thy soul. 
 * Uis keepers.
 
 rA GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 Iviiow that I am a king. Oh, at thai name 
 I feci a holl c.f grief. Wlicre is my crown ? 
 tJonc, gone, and do I remain ? 
 
 Light. You 're overwatch'd my lord, lie downi and 
 rest. 
 
 IkltB. But that grief keeps me waking, I should 
 sleep ; 
 For not these ten days have these eyelids closed. 
 Now as I s}icak tliey fall, and yet with fear 
 Open again. wherefore sitt'st thou hero ? 
 
 Light. If you mistrust me, I '11 be gone, my lord, 
 
 Edw. No, no, for if tliou mean'st to murder me, 
 Thou wilt return again ; and therefore stay, 11 
 
 Light. He slee})S. 
 
 Edw. let me not die ; yet stay, stay awhile. 
 
 Light. How now, my lord ? 
 
 Edir. Something still huzzeth in mine ears, 
 And tells me if I sleep I never wake ; 
 This fear is tliat which makes me tremlile thus : 
 And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ? 
 
 Light. To rid thee of thy life ; ]\latrevis, come, 
 
 Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist : 20 
 
 Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul. 
 
 [Tliis tragedy is in a very different style from "mighty 
 Tambnrlaine. " The reluctant pangs of abdicatmg 
 Royalty in Edward furnished hints which Shakspeare 
 scarce improved in his Richard the Second ; and the 
 death-scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror 
 beyond any scene, ancient or modern, with which I am 
 acquainted.] 
 
 xr. (G.) 
 
 THE ARRAIGNMENT OF PARIS: A 
 DRAMATIC PASTORAL. 
 
 BY GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 Flora dresses Ida Hill, to honour the coming of the 
 Three Goddesses. 
 
 Flora. Not Iris in her pride and bravery 
 Adorns her arch with such variety ;
 
 THE ARRAIGNMENT OF PARIS. 55 
 
 Nor doth the Milk-white Way in frosty night 
 
 Appear so fair and beautiful in sight. 
 
 As done these tields, aiid groves, and sweetest bowers, 
 
 Bestrew'd and deck'd ^\'itll parti-coloui''d flowers. 
 
 Along the bubliling brooks and silver glide, 
 
 That at the bottom doth in silence slide. 
 
 The water-flowers and lilies on the banks 
 
 Like blazing comets burgeon all in ranks ; 
 
 Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree, 
 
 Where sacred Phoebe may delight to be : 10 
 
 The ])rimerose, and the purple hyacinth, 
 
 The dainty violet, and the wliolesome minth ; 
 
 The double daisy, and the cowslip, (Queen 
 
 Of sivamier flowers), do over-peer the green ; 
 
 And round about the valley as ye pass. 
 
 Ye may ne see, for i)eeping flowers, the gi"ass. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 They are at hand by this. 
 Juno hath left her chariot long ago, 
 And hath return'd her peacocks by her Rainbow ; 
 And ])ravel3', as becomes the Wife of Jove, '20 
 
 Doth honour by her presence to our grove : 
 Fan- Venus she hath let her sparrows fly. 
 To tend on her, and make her melody ; 
 Her turtles and her swans unyoked be, 
 And flicker near her side for company : 
 Pallas hath set her tigers loose to feed, 
 Commanding tliem to wait when she hath need : 
 And hitherward with proud and stately pace, 
 To do us honom- in the sylvan chace, 30 
 
 They march, like to the i)onip of heaven above, 
 Juno, the Wife and Sister of King Jove, 
 The warlike Pallas, and the Queen of Love. 
 
 The Muses, a)id Country Girls, assemble to vxkome the 
 Goddesses. 
 
 Poi/iatut. With country store like friends we 
 venture forth. 
 Think'st, Faunus, that these Goddesses will take our 
 gilts in worth ? 
 Faun. Yea, doubtless ; for, 'shall tell thee, Dame, 
 'twere better give a thing, 
 A sign of love, unto a mighty j^ersou, or a King,
 
 56 GEORGK PEELE. 
 
 Than to a rude and barbarous swaiu both bad ;iiid 
 basely burn, 
 
 For gently 'I'akks thk gentleman that oft the 
 clown will scoun. 
 
 The Welcoming Son<j. 
 
 C'ovnt)-)/ Godn. Ida, Ida, bla, happy hill ! 
 This honour done to Ida may it continue still ! 
 
 Muses. Yo Country Gods, that in this Ida won, 
 Bring down your gifts of welcome, 
 For honour done to Ida. 
 
 Gods. Behold in sign of joy we sing. 
 And signs of joyful welcome bring. 
 
 For honour done to Ida. 10 
 
 Pan. The God of shepherds, and his mates, 
 With country cheer salutes your states : 
 Fair, wise, and worthy, as you be ! 
 And thank the gracious Ladies Three, 
 For honour done to Ida. 
 
 Paris. (Enonb. 
 
 Par. (Enone, wliile we bin disposed to walk, 
 Tell me, what shall be subject of our talk ? 
 Thou hast a sort of pretty tales in store ;. 
 'Dare say no nynijih in Ida woods hatli more. 
 Again, beside thy sweet alluring face, 20 
 
 In telling them thou hast a special gi-ace. 
 Then prithee, sweet, afford some pretty thing, 
 Some toy that from thy pleasant wit doth spring. 
 
 (E/i. Paris, my heart's contentment and my choice, 
 Use thou thy l)ipe, and I will use my voice ; 
 So shall thy just request not be denied, 
 And time well spent, and both be satisfied. 
 
 Par. Well, gentle nymph, although thou do me 
 That can ne tune my pi]>e unto a song, [wrong. 
 
 Me list this once, CKnone, for thy sake, 30 
 
 Tills idle task on me to undertake. 
 
 [Theij sit under a tree together. 
 
 (En. And whereon then shall be my roundelay ; 
 For thou hast heard my store long since, 'dare say — 
 How Saturn did divide his kingdom tho
 
 THE ARRAIGNMENT OF PARIS. 57 
 
 To Jove, to Neptuue, and to Dis below : 
 
 How mighty men made I'oul successless war 
 
 Against the Gods, and State of Jupiter : 
 
 How Phorcys' im^), that was so trick and fair, 
 
 That tangled Neptune in her golden hair, 
 
 Became a Gorgon for her lewd misdeed ; — 
 
 A pretty fable, Paris, for to read ; 
 
 A piece of cunning, trust me for the nones, 
 
 That wealtli and beauty alter men to stones : 
 
 How Salmacis, resembling Idleness, 10 
 
 Turns men to women all thro' wantonness : 
 
 How Pluto raught Queen Ceres' daughter thence. 
 
 And M'hat did follow of that love-otlence : 
 
 Of Daphne turn'd into the Laurel-tree, 
 
 That shews a mirror of virginity : 
 
 How fair Narcissus, tooting on his shade, 
 
 Reproves disdain, and tells how form doth fade : 
 
 How cunning Philomela's needle tells. 
 
 What force in love, wliat wit in sorrow dwells : 
 
 "Wliat pains unhappy souls abide in Hell, 20 
 
 They say, because on Earth they lived not well, — 
 
 Ixion's wheel, proud Tantal's x>ining woe, 
 
 Prometheus' torment, and a many moe ; 
 
 How Danaus' daughters ply their endless task ; 
 
 AVhat toil the toil of Sisyphus doth ask. 
 
 All these are old, and known, I know ; yet, if thou 
 
 wilt have any. 
 Choose some of these ; for, trust me, else (Enone hatli 
 not many. 
 Par. Nay, what thou wilt ; but since my cunning 
 not comjiares with thine. 
 Begin some toy that I can play upon this pipe of mine. 
 (En. There is a pretty Sonnet then, we call it 
 Cupid's Curse : 30 
 
 ' They that do cliange old love for new, i)ray Gods 
 they change for worse." 
 
 [They s'lny. 
 (Ell. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair, 
 
 As fair as any may be. 
 The fairest shepherd on our green, 
 A Love for any Lady. 
 
 Par. Fair, and fair, and twice so fair 
 
 As fair as any may be. 
 Thy Love is fair for thee alone, 
 
 And for no other Lady.
 
 58 GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 QHn. l^Iy Love is fair, my Love is gay, 
 And fresh as bin the Howers in May, 
 And of my love my nmndelay, 
 My merry, merry, merry roundelay, 
 Concludes with Cupid's Curse ; 
 They that do chant,'e old love for new, 
 Pray Gods they change for worse. 
 
 ■n ,, ( Fair, and fair, &c. ) , , , > 
 
 ^°^''- { Fair,' and fair,' &c. } ^^■<^P'<''^^^-) 
 
 (En. My Love can pipe, my Love can sing, 
 My Love can many a j)retty thing, 11 
 
 And of his lovely jiraises ring 
 My merry, merry, merry roundelays. 
 Amen to Cupid's Curse : 
 They tliat do change old love for new, 
 Pray Gods they change for worse. 
 
 „ ., ( Fair, and fair, &c. ) /.,,,, ,7 , 
 ^'"^'- 1 Fair; and fair, &c. \ ('■''^^'«'«^-) 
 
 To my esteemed Fnend, and excellent Musician, 
 V. X., Esq. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 I conjure you, in the name of all the Sylvan Deities, 
 and of the Muses, whom you honour, and they recipro- 
 cally love anil honour you, — rescue this old and passion- 
 ate Ditty — the verj' flower of an old forgotten Pastoral, 
 which had it been in all parts equal, the Faithful 
 Shepherdess of Fletcher had been but a second name in 
 this sort of Writing— rescue it from the profane hands 
 of every common Composer : and in one of your tran- 
 quillest moods, when you have most leisure from those 
 sad thoughts, which sometimes unworthily beset you ; 
 yet a mood, in itself not unallied to the better sort of 
 melancholy ; laying by for once the lofty Organ, with 
 which you shake the Temples ; attune, as to the Pipe of 
 Paris himself, to some milder and more love-according 
 instrument, this pretty Courtship between Paris and his 
 (then-not as yet-forsaken) CEnone. Oblige me; and all 
 more knowing Judges of Music and of Poesy ; by the 
 adaptation of fit musical numbers, which it only wants 
 to be the rarest Love Dialogue in our language. 
 
 Your Implorer, 
 
 C. L.
 
 THE BATTLE OF ALCAZAR. 59 
 
 XII. (G.) 
 
 THE BATTLE OF ALCAZAR: A TRAGEDY. 
 
 RY THE SAME. 
 
 MULY Mahamet, diiveiifrom his throne into a desert, 
 rohs the Lioness to feed his fainting Wife Calipolis. 
 
 Muly. Hold thee, Calipolis ; feed, and faint no 
 more. 
 This flesh I forced from a lioness ; 
 Meat of a Princess, for a Princess meet. 
 Learn by her noble stomach to esteem 
 Penury plenty in extremest dearth ; 
 AVho, when slie saw her foragement bereft, 
 Pined not in melancholy or childish fear ; 
 But, as brave nunds are strongest in extremes, 
 So she, redouliling her former force. 
 Ranged through the woods, and rent the breeding 
 vaults 10 
 
 Of proudest savages, to save herself. 
 Feed then, and faint not, fair Calipolis ; 
 For, rather than fierce famine shall prevail 
 To gnaw thy entrails with her thorny teeth. 
 The conquering Lioness shall attend on thee, 
 And lay huge heaps of slaughter'd carcasses 
 As bulwarks in her way to keep her l)ack. 
 I will provide thee of a jirincely Osprey, 
 That, as she flieth over fish in pools. 
 The fish shall turn their glistering bellies up, 20 
 
 And thou shalt take thy liberal choice of all. 
 Jove's stately bird with wide-commanding wings 
 Shall hover still about thy i)rincely head. 
 And beat down fowls by shoals into thy lap. 
 Feed then, and faint not, fair Calipolis. 
 
 [This address, for its barbaric splendor of conception, 
 extravagant vein of promise, not to mention some idio- 
 matic peculiarities, and the very structure of the verse, 
 savours strongly of Marlowe ; but the real author, I be- 
 lieve, is unknown.]
 
 60 GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 xiir. 
 
 THE LOVE OF KINO DAVID AND FAIR 
 BETHSABE, 
 
 WITH 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF ABSALOM. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Bethsabe, vWi her raaid hathrnrj. She sinrjs : <md 
 David siU ahoce, viewing her. 
 
 THE SONG. 
 
 Hot sun, cool fire, temper'd witli sweet air. 
 Black shade, fair nurse, shadow my white hair : 
 Shine sun, burn fire, breathe air and ease me, 
 Black shade, fair nurse, shroud me and please me ; 
 Shadow (my sweet nurse) keep me from burning. 
 Make not my glad cause, cause of my mourning. 
 
 Let not my beauty's fire 
 
 Enflame unstaid desire. 
 
 Nor pierce any Ijright eye 
 
 That wandereth lightly. 10 
 
 Betlisabc. Come, gentle ZephjT, trick'd with those 
 perfumes 
 That erst in Eden sweetened Adam's love. 
 And stroke my bosom with thy silken fan : 
 This shade (sun-])roof) is yet no proof for thee, 
 Thy body smoother than this waveless spring. 
 And purer than the substance of the same. 
 Can creep through that his * lances cannot pierce. 
 Thou and thy sister, soft and sacred Air, 
 Goddess of life, and governess of health. 
 Keeps every fountain fresh and arbour sweet ; 20 
 
 No brazen gate her passage can repulse, 
 Nor bushy thicket bar thy subtle breath. 
 Then deck thee with thy loose delightsome robes, 
 And on thy wings bring delicate jierfumes. 
 To play the wantons with us through the leaves. 
 David. What tunes, what words, what looks, what 
 Avonders pierce 
 My soul, incensed with a sudden fire ? 
 
 * Tlie aun'3 rays.
 
 DAVID AND BETHSABE. 61 
 
 What tree, what shade, what spring, what paradise, 
 
 Enjoys the beauty of so fair a dame ? 
 
 Fair Eva, placed in perfect happiness, 
 
 Lending her praise-notes to the liberal heavens, 
 
 Stniek with the accents of Areh-angels' tunes, 
 
 Wrought not more jileasure to her husband's thoughts. 
 
 Than this fair woman's words and notes to mine. 
 
 May that sweet plain that bears her pleasant weight, 
 
 Be still enamell'd with discolour'd flowers ; 
 
 Tliat jn-ecious fount bear sand of purest gold ; 10 
 
 And, for the pebble, let the silver streams 
 
 That pierce earth's bowels to maintain the source. 
 
 Play upon rubies, sapphires, chrysolites ; 
 
 The brim let be enibrac'd with golden curls 
 
 Of moss that sleeps with sound the waters make 
 
 For joy to feed the fount with their recoui'se ; 
 
 Let all the gi-ass that beautifies her bower 
 
 Bear manna every morn instead of dew ; 
 
 Or let the dew be sweeter far than that 19 
 
 That hangs, like chains of pearl, on Hermon hill, 
 
 Or babu which trickled from old Aaron's beard. 
 
 Enter CUSAY. 
 
 See, Cusay, see the flower of Israel, 
 The fairest daughter that obeys the king 
 In all the laud the Lord subdued to me. 
 Fairer than Isaac's lover at the well. 
 Brighter than inside-bark of new-hewn cedar. 
 Sweeter than flames of fine perfumed myrrh ; 
 And comelier than the silver clouds that dance 
 On Zephyr's wings liefore the King of Heaven. 
 
 Cusay. Is it not Bethsabe the Hethite's wife, 30 
 Urias, now at Ra,bath siege with Joab ? 
 
 David. Go now and bring her quickly to the King ; 
 Tell her, her gi-aces have found grace with him. 
 
 Cusay. I will my Lord. [Exit. 
 
 David. Bright Bethsabe shall wash in David's 
 bower 
 In water mix'd with purest almond-flower, 
 And bathe her beauty in the milk of kids ; 
 Bright Bethsalie gives earth to my desires. 
 Verdure to earth, and to that verdure flowers, 
 To flowers sweet odours, and to odours wings, 40
 
 62 GEORGE PKELE. 
 
 Tliat carry 2>leasures to the hearts of Kings. 
 
 ***** 
 Now comes my lover trippinj^ like tlic roe, 
 And brings my longings tangled in her hair. 
 To jiiy her love I '11 ImiM a kingly bower, 
 Seated in hearing of a hnndred streams, 
 Tliat, for tlieir liomagc to lier sovereign joys, 
 Sliall, as tlie serpents fold into their nests 
 In obli(|ne turnings, wind their nimble waves 
 Aljont the circles of lier cmions walks, 
 And with their nuirnuir summon easeful sleep 10 
 To lay his golden sce2)tre on her brows. 
 
 [There is more of the same stuff, but I suppose the 
 reader has a surfeit ; especially as this Canticle of David 
 has never been suspected to contain any pious sense 
 couched underneath it, whatever his son's may. The 
 kingly bower " seated in hearing? of a hundred streams," 
 is the best of it.] 
 
 XIV. (g.) 
 ANOTHER EXTRACT FROM THE SAME. 
 
 Nathan. David. 
 
 Nath. Tims Nathan saith unto his lord the king : 
 Tlierc were two men botli dwellers in one town ; 
 The one was mighty, and exceeding rich 
 In oxen, sheep, and cattle of the field ; 
 The other poor, having nor ox, nor calf, 
 Nor other cattle, save one little lamb. 
 Which he had bought, and nourish'd by his liand, 
 And it grew up, and fed with him and his, 
 And ate and di'ank as he and his were wont, 20 
 
 And in his bosom slept, and was to him 
 As was his daughter or his dearest child. — 
 There came a stranger to this w'ealthy man, 
 And lie refused and spared to take his own, 
 Or of his store to dress or make his meat, 
 liut took the poor man's sheep, the poor man's store, 
 And drest it for this stranger in his house. 
 What, tell me, shall be done to him for this ?
 
 DAVID AND BETHSABE. 63 
 
 Dav. Now, as the Lord doth live, this wicked man 
 Is judged, and shall become the child of death ; 
 Fourfold to the poor man he shall restore, 
 That without mercy took his lamb away. 
 
 Nath. Thou akt the man, and thou hast 
 
 JUDGED thyself. — 
 
 David, thus saith the Lord thy God by me : 
 
 "I thee anointed King in Israel, 
 
 And saved thee from the tj'ranny of Saul ; 
 
 Thy master's house I gave thee to possess, 
 
 His wives unto thy bosom I did give, 10 
 
 And Judah and Jerusalem withal ; 
 
 And nught, thou know'st, if this had been too small. 
 
 Have given thee more. 
 
 Wherefore tlien hast thou gone so far astray, 
 
 And hast done evil, and sinned in my sight ? 
 
 Urias thou hast killed witli the sword ; 
 
 Yea, with the sword of the uncircumcised 
 
 Thou hast him slain ; wherefore from this day forth 
 
 The sword shall never go from thee and thine : 
 
 For thou hast ta'en this Hethite's wife to thee, 20 
 
 Wherefore, behold, I will," saith Jacob's God, 
 
 " In thine own house stir evil up to thee. 
 
 Yea, I before thy face will take thy wives. 
 
 And give them to thy neighl)our to possess." 
 
 This shall be done to David in the day, 
 
 That Israel openly may see thy shame. 
 
 Dav. Nathan, I have, against the Lord, I have, 
 Sinned, oh sinned gi-ievously ! and lo. 
 From heaven's throne doth David throw himself, 
 And groan and grovel to the gates of hell. 30 
 
 Nath. David, stand up ; thus saith the Lord by me, 
 " David the King shall live," for He hath seen 
 Tlie true repentant sorrow of thy heart ; 
 But for thou hast in this misdeed of thine 
 Stirr'd up the enemies of Israel 
 To triumph and blaspheme the God of Hosts, 
 And say, ' ' He set a wicked man to reign 
 Over his loved people and his tribes ; " 
 The child shall surely die, that erst was born, 
 His mother's sin, his kingly father's scorn. 40 
 
 Dav. How just is Jacob's God in all his works ! 
 But must it die, that David loveth so ?
 
 64 GEORGE PEELE. 
 
 that the mighty One of Israel 
 
 Xill change his doom, and says tlie babe must die ! 
 
 Mourn, Israel, and weeji in Sion-gates ; 
 
 Witlier, ye cedar-trees of Lebanon ; 
 
 Ye sjirontiiig almonds, with your flowering tops, 
 
 Droop, (howii, and drench in Hel)ron"s fearful streams : 
 
 The Babe must die, that was to David born. 
 
 His motlier's sin, liis kingly father's scorn. 
 
 Absalon, rebelling. 
 
 Now for the cro'ftii and throne of Israel, 
 
 To be confirni'd witli virtue of my sword, 10 
 
 And writ with David's blood upon tlie blade. 
 
 Xow, Jove,* let forth the golden firmament, 
 
 And look on him with all thy fiery eyes. 
 
 Which thou hast made to give their glories light. 
 
 To show thou lovest the virtue of thy hand. 
 
 Let fall a wreath of stars upon my head. 
 
 Whose influence may govern Israel 
 
 With state exceeding all her other Kings. 
 
 Fight, Lords and Captains, that your Sovereign's face 
 
 May shine in honour brigliter than the sun ; 20 
 
 And witli the virtue of my beauteous rays 
 
 Make this fair land as fruitful as the fields 
 
 That \\'itli sweet milk and lioney overflowed. 
 
 God, in the whizzing of a jileasant wind 
 
 Shall march upon the tops of mulberry-trees, 
 
 To cool all breasts that Ijuru with any griefs ; 
 
 As whilom he was good to Moyses' men, 
 
 iiy day the Lord sliall sit within a cloud, 
 
 To guide your footsteps to the fields of joy ; 
 
 And in the night a 2>illar bright as fire 30 
 
 Shall go before you like a second sun. 
 
 Wherein the essence of his Godhead is ; 
 
 That day and night you may be brought to iieace, 
 
 And never swerve from that delightsome path 
 
 That leads your souls to perfect happiness : 
 
 This he shall do for joy when I am King. 
 
 Then tight, brave Captains, that these joys may fly 
 
 Into your bosoms with sweet victory. 
 
 * Jove, for Jehovah.
 
 A LOOKING GLASS FOR ENGLAND AND LONDON. 65 
 
 Absalon, trmmphant. 
 
 Abs. First, Absalon was by the trumpet's sound 
 Proclaim'd thro' Hebron King of Israel ; 
 And now is set in fair Jerusalem 
 With complete state and glory of a crown. 
 Fifty fair footmen by my chariot run ; 
 And to the air, whose rupture rings my fame, 
 Where'er I ride, they offer reverence. 
 Why should not Absalon, that in his face 
 Carries the final purpose of his God, 
 (That is, to work him grace in Israel), 10 
 
 Endeavour to achieve \\itli all liis strength 
 The state that most may satisfy liis joy — 
 Keeping His statutes and His covenants pure ! 
 His thunder is entangled in my hair, 
 And with my beauty is His lightning quench'd. 
 I am the man He made to glory in, 
 When by the erroi-s of my father's sin 
 He lost the path that led into the land 
 Wherewitli our chosen ancestors were blest. 
 
 XV. (g.) 
 
 A LOOKING GLASS FOR ENGLAND AND 
 LONDON : A TRAGI-COMEDY. 
 
 BY THOMAS LODGE AND ROBERT GREEN. 
 
 Alvida, Paramour to RaSNI, the Great King of Assyria, 
 courts a petty King of Cilicia. 
 
 Alv. Ladies, go sit you dowm amidst this bower, 
 And let the Eimuchs play you all asleep : 21 
 
 Put garlands made of roses on your heads. 
 And play the wantons, whilst I talk awhile. 
 
 Ladies. Thou beautiful of all the world, we will. 
 
 l^Exeiutt. 
 
 A Iv. King of Cilicia, kind and courteous ; 
 Like to thyself, because a lovely king ; 
 Come lay thee dowm upon thy mistress' knee, 
 And I will sing and talk of love to thee. 
 
 Cil. Most gracious paragon of excellence,
 
 66 THOMAS LODGE AND ROBERT GREEK. 
 
 It fits not sunh an aliject wTctcli as I 
 To talk with Ilasni's paramour and love. 
 
 Alv. To talk, sweet friend ! who would not talk 
 witli thee ? 
 Oh he not coy ; art thou not only fair ? 
 Come, twine thine arms about this snow-white neck, 
 A love-nest for the gi-eat Assyrian king. 
 Blushing I tell thee, fair Cilician prince, 
 None but tliyself can merit such a grace. 
 
 Gil. Madam, I hope you mean not for to mook me. 
 
 Alv. No, king, fair king, my meaning is to yoke 
 thee; 10 
 
 Hear me but sing of love : then by my sighs. 
 My tears, my glancing looks, my changed cheer, 
 Thou shalt perceive how I do hold thee dear. 
 
 Cil. Sing, madam, if you please ; but love in jest. 
 
 Alv. Nay, I will love, and sigh at every rest. 
 
 {She sln^s.) 
 Beauty, alas ! where wast thou born, 
 Thus to hold thyself in scorn ? 
 Whenas Beauty kiss'd to woo thee, 
 Thou by Beauty dost undo mo. 
 
 Heigho, despise me not. 20 
 
 I and thou in sooth are one, 
 
 Fairer thou, I fairer none : 
 
 Wanton thou ; and, wilt thou, wanton. 
 
 Yield a cruel heart to plant on ? 
 
 Do me right, and do me reason ; 
 
 Cruelty is cursed treason. 
 
 Heigho, I love ! heigho, I love ! 
 
 Heigho, and yet he eyes me not ! 
 
 Cil. Madam your song is passing passionate. 
 
 A Iv. And wilt thou not then pity my estate ? 30 
 
 Oil. Ask love of them who pity may impart. 
 
 A Iv. I ask of thee, sweet ; thou hast stole my heart. 
 
 Cil. Your love is fixed on a greater king. 
 
 Alv. Tut, women's love — it is a fickle thing. 
 I love my Rasni for his dignity : 
 I love Cilician King for his sweet eye. 
 I love my Rasni, since he rules the world : 
 But more I love this kingly little world. 
 How sweet he looks ! — were I Cynthia's fere,
 
 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 67 
 
 And thou Endymiou, I should hold thee dear : 
 Thus should mine arms be spread about thy ueck, 
 Thus would I kiss my Love at every beck. 
 Thus would I sigh to see thee sweetly sleep ; 
 And if thou wak'st not soon, thus would I weep : 
 Aud thus, and thus, and thus : thus much I love thee. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY; or, HIERONIMO 
 IS MAD AGAIN : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THOMAS KYD. 
 
 HOKATIO, the son of Hieronimo, is murdered while he is 
 sitting with his mistress Beliiiperia hy night in an 
 arbo2ir in Aw father's garden. The murderers (Bal- 
 thazar, his rival, and Lorenzo the brother of Belim- 
 PERIa) hang his hodg on a tree. HlERONlMO is 
 awahened by the cries of Belimperia, and coming oid 
 into his garden, discovers by the light of a torch, t/iat 
 the murdered man is his son. Upon this he goes 
 distracted. 
 
 Hieronimo mad. 
 Hier. My son ! and whatj's a son ? 
 A thing begot within a pair of minutes, there about : 
 A lump bred up in darkness, and doth serve 
 To balance those light creatures Ave call women ; 10 
 And at the nine months' end creeps forth to light. 
 What is there yet in a son. 
 To make a father dote, rave, or run mad ? 
 Being born, it pouts, cries, and breeds teeth. 
 What is there yet in a son ? 
 He must be fed, be taught to go, aud speak. 
 Ay, or yet ? why might not a man love a calf as well ? 
 Or melt in passion o'er a frisking kid, as for a son ? 
 Methinks a young bacon. 
 
 Or a fine little smooth horse colt, 20 
 
 Should move a man as much as doth a son ; 
 For one of these, in very little time, 
 Will grow to some good use ; whereas a son 
 The more he grows in stature and in years.
 
 68 THOMAS KYD. 
 
 The more uusqnar'd, unleveU'd, he apjiears ; 
 Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, _ 
 Strikes cares upon their heads witli his mad riots, 
 Makes them look old before they meet with age ; 
 This is a son ; and what a loss is this, considered truly ! 
 Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reacli of those 
 Insatiate luimours : he lov'd liis loving parents : 
 He was my comfort, and his mother's joy, 
 The very arm that did hold up our house — 
 Our hojjcs were stored up in him, 10 
 
 None but a damned murderer could hate him. 
 He had not seen the back of nineteen years, [thazar ; 
 ^Vhen his strong arm unhors'd the proud prince Bal- 
 And his great mind, too full of honour, [ingale. 
 
 Took him us to mercy, that valiant but ignoble Port- 
 Well heaven is heaven still ! 
 And there is Nemesis, and furies, 
 And things call'd whips, 
 
 And they sometimes do meet with murderers : 
 They do not always 'scape, that 's some comfort, 20 
 Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and 
 
 steals, 
 Till violence leaps forth, like thunder 
 Wrapt in a ball of fire. 
 And so doth bring confusion to them all. [Exit. 
 
 Jaques a-nd Pedro, Servants. 
 
 Jcu/. I wonder, Pedi-o, why our master thus 
 At midnight sends us with our torches light. 
 When man and bird and beast are all at rest. 
 Save those tliat watch for rape and bloody murder. 
 
 Pcd. Jaques, know thou that our master's mind 
 Is much distraught since his Horatio died : 30 
 
 And, now his aged years should sleep in rest, 
 His heart in quiet, like a desperate man 
 Grows hmatic and childish for his son : 
 Sometimes as he doth at his table sit. 
 He speaks as if Horatio stood by him. 
 Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth, 
 Cries out Horatio, where is my Horatio ? 
 So that with extreme gi'ief, and cutting sorrow, 
 There is not left in him one inch of man : 
 See here he comes. 40
 
 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. 69 
 
 HiEKONiMO enters. 
 
 Hier. I pry thro' every crevice of each wall, 
 Look at each tree, and search thro' every brake, 
 Beat on the bushes, stamp our gi'andame earth, 
 Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven ; 
 Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio. 
 How now, who 's there, sprites, sprites ? 
 
 Fed. We are your servants that attend you, sir. 
 
 Hier. What make you with your torches in the 
 dark ? 
 
 Ped. You bid us light them, and attend you here. 
 
 Hier. No, no, you are deceiv'd, not I, you are 
 deceiv'd : 10 
 
 Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now 1 
 Light me your torches at the mid of noon, 
 Whenas the sun-god rides in all his glory ; 
 Light me yom- torches then. 
 
 Fed. Then we burn day-light. 
 
 Hier. Let it be burnt ; night is a murd'rous slut, 
 That would not have her treasons to be seen : 
 And yonder pale-fac'd Hecate there, the moon. 
 Doth give consent to that is done in darkness. 
 And all those stars that gaze upon her face, 20 
 
 Are aglets * on her sleeve, pins on her train : 
 And those that should be powerful and diWne, 
 Do sleep in darkness when they most should shine. 
 
 Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, -nith tempting 
 words, 
 The heavens are gracious ; and your miseries 
 And sorrow make you speak you know not what. 
 
 Hier. Villain thou liest, and thou doest nought 
 But tell me I am mad : thou liest, I am not mad : 
 I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques. 29 
 
 I '11 prove it to thee ; and were I mad, how could I ? 
 Where was she the same night, when my Horatio 
 
 was murder'd ? 
 She should have shone : search thou the book : 
 Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there was a 
 
 kind of grace, 
 That I know, nay I do know, had the mui'd'rer seen 
 him, 
 
 * Tags of points.
 
 70 THOMAS KYD. 
 
 His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth, 
 Had he been fViiiu'd of nought hut blood and death ; 
 Alack, when niiscliief doth it knows not what, 
 What shall we say to mischief ? 
 
 Isabella, /; is wife, enters. 
 
 Isa. Dear Hieronimo, come in a-doors, 
 
 seek not means so to increase thy sorrow. 
 Ilicr. Indeed Isabella, we do nothing here ; 
 
 1 do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques : 
 Not I indeed, we are merry, very nieiTy. 
 
 Isa. How ? be merry here, be merry here ? 10 
 Is not this tlie place, and this the very tree, 
 Where my Horatio died, where he was murder'd ? 
 
 Hicr. Was, do not say what : let her weep it out. 
 This was the tree, I set it oft' a kernel ; 
 And when our hot Spain could not let it grow, 
 But that the infant and the human sap 
 Began to wither, duly twice a morning 
 Would I be sprinkling it with foimtain water : 
 At last it grew and gi'ew, and bore and bore : 19 
 
 Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son. 
 It bore thy fruit and mine. wicked, wicked plant. 
 See who knocks there. [ One knocks within at the door. 
 
 Pcd. It is a painter, sir. 
 
 Uier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort, 
 For surely there's none lives but painted comfort. 
 Let him come in ; one knows not what may chance. 
 God's will that I should set this tree ! but even so 
 blasters ungrateful servants rear from nought. 
 And then they hate them that did bring them up. 
 
 The Painter enters. 
 
 Pain. God bless you, sir. 30 
 
 Hier. Wherefore ? why, thou scornful villain ? 
 How, where, or by what means should I be blest ? 
 
 Isa. What wouldst thou have, good fellow ? 
 
 Pain. Justice, madam. 
 
 Hier. ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that 
 That lives not in the world ? 
 Why, all the undelved mines canaot buy 
 An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable. 
 I tell thee, God hath engi'oss'd all justice in his hands.
 
 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY. Tl 
 
 And there is none but what comes from Him. 
 
 Pai7i. then I see that God must right me for 
 my murder'd son. 
 
 Hicr. How, was thy son murder'd ? 
 
 Pain. Av, sir, no man did hold a son so dear. 
 
 Hier. AVhat, not as thine 1 that 's a lie. 
 As massy as the earth : I had a sou, 
 Whose least unvalued hair did weigh 
 A thousand of thy sons, and he was murder'd. 
 
 Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he. 
 
 fficr. Nor I, nor I ; but this same one of mine 
 Was worth a legion. But all is one, 11 
 
 Pedro, Jaques, go in a-doors, Isabella, go. 
 And this good fellow here, and I, 
 Will range this hideous orchard up and down, 
 Like to two she-lions, 'reaved of their young. 
 Go in a-doors I say. [Exetmt. 
 
 [The Painter and he sit doivn. 
 Come let 's talk ^nsely now. 
 Was thy son murder'd ? 
 
 Pain. Ay, sir. 
 
 Hicr. So was mine. 20 
 
 How dost thou take it ? art thou not sometime mad ? 
 Is there no tricks that come before thine eyes ? 
 
 Pain. lord, yes, sir. 
 
 Hier. Art a painter ? canst paint me a tear, or a 
 wound ? 
 A groan or a sigh ? canst paint me such a tree as this ? 
 
 Pai7i. Sir, I am sure you have heard of my paint- 
 ing ; 
 My name 's Bazardo. 
 
 Hier. Bazardo ! 'fore God an excellent fellow. 
 Look you, sir. 29 
 
 Do you see M 'd have you paint me in my gallery, 
 in your oil-colours matted, and draw me live years 
 younger than I am : do you see, sir ? let five years go, 
 let them go,— my wife Isabella standing by me, with 
 a speaking look to my son Horatio, which should in- 
 tend to this, or some such like pm-pose ; God bless 
 thee, my sivect son ; and my hand leaning upon his 
 head thus. Sir, do you see ? may it be done ? 
 
 Pain. \(iTy well, sir. 
 
 Hier. Nay, I pray mark me, su-.
 
 72 THOMAS KYD. 
 
 Then, sir, would I have you paint me this ti'ee, this 
 
 very tree : 
 Canst paint a doleful cry ? 
 
 Pain. Seemingly, sir. 
 
 //(■«•. Nay, it should cry ; but all is one. 
 Well, sir, paint mo a youtli run thro' and thro' with 
 
 villains' swords, hanging upon this tree. 
 Canst thou draw a murd'rer ? 
 
 Pain. I '11 warrant you, sir ; I have the pattern of 
 the most notorious villains that ever lived in all Spain. 
 
 Hicr. 0, let them Ite worse, worse : stretcli thine 
 art, 10 
 
 And let their beards be of Judas' own colour, 
 And let their eye-brows jut over : in any case observe 
 
 that ; 
 Then, sir, after some violent noise, 
 Bring me forth in my shirt, and my gown under my 
 arm, with my torch in my hand, and my 
 sword rear'd up thus, — 
 And with tlu^se words ; JVhat noise is this? who calls 
 
 Hieronimo? 
 May it be done ? 
 
 Pain. Yea, sir. 20 
 
 Hicr. Well, sir, then bring me forth, bring me 
 thro' alley and alley, still with a distracted counten- 
 ance going along, and let my hair heave up my night- 
 cap. 
 
 Let the clouds scowl, make the moon dark, the 
 stars extinct, the winds blowing, the bells tolling, 
 the owls shrieking, the toads croaking, the minutes 
 jarring, and the clock striking twelve. 
 
 And then at last, sir, starting, behold a man bang- 
 ing, and tott'ring, and tott'ring, as you know the wind 
 will wave a man, and I with a trice to cut him do'vvn. 
 
 And looking upon him by the advantage of my 
 torch, find it to be my son Horatio. 33 
 
 There you may shew a passion, there you may shew 
 a passion. 
 
 Draw me like|old Priam of Troy, crying, ' the house 
 is o' fire, the house is o' fire ' ; and the torch over my 
 head ; make me curse, make me rfvve, make me cry, 
 make me mad, luake me well again, make me curse 
 hell, invocate, and in the end leave me in a trance, 
 and so forth.
 
 ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM. 73 
 
 Pain. And is this the end ? 
 
 Hier. no, there is no end : the end is death 
 and madness ; 
 And I am never better than when I am mad ; 
 Then methinks I am a brave fellow ; 
 Then I do wonders ; bnt reason abuseth me ; 
 And there 's the torment, there 's the hell. 
 At last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers ; 
 Were he as strong as Hector, 
 Thus would I tear and drag hun up and down. 
 
 [^He beats the Painter in. 
 
 [These scenes, which are the very salt of the old play 
 (which without them is but a caput mortuum, such 
 another piece of flatness as Locrine), Hawkins, in his 
 republication of this tragedy, has tlu-ust out of the text 
 into the notes ; as omitted in the Second Edition, 
 " pi-inted for Ed. Allde, amended of such gross blunders 
 as passed in the first : " and thinks them to have been 
 foisted in Im/ the players. — A late discovery at Dulwich 
 CoUege has ascertained that two simdry payments were 
 made to Ben Jonson by the Theatre for furnishing 
 additions to Hieronimo. See last edition of Shakspeare 
 by Reed. There is nothing in the undoubted plays of 
 Jonson which would authorise us to suppose that he 
 could have supplied the scenes in question, I should 
 saspect the agency of some "more potent spirit." 
 Webster might have furnished them. They are full of 
 that wild solemn preternatural cast of grief which be- 
 wilders us in the Duchess of Malfy.] 
 
 XVII. (g.) 
 
 ARDEIs' OF FEVERSHAM HIS TRUE AND 
 LAMENTABLE TRAGEDY. 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 Alice Abden icith Mosbie her Paramour conspire the 
 murder of }ier husband. 
 
 Mas. How now, Alice, what sad and passionate ? 
 Make me partaker of thy pensiveness ; 
 Fire divided burns with lesser force. 
 
 Al. But I will dam that tire in my breast,
 
 74 AUTHOR UNKNOWN.   
 
 Till by the force thereof my part consume. 
 Ah Moshie ! 
 
 Mos. Such deep jjathaires, like to a camion's burst, 
 Discliarged against a ruinated wall, 
 Break my relenting heart in thousand pieces. 
 Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore ; 
 Thou know'st it well, and 'tis thy jjolicy 
 To forge distressed looks, to wound a breast 
 Where lies a heart which dies when thou art sad. 
 It is not Love that loves to anger Love. 10 
 
 Al. It is not Love that loves to murther Love. 
 
 Mos. How mean you that ? 
 
 Al. Thou know'st how dearly Arden loved me. 
 
 Mos. And then 
 
 Al. And then — conceal the rest, for 'tis too bad, 
 Lest that my words be carried with the wind. 
 And publish'd in the world to both our shames. 
 I pray thee, Mosbie, let our spring-time ^^'ithe^ : 
 Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds. 
 Forget, I jiray thee, what has passed betwixt us : 20 
 For now I blush and tremble at the thoughts. 
 
 Mos. What, are you changed ? 
 
 Al. Aj-e, to my former happy life again ; 
 From title of an odious strumpet's name 
 To honest Arden's vnk, not Arden's honest wife. — 
 Ha Mosbie ! 'tis thou hast rifled me of that, 
 And make me slanderous to all my kin. 
 Even in my forehead is thy name engraven, 
 A mean artificer, that low-liorn name ! 
 I was bewitched ; woe-worth the hapless hour 30 
 And all the causes that enchanted me. 
 
 Mos. Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth ; 
 And if you stand so nicely at your fame, 
 Let me repent the credit I have lost. 
 I have neglected matters of import, 
 That would have 'stated me above thy state ; 
 For-slow'd advantages, and spurn'd at time ; 
 Aye, Fortune's right hand Mosbie hath forsook, 
 To take a wanton giglot by the left. 
 I left the marriage of an honest maid, 40 
 
 Whose do^\^•y would have weigh'd do\vn all thy wealth ; 
 Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee. 
 This certain good I lost for changing bad,
 
 ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM. 75 
 
 And wrapped my credit in thy company. 
 
 I was bewitelied ; that is no theme of thine : 
 
 And thou unhallow'd hast enchanted me. 
 
 But I will break thy spells and exorcisms, 
 
 And put another sight upon these eyes, 
 
 That show'd my heart a raven for a dove. 
 
 Thou art not fair : I view'd thee not till now : 
 
 Thou art not kind ; till now I knew thee not : 
 
 And now the rain hath beaten oflf thy gilt, 
 
 Thy worthless copper shews thee counterfeit. 10 
 
 It gi-ieves me not to see how foul thou art, 
 
 But maddens me that e'er I thought thee fair. 
 
 Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds ; 
 
 I am too good to l)e thy favourite. 
 
 Al. Aye, now I see, and too soon find it true, 
 Which often hath been told me by my friends, 
 That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth ; 
 Wliich too incredulous I ne'er believed. 
 Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two ; 
 I '11 bite my tongue if I speak bitterly. 20 
 
 Look on me, Mosbie, or I'll kill myself. 
 Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look ; 
 If thou cry War, there is no peace for me. 
 I will do penance for offending thee, 
 And burn this Prayer Book, which I here use 
 The Holy word that had converted me. 
 See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves, 
 And all the leaves ; and in this golden cover 
 Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell 
 And thereon will I chiefly meditate, 30 
 
 And hold no other sect but such devotion. 
 Wilt thou not look ? is all thy love o'erwhelm'd ? 
 Wilt thou not hear ? what malice stops thine ears ? 
 Why speak'st thou not ? what silence ties thy tongue? 
 Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is, 
 And heard as qtiickly as the fearful hare. 
 And spoke as smoothly as an orator, 
 When I have bid thee hear, or see, or speak : 
 And art thou sensible in none of these ? 
 Weigh all my good turns with this little fault, 40 
 And I deserve not Mosbie's muddy looks. 
 A fence of trouble is not thicken'd still ; 
 Be clear again ; I '11 ne'er more trouble thee.
 
 76 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 if OS. no ; I am a hase artificer; 
 My wings are leather'd for a lowly Hight. 
 Mosbie, lie, no ; not for a thousand pound. 
 Make love to you ? why, 'tis unjiardonable. 
 We beggars must not breathe, where gentles are. 
 
 Al. Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king. 
 And I too blind to judge him otlierwise. 
 Flowers do sometimes spring in fallow lauds : 
 Weeds in gardens, roses gi-ow on thorns : 
 So, whatsoe'er my Mosbie's father was. 
 Himself is valued gentle by his worth. 10 
 
 Mos. Ah how you women can insinuate. 
 And clear a trespass witli your sweet set tongue. 
 I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice, 
 Provided I '11 be tempted so no more. 
 
 Arden, mth Ms friend Franklin, travelling at night to 
 Arden's /wuse at Feversliain, where he is lain in wait 
 for lif Ruffians, hired hi/ Alice and Mosbie to mur- 
 der him ; Franklin is interrupted in a story he was 
 heginning to tell hij the ivay of a BAD wife, by an in- 
 disposition, ominous of the impending danger of his 
 fnend. 
 
 Ard. Come, Master Franklin, onwards with your 
 tale. 
 
 Frank. I assure yon, sir, you task me much. 
 A heavy blood is gather'd at my heart : 
 And on the sudden is my wind so short, 
 As hindereth the passage of my speech. 20 
 
 So fierce a qualm yet ne'er assailed me. 
 
 Ard. Come, Master Franklin, let us go on softly ; 
 The annoyance of the dust, or else some meat 
 You ate at dinner cannot brook with you. 
 I have been often so, and soon amended. 
 
 Frank. Do you remember where my tale did 
 leave ? 
 
 Ard. Aye, where the gentleman did check his 
 wife — 
 
 Frank. She being reprehended for the fact, 
 Witness produced that took her with the fact. 
 Her glove brought in which there she left behind. 
 And many other assured arguments, 31 
 
 Her husband ask'd her M-hether it were not so — 
 
 Ard. Her answer then ? I wonder how she look'd,
 
 THE TWO ANGRT WOMEN OF ABINGDON. 77 
 
 Having forsworn it with so vehement oaths, 
 And at the instant so appioved upon her. 
 
 Frank. First did she cast her eyes dowTi on the 
 earth, 
 Watching the drops that fell amain from thence ; 
 Then softly draws she out her haudkercher. 
 And modestly she wipes her tear-stain'd face : 
 Then hemm'd she out (to clear her voice it should 
 
 seem). 
 And with a majesty addressed herself 
 To encounter all their accusations — 
 Pardon me, Master Arden, I can no more ; 10 
 
 This figliting at my heart makes short my wind. 
 Ard. Come, we are almost now at Raynum 
 Down ; 
 Your pretty tale beguiles the weary way, 
 I would you were in ease to tell it out. 
 
 [They are set upon hi/ the Ruffians. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGDON : 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 BY HENRY PORTER. 
 
 Proverh-monger. 
 
 This formal fool, your man, speaks nought but pro- 
 verbs ; 
 And, speak men what they can to him, he '11 answer 
 With some riuie-rotten sentence, or old saying, 
 Such spokes as th' ancient of the parish use ; 
 With ' ' Neighbour, 'tis an old proverb and a true, 
 Goose giblets are good meat, old sack better than new : " 
 Then says another, "Neighbour, that is true." 21 
 And when eacli man hath drunk his gallon round, 
 (A penny pot, for that 's the old man's gallon). 
 Then doth he lick his lips, and stroke his beard, 
 That 's glued together with the slavering drops 
 Of yeasty ale ; and when he scarce can trim 
 His gouty fingers, thus he '11 fillip it. 
 And with a rotten hem say, "Hey my hearts,"
 
 78 HENRY rORTKR. 
 
 "Merry go soiTy," "Cock and Pyo, my hearts ; " 
 
 And tlien their saving-penny-proverb comes, 
 
 And that is tliis, "They that will to the wine, 
 
 By 'r Lady, nii.stre.ss, shall lay their penny to mine." 
 
 This was one of his penny-father's bastards ; 
 
 For on my life he never was begot 
 
 Without the consent of some great Proverb-monger. 
 
 She- Wit. 
 Why, she will flout the devil, and make blush 
 The boldest face of man that e'er man saw. 
 He that hath best opinion of his wit, 10 
 
 And hath his brain-pan fraught with bitter jests 
 (Or of his own, or stol'n, or howsoever). 
 Let him stand ne'er so high in 's own conceit. 
 Her wit 's a sun that melts him down like butter. 
 And makes him sit at table pancake-^\ise, 
 Flat, flat, God knows, and ne'er a word to say ; 
 Yet she '11 not leave him then, but like a tyrant 
 She '11 jjersecute the poor wit-beaten man. 
 And so be-bang him with dry bobs and scoffs, 
 When he is down (most cowardly, good faith !) 20 
 As I have pitied the poor patient. 
 There came a Farmer's son a-wooing to her, 
 A i)roper man, well-landed too he was, 
 A man that for his wit need not to ask 
 What tune a year 'twere need to sow his oats, 
 Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reap. 
 To plow his fallows, or to fell his trees. 
 Well experienced thus each kind of way ; 
 After a two mouths' labom- at the most, 
 (And yet 'twas well he held it out so long), 30 
 
 He left his love ; she had so laced his lips, 
 He could say nothing to her but "God be with ye." 
 Why, she, when men have dined, and call'd for cheese. 
 Will straight maintain jests bitter to digest ; 
 And then some one will fall to argument. 
 Who if he over-master her with reason, 
 Then she'll begin to buflet him with mocks. 
 
 Master Goursey proposes to Ms So7i a Wife. 
 Frank Goursey. Ne'er trust me^ father, the shape of 
 Which I do see in others, seems so severe, [marriage, 
 I dare not put my youngling liberty 40
 
 THE TWO ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGDON. 79 
 
 Under the awe of that instruction ; 
 
 And yet I grant, the limits of free youth 
 
 Going astray are oft restrain'd by that. 
 
 But Mistress "Wedlock, to my summer thoughts, 
 
 Will be too cmst, I fear : should she snip 
 
 My pleasure-aiming mind, I shall be sad, 
 
 And swear, when I did marry, I Mas mad. 
 
 Old Goursey. But, boy, let my experience teach 
 thee this ; 
 (Yet in good faith thou speak'st not much amiss) ; 
 When first thy mother's fame to me did come, 10 
 Thy grandsire thus then came to me his son, 
 And e'en my words to thee to me he said ; 
 And, as thou say'st to me, to him I said 
 But in a gi-eater huff and hotter blood : 
 I tell ye, on youth's tiptoes then I stood. 
 Says he (good faith, this was his very say), 
 " When I was young, I was but Reason's fool ; 
 And went to wedding, as to Wisdom's school : 
 It taught me much, and much I did forget ; 
 But, beaten much by it, I got some wit : 20 
 
 Though I was shackled from an often scout, 
 Yet I would wanton it, when I was out ; 
 'Twas comfort old acquaintance then to meet, 
 Restrained liberty attain'd is sweet." 
 Tims said my father to thy father, son ; 
 And thou may'st do this too, as I have done. 
 
 Wandenng in the darJc all flight, 
 when \x\\\ this same Year of Night have end ? 
 Long-look'd for Day's Sun, when wilt thou ascend ? 
 Let not this thief-friend misty veil of night 
 Encroach on day, and shadow thy fair light ; 30 
 
 Whilst thou com'st tardy from thy Thetis' bed. 
 Blushing forth golden-hair and glorious red. 
 stay not long, bright lanthern of the day, 
 To light my mist-way feet to my right way. 
 
 [The pleasant Comedy, from which these Extracts are 
 taken, is contemporary with some of the earliest of 
 Shakspeare's, and is no whit inferior to either the 
 Comedy of Errors, or the Taming of the Shrew, for 
 instance. It is full of business, humour and merry 
 malice. Its night-scenes are peculiarly sprightly and
 
 80 HENRY PORTER. 
 
 wakeful. The versification unencumbered, and rich 
 with compound epithets. Why do we go on with ever 
 new Editions of Ford, and Massingcr, and the thrice 
 reprinted Selections of Dodsley ? what we want is as 
 many volumes more, as these latter consist of, filled 
 with plays (such as this), of which we know com- 
 paratively nothing. Not a third part of the Treasures 
 of old English Dramatic literature has been exhausted. 
 Are we afraid that the genius of Shakspeare would 
 suffer in our estimate by the disclosiu-e ? He would 
 indeed be somewhat lessened as a miracle and a prodigy. 
 But he would lose no height by the confession. When 
 a Giant is shown to us, does it detract from the curiosity 
 to be told that he has at home a gigantic brood of 
 brethren, less only than himself ? Along wUh him, not 
 from him, sprang up the race of mighty Dramatists 
 who, compared with the Otways and Rowes that 
 followed, were as Miltons to a Young or an Akenside. 
 That he was their elder Brother, not their Parent, is 
 evident from the fact of the very few direct imitations 
 of him to be found in their writings. Webster, Decker, 
 Hey wood, and the rest of his great contemporaries went 
 on their own ways, and followed their individual im- 
 pulses, not blindly prescribing to themselves his track. 
 Marlowe, the true (though imperfect) Father of our 
 tragedij, preceded him. The comedij of Fletcher is 
 essentially unlike to that of his. 'Tis out of no detract- 
 ing spirit that I speak thus, for the plays of Shakspeare 
 have been the strongest and the sweetest food of my 
 mind from infancy ; but I resent the comparative 
 obscurity in which some of his most valuable co- 
 operators remain, who were his dear intimates, his stage 
 and his chamber-fellows while he lived, and to whom 
 his gentle spirit doubtlessly then awarded the full 
 portion of their genius, as from them toward himself 
 appears to have been no grudging of his acknowledged 
 excellence.] 
 
 XIX. (fi). 
 
 EDWARD THE THIRD : AN HISTORICAL PLAY. 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 The King, haviny relieved the Castle of the heroic CoUNTESS 
 OF Salisbury, besieged bii the- Scots, and being enter- 
 tained by her, loves her. 
 
 Edward [solus]. She is gro\v'n more fairer far 
 since I came hither :
 
 EDWARD THE THIRD. 81 
 
 Her voice more silver every word than other, 
 
 Her \\-it more fluent. "What a strange discourse 
 
 Unfolded she of David, and his Scots ! 
 
 E'en thus, quoth she, he spake, and then spake broad 
 
 "With epithets and accents of the Scot ; 
 
 But somewhat better than the Scot could speak : 
 
 And thus, quoth she, and answer'd then herself ; 
 
 For who could speak like her ? but she herself 
 
 Breathes from the wall an angel note from heaven 
 
 Of sweet defiance to her barbarous foes. — 10 
 
 When she would talk of peace, methinks her tongue 
 
 Conmianded war to prison ; when of war. 
 
 It waken'd CiBsar from his Roman grave, 
 
 To liear war beautified by her discourse. 
 
 AVisdom is foolishness, but in her tongue ; 
 
 Beauty a slander, but in her fair face ; 
 
 There is no summer, but in her cheerful looks : 
 
 Xor frosty winter, Init in her disdain. 
 
 I cannot blame the Scots that did besiege her. 
 
 For she is all the treasure of our land : 20 
 
 But call them cowards, that they ran away ; 
 
 Hax-ing so rich and fail- a cause to stay. 
 
 The Countess repeh tlie King's unlaivfal suii. 
 
 C'oun. Sorry I am to see my liege so sad : 
 "What may thy subject do to drive from thee 
 This gloomy consort, sullen ilelancholy ? 
 
 King. Ah Lady ! I am blunt, and cannot strew 
 The flowers of solace in a ground of shame. 
 Since I came hither. Countess, I am wrong'd. 
 
 Coim. Now God forbid that any in ray house 
 Should think my sovereign wrong ! thrice-gentle King 
 Acquaint me ^nth your cause of discontent. 31 
 
 King. How near then shall I be to remedy ? 
 
 C'oicn. As near, my liege, as all my woman's power, 
 Can pa^vn itself to buy thy remedy. 
 
 King. If thou speak'st true, then have I my redress. 
 Engage thy power to redeem my joys. 
 And I am joyful. Countess ; else I die. 
 
 Cou7i. I will, my liege. 
 
 Ki'/ig. Swear, Countess, that thou wilt. 
 
 Coun. By heaven I ^vlll. 40 
 
 Ki'/ig. Then take thyself a little way aside, 
 
 I. t'
 
 82 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 And toll tliyself, a king doth dote on thee. 
 
 Say that within thy ])ower it doth lie 
 
 To make liini liajijjy, and tliat thou liast sworn 
 
 To give him all the joy within thy power. 
 
 Do this ; and tell him, when I shall be ha])jiy. 
 
 Cmm. All this is dune, my thrice-dread sovereign. 
 That ]iower of love, that I have power to give, 
 Thou hast, with all devout obedience. 
 Eni])loy me liow thou M'ilt in jiroof thereof. 
 
 KiiHj. Tliou liear'st me say that I do dote on thee. 
 
 Voun. If on my beauty, take it if thou canst ; 11 
 Thougli little, I do prize it ten times less : 
 If on my virtue, take it if thou canst ; 
 For virtue's store l)y giving dotli augment. 
 Be it on what it will, that I can give, 
 And thou canst take away, inherit it. 
 
 King. It is thy beauty that I would enjoy. 
 
 Caun. were it painted, I ^vould wipe it off, 
 And dis})0ssess myself to give it thee ; 
 But, sovereign, it is solder'd to my life : 20 
 
 Take one, and both ; for, like an humble shadow, 
 It haunts the sunshine of my summer's life. 
 
 King. But thou may'st lend it me to sjiort withal. 
 
 Cmm. As easy may my intellectual soul 
 Be lent away, and yet my body live. 
 As lend my body (palace to my soul) 
 Away from her, and yet retain my soul. 
 My body is her ])ower, her court, her abbey, 
 And she an angel, pure, divine, unspotted ; 
 If I should lend lier house, my lord, to thee, 30 
 
 I kill my jioor soul, and my poor soul me. 
 
 King. Didst thou not swear to give nie what I 
 would ? 
 
 Co'im. I did, my liege, so what you would, I could. 
 
 King. I wish no more of thee, than thou may'st 
 give ; 
 Nor beg I do not, but I rather Vuiy ; 
 That is thy love ; and for that love of thine 
 In rich exchange, I tender to thee mine. 
 
 Coun. But that your lij)s were sacred, my Lord, 
 You would profane the holy name of love. 
 That love, you offer me, you cannot give ; 40 
 
 For Cresar owes that tribute to his Queen.
 
 EDWARD THE THIRD. 83 
 
 That love, you beg of me, I cannot give ; 
 
 For Sara owes that duty to her Lord. 
 
 He, that doth clip or counterfeit your stamji, 
 
 Shall die, my Lord : and shall your sacred self 
 
 Commit high treason 'gainst the King of heaven, 
 
 To stamp his image in forbidden metal, 
 
 Forgetting you allegiance and your oath ? 
 
 In violating marriage' sacred law. 
 
 You break a greater honour than yourself. 
 
 To he a King, is of a younger house 10 
 
 Than To be married : your progenitor, 
 
 Sole-reigning Adam on tlie imiverse. 
 
 By God was honour'd, for a married man 
 
 But not by him anointed for a king. 
 
 It is a penalty to break your statutes, 
 
 Tho' not enacted with your Highness' hand ; 
 
 How much more to infringe the holy act. 
 
 Made by the mouth of God, seal'd with his hand. 
 
 I know my sovereign, in my husband's love. 
 
 Who now doth loyal service in his wars, 20 
 
 Doth but to try the wife of Salisbury, 
 
 Whether she will hear a wanton's tale or no : 
 
 Lest being therein guilty by my stay. 
 
 From that, not from my liege, I turn away. 
 
 ****** 
 King. Whether is her beauty by her words divine ? 
 Or are her words sweet chaplains to her beauty ? 
 Like as the wind doth beautify a sail. 
 And as a sail becomes the unseen wind. 
 So do her words her beauties, beauties words. 
 
 ****** 
 Coun. He hath sworn me by the name of God 30 
 To break a vow made by the name of God. 
 What if I swear by this right hand of mine 
 To cut this right hand off ? the better way 
 Were to profane the idol, than confound it. 
 
 Flatterii, 
 
 Thou World, gi-eat nurse of flattery, 
 
 Why dost thou tip men's tongues with golden words 
 And poise their deeds with weight of heavy lead, 
 Tliat fair performance cannot follow promise ? 
 that a man might hold the heart's close book 
 And choke the lavish tongue, when it doth utter 40 
 The^l)reath of falsehood, not character'd there !
 
 84 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 Sin, leorst in High Place. 
 An honourable grave is more esteemed, 
 Tlian the polhited closet of a king ; 
 The greater man, the greater is the thing, 
 Be it good or had, that he shall undertake. 
 An unreputed mote, flying in the sun. 
 Presents a greater substance than it is ; 
 The freshest sunmier's day doth soonest taint 
 Tlie loathed carrion, that it seems to kiss ; 
 Dee]i are the blows made with a mighty axe ; 
 That sin does ten times aggravate itself, 10 
 
 That is committed in a holy place ; 
 An evil deed done by authority 
 Is sin, and subornation ; deck an a]">e 
 In tissue, and the beauty of the robe 
 Adds but the gieater scorn unto the beast ; 
 The poison sheweth worst in a golden cup ; 
 Dark night seems darker by the lightning Hash ; 
 Lilies that fester, smell far' worse tluxn weeds. 
 And every Glory, that inclines to Sin, 
 The shame is treble by the opposite. 20 
 
 XX. (G.) 
 
 THE WARS OF CYRUS : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 Dumb sloow exploded. 
 
 Chorus {to the Atidience). Xenophon .... 
 
 Warrants what we record of Panthea. 
 
 It is OT-it in sad and tragic terms. 
 
 May move you tears : then you content our Muse, 
 
 That scorns to trouble you again ^nth toys 
 
 Or needless antics, imitations, 
 
 Or shows, or new devises spnmg o' late ; 
 
 We have exiled them from oiu- tragic stage. 
 
 As trash of then- tradition, that can bring 
 
 Nor instance nor excuse : for what they do,* 30 
 
 * So I point it; instead of the line, as it stands in this unique 
 
 copy — 
 
 Nor instance nor excuse for-wliat they do. 
 
 The sense I take to be, what the common plapmghts do (or shew 
 by aftion— the " inexplicable dumb show " of Shakspeare— ), our 
 Chorus relates. The followinK lines have else no coherence.
 
 TWO TRAGEDIES IN ONE. 85 
 
 Instead of mournful plaints our Chorus sings ; 
 Although it be against tlie upstart guise, 
 Yet, warranted by grave antiquity, 
 "We will revive the which hath long been done. 
 
 XXI. (G.) 
 
 TWO TRAGEDIES IN ONE. 
 
 BY ROBERT YARRINGTON. 
 
 Truth, the Chonia, to the Spectators. 
 
 All you, the sad spectators of this act, 
 
 Wliose hearts do taste a feeling pensiveness 
 
 Of this unheard-of savage massacre : 
 
 Oh, be far off to harbour such a thought, 
 
 As this audacious murderer put in ure ! 
 
 I see your sorrows flow up to the brim, 10 
 
 And overflow your cheeks with In-inish tears : 
 
 But though this sight liring surfeit to the eye. 
 
 Delight your ears with pleasing harmony, 
 
 That ears may countercheck your eyes, and say, 
 
 "Why shed you tears ? this deed is but a Play."* 
 
 Mm-derer to hi<: Sister, about to stoio avMy the trunhqfthe 
 body, haclng severed it from the limbs. 
 
 Hark, Rachel ! I -will cross the water straight, 
 And fling this middle mention of a man 
 Into some ditch. 
 
 [It is curious, that this old Play comprises the distinct 
 action of two Atrocities ; the one a vulgar murder, 
 committed in our own Thames Street, with tUe names 
 and incidents truly and historically set down ; the other 
 a Murder in high Ufa, supposed to be acting at the same 
 time in Italy, the scenes alternating between that 
 country and England : the Story of the latter is mutatis 
 mutandis no other than that of our own "Babes in the 
 
 * The whole theory of the reason of our delight in Tragic 
 Representations, which has cost so many elaborate chapters 
 of Criticism, is condensed in these four last lines: Aristotle 
 quintessentialised.
 
 86 HENRY CHETTLE AND ANTHONY MUNDAY. 
 
 Wood," transferred to Italy, from delicacy no doubt to 
 some of the family of the rich Wicked Uncle, who 
 might yet be living-. The treatment of the two differs 
 as the romance-like narratives in "God's Revenge 
 against Murder," in which the Actoi-s of the Murders 
 (with the trifling exception that they were Murderers) 
 are represented as most accomplished and every way 
 amiable young Gentlefolks of either sex — as much as 
 ihat differs from the honest unglossing pages of the 
 homely Newgate Ordinary.] 
 
 XXII. (g.) 
 
 THE DOWNFALL OF ROBERT, EARL OF 
 HUNTINGDON : AN HISTORICAL PLAY. 
 
 BY HENRY CHETTLE AND ANTHONY MUNDAY. 
 
 Chorus ; Skelton, the Poet. 
 
 Hkclton {to the Audience). The youth that leads 
 yon virgin by the liand. 
 As doth tlie Sim the Morning richly clad, 
 Is our Earl Robert— or your Robin Hood — 
 That in those days was Earl of Huntingdon. 
 
 Robin recotutfs to Marian tlie pletuiures ofafurest life. 
 
 Robin. Marian, tliou see'st, tho' couj-tly pleasures 
 want, 
 Yet country sjjort in Sherwood is not scant : 
 For the soul-ravishing delicious sound 
 Of instrumental music, we have found 
 The winged quiristers, Avith divers notes 
 Sent fi-om their quaint recording pretty throats, 10 
 On every branch that compasseth our bower, 
 Without command contenting us each liom\ 
 For arras hangings and rich tapestry, 
 We have sweet Nature's best embroidery. 
 For thy steel glass, wherein thou wont'st to look. 
 Thy crystal eyes gaze in a crystal brook. 
 At Court a flower or two did deck thy head ; 
 Now with whole garlands it is circled : 
 For what we want in wealth, we have in flowers ; 
 And what we lose in halls, we find in bowers. 20
 
 DOWNFALL OF ROBERT, EARL OF HUNTINGDON. 87 
 
 Marian. Marian hath all, sweet Robert, having 
 thee ; 
 And guesses thee as rich in having me. 
 
 Scarlet recounts to Scathlock the pleasures of aii 
 
 Outlaw's life. 
 Scarlet. It's full seven year since we were out- 
 laws lirst, 
 And wealthy Sherwood was our heritage. 
 For all those years we reigned uncontroU'd, 
 From Barnsdale shrogs to Nottingham's red cliffs. 
 At Blithe and Tickliill were we welcome guests ; 
 Good George -a-green at Bradford was our friend, 
 And wanton Wakefield's Pinner loved us well. 
 At Barnsley dwells a Potter tough and strong, 10 
 That never brook'd we bretliren should have ^vl•ong. 
 The nuns of Farnstield, pretty mms they be, 
 Gave napkins, shirts, and bauds, to him and me. 
 Bateman of Kendal gave us Kendal green, 
 And Sharpe of Leeds sharp arrows for us made. 
 At Rotherhara dwelt our Bo\\-yer, God him bliss ; 
 Jackson he hight, his bows did never miss. 
 
 FiTZWATER, banished, seeking his dawjhter MATILDA 
 (Robin's Marian) iji the forest of Shertoood, makes his 
 complaint. 
 Fitz. Well did he write, and mickle did he know, 
 Tliat said " This world's felicity was woe, 
 Which greatest states can hardly undergo." 20 
 
 Whilom Fitzwater in fair England's court 
 Possessed felicity and happy state, 
 And in his hall blithe Fortune kept her sport ; 
 Which glee one hour of woe did ruinate. 
 Fitzwater once had castles, towns, and towers ; 
 Fair gardens, orchards, and delightful bowers ; 
 But now nor garden, orchard, to\\'n, nor tower. 
 Hath poor Fitzwater left within his power. 
 Only wide walks are left nre in the world, 
 Which these stiff Unibs will hardly let me tread : 30 
 And when I sleep, lieaven's glorious canopy 
 ]\Ie and my mossy couch doth overs^jread. 
 
 He discovers Robin Hood sleepnng ; Marian strencing 
 
 Jloicers over him. 
 Fitz. — in good time see where my comfort stands.
 
 88 HENRY CHETTLE AND ANTHONY MUNDAY. 
 
 And Ity her lius dejected Ilmitiii^rdon. 
 
 Look liow my Flower holds tioweis in her hands, 
 
 And flings those sweets upon my sleeping son. 
 
 Fi'igiix himself blind, to tri/ if she. will kiimo him. 
 
 Mar. What aged man art thou ? or by what chance 
 Camest thou thus far into the waylcss wood ? 
 
 Fitz. Widow, or wile, or maiden, if thou be ; 
 Lend me thy hand : thou see'st I cannot see. 
 Blessing betide tliee ! little feel'st thou want : 
 With me, good child, food is l)oth hard and scant. 
 These smooth even veins assure me, lie is kind, 10 
 Whate'er he be, my girl, that thee doth find. 
 I, ])oor and old, am reft of all earth's good : 
 And desperately am cre])t into tliis wood, 
 To seek the poor man's i)atron, Rol)in Hood. 
 
 Mar. And thou art welcome, welcome, aged man, 
 Aye ten times welcome to Maid Marian. 
 Here 's wine to cheer thy heart ; drink, aged man. 
 There 's venison, and a knife ; here 's manchet fine. — 
 Drink, good old man, I jiray you, drink more wine. 
 My Robin stirs : I must sing him asleep. '20 
 
 A Judgmenf. 
 A Wlcl-e.d Prior. Sennngman. 
 
 Prior. What news with you. Sir ? 
 
 Serv. Ev'n heavy news, my Lord ; for the light- 
 ning's fire. 
 Falling in manner of a fire-drake 
 Ujion a barn of yours, hath bm-nt six barns, 
 And not a strike of corn reserv'd from dust. 
 No hand could save it ; yet ten thousand hands 
 Labour'd their best, though none for love of you : 
 For every tongue with bitter cursing liann'd 
 Your Lordship, as the viper of the land. 
 
 Prior. What meant tlie villains ? 30 
 
 Serv. Thus and thus they cried : 
 "Upon tliis churl, this hoarder up of com. 
 This spoiler of the Earl of Huntingdon, 
 This lust-defiled, merciless, false Prior, 
 Heav'n raineth judgnrent do^\^l in shape of fire." 
 Old ^^•ives that scarce could with their crutches creep. 
 And little babes that newly learn'd to speak. 
 Men masterless that thorough want did weep,
 
 Hoffman's tragedy. 89 
 
 All in one voice witli a confused cry 
 In execrations bann'd yon bitterly. 
 " Plague follow plague," they cried ; "he hath un- 
 done 
 The good Lord Rol)ert, Earl of Huntingdon." 
 
 XXIII. (g.) 
 
 HOFFMAN'S TRAGEDY ; ok, REVENGE FOR 
 
 A FATHER. 
 
 BY HENRY CHETTLE. 
 
 The Sous of the Duke oi Saxony run aurii/ with Lucibel, 
 the Duke of Austria's Dauijhier. — The two Dukes, iv 
 separate pursuit of their children, meet at the Cell of a 
 Hermit : iti which Hermit, Saxony recognises a ban- 
 islted Brother ; at ichich surprised, all three are recon- 
 ciled. 
 
 Anst. That should be Sax'ny's tongue. 
 
 Sax. Indeed I am the Duke of Saxony. 
 
 AhsI. Then thou art father to lascivious sons, 
 That have made Austria childless. 
 
 Sax. Oh subtle Duke, 
 Thy craft appears in framing thy excuse. 10 
 
 Thou dost accuse my young sons' innocence. 
 I sent them to get knowledge, learn the tongues, 
 Not to be metamorphosed with the view 
 Of flattering Beauty — peradventure painted. 
 
 Atist. No, I defy thee, John of Saxony. 
 My Lucibel for beauty needs no art ; 
 Nor, do I think, the beauties of her mind 
 Ever inclin'd to this ignoble course, 
 But by the charms and forcings of thy sons. 
 
 Sax. would thou durst maintain thy words, 
 prond Duke ! 20 
 
 Her. I hope, great princes, neither of you dare 
 Commit a deed so sacrilegious. 
 This holy Cell 
 
 Is dedicated to tlie Prince of Peace. 
 The foot of war never profan'd this floor ; 
 Nor doth \\Tath here with his consuming voice 
 Affright these buildings. Charity with Prayer,
 
 90 HENRY CHETTLE. 
 
 Humility Avith Abstinence combined, 
 Are here the f^nardians of a grieved mind. 
 
 Aust. Father, we do obey thy holy voice. 
 Duke John of Saxony, receive my faith ; 
 Till our ears hear the true course, that thy sons 
 Have taken with my fond and misled child, 
 I proclaim truce. Why dost thou sullen stand ? 
 If thou mean peace, give me thy princely hand. 
 
 Sax. Thus do I plight thee troth, and promise 
 peace. 
 
 Aust. Nay, but thy eyes agree not with thy heart. 
 In vows of combination there 's a grace, 11 
 
 That shews th' intention in the outward face. 
 Look cheerfully, or I expect no league. 
 
 Sax. First give me leave to view awhile the person 
 Of this same Hermit — Austria, view him well. 
 Is he not like my brother Roderic ? 
 
 Aust. He 's like him. But I heard, he lost his life 
 Long since in Persia by the Sophy's wars. 
 
 Her. I heard so much, my lord. But that report 
 "Was purely feign'd ; spread by my erring tongue, 20 
 As double as my heart, when I was young. 
 I am that Roderick, that aspir'd your throne ; 
 That vile false brother, that with rebel breath. 
 Drawn sword, and treach'rous heart, threaten'd your 
 death. 
 
 Sax, My brother ! — nay then 1' faith, old John lay 
 
 Thy sorrowing thoughts ; turn to thy wonted vein, 
 And be mad John of Saxony again, 
 ^lad Roderic, art alive ? — my mother s son, 
 Her joy, and her last birth! — oh, she conjured me 
 To use thee thus ; [embracing himl and yet I ban- 
 ished thee.— .30 
 Body o' me ! I was unkind, I know ; 
 But thou deserv'dst it then : but let it go. 
 Say thou wilt leave this life, thus truly idle. 
 And live a statesman ; thou shalt share in reign, 
 Commanding all but me thy Sovereign. 
 
 Her. I thank your highness ; I \v\\\ think on it : 
 But for my sins this sufferance is_ more fit. 
 
 Sax. Tut, tittle tattle, tell not me of sin. — 
 Now, Austria, once again thy jnincely hand :
 
 lust's dominion. 91 
 
 I '11 look tliee in the face, and smile ; and swear, 
 If either of my sons have wrong'd thy child, 
 I '11 help thee in revenging it myself. 
 But if, as I believe, they mean but honour, 
 (As it appeareth by these jousts proclaim'd,) 
 Then shalt thou be content to name* him thine. 
 And thy fair daugliter I '11 accoimt as mine. 
 
 Aust. Agreed. 
 
 Sax. Ah, Austria ! 'twas a world, when you and I 
 Ran these careers ; but now we're stiff and dry. 10 
 
 Aust. I 'm glad you are so pleasant, good my lord. 
 
 Sax. 'Twas my old mood : but I was soon turn'd 
 sad 
 With over-grieving for this long lost lad, — 
 And now the boy is grown as old as I ; 
 His very face as full of gi-avity. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 LUST'S DOMINION ; or, THE LASCIVIOUS 
 (.iUEEN : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 FORMERLY ASCRIBED TO CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 The Queen Mother of Spain loves an insolent MooR.f 
 QOEEN. — Eleazar f/ic Moor, 
 
 Queen. Chime out your softest strains of harmony. 
 And on delicious Music's silken wings 
 Send ravishing delight to my love's ears, 
 That he may be enamour'd of your tmies. 
 
 Elmz. Away, away. 20 
 
 Queen. No, no, says aye ; and t\vice away says stay. 
 Come, come, I '11 have a kiss ; but if you '11 strive, 
 For one denial you shall forfeit five. 
 
 Elcaz. Be gone, be gone. 
 
 Queen. What means my love ? 
 Burst all those wires ; burn all those instruments ; 
 For they displease my Moor. Art thou now pleas'd. 
 Or wert thou now disturbed ? I '11 wage all S]iain 
 
 * By one of the Duke's sons (her Lover) in honour of Lucibel. 
 t Such another as Aaron in Titus Andronicus.
 
 92 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 To one sweet kiss, this is some new device 
 To make nie fond and long. Oh, you men 
 Have tricks to make j)Oor women die for you. 
 
 Eleaz. What, die for me ? Away. 
 
 Queen. Away, \vliat way ? I prithee, speak more 
 Why dost thou frown ? at whom ? [kindly. 
 
 Elexiz. At thee. 
 
 Queen. At me ? 
 
 why at me ? for each contracted frown, 
 
 A crooked WTinkle hiterline.s my brow : 10 
 
 Spend but one hour in frowns, and I shall look 
 Like to a Beldam of one hundred years. 
 
 1 prithee, speak to me, and chide me not, 
 I prithee, chide, if I have done amiss ; 
 But let my punishment be this, and this, 
 I prithee, smile on me, if but a while ; 
 
 Then frown on me, I '11 die. I prithee, smile. 
 
 Smile on me ; and these two wanton boys, 
 
 These pretty lads that do attend on me. 
 
 Shall call thee Jove, shall wait upon tliy cup 20 
 
 And fill thee nectar : their enticing eyes 
 
 Shall serve as crystal, wherein thou may'st see 
 
 To dress thyself, if thou wilt smile on me. 
 
 Smile on me, and with coronets of pearl 
 
 And bells of gold, circling their pretty arms, 
 
 In a round ivory fount these two shall swim, 
 
 And dive to make thee sport : 
 
 Bestow one smile, one little little smile, 
 
 And in a net of twisted silk and gold, 
 
 In my all-naked amis, thyself shalt lie, 30 
 
 [Kit Marlowe, as old Izaak Walton assures us, made 
 that smooth sonrf which begins " Come live with me and 
 be my love." The same romantic invitations "in folly 
 ripe in reason rotten," are given by the queen in the 
 play, and the lover in the ditty. He talks of " beds of 
 roses, buckles of gold ; " 
 
 Thy silver dishes for thy meat 
 As preciovs as the Gods do eat, 
 Shall on an ivory table be 
 Prepared each day for thee and me. 
 The lines in the extract have a luscious smoothness in 
 them, and they were the most temperate which I could 
 pick out of this Play. The rest is in King Cambyses'
 
 DOCTOR DODTPOL. 93 
 
 vein; rape, and murder, and superlatives; "huffing 
 braggart puft " lines,* such as the play-writers anterior 
 to Shakspeare are full of, and Pistol ' ' but coldly imi- 
 tates." Blood is made as light of in some of these old 
 dramas as moneii in a modern sentimental comedy ; and 
 as (his is given away till it reminds us that it is nothing 
 but counters, so tliat is spilt till it affects us no more 
 than its representative, the paint of the property-man 
 in the theatre.] 
 
 XXV. (g.) 
 DOCTOR DODYPOL : A COMEDY. 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 Earl Lassenburgh, as a Painter, jKdntmg his 
 Mistress al grotesco. 
 
 Lass. Welcome bright Morn, that with thy golden 
 rays 
 Reveal'st the radiant colours of the world. 
 Look here, and see if thou canst find dispers'd 
 The glorious parts of fair Lucilia ! 
 Take them, and join tliem in the heavenly spheres ; 
 And fix them there as an eternal light. 
 For lovers to adore and wonder at. 
 
 Luc. You paint your flattering words, Lord Lassen- 
 burgh, 
 ^Making a curious pencil of your tongue ; 
 And that fair artificial hand of yours 10 
 
 Were fitter to have painted Heaven's fine story, 
 
 * Take a specimen from a speech of the Moor's: — 
 Now Tragedy, thou minion of the night, 
 Rhamnusia's pew-fellow, to tliee I '11 aing 
 Upon an harp made of dead Spanish bones, 
 The proudest instrument the world affords ; 
 When thou in crimson jollity shall bathe 
 Thy limbs as blacit as mine, in springs of blood 
 Still gushing from the conduit-head of Spain. 
 To thee that never blush'st, though thy cheeks 
 Are full of blood, Saint Revenge, to thee 
 I consecrate my murders, all my stabs. 
 My bloody labours, tortures, stratagems, 
 The volume of all wounds that wound from me ; 
 Mine is the Stage, thine is the Tragedy.
 
 94 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 Than here to work on antics, and on me : 
 Tims for my sake you of a noble Earl 
 Are glad to lie a mercenary Painter. 
 
 Lass. A Painter, fair Lneilia : why, tlie world 
 With all her beanty was by painting made. 
 Look on the heavens colour'd with golden stars, 
 The tirmameutal ground of it, all blue. 
 Look on the air, where with an hundred changes 
 The watery rainbow doth emlirace the earth. 
 Look on the summer fields, adorn'd with flowers, 10 
 How much is Nature's painting honour'd there. 
 Look in the mines, and on the eastern shore. 
 Where all our metals and dear gems are drawn ; 
 Though fair themselves, made better by their foils. 
 Look on that little world, the Two-fold Man, 
 Whose fairer i)arcel is the weaker still ; 
 And see what azure veins in stream-like form 
 Divide the rosy beauty of the skin. 
 I speak not of the sundry shapes of beasts ; 
 The several colours of the elements, 20 
 
 Whose mixtiu'e shapes the world's variety, 
 In making all things by their colours known. 
 And, to conclude, — Nature herself divine 
 In all things she hath made is a mere Painter. 
 
 Luc. Now by this kiss, th' admu-er of thy skill, 
 Thou art well worthy th' honour thou hast given 
 With so sweet words to thy e^-e-ravishing Art ; 
 Of which my l>eauties can deserve no part. 
 
 Lass. From these base antics, where my hand hath 
 'spersed 
 Thy several parts, if I, uniting all, 30 
 
 Had figured there the true Lucilia, 
 Then mightst thou justly wonder at my art ; 
 And devout people would from far rejjair, 
 Like pilgrims, with their duteous sacrifice, 
 Adorning thee as regent of their loves. 
 Here in the centre of this marigold 
 Like a bright diamond I enchased thine eye. 
 Here, imderneath this little rosy bush 
 Thy crimson cheeks peer forth, more fair than it. 
 Here, Cupid hanging down his Aviugs doth sit, 10 
 Comparing cherries to thy ruljy lips. 
 Here is thy brow, thy hair, thy neck, thy hand.
 
 DOCTOR DODTPOL. 95 
 
 Of pui-pose in all several shrouds dispersed ! 
 Lest lavish'd I should dote on mine own work, 
 Or en-vy-buming eyes should malice it. 
 
 A Cameo described. 
 See, then, my lord, this Agate, that contains 
 The image of the Goddess and her Son, 
 Whom ancients held the Sovereigns of Love. 
 See naturally wrought out of the stone, 
 Besides the perfect shajie of every limb, 
 Besides the wondrous life of her bright hair, 
 A waving mantle of celestial l)lue, 10 
 
 Embroidering itself v.ith flaming stars. 
 JMost excellent ! and see besides, my lord, 
 How Cupid's wings do spring out of the stone, 
 As if tliey needed not the help of Art. 
 
 Eakl L^vssenburgh, for some distaste, flees LUCILIA, ^vho 
 follows him. 
 
 Lass. "Wilt thou not cease then to pursue me still ? 
 Should I entreat thee to attend me thus, 
 Then thou would'st jiant and rest ; then your soft feet 
 Would be repining at these niggard stones : 
 Now I forbid thee, thou pursuest like wind ; 
 No tedious space of time, nor storm can tire thee. 20 
 But I will seek out some higli slippeiy close. 
 Where every step shall reach the gate of death. 
 That fear may make thee cease to follow me. 
 
 Luc. There will I bodiless be, when you are there ; 
 For love despiseth death, and seorneth fear. 
 
 Lass. I '11 wander where some desperate river pai'ts 
 This solid continent, and swim from thee. 
 
 Zmc. And there I '11 follow, though I dro^ra for thee. 
 ****** 
 
 Lass. weary of the way, and of my life. 
 Where sliall I rest my sorrow'd, tired limbs ? 30 
 
 Imc. Rest in my bosom, rest you here, my lord ; 
 A place securer you can nowhere find — 
 
 Lass. Nor more unfit for my unjileased mind. 
 A heavy slumber calls me to the eaith ; 
 Here -will I sleep, if sleep will harbour here. 
 
 Luc. Unhealthful is the melancholy earth ; 
 
 let my lord rest on Lucilia's lap. 
 
 1 '11 help to slxield you from the searching air. 
 And keep the cold damps from your gentle bloc
 
 96 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 Lass. I'l-ay thee away ; for, whilst thou art so near, 
 No sleej) will seize on my susjncious eyes. 
 
 L^ic. Sleeji then ; and I am pleased far off to sit. 
 Like to a })oor and forloi-n sentinel, 
 Watching the unthankful sleej), that severs me 
 From my due jiart of rest, dear Love, with thee. 
 
 All Enchanter, who is eiunmured of Lucilia, clmrnis (he 
 Earl to a dead sleep, and Lucilia to a forgetfidmss of 
 her past lore. 
 
 Eneh. {to Lassenbuikjii). Lie there ; and lose the 
 memory of her. 
 Who likewise hath forgot the love of thee 
 By my enchantments. Come, sit down, fair Nymph, 
 And taste the sweetness of these heav'nly cates, 10 
 Whilst from the hollow crannies of this rock 
 ilusic shall sound to recreate my love. 
 But tell me, had you ever lover yet ? 
 
 Luc. I liad a Lover, I think ; but who it was, 
 Or where, or how long since, ah me ! I know not : 
 Yet beat my timorous thoughts on such a thing. 
 I feel a passionate heat, yet find no flame ; 
 Think what I knovv- not, nor know what I think. 
 
 Ench. Hast thou forgot me then ? I am thy Love, — 
 Whom sweetly thou wert wont to entertain 20 
 
 With looks, with vows of love, with amorous kisses. 
 Look'st thou so strange ? dost thou not know me yet ? 
 
 Luc. Sure I should know you. 
 
 Ench. Why, Love, doubt you that ? 
 'Twas I that led you* thro' the painted meads, 
 Where the light fairies danced ujjon the flowers, 
 Hanging on every leaf an orient pearl, 
 Which, struck together with the silken ^\■ind 
 Of their loose mantles, made a silver chime. 
 'Twas I that, winding my shrill bugle horn, 30 
 
 Made a gilt palace break out of the hill, 
 Fill'd suddenly with troops of kniglits and dames. 
 Who danced and revel'd ; whilst we sM'eetly slept 
 Upon a bed of roses, wapt all in gold. 
 Dost thou not know me yet ? 
 
 Iaic. Yes, now I know you. 
 
 Ench. Come then, confirm thy- knowledge with a 
 kiss. 
 
 * In charmed visions.
 
 JACK drum's entertainment. 97 
 
 Luc. Xay, stay ; you are not he ; how strange is 
 this ! 
 
 Ench. Thou art gro^\■n passing strange, my love, 
 To him that made thee so long since his bride. 
 
 Luc. was it you ? come then. stay awhile. 
 I know not where I am, nor what I am ; 
 Nor you, nor these I know, nor any thing. 
 
 XXVI. (g.) 
 JACK DRUM'S ENTERTAINMENT : A COMEDY. 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 Tliefree Immovr of a Nolle Uousel-eeper, 
 
 Fortune {a Knight). I was not born to be my 
 cradle's drudge. 
 To choke and stifle uji my pleasure's breath, 
 To poison with the venom'd cares of thrift 
 My jirivate sweet of life : only to scrape 10 
 
 A heap of nuick, to fatten and manure 
 The barren virtues of my jirogeny. 
 And make them s]irout 'spite of their want of worth ; 
 No, I do A\-ish my girls should wish me live ; 
 "Which few do wisli that have a greedy sire. 
 But still expect, and gape with hungiy lip, 
 Wlien he '11 give u^) his gouty stewardship. 
 
 Friend. You touch the quick of sense, but then I 
 Avonder, 
 You not aspire unto the eminence 
 And height of jileasing life. To court, to court — 20 
 Tliere burnish, tliere spread, there stick in pomp. 
 Like a bright diamond in a lady's brow. 
 There i)lant your fortunes in the flow'ring spring. 
 And get the Sun before you of Respect. 
 There trench yourself within the people's love, 
 And glitter in the eye of glorious gi-ace. 
 What 's wealth without respect and mounted place ? 
 
 Fort. Worse and worse ! — I am not yet distraught, 
 1 long not to be squeez'd with mine own weiglit. 
 Nor hoist up all my sails to catch the wind 30 
 
 Of the drunk reeling Commons. I labour not 
 To liave an awful presence, nor be feared, 
 
 I. G 
 
 X
 
 98 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 Since wlio is fear'd still i\-im to b(' so fciired. 
 
 I care not to bo like tli:; Horeb cult', 
 
 One day adored, and next ])aslit all in pieces. 
 
 Nor do I envy Polypbenuan jiuHs, 
 
 Switzers' slojit gi'eatncss. I adoi'e the Snii, 
 
 Vet love to live within a tennierate zone. 
 
 Let ^s•ho will climb ambition's glibbery rounds, 
 
 And lean upon the vulgar's rotten love, 
 
 I '11 not corrival him. The Sun will give 
 
 As great a shadow to my trunk as his ; 10 
 
 And after death, like Chessmen having stood 
 
 In play, for Bisho])S some, for Knights, and Pawns, 
 
 "We all together shall be tumbled up 
 
 Into one bag ; 
 
 Let hush'd-calin quiet rock my life asleep ; 
 
 And, being dead, my own giound press my bones ; 
 
 AVhilst some old beldame, hol)l)ling o'er my grave, 
 
 May mumble thus : 
 
 "Here lies a Knight whose JMoney was his slave." 
 
 XXVII. (g.) 
 SIR GILES GOOSECAP : A COMEDY. 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 Frietidskip in a Lord ; modesty in a Gentleman. 
 
 Clarence [to some jnusicians]. Thanks, gentle 
 friends ; 20 
 
 Is your good lord, and nune, gone up to bed yet ? 
 Momford. I do assure you not, sir, not yet, not 
 yet, my deep and studious friend, not yet, 
 musical Clai-ence. 
 Clar. My lord — 
 
 Mom. Nor yet thou sole di-\'ider of my lordship. 
 Clar. That were a most unlit division, 
 And far above the pitch of my low plumes. 
 I am yonr bold and constant guest, my lord. 
 
 Mom. Far, far from bold, Ibr thou hast known me 
 long, _ 30 
 
 Almost these twenty years, and half those years 
 Hast been my bedfellow, long time before
 
 LINGUA. 99 
 
 This unseen thing, this thing of nought, imleed, 
 Or atom, call'd my Lordship, shined in me ; 
 And yet thou niak'st thyself as little bold 
 To take such kindness, as becomes the age 
 And truth of our indissoluble love, 
 As our acquaintance sprang but yesterday ; 
 Such is thy gentle and too tender spirit. 
 
 Clar. My lord, my Avant of courtship makes me 
 fear 
 I should be rude ; and this my mean estate 
 Meets '^A'ith such envy and detraction, 10 
 
 Such misconstructions and resolv'd misdooms 
 Of my poor worth, that should I be advanced 
 Beyond my unseen lowness but one hair, 
 I should be torn injiicces by the spirits 
 That fly in ill-lung'd tempests thro' the world, 
 Tearing the liead of virtue from her shoulders, 
 If she but look out of the gi-ound of glory ; 
 'TxA'ixt whom, and me, and every worldly fortune, 
 There fights such sour and curst antipathy, 
 So waspish and so petulant a star, 20 
 
 That all things tending to my grace and good 
 Are ravish'd from their object, as I were 
 A thing created for a wilderness, 
 And must not think of any place with men. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 LINGUA : A COMEDY. 
 
 by john tomkins. 
 
 Languages. 
 
 The ancient Heljrew, clad with mysteries ; 
 The learned Greek, rich in fit eijithets. 
 Blest in the lovely marriage of pure words ; 
 The Chaldee wise, the Araljian ])hysical, 
 The Roman eloquent, and Tuscan grave, 
 The braving Spanish, and the smooth-tongued 
 French- 30
 
 100 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 Tragedy and Comedy. 
 
 Fellows both, hotli twins, but so unlike 
 
 As birth to death, wedding to funeral : 
 
 P'or this that rears hiniself in Ituskins quaint, 
 
 Is jilcasant at the first, proud in the midst, 
 
 Stately in all, and bitter death at end. 
 
 That in tlie puni[)S doth frown at first acquaintance. 
 
 Trouble the midst, l>ut in the end concludes 
 
 Closing n]> all with a sweet catastroi)he. 
 
 This grave and sad, distained with ))rinish tears : 
 
 That light and quick, with wrinkled laughter painted : 
 
 This deals with noblei^, kings, and emperors, 11 
 
 Full of great fears, gieat hojies, great enteriuizes ; 
 
 This other trades with men of mean condition, 
 
 His fjrojects small, small hopes, and dangers little : 
 
 This gorgeous, broider'd with rich sentences ; 
 
 That fair, and piirfled round with merriments. 
 
 Both vice detect, and virtue beautify, 
 
 By being death's mirror, and life's looking-glass. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON. 
 
 MiLLlSiJNT, the fair dauffhter of Clare, u-as betrothed, 
 with the consent of her parents, to Raymond, son 
 
 of MOUNCHENSEY ; hut the elder MOUNCHENSBY, 
 
 beincf since falloi in his fminnes, Clare revokes Ms 
 consent, and i)lots a marriage for his daughter vilh the 
 rich heir of Jerningham. Peter Fabel, a good 
 magician, who had been Tutor to yovng Raymond 
 Mounchensey at College, deteiinines bi/ the aid of 
 his art to assist his pupil in obtaining fair MiLLlSENT. 
 
 Peter Fabel, solus. 
 Fab. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill, 
 That for thy bounty, and thy royal parts, 20 
 
 Thy kind alliance should lie held in scorn ; 
 
 * It has been ascribed without much proof to Shakspeare, and 
 to Michael Drayton.
 
 THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON. 101 
 
 And after all these promises my Clare 
 
 Refuse to give his daughter to thy son, 
 
 Only because thy revenues cannot reach 
 
 To make her dowage of so rich a jointure, 
 
 As can the heir of wealthy Jerningham ? 
 
 And therefore is the false fox now in hand 
 
 To strike a match betwixt her and the other, 
 
 And the old grey-beards now are close together, 
 
 Plotting in the garden. Is it even so ? 
 
 Raymond lloimchensey, boy, have thou and I 10 
 
 Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts, 
 
 The metaphysics, magic, and those parts 
 
 Of the most secret deep philosophy ? 
 
 Have I so many melancholy nights 
 
 "Watch'd on the top of Peter-House highest tower? 
 
 And come we back unto our native home. 
 
 For want of skill to lose the wench thou lovest ? 
 
 We'll first hang Envil* in such rings of mist, 
 
 As never rose fi'om any dampish fen ; 
 
 I '11 make the brined sea to rise at Ware, _ 20 
 
 And drown the marshes nnto Stratford bridge ; 
 
 I '11 drive the deer from Waltham in their walks, 
 
 And scatter them like shceji in every field. 
 
 We may perha})S be crossed ; )jut if we be, 
 
 He shall cross the devil that but crosses me. 
 
 But here comes Rivymond, disconsolate and sad ; 
 
 And here the gallant that must have his wench. 
 
 E'liter Raymond Mounchensey, [loung Jerningham, 
 and youiirj Clare. 
 
 Jem. I jirithee, Raymond, leave these solemn 
 dumps. 
 Revive thy spirits ; thou that before hast been 
 More watchful than the day-proclaiming cock, 30 
 As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry 
 As mirth herself. — 
 
 If alight in me may thy content procure, 
 It is thy own, thou mayst thyself assure. 
 
 rMijm. Ha! Jerningham, if any but thyself 
 
 Had spoke that word, it would have come as cold 
 
 As the bleak northern winds u[ion the face 
 
 Of winter. 
 
 * Eufleld.
 
 102 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 From thee tlicy liave sonu' jiower on my blood ; 
 Yet being from thee, had l>ut tluit lioUow sound 
 Come from llie lips of any living man, 
 It miglit have won the credit of mine ear, 
 From thee it cannot. 
 
 Jem. If I tliee understand I am a villain : 
 Wliat ! dost tliou speak in jiarablcs to thy friend? 
 
 Fab. {to Jern.) You are the man, sir, must liave 
 Millisent, 
 The match is making in the garden now ; 
 Her jointure is agreed on, and th' old men, 10 
 
 "N'our fathers, mean to launch tlieir pursy bags. 
 But in mean time to thrust Mouncliensey oil'. 
 For colour of this new intended match. 
 Fair Millisent to Cheston* must be sent, 
 To take the apjn-obation of a Nun. 
 Ne'er look upon me, lad, tlie match is done. 
 
 Jem. Raymond Mouncliensey, now I toucli thy 
 gi-ief 
 "With the true feeling of a zealous friend. 
 And as for fair and beauteous Millisent, 
 ^\^ith my vain brearh I will not seek to slubber 20 
 Her angeldike jierfections. But thou know'st 
 That Essex hath the saint that I adore. 
 Where'er didst meet me, that we two were jovial, 
 But like a wag thou hast not laugh'd at me, 
 And with regardless jesting mock'd my love ? 
 How many a sad and weary summer night 
 My sighs liave drunk tlie (lew from off tlie earth, 
 And I have taught the nightingale to wake. 
 And from the meadows sjirung the early lark 
 An hour before she should have list to sing ? .30 
 
 I 've loaded the jioor minutes with my moans, 
 That I have made the heavy slow-jiac'd hours 
 To hang like heavy clogs upon the day. 
 But, dear Mouncliensey, had not my affection 
 Seiz'd on tlie beauty of another dame. 
 Before I 'd wrong the chase, and leave the love 
 
 one so worthy, and so true a friend, 
 
 1 will abjure both beauty and her sight. 
 
 And will in love become a countei-feit. 39 
 
 Raym. Dear Jerningham thou hast begot my life, 
 
 * Cheshunt.
 
 THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON. 103 
 
 And from the mouth of hell, wdiere now I sat, 
 
 I feel my spirit rebound against the stars ; 
 
 Thou hast conquer'd me, dear friend, and my free 
 
 soul 
 Nor time nor death can by their power control. 
 
 Fab. Frank Jerninghani, thou art a gallant l.)oy ; 
 And were he not my pupil, I would say, 
 He were as fine a metal'd gentleman, 
 As free a spirit, and as fine a temper, 
 As any is in England ; and he 's a man, 
 That very richly may deserve thy love. 10 
 
 But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse. 
 What may Mounchensey's honour to thyself 
 Exact upon the measure of thy grace ? 
 
 Gla. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee 
 know, 
 He does not breathe this air. 
 Whose love I cherish, and whose soul I love, 
 More than Mounchensey's : 
 Nor ever in my life did see the man, 
 Whom for his wit, and many virtuous parts, 
 I think more worthy of my sister's love. 20 
 
 But since the matter grows into this jiass, 
 I must not seem to cross my father's will ; 
 But when thou list to visit her by night. 
 My horse is saddled, and the stable door 
 Stands ready for thee ; use them at thy })leasure. 
 In honest marriage wed her frankly, lioy ; 
 And if thou get'st her, lad; God give thee joy. 
 
 Ray III. Then care away ! let fate my fall pretend, 
 Back'd with the favours of so true a friend. 
 
 Fab. Let us alone to bustle for the set ; 30 
 
 For age and craft with wit and art have met. 
 I '11 make my Spirits dance such nightly jigs 
 Along the way 'twixt this and Tot'nam Cross, 
 The carriei-s' jades shall cast their heavy ])acks. 
 And the strong hedges scarce shall keep them in. 
 The milk-maifls' cuts shall turn tlie wenches olf. 
 And lay their dossers tunililing in the dust : 
 The frank and merry London prentices, 
 That come for cream and lusty country cheer, 39 
 
 Sliall lose their way, and scrambling in the ditches 
 All night, shall whoop and hollow, cry, and call,
 
 104 AUTHOR UNKNOWN. 
 
 And none to other tiiul the way at aU. 
 
 Raym. Pursue the project, scholar ; what we can 
 do 
 To help endeavour, join our lives thereto.* 
 
 The Priohess of Cheston's chm-ge lofair Millisent. 
 
 Jesus' daughter, Mary's child, 
 
 Holy matron, woman mild, 
 
 For thee a IMa.ss shall still be said, 
 
 Every sister drop a bead ; 
 
 And those again, succeeding them, 
 
 For you shall sing a Requiem. 
 
 To her Fatlwr. May your hapi)y soul be blithe, 10 
 That so truly i)ay your tithe ; 
 He, that many children gave, 
 'Tis iit that he one child sliould have. 
 
 To MilUscnt. Then, iair virgin, hear my spell, 
 For I must your duty tell. 
 First a-niornings take your book, 
 The glass wherein yomself must look ; 
 Your young thoughts, so proud and jolly, 
 Must be turn'd to motions holy ; 
 
 For your busk, attires, and toys, 20 
 
 Have your thoughts on heavenly joys : 
 And for all your- follies past. 
 You must do penance, pray and fast. 
 You shall ring the sacring liell. 
 Keep your hours, and toll your knell, 
 
 * This scene has niiuh of Sliakspoare's manner in the sweet- 
 ness and goodnatureilness of it. It seems written to make the 
 reader happy. Few of our dramatists or novelists have attended 
 enough to tlii.s. Tliey torture and wound us abundantly. They 
 are economists only in dcliglit. Nothing can he finer, more 
 gentlemanlike, and noble, than the conversation and compliments 
 of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchensey's 
 forsetting. In his fears, that Jerningliam has a " Saint in 
 Essex ;"' and how sweetly his friend reminds him! — I wish it 
 could be ascertained that Michael Drayton was the author of 
 this piece : it would add a worthy appendage to the renown of 
 that Pauei.'>-rist of my native Karth; who has gone over her soil 
 (in his Poiyolbion) with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful 
 love of a son ; who has not left a rivulet (so naiTow that it may 
 be stept over) without honourable merftion ; and has animated 
 Hill.s and Streams with life and passion above the dreams of old 
 mythology.
 
 RAM ALLEY. 105 
 
 Riae at midnight to your matins, 
 
 Read your psalter, sing your Latins ; 
 
 And when your lilood shall kindle pleasure, 
 
 Scourge yourself in i)lenteous measure. 
 
 You must read the morning mass, 
 
 You must creep unto the cross, 
 
 Put cold ashes on your liead, 
 
 Have a hair-cloth for yoiu* bed, 
 
 Bid your beads, and tell your needs, 
 
 Your holy Aves and your Creeds ; 10 
 
 Holy maid, this must be done, 
 
 If you mean to live a Xun. 
 
 XXX. (g.) 
 RAM ALLEY : A C0:MEDY. 
 
 BY LODOWICK BARRY. 
 
 Ill (he Prologue the Pod protests the innocence of his Pluij 
 and glees a promise of better things. 
 
 Home-bred mirth our Muse doth sing ; 
 
 The Satyi's tootli, and waspish sting, 
 
 "Which most do liurt wlieu kiast suspected, 
 
 By this Play are not affected ; 
 
 But if conceit, \\-ith quick-turn'd scenes, 
 
 Obserx'ing all those ancient streams 
 
 Which from the Horse-foot foimt do flow — 
 
 As time, place, person — and to show 20 
 
 Things never done witli that true life. 
 
 That thoughts and wits shall stand at strife, 
 
 AVhether the things now shewn be ti'ue, 
 
 Or whether we ourselves now do 
 
 The things we but jiresent : if these, 
 
 Free from the loatlisomc Stage-disease, 
 
 So over-worn, so tired and stale ; 
 
 Not satirising Init to rail ; — 
 
 May ^vin your favors, and inherit 
 
 But calm acceptance of liis merit, — 30 
 
 He vows by paper, pen, and ink, 
 
 And by tlie Learned Sisters' drink, 
 
 To spend Ins time, his huups, his oil.
 
 106 SAMUKL DANIEL. 
 
 And iiover ceaso liis lirain to toil, 
 
 Till IVoiu the silent hours ol' night 
 
 He (loth ))ro(lnce, tor your delight, 
 
 Conceits so new, so harndess free, 
 
 That Puritans tlieniselves may see 
 
 A I'lay ; yet not in iiublie ])reach, 
 
 Tiuit Players such lewd doctrine teach, 
 
 That their pure joints do (juake and tremble, 
 
 "When they do see a man resend)le 
 
 The i)ieture of a villain. — This, 10 
 
 As he a friend to Muses is. 
 
 To you by me he gives his woi-d, 
 
 Is all his Play does now allbrd. 
 
 XXXI. (g.) 
 TETHYS' FESTIVAL. 
 
 Iiy SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 Song at a Court Masque. 
 
 Are they shadows that wc see ? 
 
 And can shadows ])leasure give ? 
 
 Pleasures only shadows be. 
 
 Cast by bodies wc conceive ; 
 
 And are made the things we deem, 
 
 In those figiires which they seem. 
 
 15ut these jileasures vanish fast, 20 
 
 Which by shadows are ex])rest : 
 
 IHeasures are not, if they last ; 
 
 In their passing is their best. 
 
 Glory is most bright and gay 
 
 In a flash, and so away. 
 
 Feed apace then, greedy eyes. 
 
 On the wonder you behold. 
 
 Take it sudden as it flies, 
 
 Tho' you take it not to hold : 
 
 When your eyes have done their part, 30 
 
 Thought must length it in the heart.
 
 107 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 HYMEN'S TRIUMrH: A PASTORAL TRAGI- 
 COMEDY. 
 
 liY THE SAME. 
 
 Love i)i Infancy. 
 
 Ah, I remember well (and how eau I 
 But evermore remember well) when first 
 Oiir flame began, when scarce we knew what was 
 The flame we felt : when as we sat and sigh'd 
 And look'd \\\w\\ each other, and conceiv'd 
 Not what we ail'd, yet something we did ail ; 
 And yet were well, and yet we were not well, 
 And what was our disease we coiild not tell. 
 Then would we kiss, then sigh, then look : and thus 
 In that first garden of our sirapleness 10 
 
 We spent our childhood : but when years began 
 To reap the fiiiit of knowledge : ah, how tlien 
 Would she with graver looks, with sweet stern brow, 
 Check my presumption and my forwardness ; 
 Yet still would give me flowers, still would me show 
 "Wliat she would have me, yet not have me know. 
 Love after Death. 
 
 Palcemon. Fie, Thirsis, with what fond remem- 
 brances 
 Dost thou these idle passions entertain ! 
 For shame leave oft" to waste your youth in vain, 
 And feed on shadows : make your choice anew. 20 
 You other nymphs shall find, no douljt will be 
 As lovely, and as fair, and sweet as she. 
 
 Thirsis. As fair and sweet as she? Pala^mon, peace : 
 Ah, what can })ictures be unto the life ? 
 What sweetness can be found in images ? 
 Which all nymiihs ekse besides her seem to me. 
 She only was a real creature, she, 
 AVhose memory must take up all of me. 
 Should I another love, then must I have 
 Another heart, for this is full of her, 30 
 
 And eveiTnore shall be : here is she dra^ii 
 At length, and whole : and more, this table is 
 A story, and is all of her ; and all 
 Wrought in the liveliest colours of my blood ;
 
 108 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 And can tlierc be a room for others here ? 
 
 Shoulil I (lisHgin-e sucli a piece, and blot 
 
 The perlect'st workmanship that love e'er wrought ? 
 
 I'ahtmou, no, all no, it cost too dear ; 
 
 It must remain entire whilst life remains, 
 
 The monument of her and of my pains. 
 
 The Storrj of IsULIA. 
 
 There was sometimes a nymph, 
 Isulia named, and an Arcadian l)oni, 
 Whose mother dying left her very young 
 Unto her father's charge, who carefully 10 
 
 Did l)reed her iip, until she came to years 
 Of womanhood, and then i)rovidcs a match 
 r>oth rich and young, and fit enough for lier. 
 15ut she, who to another shepherd had, 
 Call'd Sirtliis, vow'd her love, as unto one 
 Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love, 
 Could not by all her father's means be AVi-ought 
 To leave her choice, and to forget her vow. 
 This nympli one day, surcharg'd with love and gi'ief, 
 AVhich commonly (the more the pity) dwell 20 
 
 As inmates lioth togetlier, walking forth 
 With other maids to lish upon the sliore ; 
 Estrays apart, and leaves lier comjiany. 
 To entertain herself with her owm thoughts : 
 And wanders on so far, anil out of sight. 
 As she at length was suddenly surpris'd 
 \\y ]iirates, who lay lurking underneath 
 Those hollow rocks, ex])ecting there some prize. 
 And notwithstanding all her piteous cries, 
 Intreaties, tears, and ])rayers, tliose fierce men 30 
 Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force 
 Into their ship, which in a little creek 
 Hard by at anchor lay, 
 And presently hoisted sail and so away. 
 "Wlien she was thus inshijjp'd, and woefully 
 Had cast her eyes about to view that hell 
 Of horror, whereinto she was so sudden emplung'd. 
 She spies a woman sitting with a child 
 Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife. 
 To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies ; 40 
 
 ' ' woman, if that name of woman may
 
 hymen's triumph. 109 
 
 " Move yoii to pity, })ity a ]ioor maid, 
 
 "The most distressed soul that ever breath'd ; 
 
 "And save me from tlie hands of these fierce men. 
 
 " Let me not be defil'd and made unclean, 
 
 "Dear woman, now, and I will be to yon 
 
 ' ' The faithfuU'st slave that ever mistress serv'd ; 
 
 " Never i>ooy soul shall be more dutiful, 
 
 "To do whatever you command, than I. 
 
 ' ' No toil will I refuse ; so that I may 
 
 " Keep this jioor body clean and undeflower'd, 10 
 
 ' ' "Which is all I will ever seek. For know 
 
 " It is not fear of death lays me thus low, 
 
 " But of that stain will make my death to blush." 
 
 All this would nothing move the woman's heart, 
 
 "Whom j'et she would not leave, but still besought ; 
 
 " O M'oman, by that infant at your breast, 
 
 " And by the pains it cost you in the birth, 
 
 ' ' Save me, as ever you desire to have 
 
 "Your balse to joy and ])rosper in the world : 
 
 ""Which will the better prosper sure, if you 20 
 
 "Shall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid ! " 
 
 Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too 
 
 The infant's feet ; and, "Oh, sweet babe," (said she,) 
 
 ' ' Could'st thou Ijut to thy mother speak for me, 
 
 "And crave her to have })ity on my case, 
 
 "Thou might'st perha])s prevail with her so much 
 
 "Although I cannot ; child, ah, could'st thou speak." 
 
 The infant, whether by her touching it. 
 
 Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep. 
 
 Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks 30 
 
 Upon the mother, then on her again. 
 
 And then it cries, and tlien on either looks : 
 
 "Which she perceiving ; " Blessed child," (said she,) 
 
 ' ' Although thou canst not speak, yet dost thou cry 
 
 "Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child, 
 
 " Dear mother, hear, it is for me it cries, 
 
 " It 's all the sj)eech it hath. Acce])t those cries, 
 
 ' ' Save me at his request from being defil'd : 
 
 " Let pity move thee, that thus moves thy child." 
 
 The woman, tho' by birth and custom rude, 40 
 
 Yet having veins of nature, could not be 
 
 But pierceable, did feel at length the point 
 
 Of pity enter so, as out gusli'd tears,
 
 110 SAMUEL DANIEL. 
 
 (Not usual to stern eyes) and she licsought 
 
 Hur liusliaud to bestow on lier that ])nze, 
 
 Witli .saf'ej,niard of her body at her will. 
 
 The cai)taiu seeing his wife, the child, tlie uyniph, 
 
 All crying to him in this piteous sort, 
 
 Kelt his rough nature shaken too, and grants 
 
 His wife's recjuest, and seals his grant with tears ; 
 
 And so they we{)t all four for coniiiany : 
 
 And some beholders stood not with dry eyes ; 
 
 Such passion wrought the passion of tlieir prize. 10 
 
 Never was there pardon, that did take 
 
 CondeTuned from the block more joyful than 
 
 This grant to her. For all her misery 
 
 Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receiv'd, 
 
 By being thus saved from impurity : 
 
 And from the woman's feet she would not ])art. 
 
 Nor trust her hand to be without some hold 
 
 Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd 
 
 AVithin the ship, which in few days arrives 
 
 At Alexandria, whence these ])irates were ; 20 
 
 Ajid there this woeful maid for two years' space 
 
 Did serve, and truly serve this cai)tain's wife, 
 
 (AVho would not lose the benefit of her 
 
 Attendance, for her profit otherwise,) 
 
 But daring not in such a place as that 
 
 To trust herself in woman's habit, crav'd 
 
 That she might be apjiarel'd like a boy ; 
 
 And so she was, and as a boy she served. 
 
 At two years' end her mistress sends her forth 
 
 Unto the ]>ort for some commodities, 30 
 
 Which whilst she sought for, going up and down. 
 
 She heard some merchantmen of Corinth talk, 
 
 Who s])ake that language the Arcadians did, 
 
 And were next neighbours of one continent. 
 
 To them, all ra})t with passion, down she kneels, 
 
 Tells them she was a ])oor distressed boy, 
 
 Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took. 
 
 And made a slave in Egypt ; and besought 
 
 Them, as they fathers were of children, or 
 
 Did hold their native country dear, they would 40 
 
 Take pity on her, and relieve her youth 
 
 From that sad servitude wherein she liv'd : 
 
 For wliicli she hoped that she had friends alive
 
 THE CASE IS ALTERED. Ill 
 
 Would thank them one day, and reward tliem too ; 
 
 If not, yet that slie knew the heav'ns would do. 
 
 The merchants moved ^\-itll i)ity of her case, 
 
 Being ready to depart, took her with them, 
 
 And landed her ujion her country coast : 
 
 Wliere when slie found herself, she prostrate falls. 
 
 Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods, 
 
 Thanks them who had been lier deliverers. 
 
 And on she trudges through the desert woods, 
 
 Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep, 10 
 
 "Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough bogs, 
 
 Sustained only by the force of love ; 
 
 Until she came unto the native plains, 
 
 Unto the fields where first .she drew her breath. 
 
 There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air, 
 
 Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all : 
 
 And, "Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am," said she, 
 
 " Here, notwithstanding all my miseries, 
 
 ' ' I am the same I was to thee ; a pure, 
 
 "A chaste, and spotless maid." 20 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 THE CASE IS ALTERED : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY BEN JONSON. 
 
 The jyresent Ilummiv to he foUoued. 
 
 AUBELIA, Phcenixella, Sisters : their Mither hdag 
 lalely dexul. 
 
 Aur. Room for a case of matrons, colour'd blai;k : 
 How motherly my motlier's death hatli made us ! 
 I would I had some girls now to bring up ; 
 Oh I could make a wench so virtuous, 
 She should say grace to every liit of meat. 
 And gape no wider than a wafer's thickness ; 
 And she sliould make French court'sies so most low 
 That every touch should turn Her over backward. 
 
 Phoin. Sister, these words Ijecome not your attire. 
 Nor your estate ; our vii'tuous mother's deatli 30 
 Should print more deep efiects of sorrow in us. 
 Than may be worn out in so little time.
 
 112 BEN JOKSON. 
 
 Aur. Sister, i' faith you take too niucli tobacco, 
 It makes j'oii black within as you 'ru without. 
 What, tiuc-stituh sister, both your sides alike ! 
 Be of a sli^'hter work ; for, of luy word, 
 You shall be sold as dear, or rather dearer. 
 Will you b(^ bound to customs and to rites ? 
 Shed jiroiitable tears, wee]) for advantage, 
 Or else do all tliini,'s as you are inclined ? 
 Eat when your stomach serves, saith the ))hysiciaii, 
 Not at eleven and six. So, if your humour 10 
 
 Be now affected with this heaviness, 
 Give it the reins, and spare not ; as I do 
 In this my jilcasurable appetite. 
 It is Precisian ism to alter that, 
 With austere judgment, that is giv'n by nature. 
 I wept (you saw) too, when my mother died ; 
 For then I found it easier to do so, 
 And fitter with my mood, than not to weep : 
 But now 'tis otherwise. Another time 
 Perhaps I shall have such deep thoughts of her, 20 
 That I sjiall wccj) afresh some twelvemonth hence ; 
 And I will weej), if 1 be so disjiosed, 
 And put on black as griudy then as now. — 
 Let the mind go still with the body's stature : 
 Judgment is fit forjudges ; give me nature. 
 
 PresentimeHt of treachery, vanishimj at the sight of the. 
 jKrsvii, su-tijectcd. 
 
 Lord Paulo Farneze. (Spealing to fdniselfofA'SGV^Ui.) 
 
 My tlionghts cannot propose a reason 
 
 Why I should fear or faint thus in my hopes 
 
 Of one so nmeh endeared to my love : 
 
 Some spark it is, kindled within the soul, 
 
 Whose light yet breaks not to the outward sense, 30 
 
 That propagates this timorous suspect. 
 
 His actions never carried any face 
 
 Of change, or weakness ; then I injure him, 
 
 In being thus cold-conceited of his faith. 
 
 here he comes. [ IFhile he speaks Angelo enters. 
 
 Angelo. How now, sweet Lord, what 's the matter ? 
 
 Paul. Good faith, his presence makes me half 
 ashamed 
 Of mv stray 'd thoughts.
 
 THE CASE IS ALTERED, 113 
 
 Jaques (a Miser) worships his Gold, 
 Jaq. 'Tis not to be told 
 What servile villainies men will do for gold. 
 Oh, it began to have a hnge strong smell, 
 With lying so long together in a place : 
 I '11 give it vent, it shall have shift enough ; 
 And if the devil, that envies all goodness. 
 Have told them of my gold, and where I kept it, 
 1 '11 set his burning nose once more a work 
 To smell where I removed it. Here it is ; 
 I '11 hide and cover it with this horse-dung. 
 Who will suppose that such a precious nest 10 
 
 Is cro^\^l'd with such a dunghill excrement ? 
 In, my dear life, sleej) sweetly, my dear child, 
 Scarce lawfully begotten, but yet gotten. 
 And that 's enough. Rot all hands that come near 
 
 thee, 
 Except mine own. Burn out all eyes that see thee, 
 Except mine o\ni. All thoughts of thee be poison 
 To their enamour'd hearts, except mine own. 
 I '11 take no leave, sweet prince, great emperor, 
 But see thee every minute : king of kings, 
 I '11 not be rude to thee, and turn my back 20 
 
 In going from thee, Init go backward out, 
 With my face toward thee, with liumble courtesies. 
 
 [The passion for wealth has worn out much of its 
 grossness by tract of time. Our ancestors certainly 
 conceived of money as able to confer a distinct gratifi- 
 cation in itself, not alone considered simply as a symbol 
 of wealth. The oldest poets, when they introduce a 
 miser, constantly make him address his gold as his 
 mistress ; as something to be seen, felt, and hugged ; 
 as capable of satisfying two of the senses at least. The 
 substitution of a thin unsatisfying medium for the good 
 old tangible gold, has made avarice quite a Platonic 
 affection in comparison with the seeing, touching, and 
 handling pleasures of the old Chrysophilites. A bank 
 note can no more satisfy the touch of a true sensualist 
 in this passion, than Creusa could return her husband's 
 embrace in the shades. — See the Cave of Mammon in 
 Spenser ; Barabas's contemplation of his wealth, in the 
 Jew of Malta ; Luke's rajitures in the City Madam, &c. 
 Above all, hear Guzman, in that excellent old Spanish 
 Novel, The Rogue, expatiate on the " ruddy cheeks of 
 I. H
 
 114 BEN JONSON. 
 
 your golden Ruddocks, your Spanish Pistolets, your 
 plump and full-faced Portuguese, and your clear-skinn'd 
 pieces of eight of Castile," which he and his follows the 
 beggars kept secret to themselves, and did ' ' privately 
 enjoy in a plentiful manner." " For to have them, for 
 to pay them away, is not to enjoy them ; to enjoy them 
 is to have them lying by us, having no other need of them 
 than to use them for the clearing of the eye-sight, and the 
 comforting of our senses. These we did carry about with 
 us, sewing them in some patches of our doublets near 
 unto the heart, and as clof.e to the skin as we could 
 handsomely quilt them in, holding them to be restora- 
 tive."] 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 POETASTER; or, HIS ARRAIGNMENT: 
 A COMICAL SATYR. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Ovid bewails his liard condition in being banished from 
 Cowt and the Society of the Princess Julia. 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 Banish'd the court ? let me be banisli'd life. 
 
 Since tlie chief end of life is there concluded. 
 
 Within the court is all the kingdom bounded ; 
 
 And as her sacred sphere doth comprehend 
 
 Ten thousand times so much, as so much place 
 
 In any part of all the empire else, 
 
 So every body, moving in her sphere. 
 
 Contains ten thousand times as much in him, 
 
 As any other her choice orb excludes. 
 
 As in a circle a magician, then, 10 
 
 Is safe against the spirit he excites. 
 
 But out of it is subject to his rage. 
 
 And loseth all the virtue of his art. 
 
 So I, exil'd the cii-cle of the court. 
 
 Lose all the good gifts that in it I joy'd. 
 
 No virtue cun-ent is, but witli her stamp. 
 
 And no vice vicious, blanch'd with her white hand. 
 
 The court 's the abstract of all Rome's desert. 
 
 And my dear Julia th' abstract of th' court. 
 
 Methinks, now I come near her, I respire 20
 
 POETASTER. 115 
 
 Some air of that late comfort I rcceiv'd : 
 
 And -while the evening, ^\•ith her modest veil, 
 
 Gives leave to such poor shadows as myself 
 
 To steal abroad, I, like a heartless ghost, 
 
 "Without the living body of my love, 
 
 Will here -walk, and attend her. For I know 
 
 Not far from hence she is imprisoned. 
 
 And hopes of her strict guardian to bribe 
 
 So much admittance, as to speak to me. 
 
 And cheer my fainting spirits with her breath. 10 
 
 Julia appears above a( her Chamher-ioindoic. 
 
 Jul. Ovid ! my love ! 
 
 Ovid. Here, heav'nly Julia. 
 
 Jul. Here ! and not here ! 0, how that word doth 
 play 
 With both our fortirnes, difiering, like om'selves ; 
 But one, and yet divided, as opposed ; 
 I high, thou low ! 0, this our plight of place 
 Doubly presents the two lets of our love. 
 Local and ceremonial height and lowness ; 
 Both ways, I am too high, and thou too low. 19 
 
 Our minds are even, yet : why should our bodies, 
 That are their slaves, be so without their iiile 1 
 I '11 cast myself down to thee ; if I die, 
 I '11 ever live with thee : no height of birth. 
 Of place, of duty, or of cmel power. 
 Shall keep me from thee ; should my father lock 
 This body up within a tomb of brass. 
 Yet I '11 be with thee. If the fonns I hold 
 Now in my soul, be made one substance \vith it, 
 That soul immortal, and the same 'tis now, 
 Death cannot raze the affects she now retaineth : 30 
 And then may she be any^vhere she will. 
 The souls of parents rule not children's souls ; 
 AVhen death sets both in their dissolv'd estates, 
 Then is no child nor father : then eternity 
 Frees all from any temporal respect. 
 I come, my Ovid, take me in thine arms, 
 And let me breathe my soul into thy breast. 
 
 Ovid. stay, my love ; the hopes thou dost 
 conceive 
 Of thy quick death, and of thy future life,
 
 116 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Are not authentical. Thou choosest death, 
 So tliou niight'st joy thy love in th' other life. 
 But know, my princely love, when thou art dead 
 Tiiou only must survive in perfect soul, 
 And in the soul are no affections : 
 We pour out om- affections with our blood ; 
 And with our blood's affections fade our loves 
 No life hath love in such sweet state as this ; 
 No essence is so dear to moody sense 
 As flesh and blood, whose quintessence is sense. 10 
 Beauty, compos'd of blood and flesh, moves more. 
 And is more plausible to blood and flesh. 
 Than spiritual beauty can be to the spirit. 
 Such ap]>reliensiou as we have in dreams, 
 (When sleep, the bond of senses, locks them up,) 
 Such shall we have when death destroys them quite. 
 If love be then thy object, change not life ; 
 Live high and happy still ; I still below. 
 Close with my fortunes, in thy height shall joy. 19 
 Jid. Ah me, that virtue, wiiose brave eagle's wings 
 With every stroke Idow stars in burning heaven. 
 Should, like a swallow, (preying toward storms) 
 Fly close to earth ; and, with an eager plume 
 Pursue those objects which none else can see. 
 But seem to all the world the empty air. 
 Tims thou, poor Ovid, and all virtuous men, 
 Must prey, like swallows, on invisible food ; 
 Pursuing flies, or nothing : and thus love. 
 And every worldly fancy, is transpos'd 
 By worldly tyranny to what plight it list. 30 
 
 0, father, since thou gav'st me not my mind, 
 Strive not to rule it ; take but what thou gav'st 
 To thy disposure : thy attections 
 Rule not in me ; I must bear all my griefs ; 
 Let me use all my pleasures : Virtuous love 
 Was never scandal to a goddess' state. 
 But he 's inflexible ! and, my dear love, 
 Thy life may chance be shorten'd Ijy the length 
 Of my unwilling speeches to depart. 
 Farewell, sweet life : though thou be yet exil'd 40 
 Th' officious court, enjoy me arajjy still : 
 My soul, in this my breath, enters thine ears ; 
 And on this turret's floor will I lie dead,
 
 POETASTER. 117 
 
 Till we may meet again. In this proud height, 
 I kneel beneatli thee in my prostrate love, 
 And kiss the liappy sands that kiss thy feet. 
 Great Jove submits a sceptre to a cell ; 
 And lovers, ere they part, ^nll meet in hell. 
 
 Ovid. Farewell all company, and, if I could. 
 All light, with thee : hell's shade should hide my 
 
 brows, 
 Till thy dear Ijeauty's beams redeem'd my vows. 
 
 Jul. Ovid, my love : alas ! may we not stay 
 A little longer, think'st thou, undiscern'd ? 10 
 
 Ovid. For thine own good, fair goddess, do not 
 stay. 
 Who would engage a finnament of fires, 
 Shining in thee, for me, a falling star ? 
 Begone, sweet life-blood : if 1 should discern 
 Thyself but touch'd for ray sake, I should die. 
 
 Jul. I will begone then ; and not heav'n itself 
 Shall draw me back. 
 
 Ovid. Yet, Julia, if thou \\'ilt, 
 A little longer stay. 
 
 Jul. I am content. 20 
 
 Ovid. mighty Ovid ! what the sway of heav'n 
 Could not retire, my Itreath hath tm-ned back. 
 
 Jtil. Who shall go first, my love ? my passionate 
 eyes 
 Will not endure to see thee turn from me. 
 
 Ovid. If thou go first, my soul will follow thee. 
 
 Jul. Then we must stay. 
 
 Ovid. Ay me, there is no stay 
 In amorous ])leasures. If both stay, both die. 
 I hear thy father. Hence, my deity. [Julia goes in. 
 Fear forgeth sounds in my deluded ears ; 30 
 
 I did not hear him : I am mad with love. 
 There is no spirit, under heav'n, that works 
 With such illusion : yet, such A\-itchcraft kill me, 
 Ere a sound mind, without it, save my life. 
 Here on my knees I worshij) the blest place, 
 That held my goddess ; and the loving air, 
 That clos'd her body in his silken arms. 
 Vain Ovid ! kneel not to the place, nor air : 
 She 's in thy heart ; rise then, and worship there. 
 The truest wisdom silly men can have, 40 
 
 Is dotage on the follies of their flesh.
 
 118 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Augustus dUcmirses inth his Courtiers concerning Poetry. 
 
 CiESAii, Mec^nas, Callus, Tibullus, Horace. 
 
 Equitex Ronmni. 
 
 Cccs. We, that have conquer'd still to save the 
 conquer'd, 
 And loved to make inflictions fear'd, not felt, 
 Griev'd to rej)iovc, and joyful to reward, 
 More proud of reconcilement than revenge. 
 Resume into the late state of our love 
 Worthy Cornelius Callus and Tibullus. * 
 You hoth are gentlemen ; you Cornelius, 
 A soldier of renown, and the first provost 
 That ever let our Roman Eagles fly 
 On swarthy Egypt, quarried M-ith her spoils. 10 
 
 Yet (not to bear cold forms, nor men's out-terms, 
 Without the inward fires, and lives of men) 
 You both have virtues, shining througli your shapes ; 
 To shew, your titles are not Avrit on posts, 
 Or hollow statues ; which tlie best men are. 
 Without Promethean stuttings reach'd from heaven. 
 Sweet Poesy's sacred garlands crown your gentry : 
 Whicli is, of all the faculties on earth, 
 The most abstract, and perfect, if she be 
 True born, and nursed with all the sciences. 20 
 
 She can so mould Rome, and her monuments, 
 Witliin the liquid marble of her lines. 
 That they shall stand fresh and miraculous. 
 Even when they mix with innovating dust ; 
 In her sweet streams sliall our brave Roman spirits 
 Chase, and svnm. after death, with their choice deeds 
 Shining on their white shoulders ; and therein 
 Shall Tiber, and our famous rivers, fall 
 With such attraction, that th' ambitious line 
 Of the round world shall to her centre shrink, 30 
 
 To hear their music. And for these high parts, 
 Caesar shall reverence tlie Pierian arts. 
 
 Mcc. Your majesty's high grace to poesy 
 Shall stand 'gainst all the dull detractions 
 Of leaden souls ; who, for the vain assumings 
 
 * They had ofifended the Emperor by concealing the love of 
 vid for the Princess Julia.
 
 POETASTER. 139 
 
 Of some, quite worthless of her sovereign -wreaths, 
 Contain her M-orthicst pro}ihets in contempt. 
 
 Gal. Happy is Rome of all earth's other states, 
 To have so true and gi-eat a president, 
 For her inferior spirits to imitate, 
 As Cffisar is ; who addeth to the sun 
 Influence and lusti'e, in increasing thus 
 His inspirations, kindling fire in us. 
 
 Hor. Phcebus himself sliall kneel at Csesar's shrine 
 And deck it with bay-garlands dew'd with wine, 10 
 To quit the worship Cjesar does to him : 
 AVhere other princes, hoisted to their thrones 
 By Fortune's passionate and disorder'd power, 
 Sit in their height like clouds before the sun, 
 Hind'ring his comforts ; and, (by their excess 
 Of cold in virtue, and cross heat in vice,) 
 Thiuider and tempest on those learned heads, 
 Whom Ccesar with such honour doth advance. 
 
 Tib. All human business Fortune doth command 
 Without all order ; and with her blind hand, 20 
 
 She, blind, bestows blind gifts, that still have nurst, 
 They see not who, nor how, but still the worst. 
 
 Cces. Cffisar, for his rule, and for so nuicli stuff 
 As fortune puts in his hand, sliall dispose it, 
 (As if his hand had eyes, and soul, in it,) 
 With worth and judgment. Hands that part -vnth 
 
 gifts. 
 Or will restram their use, without desert, 
 Or with a misery, numb'd to Virtue's right. 
 Work, as they had no soul to govern them, 
 And quite reject her : sev'riug their estates 30 
 
 From human order. Whosoever can. 
 And will not cherish Virtue, is no man. 
 
 Eques. Virgil is now at hand, imperial Cresar. 
 Cms. Rome's honour is at hand then. Fetch a 
 chair. 
 And set it on our right-hand ; where 'tis fit, 
 Rome's honour and our o^vn should ever sit. 
 Now he is come out of Campania, 
 I doubt not he hath finish'd all his .ffineids ; 
 Which, like another soul, I long t' enjoy. 
 What think you three of Virgil, gentlemen, 40 
 
 (Tliat are of his profession, though rank'd higher,)
 
 120 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Or, Horace, wliat say'st tlioii, that art the poorest, 
 And likeliest to envy or detract ? 
 
 Hot. Cicsar speaks after connnon men in this, 
 To make a dillerence of me for my poorness : 
 As if the tiltli (if ])Ovei'ty sunk as deep 
 Into a knowing' spirit, as the bane 
 Of riches doth into an ignorant sonl. 
 Xo, CiTJsar ; they be jtatldcss moorish minds. 
 That being once made rotten with the dung 
 Of damned riches, ever after sink 10 
 
 Beneath the steps of any villainy. 
 But knowhulge is the nectar, that keeps sweet 
 A jK-rfect sonl, e'en in this grave of sin ; 
 And for my soid, it is as free as Cresar's : 
 For what I know is due I '11 give to all. 
 He that detracts, or envies virtuous merit, 
 Is still the covetous and the ignorant spirit. 
 
 Cccs. Thanks, Horace, for thy free and wholesome 
 sharpness, 
 Which pleaseth Cresar more than servile fawns. 
 A ilatter'd jirince soon turns the prince of fools. 20 
 And for thy sake, we '11 put no difference more 
 Between the great and good for being poor. 
 Say then, loved Hoi-ace, tliy true thought of Virgil. 
 
 Hor. I judge him of a rectilied spirit. 
 By many revolutions of discourse, 
 (In his bright reason's influence) refined 
 From all the tartarous moods of common men ; 
 Bearing the nature and similitude 
 Of a right heavenly body ; most severe 
 In fashion and collection of himself : 30 
 
 And, then, as clear and confident as Jove. 
 
 Gal. And yet so chaste and tender is his ear, 
 In suffering any syllable to pass. 
 That he thinks may become the honom''d name 
 Of issue to his so examined self, 
 That all the lasting fruits of his full merit 
 In his own poems, he doth still distaste ; 
 As if his mind's piece, which he strove to paint. 
 Could not with fleshly pencils have her right. 39 
 
 Tib. But to ap])rove his works -of sovereign worth, 
 This observation (methinks) more than serves, 
 And is not vulgar. That which he hath WTit,
 
 POETASTER. 
 
 121 
 
 I.s with such judgment lahour'd, and distill'd 
 Through all the iieedful uses of our lives, 
 Tliat could a man rememher but his lines, 
 He shoidd not touch at any serious point, 
 But he might breathe his spirit out of him. 
 
 Cks. You mean lie might repeat part of his works, 
 As fit for any conference he can use 1 
 
 Tib. Ti'ue, royal Cresar. 
 
 Cces. Worthily observed : 
 And a most worthy virtue in his works. 10 
 
 AVhat thinks material Horace of his learning 1 
 
 Hm-. His learning savours not the school-like gloss, 
 Tliat most consists in echoing words and terais, 
 And soonest wins a man an empty name : 
 Xor any long, or far fetch'd circumstance, 
 "Wrapt in the curious general'ties of arts ; 
 But a direct and analytic sum 
 Of all the worth and first effects of arts. 
 And for his poesy, 'tis so ramni'd ^\-ith life. 
 That it shall gather strength of life -with being, 20 
 And live hereafter more admired than now. 
 
 Cces. This one consent, in all yoiu- dooms of him 
 And mutual loves of all your several merits. 
 Argues a truth of merit in you all. 
 
 Virgil enters. 
 
 See, here comes Virgil ; we will rise and greet him : 
 
 Welcome to Cfesar, Virgil. Ca?sar and Virgil 
 
 Shall differ but in sound ; to C«sar, Vii-gil 
 
 (Of his expressed greatness) shall be made 
 
 A second sir-name ; and to Virgil, Ciesar. 
 
 Where are thy famous uEneids ? do us gi-ace 30 
 
 To let us see, and surfeit on their sight. 
 
 Vir. Worthless they are of Ca?sar's gracious eyes. 
 If they were perfect ; much more with their wants, 
 Which yet are more than my time could supply. 
 And could great Cfesar's expectation 
 Be satisfied with any other service, 
 I would not shew them. 
 
 Cces. Virgil is too modest ; 
 Or seeks, in vain, to make our longings more. 
 Shew them, sweet Virgil. 40 
 
 Vir. Then, in such due fear
 
 122 BEN JONSON. 
 
 As fits presenters of gi-eat works to Caesar^ 
 I Ininibly shew them. 
 
 Ca'^. Let us now behold 
 A human soul made visible in life : 
 And more refulgent in a senseless ])aper, 
 Tlian in the sensual eoni])lement of kings. 
 Read, read thyself, dear Virgil ; let not me 
 Profane one accent with an untuned tongue : 
 Best matter, l)adly shown, shews worse than liad. 
 See then this chair, of purpose set for thee, 10 
 
 To read thy poem in ; refuse it not. 
 Virtue, without presunijition, ])laee may take 
 Above best kings, whom only she should make. 
 
 Vir. It will be thought a thing ridiculous 
 To present eyes, aiul to all future times 
 A gross untruth, that any poet, (void 
 Of birth, or wealth, or temporal dignity), 
 Should, with decorum, transcend Cajsar's chaii\ 
 Poor virtue raised, high Ijirth and wealth set under, 
 Crosseth heavens' courses, and makes worldlings 
 wonder. 20 
 
 C(es. The course of heaven, and fate itself, in this 
 Will CcBsar cross ; much more all worldly custom. 
 
 Hor. Custom in course of honour ever errs : 
 And they are best, whom fortune least prefers. 
 
 Cccs. Horace hath (liut more strictly) spoke our 
 thoughts. 
 The vast rude swing of general confluence 
 Is, in particular ends, exempt from sense : 
 And therefore reason (which in right should be 
 The sjiecial rector of all hamiony) 
 Shall shew we are a man, distinct by it 30 
 
 From those, whom custom rapteth in her press. 
 Ascend then, Virgil ; and where first by chance 
 We here have turn'd thy book, do thou first read. 
 
 Vir. Great Cresar hath his will : I will ascend. 
 'Twere simple injury to his free hand. 
 That sweeps the cobwebs from unused virtue. 
 And makes her shine ))roportion'd to her worth, 
 To be more nice to entertain his grace. 
 Than he is choice and liberal to afford it. 39 
 
 Cccs. Gentlemen of our chamber, guard the doors, 
 And let none enter ; peace. Begin, good Virgil.
 
 SEJANUS. 123 
 
 Virgil reiuls pad of his fourth jEneid. 
 Vir. Meanwliile, tlie skies 'gan thunder, &c. 
 
 [This Roman Play seems written to confute those 
 enemies of Ben. Jonson in his own days and ours, who 
 have said that he made a pedantical use of his learning. 
 He has here revived the whole court of Augustus, by 
 a learned spell. We are admitted to the society of the 
 illustrious dead. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Tibullus, con- 
 verse in om- own tongue more finely and poetically than 
 they expressed themselves in their native Latin. — 
 Nothing can be imagined more elegant, refined, and 
 court-like than the scenes between this Lewis the Four- 
 teenth of Antiquity and his Literati. — The whole essence 
 and secret of that kind of intercourse is contained 
 therein. The economical liberality by which greatness, 
 seeming to wave some part of its prerogative, takes 
 care to lose none of the essentials ; the prudential 
 liberties of an inferior which flatter by commanded 
 boldness and soothe with complimental sincerity.] 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 SEJANUS HIS FALL : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 SeJANUS, the morning he is condemned hy the Senate, 
 receives some tokens which presage his death. 
 
 Sejanus. Pomponius. MmuTius. Terentitjs, &c. 
 
 Ter. Are these things true ? 
 
 Min. Thousands are gazing at it in the streets. 
 
 Sej. What 's that ? 
 
 Ter. !Minutius tells us here, my Lord, 
 That a new head being set upon your statue, 
 A rope is since found WTeath'd about it ! and 
 But now a fiery meteor in the form 
 Of a great ball was seen to roll along 
 The troubled air, where yet it hangs unperfect, 10 
 The amazing wonder of the multitude. 
 
 Sej. No more. — 
 Send for the tribunes ; we will straight have up
 
 124 BEN JONSON. 
 
 More of the soldiers for our i^uard. Mimitius, 
 
 Vi'v pray you f(o for Cotta, Latiaris, 
 
 Trio tlie consul, or what senators 
 
 You know are sure, and ours. You, my good Natta, 
 
 For Laco, jtrovost of the watch. Now, Satrius, 
 
 Tlio time of jiroof comes on. Arm all our servants, 
 
 And witlmnt tumult. You, Pomponius, 
 
 Hold somi- good correspondence with the consul ; 
 
 Attempt liim, noble friend. These things begin 
 
 To look like dangers, now, worthy my fates. 10 
 
 Fortune, I see thy worst : let doubtful states 
 
 And things uncertain liang upon thy will ; 
 
 ile surest death shall render certain still. 
 
 "\'ct, M-liy is now my thought turn'd toward death, 
 
 "Whom fates have let go on so far in breath 
 
 Unchecked or unreprov'd ? I, that did help 
 
 To fell the lofty cedar of the world, 
 
 Germanicus ; that at one stroke cut down 
 
 Drusus, thatujiright elm ; wither'd his vine ; 
 
 Laid Silius ami Sabinus, two strong oaks, 20 
 
 Flat on the earth ; besides those other shmbs 
 
 Cordus, and Sosia, Claudia Pulchra, 
 
 Furnius, and Gallus, which I have gi'ubb'd up ; 
 
 And since, have set my axe so strong and deep 
 
 Into the root of spreading Agi-ippina ; 
 
 Lopped off and scatter'd her proud branches, Nero, 
 
 Drusus : and Gains too, although replanted : 
 
 If you will, destinies, that after all 
 
 I faint now ere I touch my period, 
 
 You are but cruel ; and I already have done 30 
 
 Things gi-eat enough. All Rome hath been my slave ; 
 
 The senate sate an idle looker on, 
 
 And witness of my power ; when I have blush'd 
 
 ]\Iore to command, than it to suffer ; all 
 
 The fathers have sate ready and prepar'd 
 
 To give me emjiire, temples, or their throats. 
 
 When I would ask 'em ; and (what crowns the top) 
 
 Rome, senate, people, all the world, have seen 
 
 Jove but my equal, Cresar but my second. 
 
 'Tis then your malice, Fates, who (but your own) 40 
 
 Envy and fear to have any poAver-long known.
 
 VOLPONE. 125 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 VOLPONE ; or, THE FOX : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 VOLPONE, a rich Venetian nobleman, who is witlixiat child- 
 ren, feigns himself to he dying, to draw gifts from such 
 as />ui/ their court to him in the expectation of becoming 
 his heirs. M^OSCA, his i:naci^h confederate, persuades 
 ecyh of these men in turn, tlmt lie is named for tice in- 
 heritance, and by this means extracts from their cre- 
 dulity many costly presents. 
 
 YoLPOlftE, as on his dexUh-bed. MOSCA. CORBACCIO, fW 
 old gentleman. 
 
 Mas. Signior Corbaccio, 
 You're very welcome, sir. 
 
 Corb. How does your patron ? 
 
 Mas. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends. 
 
 Corb. What ? mends he ? 
 
 Mas. No, sir, lie is rather worse. 
 
 Corb. That 's well. Where is he ? 
 
 Mas. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. 
 
 Corb. Does he sleep well ? 
 
 3fos. No wink, sir, all this night, 10 
 
 Nor yesterday ; but slumbers. 
 
 Corb. Good ! he shall take 
 Some counsel of physicians : I have brought him 
 An opiate here, from mine own doctor — 
 
 Mas. He mil not hear of drugs. 
 
 Corb. Why ? I myself 
 Stood by, while it was made ; saw all th' ingredients ; 
 And know it cannot but most gently work. 
 My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep. 
 
 Volp. Ay, his last sleep if he would take it. 20 
 
 Mas. Sir, 
 He has no faith in physic. 
 
 Corb. Say you, say you ? 
 
 Mas. He has no faith in physic : he does think, 
 Most of your doctors are the gi-eatest danger, 
 A worst disease t' escape. I often have 
 Heard liim protest, that your physician 
 Should never be his heir.
 
 126 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Corh. Not I liis heir ? 
 
 Mos. Not your physician, sir. 
 
 Oorh. 0, no, no, uo, 
 I do not mean it. 
 
 Mos. No, sir, nor their fees 
 He cannot hrook : he says they flay a man 
 Before they kill him. 
 
 Corh. Right, I do conceive you. 
 
 Mos. And then, they do it by experiment ; 
 For which the law not only doth absolve 'em, 10 
 
 But gives them great reward ; and he is loth 
 To hire his death so. 
 
 Carb. It is true, they kill 
 With as much licence as a Judge. 
 
 Mos. Nay, more ; 
 For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, 
 And these can kill him too. 
 
 Corb. Ay, or me, 
 Or any man. How does his apoplex ? 
 Is that strong on him still ? 20 
 
 Mos. Most violent. 
 His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, 
 His face drawn longer than 'twas wont, 
 
 Corb. How ? how ? 
 Stronger than he was wont ? 
 
 Mos. No, sir : his face 
 Drawni longer than 'twas wont. 
 
 Corb. 0, good. 
 
 Mos. His mouth 
 Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. 30 
 
 Corh. Good. 
 
 Mos. A freezing niimbness stiffens all his joints, 
 And makes the colour of his flesh like lead. 
 
 Corb. 'Tis good. 
 
 Mos. His jiulse beats slow, and dull, 
 
 Corb. Good symptoms still. 
 
 Mos. And from his brain — 
 
 Corb. Ha ? how ? not from his brain ? 
 
 Mos. Yes, sir, and from his brain — 
 
 Corb. I conceive you, good. 40 
 
 Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum 
 Forth the resolved comers of his eyes. 
 
 Corb. Is 't possible ? yet I am better, ha !
 
 VOLPONE. 127 
 
 How does lie with the swimming of his head ? 
 3Ios. 0, sir, 'tis past the scotomy ; he now 
 Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort : 
 Yon hardly can perceive him that he breathes. 
 
 Corb. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall outlast 
 him : 
 This makes me young again a score of years. 
 3Tos. I was coming for you, sir. 
 Corb. Has he made his will ? 
 What has he giv'n me ? 
 
 3fos. No, sir. 10 
 
 Corb. Nothing? ha? 
 3Ios. He has not made his will, sir. 
 Corb. Oh, oh, oh. 
 "What then did Voltore the la-ivyer here ? 
 
 3fos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard 
 My master was about his testament ; 
 As I did m-ge him to it for your good — 
 
 Corb. He came unto him, did he ? I thought so. 
 Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. 
 Corb. To Ije liis heir ? 20 
 
 Mos. I do not know, sir-. 
 Corb. True, 
 I know it too. 
 
 Mos. By your own scale, sir. 
 
 Corb. Well, I shall prevent him yet. See Mosca. 
 look, 
 Here I have brought a bag of bright cecchines, 
 Will quite weigh dowii his plate. 
 
 3Ios. Yea marry, sir. 
 This is true physic, this your sacred medicine ; 
 No talk of opiates, to this gi-eat elixir. 30 
 
 Corb. 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. 
 Mos. It shall be minister'd to him in his bowl ? 
 Corb. Ay, do, do, do. 
 Mos. Most blessed cordial. 
 This -will recover him. 
 Corb. Yes, do, do, do. 
 Mos. I think it were not best, sir. 
 Corb. What ? 
 Mos. To recover him. 
 
 Corb. O, no, no, no ; by no means. 40 
 
 Mos. Why, sir, this
 
 128 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Will work some strange effect if ho but feel it. 
 
 Corh. 'Tis true, therefore forbear ; I '11 take my 
 venture ; 
 Give me 't again. 
 
 Mos. At no hand ; pardon me 
 You sliall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I 
 Will so advise you, you shall have it all. 
 
 Corb. How ? 
 
 Mos. All sir, 'tis your right, your own ; no man 
 Can claim a part ; 'tis yours without a rival. 
 Decreed by destiny. 10 
 
 Corb. How ? how, good Mosca ? 
 
 Mos. I '11 tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover. 
 
 Corb. I do conceive you. 
 
 Mos. And on first advantage 
 Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him 
 Unto the making of his testament : 
 And shew him this. 
 
 Corb. Good, good. 
 
 Mos. 'Tis better yet, 
 If you will hear, sir. 20 
 
 Corb. Yes, with all my heart. 
 
 Mos. Now would I counsel you, make home with 
 speed ; 
 There frame a will ; whereto you shall inscribe 
 My master your sole heir. 
 
 Corb. And disinherit 
 My son ? 
 
 Mos. sir, the better ; for that colour 
 Shall make it much more taking. 
 
 Corb. 0, but colour ? 
 
 Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. 30 
 Now, when I come to inforce (as I will do) 
 Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers. 
 Your more than many gifts, your this day's present. 
 And last produce your will ; where, (Avithout thought, 
 Or least regard unto your proper issue, 
 A son so brave, and highly meriting) 
 The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you 
 Upon my master, and made him your heir : 
 He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead. 
 But out of conscience, and mere gratitude 40 
 
 Corb. He must pronounce me his ?
 
 VOLPONE. 129 
 
 Mos. 'Tis true. 
 
 Corb. This i)lot 
 Did I think on before. 
 
 Mos. I do believe it. 
 
 Corh. Do you not believe it ? 
 
 Mos. Yes, sir. 
 
 Corb. Mine own project. 
 
 Mos. "Which wlien he hath done, sir— 
 
 Corb. Published me his lieir ? 
 
 Mos. And you so certain to survive him — 10 
 
 Corb. Ay. 
 
 Mos. Being so lusty a man 
 
 Corb. 'Tis ta-ue. 
 
 Mos. Yes, sir — 
 
 Corb. I thought on that too. See how he should l)e 
 The very organ to express my thoughts ! 
 
 Mos. You have not only done youi'self a good 
 
 Corb. But multiplied it on my son. 
 
 Mos. 'Tis right, sir. 
 
 Corb. Still my invention. 20 
 
 Mos. 'Las, sir, heaven knows. 
 It hath been all my study, all my care 
 (I e'en grow grey \\nthal) how to work things 
 
 Corb. I do conceive, sweet Mosca. 
 
 Mos. You are he, 
 For whom I labour, here. 
 
 Corb. Ay, do, do, do : 
 I '11 straight about it. 
 
 Mos. Rook go with you, raven. 
 
 Corb. I know thee honest. 30 
 
 Mos. You do lie, sir — 
 
 Corb. And 
 
 Mos. Your knowledge is no better tlian your ears, 
 sir. 
 
 Corb. I do not doubt to be a father to thee. 
 
 Mos. Nor I to gull my brother of his blessing. 
 
 Corb. I may ha' my youth restored to me, why 
 not? 
 
 Mos. Your worship is a precious ass 
 
 Corb. What say'st thou ? 
 
 Mos. I do desire your worship to make haste, sir. 
 
 Corb. 'Tis done, 'tis done, I go. [Exit. 40 
 
 Volp. 0, I shall burst; 
 I. I
 
 130 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Let out my sides, let out my sides 
 
 Mos- Contain 
 Your flux of laugliter, sir : you know this hope 
 Is sucli a bait it covers any hook. 
 
 Vo/p. 0, but thy working, and thy placing it ! 
 I cannot hold : good rascal, let me kiss thee : 
 I never knew thee in so rare a humour. 
 
 Mos. Alas, sir, I but do as I am taught ; 
 Follow your grave instructions ; give them words : 
 Pour oil into their ears : and send them hence. 10 
 
 Volp. 'Tis true, 'tis true. What a rare punish- 
 ment 
 Is avarice to itself ! 
 
 Mos- Ay, with our helj), sir. 
 
 Volp. So many cares, so many maladies, 
 So many fears attending on old age, 
 Yea, death so often call'd on, as no wish 
 Can be more frequent with 'em, tlieir limbs faint. 
 Their senses dull, their seeing, hearing, going, 
 All dead before them ; yea, their very teeth, 
 Their instruments of eating, failing them : 20 
 
 Yet this is reckon'd life ! Nay, here was one, 
 Is now gone home, that wishes to live longer ! 
 Feels not liis gout, nor palsy ; feigns himself 
 Younger by scores of years, flatters his age, 
 AVith confident belying it, hopes he may 
 With charms, like ^Eson, have his youth restored : 
 And with these thoughts so battens, as if Fate 
 Would be as easily cheated on, as he : 
 And all turns air ! Who 's that there, now ? a third ? 
 
 [AnotJier knocl's. 
 
 Mos- Close to your couch again : I hear his voice. 
 It is Corvino, our spruce merchant. 31 
 
 Volp. Dead. 
 
 Mos. Another bout, sir, with your eyes. Who's 
 there ? 
 
 COKVINO, a Merchant, enters. 
 Mos. Signior Corvino ! come most mshed for ! 0, 
 How happy were you, if you knew it now ! 
 Corv. Why ? what ? wherein ? 
 Mos. The tardy hour is come, sir. 
 Corv. He is not dead ?
 
 VOLPONE. 131 
 
 Mos. Not dead, sir, but as good ; 
 He knows no man. 
 
 Corv. How shall I do then ? 
 
 Mos. Why, sir ? 
 
 Corv. I have brought him here a peai'l. 
 
 Mos. Perhaps he lias 
 So much remembrance left, as to know yon, sir : 
 He still calls on you : nothing but yoiir name 
 Is in his mouth : is your pearl orient, sir ? 
 
 Corv. Venice was never owner of the like. 10 
 
 Volp. Signior Corvino. 
 
 Mos. Hark. 
 
 Volp. Signior Corvino. 
 
 Mos. He calls you, step and give it him. He's 
 here, sir, 
 And he has brought you a rich pearl. 
 
 Con: How do you, sir ? 
 Tell him it doubles the twelfth caract. 
 
 Mos. Sir, 
 He cannot understand, his hearing 's gone : 
 And yet it comforts him to see you 20 
 
 Corv. Say, 
 I have a diamond for him too. 
 
 Mos. Best shew 't, sir, 
 Put it into his hand ; 'tis ordy there 
 He apprehends ; he has his feeling yet. 
 See how he gi-asps it ! 
 
 Cm-v. 'Las, good gentleman ! 
 How pitiful the sight is ! 
 
 Mos. Tut, forget, sir. 
 The weeping of an heir should still be laughter, 30 
 Under a visor. 
 
 Corv. AVliy, am I his heir ? 
 
 Mos. Sir, I am sworn, I may not shew the will 
 Till he be dead : but, here has been Corbaccio, 
 Here has been Voltore, here were others too, 
 I cannot number 'em, they were so many, 
 All gaping here for legacies ; but I, 
 Taking the vantage of his naming you, 
 (Signior Corvino, Signior Corvino,) took 
 Paper, and pen, and ink, and there I ask'd him, 40 
 Whom he would have his heir ? Corvino. Who 
 Should be executor ? Corvino. And
 
 132 BEN JONSON. 
 
 To any question he was silent to, 
 
 I still interpreted the nods he made 
 
 Thiough weakness, for consent : and sent home the 
 
 otlicrs, 
 Nothing beqneath'd them, but to cry, and curse. 
 
 Corv. O, my dear Mosca. Does he not perceive us 1 
 
 Mos. No more than a blind harper. He knows no 
 man. 
 No face of friend, nor name of any servant, 
 Who 't was that fed him last, or gave him drink ; 
 Not those he hath begotten, or brought up, 
 Can lie remember. 
 
 Corv. Has he children ? 10 
 
 Mos. Bastards, 
 Some dozen, or more, that he begot on beggars, 
 Gyj)sies, and Jews, and black -moors, when he was 
 
 drunk : 
 Knew you not that, sir ? 'Tis the conmron fable, 
 The dwarf, the fool, the eunuch, are all his : 
 He 's the true father of his family. 
 In all, save me : but he has given 'em nothing. 
 
 Corv. That 's well, that 's well. Art sure he does 
 not hear us ? 
 
 Mos. Sure, sir ? why look you, credit your own 
 sense. 20 
 
 The pox approach, and add to your diseases. 
 If it would send you hence the sooner, sir. 
 For your incontinence, it hath deserv'd it 
 Throughly, and throughly, and the plague to boot. 
 (You may come near, sir,) would you would once close 
 Those filthy eyes of yours that flow with slime, 
 Like two frog-pits : and those same hanging cheeks, 
 Cover'd with hide, instead of skin : (nay help, sir,) 
 That look like frozen dish-clouts set on end. 
 
 Corv. Or, like an old sraok'd wall, on which the 
 rain 30 
 
 Ran down in streaks. 
 
 Mos. Excellent, sir, speak out ; 
 You may be louder yet : a culverin 
 Discharged in his ear would hardly bore it. 
 
 Corv. His nose is like a common sewer, still 
 running. 
 
 Mos. 'Tis good ; and what his mouth ?
 
 CATILIUE. 133 
 
 Corv. A very draught. 
 Mos. 0, stop it up 
 
 Corv. By no means 
 
 Mos. Pray you let me. 
 Faith I could stifle him rarely with a pillow, 
 As well as any woman that should keep him. 
 
 Corv. Do as you will, but I'll begone. 
 
 Mos. Be so ; 
 It is your presence makes him last so long. 
 
 Corv. I pray you use no violence. 10 
 
 Mos. No, sir, whv ? 
 "Why should you be thus scnipulous ? 'Pray you, sir. 
 
 Corv. Nay, at your discretion. 
 
 Mos. Weil, good sir, be gone. 
 
 Corv. I will not trouble him now, to take my pearl. 
 
 Mos. Puh, nor your diamond. What a needless 
 care 
 Is this afflicts you ? Is not all here yours ? 
 Am not I here, whom you have made your creatm-e. 
 That owe my being to you « 
 
 Corv. Grateful Mosca ! 20 
 
 Thou art my friend, my fellow, my companion, 
 My partner, and shall share in all my fortunes. [Exit. 
 
 Volp. My divine Slosca ! 
 Thou hast to-day outgone thyself. 
 
 XXXVII, 
 
 CATILINE HIS CONSPIRACY : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 The viorning of the Coft^yirac^. —Lentulus, Cethegus, 
 and Catiline meet before the other Conspirators are 
 ready. 
 Lent. It is methinks a morning full of fate. 
 
 It riseth slowly, as her sullen car 
 
 Had all the weights of sleep and death hung at it. 
 
 She is not rosy-tinger'd, but swoU'n black. 
 
 Her face is like a water turn'd to blood. 
 
 And her sick head is bound about with clouds, 30 
 
 As if slie threaten'd night ere noon of day.
 
 134 BEN JONSON. 
 
 It does not look as it would have a hail 
 Or health wish'd in it, as on other morns. 
 
 Cet. Why, all the fitter, Lentulus : our coming 
 Is not for salutation : we have business. 
 
 Cat. Said nobly, brave Cethegus. Where's Autro- 
 nius ? 
 
 Cd. Is he not come ? 
 
 Cat. Not here. 
 
 Cct. Not Vargunteius ? 
 
 Cat. Neither. 
 
 Cet. A iire in their beds and bosoms, 10 
 
 That so well serve their sloth rather than virtue. 
 They are no Romans, and at such high need 
 As now 
 
 Lent. Both they, Longinus, Lecca, Curius, 
 Fulvius, Gabinus, gave me word last night. 
 By Lucius Bestia, they would all l^e here, 
 And early. 
 
 Cct. Yes ! as you, had I not eall'd you. 
 Come, we all sleep, and are mere dormice ; flies 
 A little less than dead : more dullness hangs 20 
 
 On us than on the morn. We 're spirit-bound 
 In ribs of ice ; our whole bloods are one stone : 
 And honour cannot tliaw us, nor our wants, 
 Thougli they burn hot as fevers to our states. 
 
 Cat. I nuise they would l)e tardy at an hour 
 Of so great purpose. 
 
 Cct. If the gods had eall'd 
 Them to a purpose, they would just have come 
 With the same tortoise speed ; that are thus slow 
 To such an action, which the gods will envy, 30 
 
 As asking no less means than all their powers 
 Conjoin'cl to eflect. I would have seen Rome burnt 
 By this time, and her ashes in an urn : 
 The kingdom of the senate rent asunder : 
 And the degenerate talking gown run frighted 
 Out of the air of Italy. 
 
 Cat. Spirit of men ! ! 
 Thou lieart of o\ir great enterprise ! how much 
 I love these voices in thee ! 
 
 Cct. tlie days - 40 
 
 Of Sylla's sway, when the free sword took leave 
 To act all tliat it would !
 
 CATILINE. 135 
 
 Cat. And was familiar 
 With entrails, as onr augurs. — 
 
 Oct. Sons kill'd fathers, 
 Brothers their brotliers. — 
 
 Cat. And had price and praise : 
 All luite had licence giv'n it ; all rage reins. 
 
 Cct. Slaughter bcstrid the streets, and sti'etcli'd 
 himself 
 To seem more huge : whilst to his stained thighs 
 The gore he drew flovv'd up, and carried down 
 Whole heaps of limbs and liodies through his arch. 
 No age was spared, no sex. 10 
 
 Cat. Nay, no degree. — 
 
 Cd. Not infants in the porch of life were free. 
 The sick, the old, that could but hope a day 
 Longer by nature's bounty, not let stay, 
 ^'^irgiiis and widows, matrons, pregnant wives, 
 Alfdied. 
 
 Cat. 'Twas crime enough that they had lives. 
 To strike l)ut only those that could do hurt. 
 Was dull and poor. Some fell, to make the numlier ; 
 As some, the prey. 20 
 
 Cct. The rugged Charon fainted, 
 And ask'd a navy rather than a boat, 
 To ferry over the sad world that came : 
 The maws and dens of beasts could not receive 
 The bodies that those souls were frighted from ; 
 And even the graves were fill'd with men yet living. 
 Whose flight and fear had mix'd them with the dead. 
 
 Cat. And this shall be again, and more, and more, 
 Now Lentulus, the third Cornelius, 
 Is to stand up in Rome. 30 
 
 Lent. Nay, urge not that 
 Is so uncertain. 
 
 Cat. How ! 
 
 Le/nt. I mean, not clear'd ; 
 And therefore not to be reflected on. 
 
 Cat. The Sybil's leaves uncertain ! or the comments 
 Of our grave, deep, divining men, not clear ! 
 
 Lfiit. All j)rophecies, you know, suffer the torture. 
 
 Cat. But this already hath confess'd, M-ithout ; 
 And so been weigh'd, examin'd, and compar'd, 40 
 As 'twere malicious ignorance in him 
 Would faint in the belief.
 
 13G 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Lc7it. Do you believe it ? 
 
 Cat. Do I love Leiitulus, or pray to see it ? 
 
 Lent. The augiirs all are constant I am meant. 
 
 Cat. They had lost their science else. 
 
 Lent. They count from Cinna — 
 
 Cat. And Sylla next — and so make vou the 
 third : 
 All tliat can say the sun is ris'n, must think it. 
 
 Lent. Men mark me more of late as I come forth ! 
 
 CcU. "Why, what can they do less? Cinna and 
 Sylla 
 Arc set and gone ; ami we nuist turn our eyes 10 
 
 On him that is, and shines. jSToble Cethegus, 
 But view him with me here ! He looks already 
 As if he shook a sceptre o'er the senate. 
 And the awed })urple droi)ped their rods and axes. 
 The statues inelt again, and household gods 
 In groans confess the travails of the city ; 
 The very walls sweat blood before the change ; 
 And stones start out to ruin, ere it comes. 
 
 Cct. But he, and we, and all, are idle still. ] 9 
 
 Lent. I am your creature, Sergius ; and whate'er 
 The great Cornelian name shall win to be. 
 It is not augury, nor the Sybil's books, 
 But Catiline, that makes it. 
 
 Cat. I am a shadow 
 To honour'd Lentulus, and Cethegus here ; 
 Who are the heirs of Mars. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 THE ALCHEMIST : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Epicure Mammon, a Knight, deceiced hij the pretemioois 
 of Subtle {(he Alchemist), glones in the prospect of 
 obtaining the Philosoplier's Stone ; and promises wluxt 
 rare things he will do loith it. 
 
 Mammon. Surly, his Friend. The Scene, Subtle's 
 House. 
 
 Mam. Come on, sir. Now you- set your foot on 
 shore 
 In novo orbe. Here 's the rich Peru :
 
 THE ALCHEMIST. 137 
 
 And there witliin, sir, are tlie golden mines, 
 
 Great Solomon's Ophir ! He was sailing to 't 
 
 Tliree years, but we have reach'd it in ten months. 
 
 This is the day wherein to all my friends, 
 
 I will pronounce the happy word, Be rich. 
 
 This day you shall be sjjectatissimi. 
 
 You shall no more deal with the hollow dye. 
 
 Or the frail card. Xo more be at chaige of keeping 
 
 The livery-fiunk for the young heir, that must 
 
 Seal at all hours in his shirt. No more, 10 
 
 If he deny, lia' him beaten to't, as he is 
 
 That brings him the conmiodity. No more 
 
 Shall thirst of satin, or the covetous hunger 
 
 Of velvet entrails for a rude-spun cloak 
 
 To be display'd at Madam Augusta's, make 
 
 The sons of Sword and Hazard fall before 
 
 The golden calf, and on their knees whole nights 
 
 Commit idolatry with wine and ti'umpets ; 
 
 Or go a feasting after drum and ensign. 19 
 
 No more of tliis. You shall start up young Viceroys, 
 
 And have your punques and punquetees, my Surly : 
 
 And unto thee I speak it first, Be rich. 
 
 "Where is my Subtle there ? within lio 
 
 Face ansicei-s from tcifldn. 
 
 Sir, 
 He '11 come to you by and by. 
 
 Mci,m. That 's his iire-drake. 
 His Lungs, his Zephyrus, lie that putfs his coals 
 Till he firk Nature up in her own centre. 
 You are not faithful, sir. This night I '11 change 
 All that is metal in my house to gold : 30 
 
 And early in the morning will I send 
 To all the plumbers and the pewterers. 
 And buy their tin and lead up ; and to Lothbury, 
 For all the copper. 
 
 Sur. What, and turn that too ? 
 
 Mam. Yes, and I '11 purchase Devonshire and 
 Cornwall, 
 And make them perfect Indies ! You admire now 1 
 
 Sur. No, faith. 
 
 3Iam. But when you see the effects of the gi-eat 
 medicine,
 
 138 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Of which one ])art projected on a hundred 
 Of Mercury, ov Venus, oi- tlie Moon, 
 Sliall turn it to a.s many of the Sun ; 
 Nay, to a thousand, so ad infinitum : 
 You w'ill believe me. 
 
 Sitr. Yes, wlieu I see 't, I will. 
 
 Mnm. Ha ! why ! 
 Do 3'ou think I fal)le with you ? I assure you, 
 He that has once tlie flower of tlie Sun, 
 The perl'ect Ruby, whieli we call Elixir, 10 
 
 Not only can do that, but by its virtue 
 Can confer honour, love, respect, long life, 
 Give safet}% valour, yea, and victory, 
 To whom he will. In eight and twenty days 
 I '11 make an old man of fourscore a child. 
 
 Sar. No doubt ; he's that already. 
 
 Mam. Nay, I mean. 
 Restore his years, renew him like an eagle. 
 To the fifth age ; make him get sons and daughters, 
 Young giants, as our philoso})hers have done 20 
 
 (The ancient jiatriarchs afore the flood,) 
 But taking, once a week, on a knife's point 
 The ijuantity of a grain of nnistard of it, 
 Become stout Marses, and beget young Cupids. 
 
 Siir. The decay'd vestals of Piekt-hatcli would 
 thank you. 
 That kec]) the fire alive there. 
 
 Mam. 'Tis the secret 
 Of Nature naturized 'gainst all infections. 
 Cures all diseases, coming of all causes ; 
 A month's grief in a day ; a year's in twelve ; 30 
 
 And of what age soever, in a month : 
 Past all the doses of your dragging doctors. 
 I '11 undertake withal to fright the plag\ie 
 Out o' the kingdom in tliree months. 
 
 SuT. And I 11 
 Be bound, the players shall sing your i^raises, then, 
 Without their poets. 
 
 Mam. Sir, I '11 do 't. Meantime, 
 I '11 give away so much unto my man. 
 Shall serve th' whole city with, preservative 40 
 
 Weekly ; each house his dose, and at the rate —
 
 THE ALCHEMIST. 139 
 
 Sur. As he that bnilt the water-work, does witli 
 water ? 
 
 Mam. Yoii are incredulous. 
 
 Sur. Faith, I have a liuniour, 
 I would not willingly be gnll'd. Your stone 
 Cannot transmute me. 
 
 Mam. Pertinax, my Surly, 
 Will you believe antiquity ? Records ? 
 I '11 show you a book, where jMoses, and his sister, 
 And Solomon, have written of the Art ? 
 Ay, and a treatise jienn'd by Adam. 10 
 
 Sur. How ? 
 
 Mam. Of the Philosopher's Stone, and in High 
 Dutch. 
 
 Sur. Did Adam write, Sir, in High Dutch ? 
 
 Mam. He did, 
 Which proves it N\as the primitive tongue. 
 
 Sur. What jiaper ? 
 
 Mam. On cedar-board. 
 
 Sur. that, indeed, they say. 
 Will last 'gainst wonns. 
 
 Mam. Tis like your Irish wood 20 
 
 'Gainst cobwebs. I liave a piece of .Jason's Fleece too 
 Which was no other than a book of Alchemy, 
 Writ in large sheeji-skin, a good fat ram-vellum. 
 Such was Pythagoras' Thigh, Pandora's Tiib, 
 And all that fable of Medea's charms. 
 The manner of our work : the bulls, our furnace. 
 Still breathing fire : our Argent-vivc, the Dragon : 
 The Dragon's teeth. Mercury sublimate, 
 Tluit keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting : 
 And they are gather'd into .Jason's helm' 30 
 
 (Th' Alembic) and then sow'd in Mars his field, 
 And tlience sulilim'd so often, till they are fix'd. 
 Both this, the Hesperian Garden, Cadmus' Story, 
 Jove's Shower, the Boon of Midas, Argus' Eyes, 
 Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, 
 All abstract riddles of our Stone. 
 
 Face enters. 
 
 Ho\\' now ? 
 
 Do we succeed ? is our day come ? and holds it 1 
 Face. The evening will set red upon you, sir ;
 
 140 BEX JONSON. 
 
 You liave colour for it, crimson : the red ferment 
 Has done his office. Tliree hours hence prepare you 
 To see projection. 
 
 Mam. Pertinax, my Surly, 
 Again I say to tliee aloud, Be rich. 
 Tliis day tliou sLalt have ingots, and to-nionow 
 Give lords tli' affront. Is it, my Zephynis, right? 
 Blushes tlie 15olt's-head ? 
 
 Face. Like a wench with child, sir, 
 Tliat were but now dis(!over'd to her master. 10 
 
 Mam. Excellent witty Lungs ! My only care is, 
 "Wliere to get stuft" enough now, to project on. 
 This town will not lialf serve me. 
 
 Face. No, sir ? liuy 
 The covering off o' churches. 
 
 Mam. That 's true. 
 
 Face. Yes, 
 Let 'em stand bare, as do tlieir auditory ; 
 Or cap 'em new with shingles. 
 
 Mam. No ; good thatch : 20 
 
 Thatch will lie light upon the rafters, Lungs. 
 Lungs, I will manumit thee from the furnace ; 
 I will restore thee thy complexion, Puffe, 
 Lost in the embers ; and repair tliis brain 
 Hurt with the fume o' the metals. 
 
 Face. I have blown, sir. 
 Hard for your worship ; thro-\m by many a coal. 
 When 'twas not beech ; weigh'd those I jmt in, just, 
 To keep your heat still even ; these blear'd eyes 
 Have waked to read your several coloiu's, sir, 30 
 
 Of the fale citron, the green lion, the eroio, 
 The peacock's tail, the jilnnied stran. 
 
 Mam. And lastly. 
 Thou hast descried the fiover, the sanguis agni ? 
 
 Face. Yes, sir. 
 
 Mam. AVhere 's master ? 
 
 Face. At his prayers, sir, he ; 
 Good man, he 's doing his devotions 
 For the success. 
 
 Mam. Lungs, I will set a period 
 To all thy labours : thou shalt be the master 40 
 
 Of my seraglio. For I do mean 
 To have a list of wives and concubines
 
 THE ALCHEMIST. 141 
 
 Equal with Solomon, who had the Stone 
 Alike with nie : and I mil make me a back 
 With the Elixir, that shall be as tough 
 As Hercules, to encounter fifty a night. 
 Thou art sure tliou saw'st it blood ? 
 
 Face. Both blood and spirit, sir. 
 
 Mam. I ^^ill have all my beds blo-wn up ; not stuffed: 
 Down is too hard. And then, mine oval room 
 Fill'd with such pictures as Tiberius took 
 From Elephantis, and dull Are tine 10 
 
 But coldly imitated. Then, my glasses 
 Cut in more subtle angles, to disperse 
 And multiply the tigru-es, as I walk 
 Naked between my Succubce. My mists 
 I '11 have of perfume, vapour'd 'bout the room, 
 To lose ourselves in ; and my baths, like pits 
 To fall into ; from whence we will come forth, 
 And roll us dry in gossamer and roses. 
 (Is it arriv'd at rw6y ?)— Where I spy 
 A wealthy citizen, or rich lawyer, 20 
 
 Have a sublim'd pure \rife, unto that fellow 
 I '11 send a thousand pound to be my cuckold. 
 
 Face. And I shall carry it ? 
 
 Mam. No, I '11 have no bawds, 
 But fathers and mothers. They will do it best, 
 • Best of all others. And my flatterers 
 Sliall be the pure and gravest of di\'ines 
 Tliat I can get for money. My mere fools, 
 Eloquent burgesses ; and then my poets. 
 The same that WTit so subtly of the Fart : 30 
 
 Whom I will entertiiin still for that subject. 
 Tlie few that would give out tliemselves to be 
 Court and town stallions, and each-where belie 
 Ladies, who are known most innocent (for them) 
 Those will I beg, to make me eunuchs of : 
 And they shall fan me with ten estrich tails 
 A piece, made in a jjlume, to gather wind. 
 We will be brave, Puffe, now we ha' the medicine 
 My meat shall all come in in Indian shells. 
 Dishes of Agate set in gold, and studded 40 
 
 With emeralds, sapphires, hyacinths, and rubies : 
 The tongues of carps, dormice, and camels' heels, 
 Boil'd i' the spirit of Sol, and dissolv'd pearl,
 
 142 BEN JONSON. 
 
 (Apicius' diet 'gainst the epilepsy ;) 
 
 Ami I will eat these broths with spoons of amber, 
 
 Headed with diamant and carbuncle. 
 
 My foot-boy shall eat pheasants, calver'd salmons, 
 
 Knots, godwits, lamjjreys : I myself will have 
 
 The beards of barbels serv'd, instead of salads ; 
 
 Oil'd mushrooms ; and the swelling unctuous jiaps 
 
 Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut otf, 
 
 Drest witli an exquisite and jioignant sauce : 
 
 For which, I '11 say unto my cook, "There's gold, 10 
 
 Go forth, and be a knight." 
 
 Face. Sir, I '11 go look 
 A little, how it heightens. 
 
 Mam. Do. — My shirts 
 I '11 liave of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light 
 As cobwebs ; and, for all my other raiment. 
 It shall be such as might provoke the Persian, 
 Were he to teach the world riot anew. 
 My gloves of fishes' and birds' skins, ])erfum'd 
 With gums of paradise, and eastern air. 20 
 
 Sur. And do you think to have the Stone with 
 this ? 
 
 Mam. No, I do think to have all this with the 
 Stone. 
 
 Sur. Why, I liave heard, he must be homo frugi, 
 A pious, holy, and religious man. 
 One free from mortal sin, a very virgin 
 
 Mam. That makes it Sir, he is so. But I 
 
 buy it. 
 My venture brings it me. He, honest wretch, 
 A notable, superstitious, good soul, 
 Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald. 
 With prayer and fasting for it : and, sir, let him 30 
 Do it alone, for me, still. Here he comes. 
 Not a profane word, afore him : 'tis poison. 
 
 [The judgment is perfectly overwhelmed by the tor- 
 rent of images, words, and book-knowledge with which 
 Mammon eonfovmds and stuns his incredulous hearer. 
 They come pouring out like the successive strokes of 
 Nilus. They " doubly redouble strokes upon the foe." 
 Description outstrides proof. We are made to believe 
 effects before we have testimony for their causes : as a 
 lively description of the joys of heaven sometimes
 
 THE NEW INN. 143 
 
 passes for an argiiment to prove the existence of such 
 a place. If there be no one image which rises to the 
 height of the sublime, yet the confluence and assem- 
 blage of them all produces an effect equal to the grand- 
 est poetry. Xerxes' army that drank up whole rivers 
 from their numbers may stand for single Achilles. 
 Epicure Mammon is the most determined offspring of 
 the author. It has the whole " matter and copy of the 
 father, eye, nose, lip, the trick of his frown : " It is 
 just such a swaggerer as contemporaries have described 
 old Ben to be. "Meercraft, Bobadil, the Host of the 
 New Inn, have all his " image and superscription : " 
 but Mammon is arrogant pretension personified. Sir 
 Sampson Legend, in Love for Love, is such another 
 lying overbearing character, but he does not come up to 
 Epicure Mammon. What a " tow'ring bravery " thei-e 
 is in his sensuality ! He alfects no pleasure under a 
 Sultan. It is as if " Egypt with Assyria strove m 
 luxury."] 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 THE NEW INN ; or, THE LIGHT HEART : 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 LovEL discovers to the HOST of the New Inn his Lore for 
 the LaDT Frances, and his reasons for concealing 
 his Passion from her. 
 
 Lov. There is no life on earth, but being in love ! 
 There are no studies, no delights, no business, 
 No intercourse, or trade of sense, or soul, 
 But what is love ! I was the laziest creature, 
 The most unprofitable sign of nothing, 
 The veriest drone, and slept away my life 
 Beyond the dormouse, till I was in love ! 
 And now I can out-wake the nightingale, 
 Out-wateli an usurer, and out-walk liim too, 
 Stalk like a ghost tliat haimted 'bout a treasure ; 10 
 And all that fancied treasure, it is love ! 
 
 Host. But is your name Love-ill, sir, or Love-well ? 
 I would know that.
 
 144 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Lav. I do not know it myself, 
 Whctlier it is. But it is love hath been 
 The hereditary passion of our house, 
 My gentle liost, and, as I guess, my friend ; 
 The tnitli is, I have loved this lady long, 
 And impotcntly, with desire enough, 
 But no success : for I have still forborne 
 To express it in my person to her. 
 
 Host. How then ! 
 
 Lov. I have sent her toys, verses, and anagrams, 10 
 Trials of wit, mere trifles, she has commended. 
 But knew not whence they came, nor could slie guess. 
 
 Host. Tliis was a pretty riddling way of wooing ! 
 
 Lov. I oft liave lieen too in her company, 
 And look'd upon lier a wliole day, adniir'd lier, 
 Loved her, and did not tell her so ; loved still, 
 Look'd still, and loved ; and loved, and look'd, and 
 
 sigh'd ; 
 But, as a man neglected, I came off, 
 And unregarded. 
 
 Host. Could you blame her, sir, 20 
 
 When you were silent and not said a word ? 
 
 Lov. but I loved the more ; and she might 
 read it 
 Best in my silence, liad she been- 
 
 Host. as melancholic. 
 
 As you are. Pray you, why would you stand mute, sir ? 
 
 Lov. thereon hangs a history, mine host. 
 Did you ever know or hear of the Lord Beaufort, 
 AVho serv'd so bravely in France ? I was his page, 
 And, ere he died, his friend ! I follow'd him 
 First in the wars, and in the times of peace 30 
 
 I waited on liis studies ; which were right. 
 He had no Arthurs, nor no Rosicleers, 
 No Knights of the Sun, nor Amadis de Gauls, 
 Primalions, and Pantagruels, ])ublic nothings ; 
 Abortives of the fabulous dark cloister. 
 Sent out to poison courts, and infest manners : 
 But gi-eat Achilles*, Agamemnon's acts, 
 Sage Nestor's counsels, and Ulysses' sleights, 
 Tydides' fortitude, as Homer wrought them 
 In his immortal fancy, for examples 40 
 
 Of the heroic virtue. Or, as Virgil,
 
 THE NEW INN. 145 
 
 That master of the Epic Poeiu, Ihnii'd 
 
 Pious jEiieas, liis religious })riuce, 
 
 Bearing his aged parent on his shoulders, 
 
 Rapt from the flames of Troy, with his young son. 
 
 And these he brought to j)ractise and to use. 
 
 He gave me first my breeding, I acknowledge, 
 
 Then shower'd his bounties on me, like the Hours, 
 
 That open-handed sit upon the clouds. 
 
 And press the lilierality of heaven 
 
 Dovra to the laps of thankful men ! But then, 10 
 
 The trust committed to me at his death 
 
 Was above all, and left so strong a tie 
 
 On all my powers as time shall not dissolve. 
 
 Till it dissolve itself, and bury all : 
 
 The care of his brave heir and only son ! 
 
 Who being a virtuous, sweet, young, hopeful lord, 
 
 Hath cast his first affections on this lady. 
 
 And though I know, and may presume her sucli, 
 
 As, out of humour, will return no love. 
 
 And therefore might inditferently be made 20 
 
 The courting-stock for all to practise on, 
 
 As she doth practise on us all to scorn : 
 
 Yet, out of a religion to my cliarge, 
 
 And debt profess'd, I have made a self-decree, 
 
 Ne'er to express my person though ray passion 
 
 Burn nie to cinders. 
 
 LovEL, ill the pteseiice of the Lady Frances, the ijoung 
 LoHD Beaufort, aial other Guests of the New J nit, 
 defines v:hat Loce is, 
 
 Lov. Wliat else 
 Is love, but the most noble, pure aff'ection 
 Of what is truly l)eautiful and fair. 
 Desire of union with the thing beloved ? 30 
 
 Beau. I have read somewhere, that man and woman 
 Were, in the first creation, both one piece, 
 And being cleft asunder, ever since 
 Love was an appetite to be rejoin'd. 
 
 Lov. It is a fable of Plato's, in his banquet, 
 And utter'd there by Aristoplianes. 
 
 Host. 'Twas well remember'd here, and to good 
 use. 
 But on with your description what love is. 
 
 I. K
 
 146 BEN JONSON. 
 
 Desire of miion with the thing beloved. 
 Lov. I meant a delinition. For I make 
 
 The efficient cause, what's lieautiful and fair ; 
 
 The formal cause, the ai)petite of union ; 
 
 The final cause, the union itself. 
 
 T>ut larger, if you '11 have it, by descrii)tion : 
 
 It is a Hume and ardour of tlie mind, 
 
 Dead in the proper cori)se, quick in another's : 
 
 Transfers the lover into tlie beloved, 
 
 That lie, or she, that loves, engraves or stamps 10 
 
 The idea of what they love, first in themselves : 
 
 Or, like to glasses, so their minds take in 
 
 Tlie forms of their belov'd, and them reflect. 
 
 It is the likeness of atfections. 
 
 Is both the parent and the nurse of love. 
 
 Love is a spiritual coiqiling of two souls, 
 
 So much more excellent as it least relates 
 
 Unto the body ; circular, eternal ; 
 
 Not feign'd, or made, but born : and then, so 
 precious. 
 
 As nought can value it, but itself. So free, 20 
 
 As nothing can command it but itself. 
 
 And in itself so round and liberal, 
 
 As, where it favours, it bestows itself. 
 
 But we must take and understand this love 
 
 Along still as a name of dignity. 
 
 Not pleasure. 
 
 Tnie love hath no unworthy thought, no light 
 
 Loose unbecoming appetite, or strain ; 
 
 But fixed, constant, pure, immutable. 
 
 Beau. I relish not these philosophical fe;ists ; 30 
 
 Give me a banquet o' sense, like that of Ovid ; 
 A foi-m, to take the eye ; a voice, mine ear ; 
 Pure aromatics to my scent ; a soft 
 Smooth dainty hand to touch ; and, for my taste, 
 Ambrosiac kisses to melt down the i)alate. 
 
 Lov. They are the eartlily, lower form of lovers, 
 Are only taken with what strikes the senses. 
 And love by that loose scale. Altho' I grant, 
 We like wliat's fair and graceful in an object. 
 And (true) would use it, in the. all we tend to, 40 
 Both of our civil and domestic deeds. 
 In ordering of an army, in our style,
 
 THE NEW INN. 147 
 
 Ajiparel, gesture, building, or what not ? 
 
 All arts and actions do affect their beauty. 
 
 But jjut the case, in travel I may meet 
 
 Some goi'geous structiu-e, a brave frontispiece, 
 
 Shall I stay cajjtive in the outer court, 
 
 Surpris'd ■with that, and not advance to know 
 
 "Who dwells there, and inhabiteth the house ? 
 
 There is my friendship to be made, within, 
 
 "With what can love me again ; not with the walls, 
 
 Doors, windows, architraves, the frieze, and cornice. 
 
 ily end is lost in loving of a face, 11 
 
 An eye, lip, nose, hand, foot, or other part, 
 
 Whose all is but a statue, if the mind 
 
 Move not, which only can make the return. 
 
 The end of love is to have two made one 
 
 In will, and in affection, that the minds 
 
 Be first inoculated, not the bodies. 
 
 The body's love is frail, subject to change. 
 
 And alters still with it : the mind's is finii, 
 
 One and the same, i)roceedetli first from weighing, 
 
 And well examining what is fair and good ; 21 
 
 Then what is like in reason, tit in manners ; 
 
 That breeds good will : good will desire of miion. 
 
 So knowledge first begets benevolence. 
 
 Benevolence breeds friendship, friendshiji love : 
 
 And where it starts or steps aside from this. 
 
 It is a mere degenerous appetite, 
 
 A lost, oblique, deprav'd affection. 
 
 And bears no mark or character of love. 
 
 Nor do they trespass within bounds of pardon, 30 
 
 That giving way and license to their love, 
 
 Divest him of his noblest ornaments, 
 
 "Which are his modesty and shamefac'dness : 
 
 And so they do, that have unfit designs 
 
 Upon the parties they pretend to love. 
 
 For what 's more monstrous, more a prodigy, 
 
 Thau to hear me protest truth of affection 
 
 Unto a person that 1 would dishonour ? 
 
 And what 's a more dishonour, than defacing 
 
 Another's good with forfeiting mine own, 40 
 
 And drawing on a fellowship of sin ? 
 
 From note of which, though for a while we may 
 
 Be both kept safe by caution, yet the conscience
 
 148 HEN JONSON. 
 
 Cannot be cleans'd. For what was hitherto 
 Call'd by the name of love, becomes destroy'd 
 Tlien, with the fact ; tlic innocency lost, 
 Th(! bating; of affection soon will follow ; 
 And love is never true that is not lasting : 
 No more than any can be pure or perfect, 
 That entertains more than one object. 
 
 [Tliese and the preceding extracts may serve to shew 
 tlio poetical fancy and elegance of minil of the supposed 
 ru;,fged old Bard. A. thousand beautiful passages might 
 be adduced from those numerous ccnu-t masipies and 
 entertainments which he was in the daily habit of 
 furnishing, to prove the same thing. But they do not 
 come within my plan. That which follows is a specimen 
 of that talent for comic luimour, and the assemblage of 
 ludicrous images, on which his reputation chiefly rests. 
 It may serve for a variety after so many serious extracts. ] 
 
 XL. 
 
 THE SAD SHEPHERD : or, A TALE OF 
 ROBIN HOOD. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Alken, an old Shepherd, im/ructs Robin Hood's Men 
 hmo iofaid a Witch, uiul how she is to he hunted. 
 
 Robin Hood. Tuck. Little John. Scarlep. 
 ScATHLOCK. George. Alken. Clarion. 
 
 Tuck. Hear you how 
 Poor Tom, the cook, is taken ! all his joints 
 Do crack, as if his lindis were tied with points : 10 
 His whole frame slackens, and a kind of rack 
 Runs do^\^^ along the spondils of his back ; 
 A gout, or cramp, now seizeth on his head, 
 Tlien falls into his feet : his knees are lead ; 
 And he can stir his either hand no more 
 Than a dead stump to his office, as before. 
 
 Alk. He is bewitch'd. 
 
 Cla. This is an argument 
 Both of her malice, and her power, we see.
 
 THE SAD SHEPHERD. 149 
 
 Alk. She must by some device restrained be, 
 Or she '11 go far in mischief. 
 
 Eob. Advise how, 
 Sage shepherd ; we shall put it straight in practice. 
 Alk. Send forth your woodmen then into the 
 walks, 
 Or let them prick her footing hence ; a witch 
 Is sure a creature of melancholy. 
 And will be found, or sitting in her fonnn, 
 Or else at relief, like a hare. 
 
 Cla. You speak, _ 10 
 
 Aiken, as if you knew the sport of Antch-huntiiig, 
 Or starting of a hag. 
 
 Roh. Go, Sirs, about it. 
 Take George here with you, he can help to find her. 
 John. Rare sport, I swear, this hunting of the 
 ■\\-itcli 
 Will make us. 
 
 Scar. Let 's advise u])on 't, like huntsmen. 
 Geo. An we can sjjy her once, she is our own. 
 Scath. First tliink which way she fourmeth, on 
 what wind : 
 Or nortli, or south. 20 
 
 Geo. For, as the shepherd said, 
 A witch is a kind of hare. 
 
 Scath. And marks the weather, 
 As the hare does. 
 
 John. "NVliere shall we hope to find her ? 
 A Ik. Know you the witch's dell ? 
 Sear. Ko more than I do know the walks of hell. 
 A Ik. Within a gloomy dimble she dotli dwell, 
 Down in a pit o'ergl•o^\■n with brakes and briars, 
 Close by the ruins of a shaken abbey, 30 
 
 Torn with an earth(|uake down unto the gi'ound, 
 'Mongst gi-aves, and grots, near an old charnel house. 
 Where you shall find her sittmg in her fonnn, 
 As fearful, and melancholic, as that 
 She is about ; with caterpillars' kells, 
 And knotty cobwebs, rounded in with spells. 
 Thence she steals forth to relief, in the fogs. 
 And rotten mists, upon tlie fens and bogs, 
 Down to the di'0\\iied hinds of Lincolnshire ; 
 To make ewes cast their lambs, swine eat their 
 fan'ow !
 
 150 BEN JONSON. 
 
 The house-wife's tun not work, uor the milk cliurn ! 
 Writhe cliikhen's wiists, and suck their breatli in 
 
 sleep ! 
 Get vials of their blood ! and where the sea 
 Casts up his slimy ooze, search for a weed 
 To oj)en locks witli, and to rivet charms, 
 Pliuitcd about her, in the wicked seat 
 Of all her mischiefs, which are manifold. 
 
 John. I wonder such a story could be told 
 Of her dire deeds. 
 
 Geo. I thought, a witch's banks 10 
 
 Had inclosed nothing but the merry pranks 
 Of some old woman. 
 
 Scar. Yes, lier malice more. 
 
 Heath. As it would quickly appear, had we the 
 store 
 Of his collects. 
 
 Geo. Aye, this good learned man 
 Can speak her right. 
 
 Scar. He kno\\-s lier shifts and haunts. 
 
 Alk. And all her wiles and turns. The venom 'd 
 
 plants 1 9 
 
 "WMierewith she kills ! where the sad mandrake gi-ows, 
 
 "Whose gi-oans are deathful ! the dead - numbing 
 
 night-shade ! 
 Tlie stupifying hendock ! adder's tongue. 
 And martagan ! the slirieks of luckless owls. 
 We hear ! and croaking night-crows in the air ! 
 Green-bellied snakes ! blue" fire-drakes in the sky ! 
 And giddy flitter-mice with leather wings ! 
 The scaly beetles, with their habergeons 
 That make a humming murmur as they fly ! 
 There, in the stocks of trees, white fays do dwell, 
 And s}ian-long elves that dance about a pool, 30 
 
 ^V"ith each a little changeling in their arms ! 
 The airy s])irits play with falling stars, 
 And mount the sjihere of fire, to kiss the moon ! 
 While she sits reading by the glow-worm's light, 
 Or rotten wood, o'er which the worm hath crept. 
 The baneful schedule of her nocent chai'ms. 
 And binding characters, through which she wounds 
 Her pui)])ets, the Sigil/a of her witchcraft. 
 All this I know, and I will find her for you ;
 
 BussY d'ambois. 151 
 
 And shew yon her sitting in her fonrni ; I '11 lay 
 jMy hand uiion her ; make lier throw her scut 
 Along her back, when she dotli start liefore ns. 
 But you must give her law ; and you sliall see her 
 Make twenty leaps and doubles, cross the paths, 
 And then squat down beside us. 
 
 Juhn. Crafty croan, 
 I long to be at the sport, and to report it. 
 
 Scar. We'll make this hunting of the witch as 
 famous, 
 As any other blast of venery. 30 
 
 Geo. If we should come to see her, cry so hmu once — 
 
 Alk. That I do jiromise, or I'm no good hag-finder. 
 
 XLI. (G.) 
 
 BUSSY D'AMBOIS : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY GEOKGE CHAPMAN, 
 
 A Nuntius {or Messenger) in the presence of King Henry 
 THE Third of Fiance and his Courf tells the manner of 
 a combat to which he tras 7ritness, of three to three; in 
 v:hich D' Ambois remained sole surricor : het/un upon 
 an affront passed vjjun D'Ambois hi/ some Courtiers. 
 
 Henry, Guise, Beaupre, Nuntius, &c. 
 
 Nuntius. I saw fierce D'Ambois and his t\\o I)rave 
 friends 
 Enter the field, and at their heels their foes, 
 Which were the famous soldiers, Barrisor, 
 L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, great in deeds of arms : 
 All which arriv'd at the evenest piece of earth 
 The field afi'orded, the three challengers 
 Turn'd head, drew all their rajneis, and stood rank'd ; 
 When face to face the three defendants met them, 20 
 Alike prepar'd, and resolute alike. 
 Like bonfires of contributory wood 
 Every man's look shew'd, fed with cither's spirit ; 
 As one had been a mirror to another, 
 Like forms of life and death each took from other : 
 And so were life and death niix'd at their heights.
 
 152 GEORGK CHAPMAN. 
 
 That you foul<l soe no fear of death (for life) ; 
 Nor love of life (for death) : Imt in tlieir brows 
 Pyrrho's oiiiiiiou in great h-tters shone ; 
 Tliat "life and death in all respects are one." 
 
 Henry. Passed there no sorts of words at their 
 encounter ? 
 
 Nuntius. As Hector 'twixt the hosts of (ii'cece and 
 Troy, 
 Wlien Pai'is and the S]iartan king should end 
 Tlie nine years' war, lield up liis lirazen lance 
 For signal that both hosts sliould cease from arms, 
 And hear liini sjieak : so Barrisor (advis'd) 10 
 
 Advanc'd his naked rapier 'twixt botli sides, 
 Ript up tlie quarrel, and compar'd six lives ; 
 Then laid in balance with six idle words ; 
 Olfer'd remission and contrition too : 
 Or else tliat lie and D'Ambois juiglit conclude 
 The others' dangers. D'Ambois lik'd the last : 
 But Barrisor's friends (being equally engaged 
 In tlio main quarrel,) never would exjiose 
 Plis life alone to that tliey all deserv'd. 
 And (for the otlier oiler of remission) 20 
 
 D'ATubois (tliat like a laurel jiut in tire 
 Sjiarkled and spit) did much much more than scorn, 
 That his wrong should incense him so like cliafi', 
 To go so soon out, and, like lighted jiaper, 
 Apjaove his sjiirit at once both fire and ashes : 
 So drew they lots, and in them fates appointed 
 That Barrisor should fight with fiery D'Ambois ; 
 Pyrhot with ilelynell ; M'ith Brisac L'Anou : 
 And then like fiame and powder they comiuixt. 
 So sprightly, that I wish'd they had been Sjiirits ; 30 
 That the ne'er-shutting wounds, they needs must 
 
 open, 
 Might as they open'd shut, and never kill.* 
 But D'Ambois' sword (that light'ned as it flew) 
 Shot like a pointed comet at the face 
 Of manly Barrisor ; and there it stuck : 
 Thrice pluck'd he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts 
 From him, that of himself was free as fire ; 
 Who thrust still, as he jiluck'd, yet (jiast belief) 
 
 * One can hardly Velieve bat that tliese lines were written after 
 Milton hail describcil his uarrimj avrjeU.
 
 BussY d'ambois. 15;i 
 
 He with his subtle eye, liand, body, 'scap'd ; 
 At last the deadly Ijitteu point tugg'd otf, 
 On fell his yet undaunted foe so tiercely, 
 That (only made more horrid with his wound) 
 (Jreat D'Ambois shrunk, and gave a little gi-ound : 
 I>ut soon return'd, redoubled in his danger, 
 And at the heart of Barrisor seal'd his anger. 
 Then, as in Arden I have seen an oak 
 Long shook with temjjests, and his lofty top 
 Bent to his root, which lieing at length uuide loose 10 
 (E'en gi-oaning with his weight) he 'gan to nod 
 This way and'that, as loth his curled brows 
 (Which he had oft wrajit in the sky witli storms) 
 Should stoo]« ; and yet, his radical fibres burst, 
 Storm -like he fell, and hid the fear-cold earth : 
 So fell stout Barrisor, that had stood the shocks 
 Of ten set battles in your highness' war 
 'tJaiust the sole soldier of the world, Navarre. 
 Chiise. piteous and horrid murder ! 
 Bcauprc. Such a life 20 
 
 Methinks had metal in it to survive 
 An age of men. 
 
 Henry. Such often soonest end. 
 Thy felt report calls on ; we long to know- 
 On what events the others have arrived. 
 
 Xuntius. Sorrow and fury, like two opposite fumes 
 Met in the upi)er region of a cloud. 
 At the report made by this worthy's fall. 
 Brake from the earth, and with them rose Revenge, 
 Ent'ring with fresh pow'rs his two noble friends : 30 
 And under that odds fell surcharg'd Brisac, 
 The friend of D'Ambois, before fierce L'Auou ; 
 "Which D'Ambois seeing, as I once did see, 
 In my young travels through Armenia, 
 An angry unicorn in his iuU career 
 Charge with too swift a foot a Jeweller 
 That watched him for the treasure of his brow ; 
 And, ere he could get shelter of a tree. 
 Nail him with his rich antler to the earth : 
 So D'Ambois ran upon reveng'd L'Auou, 40 
 
 Who eyeing th' eager j)oint borne in his face. 
 And giving back, fell back, and in his fall 
 His foe's uncurb'd sword stopped in his heart :
 
 154 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 By which time all the life-strings of the tw' other 
 Were cut, and l)()th fell, as their spirit tlew, 
 U]iwai(ls ; and still hunt honour at the view. 
 And now, of all tlie six, sole D'Anibois stood 
 Untouched, save ou\y with the otliers' l)lood. 
 
 Jfotrif. All slain outright but ho ? 
 
 A'u/itius. All slain outright but he : 
 Wlio kneeling in the warm life of his friends, 
 (All freckled with the blood his ra})ier rain'd) 
 He kissed their pale lips, and bade both farewell. 10 
 
 I'^tlse Oreainexs. 
 As cedars beaten with continual storms, 
 So gi-cat men llourish ; and do imitate 
 Unskilful statuaries, who suppose, 
 In forming a Colossus, if they make him 
 Straddle enough, strut, and look big, and gape, 
 Their work is goodly : so men merely great, 
 In their affected gravdty of voice, 
 Sourness of comitcnance, manners' cruelty. 
 Authority, wealth, and all the sjiawn of foi tunc, 19 
 Think they bear all the kingdom's worth before them ; 
 Yet differ not from those colossic statues. 
 Which, with heroic forms without o'erspread, 
 Within are nought but mortar, flint, and lead. 
 Virtue. —Polk' ff. 
 
 as gi'eat seamen using all their wealth 
 
 And skills in Neptune's deep invisible paths, 
 
 In tall ships richly built and ribb'd with brass. 
 
 To put a girdle round about the world ; 
 
 When they have done it, coming near the haven, 
 
 Are fain to give a v/arning piece, and call 
 
 A poor staid fisherman that never passed 20 
 
 His country's sight, to waft and guide them in : 
 
 So when we Avander furthest through the waves 
 
 Of glassy Glory, and the gulfs of State, 
 
 Lopped with all titles, sj)reading all our reaches, 
 
 As if each private arm would sphere the earth, 
 
 A^'c must to Virtue for her guide resort, 
 
 Or we shall shipwreck in our safest port. 
 
 A'^kl: of Time. 
 There is a deep nick in Time's restless wheel 
 i'or each man's good, when which nick comes, 
 strikes
 
 BUSSY d'ambois. 155 
 
 As Rhetoric yet works not persuasion, 
 
 But only is a mean to make it work : 
 
 So no man riseth by liis real merit, 
 
 But when it cries clink in his Raiser's s}iirit, 
 
 Differoice of the English and French Courts. 
 Henby. Guise. Montsurry. 
 
 Guise. I like not their Court* fashion, 'tis too 
 ei'estf'airn 
 In all observance, making demigods 
 Of their gi-eat Nobles, and of their old Queen t 
 An ever young and most immortal Goddess. 
 
 3IanL No question she's the rarest (^ueen in 
 Europe. 
 
 G-uise. But w hat 's that to her immortality ? 10 
 
 Henry. Assure you, cousin Guise ; so gi-eat a 
 Courtier, 
 So fiUl of majesty and royal parts, 
 No Queen in Christendom may vaunt herself. 
 Her Court approves it. That 's a Court indeed ; 
 Not niix'd with clown'ries us'd in common houses : 
 But, as courts should be, th' abstracts of their king- 
 doms. 
 In all the beauty, state, and worth they hold ; 
 So is hers amply, and by her inform'd. 
 The world is not contracted in a Man, 
 "With more iirojiortion and expression, 19 
 
 Than in her Court her Kingdom. Our French Court 
 Is a mere mirror of confusion to it. 
 The King and Subject, Lord and every Slave, 
 Dance a continual hay. Our rooms of state 
 Ke})t like our staliles : no place more observ'd 
 Than a rude market-place ; and though our custom 
 Keep this assur'd confusion from our eyes, 
 'Tis ne'er the less essentially unsightly. 
 
 * The English. t Q. Elizabeth.
 
 156 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 XMI. (O.) 
 
 FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME. 
 
 BY THK SAME, 
 
 IiivoaUion for Secrecy at a Love-Meetiny. 
 
 Tamyra. Now all ye peaceful Regents of the 
 Night, 
 Silently -gliding Exhalations, 
 
 Languishing Winds, and nuinnnring Falls of Watei's, 
 Sadness of Heart, and Ominous Secureness, 
 Enchantment's dead Sloejis ; all the Friends of Rest, 
 That ever wrought upon the life of man. 
 Extend your utmost strengths ; and this cliarm'd hour 
 Fix like the centime ; make the violent wheels 
 Of Time and Fortune stand ; and great Existence, 
 The Maker's Treasury, now not seem to he 10 
 
 To all but my approaching friend* and me. 
 
 ^'1/ the Meeting. 
 
 Here 's nought but whis])ering with us : like a calm 
 Before a temjjcst, when the silent air 
 Lays her soft ear close to the earth, to hearken 
 For that she fears is coming to afflict her. 
 
 Invocation for a Spirit of Intelligence. 
 
 D'Ambois. I long to know 
 How my dear Mistress fares, and be infonn'd 
 What hand slie now holds on the ti'oubled blood 
 Of her incensed Lord. Methought the Spirit 
 When he had xitter'd liis perplext presage, 20 
 
 Threw his chang'd countenance headlong into clouds 
 His forehead bent, as he would hide his face : 
 He knock'd his chin against his darken'd breast, 
 And struck a churlish silence thro' his powers. — 
 Terror of Darkness, thou King of Flames, 
 That M'itli thy nuisic-footed horse dost strike 
 Tlie clear liglit out of crystal, on dark eartli ; 
 
 * D'Ambois; with wliom slie lias an appointment.
 
 ALL FOOLS. 157 
 
 And hurl'st instructive tire about the world : 
 
 Wake, wake the drowsy and enclianted night, 
 
 That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle.* 
 
 Or thou, Great Prince of Shades, ^\'here never sun 
 
 Sticks his far-darted beams ; whose eyes are made 
 
 To see in darkness, and see ever best 
 
 "Where sense is blindest : open now the heart 
 
 Of thy abashed oracle, that, for fear 
 
 Of some ill it includes, would fain lie hid, 
 
 And rise Thou with it in thy greater light, t 10 
 
 TJie Friar dissuades the Husband of Tamyra from rewnge. 
 
 Your wife's offence serves not, were it the worst 
 
 You can imagine, without greater proofs, 
 
 To sever your eternal bonds and hearts ; 
 
 Jluch less to touch her with a bloody hand : 
 
 JTor is it manly, much less husbandly, 
 
 To expiate any frailty in your wife, 
 
 "With churlish strokes, or beastly odds of strength ; 
 
 The stony birth of clouds % will touch no laurel, 
 
 Nor any sleeper. Your wife is your laurel. 
 
 And sweetest sleeper ; do not touch her then : 20 
 
 Be not more nide than the wilA seed of vapour 
 
 To her that is more gentle than it rude. 
 
 XLIIL (g.) 
 ALL FOOLS : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Love's Paaegyi-ic. 
 
 'tis Natiu'e's second Sun, 
 
 Causing a spring of Virtues where he shines ; 
 And as without the Sun, the world's Great Eye, 
 All colours, beauties, both of art and nature, 
 Are given in vain to men ; so \\ithout Love 
 
 * He wants to know the fate of Tamyra, whose intrigue with 
 him has been discovered by her Husband. 
 
 t This calling upoa Light and Darkness for information, but, 
 above all, the description of the Spirit—" Threw his chang'd 
 countenance headlong into clouds"— is tremendous, to the curd- 
 ling of the blood. I know nothing in Poetry like it. 
 
   The thunderbolt.
 
 158 GEORGE CHAPMAX. 
 
 All beauties bred in women are in vain, 
 All virtues born in men lie buried ; 
 For Love in/unns tliem as the Sun doth colours : 
 And as tlie Sun, reflecting his warm beams 
 Against the earth, begets all fruits and tlowers, 
 So Love, fair shining in the inward man, 
 Brings forth in him the honoural)le fruits 
 Of valour, wit, virtue, and haughty thoughts, 
 Brave resolutions, a:id divine discourse. 
 
 Lore with Jealouai/. 
 -such Love is like a smoky fire 10 
 
 In a cold morning. Though the fire be cheerful, 
 Yet is the smoke so foul and cumbersome, 
 'Twere better lose the fire, than find the smoke. 
 
 Bailiffs routed. 
 
 I walking in the place where men's law-suits 
 
 Are heard and pleaded, not so much as dreaming 
 
 Of any such encounter ; steps me forth 
 
 Their valiant Foreman with the word " I 'rest you." 
 
 I made no more ado but laid these paws 
 
 Close on his shoulders, tumbling him to earth ; 
 
 And there sat he on his posteriors 20 
 
 Like a baboon : and turning me about, 
 
 I straight espied the whole troop issuing on me. 
 
 I stept me back, and drawing my old friend here, 
 
 Made to the midst of 'cm, and all unable 
 
 To endure the shock, all rudely fell in rout. 
 
 And down the stairs they ran in such a fury, 
 
 As meeting with a troop of Lawyers there, 
 
 Mann'd by their Clients (some with ten, some with 
 
 twenty. 
 Some five, some three ; he that had least had one), 
 Upon the stairs, they bore them down afore them. 30 
 But such a rattling then was there amongst them. 
 Of ravish'd Declarations, Replications, 
 Rejoinders, and Petitions, all their books 
 And ^^Titings torn, and trod on, and some lost, 
 That the jjoor Lawyers coming to the Bar 
 Could say nought to the matter, but instead, 
 AVere fain to rail, and talk beside their books, 
 "Without all order.
 
 THE GENTLEMAN USHER. 15S) 
 XLIV. (G.) 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN USHER : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME, 
 
 ViN'CENTiO, a Prince, {to gain him over to his interest in a 
 lore-ajf'air),f/ii/lsBxsHlOU>, a formal Geittleinan Usiier 
 to a great Lord, with commendations of his inse house- 
 (yrdenng at a great Entertainment. 
 
 Vitic. — besides, good Sir, your Show did shew so 
 well — 
 
 Bass. Did it indeed, my Lord ? 
 
 Vine. Sii-, believe it, 
 'Twas the best fashion'd and well-order'd thing, 
 That every ej^e beheld : and therewitlial, 
 The fit attendance by tlie servants used, 
 Tlie gentle guise in sei'ving every guest, 
 In other entertainments ; everything 
 About your house so sortfuUy disposed, 
 That ev'n as in a turn-si)it (call'd a Jack) 10 
 
 One vice* assists another ; the gi'cat vdieels, 
 Turning but softly, make the less to whirr 
 About their business ; every different part 
 Concurring to one commendable end : 
 So, and in such contbrmanee, with rare grace, 
 Were all things ordered in your good Lord's house. 
 
 Boss. The most fit simile that ever was. 
 
 Vine. But shall I tell you plainly my conceit, 
 Touching the man that (I think) caused this order? 
 
 Bass. Aye, good my Loid. 20 
 
 Vine. You note my simile ? 
 
 Bass. Drawn from the turn-spit. 
 
 Vine. I see, you have me. 
 Even as in that quaint engine you have seen 
 A little man in shreds stand at the winder. 
 And seems to put in act all things aljout him, 
 Lifting and pxiUing with a mighty stir, — 
 Yet adds no force to it, nor nothing does : 
 »So, though your Lord be a brave gentleman. 
 And seems to do this business, he does nothing. 
 
 * Turn.
 
 160 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 Some man about liim was tlic festival robe, 
 Tliat nuule bim shew so glorious and divine. 
 
 Bass. I cannot tell, ni}' Loi d ; but I should know, 
 If any sucli there wer(>. 
 
 Vine. Slionld know, quoth you? 
 I warrant, you know well. Well, some there be 
 Shall have the fortune to liave sncli rare men, 
 (Like brave Beasts to their arms) su]i])ort their state ; 
 When others of as high a worth and lireed. 
 Are made the wasteful food of them they feed. — 10 
 Wliat state hath your Lord made you for your service ? 
 
 The same Bassiolo described. 
 
 Lord's Dnuglitcr. — his place is great ; for lie 's not 
 only 
 My father's Usher, but the world's beside. 
 Because he goes before it all in folly. 
 
 XLV. (n.) 
 C^SAR AND POMPEY : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Sacrifice, 
 
 Imperial Csesar, at your sacred charge, 
 
 I drew a milk white ox into the Temple, 
 
 And turning there liis fiice into the East, 
 
 (Fearfully shaking at the shining liglit) 
 
 Down fell his horned forelicad to his hoof. 
 
 When I began to gi-eet him witli the stroke, 20 
 
 Tliat should prepare him for the holy rites, 
 
 With hideous roars he laid out such a throat 
 
 As made the secret lurkings of tlie God 
 
 To answer, Echo-like, in threat'ning sounds : 
 
 I struck again at him, and tlien he slept ; 
 
 His life-blood boiling out at every wound 
 
 In streams as clear as any licpiid ruby. . . . 
 
 . . . the beast cut up, and laid on tlie altar, 
 
 His limbs were all licked up witli instant flames ;
 
 CMSAR AND POMPEY. 161 
 
 Not like the elemental fire that biu-us 
 In household uses, lamely straggling up, 
 This way and that way winding as it rises. 
 But right and upright reached his proper sphere 
 AVhere hums the lire eternal and sincere. 
 
 Jot/ unexpected, hest. 
 
 Joys unexpected, and in desi)erate plight, 
 
 Are still most sweet, and prove from whence they 
 
 come ; 
 When earth's still moon-like confidence in joy 
 Is at her full, true joy descending far 
 From past her sphere, and from the highest heaven 10 
 That moves and is not moved. 
 
 Inward help the lest help, 
 
 1 will stand no more 
 
 On others' legs, nor build one joy without me. 
 
 If ever I be worth a house again, 
 
 I '11 build all inward : not a light shall ope 
 
 The common out- way ; no expense, no art, 
 
 No ornament, no door, will I use there ; 
 
 But raise all plain and rudely like a rampier, 
 
 Against the false society of men. 
 
 That still batters 20 
 
 All reason piece-meal ; and, for earthly greatness 
 
 All heavenly comforts rarifies to air, 
 
 I '11 therefore live in dark ; and all my light, 
 
 Like ancient Temples, let in at my top. 
 
 This were to turn one's back to all the world, 
 
 And only look at heaven. 
 
 Therefore when our diseas'd affections 
 
 Harmful to human freedom, and storm-like 
 
 Inferring darkness to th' infected mind, 
 
 Oi)press our comforts : 'tis but letting in 30 
 
 The light of reason, and a purer spirit 
 
 Take in another way ; like rooms that fight 
 
 With windows 'gainst the wind, yet let in light.
 
 162 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 XLVI. (O.) 
 
 FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Cato's Speech at Ufica to a Senator, u'ho had exprest 
 fears on his account. 
 
 Away, Statilius ; how long shall thy love 
 Exceed thy knowledge of me, and the Gods, 
 Whose rights thou \\Tong'st for my right ? have not I 
 Their powers to guard me, in a cause of theirs ? 
 Their justice and integrity to guard me 
 In what I stand for ? lie that fears the Gods, 
 For guard of any goodness, all things fears, 
 Eartli, seas, and ail- ; heav'n ; darkness ; broad day- 
 light ; 
 Rumour, and silence, and his very shade : 
 And what an aspen soul has such a creature ! 10 
 
 How dangerous to his soul is such a fear ; 
 In whose cold fits, is all Heav'n's justice shaken 
 To his faint thoughts ; and all the goodness there, 
 Due to all good men by the Gods' own vows ; 
 Nay, by the firmness of theLr endless being ; 
 All which shall fail as soon as any one 
 Good to a good man in them : for his goodness 
 Proceeds from them, and is a beam of theirs. 
 O never more, Statilius, may tliis fear 
 Taint thy bold bosom, for thyself or friend, 20 
 
 More than the Gods are fearful to defend. 
 
 His thoughts of Death. 
 
 Poor slaves, how terrible this Death is to them ! — 
 
 If men would sleep, they would be wrath witli all 
 
 That interrupt them ; physic take, to take 
 
 The golden rest it brings ; both pay and pray 
 
 For good and soundest naps : all friends consenting 
 
 In those kind invocations ; praying all 
 
 "Good rest the Gods vouchsafe you." But when 
 
 Death, 
 Sleep's natural brother, comes, that's nothing worse, 
 But better, (being more rich— and keeps the store—
 
 C^SAR AND POMPEY. 163 
 
 Sleep ever fickle, wayward still, and poor), — 
 how men gi-udge, and shake, and fear, and fly 
 His stern approaches ! all their comforts, taken 
 In faith, and knowledge of the bliss and beauties 
 That watch their wakings in an endless life, 
 Dro\\-n'd in the pains and horrors of their sense 
 Sustain'd but for an hour. 
 
 His Discourse ivilh Athenodorus on an After Life. 
 Cato. As Nature works in all things to an end. 
 So, in the appropriate honom- of that end. 
 All things precedent have their natural frame ; 10 
 And therefore is there a proportion 
 Betwixt the ends of those things and their primes : 
 For else there could not be in their creation 
 Always, or for the most part, that finn form 
 In their still like existence, that we see 
 In each full creature. What proportion then 
 Hath an immortal with a mortal substance ? 
 And therefore the mortality to which 
 A man is suljject, rather is a sleep , 
 
 Than bestial death; since sleep and death are called 20 
 The twins of nature. For, if absolute death 
 And bestial, seize the body of a man. 
 Then is there no proportion in Ms parts, 
 (His soul being free from death), which othermse 
 Retain divine proportion. For, as sleep 
 No disproportion holds vnth. human souls, 
 But aptly quickens the proportion 
 'Twixt them and bodies, making bodies fitter 
 To give up forms to souls, which is theu' end : 
 So death, t^\■in-born of sleep, resolving all 30 
 
 Man's body's heavy parts, in lighter nature 
 Makes a re-union with the s})ritely soul ; 
 When in a second life their beings given, 
 Hold their proportions firm in highest heaven. 
 Athenodorus. Hold you our bodies shall revive ; 
 resuming 
 Our .souls again to heaven ? 
 
 Cato. Past doubt ; though others 
 Think heav'n a world too high for our low reaches. 
 Not knowing the sacred sense of him that sings, 
 " Jove can let down a golden chain from heaven, 40
 
 164 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 Which, tied to earth, shall fetch iip earth and seas"— 
 And what 's that gohh'u chain but our pure souls, 
 That, govern'd with His f^race, and drawn by Him, 
 Can hoist the earthy body u]. to liini ?— 
 The sea, the air, and all the elements, 
 Compressed in it ; not while 'tis thus concrete, 
 But 'lined by death, and then giv'n heav'nly heat.— 
 We shall, })ast death, 
 
 Retain those forms of knowledge, learn'd in life : 
 Since, if what here we learn, we thei-e shall lose, 10 
 Our immortality were not life, but time : 
 And that our souls in reason are immortal. 
 Their natural and proper objects prove, 
 Which Immortality and Knowledge are : 
 For to that object ever is referr'd 
 The nature of the soul, in which the acts 
 Of her high faculties are still employ'd. 
 And that true object must her powers oljtain, 
 To which they are in nature's aim directed ; 
 Since 'tweve absurd to have her set an object 20 
 
 Which possibly she never can aspire. 
 His last words. 
 
 now I am safe ; 
 
 Come, Cffisar, quickly now, or lose your vassal. 
 Now wing thee, dear Soul, and receive her heaven. 
 The earth, the air, and seas I know, and all 
 The joys and horrors of their peace and wars ; 
 And now will see the Gods' state, and the stars. 
 
 Greatness in Adversity. 
 Vulcan from heav'n fell, yet on 's feet did light, 
 And stood no less a God than at his height. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 BYRON'S CONSPIRACY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 Byron descrihed. 
 
 he is a man 30 
 
 Of matchless valour, and was ever happy 
 
 In all encoimters, which were still made good
 
 byron's conspiracy. 165 
 
 With an unwearied sense of any toil, 
 
 Having continued fourteen days together 
 
 Upon his horse ; his blood is not voluptuous, 
 
 Nor much inclined to women ; his desires 
 
 Are higher than his state ; and his deserts 
 
 Not much short of the most he can desire, 
 
 If they be weigh'd with what France feels by them. 
 
 He is past measure glorious : and that humour 
 
 Is fit to feed his spirits, whom it i)Ossesseth 
 
 With faith in any error ; chiefly where 10 
 
 Men lilow it \ip with praise of his perfections : 
 
 The taste whereof in him so soothes his palate. 
 
 And takes up all his appetite, that oft times 
 
 He will refuse his meat, and company. 
 
 To feast alone with their most strong conceit. 
 
 Ambition also cheek by cheek doth march 
 
 With that excess of glory, both sustain'd 
 
 AVith an unlimited fancy, that the king, 
 
 Nor France itself, without him can subsist. 
 
 Men's Glories eclipsed vhen they turn Traitors. 
 As when the moon hath comforted the night, 20 
 
 And set the world in silver of her light. 
 The planets, asterisnis, and whole State of Heaven, 
 In beams of gold descending : all the winds 
 Boimd up in caves, charg'd not to drive abroad 
 Their cloudy heads : an universal jJeace 
 (Proclaim'd in silence) of the quiet earth : 
 Soon as her hot and dry fumes are let loose. 
 Storms and clouds mixing suddenly put out 
 The eyes of all those glories ; the creation 
 Turn'd into Chaos ; and we then desire, 30 
 
 For all our joy of life, the death of sleep. 
 So when the glories of our lives (men's loves, 
 Clear consciences, our fames and loyalties), 
 That did us worthy comfort, are eclijjs'd. 
 Grief and disgi'ae^e invade us ; and for all 
 Our night of life besides, our misery craves 
 Dark earth would ope and hide us in our graves. 
 
 Opinion of the Scale of Good w Bad. 
 
 there is no truth of any good 
 
 To be discern 'd on earth ; and, by conversion. 
 Nought therefore simply bad ; but as the stuff 40
 
 16G GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 Preiiar'd for An-as pictures, is no picture, 
 
 Till it be f'onii'd, and man liatli cast the beams 
 
 Of liis imaginous fancy thorougli it. 
 
 In fonning ancient Kings and Conquerors 
 
 As he conceives they look'd and were attir'd, 
 
 Though tliey were nothing so : so all things here 
 
 Have all their price set dowu from men's conceits ; 
 
 Which make all terms and actions good or bad, 
 
 And are but 2>liant and well-coloiu'd threads, 
 
 Put into feigned images of Truth. 10 
 
 Iimnuatinff 3Iauiiers. 
 We must have these lures, when we hawk for friends : 
 And wind about them like a subtle river, 
 That, seeming only to run on his course, 
 Doth search yet, as he nms, and still finds out 
 The easiest parts of entry on the shore. 
 Gliding so slyly by, as scarce it touch'd, 
 Yet still eats something in it. 
 
 The Stars not able (oforeskeio any Thln{j. 
 I am a nobler substance than the stars : 
 And shall the baser over-i-ule the better ? 
 Or are they better since they are the bigger ? 20 
 
 I have a will, and faculties of choice. 
 To do or not to do ; and reason why 
 I do or not do this : the stars have none. 
 They know not why they shine, more than this 
 
 taper, 
 Js'or how they work, nor what. I '11 change my 
 
 course : 
 I '11 piece-meal pull the frame of all my thoughts, 
 And cast my will into another mould: 
 And where are all your Caput Algols then ? 
 Your planets, all being underneath the earth 
 At my nativity : what can they do ? 30 
 
 Malignant in aspects, in bloody houses ? 
 
 The Master Spirit. 
 Give me a spirit that on life's i-ough sea 
 Loves to have his sails fill'd with a lusty wind, 
 E'en till his sail-yai'ds tremble, his masts crack. 
 And his rapt ship nin on her side so low. 
 That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air.
 
 167 
 
 There is no danger to a man, that knows 
 What life and death is : there 's not any law 
 Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful 
 That he should stoop to any other law : 
 He goes before them, and commands them all, 
 That to himself is a law rational. 
 
 Vile Nahires in High Places. 
 
 foolish Statuaries, 
 
 That under little Saints sujjpose* gi-eat liases, 
 
 Make less (to sense) the saints : and so, where fortune 
 
 Advaneeth vile minds to states great and noble, 10 
 
 She nuich the more exposeth them to shame, 
 
 Not able to make good, and fill their bases 
 
 With a confoiTued stri;cture. 
 
 Innocence the Harmonii of the Faadties. 
 -Innocence, the sacred amulet 
 
 'Gainst all the poisons of infirmity, 
 
 Of all misfortune, injury, and death : 
 
 That makes a man in tune still in himself ; 
 
 Free from the hell to be his o^\^^ accuser ; 
 
 Ever in quiet, endless joy enjoying. 
 
 No strife nor no sedition in his powers ; 20 
 
 No motion in his will against his reason ; 
 
 No thought 'gainst thought ; nor (as 'twere in the 
 
 confines 
 Of wishing and repenting), doth possess 
 Only a wayAvard and tunmltuous peace ; 
 But, all parts in him friendly and secure. 
 Fruitful of all best things in all worst seasons, 
 He can Avith every wish be in their plenty, 
 When the infectious guilt of one foul crime 
 Destroys the fi-ee content of all our time. 
 
 * Put under.
 
 168 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 BYRON'S TRAGEDY. 
 
 HY THE SAMR. 
 
 King Henry thk Fourth of France blesses the young 
 Dauphin. 
 
 My royal blessing, and the King of Heaven, 
 
 Make tliee an aged and a liappy King : 
 
 Help, nurse, to put my sword into his liand ; 
 
 Hold, boy, by this ; and with it may thy arm 
 
 Cut irom thy tree of rule all traitrous Ijranches, 
 
 That strive to shadow and eclipse thy glories. 
 
 Have thy old father's Angel for thy guide, 
 
 Redovibled be his sjiirit in thy breast : 
 
 Who, when this State ran like a turbulent sea. 
 
 In civil hates and bloody enmity, 10 
 
 Their wraths and envies (like so many winds) 
 
 Settled and burst : and like the Halcyon's birth, 
 
 Be thine to bring a calm u})on the shore : 
 
 In which the eyes of war may ever sleep, 
 
 As over-watch'd with former massacres. 
 
 When guilty mad Noblesse fed on Noblesse, 
 
 All the sweet plenty of the realm exhausted ; 
 
 When the nak'd merchant was pursued for spoil. 
 
 When the ])Oor peasants frighted neediest thieves 
 
 With their- pale leanness ; nothing left on them 20 
 
 But meagi'e carcases, sustained M'ith air, 
 
 Wandering like ghosts affrighted from their graves ; 
 
 When, with tlie often and incessant sounds 
 
 The very beasts knew the alarum-bell, 
 
 And hearing it ran bellowing to tlieir home ; 
 
 From whicli uncliristian broils and homicides. 
 
 Let the religious sword of Justice free 
 
 Thee, and thy kingdoms govern'd after me. 
 
 Heaven ! Or if the unsettled blood of France, 
 
 With ease and wealth, renew her civil furies, 30 
 
 Let all my powers be emptied in my son, 
 
 To curb and end them all, as I have done. 
 
 Let him by virtue quite cut off Jrom Fortune 
 
 Her feather'd shoulders, and her ^\inged shoes. 
 
 And thrust from her light feet her turning stone ;
 
 byron's tragedy. 169 
 
 That she may ever tany by his throne. 
 And of his worth let after ages say 
 (He fighting for the land, and bringing home 
 Jnst conquests, laden with his enemies' spoils,) 
 His father passed all France in martial deeds ; 
 But he his father twenty times exceeds. 
 
 What we have, we slight ; what we want, we thinh excellent. 
 
 as a man, match'd with a lovely wife. 
 
 When his most heavenly theory of her beauties 
 
 Is dull'd and quite exhausted with his practice, 
 
 He brings her forth to feasts, where he, alas, 10 
 
 Falls to his viands with no thought like others. 
 
 That think him blest in her ; and they, poor men, 
 
 Court, and make faces, ofler service, sweat 
 
 "With their desires' contention, break their brains 
 
 For jests and tales, sit mute, and loose their looks, 
 
 Far out of wit and out of countenance. 
 
 So all men else do, what they have, transplant, 
 
 And place theii- wealth in thirst of what they want. 
 
 Soliloquy ofKisa Henry deliberating on the Death of a 
 Traitor. 
 
 thou that govern'st the keen swords of Kings, 
 
 Direct my arm in this important stroke ; 20 
 
 Or hold it, being advanc'd : the weight of blood, 
 
 Even in the basest subject, doth exact 
 
 Deep consultation in tlie highest King : 
 
 For in one subject, death's unjust affrights, 
 
 Passions, and pains, though he be ne'er so poor, 
 
 Ask more remorse than the voluptuous spleens 
 
 Of all Kings in the world deserve respect. 
 
 He should be born gi-ey -headed that will bear 
 
 The weight of Empire. Judgment of the life, 
 
 Free state and reputation of a man, 30 
 
 (If it be just and worthy), dwells so dark, 
 
 That it denies access to sun and moon : 
 
 The soul's eye, sharpen'd with that sacred Ught, 
 
 Of whom the sun itself is but a beam. 
 
 Must only give that judgment. how much 
 
 Err those kings then, that play with life and death, 
 
 And nothing put into their serious states 
 
 But humour and their lusts ; for which alone
 
 170 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 Men long for kingdoms : whose hnge counterpoise 
 In cares and dangers could a fool coinimse, 
 He would not be a king, Ijut would be wise. 
 
 [The Selections which I liavo made from this poet arc 
 sufficient to give an idea of that "full and heightened 
 style " which Webster makes characteristic of Chapman. 
 Of all the English Play-writers, Chapman perhaps 
 approaches nearest to Shakspeare in the descriptive 
 and didactic, in passages which are less purely drama- 
 tic. Dramatic Imitation was not his talent. He could 
 not go out of himself, as Shakspeare could shift at 
 pleasure, to inform and animate other existences, but 
 in himself he had an eye to perceive and a soul to em- 
 brace all forms. He would have made a great epic poet, 
 if, indeed, he has not abundantly shown himself to be 
 one ; for his Homer is not so properly a Translation as 
 the Stories of Achilles and Ulysses re-written. The 
 earnestness and passion which he has put into every 
 part of these poems would be incredible to a reader of 
 mere modern translations. His almost Greek zeal for 
 the honour of his heroes is only paralleled by that fierce 
 spirit of Hel)rew bigotry, with which Milton, as if per- 
 sonating one of the Zealots of the old law, clothed him- 
 self when he sate down to paint the acts of Samson 
 against the Uncircumcised. The great obstacle to 
 Chapman's Translations being road is their unconquer- 
 able quaintness. He pours out in the same breath the 
 most just and natxu-al and the most violent and forced 
 expressions. He seems to grasp whatever words come 
 first to hand during the impetus of inspiration, as if all 
 other must be inadequate to the divine meaning. But 
 passion (the all in all in Poetry) is everywhere present, 
 raising the low, dignifying the mean, and putting sense 
 into the absurd. He makes his readers glow, weep, 
 tremble, take any affection which he pleases, be moved 
 by words, or in spite of them, be disgusted and over- 
 come their disgust. I have often thought that the 
 vidgar misconception of Shakspeare, as of a wild irre- 
 giilar genius " in whom great faults are compensated 
 by great beauties," woidd be really true applied to 
 Chapman. But there is no scale by which to balance 
 such disproportionate subjects as the faults and beauties 
 of a great genius. To set off the former with any fair- 
 ness against the latter, the pain, which they give us 
 should be in some proportion to the pleasure which we 
 receive from the other. As these ti-ansport us to the 
 highest heaven, those should steep us in agonies in- 
 fernal.]
 
 BUSSY d'ambois. 171 
 
 XLIX. (G.) 
 
 BUSSY D'AMBOIS HIS KEVENGE : 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Plays and Players. 
 
 Guise. — I would have these things 
 Brought upon Stages, to let mighty Misers 
 See all their grave and serious mischiefs play'd, 
 As once they were in Athens and old Rome. 
 
 Clermmit. Nay, we must now have nothing brought 
 on Stages 
 But puppetry, and pied ridiculous antics. 
 Men thither come to laugh, and feed fool-fat ; 
 Clieck at all goodness there, as Ijeiug profaned : 
 When, wheresoever Goodness comes, she makes 
 The place still sacred, tliough wdth other feet 10 
 
 Never so much 'tis scaudal'd and polluted. 
 Let me learn anything, that tits a man. 
 In any Stables shewn, as well as Stages. — 
 
 Baligny. Why, is not all the World esteem'd a 
 Stage ? 
 
 Cler/mnt. Yes, and right worthily ; and Stages too 
 Have a respect due to them, if but only 
 For what the good Greek Moralist says of them : 
 " Is a man proud of greatness, or of riches ? 
 Give me an expert Actor ; I '11 shew all 
 That can within his greatest glory fall : 20 
 
 Is a man 'fraid with poverty and lowness ? 
 Give me an Actor ; I '11 shew every eye 
 What he laments so, and so much does fly : 
 The best and worst of both."— If but for this then, 
 To make the proudest outside, that most swells 
 Witli things without him, and above his worth, 
 See how small cause he lias to be so blown up ; 
 And the most poor man, to be giiev'd with poor- 
 ness ; 
 Both being so easily borne by expert Actors : 
 The Stage and Actors are not so coutemptful, 30
 
 172 GEORGE CHAPMAN. 
 
 As every innovating Puritan, 
 
 And ignorant Sweater, out of jealous envy, 
 
 Would liave the world imagine. And besides 
 
 That all things liave been liken'd to the mirth 
 
 Used upon Stages, and for Stages fitted ; 
 
 The Splenetive Philosopher, tliat ever 
 
 Laugli'd at tliem all, were worthy the enstaging : 
 
 All ol)jeets, were tliey ne'er so full of tears, 
 
 He so conceited, that he could distil tlience 
 
 Matter, that still fed his ridiculous humour. 10 
 
 Heard he a Lawyer, never so vehement jileading, 
 
 He stood and laugh'd. Heard he a Tradesman, 
 
 swearing 
 Never so thriftily, selling of his wares, 
 He stood and laugh'd. Heard he a Holy Brother, 
 For hollow ostentation, at his prayers 
 Ne'er so impetuously, he stood and laugh'd. 
 Saw he a Great Man, never so insulting. 
 Severely inflicting, gi-avely giving laws, 
 Not for their good but his — lie stood and laugh'd. 
 Saw he a youthful "Widow, 20 
 
 Never so weeping, wringing of her hands 
 For her dead Lord, still the Philosopher laugh'd. — 
 Now, whether he supposed all these presentments 
 Were only maskeries, and wore false faces. 
 Or else were sim}ily vain, I take no care ; 
 But still he laugh'd, how grave soe'er they were. 
 
 Stoicism. 
 
 in this one thing all the discipline 
 
 Of manners and of manliood is contain'd ; 
 
 A man to join himself witli the Universe 
 
 In his main sway, and make (in all things lit) 30 
 
 One with that All, and go on, round as it ; 
 
 Not plucking from the whole his wTctched part, 
 
 And into straits, or into nought revert ; 
 
 Wishing the complete Universe might be 
 
 Subject to such a rag of it as he. 
 
 Appantions before the Body's Death : Scotice, Second Sight. 
 
 these true sluidows of the Guise and Cardinal, 
 
 Fore-running thus tlieir bodies, may a])i>rove, 
 That all things to be done, as here we live, 
 Are done before all times in th' other life.
 
 TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT. 173 
 L. 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT, 
 ADMIRAL OF FRANCE. 
 
 BY GEORGE CHAPM/VN AND JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 The Admiral is accused of treason, a criminal 2'>')'ocess 
 ('s instituted against him, and his faithful sei'vatit 
 Allegre is put on. the rack to mate him discover : his 
 innocence is at length established hi/ the confession of his 
 enemies; hut the disgrace of having heen suspected for 
 a traitor hy his royal Master, sinks so deep into him, 
 that he falls into a inortal sickness. 
 
 Admiral. Allegre, supported hetu-een- two. 
 
 Adm. Welcome my injured servant : what a 
 misery 
 Have they made on thee ! 
 
 Al. Though some change appear 
 Upon my body, M-hose severe affliction 
 Hath brought it thus to be sustain'd by others, 
 My heart is still the same in faith to you, 
 Not broken with their rage. 
 
 Adm. Alas poor man. 
 "Were all my joys essential, and so miglity, 
 As the affected world believes I taste, 10 
 
 This object were enough t' unsweeten all. 
 Though, in thy absence, I had suffering, 
 And felt within me a strong sympathy, 
 "While for my sake their cruelty did vex 
 And fright thy nerves vdt\\ horror of thy sense, 
 Yet in this spectacle I apprehend 
 More grief, tlian all my imagination 
 Could let befoi'e into me. Did»t not curse me 
 Upon the torture ? 
 
 A I. Good my lord, let not 20 
 
 The thought of what I suffer'd dwell upon 
 Yom- memory ; they could not punish more 
 Than what my duty did oblige to bear 
 For you and justice : but there 's something in 
 Your looks presents more fear, than all the malice 
 Of my tormentors could affect my soul witli. 
 That paleness, and the other forms you wear, 
 WoiUd well become a guilty admiral, one
 
 174 GEORGE CHAPMAN AND JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 Lost to his hopes and honour, not the man 
 
 Ui)on wliose life tlie fury of injustice, 
 
 Ariu'd with fierce liglitniuy and the power of thunder, 
 
 Can make no bi'eacli. I was not rack'd till now. 
 
 There 's more death in that falling eye, than all 
 
 Rage ever yet brought forth. What accident, sir, 
 
 can blast. 
 Can be so black and fatal, to distract 
 The calm, the triumph, that should sit upon 
 Your noble brow : misfortune could have no 
 Time to conspire with fate, since you were rescued 10 
 By the great arm of Providence ; nor can 
 Those garlands, that now grow aliout your forehead. 
 With all the poison of the world be lilasted. 
 
 Adm. Allegre, thou dost bear thy wounds upon 
 thee 
 In wide and spacious characters, but in 
 The volume of my sadness thou dost want 
 An eye to read. An open force hath torn 
 Thy manly sinews, which some time may cure. 
 The engine is not seen that woimds thy master ; 
 Past all the remedy of art, or time, 20 
 
 The flatteries of court, or fame, or honours. 
 Thus in the summer a tall flourishing tree, 
 Ti'ansplanted by strong hand, with all her leaves 
 And blooming pride upon her, makes a show 
 Of spring, tempting the eye with wanton blossoms : 
 But not the sun with all her amorous smiles. 
 The dews of morning, or the tears of night. 
 Can root her fibres in the earth again, 
 Or make her bosom kind, to growth and bearing : 
 But the tree withers ; and those very beams, 30 
 
 That once were natural warmth to her soft verdui'e. 
 Dry up her sap, and shoot a fever through 
 The bark and rind, till she becomes a burden 
 To that which gave her life : so Cliabot, Chabot. 
 
 Al. W^onder in apprehension ! I must 
 Suspect your health indeed. 
 
 Adm. No, no, thou shalt not 
 Be troubled : I but stirr'd thee with a moral 
 That 's empty ; contains notliing. I am well : 
 See, I can walk ; poor man, thou hast not strength 
 yet. 40
 
 TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT. 175 
 
 The father of the Admiral males liioimi the condition 
 hU son is in to the King. 
 
 Father. King. 
 
 King. ^ai,j, how is my admiral ? 
 The truth upon thy life. 
 
 Fath. To secure his, I would you had. 
 King. Ha ! who durst opjjose him ? 
 Fath. One that hath power enough, hath practis'd 
 on him, 
 And made liis great heai't stoop. 
 
 King. I will revenge it 
 AVith crushing, crushing that rebellious power 
 To nothing. Name him. 
 
 Fath. He was his friend. 10 
 
 King. What mischief hath engender'd 
 New storms ? 
 
 Fath. 'Tis the old tempest. 
 King. Did not we 
 Appease all horrors that look'd wild upon him 1 
 Fath. You drest his wounds, I must confess, but 
 made 
 No cure ; they bleed afresh : pardon me, sir ; 
 Although your conscience have closed too soon. 
 He is in danger, and doth want new surgery : 
 Though he be right in fame, and your opinion, 20 
 He thinks you were unkind. 
 King. Alas, poor Chabot : 
 Doth that afflict him ? 
 
 Fath. So inucli, though he stiive 
 With most resolv'd and adamantine nerves. 
 As ever human tire in flesh and blood 
 Forg'd for example, to bear all ; so killing 
 The arrows that you shot were (still, your pardon). 
 No centaur's Vjlood could rankle so. 
 
 King. If this 30 
 
 Be all, I '11 cure him. Kings retain 
 More balsam in their soul, than hurt in anger. 
 
 Fath. Far shoi't, sir ; with one breath they uncreate : 
 And kings, with only words, more wounds can make 
 Than all theii- kingdom made in balm can heal. 
 'Tis dangerous to play too \vild a descant 
 On numerous virtue ; though it become princes
 
 176 GEOEGE CHAPMAN AND JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 To assure their adventures made in everything, 
 Goodness, confin'd within ]>oor flesh and blood, 
 Hath but a queasy and still sickly state ; 
 A nuisical hand should only play on her, 
 Fluent as air, yet every touch command. 
 
 King. No more : 
 Commend us to the admiral, and say 
 The king will visit him, and bring iicaltli. 
 
 Path. I will not doubt that blessing, and shall 
 move 
 Nimbly with this command. 10 
 
 The King dsiis Ike Admuial. 
 King. Admiral. His wife, and father. 
 
 King. No ceremonial knees, — 
 Give me thy heart, my dear, my honest Chabot ; 
 And yet in vain I challenge that ; 'tis here 
 Already in my own, and shall be cherish'd 
 AVith care of my best life : no violence 
 Shall ravish it from my possession ; 
 Not those distempers that infirm my blood 
 And spirits, shall betray it to a fear : 
 "When time and nature join to dispossess 
 My body of a cold and languishing breath ; 20 
 
 No stroke in all my arteries, but silence 
 In every faculty ; yet dissect me then. 
 And in my heart the world shall read thee living ; 
 And, by the virtue of thy name ^\Tit there, 
 That part of me shall never putrify. 
 When I am lost in all my other dust. 
 
 Adm. You too much honour your poor servant, 
 sir ; 
 My heart despairs so rich a monument. 
 But when it dies — 
 
 King. I avo' not hear a sound 30 
 
 Of any thhig that trenched upon death. 
 He sjieaks the funeral of my crown, that prophesies 
 So unkind a fate : we'll live and die together. 
 And by that duty, which hath taught you hitherto 
 All loyal and just services, I charge thee, 
 Preserve thy heart for me, and thy reAvard, 
 Which now shall crown thy merits. 
 
 Adm. I have found
 
 TRAGEDY OF PHILIP CHABOT. 177 
 
 A glorious harvest iu your favour, sir ; 
 And by this overflow of royal grace, 
 All my deserts are shadows aud fly from me : 
 I have not in the wealth of my desires 
 Enough to pay you now _ 
 
 King. Express it iu some joy then. 
 
 Adhi. I will strive 
 To shew that pious gratitude to you, hut 
 
 King. But what ? 
 
 Adm. My frame hath lately, sir, been ta'en a 
 pieces, 1^ 
 
 And but now ])ut together ; the least force 
 Of mii'th will shake and unjoint all my reason. 
 Your patience, royal sir. 
 
 King. I '11 have no patience, 
 If thou forget the courage of a man. 
 
 Adm. My strength would flatter me. 
 
 King. Physicians, 
 Now I begin to fear his apprehension. 
 Why how is Chabot's spirit fall'n ? 
 
 Adm. Who would not wish to live to sei-ve your 
 goodness ? 2*^ 
 
 Stand from me. You betray me mth your fears. 
 Tlie plummets may fall off that hang upon 
 My heart, they were but thoughts at first ; or if 
 They weigh me down to death, let not my eyes 
 Close Avith another object than the king. 
 
 King. In a prince 
 What a swift executioner is a frown. 
 Especially of gi-eat and noble souls ! 
 How is it witli my Philip ? 
 
 Adm. I must beg 30 
 
 One other boon. 
 
 King. Upon condition 
 My Chabot will collect his scatter'd spirits, 
 And be himself again, he shall divide 
 My kingdom with me. 
 
 Adm. I observe 
 A fierce and killing wrath engender'd in you ; 
 For my sake, as you wish me strength to serve you. 
 Forgive your chancellor* ; let not the story 
 Of Philip Chabot, read hereafter, draw 40 
 
 * Chabot's accuser. 
 I. SI
 
 178 GEORGE CHAPMAN AND JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 A tear from any family ; I beseech 
 Your royal mercy on his life, and free 
 Remission of all seizure iqion his state ; 
 I liave no comfort else. 
 
 King. Endeavour 
 But tliy own health, and pronounce general pardon 
 To all through France. 
 
 Adm. Sir, I must kneel to thank you ; 
 It is not seal'd else. Your blest hand : live happy ; 
 May all you trust have no less faith than Chabot. 10 
 Oh ! Dies. 
 
 Wife. His heart is broken. 
 
 Failier. And kneeling, sir ; 
 As his ambition were in death to shew 
 The truth of his obedience. 
 
 LI. (g.) 
 FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME. 
 
 BY G. CHAPMAN AND J. SHIRLEY. 
 
 No Advice to Self Advice. 
 
 another's knowledge, 
 
 Applied to my instruction, cannot equal 
 
 My own soul's knowledge how to inform acts. 
 
 The sun's rich radiance shot thro' waves most fail'. 
 
 Is but a shadow to his beams i' th' air ; 20 
 
 His beams that in the air we so admire, 
 
 Is but a darkness to his flame in fire ; 
 
 In fire his fervour but as vapour flies, 
 
 To what his own pure bosom rarefies : 
 
 And the Almighty Wisdom having given 
 
 Each man within himself an apter light 
 
 To guide his acts than any light without him, 
 
 (Creating nothing, not in all things equal,) 
 
 It seems a fault in any that depend 
 
 On others' knowledge, and exile their own. 30 
 
 Virtue under Qalwmny. 
 -as in cloudy days we see the Sun 
 
 Glide over turrets, temples, richest fields,
 
 ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. 179 
 
 (All those left dark and slighted in his way) ; 
 And on the wTetched plight of some poor shed 
 Pours all the glories of his golden head : 
 So heavenly Virtue on this envied lord 
 Points all his graces. 
 
 LII, 
 
 THE HISTORY OF ANTONIO AND MELLIDA. 
 The First Part, 
 
 BY JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, hanidied his country, mth the 
 loss of a son, supjwsed drotmied, is cast upon the terntory 
 of his moiial enemy the Duke of Venice, with no at- 
 tendaitts hut Lucio, uic old uobleman, and a Page. 
 
 Aiulr. Is not yon gleam the shudd'ring ]\Iorn that 
 Hakes 
 "With silver tincture the east verge of heaven ? 
 
 Lite. I think it is, so please yom- Excellence. 
 
 Andr. Away, I have no Excellence to please. 
 Prithee observe the custom of the world, 10 
 
 That only flatters greatness, states exalts. 
 And please my Excellence ! Lucio, 
 Thou hast been ever held respected, dear. 
 Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love ; 
 Good, flatter not. 
 
 My thoughts are lixt in contemplation 
 Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal 
 That eats her children, should not have eyes and ears. 
 Philosophy maintains that Nature 's wise. 
 And forms no useless nor unperfect thing. 20 
 
 Did Nature make the earth, or the earth Nature ? 
 For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man. 
 Moulds me up honour, and, like a cunning Dutchman 
 Paints me a pupjiet e'en with seeming breath, 
 And gives a sot appearance of a soul. 
 Go to, go to ; thou Host, Philosophy. 
 Nature forms things unperfect, useless, vain. 
 Why made she not the earth with eyes and ears
 
 180 JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 That she niiglit see desert and hear men's plaints ? 
 
 Tluit when a soul is splittcd, sunk with grief, 
 
 He might fall thus upon the breast of Earth, 
 
 And in her ear halloo liis misery, 
 
 Exclaiming thus : thou all-licaring Earth, 
 
 Which men do gape for till thoxi cramm'st their 
 
 mouths 
 And chok'st their throats with dust : o])en thy 
 
 breast. 
 And let nie sink into thee : look who knocks ; 
 Andrugio calls. But she 's deaf and 1)1 ind. 
 A wTctch but lean relief on earth can hnd. 10 
 
 Luc. Sweet lord, abandon passion ; and disarm. 
 Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea 
 We are roU'd up upon the Venice marsh. 
 Let 's clip all fortune, lest more low'ring fate — 
 Andr. More low'ring fate ! Lucio, choke that 
 
 breath. 
 Now I defy chance. Fortune's brow hath frown'd. 
 Even to the utmost wrinkle it can ])end : 
 Her venom's spit. Alas ! what country rests, 
 "What son, what comfort, that she can deprive ? 
 Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow ? 20 
 
 Gapes not my native country for my blood 1 
 Lies not my son tomb'd in the swelling main ? 
 And in more low'ring fate ? There 's nothing left 
 Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio : 
 And that 
 
 Nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell can take : 
 Fortune my fortunes, not my mind, shall shake. 
 Luc. Spoke like yourself : but give me leave, my 
 
 Lord, 
 To wish you safety. If you are but seen, 
 Your arms display you ; therefore put them off, 30 
 
 And take 
 
 Andr. Would'st have me go unarm'd among my 
 
 foes? 
 Being besieg'd by Passion, entering lists 
 To combat with Despair and mighty Grief : 
 My soul beleaguer'd with the crushing strength 
 Of sharp Impatience ? Ha, Lncio ; go unarm'd 
 Come, soul, resimre the valour of thy birth ; 
 Myself, myself will dare all opposites :
 
 Antonio's revenge. 181 
 
 I '11 muster forces, au uiivauquisli'd power : 
 Cornets of horse shall press th' ungrateful earth : 
 This hollow-wombed mass shall inly groan 
 And nnirnuir to sustain the weight of arms : 
 Ghastly Amazement, with ujtstarted hair. 
 Shall hurry on before, and usher us, 
 "Whilst trampets clamour with a sound of death. 
 
 Luc. Peace, good my lord, your speech is all too 
 light. 
 Alas, survey your fortunes, look what 's left 
 Of all your forces and your utmost hope ; 10 
 
 A weak old man, a page, and your poor self. 
 
 Aiulr. Andrugio lives ; and a Fair Cause of Arms. 
 "Why, that 's an army all invincilile. 
 He who hath that, hath a battalion royal. 
 Armour of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds, 
 i\[ain squares of pikes, millions of harqiiebush. 
 O, a Fair Cause stands firm, and ^\ill al)ide ; 
 Legions of Angels fight upon her side. 
 
 [The situation of Andnigio and Lucio resembles that 
 of Lear and Kent, in that King's distresses. Andrugio, 
 like Lear, manifests a kind of royal impatience, a tur- 
 bulent greatness, an affected resignation. The Enemies 
 which he enters lists to combat, "Despair and mighty 
 Grief, and sharp Impatience," and the Forces (" Comets 
 of Horse," &c.) which he brings to vanquish them, are 
 in the boldest style of Allegory. They are such a ' ' race 
 of mourners " as "the infection of sorrows loud " in the 
 intellect might beget on " some pregnant cloud " in the 
 imagination. ] 
 
 LIII. 
 ANTONIO'S REVENGE. 
 
 The Second Part of the History of 
 
 Antonio and Mellida. 
 
 BY the same. 
 
 The Prologue* 
 
 The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps 
 
 The fluent summer's vein ; and drizzling sleet 20 
 
 * This Prologue for its passionate earnestness, and for the 
 tragic note of preparation wiiich it sounds, might have preceled
 
 182 JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 Chilletli tlie wan bleak cheek of the niuiil)'d earth, 
 While suailiii<; gusts nibble the juiceless leaves 
 From the nak'd shudd'riiig branch, and pills* the 
 
 skin 
 Fi'oni off tlie soft and delicate aspects. 
 now nietliinks a sullen tragic scene 
 Would suit the time with pleasing congruence. 
 May we be hajjpy in our -weak devoir, 
 And all ])art ])leas'd in most wish'd content. 
 But sweat of Hercules can ne'er beget 
 So blest an issue. Thei-efore we proclaim, 10 
 
 If any s])irit breathes within this round 
 Uncapable of weighty jjassion, 
 (As from his birth being hugged in the arms 
 And nuzled 'twixt the breasts of HaiJjnness t) 
 Who winks and shuts his a])prehension up 
 From common sense of what men were, and are ; 
 Who would not know what men nnist be : let such 
 Hurry amain from our black-visag'd shows ; 
 We shall ailiight their eyes. But if a breast, 
 Nail'd to the earth with giief ; if any heart, 20 
 
 Pierc'd through with anguish, pant within this 
 
 ring ; 
 If there be any blood, whose heat is chok'd 
 And stifled with true sense of misery : 
 If aught of these strains till this consort up. 
 They arrive most welcome. O that our ])ower 
 Could lackey or keep wing with our desires ; 
 That with unused poise of style and sense 
 We might weigh massy in judicious scale ! 
 Yet here 's the pro]) that doth sujjjjort our hopes : 
 When oiu' scenes falter, or invention halts, 30 
 
 Your favour will trive crutches to our faults. 
 
 one of those old tales of Thebes, or Pelops' line, which Miltoa 
 has so highly commended us free from the common error of 
 the poets in lii.s days, "of Intermixing comic stuff with tragic 
 sadni'ss and gravity, brought in without discietion corruptly to 
 gratify the people." — It is ns solemn a preparative as the 
 " warning voice which he who saw th' Apocalypse, heard 
 cry."— 
 
 * Peels. 
 
 t " Sleek faTOurites cf Fortnne."— Treface to Poems by S. T. 
 Coleridge.
 
 Antonio's reatenge. 183 
 
 Antonio, son to Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, wfwm Piero 
 the Venetian Pnnce and fatlier-in-law io Antonio has 
 cruelly murdered, kiUsViY.B.o's> little son, JULIO, os a 
 sacrifice to the ghost of Andrugio. — The scene, a 
 church yard : the time, midnight. 
 
 Julio. Antonio. 
 
 Jul. Brother Antonio, are you here i' faith ? 
 AVhy do you frown ? Indeed my sister said, 
 That I should call you brother, that she did, 
 When you were married to her. Buss me : good truth, 
 I love you better than my father, 'deed. 
 
 Ant. Thy father ? gracious, bounteous heaven, 
 I do adore thy justice, Venit in nostras manus 
 Tandei'/i vindicta, venit et tola quidem. 
 
 Jul. Truth, since my mother died, I loved you 
 
 best. 9 
 
 Something hath anger'd you : pray you, look merrily. 
 
 Ant. I will laugh, and dimple my thin cheek 
 With capering joy ; chuck, my heart doth leap 
 To grasp thy bosom. Time, place, and blood, 
 How fit you close together ! heaven's tones 
 Strike not such music to immortal souls, 
 As your accordance sweets my breast withal. 
 Methinks I pace upon the front of Jove, 
 And kick corrujjtion ^rith a scornful heel, 
 Griping this flesh, disdain mortality. 19 
 
 that I knew which joint, which side, which limb 
 Were father all, and had no mother in it ; 
 
 That I might rip it vein by vein, and carve revenge 
 In bleeding ti'aces : but since 'tis mix'd together, 
 Have at adventure, pell-mell, no reverse. 
 Come hither, boy ; this is Andnigio's heai-se. 
 
 Jul. God, you '11 hurt me. For my sister's sake. 
 Pray you do not hurt me. An you kill me, 'deed 
 
 1 '11 tell my father. 
 
 Ant. Oh, for thy sister's sake I flag revenge. 
 
 [Andrugio's Ghost cries "Eevenge." 
 Ant. Stay, stay, dear father, fright mine eyes no 
 more. 30 
 
 Revenge as swift as lightning, bursteth forth 
 And cleaves his heart. Come, pretty tender child. 
 It is not thee I hate, not thee I kill. 
 Thy father's blood that flows within thy veins,
 
 184 JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 Is it I loathe ; is that, revenge must suck. 
 I love thy soul : auil were thy heart lapt up 
 In any flfsh but in Piero's blood, 
 I would thus kiss it : but, being his, thus, thus, 
 And thus I '11 jiunch it. Abandon fears : 
 Whilst thy wounds bleed, my brows shall gush out 
 tears. 
 
 Jul. So you will love me, do even what you will. 
 
 [Dies. 
 
 Ant. Now barks the wolf against the full-cheekt 
 moon ; 
 Now lions' half-clam'd enti'ails roar for food ; 
 Now croaks the toad, and uight-crows screech aloud, 
 Fluttering 'bout casements of departing souls ! 11 
 Now gape the graves, and through their yawns let 
 
 loose 
 Imprison'd spirits to revisit earth : 
 And now, swart Night, to swell thy hour out 
 Behold I spurt warm blood in thy black eyes. 
 
 [From Under the earth a groan. 
 Howl not, thou putry mould ; groan not, ye graves ; 
 Be dumb, all breath. Here stands Andrugio's son, 
 Worthy his father. So ; I feel no breath ; 
 His jaws are fall'n, his dislodged soul is fled. 
 And now there 's nothing but Piero left. 20 
 
 He is all Piero, father all. This blood. 
 This breast, this heart, Piero all : 
 Whom thus I mangle Sprite of Julio, 
 Forget this was thy trunk. I live thy friend. 
 Mayst thou be twined with the soft'st embrace 
 Of clear eternity :* but thy father's blood 
 I thus make incense of to Vengeance. 
 
 ****** 
 Day hreahing. 
 
 see, the dapjile grey coursers of the morn 
 
 Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs 
 And chase it through the sky. 30 
 
 Oiu u'ho died, slandered. 
 
 Look on those lips, 
 Those now lawn pillows, on whose tender softness 
 
 *"To lie immortal in tlie arms of Fire." — Browne's "Religio 
 Medici," of the punishments in hell.
 
 Antonio's revenge. 185 
 
 Chaste modest Speech, stealing from out his lireast, 
 
 Had wont to rest itself, as loth to post 
 
 From out so faii- an Inn : look, look, they seem 
 
 To stir. 
 
 And breathe defiance to black obloquy. 
 
 Wherein fooh are happii. 
 Even in that, note a fool's beatitude ; 
 He is not capable of passion ; 
 Wanting the power of distinction, 
 He bears an iinturn'd sail with every wind : 
 Blow east, blow west, he steers his course alike. 10 
 I never saw a fool lean : the clmb-faced fop 
 Shines sleek with i'uU cramni'd fat of hapi)iness : 
 Whilst studious contemplation sucks the juice 
 From wisards' * cheeks, who making curious search 
 For nature's secrets, the First Innating Cause 
 Laughs them to scorn, as man doth busy Apes 
 When they will zany men. 
 
 Maria (the Diu-hess of Genoa) describes the death of 
 Mellida, her dauyhter-in-law. 
 
 Being laid upon her bed she grasp'd my hand, 
 
 And kissing it spake thus ; ' ' Thou very poor, 
 
 Why dost not weep ? the jewel of thy brow, 20 
 
 The rich adornment that euchas'd thy breast, 
 
 Is lost ; thy son, my love, is lost, is dead. 
 
 And do I live to say Antonio's dead ? 
 
 And have I liv'd to see his virtues blurr'd 
 
 With guiltless blots ? world, thou art too subtle 
 
 For honest natures to converse withal : 
 
 Therefore I'll leave thee : farewell, mart of woe ; 
 
 I fly to clip my love Antonio." — 
 
 With that, her head sunk down upon her breast ; 
 
 Her cheek chang'd earth, her senses slept in rest : 30 
 
 Until my Fool,t that crept unto the bed, 
 
 Screech'd out so loud that he brought back her soul, 
 
 Call'd her again, that her bright eyes 'gau ope 
 
 And stared upon him : he audacious fool 
 
 Dared kiss her hand, wislied her soft rest, Invd Bride; 
 
 She fumbled out, thanks, good : and so she died. 
 
 * Wise men's. 
 
 t Antonio, who is thought dead, but still lives in that disguise.
 
 186 JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 THE MALCONTENT : A TRAGI-COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 The Malcontent describes himself. " 
 
 I cannot .sleep ; my eyes' ill-neighbouring lids 
 Will hold no fellowship. thon pale sol)er night, 
 Thou that in sluggish fumes all sense dost steep ; 
 Thou that giv'st all the world full leave to jilay, 
 Unbend'st the feebled veins of sweaty labour : 
 Tlie galley-slave, that all the toilsome day- 
 Tugs at the oar against the stubborn wave, 
 Straining his rugged veins, snores fast ; 
 The stooping scythe-man, that doth barb the field, 
 Thou mak'st wink sure ; in night all creatures sleep. 
 Only the Malcontent, that 'gainst his fate 11 
 
 Repines and quarrels : alas, he 's Goodman Tell-clock ; 
 His sallow jaw-bones sink with wasting moan ; 
 Whilst others' beds are down, his pillow 's stone. 
 
 Place fw a Penitent. 
 
 My cell 'tis, lady ; where, instead of masks. 
 
 Music, tilts, tourneys, and such court-like shows, 
 
 The hollow mnrniur of the checkless \nnds 
 
 Shall groan again, whilst the unijuiet sea 
 
 Shakes the whole rock with foamy battery. 
 
 Tliere Usherless* the air comes in and out ; 20 
 
 The rheumy vault will force your eyes to weep, 
 
 Whilst yoti behold true desolation. 
 
 A rocky barrenness shall pain your eyes ; 
 
 Where all at once one reaches, where he stands. 
 
 With brows the roof, both walls with both his hands. 
 
 * i.e., without the ceremony of an Usher tn give notice of its 
 approach, as is usual in Courts. As fine as Slialispeare : " the 
 bleak air thy boisterous Chamberlain."
 
 THE WONDER OF WOMEN. 187 
 
 LV. (G.) 
 
 THE FAWN : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Li the Preface to tJiis Play, the Poet glances at some of 
 the Playn'rigkts of Ms time : v:ifh a iMndsome ac- 
 Jcnowledgmenf , notwithstanding , of their excellencies. 
 
 " For my oavh interest for once let this be printed, 
 that, of men of my own addition, I love most, pity 
 some, hate none : for let me truly say it, I once only 
 loved myself for loving them ; and surely I shall ever 
 rest so constant to my first aftection, that, let their 
 ungentle combinings, discomteous wliis})ering, never 
 so treacherously labour to undermine my unfenced 
 reputation, I shall (as long as I have being) love 
 the least of their gi'aces, and only pity the greatest 
 of their vices. 10 
 
 Ipse semi-paganns 
 Ad sacra vaium carmen affero rtostrvm." 
 
 LVI. 
 
 THE WOXDER OF WOMEN" ; ok, THE 
 TRAGEDY OF SOPHONISBA. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Description of the Witch Ebictho. 
 
 Here in this desert, the great Soul of Charms 
 
 Dreadful Erictho lives, whose dismal brow 
 
 Contemns all roofs, or civil coverture. 
 
 Forsaken gi-aves and tombs (the ghosts forc'd out) 
 
 She joys to inhabit. 
 
 A loathsome yellow leanness spreads her face, 
 
 A hea\'y hell-like paleness loads her cheeks. 
 
 Unknown to a clear heaven. But if dark winds 
 
 Or thick black clouds drive back the blinded stars, 
 
 When her deep magic makes forc'd heaven i[uake, 20
 
 188 JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 And tlunidi'V, sjiitc of Jove, Erictho tlien 
 
 From naked f^ravos stalks out, heaves proud her liead, 
 
 With h)n_LCunki'iiilMl hair laden, and strives to snatch 
 
 The ni,i,'lit's ipiick sul()liur ; then she Inu'sts up tombs ; 
 
 From half-rot scar-clotlis then she scrapes dry gums 
 
 For her hlack lites : but when she tinds a corse 
 
 But newly grav'd, whose entrails are not turn'd 
 
 To slimy tilth, with greedy havock then 
 
 She makes fierce spoil, and swells with wicked triumph 
 
 To buiy her lean knuckles in his eyes : 10 
 
 Then dotli she gnaw the ))ale and o'er-gi'own nails 
 
 From his dry hand : but if she find some life 
 
 Yet lurking close, she bites his gelid li[>s, 
 
 And sticking her black tongue in his dry throat, 
 
 She breathes dire nuirmurs, which enforce him bear 
 
 Her baneful secrets to the spirits of horror. 
 
 Her Cave. 
 -Hard by the reverent ruins 
 
 Of a once glorious temple, rear'd to Jove, 
 
 "Whose very rubliish (like the pitied fall 
 
 Of virtue mucli unfortunate) yet l)ears 20 
 
 A deathless majesty, though now quite razed, 
 
 Hurl'd down by wrath and lust of impious kings, 
 
 So that, where holy Flamens wont to sing 
 
 Sweet hymns to heaven, there the daw, and crow, 
 
 The ill-voic'd raven, and still-chattering pie. 
 
 Send out ungrateful sounds and loathsome filth ; 
 
 Where statues and Jove's acts were vively * limn'd, 
 
 Boys ^\•ith black coals draw the veil'd parts of nature 
 
 And lecherous actions of imagin'd lust ; 
 
 Where tombs and beauteous urns of well-dead men 30 
 
 Stood in assured rest, the she})herd now 
 
 Unloads his belly, corruption most abhorr'd 
 
 Mingling itself with their renowned ashes : 
 
 There once a charnel-house, now a vast cave, 
 
 Over whose brow a pale and iintrod grove 
 
 Throws out her heavy shade, the mouth thick arms 
 
 Of darksome yew, sun-proof, for ever choke ; 
 
 Within, rests barren darkness, fruitless drought 
 
 Pines in eternal night ; the steam of hell 
 
 Yields not so lazy air : there, that's her Cell. 40 
 
 * Livelily.
 
 WHAT YOU WILL. 189 
 
 LVII. 
 
 WHAT YOU WILL : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME, 
 
 Venetian Merchant. 
 
 No knight, 
 But one (that title off) was even a prince 
 A sultan Soljnuan : thrice was he made, 
 \i\ dangerous arms, Venice' Providetore. 
 He was merchant, but so l^ounteous, 
 Valiant, wise, learned, all so absolute. 
 That nought was valued jiraiseful excellent, 
 But in 't was he most praiseful excellent. 
 I shall ne'er forget how he went clothed. 
 He would maintain it a base ill-us'd fashion, 10 
 
 To bind a merchant to the sullen habit 
 Of precise black, chiefly in Venice state. 
 Where merchants gilt the top.* 
 And therefore should you have him pass the bridge 
 Up the Rialto like a Soldier ; 
 In a black beaver belt, ash-colour plain, 
 A Florentine cloth-o'-silver jerkin, sleeves 
 White satin cut on tinsel, then long stock ; 
 French panes embroider'd, goldsmith's work : God, 
 Methinks I see him now, how he would walk, 20 
 With what a jolly presence he would pace 
 Round the Rialto.t 
 
 * " Her whose merch.iiit Sons were Kings."— Collins. 
 
 t To judge of the literality of these notions of dress, we must 
 advert to tlie days of Greshara, and the consternation which a 
 Phenomenon habited like tlie Merchant here described would 
 have excited among the flat round caps, and cloth stociiings, upon 
 Change, when tliose " original arguments or tokens of a Citizen's 
 vocation were in fashion not more for thrift and usefulness than 
 for distinction and grace." The Wank uniformity to which all 
 professional distinctions in apparel have been long hastening, is 
 one instance of the Decay of Symbols among us, which whether it 
 has contributed or not to make us a more intellectual, has certainly 
 made us a less imaginative people. Shakspeare knew the force of 
 signs: — "a malignant and a turban'd Turk." "This meal-cap 
 Miller" says the Author of "God's lievenge against Murder," 
 to express his indignation at an atrocious outrage committed by 
 the miller Pierot upon the person of the fair Marieta.
 
 190 JOHN MARSTON. 
 
 Scholar ami his Doff. 
 
 I was a scholar : seven useful springs 
 
 Did I deflower in quotations 
 
 Of cross'd ojiinions 'bout the soul of man ; 
 
 The more I learnt, the more I learn to doubt. 
 
 Delight my spaniel slei)t, whilst I l)aus'd leaves, 
 
 Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old })rint 
 
 Of titled words : and still my spaniel slept. 
 
 Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh, 
 
 Shrunk up my veins : and still my spaniel slept. 
 
 And still I held converse^ with Zabarell, 10 
 
 Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw 
 
 Of antic Donat : still my spaniel slept. 
 
 Still on went I ; first, an sit anima ; 
 
 Then, an it were mortal. hold, hold ; at that 
 
 They 're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain 
 
 Pell-mell together ; still my spaniel slept. 
 
 Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixt, 
 
 Ex traduce; but whether 't had free will 
 
 Or no, hot philosophers 
 
 Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt, 20 
 
 I stagger'd, knew not which was firmer part, 
 
 But thought, quoted, read, observ'd and i)ried, 
 
 Stufi't noting-books : and still my spaniel slept. 
 
 At length he wak'd, and yawned ; and by yon sky, 
 
 For aught I know he knew as much as I. 
 
 Preparations for Second NiqHials. 
 
 Now is Albano's* marriage-bed new hung 
 
 With fresh rich curtains ; now are my valence up, 
 
 Emboss'd witli orient pearl, my gi-andsire's gift, 
 
 Now are the lawn sheets fum'd with violets 
 
 To fresh the pall'd lascivious appetite ; 30 
 
 Now work the cooks, the pastry sweats with slaves, 
 
 The march-panes glitter ; now, now the musicians 
 
 Hover with nimble sticks o'er squeaking crowds,t 
 
 Tickling the dried guts of a mewing cat : 
 
 The tailors, starchers, sempsters, butchers, poulterers, 
 
 Mercers, all, all none think on me. 
 
 * Albano, the first hustand speaks ; supposed dead, f Fiddles.
 
 THE INSATIATE COUNTESS. 191 
 
 LVIII. 
 THE INSATIATE COUNTESS : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Isabella {the C'ou7itess), after a long series of cnmes of 
 infideliti) to her hitshand aiul of murder, u brought to 
 suffer on a ncaffold. Roberto, her husband, arrives 
 to take a last leave of her. 
 
 Roberto. Bear record all you blessed saints in heaven 
 I come not to tomient thee in thy death ; 
 For of himself he 's terrible enough. 
 But call to mind a Lady like yoiu'self, 
 And think how ill in such a beauteous soul, 
 U]ion the instant morrow of her nuptials, 
 Apostacj' and wild revolt would show. 
 Withal, imagine that she had a lord 
 Jealous the air should ravish her chaste looks ; 
 Doting, like the Creator in his models, 10 
 
 Who views them every minute, and with care 
 ;Mixt in his fear of their obedience to him. 
 Suppose her sung through famous Italy, 
 More common than the looser songs of Petrarch, 
 To every several Zany's instrument : 
 And he poor wretch, hoping some better fate 
 Might call her back from her adulterate purpose, 
 Lives an obscure and almost unknown life ; 
 Till hearing that she is condemn'd to die, 
 For he once lov'd her, lends his pined corpse 20 
 
 jVIotion to bring him to her stage of honour. 
 Where dro^vn'd in woe at her so dismal chance. 
 He clasps her : thus he falls into a trance . 
 
 Isabella. my offended lord, lift up your eyes ; 
 But yet avert them from my loathed sight. 
 Had I with you enjoyed the lawful pleasure. 
 To which belongs nor fear nor public shame, 
 I might have liv'd in honour, died in fame. 
 Your pardon on my faltering knees I beg ; 
 Which shall confiiTn more peace unto my death 30 
 Than all the grave instructions of the Church. 
 
 Roberto. Freely thou hast it. Farewell, my Isabella ; 
 Let thy death ransom thy soul, die a rare example.
 
 192 THOMAS DECKER. 
 
 The kiss thou gav'st me in the church, here take : 
 As I leave thee, so thou the world forsake. — [Exii. 
 
 Executioner. Madam, tie uj) your hair. 
 
 Isabella. tlicse golden nets, 
 That have ensnared so many wanton youths ! 
 Not one but has ])een held a thread of life, 
 And superstitiously depended on, 
 Wliat else ? [eyes. 
 
 Executioner. Madam, I must intreat you blind your 
 
 Isabella . I have lived too long in darkness, my friend ; 
 And yet mine eyes with their majestic light, 11 
 
 Have got new Muses in a Poet's sprite. 
 They 've been more gaz'd at than the God of day ; 
 Their brightness never could be flattered : 
 Yet thou command'st a fixed cloud of lawn 
 To eclipse eternally these minutes of light. 
 I am prepared. — 
 
 Woman's inconsfanct;. 
 Who would have thought it ? She that could no more 
 Forsake my comjiany, than «an the day 
 Forsake the glorious presence of the sun ! 20 
 
 When I was absent, then her galled eyes 
 Would have shed April showers, and outwept 
 The clouds in that same o'er-passionate mood 
 When they drown'd all the world : yet now forsakes 
 
 me. 
 Women, your eyes shed glances like the sun ; 
 Now shines your brightness, now your light is done. 
 On the sweet'st flowers you shine, 'tis but by chance, 
 And on the basest weed you '11 waste a glance. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 THE COMEDY OF OLD FORTUNATUS. 
 
 BY THOMAS DECKER. 
 
 The Goddess Fortune appears to Fortunatus, ayid offers 
 him the choice of six thini/s. He chooses Riches. 
 
 Fortune. Fortunatus. 
 Fortune. Before thy soul at this deep lottery 
 Draw forth her prize, ordain'd by destiny, 30
 
 OLD FORTUNATUS. 193 
 
 Kuow that here 's no recanting a first choice. 
 Choose then discreetly : (for the laws of fate, 
 Being grav'n in steel, miist stand inviolate. ) 
 
 Fortunat. Daughters of Jove and the unblemish'd 
 Night, 
 Most righteous Parcfe, guide my genius right : 
 AVisdom, Strength, Health, Beauty, Long Life, and 
 Riches. 
 
 Fortune. Stay, Fortunatus ; once more hear me 
 speak. 
 If thou kiss Wisdom's cheek and make her thine, 
 She '11 breathe into thy lips divinity, 
 And thou (like Phrebus) shalt speak oracle ; 10 
 
 Thy lieav'n-inspired soul on Wisdom's ■n'ings 
 Shall fly up to the Parliament of Jove, 
 And read the Statutes of Eternity, 
 And see what 's jsast, and learn what is to come. 
 If thou lay claim to Strength, armies shall quake 
 To see thee frowni : as kings at mine do lie. 
 So shall thy feet trample on empery. 
 Make Health thine object, thou shalt lie strong jiroof 
 'Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting. 
 Be ever merry, ever revelling. 20 
 
 Wish but for Beauty, and within thine eyes 
 Two naked Cupids amorously shall s^vim, 
 And on thy cheeks I '11 mix such white and red, 
 That Jove shall turn away young Ganimede, 
 And \\\t\\ immortal arms shall circle thee. 
 Are thy desires Long Life ? thy vital thread 
 Shall be stretch'd out, thou shalt behold the change 
 Of monarchies, and see those children die 
 Whose gi-eat great grandsires now in cradles lie. 
 If through Gold's sacred hunger thou dost pine, 30 
 Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run 
 To warm their slender bodies in the sun, 
 Shall stand for number of those golden piles 
 Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet : 
 As those are, so shall these be infinite. 
 
 ForlunaA,. whither am I wrapt beyond myself ? 
 More \iolent conflicts fight in every thought 
 Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall wrought. 
 Shall I contract myself to Wisdom's love ? 
 Then I lose Riches ; and a wise man poor 40 
 
 I, N
 
 194 THOMAS DECKER. 
 
 Is like a sacred book tliat 's never read ; 
 
 To himself he lives and to all else seems dead. 
 
 This age thinks better of a gilded fool, 
 
 Than of a threadbare saint in Wisdom's school. 
 
 I will l)e Strong : then I refuse Long Life ; 
 
 And though mine arm should (conquer twenty worlds, 
 
 There 's a lean fellow beats all conquerors : 
 
 The greatest Strength expires with loss of breath, 
 
 The mightiest (in one minute) stoop to death. 
 
 Then take Long Life, or Health ; should I do so, 1 
 
 I might grow ugly, and that tedious scroll 
 
 Of months and years, much misery might enroll : 
 
 Therefore I '11 beg for Beauty ; yet I will not : 
 
 The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul 
 
 Leprous as sin itself, than hell more foul. 
 
 The Wisdom of this world is idiotism ; 
 
 Strength a weak reed ; Health Sickness' enemy, 
 
 And it at length will have the victory. 
 
 Beauty is but a painting ; and Long Life 
 
 Is a long journey in December gone, 20 
 
 Tedious and full of tribulation. 
 
 Therefore dread sacred Empress, make me rich ; 
 
 My choice is Store of Gold ; the Rich are Wise, 
 
 He that upon his back rich garments wears 
 
 Is ■wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears. 
 
 Gold is the Strength, the Sinews of the world, 
 
 The Health, the Soul, the Beauty most divine ; 
 
 A mask of gold hides all deformities ; 
 
 Gold is heaven's physic, life's restorative ; 
 
 Oh therefore make me Rich. 30 
 
 Fortune give.^ to Fortunatus « jmrse thai is inexhaustihle. 
 With this he 'puts on costly attire, and visits afl the Asian, 
 Courts, whm-e he is caressed and made much of for his 
 infinite ivealth. At Babylon he is shmon hy the Soldan 
 a worulrous hut, vhich in a ivish transports the irearer 
 whithersoever he 2^leases, over land and sea. Fortun- 
 atus puts it on, 'wishes himself at home in Cyprut ; 
 ivhere he arrives in a minute, as his sons Ampedo and 
 Andelocia are talking of him: and tells his Travels. 
 
 Fortunatus. Ampedo. Andelocia. 
 Fort. Touch me not, boys, I am nothing but air ; 
 Let none speak to me till you have marked me well. — 
 Am I as you are, or am I transformed ?
 
 OLD FORTUNATUS. 195 
 
 Ajid, Metliinks, father, you look as you did, only 
 your face is more withered. 
 
 Fort. Boys, be i^roud ; your father hath the whole 
 world in this compass ; I am all felicity up to the 
 brims. In a minute am I come from Babylon ; I have 
 been this half hour in Famagosta. 
 
 And. How ! in a minute, father ? I see travellers 
 must lie, 8 
 
 Fort. I have cut through the air like a falcon. I 
 would have it seem strange to yo\i. But 'tis true. I 
 would not have you believe it neither. But 'tis mira- 
 culous and true. Desire to see you brought me to 
 Cyprus. I '11 leave you more gold, and go visit 
 more countries. 
 
 A mp. The frosty hand of age now nips your blood, 
 And strews her snowy flowers upon your head, 
 And gives you warning that within few years 
 Death needs must marry you : those short lives, 
 
 minutes. 
 That dribble out yom- life, must needs be spent 
 In peace, not travel ; rest in Cyprus then. 20 
 
 Could you survey ten worlds, yet you must die ; 
 And bitter is the sweet that 's reapt thereby. 
 
 A7uL Faith, father, what pleasure have you met 
 by walkmg your stations ? 
 
 Fort. What pleasm-e, boy ? I have revelled with 
 Kings, danced with Queens, dallied with Ladies ; 
 worn strange attires ; seen Fantastieoes ; conversed 
 with Humorists ; been ravished with divine raptures 
 of Doric, Lydian, and Phrygian harmonies ; I 
 have spent the day in ti'iumphs, and the night in 
 banquetting. 31 
 
 Ami. O rare: this was heavenly. — He that would 
 not be an Arabian Phcenix to bm-n in these sweet fires, 
 let him live like an owl for the world to wonder at. 
 
 Amp. Why, brother, are not all these Vanities ? 
 
 Fort. Vanities ! Anipedo, thy soul is made of lead, 
 too dull, too ponderous, to mount up to the incom- 
 prehensible glory that travel lifts men to. 
 
 And. Sweeten mine ears, good father, with some 
 more. 40 
 
 Fort. When in the wannth of mine own country's 
 arms
 
 196 THOMAS DECKER. 
 
 We yawii'd like sluggards, when tliis small horizon 
 
 Imprison'd iqi my body, tlien mine eyes 
 
 Worsliijiji'd tliese clouds as brightest : but, my boys, 
 
 The glist'ring l)eanis ■which do al)road appear, 
 
 In other heavens, hre is not half so clear. 
 
 For still ill all the regions I have seen, 
 
 I scorn'd to crowd among the muddy throng 
 
 Of the rank multitude, whose thicken'd breath 
 
 (Like to condensed fogs) do choke that beauty. 
 
 Which else would dwell in every kingdom's cheek. 10 
 
 No ; I still boldly stept into their coiu'ts : 
 
 For there to live 'tis rare, O 'tis divine ; 
 
 There shall you see faces angelical ; 
 
 There shall you see ti'oops of chaste goddesses, 
 
 Whose star-like eyes have power (might they still 
 
 shine) 
 To make night day, and day more crystalline. 
 Near these you shall behold gi-eat heroes, 
 White-headed councillors, and jovial spirits, 
 Standing like iiery cheruliim to guard 
 The monarch, who in god-like glory sits 20 
 
 In midst of these, as if this deity 
 Had with a look created a new world. 
 The standers by being the fair workmanship. 
 
 And. Oh how my soul is rapt to a third heaven ! 
 I '11 travel sure, and live with none but kings. 
 
 Amp. But tell me, father, have you in all Courts 
 Beheld such glory, so majestical, 
 In all perfection, no way l)lemished ? 
 
 Fwt. In some Courts shall yon see Ambition 
 Sit, piecing Dredalus's old waxen wings ; 30 
 
 But being clapt on, and they about to fly. 
 Even when their hopes are busied in the clouds, 
 They melt against the sun of Majesty, 
 And doAvn they tumble to destruction. 
 By travel, boys, I have seen all these things. 
 Fantastic Compliment stalks uj) and down. 
 Tricked in outlandish feathers ; all his words, 
 His looks, his oaths, are all ridiculous. 
 All apish, childish, and Italianate. * * * 
 
 Orleans to his friend GalloW4Y deferids the passion 
 with which {being a pnsoner in the English king's
 
 OLD FORTUNATUS. 197 
 
 coiiii) he is e>uinioured io frenzy of the hing's dauglder 
 Agbipyna. 
 
 Orleans. Galloway. 
 
 Orl. This music makes me but more out of tune. 
 AgripjTia. 
 
 Gall. Gentle friend, no more. 
 Thou say'.st Love is a madness : hate it then, 
 Even for the name's sake. 
 
 Orl. I love that madness, 
 Even for the name's sake. 
 
 Gall. Let me tame this frenzy, 
 By telling thee thou art a prisoner here. 
 By telling thee she 's daughter to a King, 
 By telling thee the King of Cyprus' son 10 
 
 Shines like a sun between her looks and thine, 
 Wliilst thou seem'st but a star to Agripyne. 
 He loves her. 
 
 Orl. If he do, why so do I. 
 
 Gall. Love is ambitious and loves Majesty. 
 
 Orl. Dear friend, thou art deceiv'd : Love's voice 
 doth sing 
 As sweetly in a beggar as a king. 
 
 Gall. Dear friend, thou art deceiv'd : bid thy soul 
 Lift up her intellectual eyes to heaven, 20 
 
 And in this ample book of wonders read. 
 Of what celestial mould, what sacred essence. 
 Herself is form'd : the search whereof \\ill drive 
 Sounds musical among the jarring spirits, 
 And in sweet tune set that which none inherits. 
 
 Orl. I '11 gaze on heaven if Agripyne be there. 
 If not : fa, la, la, Sol, la, &c. 
 
 Gall. call this madness in : see, from the window 
 Of every eye Derision thrusts out cheeks 
 Wrinkled with idiot laughter ; every finger 30 
 
 Is like a dart shot from the hand of Scorn, 
 By which thy name is hurt, thy honour torn. 
 
 Orl. Laugh they at me, sweet GalloAvay ? 
 
 Gall. Even at thee. 
 
 Orl. Ha, ha, I laugh at them : are tliey not mad, 
 That let my true true sorrow make them glad ? 
 I dance and sing only to anger Grief, 
 That in his anger he might smite life down 
 With his iron fist : good heart ! it seemeth then.
 
 198 THOMAS DECKER. 
 
 They laugh to see grief kill me : fond men, 
 You laugh at others' tears ; when others sniile, 
 You tear yourselves in pieces ; vile, vile, vile. 
 Ha, ha, when I behold a swarm of fools 
 Crowding together to be counted wise, 
 I laugh because sweet Agripyne's not there, 
 But weep because she is not any where ; 
 And weep because (whether she be or not) 
 My love was ever and is still forgot ; forgot, forgot, 
 forgot. 
 Gall. Draw back this stream: Avhy should my 
 Orleans mourn ? 10 
 
 Orl. Look yonder, Galloway, dost thou see that sun ? 
 Nay, good friend, stare upon it, mark it well : 
 Ere lie be two hours elder, all that glory 
 Is banish'd heaven, and then, for grief, this sky 
 (That 's now so jocund) will mourn all in black. 
 And shall not Orleans mourn ? alack, alack : 
 what a savage tjTanny it were 
 To enforce Care laugh, and Woe not shed a tear ! 
 Dead is my Love ; I am buried in her scorn : 
 That is my sunset ; and shall I not mourn ! 20 
 
 Yes by my troth I will. 
 
 Gall. Dear friend , forbear ; 
 Beauty (like Sorrow) dwelleth every^vhere. 
 Rase out this strong idea of her face : 
 As fair as hers shineth in any place. 
 
 Orl. Thou art a Traitor to that White and Red, 
 "\Aniich sitting on her cheeks (being Cupid's throne) 
 Is my heart's Sovereign : when slie is dead, 
 This wonder (beauty) shall be found in none. 
 Now Agrii)yne 's not mine, I vow to be 30 
 
 In love with nothing but deformity. 
 fair Deformity, I muse all eyes 
 Are not enamour'd of thee : thou didst never 
 Murder men's hearts, or let them pine like Avax 
 Melting against the sun of thy destiny ; 
 Thou art a faithful nurse to Chastity ; 
 Thy beauty is not like to Agiipyne's, 
 For cares, and age, and sickness hers deface, 
 But thine 's eternal : Deformity, 
 Thy fairness is not like to Agi'ipyne's, 40 
 
 For (dead) her beauty will no beauty have. 
 But thy face looks most lovely in the grave.
 
 SATIRO-MASTIX. 199 
 
 [The humoiir of a frantic Lover is here done to the 
 life. Orleans is as passionate an Inamorato as any 
 which Shakspeare ever drew. He is just such another 
 adept in Love's reasons. The sober people of the world 
 are with him 
 
 a swarm of fools 
 Crowding together to be counted wise. 
 
 He talks " pure Biron and Romeo," he is almost as 
 poetical as they, quite as philosophical, only a little 
 madder. After all, Love's Sectaries are a ' ' reason unto 
 themselves. " We have gone retrograde in the noble 
 Heresy since the days when Sidney proselyted pur 
 nation to this mixed health and disease ; the kindliest 
 symptom yet the most alarming crisis in the ticklish 
 state of youth ; the nourisher and the destroyer of 
 hopeful wits ; the mother of twin-births, wisdom and 
 folly, valour and weakness ; the servitude above free- 
 dom ; the gentle mind's religion ; the liberal super- 
 stition.] 
 
 LX. 
 
 SATIRO-MASTIX ; OE, THE UNTRUSSING 
 OF THE HUMOROUS POET. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 The Kins exacts an oathfiom Sm Walter Terill to send 
 his Bride C.ELESTINA to Court on the marriage night. 
 Her Father, to save her hvnour, gives her a poisonous 
 mixture which she sirallows. 
 
 Terill. C^lestina. Father. 
 
 Coel. AVhy didst thou swear ? 
 
 Ter. The King 
 Sat heavy on my resolution, 
 Till (out of breath) it panted out an oath. 
 
 Ciel, An oath ! why, what 's an oath ? 'tis but the 
 smoke 
 Of flame and blood ; the blister of the spirit 
 Which riseth from the steam of rage, the bubble 
 That shoots up to tlie tongue and scalds the voice ; 
 (For oaths are burning words). Thou swor'st but one ;
 
 200 THOMAS DECKER. 
 
 "lis frozen long ago : if one be niimber'd, 
 
 Wliat eoniitrynieu are the}', wliere do they dwell, 
 
 That sjieak nought else Imt oaths ? 
 
 Tcr. They 're Men of Hell. 
 An oath ! why 'tis the traffic of the soul, 
 'Tis law within a man ; the seal of faith, 
 The Ijond of every conscience ; unto whom 
 We set our thoughts like hands : yea, sucli a one 
 I swore, and to the King ; a King contains 
 A thousand tliousand ; when I swore to liim, 10 
 
 I swore to them : the very hairs that guard 
 His head will rise up like sharp ^vitnesses 
 Against my faith and loyalty : his eye 
 Would straight condemn me : argue oaths no more ; 
 My oath is high, for to the King I swore. 
 
 Ccvl. Must I betray my chastity, so long 
 Clean from the treason of rebelling lust ? 
 husband, my father, if poor I 
 Must not live chaste, then let me chastely die. 
 
 Fath. Aye, here 's a charm shall keep thee chaste. 
 Old time hath left us 1)ut an hour to play 21 
 
 Our i)arts ; ])egin the scene ; who shall speak first ? 
 
 come, come, 
 Oh I, I play the King, and Kings speak first : 
 Daughter, stand thou here, thou son Terill there ; 
 We need no prologue, the King entering first. 
 He 's a most gracious Prologue : marry, then 
 For the catastrophe or E])ilogue, 
 There 's one in cloth of silver, which no doubt 
 Will please the hearers well when he steps out ; 29 
 His mouth is filled with words : see where he stands : 
 He '11 make them clap their eyes besides their hands. 
 But to my part : suppose who enters now, 
 A King wliose eyes are set in silver ; one 
 That blusheth gold, speaks music, dancing walks, 
 Now gathers nearer, takes thee ))y the hand, 
 When straight thou think'st the very orb of heaven 
 Moves round about thy fingers ; then he speaks, 
 Thus — thus — I know not how. 
 
 Cccl. Nor I to answer liim. 
 
 Fath. No, girl, know'st thou .not how to answer 
 him ? 40 
 
 Why, then, the field is lost, and he rides home
 
 SATIRO-MASTIX. 201 
 
 Like a great conqueror : not answer him ! 
 Out of thy part ah'eady ! foil'd the scene ! 
 Disrank'd the lines ! disarni'd the action ! 
 
 Ter. Yes, yes, true chastity is tongued so weak 
 'Tis overcome ere it know how to speak. 
 
 Path. Come, come, thou happy close of every 
 wrong, 
 'Tis thou tliat canst dissolve the hardest doubt ; 
 'Tis time for thee to speak, we all are out. 
 Daughter, and you the man whom I call son, 
 I must confess I made a deed of gift 10 
 
 To heaven and you, and gave my child to both ; 
 When on my blessing I did charm her soul 
 In the white circle of ti'ue chastity, 
 Still to run true till death : now, sir, if not. 
 She forfeits my rich blessing, and is fined 
 With an eternal curse ; then I tell you, 
 She shall die now, now whilst her soul is true, 
 
 Tcr. Die! 
 
 Cod. Aye, I am death's echo. 
 
 Fath. O my son : 20 
 
 I am her father ; every tear I shed 
 Is threescore ten years old ; I weep and smile 
 Two kinds of tears ; I weep that she must die, 
 I smile that she must die a virgin : thus 
 We joyful men mock tears, and tears mock us. 
 
 Tcr. What speaks that cup ? 
 
 Fath. White wine and poison. 
 
 Tcr. Oh: 
 Tliat very name of poison poisons me. 
 Thou winter of a man, thou walking grave, 30 
 
 Whose life is like a dying taper : how 
 Canst thou define a lover's labouring thoughts ? 
 What scent hast thou but death '? -what taste but 
 
 earth ? 
 The breath that purls from thee is like the steam 
 Of a new-opened vault : I know thy drift ; 
 Because thou 'rt travelling to the laud of graves, 
 Thou covet'st company, and hither bring'st 
 A health of jjoison to pledge death : a poison 
 For this SAveet sj)ring ; this element is mine, 
 This is the air I breathe ; corrupt it not : 40 
 
 This heaven is mine, I bought it with my soul
 
 202 THOMAS DECKER. 
 
 Of him that sells a heaven to buy a soul. 
 
 Path. Well, let her go ; she 's thine, thou call'st her 
 thine, 
 Thy element, the air thou breath'st ; thou know'st 
 Tlie air thou lircath'st is common ; make lier so. 
 Perhaps thou 'It say, none but the King shall wear 
 Thy night-gown, she that laps thee warm with love ; 
 And that Kings are not common ; then to shew 
 By consequence he cannot make her so. 
 Indeed she may promote her shame and thine, 9 
 
 And -ttdth your shames, speak a good word for mine. 
 The King shining so clear, and we so dim, 
 Our dark disgraces will be seen through him. 
 Imagine her the cup of thy moist life, 
 What man would pledge a King in his own Wife ? 
 
 Ter. She dies : that sentence poisons her : life ! 
 What slave would pledge a King in his own Wife ? 
 
 Gael. Welcome, poison, physic against lust. 
 Thou wholesome medicine to a constant blood ; 
 Thou rare apothecary that canst keep 
 My chastity preserv'd within this box 20 
 
 Of tempting dust, this painted earthen pot 
 That stands upon the stiill of the white soul. 
 To set the shop out like a flatterer. 
 To draw the customers of sin : come, come. 
 Thou art no poison, but a diet-drink 
 To moderate my blood : white-innocent wine. 
 Art thou made guilty of my death ? oh no. 
 For thou thyself art poisoned : take me hence. 
 For Innocence shall murder Innocence. [Drinks. 
 
 Ter. Hold, hold, thou shalt not die, my bride, my 
 wife, 30 
 
 stop that speedy messenger of death ; 
 
 let him not run down that narrow path 
 Which leads unto thy heart, nor carry news 
 To thy removing soul that thou must die. 
 
 Old. 'Tis done already, the Spiritual Court 
 Is bi-eaking up, all offices discharg'd. 
 My Soul removes from this weak Standing-house 
 Of frail mortality. Dear father, bless 
 Me now and ever : Dearer man, farewell ; 
 
 1 jointly take my leave of thee and life ; 40 
 Go tell the King thou hast a constant wife.
 
 SATIRO-MASTIX. 203 
 
 Fath. Smiles on my cheeks arise, 
 To see liow sweetly a true virgin dies. 
 
 [The beauty and force of this scene are much dim- 
 inished to the reader of the entire play, when he comes 
 to find that this solemn preparation is but a sham con- 
 trivance of the father's, and the potion which Cselestina 
 swallows nothing more than a sleeping draught ; from 
 the effects of which she is to awake in due time, to the 
 surprise of her husband, and the great mirth and edifi- 
 cation of the King and his courtiers. As Hamlet says, 
 they do but "poison in jest." The sentiments are 
 worthy of a real mai-tyrdom, and an Appian sacrifice 
 in earnest.] 
 
 LXI. (g.) 
 FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Horace. A^Tiat could I do, out of a just revenge, 
 But bring them to the Stage ? they envy me. 
 Because I hold more worthy company. 
 
 Demetrius. Good Horace, no ; my cheeks do blush 
 for thine, 
 As often as thou speak'st so. Where one true 
 And nobly-virtuous spirit for thy best part 
 Loves thee, I ^^•ish one ten e'en from my heart. 
 I make account I put up as deep share 10 
 
 In any good man's love, which thy worth owns, 
 As thou thyself ; we envy not to see 
 Thy friends with bays to crown thy Poesy. 
 No, here the gall lies ; we that know what stuff 
 Thy very heart is made of, know the stalk 
 On which thy learning gi-ows, and can give life 
 To thy (once dying) baseness, yet must we 
 Dance antics on thy paper. 
 
 Crispimis. This makes us angry, but not envious. 
 No ; were thy Avarpt soul ]iut in a new mould, 20 
 I 'd wear thee as a jewel set in gold, 
 
 [In this Comedy, Ben Jonson, xmder the name of 
 Horace, is reprehended, in retaliation of his "Poetas- 
 ter ; " in which he had attacked two of his Brother 
 Dramatists, probably Marston and Decker, under the 
 names of Crispinus and Demetrius.]
 
 204 THOMAS DECKHR. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 THE HONEST WHORE : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 Hospital for Lunafics. 
 
 There are of iiiad-meii, as there are of tame, 
 
 All humour'd not alike. We have here some 
 
 So apish and fantastic, play with a feather, 
 
 And, though 'twould grieve a soul to see God's image 
 
 So blemish'd and defac'd, yet do they act 
 
 Such antic and such pretty lunacies. 
 
 That, sjiite of sorrow, they will make you smile. 
 
 Others again we have, like hungry lions, 
 
 Fierce as wild bulls, untameable as flies. — 
 
 Pafuoice. 
 
 Patience ! why, 'tis the soul of peace : 10 
 
 Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven ; 
 It makes men look like gods. — The best of men 
 That e'er wore earth about him was a SufFerei', 
 A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit ; 
 The first true gentleman that ever breath'd. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 THE SECOND PART OF THE HONEST 
 WHORE. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 BellafroNT, a reclaimed Harlot, recounts some of the 
 miseries of her profession. 
 
 Like an ill husband, though I knew the same 
 
 To be my undoing, foUow'd I that game. 
 
 Oh when the work of lust had earn'd my bread, 
 
 To taste it how I trembled, lest each bit 
 
 Ere it went down should choke me chewing it. 20 
 
 My bed seem'd like a cabin hung in hell. 
 
 The bawd, hell's porter, and the liquorish wine 
 
 The pandar fetch'd, was like an easy hue
 
 THE HONEST WHORE. 205 
 
 For wliich methought I leas'd away my soul, 
 And ofteutinies, e'en in my qnaflSng-bowl, 
 Thus said I to myself : I am a Whore, 
 And have drunk do^^^l thus much confusion more. 
 
 when in the street 
 
 A fail- young modest damsel * I did meet, 
 
 She seem'd to all a dove, when I pass'd liy. 
 
 And I to all a raven ; every eye 
 
 That foUow'd her, went with a bashful glance ; 
 
 At me each bold and jeering countenance 10 
 
 Darted forth scorn : to her, as if she had been 
 
 Some tower unvauquished, would they vail ; 
 
 'Gainst me swoln rumour hoisted every sail : 
 
 She crowu'd with reverend praises pass'd by them, 
 
 I. though with face mask'd, could not 'scape the hem ; 
 
 For, as if heaven had set strange marks on whores. 
 
 Because they should be pointing stocks to man, 
 
 Drest up in civilest shape a courtezan ; 
 
 Let her M^alk saint-like, noteless, and unknown. 
 
 Yet she 's betray'd by some trick of her own. 20 
 
 The Happy Man. 
 He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore, 
 He that at noon-day walks by a prison door, 
 He that in the sun is neither beam nor mote, 
 He that 's not mad after a petticoat, 
 
 * This simple picture of Honour and Shame, contrasted without 
 violence, and expressed without immodesty, is wortli all the strcmg 
 lines against the Harlot's Profession, with wliich both Parts of 
 this play are offensively crowded. A Satirist is always to be sus- 
 pected, who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and 
 minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective 
 gust. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, 
 that a worn-out Sinner is sometimes found to make the best 
 Declaimer against Sin. The same high-seasoned descriptions 
 which in his unregeneratc state served to inflame his appetites, 
 in his new province of a Moralist will serve him (a little turned) 
 to expose the enonnity of those appetites In other men. No one 
 will doubt, who reads Marston's Satires, that the author in some 
 part of his life must have been something more than a theorist 
 in vice. Have we never heard of an old preacher in the pulpit 
 display such an insight into the mystery of ungodUness, as made 
 us wonder with reason how a good man came by it? When 
 Cervantes with such proficiency of fondness dwells upon the 
 Don's library, who sees not that he has been a great reader of 
 books of Knight-Errantry? perhaps was at some time of his life 
 in danger of falling into those very extravagances which he. 
 ridicules so happily in his Hero ?
 
 206 THOMAS DECKER AND JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 He for whom poor men's curses dig no grave, 
 He tliat is neither Lord's nor Lawyer's slave, 
 He that makes This his sea and That his shore, 
 He that in 's coffin is richer than before, 
 He that counts Youth his sword and Age his staff. 
 He whose riglit hand carves his own epitapli, 
 He that upon his death-bed is a Swan, 
 And dead, no Crow ; he is a Happy man.* 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 WESTWARD HOE : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THOMAS DECKER AND JOHN WEBSTER. 
 
 Pleasure, the r/eneral jncrsuii. 
 
 Sweet Pleasure ! 
 
 Delicious Pleasure ! earth's supremest good, 1 
 
 The spring of blood, though it dry up our blood. 
 
 Rob me of that (though to be drunk with pleasure. 
 
 As rank excess even in best things is bad, 
 
 Turns man into a beast) yet, that being gone, 
 
 A horse, and this (the goodliest shape) all one. 
 
 We feed ; wear rich attires ; and strive to cleave 
 
 The stars with marble towers ; fight battles ; spend 
 
 Our blood, to buy us names ; and in iron hold 
 
 Will we eat roots t' imprison fugitive gold : 
 
 But to do thus what spell can Tis excite ? 20 
 
 This ; the strong magic of our apj)etite : 
 
 To feast which richly, life itself undoes. 
 
 Who 'd not die thus ? 
 
 Why even those that starve in voluntary wants. 
 
 And, to advance the mind, keep the flesh poor, 
 
 The world enjoying them, they not the world ; 
 
 Would they do this, but that they are proud to suck 
 
 A sweetness from such sourness ? 
 
 Music. 
 Let music 
 Charm with her excellent voice an awful silence 30 
 
 * The turn of this is the same with lago's definition of a De- 
 serving Woman : " She that was ever fan- and never proud," <fec. 
 The matter is superior.
 
 A WOMAN KILL'd WITH KINDNESS. 207 
 
 Througli all this building, that her spheiy soivl 
 May (on the wings of air) in thousand forms 
 Invisibly fly, yet be enjoy 'd. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDNESS : 
 A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 Mr FrankfOBD discovers thai his Wife hxis heen 
 
 unfaithfvl to him. 
 
 Mrs Fra. by what words, what title, or what 
 
 name 
 Shall I entreat yoiu- pardon ? Pardon ! oh ! 
 I am as far from hoping such sweet grace, 
 As Lucifer from heaven. To call you husband ! 
 (0 me most wretched !) I have lost that name, 
 I am no more your wife. 
 Fran. Spare thou thy tears, for I will weep for 
 
 thee, 10 
 
 And keep thy countenance, for I '11 blush for thee. 
 Now, I protest, I think, 'tis I am tainted. 
 For I am most asham'd ; and 'tis more hard, 
 For me to look ujion thy guilty face. 
 Than on the sun's clear brow : what wouldst thou 
 
 speak ? 
 Ilrs Fra. I would I had no tongue, no ears, no 
 
 eyes. 
 No apprehension, no capacity. 
 When do you spurn me like a dog ? when tread me 
 Under your feet ? when drag me by the hair ? 
 Tho' I deserve a thousand thousand fold 20 
 
 More than you can inflict : yet, once my husband, 
 For womanhood, to which I am a shame, 
 Though once an ornament ; even for his sake 
 That hath redeemed our souls, mark not my face, 
 Nor hack me with your sword : but let me go 
 Perfect and undeformed to my tomb. 
 I am not worthy that I should prevail
 
 208 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 Ill the least suit ; no, not to speak to you, 
 Nor look on you, nor to be in your presence : 
 Yet as an abject this one suit I crave, 
 This granted, I am ready for my grave. 
 
 Fran. Jly God, with patience arm me ! rise, nay 
 rise, 
 And I '11 debate with thee. ^Yas it for want 
 Thou played'st the strumpet ! Wast thou not .supply'd 
 With every jileasure, fashion, and new toy ; 
 Nay even beyond my calling ? 
 
 3Irs Fra. I was. 10 
 
 Fran. Was it then disability in me ? 
 Or in thine eye seem'd he a properer man ? 
 
 Mrs Fra. no. 
 
 Fran. Did not I lodge thee in my- bosom ? 
 Wear thee in my heart ? 
 
 Mrs Fra. You did. 
 
 Fran. I did indeed, witness my tears I did. 
 do bring my infants hither. Nan, Nan ; 
 Tf neither fear of shame, regard of honour. 
 The blemish of my house, nor my dear love, 20 
 
 Could have with -held thee from so lewd a fact. 
 Yet for these infants, these young harmless souls. 
 On whose white brows thy shame is character'd, 
 And grows in gi-eatness as they wax in years ; 
 Look but on them, and melt away in tears. 
 Away with them ; lest as her spotted body 
 Hath stain'd their names with stripe of bastardy, 
 So her adulterous breath may blast their spirits 
 With her infectious thoughts. Away with them. 
 
 Mrs Fra. In this one life I die ten thousand 
 deaths. 30 
 
 Fran. Stand up, stand up, I will do nothing 
 rashly. 
 I will retire awhile into my study. 
 And thou shalt hear thy sentence presently. [Exit. 
 
 He returns (nth Cranwell hisfi-iend. She falls on her 
 
 knees. 
 
 Fran. My words are register'd in heaven already. 
 With patience hear me. I '11 not martyi- thee, 
 Nor mark thee for a strumpet ; "but with usage 
 Of more humility torment thy soul,
 
 A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDNESS, 209 
 
 And kill thee e'en with kindness. 
 
 Vrmi. j\li' Franktbrd. 
 
 Fran. Good Mr Cranwell. — Woman, hear thy 
 judgment ; 
 Go make thee ready in thy best attire ; 
 Take with tliee all thy go^\'ns, all thy apparel : 
 Leave nothing that did ever call thee mistress, 
 Or by whose sight, being left here in the house, 
 I may remember such a woman was. 
 Choose thee a bed and hangings for thy chamber ; 
 Take with thee every thing which hath thy mark, 10 
 And get thee to my manor seven miles off ; 
 AVliere live ; 'tis thine, I freely give it thee ; 
 My tenants by shall furnish thee with wains 
 To carry all thy stulf within two hours ; 
 No longer will I limit thee my sight. 
 Choose which of all my servants thou lik'st best. 
 And they are thine to attend thee. 
 
 Mrs Fra. A mild sentence. 
 
 Fmn. But as thou hop'st for heaven, as thou 
 l)eliev'st 
 Thy name 's recorded in the book of life, 20 
 
 I charge thee never after this sad day 
 To see me or to meet me ; or to send 
 By word, or wiiting, gift, or otherwise, 
 To move me, by thyself, or by thy friends ; 
 Nor challenge any part in my two children. 
 So farewell. Nan ; for we will henceforth be 
 As we had never seen, ne'er more shall see. 
 
 Mrs Fra. How full my heart is, in mine eyes 
 appears ; 
 What wants in words, I will supply in tears, 
 
 Fran. Come, take your coach, your stuff ; all must 
 along : 30 
 
 Servants and all make ready, all he gone. 
 It was thy hand cut two hearts out of one. 
 
 Cranwell, Frankford, and Nicholas, a Servant. 
 
 (Iran. Why do you search each room about your 
 house. 
 Now that you have dispatch'd your wife away ? 
 
 Fran. sir, to see that nothing may be left 
 That ever wa.s my wife's : I lov'd her dearly 
 
 I.
 
 210 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 And when I do but think of lier iinkindness, 
 
 My tlioughts are all in IksU ; to avoid which torment, 
 
 I would not have a bodkin nor a cull", 
 
 A bracelet, nec-klace, or rebato wire, 
 
 Nor anything tliat ever was eall'd hers, 
 
 Left me, by which I might remember her. 
 
 Seek round about. 
 
 Nic. Here 's her lute flung in a comer. 
 
 Fran. Her lute ? Oh God ! u]ion this instrument 
 Her fingers have ran quick division, 10 
 
 Swifter than that which now divides our hearts. 
 These frets have made me pleasant, that have now 
 Frets of my heart-strings made. master Cranwell, 
 Oft hath she made this melancholy wood 
 (Now mute and dumb for her disastrous chance) 
 Sjjeak sweetly many a note, sound many a strain 
 To her own ravishing voice, which being well strung. 
 What i)leasant strange airs have they jointly rung ! 
 Post witli it after her ; now nothing 's left ; 
 Of her and hers I am at once bereft. 20 
 
 Nicholas oi-ertuLes Mus Frankfobd on her journey, and 
 delivers tlie lute. 
 
 Mrs Fra. I know the lute ; oft have I sung to thee : 
 We both are out of tune, both out of time. 
 
 Nic. My master commends him unto ye ; 
 There 's all he can find that was ever yours. 
 He prays you to forget him, and so he bids you 
 farewell. 
 
 Mrs Fra. I thank him, he is kind, and ever was. 
 All you that have true feeling of my grief, 
 That know my loss, and have relenting hearts, 
 Gii-d me about ; and help me with your tears 
 To wash my spotted sins : my lute shall groan ; 30 
 It cannot weep, but shall lament my moan. 
 H you return unto your master, say 
 (Tho' not from me, for I am unworthy 
 To blast his name so with a strumpet's tongue),. 
 That you have seen me weep, wish myself dead. 
 Nay you may say too (for my vow is past) 
 Last night you saw me eat and drink my last. 
 This to your master you may say and swear : 
 For it is \xv\t in heaven, and decreed here.
 
 A WOMAN KILL'D WITH KINDNESS. 21.1 
 
 Go break this lute on my coach's wheel, 
 As the last music that I e'er shall make ; 
 Not as my husband's gift, but my farewell 
 To all earth's joy ; and so your master tell. 
 
 Nic. I '11 do your commendations. 
 
 Mrs Fra. O no : 
 I dare not so presume ; nor to my children : 
 I am disclaim'd in both, alas, I am, 
 
 never teach them, when they come to speak, 
 
 To name the name of mother ; chide their tongue 10 
 
 If they by chance light on that hated word ; 
 
 Tell them 'tis naught, for when that word they name 
 
 (Poor pretty souls) they harp on their own shame. 
 
 So, now unto my coach, then to my home. 
 
 So to my death-bed ; for from this sad hour, 
 
 1 never will nor eat, nor drink, nor taste 
 Of any cates that may preserve my life : 
 
 I never will nor smile, nor sleep, nor rest. 
 
 But when my tears have wash'd my black soul white, 
 
 Sweet Saviour to Thy hands I yield my sprite. 20 
 
 Mrs Frankford {dying). SiR Francis Acton (her 
 
 brother). SiR CHARLES MOUNTFORD. MR MaLBY, 
 and other of her husband' s fnemls. 
 
 Mai. How fare you, Mrs Frankford ? 
 
 Mrs Fra. Sick, sick, sick : give me some air. I 
 pray 
 Tell me, oh tell me, where is Mr Frankford. 
 Will he not deign to see me ere I die ? 
 
 Mai. Yes, Mrs Frankford : divers gentlemen, 
 Yom" loving neighbours, with that just request 
 Have mov'd and told him of your weak estate : 
 Who, tho' with much ado to get belief, 
 Examining of the general circumstance, 
 Seeing your sorrow and your penitence, 30 
 
 And hearing therewithal the great desire 
 You have to see him ere you left the world, 
 He gave to us his faith to follow us ; 
 And sure he will be here immediately. 
 
 Mrs Fra. You have half reviv'd me with the 
 pleasing news : 
 Raise me a little higher in my bed. 
 Blush I not, brother Acton ? blush I not, sir Charles ?
 
 212 THOMAS HETWOOD. 
 
 Can you not read my fault writ in my cheek ? 
 Is not my crime there ? tell me, gentlemen. 
 
 Clbar. Alas ! good mistress, sickness hath not left 
 you 
 Blood in your face enough to make you lilush. 
 
 Mrs Fra. Then sickness like a friemi my fa\ilt 
 would hide. 
 Is my husl)and come? ray soul but tarries 
 His arrival, then I am tit for heaven. 
 
 Acton. I came to chide you, but my words of hate 
 Are turn'd to pity and compassionate grief. 
 I came to rate you, but my brawls, you see, 10 
 
 Melt into tears, and I must weep ])y thee. 
 Here 's Mr Frankford now. 
 
 Mr Frankford enters. 
 
 Fran. Good-morrow, brother ; morrow, gentlemen: 
 Ciod, that hath laid this cross u}ion our heads, 
 Might (had he pleas'd) have made our cause of 
 
 meeting 
 On a more fair and more contented ground : 
 But he that made us, made us to this woe. 
 
 Mrs Fra. And is he come ? methinks that voice I 
 know. 
 
 Fran. How do you, woman ? 
 
 Mrs Fra. "Well, Mr Frankford, well ; but shall be 
 better 20 
 
 I hope within this hour. Will yoii vouchsafe 
 (Out of your grace, and your humanity) 
 To take a spotted strumpet by the hand ? 
 
 Fran. Tiiis hand once held my heart in faster 
 bonds 
 Than now 'tis gi'ip'd by me. God pardon them 
 That made us first break hold. 
 
 Mrs Fra. Amen, amen. 
 Out of my zeal to heaven, whither I 'm now bound, 
 I was so impudent to wish you here ; 
 And once more beg your pardon. Oh ! good man, 30 
 And father to my children, pardon me. 
 Pardon, pardon me : my fault so heinous is. 
 That if you in this world forgive it not, 
 Heaven will not clear it in the world to come. 
 Faintness hath so usurped upon my knees
 
 A WOMAN KILL'd WITH KINDNESS. 213 
 
 That kneel I cannot : but on my heart's knees 
 
 My prostrate soul lies thrown down at your feet 
 
 To beg youi' giacious pardon. Pardon, O pardon me ! 
 
 Fran. As freely from the low depth of my soul 
 As my Redeemer hath forgiven His death, 
 I pardon thee ; I wWl shed tears for thee ; 
 Pray with thee : 
 
 And, in mere pity of thy weak estate, 
 I '11 wish to die with thee. 
 
 All. So do we all. 10 
 
 Fran. Even as I hope for pardon at that day, 
 When the great judge of heaven in scarlet sits. 
 So be thou pardon'd. Tho' thy rash offence 
 Divorc'd our Ijodies, thy repentant tears 
 Unite om- souls. 
 
 Char. Then comfort, mistress Frankford ; 
 You see your husband hath forgiven your fall ; 
 Then rouse your spirits, and cheer your fainting soul. 
 
 Svsan. How is it with you ? 
 
 Acton. How d'ye feel yourself ? 20 
 
 Mrs Fra. Not of this world. 
 
 Fran. I see you are not, and I weep to see it. 
 My wife, the mother to my pretty babes ; 
 Both those lost names 1 do restore thee back, 
 And with this kiss I wed thee once again : 
 Tho' thou art wounded in thy honour'd name, 
 And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest ; 
 Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest. 
 
 Mrs Fra. Pardon'd on earth, soul, thou in heaven 
 art free 
 Once more. Thy wife dies thus embracing thee. 30 
 
 [Heywood is a sort of prose Sliakspeare. His scenes 
 are to the full as natural and affecting. But we miss 
 the Poet, that which in Shakspeare always appears out 
 and above the surface of the nature. Heywood's char- 
 actere, his Country Gentlemen, &c. are exactly what 
 we see (but of the best kind of what we see) in life. 
 Shakspeare makes us beHeve, while we are among his 
 lovely creations, that they are nothing but what we are 
 familiar with, as in dreams new things seem old : but 
 we awake, and sigh for the difference.]
 
 214 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 LXVI. (g.) 
 
 THE FAIR l\r AID OF THE EXCHANGE : 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Cripple offers to fit Frank Goldinq iritk readi/-made 
 
 Looe Ji/ri sties. 
 
 Frank. Of thy own -wTiting ? 
 
 Crip. My own, I assure you, Sir. 
 
 Frank. Faith, thou hast rohb'd some sonnet-book 
 or other. 
 And now would'st make me think they are thine own. 
 
 Crip. Why, think'st tliou that I cannot A\Tite a 
 Letter, 
 Ditty, or Sonnet, with judicial phrase. 
 As pretty, pleasing, and ]>athetical, 
 As the l)est Ovid-iniitating dunce 
 In the whole town ? 
 
 Frank. I think thou canst not. 10 
 
 Cri]). Yea, I '11 swear I cannot. 
 Yet, Sirrah, I could coney-catch the world, 
 Make myself famous for a sudden wit, 
 And he admii-ed for my dexterity, 
 Were I disposed. 
 
 Frank. I jjrithee, how ? 
 
 Crip. Why, thus, There lived a Poet in this town 
 (If we may term our modern ^n iters Poets), 
 Sharp-witted, bitter-tongued ; his pen, of steel ; 
 His ink was temper'd with the biting juice 20 
 
 And extracts of the bitterest weeds that gi'ew ; 
 He never wrote but when the elements 
 Of fire and water tilted in his brain. 
 This fellow, ready to give up his ghost 
 To Lucia's bosom, did bequeath to me 
 His library, which was just nothing 
 But rolls, and scrolls, and bundles of cast wit, 
 Such as durst never visit Paul's Church Yard. 
 Amongst 'em all I lighted on a quire 
 Or two of paper, fill'd with Songs and Ditties. 30 
 And here and there a hungry Epigram ;
 
 THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE. 215 
 
 I 
 
 These I reserve to my o^\^^ proper use, 
 And Pater-noster-like have conn'd them all. 
 I could now, when I am in company, 
 At ale-house, tavern, or an ordinary, 
 Upon a theme make an extemporal ditty 
 (Or one at least should seem e.xtemporal), 
 Out of the abundance of this legacy, 
 That all would judge it, and report it too, 
 To be the infant of a sudden wit, 
 And then were I an admirable fellow. 
 
 Frank. This were a piece of cunning. 10 
 
 Crip. I could do more ; for I could make enquiry, 
 Where the best-witted gallants use to dine, 
 Follow them to the tavern, and there sit 
 In the next room with a calf's head and brimstone, 
 And over-hear their talk, observe their humours, 
 Collect their jests, i)Ut them into a play. 
 And tire them too with pa\Tnent to behold 
 "What I have filch'd from them. This I could do. 
 But for shame that man should so arraign 20 
 
 Their o-mi fee-simple M-its for verbal theft ! 
 Yet men there be that have done this and that. 
 And more by much more than the most of them.* 
 
 [After this specimen of the pleasanter vein of Hay- 
 wood, I am tempted to extract some Unes from his 
 " Hierarchie of Angels, 1634;" not strictly as a 
 Dramatic Poem, but because the passage contains a 
 string of names, all but that of Watson, his contem- 
 
 * The full title of this Play is " The Fair Maid of the Exchange, 
 ■with the Humours of the Cripple of Fenchurch." The above 
 Satire against some Dramatic Plagiarists of tlie time, is put into 
 the mouth of the Cripple, who is an excellent fellow, and the 
 Hero of the Comedy. Of his humour this extract is a sufficient 
 specimen: but he is described (albeit a tradesman, yet wealthy 
 withal), with heroic qualities of mind and body ; the latter of 
 which he evinces by rescuing his Mistress (the Fair Maid) from 
 three robbers by the main force of one crutch lustily applied ; 
 and the former by his foregoing the advantages which this 
 action gained him in her good opinion, and bestowing his wit and 
 finesse in procuring for her a husband, in the person of his friend 
 Golding, more worthy of her beauty, than he could conceive his 
 own maimed and halting limbs to be. It would require some 
 boldness in a dramatist now-a-days to exhibit such a Character ; 
 and some luck in finding a sufficient Actor, who would be willing 
 to personate the infirmities, together with the virtues, of the 
 Noble Cripple.
 
 216 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 porary Dramatists. He is complaining' in a mood half 
 serious, half comic, of the disrespect which Toots in his 
 own times meet with from the world, compared with 
 the honours paid them by Antiqxiity. Then they could 
 afford them thi-ee or four soni>rous names, and at full 
 lenpth ; as to Ovid, the addition of Publius Naso 
 Sulraensis ; to Seneca, that of Lucius Ann:cas Cordu- 
 bensis ; and the like. Now, says he, 
 
 Our modern Poets to tliat pass are driven, 
 
 Those names are curtail'd M-hieh tliey first had given ; 
 
 And, as Ave \vish'd to have their iiicmories drown'u, 
 
 We scarcely can alFord them half their sound. 
 
 Greene, wlio had in both Academies ta'en 
 
 Degi-ee of Master, yet could never gain 
 
 To be call'd more than Robin : who, liad lie 
 
 Profest ought save the Muse, served, and been free 
 
 After a sev'n years 'prenticeshij), might have 
 
 (With credit too) gone Robert to his grave. 10 
 
 Marlowe, i-enown'd for his rare art and wit, 
 
 Could ne'er attain beyond the name ol' Kit ; 
 
 Althoiigh his Hero and Leander did 
 
 Merit addition rather. Pamous Kid 
 
 Was call'd but Tom. Tom Watson ; though he 
 
 wrote 
 Able to make Apollo's self to dote 
 Upon his Muse ; for all that he could .sti'ive. 
 Yet never could to his full name arrive. 
 Tom Nash (in his time of no small esteem) 
 Could not a second syllable redeem. 20 
 
 Excellent Beaumont, in the foremost rank 
 Of the rarest wits, was never more than Frank. 
 Mellifluous Shakspeare, whose inchanting quill 
 Commanded mirth or passion, was but Will ; 
 And famous Jonson, though his learned pen 
 Be dipt in Castaly, is still but Ben. 
 Fletcher, and Webster, of that learned pack 
 None of the meanest, neither was Imt Jack ; 
 Decker but Tom ; nor May, nor IVliddleton : 
 And he 's now but Jack Ford, that once were John. 30 
 
 [Possibly our Poet was a little sore, that this con- 
 temptuous curtailment of their Baptismal Names was 
 chiefly exercised upon his Poetical Brethren of the 
 Drama. We hear nothing about Sam Daniel, or Ned
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE. 217 
 
 Spenser, in his catalogue. The familiarity of common 
 discourse might probably take the greater liberties with 
 the Dramatic Poets, as conceiving of them as more upon 
 a level with the Stage Actors. Or did their greater 
 publicity, and popularity- iu consequence, fasten these 
 diminutives upon them out of a feeling of love and 
 kindness, as we say Harry the Fifth, rather than Henry, 
 when we would express good-wiU ': — as liimself says, in 
 those reviving words put into his mouth by Shakspeare, 
 where he would comfort and confirm his doubting 
 brothers : — 
 
 Not Amui-ath an Amui-ath succeeds, 
 But Harry, Harry ! 
 
 And doubtless Heywood had an indistinct conception 
 of this truth, when (coming to his own name), with 
 that beautiful retixuiimj which is natural to one that; 
 not satiricallj' given, has wandered a Uttle out of his 
 way into something recriminative, he goes on to say : — 
 
 Nor speak I this, that any here exprest 
 
 Should think themselves less worthy than the rest 
 
 "Whose names have their full syllables and sound ; 
 
 Or that Frank, Kit, or Jack, are the least wound 
 
 Unto their tame and merit. I for my i)art 
 
 (Think others what they please) accept that heart, 
 
 Which courts my love in most familiar phrase ; 
 
 And that it takes not from my pains or praise, 
 
 If any one to me so bluntly come : 
 
 I hold he loves me best that calls me Tom. 10 
 
 LXVII. (g.) 
 
 THE GOLDEN AGE : AN HISTORICAL 
 PLAY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 SiBlLLA, tlt£. wife of Saturn, is hy Mm enjoined to slay the 
 neiv-hoj-n Jupiter. None can. do if for his! smiles. 
 
 SiBiLLA. Vesta. Nurse. 
 Sib. ^Mother, of all that ever mothers were 
 !Most wTetched ! Kiss thy sweet babe ere he die 
 That hath life only lent to suffer death.
 
 218 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 Sweet lad, I would thy father saw thee smile. 
 
 Thy beauty, aud tliy jiretty infancy, 
 
 Would mollify his heart, were 't hew'd from flint, 
 
 Or carved with iron tools from Corsic rock. 
 
 Thou laugh'st to think thou must be kill'd in jest. 
 
 Oh ! if thou need'st must die, I'll be thy murtheress, 
 
 And kill thee with my kisses, pretty knave. — 
 
 And canst thou laugh to see thy mother weep ? 
 
 Or art thou in thy cheerful smiles so free, 
 
 In scorn of thy rude father's tyranny ? . . . 10 
 
 I '11 kiss thee ere I kill thee : for my life 
 
 The lad so smiles, I cannot hold tlie knife. 
 
 Vest. Tlien give him me ; I am his Grandmother, 
 And I will kill him gently : this sad office 
 Belongs to me, as to the next of kin. 
 
 Sib. For heaven's sake, when you kill him, hurt 
 him not. 
 
 Vest. Come, little knave, pre]>are your naked throat 
 I have not heart to give thee many wounds, 
 ^ly kindness is to take thy life at once. 
 Now— 20 
 
 Alack, my pretty Grandchild, smilest thou still ? 
 I have lust to kiss, but have no heart to kill. 
 
 Nurse. You may be careless of the Iving's command, 
 But it concerns me ; and I love my life 
 More than I do a suckling's. Give him me, 
 I '11 make him sui'e ; a sharp weapon lend, 
 I '11 quickly bring the youngster to his end. — 
 Alack, my pretty knave, 'twere more tlian sin 
 AVith a sharp knife to touch thy tender skin. 
 
 Madam, he 's so full of angel gi-ace, 30 
 
 1 cannot strike, he smiles so in my face. 
 
 Sib. I'll wink, and strike ; come, once more reach 
 him hither ; 
 For die he nuist, so Saturn hath decreed : 
 'Las for a world I would not see him bleed. 
 
 Vest. Ne shall he do. But swear me secrecy ; 
 Tlie Babe shall live, and we be dangerless.
 
 THE SILVER AGE. 219 
 
 LXVIII. (G.) 
 
 THE SILVER AGE : AN HISTORICAL 
 PLAY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Pbosekpink seeking Floicers, 
 
 Pros. may these meadows ever barren be, 
 That yield of flowers no more variety ! 
 Here neither is the White nor Sanguine Rose, 
 The Strawberry Flower, the Paunce, nor Violet ; 
 Methinks I have too poor a meadow chose : 
 Going to beg, I am with a beggar met, 
 That wants as mnch as I. I should do ill 
 To take from them that need. — 
 
 Ceres, aftei- the Ilape of her Daiujlder. 
 
 Cer. Where is my fair and lovely Proserpine ? 
 The feast is done, and she not yet returned. 10 
 
 Speak, Jove's fair Daughter, whither art thou sti-ay'd ? 
 I 've sought the meadows, glebes, and new-reap'd fields, 
 Yet cannot find my Cliild. Her scatter'd flowers, 
 And garland half made up, I 've lit upon ; 
 But her I cannot spy. Behold the trace 
 Of some strange waggon,* that hath scorched the fields, 
 And singed the grass : these ruts the sun ne'er sear'd. 
 Where art thou, Love, where art thou, Proserpine ? — 
 
 <S7(e quest io7ts Triton /<>?• her Davghter. 
 
 Ccr. thou that on thy shelly trumpet 
 
 Summons the sea-god, answer from the depth. 20 
 
 Trit. On Neptune's sea-horse -v^'ith my concave 
 trump. 
 Thro' all the abyss I 've shrill'd thy daughter's loss. 
 The channels clothed in waters, the low cities 
 In which the water-gods and sea-nymphs dwell, 
 I have perused ; sought thro' whole woods and forests 
 Of leafless coral, planted in the deeps ; 
 Toss'd up the beds of pearl ; roused up huge whales, 
 And stern sea-monsters, from their rocky dens ; 
 Those bottoms, bottomless ; shallows and shelves ; 
 
 * The Car of Dis.
 
 220 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 And all those currciits where th' earth's springs 
 
 lireak in ; 
 Those jjlaius where Xeptune feeds his porpoises ; 
 Se.i-niorses, seals, and all his cattle else : 
 Thro' all onr ebbs and tides my trunij) hath blazed her, 
 Yet can no cavern shew me Proserpine. 
 
 She n uegfions the Eakth. 
 
 Ccr. Fair sister Earth, for all these beauteous fields, 
 Spread o'er thy breast ; for all these fertile crops, 
 AVith which my plenty hath enrieh'd thy bosom ; 
 For all those rich and pleasant wreaths of grain, 
 "With which so oft thy temj^les I have crowned ; 10 
 For all the yearly liveries, and fresh robes, 
 Upon thy summer beauty I bestow— 
 Shew me my Child ! 
 
 Earth. Kot in revenge, fair Ceres, 
 That your remorseless ploughs have rack't my breast, 
 Nor that your iron-toothed hanows print my lace 
 So full of wrinkles ; that you dig my sides 
 For marie and soil, and make me bleed my sjjrings 
 Thro' all mj' open'd veins to weaken me — 
 Do I conceal your daughter. I have spread 20 
 
 My arms from sea to sea, look'd o'er my mountains, 
 Examin'd all my pastures, groves, and plains, 
 Marshes and wolds, my woods and champain fields, 
 My dens and caves — and yet, from foot to head, 
 I have no place on which the IMoon* doth tread. 
 
 Cer. Then, Earth, tliou'st lost her ; and for Proser- 
 pine, 
 I '11 strike thee with a lasting barrenness. 
 No more shall plenty crown thy fertile brows ; 
 I '11 break thy ploughs, thy oxen murrain strike : 
 "With idle agues I '11 consume thy swains ; 30 
 
 Sow tares and cockles in thy lands of wheat, 
 Whose spikes the weed and cooch-gi-ass shall outgrow, 
 And choke it in the blade. The rotten showers 
 Shall drown thy seed, which the hot sun shall parch, 
 Or mildews rot ; and \\'hat remains, shall lie 
 A prejr to ravenous birds. — Oh Proserpine ! — 
 You Gods that dwell above, and you below. 
 Both of the woods and gardens, rivers, brooks, 
 * Proserpiue ; wJio was also Luna in Heaven, Diana on Earth.
 
 THE BRAZEN AGE. 221 
 
 Fountains and wells, some one among you all 
 Shew me her self or gi-ave : to you I call. 
 
 Arethusa riseth. 
 Arc. That can the river Arethusa do. 
 My streams you know, fair Goddess, issue forth 
 From Tartary by the Tenarian isles : 
 My head 's in Hell where Stygian Pluto reigns, 
 There did I see the lovely Proserpine, 
 Whom Pluto hath rapt hence : behold her girdle, 
 "Which on her way dropped from her lovely waist, 
 And scatter'd in my streams.- — Fair Queen, adieu ! 10 
 Crown you my banks \\ith flowers, as I tell true. 
 
 LXIX. (O.) 
 
 THE BRAZEN AGE : AN HISTOPJCAL 
 PLAY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Venus courts Adonis. 
 
 Ven. Why doth Adonis ?Ly the Queen of Love, 
 And shun this ivory girdle of my arms ? 
 To be thus scarf 'd the dreadful God of AVar 
 Would give me conquer'd kingdoms. For a kiss 
 But half like this, I could command the Sun 
 Rise 'fore his hour, to bed before his time ; 
 And, being love-sick, change his golden beams 
 And make his face pale as liis sister Moon. 
 Look on me, Adon, \\-ith a steadfast eye, 20 
 
 That in these crystal glasses I may see 
 My beauty that charms Gods, makes Men amaz'd 
 And stown'd with wonder. Doth this roseate pillow 
 Offend my Love ? 
 
 With my wliite fingers will I clap thy cheek ; 
 Whisper a thousand pleasures in thy ear. 
 
 Adon. Madam, you are not modest. I affect 
 The unseen beauty that adorns the mind : 
 This looseness makes you foul in Aden's eye. 
 If you will tempt me, let me in your face 
 Read blushfulness and fear ; a modest blush 30 
 
 Would make your cheek seem much more beautiful.
 
 222 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 Ven. wert thou made of stone, 
 
 I have hi'at to melt tlieo ; I am Queen of Love. 
 There is no juacticed art of dalliance. 
 Of which I am not mistress, and can use. 
 I have kisses that can murder unkind words, 
 And strangle hatred that the gall sends forth ; 
 Touches to I'aise thee, were thy spiiits half-dead ; 
 Words that can pour affection down thy ears. 
 Love me ! thon canst not choose ; thou shalt not 
 choose. 9 
 
 Adon. Madam, you woo not well. Men covet not 
 These i)roffer'd pleasures, but love sweets denied. 
 These ])rostituted pleasin-es surfeit still ; 
 Where 's fear, or douht, men sue with best good ■will. 
 
 Vcn. Thon canst instruct the Qneen of Love in 
 love. 
 Thou shalt not, Adon, take me by the hand ; 
 Yet, if thou needs will force me, take my palm. 
 I '11 frown on him : alas ! my brow 's so smooth, 
 It will not bear a \\Tinkle. — Hie thee hence 
 Unto tlie chace, and leave me ; but not yet : 
 I '11 sleep this night upon Endymiou's bank, 20 
 
 On which the Swain was courted by the Moon. 
 Dare not to come ; thou art in our disgrace : 
 Yet, if thou come, I can afford thee place ! 
 
 Phcebus jee?-5 VULCAN. 
 
 Vul. Good morrow, Phcebns ; what 's the news 
 abroad ? — 
 For thou seest all things in the world are done, 
 Men act by day-light, or the sight of sun. 
 
 Fhosb. Sometime I cast my eye upon the sea. 
 To see the tumbling seal or porpoise play. 
 There see I merchants trading, and their sails 
 Big-bellied with the wind ; sea fights sometimes 30 
 Rise with their smoke-thick clouds to dark my 
 
 beams ; 
 Sometimes I fix my face upon the earth, 
 With my warm fervour to give metals, trees. 
 Herbs, plants and flowers, life. Here in gardens 
 
 walk 
 Loose ladies with their lovers arm in arm. 
 Yonder the laboring plo^nnau drives his team.
 
 THE BRAZEN AGE. 223 
 
 Further I may behold main battles pitched ; 
 
 Aud whom I favour most (by the wind's help) 
 
 I can assist witli my transparent rays. 
 
 Here spy I cattle feeding ; i'orests there 
 
 Stored mth wild beasts ; here shepherds with their 
 
 lasses, 
 Piping beneath the trees while their flocks graze. 
 In cities I see trading, walking, l^argaining, 
 Buying and selling, goodness, badness, all things — 
 And shine alike on all. 
 
 V'ul. Thrice hajjpy Phoibus, 10 
 
 That, whilst poor Vulcan is confin'd to Lenmos, 
 Hast every day these i>leasures. What news else ? 
 
 Fhwb. No emperor walks forth, but I see his state ; 
 Nor sports, but I his pastimes can behold. 
 I see all coronations, funerals, 
 
 JMarts, fairs, assemblies, pageants, sights and shows. 
 No lumting, but I better see the chace 
 Than they that rouse the game. What see I not ? 
 There 's not a window, but my beams break in ; 
 No chink or cranny, but my rays pierce through ; 20 
 And there I see, Vulcan, wond'rous things : 
 Things that thyself, nor any God besides. 
 Would give belief to. 
 
 And, shall I tell thee, A^ulcan, t'other day 
 What I beheld ? — I saw the great God Mars — 
 
 Ful. God Mars— 
 
 Ph(eb. As I was peeping through a cranny, abed — 
 
 Vul. Abed ! with whom ? — some pretty wench, I 
 warrant. 
 
 Phoeb. She was a pretty wench. 
 
 Ful. Tell me, good Phoebus, 30 
 
 That, when I meet him, I may flout God Mars ; 
 Tell me, but tell me truly, on thy life. 
 
 Phceb. Not to dissemble, Vulcan, 'twas thy wife ! 
 
 T/ie Peers of Greece go in quest o/ HERCULES and find him 
 in woman's loecds, spinning with OmpdaIjE. 
 
 Jason. Our business was to Theban Hercules. 
 'Twas told us, he remain'd with Omphale, 
 The Theban Queen. 
 
 Telamon. Speak, which is Omphale ? or which 
 Alcides ?
 
 224 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 Pollux. Lady, our purpose was to Hercules ; 
 Shew us the man. 
 
 Oiiin). Ik'htild him there. 
 
 At reus. Where? 
 
 Oinph. There, at his task. 
 
 Jos. Ahi.s, this Hercules ! 
 This is some liase eifeminate Groom, not he 
 That witli his puissance frighted all the earth. 
 
 Her. Hath Jason, Nestor, Castor, Telamon, 
 Astreus, Pollux, all forgot their friend ? 10 
 
 We are the man. 
 
 Jas. W^oman, we know thee not : 
 "We came to seek the Jove-born Hercules, 
 That in his cradle strangled Juno's snakes. 
 And triimiph'd in the brave Olympic games. 
 He that the Cleonean lion slew, 
 Th' Erimanthian bear, the bull of Marathon, 
 The Lernean hydra, and the winged hart. 
 
 Tel. We would see the Theban 
 That Cacus slew, Busiris sacrificed, 20 
 
 And to his horses hurl'd stern Dionied 
 To be devom-'d. 
 
 Pol. That freed Hesione 
 From the sea whale, and after ransack'd Troy, 
 And Avith his own hand slew Laomedou. 
 
 Nes. He by whom Dercilus and Albion fell ; 
 He that QScalia and Betricia won. 
 
 Atr. That monstrous Geryon with his three heads 
 vanquished. 
 With Linus, Lichas that usurped in Thebes, 
 And captived there his beauteous Megara. 30 
 
 Pol. That Hercules by whom the Ceutam's fell, 
 Great Achelous, the Stymphalides, 
 And the Cremona giants : whei-e is he ? 
 
 Tel. That trait'rous Nessus with a shaft transfixt, 
 Strangled Antheus, purged Augeus' stalls, 
 Won the bright apples of th' Hesperides. 
 
 Jas- He that the Amazonian baldrick won ; 
 That Achelous ^\'ith his club subdued, 
 And won from him the Pride of Caledon, 
 Fair Deianeira, that now mourns in Thebes 40 
 
 For absence of the noble Hercules ! 
 
 Atr. To him we came ; but, since he lives not 
 here,
 
 THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT. 225 
 
 Come, Lords ; we will return these presents back 
 Unto the constant Lady, whence they came. 
 
 Her. Stay, Lords — 
 
 Jas. 'Mongst women 1 — 
 
 Her. For that Theban's sake, 
 Whom you profess to love, and came to seek, 
 Abide awhile ; and by my love to Greece, 
 I '11 bring before you that lost Hercirles, 
 For whom you come to enquire. 
 
 Tel. It works, it ^^•orks — 10 
 
 Her. How have I lost myself ! 
 Did we all this ? Where is that spirit become. 
 That was in us ? no marvel, Hercules, 
 That thou be'st strange to them, that thus disguised 
 Art to thyself unknown ! — hence with this distaff. 
 And base efleminate chares ; hence, womanish tires ; 
 And let me once more be myself again. 
 Your pardon, Omphale ! 
 
 [I cannot take leave of this Drama without noticing 
 a touch of the truest pathos, which the writer has put 
 into the mouth of Meleager, as he is wasting away by 
 the operation of the fatal brand, administered to him 
 by his wretched Mother. 
 
 My flame increaseth still — Oh, Father CEneus ; 
 And you, Althea, whom I would call Mother, 20 
 
 But that my genius jirompts me thou 'rt unkind : 
 And yet farewell ! 
 
 What is the boasted " Forgive me, but forgive me ! " 
 of the dying wife of Shore in Rowe, comi^ared with 
 these three little words ?] 
 
 LXX. 
 
 THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL 
 SUBJECT. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Nolle TraUor. 
 
 A Persian History 
 I read of late, how the gi-eat Sophy once 
 Flying a noble Falcon at the Heme, 
 I. P
 
 226 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 In comes by chance an eagle sousing by : 
 
 Which when the Hawk espies leaves her first game, 
 
 And boldly ventures on the King of Birds ; 
 
 Long tugg'd they in the air, till at the length 
 
 The Falcon (better breath'd) seized on the Eagle 
 
 And struck it dead. The barons prais'd the bird, 
 
 And for her courage she was peerless held. 
 
 The Emperor, after some deliberate thoughts, 
 
 Made her no less ; he caus'd a crown of <fold 
 
 To be new frani'd, and fitted to her head, 10 
 
 In honour of her courage : then the l)ird, 
 
 With great applause, was to the market place 
 
 In triumph borne ; where, when her utmost worth 
 
 Had been proclaim'd, the common executioner 
 
 First by the King's command took off her crown. 
 
 And after with a sword struck off her head, 
 
 As one no better than a noble traitor 
 
 Unto the King of Birds. 
 
 Lxxi. (a.) 
 FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 lit, the Proloijm to this Play, ScyLoood descants upon the 
 ixii'iety of topics which Ivad been introduced upon the 
 E)i(jlish stage in that age, — t/ie rich Shahperian 
 epoch. 
 
 To give content to this most curious age. 
 The Gods themselves we've brought down to the 
 stage, 20 
 
 And figured them in Planets ; made ev'n Hell 
 Deliver up the Furies, by no spell 
 Saving the Muses' raptures : further we 
 Have trafficked by their help ; no History 
 We've left unrifled ; our pens have been dipt 
 As well in opening each hid manuscript, 
 As tracts more vulgar, whether read or sung. 
 In our domestic or more foreig,n tongue. 
 Of Fairy elves, Nymphs of the Sea an<l Land, 
 The Lawns and Groves, no number can be scaun'd, 30
 
 THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. 227 
 
 Which we 've not given feet to. Nay, 'tis known 
 
 That wlieu our Chronicles have barren grown 
 
 Of story, we have all Invention stretcht ; 
 
 Dived low as to the centre, and then reacht 
 
 Unto the Prinium Moljile above, 
 
 (Nor 'scaped Things Intermediate), for your love 
 
 These have been acted often ; all have past 
 
 Censure : of which some live, and some are cast. 
 
 For this* in agitation, stay the end ; 
 
 Tho' nothing please, yet nothing can offend. 10 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 YouJig Geraldine covves home from his Travels, andfi-nds 
 his Plaiffellozv, that should have been his Wife, married 
 to old WiNCOTT. 'The old Gentleman rei-eives him 
 hospitably, as a Friend of his Father's: takes deli<jht 
 to Lear him tell of his Travels, and treats him in all 
 respects like a secorul Father; his House bein<j alwaifs 
 open to him. Youn</ GKHALDmE and the Wifea^ree 
 not to xorong the old Gentleman. 
 
 Wife. Geraldine. 
 
 Ger. We now are left alone. 
 
 Wife. Why, say we be ; who should be jealous of 
 This is not hrst of many hundred nights, [us ? 
 
 That we two have been private, from the first 
 Of our acquaintance ; when our tongues but dipt 
 Our mother's tongue, and could not speak it plain 
 We knew each other : as in stature, so 
 Increased our sweet society. Since your travel. 
 And my late marriage, through my husband's love. 
 Mid-night has been as mid-day, and my bed-chamber 
 As free to you, as your own father's house, 21 
 
 And you as welcome to it. 
 
 Ger. I must confess, 
 It is in you, your nolde coiu'tesy ; 
 
 * llis own Play.
 
 228 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 In him, a more than common confidence, 
 And, in this age, can scarce find j)recedent. 
 
 Wife. Jlost trne : it is withal an argnment, 
 That both onr virtues are so deep impressed 
 In his good thoughts, he knows we cannot err. 
 
 Ger. A villain were he, to deceive such trust. 
 Or (were tliere one) a much worse character. 
 
 Jfi/e. And she no less, whom either beauty, j'outli. 
 Time, place, or opportunity could tempt 
 To injure such a husband. 10 
 
 Ger. You deserve. 
 E'en for his sake, to lie for ever young ; 
 And he, for yours, to have his youth renew'd : 
 So mutual is your true conjugal love. 
 Yet had the fates so pleas'd — 
 
 IFife. I know your meaning. 
 It was once voic'd, that we two should have matched ; 
 The world so thought and many tongues so spake ; 
 But heaven hath now dispos'd us other ways : 
 And being as it is (a thing in me 20 
 
 Which I protest was never wished nor sought) 
 Now done, I not repent it. 
 
 Ger. In those times 
 Of all the treasures of my hopes and love 
 You were th' Exchequer, they were stored in you ; 
 And had not my unfortunate travel cross'd them, 
 They had been here reserv'd still. 
 
 fFife. Troth they had, 
 I should have been your trusty Treasurer. 
 
 Ger. However, let us love still, I entreat ; 30 
 
 That, neighbourhood and breeding will allow ; 
 So much, the laws divine and human both 
 Twixt brother and a sister will approve : 
 Heaven then forbid that they should limit us 
 Wish well to one another. 
 
 TFife. If they shoidd not, 
 We might proclaim they were not charitable, 
 Which were a deadly sin but to conceive. 
 
 Ger. Will you resolve me one thing ? 
 JFife. As to one, 40 
 
 That in my bosom hath a second place, 
 Next my dear husband. 
 
 Ger. That 's the thing I crave,
 
 THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER. 229 
 
 And only that ; to have a place next him, 
 
 TFifc. Presume on that already, but perhaps 
 You mean to stretch it further. 
 
 Ger. Only thus far : 
 Your husband 's old ; to whom my soul does wish 
 A Nestor's age, so much he merits from me ; 
 Yet if (as jiroof and nature daily teach, 
 Men cannot always live, especially 
 Such as are old and crazed,) he be called hence, 
 Fairly, in full maturity of time, 10 
 
 And we two be reserv'd to after life, 
 "Will you confer your widow-hood on me ? 
 
 JFifc. You ask the thing I was about to beg ; 
 Your tongue hath spoke mine own thoughts. 
 
 Ger. 'Tis enough, that word 
 Alone instates me happy : now, so please you, 
 AVe Avill di\'ide ; you to your private chamber, 
 I to find out my friend. 
 
 TFife. You are now my lirother ; 
 But then, my second husband. [They 2}art. 20 
 
 Young Geraldine absents himself from the Jiouse of Mr 
 WiNCOTT longer than is usual to him. The old 
 Gentleman sends for him, to find out the reason. — He 
 pleads his Father's camiiuuids. 
 
 WiNCOTT. GERALDINE. 
 
 Ger. With due acknowledgment 
 Of all your more than many courtesies : 
 You 've been my second father, and your wife 
 My noble and chaste mistress ; all your servants 
 At my command ; and this your bounteous table 
 As free and common as my father's house : 
 Neither 'gainst any or the least of these 
 Can I commence just quarrel. 
 
 JVln. "What might then be 
 The cause of this constraint, in thus absenting 30 
 Yourself from such as love you ? 
 
 Ger. Out of many, 
 I will propose some few : the cai-e I have 
 Of your (as yet unblemished) reno'wn ; 
 The untouched honour of your virtuous wife ; 
 And (whicli I value least, yet dearly too) 
 My o^\'l^ fair reputation.
 
 230 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 JFin, How can these 
 In any way be qnestion'd ? 
 
 Grr. Oh, dear sir, 
 Bad tongues have been too busy with us all ; 
 Of which I never yet had time to think, 
 But ^\^th sad thoughts and griefs unspeakable. 
 It hath been whisper'd Ijy some wicked ones, 
 But loudly thunder'd in my father's ears, 
 By some that have malign'd our happiness ; 
 (Heaven, if it can brook slander, pardon them) 10 
 That this my customary coming hither, 
 Hath been to base and sordid purposes ; 
 To wTong your bed, injure her chastity, 
 And be mine own undoer : which, how false — 
 
 JFin. As heaven is true, I know it — 
 
 (rer. Now this calumny 
 Arriving first unto my father's ears. 
 His easy nature was induced to think 
 That these things might perhaps be possible : 
 I answer'd him, as I would do to heaven, 20 
 
 And clear'd myself in his suspicious thoughts 
 As truly, as the high all-knowing Judge 
 Shall of these stains acquit me ; which are merely 
 Aspersions and untruths. The good old man 
 Possessed with my sincerity, and yet careful 
 Of your renown, her bonoiir, and my fame, 
 To stop the worst that scandal could inflict, 
 And to prevent false rumours, charges me. 
 The cause remov'd, to take away th' effect ; 
 Which only could be, to forbear your house : 30 
 
 And this upon his blessing. You hear all. 
 
 TVin. And I of all acquit you : this jonr absence, 
 With which my love most cavill'd, orators 
 In your behalf. Had such things pass'd betwixt you, 
 Not threats nor eludings could have driv'n you hence ; 
 It pleads in your behalf, and speaks in hers ; 
 And arms me with a double confidence 
 Both of your friendshiji and her loyalty. 
 I am happy in you both, and only doubtful 
 Which of you two doth most impart my love. 40 
 
 You shall not hence to-night. . 
 
 Ger. Pray, pardon sir. 
 
 JFin. You are in your lodging.
 
 THE ENGLISH TRAVELLER, 231 
 
 Ger. But my father's charge. 
 
 Win. Jly conjuration sliall dispense M'ith that ; 
 You may be up as early as you please, 
 But hence to-night you shall not. 
 
 Gcr. You are powerful. 
 
 Tracellei-'s Stories. 
 
 Sir, my husband 
 Hatli took much pleasure in your strange discourse 
 About Jerusalem and the Holy Land ; 
 How the new city diffei-s from the old ; 
 What ruins of the Temple yet remain ; 10 
 
 And whether Sion, and those hills about, 
 "With these adjacent towns and villages, 
 Keep that proportioned distance as we read : 
 And then in Rome, of that great Pyi-amis 
 Rear'd in the front, on four lions mounted ; 
 How many of those Idol temples stand, 
 First dedicated to their heathen gods, 
 Which ruin'd, which to better use repair'd ; 
 Of their Pantheon, and their Capitol ; 
 What structui-es are demolish'd, what remain. 20 
 
 And what more pleasm-e to an old man's ear, 
 
 That never drcAV save his ovni country's air, 
 Than hear such things related ? 
 
 Shipm'eck hy Drink. 
 
 This Gentleman and I 
 Passed but just now by your next neighbour's house, 
 Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, 
 An unthrift youth : his father now at sea. 
 
 There this night 
 
 Was a great feast. 
 
 In the height of their carousing, all their brains 30 
 
 Warm'd with the heat of wine, discourse was offer'd 
 
 Of shiiis and storms at sea : when suddenly, 
 
 Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives 
 
 The room wherein they quafl'd to be a pinnace, 
 
 Mo\'ing and floating, and the confus'd noise 
 
 To 1)6 the mumuiring winds, gusts, mariners ; 
 
 That their unsteadfast footing did proceed 
 
 From rocking of the vessel : this conceiv'd. 
 
 Each one begins to apprehend the danger.
 
 232 THOMAS IIEYWOOD. 
 
 And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one 
 
 U]) to the maintop, and discover. He 
 
 Climbs up the hed-jjost to the tester there, 
 
 Rejiorts a turl)ulont sea and tempest towards ; 
 
 And wills them, if they '11 save their shij) and lives, 
 
 To cast their lading over-board. At this 
 
 All fall to work, and hoist into the street, 
 
 As to the sea, what next came to their hand. 
 
 Stools, tables, tressels, trenchers, bed-steds, cups, 
 
 Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles ; 10 
 
 They take him for the boatswain : one lies struggling 
 
 Upon the floor, as if he swam for life : 
 
 A third takes the base-viol for the cock-boat. 
 
 Sits in the belly on 't, laboTirs, and rows ; 
 
 His oar, the stick with which the fiddler played : 
 
 A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to 'scape 
 
 (As did Arion) on the dolphin's back. 
 
 Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude, 
 
 Watching without and gaping for the spoil 
 
 Cast from the windows, went by th' ears about it ; 20 
 
 The constable is call'd t' atone the broil : 
 
 Which done, and hearing such a noise within 
 
 Of eminent ship-WTeck, enters th' house, and finds 
 
 them 
 In this confusion : they adore his staff, 
 And think it Neptune's trident ; and that he 
 Comes with his 'Tritons (so they call'd his watch) 
 To calm the tempest and ajijiease the waves : 
 And at this point we left them. 
 
 [This piece of pleasant exaggeration (which, for its 
 life and humour might have been told or acted by 
 Petnichio himself) gave rise to the title of Cowley's 
 Latin Play, Naufragium Joculare, and furnished the 
 idea of the best scene in it. — Hey wood's preface to this 
 Play is interesting, as it shows the heroic indifference 
 about posterity, which some of these great writers seem 
 to have felt. There is a magnanimity in Authorship as 
 in everything else. 
 
 "If Reader thou hast of this play been an Auditor, 
 there is less apology to be used by entreating thy 
 patience. This Tragi-comedy (being one reserved 
 amongst 220 in which I have had either an entire hand, 
 or at the least a main finger) coming accidentally to the
 
 A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. 233 
 
 press, and I having intelligence thereof, thought it not 
 fit that it should pass as filius populi, a Bastard without 
 a father to acknowledge it : true it is that my plays are 
 not exposed to the world in volumes, to bear the title 
 of works (as others"") : one reason is, that many of 
 them by shifting and change of companies, have been 
 negligently lost. Others of them are still retained in 
 tlie hands of some actors, who think it against their 
 peculiar profit to have them come in print, and a third 
 that it never was any great ambition in me to be in this 
 kind voluminously read. All that I have further to say 
 at this time is only this : censure I entreat as favour- 
 ably as it is exposed to thy view freely. 
 
 "Ever 
 " Studious of thv Pleasure and Profit, 
 
 " Th. Heywood." 
 
 Of the 220 pieces which he here speaks of having 
 been concerned in, only 25, as enumerated by Dodsley, 
 have come down to us, for the reasons assigned in the 
 preface. The rest have perished, exposed to the 
 casualties of a theatre. Heywood's ambition seems to 
 have been confined to the pleasure of hearing the 
 Players speak his lines while he lived. It does not 
 appear that he ever contemplated the possibility of 
 being read by after ages. What a slender pittance of 
 fame was motive sufficient to the production of such 
 Plays as the English Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, 
 and the "Woman Killed with Kindness ! Posterity is 
 bound to take care that a Writer loses nothing by such 
 a noble modesty.] 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Petrocella a fair Spanish Lady loves Montferrers, an 
 English Sua Cajitain, who is Captive to Valladaura, 
 a noble Spaniard. — VaLLADAURA loves the Lady, aiid 
 emjiloys Montferrers to he the Messenger of his love 
 to her. 
 
 Petrocella. Montferrers, 
 
 Pet. AVhat art thou in thy country ? 
 Mo7it. There, a man. 
 
 * He seems to glance at Ben Jonson.
 
 234 THOMAS IIEYWOOD. 
 
 Pet. What here ? 
 
 Mont, No 1)etter than yoii see : a slave. 
 
 Pet. Whose ? 
 
 Mont. His that hath redeeni'd nie. 
 
 Pet. Valladaura's ? 
 
 Mo^it. Yes, I proclaim 't ; I that was once mine 
 own, 
 Am now become his creature. 
 
 Pet. I perceive, 
 Your coming is to make me think you noble. 
 Would you persuade me deem your friend a God ? 10 
 Tor only such make men. Are you a gentleman? 
 
 Mont. Not here ; for I am all dejectedness. 
 Captive to fortune, and a slave to want ; 
 I cannot call these clothes I wear mine owti, 
 I do not eat but at another's cost. 
 This air I breathe is borrow'd ; ne'er was man 
 So poor and abject. I have not so much 
 In all this universe as a thing to leave, 
 Or a country I can freely boast is mine. 
 My essence and my being is another's. 20 
 
 what should I say ? I am not any thing ; 
 And I possess as little. 
 
 Pd. Tell me that ? 
 Come, come, I know you to be no such man. 
 You are a soldier valiant and reno\\nrd ; 
 Your carriage tried by land, and prov'd at sea ; 
 Of which I liave heard such full expression. 
 No contradiction can j^ersuade you less ; 
 And in this faith I am constant. 
 
 Mont. A mere worm, 30 
 
 Trod on by every fate. 
 
 Pet. Rais'd by your merit 
 To be a common argument through Spain, 
 And speech at princes' tables, for your worth ; 
 Your presence when you please to expose 't abroad 
 Attracts all eyes, and draws them after you ; 
 And those that undei'stand you, call their friends. 
 And jiointing through the street, say, ' ' This is he, 
 This is that brave and noble Englishman, 
 Whom soldiers strive to make their precedent, 40 
 And other men their wonder. " 
 
 Mont. This your scorn
 
 A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTT. 235 
 
 Jlakes me appear more abject to myself, 
 Than all diseases I have tasted yet 
 Had power to asperse upon me ; and yet, lady, 
 I could say something, durst 1. 
 Pet. Speak 't at once. 
 
 3f(mt. And yet 
 
 Fet. Nay, but we '11 admit no pause. 
 3Io7it. Tknow not how my phrase may relish you, 
 And loth I were to offend ; even in what 's past 
 I must confess 1 was too bold. Farewell ; 10 
 
 I shall no more distaste yo^^. 
 
 Pet. Sir, you do not ; 
 I do proclaim you do not. Stay, I charge you ; 
 Or, as you say you have been fortune's scorn. 
 So ever prove to woman. 
 3Iont. You charge deeply. 
 
 And yet now I bethink me 
 
 Pet. As you are a soldier, 
 And Englishman, have hope to be redeem 'd 
 From this your scorned bondage you sustain, 20 
 
 Have comfort in your mother and fair sister, 
 Reno'mi so blazed in the ears of Spain, 
 Hope to rebreathe that air you tasted first, 
 
 So tell me 
 
 Mant. What? 
 
 Pet. Your apprehension catch'd, 
 
 And almost was in sheaf   
 
 Mont. Lady, I shall. 
 Pet. And in a word. 
 
 Mont. I \n\\. 30 
 
 Pet. Pronounce it then. 
 Mo7it. I love you. 
 Pet. Ha, ha, ha. 
 Mont. Still it is my misery 
 Thus to be moek'd in all things. 
 Pet. Pretty, faith. 
 
 Mont. I look'd thus to be laughed at ; my estate 
 And fortunes, I confess, deserve no less. 
 That made me so unwilling to denounce 
 Mine o\\-n derisions : but alas ! I find 40 
 
 No nation, sex, complexion, birth, degi-eo, 
 But jest at want, and mock at misery. 
 Pet. Love me ?
 
 236 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 Mont. I do, I do ; and maugre Fate, 
 And spite of all sinister evil, shall. 
 And now I charge you, by that filial zeal 
 You owe your lather, by the memory 
 or your dear mother, by the joys you hope 
 In blessed marriage, by the fortunate issue 
 Stored in yoiu' womb, by these and all things else 
 That you can style with goodness ; instantly 
 Without evasion, trick, or circimistance, 
 Nay, least premeditation, answer me, 10 
 
 Affect you me, or no ? 
 
 Pet. How speak you that 1 
 
 Mont. Without denuir or pause. 
 
 Pet. Give me but time 
 To sleep upon 't. 
 
 Mont. I ]>ardon you no minute ; not so much, 
 As to apparel the least jjlirase you speak. 
 Speak in the shortest sentence. 
 
 Pet. You have vanquish'd me 
 At mine own weapon : noble sir, I love you : 20 
 
 And what my heart durst never tell my tongue. 
 Lest it should blab my thoughts, at last I speak, 
 And iterate ; I love you. 
 
 Mont. Oh, my happiness ! 
 What wilt thou feel me still ? art thoii not weary 
 Of making me thy May -game, to possess me 
 Of such a treasure's mighty magazine. 
 Not suffer me to enjoy it ; tane with this hand, 
 AVith that to give 't another ! 
 
 Pet. You are sad, sir ; 30 
 
 Be so no more : if you liave been dejected. 
 It lies in me to mount you to that height 
 You could not aim at greater. I am yoms. 
 These lips, that only witness it in air, 
 Now Avith this truth eonlirm it. {Kisses him, 
 
 Mont. I was born to 't ; 
 And it shall out at once. 
 
 Pet. Sir, you seem passionate ; 
 As if my answer i^leas'd not. 
 
 Mont. Now my death ; 40 
 
 For mine o^vn tongue must kill me : noble lady, 
 You have endear'd me to you, but my vow 
 AVas, ne'er to match with any, of what state
 
 A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. 237 
 
 Or birth soever, till before the conti'act 
 Some one thing I impose her. 
 
 Pet. She to do it ? 
 
 Mont. Or, if she fail me in my first demand, 
 I to abjure her ever. 
 
 Pet. I am slie. 
 That beg to be employ'd so : name a danger, 
 Wliose very face would fright all womanhood, 
 And manhood put in trance, nay, whose aspect 
 Would ague such as should but hear it told ; 10 
 
 But to the sad beholder, prove like those 
 That gaz'd upon Medusa's snaky locks. 
 And turn'd tliem into marble : these and more 
 Should you but speak 't, I 'd do. 
 
 Mont. And swear to this ? 
 
 Pet. I vow it by my honour, my best hopes, 
 And all that I wish gracious : name it then, 
 For I am in a longing in my soul. 
 To shew my love's expression. 
 
 Mont. You shall then 20 
 
 Pet. I '11 do it, as I am a Virgin : 
 Lie it -within mortality, I '11 do it. 
 
 Mont. You shall- 
 
 Prt. I will : that which appears in you 
 So terrible to speak, I '11 joy to act ; 
 And take pride in performance. 
 
 Mont. Then vou shall 
 
 Pet. What soldier, what ? 
 
 Mont. — love noble Valladanra ; 
 And at his soonest appointment marry him. 30 
 
 Pet. Then I am lost. 
 
 Miracle of Beauty. 
 
 I remember,* 
 There lived a Spanish Princess of our name, 
 An Isabella too, and not long since. 
 Who fi'om her palace windows steadfastly 
 Gazing upon the Sun, her hair took fire. 
 Some augurs held it as a prodigy : 
 I rather think she was Latona's brood, 
 And that Apollo courted her bright hair ; 
 
 * A proud Spanish Piincess relates this.
 
 238 THOMAS UKYVVOOD. 
 
 Else, envying that her tresses put down his, 
 He scorclied tlieni oli" in envy : nor dare 1 
 (From her deriv'd) expose nie to his beams ; 
 Lest, as lie burns the Plicenix in her nest, 
 Made of the sweetest aromatic wood, 
 Either in love, or envy, he agree 
 To use the like combustion ui)on me. 
 
 LXXIV. (g.) 
 
 FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Appeal for Iiiiwcoice against a false accusation. 
 Helena. Both have sworn : 
 And, princes, as you hope to crown your heads 
 With that perpetual wi-eath which shall last ever, 10 
 Cast on a poor dejected innocent virgin 
 Your eyes of grace and pity. What sin is it, 
 Or who can be the patron to such evil ? — 
 That a poor innocent maid, spotless in deed. 
 And pure in thought, both without s])leen and gall, 
 That never injurefl creature, never had heart 
 To think of wrong, or ponder injury ; 
 That such a one in her white innocence, 
 Striving to live peculiar in the compass 
 Of her own virtues ; notwithstanding these, 20 
 
 Should be sought out by strangers, persecuted, 
 Made infamous ev'n there, wliere she was made 
 For imitation ; hiss'd at in her country ; 
 Abaudon'd of her mother, Idudred, friends ; 
 Depraved in foreign climes, scorn'd every where   
 And ev'n in princes' coiu-ts reputed vile : 
 O pity, pity this !
 
 A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY. 23& 
 
 LXXV. (G.) 
 
 FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Li the Prologue to this Play, Heywood comnwids the 
 English Plays ; not udtlwut a censure of some writers 
 v:ho ill his time had begun to degenerate. 
 
 The Roman and Athenian Dramas far 
 
 Differ from ns : and those that frequent are 
 
 In Italy and France, ev'n in these days, 
 
 Compared with ours, are rather Jigs than Plays. 
 
 Like of the Spanish may be said, and Dutch ; 
 
 None, versed in language, but confess them such. 
 
 They do not build their projects on that ground ; 
 
 Nor have their phrases half the weight and sound, 
 
 Om- labom-'d Scenes have had. And yet our nation 
 
 (Already too much tax'd for imitation, 10 
 
 In seeking to ape others, ) cannot 'quit 
 
 Some of om- Poets, who have sinn'd in it. 
 
 For where, before, great Patriots, Dukes, and Kings. 
 
 Presented for some high facinorous things,* 
 
 Were the stage subject ; now we strive to ily 
 
 In their low pitch, who never could soar high : 
 
 For now the common argument entreats 
 
 Of puling Lovers, crafty Bawds, or Cheats. 
 
 Nor blame I their (prick fancies, who can fit 
 
 These queasy times with humours flash'd in wit 20 
 
 Whose art I both encourage and commend ; 
 
 I only wish that they would sometimes bend 
 
 To memorise the valours of such men, 
 
 Whose very names might dignify the pen 
 
 And that our once-applauded Roscian strain 
 
 In acting such might be revived again : 
 
 Which you to count'nance might the Stage make 
 
 l^roud. 
 And poets strive to key their strings more loud. 
 
 * The foundations of the English Drama were laid deep in 
 tragedy by Marlow and others— Marlow especially— while our 
 comedy was yet in its lisping state. To this tragic preponderance 
 (forgetting his own sweet Comedies, and Sliakspeare's), Heywood 
 seems to refer with regret; as in the " Koscian Strain" he 
 evidently alludes to Alleyn, who was great in the " Jew of 
 Malta," as Heywooil elsewhere testifies, and in the principal 
 tragic parts both of Marlow and Sliakspeare.
 
 240 THOMAS HETWOOD AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
 LXXVI. (g.) 
 
 FORTUNE BY LAND AND SEA : A COMEDY. 
 
 r.Y T. HETWOOD AND W. EOWLEY. 
 
 Old FoUKST forbids htn son to sup with some riotmis 
 (jallants ; uho (joes nota-ithstaiiding and is slain. 
 
 Scene.— .4 Tavern. 
 
 Raxnsworth, Foster, Goodwin. To them enters Frank 
 Forest. 
 
 Rain. Now, Frank, how stole you from your 
 father's arms ? 
 You have been school'd, no doubt. Fie, fie upon it. 
 Ere I would live in such base servitude 
 To an old gi-eybeard, 'sfoot I 'd hang myself. 
 A man cannot be merry and drink drunk, 
 But he must be controlled by gi-avity. 
 
 Frank. O pardon liim ; you know, he is my 
 father, 
 And what he doth is but ])aternal love. 
 Though I be wild, 1 'in not yet so past reason 
 His person to despise, though I his counsel 10 
 
 Cannot severely follow. 
 
 Main. 'Sfoot, he 's a fool. 
 
 Frank. A fool ! you are a — 
 
 Fost. Nay, gentlemen — 
 
 Frank. Yet I restrain my tongue, 
 Hoping you speak out of some spleenful rashness, 
 And no deliberate malice ; and it may be 
 You are sorry that a word so unreverent, 
 To wrong so good an aged gentleman. 
 Should pass you unawares. 20 
 
 Eain. Sorry, Sir Boy ! you will not take excep- 
 tions ? 
 
 Frank. Not against you with Avillingncss, whom I 
 Have loved so long. Yet you might think me a 
 Most dutiless and ungiacious son to give 
 Smooth countenance unto my father's ^^Tong. 
 Come, I dare swear 
 
 'Twas not your malice, and I take it so. 
 Let 's frame some other talk. Hear, gentlemen —
 
 FORTUNE BT LAND AND SEA, 241 
 
 Eain. But hear me, Boy ! it seems, Sir, you are 
 angry — 
 
 Frank. Not thoroughly yet — 
 
 Rain. Then what would anger thee ? 
 
 Frank. Nothing from you. 
 
 Rain. Of all things under heaven 
 "What would'st thou loathest have me do ? 
 
 Frank. I would 
 Not have you WTong my reverent father, and 
 I hope you will not. 
 
 Rain. Thy father 's an old dotard. 10 
 
 Frank. I would not brook this at a monarch's 
 hand, 
 Much less at thine. 
 
 Rain. Aye, Boy, then take you that. 
 
 Frank. I was not born to brook this. Oh, I'm slain. 
 
 Good. Sweet Coz, what have you done ? Shift for 
 yourself. 
 
 Rain. Away. — Fxeitnt. 
 
 Enter Two Drawers. 
 
 \st. Dr. Stay the gentlemen, they have killed a 
 man ! sweet Mr Francis. One run to his fother's. 
 
 2iid. Dr. Hark, hark ! I hear his father's voice 
 below, 'tis ten to one he is come to fetch him home 
 to supper, and now he may carry him home to his 
 grave. 22 
 
 Enter the Host, Old Forest, and Susan lils davglder. 
 
 Host. You must take comfort, Sir. 
 
 For. Is he dead, is he dead, girl ? 
 
 Sus. dead. Sir, Frank is dead. 
 
 For. Alas, alas, my boy ! I have not the heart 
 To look upon his wide and gaping wounds. . . . 
 Pray tell me. Sir, doth this appear to you 
 Fearful and pitiful — to you that are 
 A stranger to my dead boy ? 30 
 
 Host. How can it otherwise ? 
 
 For. me most wretched of all wi-etched men ! 
 If to a stranger his warm bleeding wounds 
 Appear so gi'isly and so lamentable. 
 How will they seem to me that am his father ? 
 AVill they not hale my eye-brows from their rounds 
 And with an everlasting blindness strike them ?
 
 242 THOMAS HEYWOOD AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
 
 Stis. Sir, look here. 
 
 For. Dost loiif( to have me Wind ? 
 Then I'll l)eliol(i them, since I know thy mind. 
 Oh me ! 
 
 Is tliis my son that doth so senseless lie, 
 And swims in l>lood ? my soul shall fly with his 
 Unto the land of rest. Behold I crave, 
 Being kill'd with grief, we hoth may have one 
 gi-ave. 
 
 Sus. Alas, my father 's dead, too ! gentle Sir, 
 Help to retire his spirits, over-travail'd 10 
 
 With age and sorrow. 
 
 Host. Mr Forest— 
 
 Siis. Father — 
 
 For. What says my girl? good -morrow. What's 
 a clock, 
 That you are up so early ? call up Frank ; 
 Tell him he lies too long a bed this nioriaing. 
 He was wont to call the sun up, and to raise 
 The early lark, and mount her 'mongst the clouds. 
 Will he not u]) ? rise, rise, thou sluggish boy. 
 
 Sus. Alas, he cannot, father. 20 
 
 For. Cannot, why ? 
 
 Sus. Do you not see his bloodless colour fail ? 
 
 For. Perhaps he 's sickly, that he looks so pale. 
 
 Sus. Do you not feel his pulse no motion keep ? 
 How still he lies ? 
 
 For. Then is he fast asleep. 
 
 Sus. Do you not see his fatal eye-lid close ? 
 
 For. Speak softly ; hinder not his soft repose. 
 
 Sus. Oh, see you not these purple conduits run ? 
 Know you these wounds ? 30 
 
 For. Oh me ! my murdered son ! 
 
 JUnter youiuj Mr Forest. 
 
 Y. For. Sister ! 
 
 Sus. brother, brother ! 
 
 Y. For. Father, how cheer you. Sir ? why, you 
 were wont 
 To store for others comfort, that l)y sorrow 
 Were any ways distress'd. Hf^ve you all wasted, 
 And spared none to yourself? 
 
 0. For. Son, Son, Son,
 
 FORTUNE BY LAND AND SEA. 243 
 
 See, alas, see where thy brother lies. 
 He dined with me to-day, ^^■as merry, merry. 
 Aye, that corpse was ; he that lies here, see liere. 
 Thy murder'd brother and my son was. Oh see, 
 Dost thou not weeji for him 1 
 
 Y. For. I shall find time ; 
 When you have took some comfort, I '11 begin 
 To mourn his death, and scourge the murderer's sin. 
 
 0. For. Oh, when saw father such a ti-agic sight. 
 And did outlive it ? never, son, ah never. 10 
 
 From mortal breast ran such a precious river. 
 
 Y. For. Come, father, and dear sister, join with 
 me ; 
 Let us all learn our soitows to forget. 
 He owed a death, and he hath paid that debt. 
 
 [If I were to be consulted as to a reprint of our Old 
 English Dramatists, 1 should advise to begin with the 
 collected Plays of Haywood. He was a fellow Actor, 
 and fellow Dramatist, with Shakspeare. He possessed 
 not the imagination of the latter ; but in all those 
 qualities which gained for Shakspeare the attribute of 
 gentle, he was not inferior to him. Generosity, courtesy, 
 temperance in the depths of passion ; sweetness, in a 
 word, and gentleness ; Christianism ; and true hearty 
 Anglicism of feelings, shaping that Ckristianism ; shine 
 throughout his beautiful writings in a manner more 
 conspicuous than in those of Shakspeare, but only more 
 consjucuous, inasmuch as in Heywood these tjuaUties 
 are primarj', in the other subordinate to jioetry. I love 
 them both equallj', but Shakspeare has most of my 
 wonder. Heywood should be known to his country- 
 men, as he deserves. His plots are almost invariably 
 English. I am sometimes jealous, that Shakspeare laid 
 so few of his scenes at home. I laud Ben Jonson, for 
 that in one instance having framed the fii-st draught of 
 his Every Man in his Humour in Italy, he changed the 
 scene, and Anglicised his characters. The names of 
 them in the First Edition, may not be imamusing. 
 
 Alen. 
 
 Lorenzo, Sen. Bobadilla (Bobadil). 
 
 Lorenzo, Jun. Musco. 
 
 Prospero. Cob (the same in English). 
 
 Thorello. Peto. 
 
 Stephano (Master Stephen). Pizo. 
 
 Dr Clement (Justice Cle- Matheo (Master Mathew). 
 ment).
 
 244 THOMAS HEYWOOD AND RICHARD BROOME. 
 
 Women. 
 Guilliana. Hesperida. 
 
 Biancha. Tib (the same in English). 
 
 How say you, Reader? Do not Master Kitely, 
 Mistress Kitely, Master Knowcll, Brainworm, &c. read 
 bettor than these Cisalpines i] 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES : 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THOMAS IIEYWOOD AND KICHARD BROOME. 
 
 Mr Generous bif tal-imj off a Bridle from a seeming 
 Horse in his Stable, discorers it to be /tis WIFE ir/<o 
 lias fransjorvied herself by Magical Practices, and 
 is a Witch. 
 
 Mr Generous. Wifk. Robin, « groom. 
 
 Gen. My blood is turn'd to ice, and all my vitals 
 Have ceas'd their working. Dull stupidity 
 Surpriseth nie at once, and hath arrested 
 That vigorous agitation, which till now 
 Expressed a life within me. I, mcthinks, 
 Am a mere marble statue, and no man. 
 "Unweave my age, time, to my first thread ; 
 Let me lose iifty years, iu ignorance spent ; 
 That, being made an infant once again, 
 I may begin to know. What, or where am I, 10 
 To be thus lost in wonder ? 
 
 Wife. Sir. 
 
 Gen. Amazement still pursues me, how am I 
 chang'd, 
 Or brought ere I can understand myself, 
 Into this new world ! 
 
 Roh. You will believe no witches ? 
 
 Gen. This makes me believe all, aye, anything ; 
 And that myself am nothing. Prithee, Robin, 
 Lay me to myself open ; what art thou, 
 Or this new transform'd creature ? 20 
 
 Roh. I am Robin ; 
 And this your wife, my mistress. 
 
 Gen. Tell me, the earth
 
 THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES. 245 
 
 Sliall leave its seat, and mount to kiss the moon ; 
 Or that the moon, enamour'd of the earth. 
 Shall leave her sphere, to stoop to us thus low. 
 What ? what's this in my hand, that at an instant 
 Can from a fonr-legg'd creatui-e make a tiling 
 So like a wife ? 
 
 Rob. A bridle ; a juggUng bridle, Sir. 
 Gen. A bridle ! Hence, enchantment. 
 A viper were more safe within my hand, 
 Than this charni'd engine — - 10 
 
 A ^vitch ! my wife a witch ! 
 The more I strive to unwind 
 ]\Iyself from this meander, I the more 
 Therein am intricated. Prithee, woman, 
 Art thou a witch ? 
 
 Wife. It cannot be denied, 
 I am such a curst creatm-e. 
 f>"- Gen. Keep aloof : 
 
 And do not come too near me. my tnist ; 
 Have I, since first I understood myself, 20 
 
 Been of my soul so chary, still to study 
 What best was for its health, to renounce all 
 The works of that black fiend with my best force. 
 And hath that serpent twined me so about, 
 That I must lie so often and so long 
 With a devil in my bosom ? 
 
 Wife. Pardon, Sir. {She looks down,] 
 Gen. Pardon ! can such a thing as that be hoped ! 
 Lift up thine eyes, lost woman, to yon hills ; 
 It must be thence expected : look not down 30 
 
 Unto that horrid dwelling, which thou hast sought 
 At such dear rate to purchase. Prithee, tell me, 
 (For now I can believe) art thou a witch ? 
 Wife. I am. 
 
 Gen. With that word I am thunderstruck, 
 And know not what to answer ; yet resolve me. 
 Hast thou made any contract with that fiend, 
 The enemy of mankind ? 
 Wife. 0, I have. 
 
 Gen. What ? and how far ? 40 
 
 Wife. I have promis'd him my soiil. 
 Gen. Ten thousand times better thy body had 
 Been promis'd to the stake ; aye, and mine too,
 
 246 THOMAS HEYWOOD AND niCHARD BROOME. 
 
 Toliave suil'er'd with thee in a hedge of flames, 
 
 Than sncli a conipaet ever liad been made. Oh 
 
 Resolve me, how I'ar doth that contract stretcli ? 
 
 TF'ifc. Whatinterest in this Sonl myself could claim, 
 I freely gave him ; but His part that made it 
 I still reserve, not being mine to give. 
 
 Gen. cunning devil : foolish woman, know. 
 Where he can claim but the least little part. 
 He will usurp the whole. Thou 'rt a lost woman. 
 
 Wife. I hojie not so. 10 
 
 Gen. Why, hast thou any hope? 
 
 JFife. Yes, sir, I have. 
 
 Gen. Make it appear to me. 
 
 TFife. I hope I never bargain'd for that fire. 
 Further than penitent tears have power to quench. 
 
 Ge7i. I would see some of them. 
 
 TVife. You behold them now 
 (If you look on me with charitable eyes) 
 Tinctur'd in blood, blood issuing from the heart. 
 Sir, I am sorry ; when I look towards heaven, 20 
 I beg a grac^ious pardon ; when on yon, 
 Methinks your native goodness should not bo 
 Less pitiful than they ; 'gainst both I have err'd ; 
 From both I beg atonement. 
 
 Ge7i. May I j)resume 't ? 
 
 TVife. I kneel to both your mercies. 
 
 Ge7i. Knowest thon what 
 A witch is ? 
 
 JFife. Alas, none better ; 
 Or after mature recollection can be 30 
 
 More sad to think on 't. 
 
 Gen. Tell me, are those tears 
 As full of true-hearted penitence. 
 As mine of sorrow to behold what state, 
 What desperate state, thou 'rt fallen in ? 
 TFife. Sir, they are. 
 
 Gen. Rise ; and, as I do you, so heaven pardon me ; 
 We all oflend, but from such falling off 
 Defend us ! Well, I do remember, wife. 
 When I first took thee, 'twas /or good aivd had : 40 
 change thy bad to good, thaf I may keep thee, 
 (As then we passed our faiths), till death us sever. . . . 
 
 O woman, thou hast need to weep thyself
 
 THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES. 247 
 
 Into a fountain, such a penitent spring 
 
 As may have power to quench invisible flames, 
 
 In which my eyes shall aid : too little, all. * 
 
 Frank ITospitalifif. 
 Gentlemen, welcome ; 'tis a word I use ; 
 From me expect no further compliment ; 
 Nor do I name it often at one meeting ; 
 Once spoke, (to those that understand me best, 
 And know I always purpose as I speak,) 
 Hath ever yet sufficed : so let it you. 
 Nor do I love tliat common phrase of guests, 10 
 
 As, we make bold, or, we are troublesome, 
 We take you unprovided, and the like ; 
 I know you understanding gentlemen, 
 And knowing me, cannot persuade yourselves 
 
 With me you shall be troublesome or bold. 
 
 Nor shall you find 
 
 Being set to meat, that I '11 excuse your fare. 
 
 Or say, I am sorry it i'alls out so poor. 
 
 And, had I known your coming, we'd have had 
 
 Such thing and such ; nor blame my cook, to say 20 
 
 This dish or that hath not been sauced with care : 
 
 AVords fitting best a common hostess' mouth, 
 
 When there 's perhaps some just cause of dislike. 
 
 But not the table of a gentleman. 
 
 LXXVIII. (g.) 
 
 FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE SAME. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 A Household bevniched. 
 
 My Uncle 's of late become the sole discourse 
 
 Of all the country ; for of a man respected 
 
 For his discretion and known gravity. 
 
 As master of a govern'd family. 
 
 The House (as if the ridge were fix'd below, 
 
 And groundsills lifted up to make the roof,) 30 
 
 * Compare this witli a story in the Arabian Nights, where a 
 man discovers his wife to be a goul.
 
 248 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 All now 's tuin'd topsy-turvy, 
 
 In such a retiograde and ])reposterous way, 
 
 As seldom hath been heard of, I think never. 
 
 Tlu- CJood Man 
 
 In all obedience kneels imto his Son ; 
 
 He with an austere brow commands his Father. 
 
 The "Wife presumes not in the Daughter's sight 
 
 Without a prepared curtsy ; the Girl she 
 
 Expects it as a duty ; chides her Mother 
 
 Who quakes and trembles at each word she speaks. 
 
 And what 's as strange, the Maid — sjie domineers 
 
 O'er her young Mistress, who is awed by her. 
 
 The Son, to whom the Father creeps and bends, 
 
 Stands in as much fear of the groom his Man ! 
 
 All in such rare disorder, that in some 
 
 As it breeds pity, and in others wonder, 
 
 So in the most part laiighter. It is thought. 
 
 This comes by Witchckaft. 
 
 LXXIX. (g.) 
 
 BLURT, MASTER CONSTABLE : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY T. MIDDLETON. 
 
 Lover kept avale hy Love. 
 
 Alas ! how can I sleep ? who truly loves, 
 
 Burns out the day in idle fantasies ; 20 
 
 And when the lamb bleating doth bid good-night 
 
 Unto the closing day, then tears begin 
 
 To keep quick time unto the owl, whose voice 
 
 Shrieks like the bellman in the lover's ears : 
 
 Love's eye the jewel of sleep, oh ! seldom wears. 
 
 The early lark 'is waken'd from her bed. 
 
 Being only by Love's plaints disquieted ; 
 
 And "singing in the morning's ear she weeps. 
 
 Being deep in love, -at lovers' broken sleeps. 
 
 But say a golden slumber chance to tie 30 
 
 With silken strings the cover of-Love's eye ; 
 
 Then dreams, magician-like, mocking present 
 
 Pleasures, whose fading leaves more discontent.
 
 249 
 
 ViOLETTA comes to seek her Husband at the house of a 
 Ciirtizan. 
 
 ViOLETTA. Imperia, the Curtizan. 
 
 Via. By your leave, sweet Beauty, pardon my 
 excuse, which sought enti'ance into this house : good 
 Sweetness, have you not a projjerty here, improper 
 to your house ; my husband ? 
 
 hn]). Hah ! yoin- husband here ? 
 
 T^io. Nay, be as you seem to be, AVhite Dove, 
 without gall. Do not mock me, fairest Venetian. 
 Come, I know he 's here. I do not blame him, for 
 your beauty gilds over his error. 'Troth, I am right 
 glad that you, my countrywoman, have received the 
 i:>awn of his affections. You cannot be hard-hearted, 
 loving him ; nor hate me, for I love him too. Since 
 we both love him, let us not leave him, till we have 
 called home the ill husbandry of a sweet straggler. 
 Prithee, good wench, use him well. 15 
 
 Imj). So, so, so — 
 
 Vio. If he deserve not to be used well (as I'd be 
 loth he should deserve it), I '11 engage myself, dear 
 Beauty, to thine honest heart : give me leave to love 
 him, and I '11 give him a kind of leave to love thee. 
 I know he hears me. I prithee, try my eyes, if they 
 know him ; that have almost drowned themselves in 
 their own salt-water, because they cannot see him. 
 In truth, I '11 not chide him. If I speak words 
 rougher than soft kisses, my penance shall be to see 
 him kiss thee, yet to hold my peace. 
 
 Good partner, lodge me in thy private Ijed ; 
 
 Where, in supposed folly, he may end 
 
 Determin'd sin. Thou smilest. I know thou wilt. 
 
 What looseness may term dotage, — truly read, 30 
 
 Is Love ripe-gather'd, not soon withered. 
 
 Imp. Good truth, pretty wedlock, thou makest 
 my little eyes smart with washing themselves in 
 brine. I mar such a sweet face ! — and wipe off that 
 dainty red ! and make Cupid toll the bell for your 
 love-sick heart ! — no, no, no — if he were Jove's own 
 ingle, Ganymede — lie, fie, fie — I '11 none. Your 
 Chamber-fellow is within. Thou shalt enjoy hi in. 
 
 Vio. Star of Venetian Beauty thanks
 
 250 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 LXXX. (g.) 
 
 THE CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE : 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 I5Y THE SAME. 
 
 Citizen to a Knight cmnpUmentuig his Doj'f/hter. 
 
 Pish, stop your words, good kuight, 'twill make her 
 
 blush else, 
 Whicli are wound too high for the daughters of the 
 
 Freedom ; 
 Honour, and Faithful Servant ! they are compliments 
 For the worthy ladies of White Hall or Greenwich ; 
 Ev'n plain, sufficient, subsidy-words serve us. Sir. 
 
 Master Allwit (a Witiol) describes /tis contodment. 
 
 I 'm like a man 
 Finding a table furnish'd to his hand, 
 (As mine is still for me), prays for the Founder, — 
 Bless the Right Worshipful, the good Founder's life ! 
 I thank him, he * has maintain'd my house ten 
 years ; 10 
 
 Not only keeps my wife, but 'a keeps me. 
 He gets me all my childi-en. and pays the nurse, 
 Weekly or monthly ; puts me to nothing, rent, 
 Nor Church dues, not so much as the scavenger ; 
 The happiest state that ever man was born to. 
 I walk out in a morning, come to breakfast, 
 Find excellent cheer, a good fire in winter ; 
 Look in my coal-house, about Midsummer eve, 
 That's full, five or six chaldron new laid up ; 
 Look in my back yard, I shall find a steejile 20 
 
 Made up with Kentish faggots, which o'erlooks 
 The water-house and the windmills. I say nothing, 
 But smile, and pin the door. When she lies in, 
 (As now she 's even upon the point of grunting), 
 A lady lies not in like her ; there 's her embossings, 
 Embroideriugs, spanglings, and I know not what. 
 As if she lay with all the gaudy-shops 
 In Gresham's Bm-se about her ; then her restoratives, 
 
 * A rich old Knight, w)io keeps AUwit's Wife.
 
 THE CHASTE MAID IN CHEAPSIDE. 251 
 
 Able to set up a young 'potbecary, 
 
 And richly store the foreman of a drug-shop ; 
 
 Her sugars by whole loaves, her wiues by rundlets. 
 
 I see these things, but, like a hap2)y man 
 
 I pay for none at all, yet fools think 's mine ; 
 
 I have the name, and in his gold I shine : 
 
 And whero some merchants ^vould in soul kiss hell 
 
 To buy a paradise for their wives, and dye 
 
 Their conscience in the blood of prodigal heirs, 
 
 To deck their night-inece ; yet, all this being done, 10 
 
 Eaten with jealousy to the inmost bone ; 
 
 These torments stand I freed of. I 'm as clear 
 
 From jealousy of a M'ife, as from the charge. 
 
 two miraculous blessings ! 'tis the Knight 
 Hath ta'en that labour all out of my hands. 
 
 1 may sit still, and play ; he 's jealous for me, 
 Watches her steps, sets spies. I live at ease. 
 
 He has both the cost and torment ; when the strings 
 Of his heart fret, I feed fat, laugh, or sing. 
 
 ****** 
 
 I '11 go bid gossips * presently myself, 20 
 
 That 's all the work I '11 do ; nor need I stir, 
 
 But that it is my pleasure to walk forth 
 
 And air myself a little ; I am tied 
 
 To nothing in this business ; what I do 
 
 Is merely recreation, not constraint. 
 
 Rescue ffoiii Bailiffs hy the Watcr'merii. 
 I had been taken by eight sergeants. 
 
 But for the honest watermen ; I am bound to 'em. 
 They are the most requiteful'st j^eople living ; 
 For, as they get their means by gentlemen. 
 They 're still the forward'st to help gentlemen. 30 
 You heard how one 'scaped out of the Blackfriars t 
 But a while since from two or three varlets, 
 Came into the house with all their rapiers dra^vIl, 
 As if they'd dance the sword-dance on the stage. 
 With candles in their hands, like chandlers' ghosts! 
 Whilst the poor gentleman, so pursued and banded 
 Was by an honest pair of oars safe landed. 
 
 * To liis Wife's Lying-in. 
 t Alsatin, I presume.
 
 252 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN: 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Death. 
 -when the Iieart's above, the body walks Iiere 
 
 But like an idle servingman below, 
 
 Gaping and waiting for his master's coming. 
 
 He that lives fourscore years, is but like one 
 
 That stays here for a friend : when death comes, then 
 
 Away he goes, and is ne'er seen again. 
 
 Loving a Woman. 
 
 of all the frenzies 
 
 That follow flesh and blood. 
 
 The most ridiculous is to fawn on women ; 
 
 There 's no excuse for that : 'tis such a madness, 10 
 
 There is no cure set down for 't ; no physician 
 
 Ever spent hour about it, for they guess'd 
 
 'Twas all in vain, when they first lov'd, themselves. 
 
 And never since durst practise : cry heu miJu ; 
 
 That 's all the help they have for 't. I'd rather meet 
 
 A witch far north than a fine fool in love ; 
 
 The sight would less afflict me. But for modesty, 
 
 I should fall foul in words upon fond man, 
 
 That can forget his excellence and honour, 
 
 His serious meditations, being the end 20 
 
 Of his creation, to learn well to die ; 
 
 And live a prisoner to a woman's eye. 
 
 Widoid's Vmv. 
 
 Lord Cardinal, Increase of health and a redoubled 
 courage 
 To chastity's great soldier : what, so sad. Madam ? 
 The memory of her seven-years-deceas'd Lord 
 Springs yet into her eyes, as fresh and full 
 As at the seventh hour after his departure. 
 What a perpetual fountain is her virtue ! 
 Too much to afflict yourself with ancient sorrow
 
 MORE DISSEMBLERS BESIDES WOMEN. 253 
 
 Is not SO strictly for your strength required : 
 
 Your vow is charge enough, believe me 'tis, madam, 
 
 You need no weightier task. 
 
 Ihich. Religious sir, 
 You heard the last words of my dying Lord. 
 Lord Card. AVhich I shall ne'er forget. 
 Duch. May I entreat 
 Your goodness but to speak 'em over to me, 
 As near as memory can befriend your utterance : 
 That I may think awhile I stand in presence 10 
 
 Of my departing husband. 
 
 Lord Card. What 's your meaning 
 In tins, most virtixous madam ? 
 
 Duch. 'Tis a courtesy 
 I stand in need of, sir-, at this time specially ; 
 Urge it no farther yet : as it proves to me, 
 You shall hear from me ; only I desire it 
 Eflfectually from you, sir, that 's my request. 
 
 Lord Card. I wonder ; yet I '11 spare to question 
 farther ; 
 You shall have your desire. 20 
 
 Duch. I thank you, sir : 
 A l)lessing come along with it. 
 Lord Card, [repeats] "You see, my Lords, what 
 all earth's glory is, 
 " Rightly defined in me, uncertain breath : 
 " A dream of threescore years to the long sleeper, 
 " To most not half the time. Beware ambition ; 
 "Heaven is not reach'd with pride, but with submis- 
 sion. 
 " And you, Lord Cardinal, labour to perfect 
 " Good jiurposes begun ; be what you seem, 
 " Steadfast and uncorrupt ; yoiu- actions noble, 30 
 " Your goodness simple, without gain or art ; 
 " And not in vesture holier tlian in heart. 
 " But 'tis a pain, more than the pangs of death, 
 " To think that we must part, fellows of life.— 
 " Thou richness of my joys, kind and dear Princess, 
 ' ' Death had no sting, but for our separation ; 
 " 'Twould come more calm than an evening's peace, 
 "That brings on rest to labours: Thou art so 
 
 precious, 
 " I should depart in everlasting envy
 
 254 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 " Unto the man, that ever should enjoy thee. 
 " Oh, a new torment strikes his force into me, 
 " Wiien I l)nt tliiuk on't, I am rack'd and torn 
 " (Pity me) in thy virtues." 
 
 JMch. " ily lov'd Lord, 
 " Let your confirm'd opinion of my life, 
 " ]\ly love, my faithful love, seal an assurance 
 " Of quiet to your si)irit, that no forgetfulness 
 " Can cast a sleej) so deadly on my senses, 
 " To draw my affections to a second liking." 10 
 
 Lord Card. " 'T has ever been thy promise, and 
 the spring 
 " Of my great love to thee. For, once to marry 
 " Is honourable in woman, and her ignorance 
 ' ' Stands for a virtue, coming new and fresh ; 
 " But second marriage shews desires in flesh ; 
 
 Thence lust, and heat, and common custom grows : 
 " But she's part virgin, who Ijut one man knows. 
 " I here expect a work of thy great faith 
 " At my last parting ; I can crave no more ; 
 " And with thy vow I rest myself for ever ; 20 
 
 " My soul and it shall fly to heaven together : 
 " Seal to my spirit that quiet satisfaction, 
 " And I go hence in peace." 
 
 Duch. " Then here I vow, never " 
 
 Lord Card. Why, Madam 
 
 Lhtch. I can go no further. 
 
 Lord Card. What, have you foi'got your vow? 
 
 Duch. I have, too certainly. 
 
 Lord Card. Your vow ? that cannot be ; it follows 
 now, 
 Just where I left. 30 
 
 Duch. My frailty gets before it ; 
 Nothing prevails but ill. 
 
 Lm-d Card. What ails you, Madam ? 
 
 Duch. Sir, I'm in love.
 
 ,)c. 
 
 so WIT LIKE A WOMAN S. 
 
 255 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 ^° ^T^Tt^VlIKE a WOMAN'S: 
 Hli-Lr ) 
 
 A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Virtumis Poverty. 
 
 'Life, had he not his answer? what strange impudence 
 Governs in man, when hist is lord of him ! 
 Thinks he me mad 1 'cause I have no monies on earth, 
 Tliat I '11 go forfeit my estate in heaven, 
 And live eternal beggar ? he shall pardon me : 
 That 's my soul's jointm-e ; I '11 starve ere I sell that. 
 
 Comfort. 
 
 husband, 
 
 Wake, wake, and let not patience keep thee poor, 
 Rouse up thy spu'it from this falling slumber : 
 Make thy distress seem but a weeping dream, 10 
 
 And this the opening morning of thy comforts 
 Wipe the salt dew from oft" thy careful eyes, 
 And drink a draught of gladness next thy heart 
 To expel the infection of all poisonous sorrows. 
 
 Good and III Fortune. 
 
 my blessmg ! 
 I feel a hand of mercy lift me up 
 Out of a world of waters, and now sets me 
 Upon a mountain, Avhere the sun plays most, 
 To cheer my heart even as it dries my limbs. 
 Wliat deeps I see beneath me, in whose falls 20 
 
 Many a nimble mortal toils, 
 
 And scarce can feed himself: the streams of fortune, 
 'Gainst which he tugs in vain, still beat him down. 
 And will not suffer him (past hand to mouth) 
 To lift his arm to his posterity's blessing. 
 I see a careful sweat run in a ring 
 About his temples, Init all will not do : 
 For till some happy means relieve his state, 
 There he must stick and bide the wrath of fate.
 
 256 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 PaHing in Amity. 
 
 Let our parting 
 Be full as charitable as our meeting Mas ; 
 That tlie ])ale envious world, glad of the food 
 Of otliers' miseries, civil dissensions, 
 Antl nuptial strifes, may not feed fat with oui-s. 
 
 Meeting with a Wife supposed Dead. 
 
 my reviving joy ! thy quickening presence 
 Makes the sad night of threescore and ten years 
 Sit like a youthful spring u))ou my l)lood. 
 
 1 cannot make thy welcome rich enough 
 
 With all the wealth of words, 10 
 
 Mother's Forgiveness. 
 
 Moth. AVhy do your words start back ? are they 
 afraid 
 Of her that ever lov'd them ? 
 
 Philip. I have a suit to you, Madam. 
 
 Moth. You have told me that already ; pray, what 
 is't? 
 If 't be so gi'eat, my present state refuse it, 
 I shall be abler, then command and use it. 
 Whate'er 't be, let me have warning to jirovide for 't. 
 
 Philip. Provide forgiveness then, for that's the 
 want 
 My conscience feels. 0, my wild youth has led me 
 Into unnatural wrongs against your freedom once. 20 
 I spent the ransom which my father sent, 
 To set my pleasures free, while you lay captive. 
 
 Moth. And is this all now ? 
 You use me like a stranger : pray, stand up. 
 
 Philip. Rather fall flat : I shall deserve yet worse. 
 
 3foth. Whate'er yom- faults are, esteem me still a 
 friend ; 
 Or else you WTong me more in asking pardon 
 Than when you did the wrong you ask'd it for : 
 And since you have prepar'd me to forgive you. 29 
 Pray let me know for what ; the first fault 's nothing. 
 
 Philip. Here comes the wrong then that drives 
 home the rest.
 
 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 257 
 
 I saw a face at Antwerp, that quite drew me 
 From conscience and obedience : in that fray 
 I lost my heart, I must needs lose my way. 
 There went the ransom, to redeem my mind ; 
 Stead of the money, I brought over her ; 
 And to cast mists before my father's eyes, 
 Told him it was my sister, lost so long, 
 And that yourself was dead. — You see the WTOUg. 
 
 Moth. This is but youthful still — 
 I forgive thee 10 
 
 As freely as thoir didst it. For alas, 
 This may be call'd good dealing, to some parts 
 That love and youth plays daily among sons. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN : A TRAGEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 LrviA. the Dulce's creature, cajoles a poor widow with the 
 appearance of Hospitality and neighbourly Attentions, 
 that she nmy get her DaugMer-in-Laic {a-ho is left in 
 the 3f other's care in the Son's absence) into her trains, 
 to serve the Ihike's pleasure. 
 
 LiYlA. Widow. A Gentleman, Livia's Guest. 
 Liv. Widow, come, come, 1 've a gi-eat quarrel to 
 you ; 
 Faith, I must chide you, that you must be sent for ; 
 You make yourself so strange, never come at us, 
 And yet so near a neighbour, and so unkind ; 
 Troth, you 're to blame ; you cannot be more welcome 
 To any house in Florence, that I '11 tell you. 
 
 Wid. My thanks must needs acknowledge so much, 
 madam. 20 
 
 Liv. How can you be so strange then ? I sit here 
 Sometimes whole days together without company, 
 When business draws this gentleman from home, 
 And should be hajipy in society 
 Which I so well affect as that of yours. 
 I know you 're alone too ; why should not we 
 I. K
 
 258 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 Like two kind neighbours, then supply the wants 
 Of one another, having tongue-discourse, 
 Experience in the world, and such kind helps. 
 To laugh down time and meet age merrily ? 
 
 JFid. Age, madam ! you speak mirth : 'tis at my 
 door, 
 But a long journey from your ladyship yet. 
 Liv. My faith, I 'm nine and thirty, every stroke, 
 wench : 
 And 'tis a general observation 
 
 'Mongst knights ; \vives, or widows, we account 
 ourselves 9 
 
 Then old, when young men's eyes leave looking at us. 
 Come, now I have thy company, I '11 not part with it 
 Till after supper. 
 
 JFid. Yes, I must crave pardon, madam. 
 Liv. I swear you shall stay supper ; we 've no 
 sti'angers, woman, 
 None but my sojourners and I, this gentleman 
 And the young heir his ward ; you know your company. 
 JVid. Some other time I '11 make bold with you, 
 
 madam. 
 Liv. Faith, she shall not go. 
 Do you think I '11 be forsworn ? 
 
 Wid. 'Tis a gi-eat while 
 Till supper time ; I '11 take my leave then now, 
 madam, 20 
 
 And come again in the evening, since your ladyship 
 Will have it so. 
 
 Liv. In the evening ! by my troth, wench, 
 I '11 keep you while I have you ; you 've great busi- 
 ness, sure. 
 To sit alone at home : I wonder strangely 
 What pleasure you take in 't. Were 't to me now, 
 I should be ever at one neighbour's house 
 Or other all day long ; having no charge, 
 Or none to chide you, if you go, or stay, 29 
 
 Who may live merrier, aye, or more at heart's ease ? 
 Come, we '11 to chess or draughts, there are an hundred 
 
 tricks 
 To drive out time till supper, never fear 't, wench. 
 
 [A Chess-board is set. 
 Wid. I '11 but make one step home, and retm-n 
 sti'aight, madam.
 
 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 259 
 
 Liv. Come, I '11 not trust you, you make more 
 excuses 
 To your kind friends than ever I knew any. 
 What business can you have, if you be sui-e 
 You 've lock'd the doors ? and, that being all you have, 
 I know you 're careful on 't. One afternoon 
 So much to sjjend here ! say I should entreat you now 
 To lie a night or two, or a week, with me. 
 Or leave your own house for a month together ; 
 It were a kindness that long neighbourhood 
 And friendship might well hope to jirevail in : 10 
 "Would you deny such a request ? i' faith 
 Speak truly and freely. 
 
 Wid. I were then uncivil, madam. 
 
 Liv. Go to then, set yom- men ; we '11 have whole 
 nights 
 Of mirth together, ere we 're much older, wench. 
 
 Wid. As good now tell her then, for she mil 
 know it ; 
 I 've always found her a most friendly lady. lAside- 
 
 Liv. Why, widow, where 's your mind ? 
 
 TFid. Troth, even at home, madam. 
 To tell you truth, I left a gentlewoman 20 
 
 Even sitting all alone, which is uncomfortable, 
 Especially to young bloods. 
 
 Liv. Another excuse ! 
 
 Wid. No, as I hope for health, madam, that 's a 
 truth ; 
 Please you to send and see. 
 
 Liv. What gentlewoman ? pish. 
 
 Wid. Wife to my son, indeed. 
 
 Liv. Now I beshrew you. 
 Could you be so unkind to her and me. 
 To come and not bring her ? faith, 'tis not friendly. 30 
 
 Wid. I fear'd to be too bold. 
 
 Liv. Too bold ! Oh what 's become 
 Of the true hearty love was wont to be 
 'Mongst neighbours in old time ? 
 
 Wid. And she 's a stranger, madam. 
 
 Liv, The more should be her welcome ! when is 
 com'tesy 
 In better practice, than when 'tis employ'd 
 In entertaining strangers ? I could chide ye in faith.
 
 260 TUOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 Leave her behind, poor gentlewoman, alone too ! 
 Make some amends, and send for her betimes, go. 
 
 Wid. Please you, command one of your servants, 
 madam, 
 
 Liv. Within there. — 
 Attend the gentlewoman. * 
 
 Brancha resists the Duke's attempt. 
 
 Bran. treachery to honour ! 
 
 Duke. Prithee, tremble not. 
 I feel tliy breast shake like a turtle panting 
 Under a loving hand that makes much on 't. 
 Why art so fearful ? . . . 10 
 
 Bran. Oh my extremity ! 
 My Lord, what seek you ? 
 
 Duke. Love. 
 
 Bran. 'Tis gone already : 
 I have a husband. 
 
 Dike. That 's a single comfort ; 
 Take a friend to him. 
 
 Bran. That 's a double mischief ; 
 Or else there 's no religion, 
 
 Duke. Do not tremble 20 
 
 At fears of thine own making. 
 
 Bran. Nor, great Lord, 
 Make me not bold with death and deeds of ruin, 
 Because they fear not you ; me they must fright ; 
 Then am I best in health : should thunder speak 
 And none regard it, it had lost the name. 
 And were as good be still. I 'm not like those 
 That take their soundest sleeps in greatest tempests ; 
 Then wake I most, the weather fearfuUest, 
 And call for strength to virtue. 30 
 
 Winding Sheet. 
 
 to have a being, and to live 'mongst men, 
 
 Is a fearful living and a poor one ; let a man truly 
 think on 't. 
 
 * This is one of those scenes whicb has the air of being an 
 immediate transcript from life. Livla the " good neighbour "is 
 as real a creatiu-e as one of Chaucer's characters. She is such 
 another jolly Housewife as the Wife of Bath.
 
 WOMEN BEWARE WOMEN. 261 
 
 To have the toil and giiefs of fourscore years 
 Put up in a white sheet, tied with two knots : 
 Methinks it should strike earthquakes in adulterers, 
 WTien even the very sheets they commit sin in 
 May prove, for aught they know, all their last 
 garments. 
 
 Great Men's loois. 
 Did not the duke look up ? methought he saw us. — 
 
 That 's every one's conceit that sees a duke, 
 
 If he look steadfastly, he looks straight at them : 
 "When he, perhaps, good careful gentleman. 
 Never minds any, but the look he casts 10 
 
 Is at his o-mi intentions, and his object 
 Only the public good. 
 
 Weeping in love. 
 "Why should those tears be fetch'd forth? cannot 
 
 love 
 Be even as well express'd in a good look. 
 But it must see her face stiU in a fountain ? 
 It shews like a country maid di-essing her head 
 By a dish of ^v'ater : come, 'tis an old custom 
 To weep for love. 
 
 Lover's Chiding s. 
 
 prithee, forgive me, 
 
 I did but chide in jest : the best loves use it 20 
 
 Sometimes ; it sets an edge upon afi'ection. 
 "WTien we invite our best friends to a feast, 
 'Tis not all sweetmeats that we set before 'em ; 
 There's something sharp and salt, both to whet 
 
 appetite. 
 And make 'em taste their wine well : so, methinks. 
 After a friendly, sharp, and savoury chiding, 
 A kiss tastes wondrous well, and full o' the gi-ape. 
 
 Wedlock. 
 O thou, the ripe time of man's misery, wedlock ; 
 When all his thoughts like over-laden trees 
 Crack with the fruits they bear, in cares, in 
 jealousies ! 30 
 
 O that 's a fmit that ripens hastily. 
 After 'tis knit to mamage ; it begins. 
 As soon as the sun shines upon the bride, 
 A little to shew colour.
 
 262 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 Marrying the Adulteress, the Husband dead. 
 
 Is uot sin sure enough to wretched man, 
 
 But he nuist bind himself in chains to 't ? worse ! 
 
 Must marriage, that inmiaculate robe of honour, 
 
 That renders Virtue glorious, fair, and fruitful 
 
 To her great master, bo now made the garment 
 
 Of leprosy and foulness ? Is this penitence, 
 
 To sanctify hot lust ? what is it otherways 
 
 Than worship done to devils ? is this the best 
 
 Amends that sin can make after her riots ? 
 
 As if a drunkard, to appease heaven's wrath, 10 
 
 Should offer uji his surfeit for a sacrifice : 
 
 If that be comely, then lust's offerings are 
 
 On wedlock's sacred altar. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 THE WITCH : A TRAGI-COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Hecate, and the other Witches, at their Charms. 
 
 Hec. Titty and Tiffin, Suckin, 
 And Pidgen, Liard and Robin ! 
 
 White spii-its, black spirits, grey spirits, red spirits ! 
 Devil-toad, devil-ram, devil-cat, and devil-dam ! 
 Why, Hoppo and Stadlin, Hellwain and Puckle ! 
 
 Stad. Here, sweating at the vessel, 
 
 Hcc. Boil it well. 
 
 Hop. It gallops now. 
 
 Hcc. Are the flames blue enough, 
 Or shall I use a little seeten* more ? 
 
 Stad. The nips of Fairies i;pon maids' white hips 
 Are not more perfect azure. 
 
 Hec. Tend it carefully. 
 Send Stadlin to me with a brazen dish. 
 That I may fall to work upon these serpents, 
 And squeeze 'em ready for the second hour. 
 Why, when ? - 30 
 
 Stad. Here 's Stadlin and the dish. 
 
 * Seething.
 
 THE WITCH. 263 
 
 Hec. Here, take this unbaptised brat : 
 Boil it well — preserve the fat : 
 You know 'tis precious to transfer 
 Our 'nointed flesh into the air, 
 In moonlight nights, o'er steeple-tops, 
 Mountains, and pine trees, that like pricks, or stops. 
 Seem to our height ; high towers and roofs of 
 
 princes, 
 Like wrinkles in the earth : whole provinces 
 Appear to our sight then even leek 
 A russet-mole upon some lady's cheek. 10 
 
 When hundred leagues in air, we feast and sing, 
 Dance, kiss, and coll, use every thing : 
 What young man can we wish to pleasure us. 
 But we enjoy him in an incubus ? 
 Thou know'st it, Stadlin ? 
 
 Stad, Usually that 's done. . . . 
 
 Hec. Away, in. 
 Go feed the vessel for the second hoiu". 
 
 Stad. Where be the magical herbs ? 
 
 Hec. They 're down his throat, * 20 
 
 His mouth cramm'd full ; his ears and nostrils stiift. 
 I thrust in Eleoselinum, lately, 
 Aconitum, frondes populeas, and soot. 
 You may see that, he looks so black i' th' mouth. 
 Then Siiun, Acormii ^'ulgare too, 
 Pentaphillon, the blood of a flitter-mouse, 
 Solanum somniticum et oleum. 
 
 Stad. Then there 's all, Hecate. 
 
 Hec. Is the heart of wax 
 Stuck full of magic needles ? 30 
 
 Stad. 'Tis done, Hecate. 
 
 Hec. And is the farmer's picture, and his wife's, 
 Laid dowTi to the fire yet ? 
 
 Stcul. They 're roasting both too. 
 
 Hec. Good ; 
 Then their marrows are a-melting subtly. 
 And three months' sickness sucks up life in them. 
 They denied me often flour, barm, and milk. 
 Goose gieese and tar, when I ne'er hurt their 
 
 churnings, 
 Theii' brew-locks, nor their batches, nor forespoke 40 
 
 • The dead child's.
 
 264 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 Any of their breedings. Now I '11 be meet with 'em. 
 Seven of their young pigs I' ve bewitch'd already, 
 Of the last litter ; nine ducklings, thii'teeu goslings, 
 
 and a hog, 
 Fell lame last Sunday, after even-song too. 
 And mark how their sheej) }>rosper ; or what sup 
 Each milch-kiue gives to th' ^mil : I '11 send these 
 
 snakes 
 Shall milk 'em all 
 
 Beforehand : the dew-skirted dairy-wenches 
 Shall stroke dry dugs for this, and go home cursing : 
 I '11 mar their sillabubs, and swathy feastings 10 
 
 Under cows' bellies, with the parish-youths. 
 
 Sebastian co7i.mlts the Witch for a charm to he revenged 
 on his successful Rival. 
 
 Hec. Urchins, elves, hags, satires, pans, fa'v^Tis, 
 
 sylvans. 
 Kit-with-the-candlestick, tritons, centaiu's, dwarfs, 
 
 imps, 
 The s23oom, the mare, the man i' th' oak, the hellwain, 
 
 the fire-drake, the jiuckle ! A ab hnr hus ! 
 Seh. Heaven knows with what unwillingness and 
 
 hate 
 I enter this damn'd place : but such extremes 
 Of wrongs in love fight 'gainst religion's knowledge. 
 That were I led by this disease to deaths 
 As numberless as creatures that must die, 20 
 
 I could not shun the way. — I know what 'tis 
 To pity mad-men now : they 're wretched things 
 That ever were created, if they be 
 Of woman's making and her faithless vows. 
 I fear they 're now a-kissing : what 's a clock ? 
 'Tis now but supper-time : but night will come. 
 And all new-married couples make short suppers. 
 Whate'er thou art, F ve no spare time to fear thee ; 
 My horrors are so strong and great already. 
 That thou seem'st nothing : Up and laze not : 30 
 Hadst thou my business, thou couldst ne'er sit so ; 
 'Twould firk thee into air a thousand mile. 
 Beyond thy ointments : I would" I were read 
 So much in thy black power, as mine own gi'iefs. 
 I 'm in great need of help : wilt give me any ?
 
 THE WITCH. 265 
 
 Hcc. Thy boldness takes me bravely ; we 're all 
 sworn 
 To sweat for such a spirit : see, I regard thee ; 
 I rise, and bid thee welcome. What 's thy wish now ? 
 
 Seb. Oh my heart swells with 't. I must take 
 breath first. 
 
 Hec. Is 't to confound some enemy on the seas ? 
 It may be done to-night: Stadlin's within ; 
 She raises all your sudden ruinous storms 
 That shipwreck barks, and tears up gro\nng oaks, 
 Flies over houses, and takes Anno Domini 
 Out of a rich man's chimney, a sweet place for 't ! 10 
 He 'd be hang'd ere he would set his own years 
 
 there ; 
 They must be chamber'd in a five-pound picture, 
 A gieen silk curtain drawn before the eyes on 't ; 
 His rotten diseas'd years ! Or dost thou envy 
 The fat jirosperity of any neighbour ? 
 I '11 call forth Hoppo, and her incantation 
 Can straight destroy the young of all his cattle : 
 Blast vine-yards, orchards, meadows ; or in one night 
 Transport his dung, hay, corn, by reeks, whole stacks. 
 Into thine own ground. 20 
 
 Sch. This would come most richly now 
 To many a country grazier : but my envy 
 Lies not so low as cattle, corn, or wines : 
 'Twill trouble your best pow'rs to give me ease. 
 
 Hcc. Is it to starve up generation ? 
 To strike a barrenness in man or woman ? 
 
 Sec. Hah ! 
 
 Hec. Hah ! Did you feel me there ? I knew your 
 grief. 
 
 Scb. Can there be such things done ? 
 
 Hcc. Are these the skins 30 
 
 Of serpents ? these of snakes ? 
 
 Sch. I see they are. 
 
 Hcc. So sure into what house these are convey'd 
 Knit with these charms and retentive knots, 
 Neither the man begets, nor woman breeds, 
 No, nor performs the least desire of wedlock, 
 Being then a mutual duty ; I could give thee 
 Chirocineta, Adincantida, 
 Archimedon, Marmaritin, Calicia,
 
 266 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 Which I could sort to villiiinous barren ends ; 
 
 But tliis leads the same way. More I could instance : 
 
 As the same needles thrust into their jiillows 
 
 That sew and sock up dead men in their sheets : 
 
 A privy gristle of a man that hangs 
 
 After sun-set : Good, excellent : yet all 's there, Sii". 
 
 Scb. You could not do a man that special kindness 
 To part 'em utterly, now ? Could you do that ? 
 
 Ucc. No : time must do 't : we cannot disjoin 
 wedlock ; 
 'Tis of heaven's fastening : well may we raise jars, 10 
 Jealousies, strifes, and lieart-burning disagreements, 
 Like a thick scurf o'er life, as did om' master 
 Ui^on that jiatient miracle ; * but the work itself 
 Our power cannot disjoin. 
 
 Seb. I depart happy 
 In what I have then, being constrain'd to this : 
 And gi-ant, you gi-eater powers that disi)ose men. 
 That I may never need this hag again. [Exit. 
 
 Hcc. I know he loves me not, nor there 's no hope 
 on't ; 
 'Tis for the love of mischief I do this : 20 
 
 And that we 're sworn to the first oath we take. 
 
 Hecate, Stadlin, Hoppo, with the other Witches, j>re- 
 2Mring for their viidniyht journey through the Air. 
 Firestone, Hecate's Son! 
 
 Hec. Tlie moon 's a gallant : see how brisk she 
 rides. 
 
 Stad. Here 's a rich evening, Hecate. 
 
 Hcc. Ay, is 't not, wenches. 
 To take a journey of five thousand mile ? 
 
 Ho}). Ours vrAl be more to-night. 
 
 Hec. Oh 'twill be precious. 
 Heard you the owl yet ? 
 
 Stad. Briefly in the copse, 
 As we came through now. 30 
 
 Hec. 'Tis high time for us then. 
 
 Stad. There was a bat himg at my lips three times 
 As we came through the woods, and drank her fill. 
 Old Puckle saw her. 
 
 Eee. You are fortunate still : 
 
 • Job.
 
 THE WITCH. 267 
 
 The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder, 
 Aud woos you, like a pigeon. Are you furnish'd ? 
 Have you your ointments ? 
 Stad. All. 
 
 Hcc. Prepare to flight then : 
 I '11 overtake you SA\-iftly. 
 
 Stad. Hie thee, Hecate : 
 
 We shall be up betimes. Amount. 
 
 Hec. I'll reach you quickly. [The other Witches 
 
 Fire. They are all going a-birding to-night. They 
 
 talk of fowls in the air, that fly by day : I am 
 
 sure, they '11 be a company of foul sluts there 
 
 to-night. If we have not mortality ofl"ered,* 
 
 I '11 be hanged, for they are able to putrefy 
 
 it, to infect a whole region. She spies me now. 
 
 Hec. What, Firestone, our sweet son ? 16 
 
 Fire. A little sweeter than some of you, or a 
 
 dunghill were too good for me. 
 Hec. How much hast here ? 
 Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones ; besides 
 
 six lizards, and three serpentine eggs. 
 Hec. Dear and sweet boy : what herbs hast thou ? 
 Fire. I have some marmartin and mandragon. 
 Hec. Marmaritin and mandragora, thou wouldst 
 
 say. 
 Fire. Here's panax too — I thank thee — my pan 
 aches, I am sure, 
 With kneeling down to cut 'em. 
 
 Hec. And selago, 
 Hedge-hyssop too ; how near he goes my cuttings ! 
 Were they all cropped by moonlight ? 30 
 
 Fire. Every blade of 'em, or I am a moon-calf, 
 
 mother. 
 Hec. Hie thee home with 'em. 
 Look well to the house to-night : I 'm for aloft. 
 Fire. Aloft, quoth you ? I would you would break 
 your neck once, that I might have all quickly. 
 Hark, hark, mother ! they are above the 
 steeple already, flying over your head with a 
 noise of nmsicians. 
 Hec. They're there indeed. Help, help me ; I 'm 
 too late else. 
 
 * Probably the true reading is after V.
 
 268 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 Sotifi in the Air. 
 Come away, come away ; 
 Hecate, Hecate, come away ! 
 
 Hec. I come, I come, I come, I come, 
 With all the speed I may. 
 With all the speed I may. 
 Where 's Stadlin ? 
 [Above.] Here. 
 
 Hec. Where 's Puckle ? 
 
 [Above.] Here : 
 
 And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too : 10 
 
 We lack but you ; we lack hut you : 
 Come away, make up the count. 
 
 IIcc. I will but 'noint, and then I mount. 
 
 [^'1 Spirit like a Cat descends. 
 
 [Above.] There's one comes down to fetch his 
 
 dues ; 
 A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood : 
 And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, I muse, 
 Since the air 's so sweet and good. 
 
 Hec. 0, art thou come ? 
 What news, what news ? 
 
 Sxiirit. All goes still to our delight : 20 
 
 Either come, or else 
 Refuse, refuse. 
 
 Hec. Now I 'm furnished for the flight. 
 
 Fire. Hark, hark, the cat sings a brave treble in 
 
 her own language. 
 Hec. [Going iqj.] Now I go, now I flj', 
 Malkin my sweet spirit and I. 
 Oh what a dainty pleasure 'tis 
 To ride in the air 
 When the moon shines fair, 
 
 And sing, and dance, and toy, and kiss, 30 
 
 Over woods, high rocks, and mountains, 
 Over seas, (our mistress' fountains), 
 Over steep towers and turrets. 
 We fly by night 'mongst troops of spirits. 
 No ring of bells to our ears sounds, 
 No howls of wolves, no yel[)S of, hounds ; 
 No, not the noise of water's breach. 
 Or cannon's throat, our height can reach. 
 [Above.] No ring of bells, &c. 40
 
 THE WITCH. 269 
 
 Fire. Well, mother, I thank your kindness ; you 
 must be 
 Gambolling in the air, and leave me to walk here like 
 a fool and a mortal. 
 
 A Duchess consults the Witch about infiicting a sudden 
 Death. 
 
 Duchess. Hecate. Firestone. 
 Hec. What death is 't yon desire for Almachildes ? 
 Zluch. A sudden and a subtle. 
 Hcc. Then I 've fitted you. 
 Here lie the gifts of both ; sudden and subtle : 
 His picture made in wax, and gently molten 
 By a blue fire, kindled with dead men's eyes, 
 WUl waste him by degrees. 
 
 Duch. In what time, ^Jrithee ? 10 
 
 Hec. Perhaps in a moon's progress. 
 Duch. What, a nifinth ? 
 Out upon pictures, if they be so tedious : 
 Give nie things ■nath some life. 
 Hec. Then seek no farther. 
 
 Duch. This must be done with speed, despatch'd 
 this night. 
 If it be possible. 
 
 Hcc. I have it for you : 
 Here 's that will do 't : stay but perfection's time. 
 And that 's not five hours hence. 20 
 
 Duch. Canst thou do this ? 
 Hec. Can I ? 
 
 Duch. I mean, so closely ? 
 Hec. So closely do you mean too ? 
 Duch. So artfully, so cminingly ? 
 Hec. Worse and worse. Doubts and incredulities, 
 Theymakeme mad. Let scrupulous creatures know: — 
 Cum volui, ripis ipsis mirantibus, amnes 
 In fontes rediere suos ; concussaque sisto, 
 Stantia concutio cantu freta ; nubila pello, 30 
 Nubilaque induco : ventos abigoque, vocoque. 
 Vipereas runipo verbis et carmine fauces ; 
 Et sylvas moveo, jubeoque tremiscere montes, 
 Et mugire solum, manesque exire sepulchiis. 
 Te quoque, Luna, traho.
 
 270 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 Can you doubt me then, daughter ; 
 Thatcau make mountains tiemhlc, miles of woods walk, 
 Whole earth's foundation bellow, and the sjurits 
 Of the entomb'd to burst out from their marbles, 
 Nay, draw yon Moon to my involv'd designs ? 
 Fire. I Icnow as well as can be when my mother's 
 mad, 
 And our great cat angry ; for one spits French then, 
 and the other spits Latin. 
 Duch. I did not doubt you, mother. 
 Hec. No ! what did you ? 
 My power's so firm, it is not to be question'd. 10 
 Duch. Forgive what 's past ; and now I know th' 
 offensiveness 
 That vexes art, I '11 shun the occasion ever. 
 
 Hec. Leave all to me and my five sisters, daughter. 
 It shall be convey'd in at howlet-time ; 
 Take you no care. My spirits know their moments : 
 Raven or screecli-owl never fly by the door 
 But they call in (I thank 'em) and they lose not by 't. 
 I give 'em barley soak'd in infant's blood : 
 They shall have semina cum sanguine, 
 Their gorge cramni'd full, if they come once to our 
 house : 20 
 
 We are no niggard. 
 
 Fire. They fare but too well when they come hither : 
 they ate up as much th' other night as would 
 have made me a good conscionable pudding. 
 Hec. Give me some lizard's brain, quickly, Fu-estone. 
 Where 's grannam Stadlin, and all the rest of the 
 sisters ? 
 Fire. All at hand, forsooth. 
 
 The other WITCHES appear. 
 Hec. Give me marmaritin, some bear-breech: when? 
 Fire. Here's bear-breech and lizard's-brain, for- 
 sooth. 30 
 Hec. Into the vessel ; 
 And fetch three ounces of the red-hair'd girl 
 I kill'd last midnight. 
 Fire. Whereabout, sweet mother ? 
 Hec. Hip ; hip or flank. Where 's the acopus ? 
 Fire. You shall have acopus, forsooth. 
 Hec. Stir, stir about ; whilst I begin the charm.
 
 THE WITCH. 271 
 
 A Cliarm Song about a Vessel. 
 
 Hcc. Black spii'its and white, red spirits and gi'ey. 
 Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may. 
 Titty, Tiffin, keep it stiff in ; 
 Fire-drake, Puckey, make it lucky ; 
 Liard, Robin, you must bob in. 
 Round, around, around, about, about ; 
 All 111 come running in, all Good keej) out. 
 
 First WUcJi. Here 's the blood of a bat. 
 
 Hcc. Put in that, oh, put in that. 
 
 Sec. Witch. Here 's libbard's-baue. 10 
 
 Hec. Put in again. 
 
 First Witch. The juice of toad ; the oil of adder. 
 
 Sec. Witch. Tliose will make the younker madder. 
 
 Hec. Put in, there 's all, and rid the stench. 
 
 Fire. Nay, here 's three ounces of the red-hair'd 
 wench. 
 
 All. Round, around, around, &c. 
 
 Hcc. So, so, enough : into the vessel with it. 
 There ; 't hath the true perfection : 1 am so light*" 
 At any mischief, there 's no villainy 
 But is a tune, methiuks. 20 
 
 Fire. A tune ! 'tis to the tune of damnation then, 
 I warrant you, 
 And that song hath a villainous burthen. 
 
 Hec. Come, my sweet sisters, let the air strike our 
 tune ; 
 Whilst we show reverence to yon peeping moon. 
 
 [The Witches dance, et Exeunt, 
 
 [Though some resemblance may be traced between 
 the Charms in Macbeth, and the Incantations in this 
 Play, which is supposed to have preceded it, this co- 
 incidence whl not detract much from the originality of 
 Shakspeare. His Witches are distinguished from the 
 Witches of Middleton by essential differences. These 
 are creatures to whom man or woman plotting some dire 
 mischief might resort for occasional consultation. Those 
 originate deeds of blood, and begin bad impulses to 
 men. From the moment that their eyes first met with 
 Macbeth's, he is spell-bound. That meeting sways his 
 
 * Light-hearted.
 
 272 THOMAS MIDDLETON. 
 
 destiny. He can never break the fascination. These 
 Witches can hurt the body : those have power over the 
 soul. — Hecate in Middleton has a Son, a low buffoon : 
 the hags of Shakspeare have neither child of their own, 
 nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are 
 foul Anomalies, of whom wo know not whence they are 
 sprung, nor whether they have beginning or ending. 
 As they are without human passions, so they seem to 
 be without human relations. They come with thunder 
 and lightning, and vanish to airy music. This is all 
 we know of them. — Except Hecate, they have no names ; 
 which heightens their mysteriousness. Their names, 
 and some of the properties, which Middleton has given 
 to his hags, excite smiles. The Weird Sisters are 
 serious things. Their presence cannot co-exist with 
 mirth. But, in a lesser degree, the Witches of Middle- 
 ton are fine creations. Their power too is, in some 
 measure, over the mind. They raise jars, jealousies, 
 strifes, like a thick sairf o'er life.] 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 THE GAME AT CHESS : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 Popish Priest to a great Court Lady, wAo??i he hopes to make 
 a Convert of. 
 
 Let me contemjilate ; 
 
 With holy wonder season my access, 
 
 And, by degrees, approach the sanctuary 
 
 Of unmatch'd beauty, set in grace and goodness. 
 
 Amongst the daughters of men I have not found 
 
 A more catholical aspect. That eye 
 
 Doth promise single life and meek obedience. 
 
 Upon those lips (the sweet fresh buds of youth) 
 
 The holy dew of prayer lies, like pearl 
 
 Dropped from the opening eyelids of the morn 10 
 
 Upon the bashful rose. How beauteously 
 
 A gentle fast (not rigoroiisly imposed) 
 
 Would look upon that cheek ! and how delightfully 
 
 The courteous jihysic of a tendw penance, 
 
 (Whose utmost cruelty should not exceed 
 
 The first fear of a bride), to beat down frailty !
 
 A FAIR QUARREL. 273 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 A FAIR QUARREL : A COMEDY. 
 
 BY THOMAS MIDDLETOK AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
 
 Captain Ager in a disjmfe with a Colonel, his friend, 
 receives from the Colonel th£. ajiipeUation of Son of a 
 WTtore. A challenge is given and accepted : hut the 
 Captatn, before he goes to the field, is willitig to he 
 confirmed of his mother's ho7wur from her own lips. 
 Lady Ager, heing questioned hy her Son, to p/reiient 
 a duel, falsely slanders herself of undmstity. The 
 Captain, thinking tluit he 1ms a had cause, refuses to 
 fight. But being reproached hy the Colonel irith 
 cmvardice, he esteems that he Jias now sufficient came 
 fw a qtum'el, in the vindicating of his honour from 
 that aspersion ; and draws, and disarms his opponent. 
 
 Lady. Captain, her Son. 
 
 La. Where left you your dear friend the Colonel ? 
 
 Cap. Oh, the dear Colonel, I should meet him 
 soon. 
 
 La. O fail him not then ! he 's a gentleman 
 The fame and reputation of your time 
 Is much engag'd to. 
 
 Caj). Yes, and you knew all, mother. 
 
 La. I thought I 'd known so much of his fair 
 goodness, 
 More could not have been look'd for. 
 
 Cap. yes, yes. Madam : 
 And this his last exceeded all the rest. 10 
 
 La. For gratitude's sake, let me know this, I 
 prithee. 
 
 Cap. Then thus ; and I desu-e your censure freely 
 Whether it appear'd not a strange noble kindness in 
 him. 
 
 La. Trust me, I long to hear 't. 
 
 Cap. You know he 's hasty ; 
 That by the way. 
 
 La. So are the best conditions ; 
 Your father was the like. 
 
 Cap. I begin now 
 To doubt me more : why am not I so too then ? 20
 
 274 THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
 
 Blood follows blood tliroiigli forty generations ; 
 And I 've a slow-pac'd wrath : a shrewd dilemma. — 
 
 [Aside. 
 
 La. Well, as you were saying, Sir. 
 
 Cap. Marry, thus, good Madam. 
 
 There was in company a foul-mouth'd villain 
 
 Stay, stay, 
 
 Who should I liken him to that you have seen ? 
 
 He comes so near one that I would not match him 
 
 with. 
 Faith, just o* the Colonel's pitch : he 's ne'er the 
 
 worse man ; 
 Usurers have been compared to magistrates, 10 
 
 Extortioners to lawyers, and the like, 
 But they all prove ne'er the worse men for that. 
 
 La. That 's bad enough, they need not. 
 
 Cap. This lude fellow, 
 A shame to all humanity and manners, 
 Breathes from the rottenness of his gall and malice. 
 The foulest stain that ever man's fame blemish'd. 
 Part of which fell upon your honour, madam, 
 Which heighten'd my affliction. 
 
 La. Mine? my honour, Sir ? 20 
 
 Caj}. The Colonel, soon enrag'd, (as he 's all touch- 
 wood), 
 Takes fire before me, makes the quarrel his, 
 Appoints the field ; my wrath could not be heard, 
 His was so high-pitched, so gloriously mounted. 
 Now, Avhat 's the friendly fear that fights %vithin me, 
 Should his brave noble fury undertake 
 A cause that were unjust in our defence. 
 And so to lose him everlastingly 
 In that dark depth where all bad quarrels sink 
 Never to rise again, what pity 'twere, 30 
 
 First to die here, and never to die there ! 
 
 La. AVhy, what 's the quarrel, speak, Sir, that 
 should raise 
 Such fearful doubt, my honour bearing part on 't ? 
 The words, whate'er they were 
 
 Cap. So7i of a tvhore. 
 
 La. Thou liest : 
 And were my love ten thousand times more to thee, 
 Which is as much now as e'er mother's was,
 
 A FAIR QUARREL. 275 
 
 So thou shoiild'st feel my anger. Dost thou call 
 That quarrel doubtful ? where are all my merits ? 
 
 [tSfri/i-es Mm. 
 Not one stand up to tell this man his error ? 
 Thou niight'st as well call the Sun's truth iu question, 
 As thy birth or my honour. 
 
 Caj}. Now blessings crown you for 't ; 
 It is the joyfuU'st blow that e'er flesh felt. 
 
 La. Nay, stay, stay. Sir; thou art not left so .soon: 
 This is no question to be slighted off, 
 And at your pleasure closed up fair again, 10 
 
 As though you 'd never touch'd it ; no ; honoirr doubted 
 Is honour deeply wounded ; and it rages 
 More than a common smart, being of thy making. 
 For thee to fear my truth, it kills my comfort. 
 Where should fame seek i^or her reward, when he 
 That is her own by the great tie of blood 
 Is farthest off in bounty ? poor goodness. 
 That only pay'st thyself with thy own works ; 
 For nothing else looks towards thee. Tell me, pray, 
 Which of my loving cares dost thou requite 20 
 
 With this vile thought ? which of my prayers or 
 
 wishes ? 
 Jlauy thou ow'st me for. This seven year hast thou 
 
 kno^vn me 
 A widow, only married to my vow ; 
 That 's no small witness of my faith and love 
 To him that in life was thy honour'd father : 
 And live I now to know that good mistrusted ? 
 
 Cap. No, it shall appear that my belief is cheerful, 
 For never was a mother's reputation 
 Noblier defended ; 'tis my joy and pride 
 I have a firm faith to bestow u])on it. 30 
 
 Za. What 's that you said. Sir ? 
 
 Cap. 'Twere too bold and soon yet 
 To crave forgiveness of you ; I '11 earn it first. 
 Dead or alive I know I shall enjoy it. 
 
 La. What 's all this, Sir ? 
 
 Ca2). My joy 's beyond expression : 
 I do but think how wretched I had been. 
 Were this another's quarrel and not mine. 
 
 La. Why, is it yours ? 
 
 Cap. Mine f think me not so miserable, 40
 
 276 THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
 
 Not to be mine : then were I worse than abject, 
 More to be loatli'd than vileness or sin'.s dunghill : 
 Nor did I fear your goodness, faithful Madam, 
 But came witli greedy joy to be coniirm'd in 't. 
 To give the nobler onset : then shines valour, 
 And admiration from her fix'd s])liere draws, 
 When it comes burnish'd \nth a righteous cause ; 
 "Without which I 'm ten fathoms under coward, 
 That now am ten degi'ees above a man, 
 Which is but one of virtue's easiest wonders. 10 
 
 La. But, pray, stay; all this while I understand you 
 The Colonel was the man. 
 
 C«p. Yes, he 's the man. 
 The man of injury, reproach, and slander. 
 Which I must turn into his soul again. 
 
 La. The Colonel do 't ? that 's strange ! 
 
 Cap. The villain did it : 
 That's not so strange. Yom- blessing, and yoiu- 
 leave 
 
 La. Come, come, you .shall not go. 
 
 Cap. Not go ? were death 20 
 
 Sent now to summon me to my eternity, 
 I 'd put him off an hour : why, the whole world 
 Has not chains strong enough to bind me from it : 
 The sti'ongest is my reverence for yoxi, 
 Which if you force upon me in this case, 
 I must be forced to break it. 
 
 La. Stay, I say. 
 
 Caj). In anything command me but iu this. 
 Madam. 
 
 La. 'Las, I shall lose him. You will hear me 
 first ? 
 
 Caj). At my return I will. 30 
 
 La. Y"ou '11 never hear me more then. 
 
 Cap. How ? 
 
 La. Come back, I say ! 
 You may well think there 's cause, I call so often. 
 
 Cap. Ha ! cause ? what cause ? 
 
 La. So much, you must not go. 
 
 Cap. Must not ? why ? 
 
 La. I know a reason for't v 
 AVhich I could wish you 'd yield to, and not know : 
 If not, it must come forth. Faith, do not know ;
 
 A FAIR QUARREL. 277 
 
 And yet obey my will. 
 
 Cap. Wliy, I desire 
 To know no other tlian the cause I have, 
 Nor sliould you wish it, if you take your injmy, 
 For one more great I know the world includes not. 
 
 La. Yes ; one that makes this nothing : yet be 
 ruled, 
 And if you understand not, seek no further. 
 
 Cap. I must ; for this is nothing. 
 
 La. Then take all ; 
 And if amongst it you receive that secret 10 
 
 That will olfend you, though you condemn me, 
 Yet blame yourself a little ; for, perhaps, 
 I would have made my reputation sound 
 Upon another's hazard with less pity ; 
 But upon yours I dare not. 
 
 Cap. How? 
 
 La. I dare not : 
 'TSvas your own seeking, this. 
 
 Cap). If you mean evilly, 
 I cannot understand you, nor for all the riches 20 
 This life has, would I. 
 
 La. Would you never might ! 
 
 Cap. AVhy, your goodness, that I joy to fight for. 
 
 La. In that you neither right your joj' nor me. 
 
 Cap. What an ill orator has virtue got here ! 
 Why, shall I dare to think it a thing possible, 
 That you were ever false ? 
 
 La. Oh, fearfully ; 
 As much as you come to. 
 
 Cap. Oh silence, cover me ! 30 
 
 I 've felt a deadlier wound than man can give me. 
 False ? 
 
 La. I was betrayed to a most sinful hour , 
 By a corrupted soul I put in trust once, 
 A kinswoman. 
 
 Caj). AVhere is she ? let me pay her. 
 
 La. Oh, dead long since. 
 
 Cap. Say then, she has all her wages. 
 False ? do not say 't ; for honour's goodness, do not ; 
 You never could be so : he I call'd father 40 
 
 Deserv'd you at your best ; when youth and merit 
 Could boast at highest in you, you 'd no grace
 
 278 THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
 
 Or virtue that he inatch'd not ; no delight 
 That you invented, but he sent it crown'd 
 To your t'uU-wishing soul. \ 
 
 La. That lieaps my guiltiness. • 
 
 Cap. 0, were you so unhappy to be false 
 Both to yourself and me, but to me chielly ? 
 What a day's hope is here lost, and with it 
 The joys of a just cause ! Had you but thought 
 On such a no})lo quarrel, you 'd ha' died 
 Ere you 'd ha' yielded ; for the sin's hate first, 10 
 Next for the hate of this hour's cowardice. 
 Curst be the heat that lost me such a cause, 
 A work that I was made for. Quench, my spirit. 
 And out witli honour's flaming lights within thee ! 
 Be dark and dead to all i-espects of manhood ! 
 I never shall have nse of valour more- 
 Put off your vow for shame : why should you hoard np 
 Such justice for a barren widowhood ; 
 That was so injurious to the faith of wedlock ? 
 I should be dead : for all my life's work 's ended. 20 
 I dare not fight a stroke now, nor engage 
 The noble resolution of my friends : \_Exit Lady. 
 
 Enter two Friends o/ Captain Ageu's. 
 
 That were more vile. — They're here. Kill me, my 
 
 shame. 
 I am not for the fellowship of honour. 
 
 First Friend. Captain ! fie, come. Sir ! we 've been 
 seeking for you 
 Very late to-day ; this was not Avont to be. 
 Your enemy 's in the field. 
 
 Cap. Truth enters cheerfully. 
 
 Sec. Friend. Good faith, Sir, you 've a royal quarrel 
 on't. 
 
 Cap. Yes, in some other country, Spain or Italy, 
 It would be held so. 30 
 
 First Friend. How ! and is 't not here so ? 
 
 Cap. 'Tis not so contumeliously receiv'd 
 In these parts, and you mark it. 
 
 First Friend. Not in these ? 
 AVhy, prithee, what is more, or "Can be ? 
 
 Cap. Yes : 
 That ordinary Commotioner, the lie.
 
 A FAIR QUAEREL. 279 
 
 Is father of most quarrels in this climate, 
 And held here capital, and you go to that. 
 
 Sec. Friend. But, Sir, I hojie you will not go to 
 that, 
 Or change your own for it ; son of a whore ! 
 Why, there 's the lie down to posterity ; 
 The lie to birth, the lie to honesty. 
 Why would you cozen yourself so, and beguile 
 So brave a cause, manhood's best masterjiiece ? 
 Do you ever hope for one so brave again ? 
 
 Ca}}. Consider then the man, the Colonel, 10 
 
 Exactly worthy, absolutely noble, 
 However spleen and rage abuses him : 
 And 'tis not well nor manly to pursue 
 A man's infirmity. 
 
 Fii'st Friend. miracle ! 
 So hopeful, valiant, and complete a captain 
 Possest with a tame devil ! Come out, thou spoilest 
 The most improv'd young soldier of seven kingdoms : 
 Made Captain at nineteen ; which was deserv'd 
 The year before, but honour comes behind still 20 
 Come out, I say : tliis was not wont to be ; 
 That spirit ne'er stood in need of provocation, 
 Xor shall it now. Away, Su'. 
 
 Gap. Urge me not. 
 
 First Friend. By manhood's reverend honour but 
 we must. 
 
 Cap. I will not fight a stroke. 
 
 First Friend. blasphemy 
 To sacred valour. 
 
 Cap. Lead me where you list. 
 
 First Friend.. Pardon this traitoroiis slumber, 
 clogg'd with evils : 30 
 
 Give captains rather wives than such tame devils. 
 
 The Field. 
 Enter Captain Ager, lolth his tivo Friends. 
 Cap. Well, your wills now ? 
 First Friend, Our wills ? our loves, our duties 
 To honour'd fortitude : what wills have we 
 But our desires to nobleness and merit, 
 Valoiu-'s advancement, and the sacred rectitude 
 Due to a valorovis cause ?
 
 280 THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
 
 Cap. Oh, that 's not mine. 
 
 Sec. Friend. War has his Court of Justice, that 's 
 the field. 
 Where all cases of manhood are determined, 
 And your rase is no mean one. 
 
 Cap. True ; then 't were virtuous : 
 But mine is in extremes, foul and unjust. 
 Well, now ye 've got me hither, yc 're as far 
 To seek in your desire as at first minute : 
 For by the strength and honour of a vow 
 I will not lift a finger in this quarrel. 10 
 
 First Friend. How ? not in tliis ? be not so rash a 
 sinner. 
 Why, Sir, do you ever hope to fight again then ? 
 Take heed on 't, you must never look for that. 
 Why, the universal stock of the world's injury 
 Will be too poor to find a quarrel for you. 
 Give up your right and title to desert, Sir ; 
 If you fail virtue here, she needs you not 
 All your time after ; let her take this M'rong, 
 And never jiresume then to serve her more : 
 Bid farewell to the integrity of arms, 20 
 
 And let that honourable name of soldier 
 Fall from you like a shiver'd wreath of laurel, 
 By thunder struck from a desertless forehead. 
 That wears another's right by usurpation. 
 Good Captain, do not wilfully cast away 
 At one hour all the fame your life has won. 
 This is your native seat. Here you should seek 
 Most to preserve it ; or if you will dote 
 So much on life, poor life, which in respect 
 Of life in honour is but death and darkness, 30 
 
 That you will prove neglectful of yourself, 
 Which is to me too fearful to imagine, 
 Yet for that virtuous lady's cause, your mother. 
 Her reputation, dear to nobleness. 
 As grace to jienitence ; whose fair memory 
 E'en crowns fame in your issue : for that blessedness. 
 Give not this ill place, but in spite of hell. 
 And all her base fears, be exactly valiant. 
 
 Cap. Oh ! oh ! - [that. 
 
 Sec. Friend. Why, well said ; there 's fair hope in 
 Another such a one. 40
 
 A FAIR QUARREL. 281 
 
 Cap. Came they in thousands, 
 'Tis all against you. 
 
 First Friend. Then poor friendless merit, 
 Heav'n be good to thee, thy Professor leaves thee. 
 
 Filter Colonel and Ms two Friends. 
 
 He 's come ; do you but draw ; Ave '11 tight it for you. 
 
 Cap. I know too much to grant that. 
 
 First Friend. dead manhood ! 
 Had ever such a cause so faint a servant ? 
 Shame brand me if I do not suffer for him. 9 
 
 Col. I 've heard, Su', you 've been guilty of much 
 For your brave earliuess at such a meeting, [boasting 
 You 've lost the glory of that way thLs morning : 
 I was the first to-day. 
 
 Cajp. So were you ever 
 In my respect, Sir. 
 
 First Friend. most base pra?ludium ! 
 
 Cap. I never thought on victory our misti'ess 
 With greater reverence than I have your worth, 
 Nor ever lov'd her better. 
 
 Success in you has been my absolute joy, 20 
 
 And when I've wish'd content I 've wish'd your friend- 
 Co?. I came not hither, Sir, for an encomium, [ship. 
 I came provided 
 
 For stoiTus and tempests, and the foulest season 
 That ever rage let forth, or blew in wildness 
 From the incensed prLson of man's blood. 
 
 Cap. 'Tis otherwise with me : I come with mildness, 
 Peace, constant amity, and calm forgiveness, 
 The weather of a Christian and a friend. 
 
 First Friend. Give me a valiant Tm'k, though not 
 l'] worth tenpence, rather. 30 
 
 Cap. Yet, Sir, the world will judge the injury mine, 
 Insufferably mine, mine beyond injury, 
 Thousands have made a less wrong reach to hell, 
 Aye, and rejoic'd in his most endless vengeance, 
 A miserable triumph though a just one ! 
 But when I call to memory our long friendship, 
 Methinks it cannot be too great a wrong 
 That then I should not pardon. Why should Man, 
 For a poor hasty syllable or two, 
 And vented only in forgetful fury,
 
 282 THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
 
 Chain all the hopes and riclies of his soul 
 
 To tlie revenge of that, die lost for ever ? 
 
 For he that makes his last j^eace with liis Maker 
 
 In anger, anger is his peace eternally : 
 
 He must expect the same return again, 
 
 Whose venture is deceitful. Must he not, Sir ? 
 
 Col. I see what I must do, fairly put up again ; 
 For here '11 be nothing done, I perceive that. 
 
 Caj). What shall be done in such aworthless business 
 But to be Sony and to be forgiven ; 10 
 
 You, Sir, to Ijring repentance, and I pardon ? 
 
 Col. I bring repentance, Sir ? 
 
 Ca}). If t be too much 
 To say repentance, call it what you please. Sir ; 
 Choose your own word ; I know you 're sorry for it. 
 And that 's as good. 
 
 Col. I sorry ? by fame's honour, I am wrong'd ! 
 Do you seek for peace and draw the quarrel larger ? 
 
 Ca2}. Then 'tis I 'm sorry that I thought you so. 
 
 First Frietxd. A Captain ! I could gnaw his title off'. 
 
 Caj). Nor is it any misbecoming virtue. Sir, 21 
 In the best manliness to repent a wrong, 
 Which made me bold with you. 
 
 First Friend. I could cuif his head off". 
 
 Sec. Friend. Nay, pish. 
 
 Col. So once again take thou thy peaceful rest, tlien ; 
 
 [To his Sword. 
 But as I put thee up, I must proclaim 
 This captain here, both to his friends and mine, 
 That only came to see fair valour righted, 
 A base submissive coward : so I leave him. 30 
 
 Cap. Oh, heaven has pitied my excessive patience, 
 And sent me a cause ! now I have a cause : 
 A coward I was never. Come you back. Sir. 
 
 Col. How! 
 
 Cap. You left a coward here. 
 
 Col. Yes, Sir, with you. 
 
 Cap. 'Tis such base metal. Sir, 't will not be taken, 
 It must home again with you. 
 
 Sec. Friend. Should this be true now [Bastard ? 
 
 First Friend. Impossible ! Coward do more than 
 
 Col. I prithee, mock me not, take heed you do not, 
 For if I draw once more, I shall grow terrible, 42
 
 A FAIR QTTARRKL. 283 
 
 Aud rage will force me do what will giieve honour. 
 
 Cap. Ha, ha, ha. 
 
 Col. He smiles ; dare it be he ? what think ye, 
 Gentlemen ? 
 Yolu- judgments, shall I not be cozen'd in him ? 
 This cannot be the man ; why he was bookish, 
 Made an invective lately against fighting, 
 A thing, in truth, that mov'd a little with me ; 
 Put up a fouler contumely far 
 Than thousand cowards came to, and gi-ew thankful. 
 
 Cap. Blessed remembrance in time of need : 11 
 I 'd lost my honour else. 
 
 Sec. Friend. Do you note his joy ? 
 
 Cap. I never felt a more severe necessity : 
 Then came thy excellent pity. Not yet ready ? 
 Have you such confidence in my just manhood, 
 That you dare so long trust me, and yet tempt me 
 Beyond the toleration of man's virtue ? 
 "Why, would you be more cruel than your injm-y ? 
 Do you first take pride to \\Tong me, and then think 
 me 20 
 
 Not worth your fury ? do not i;se me so : 
 I shall deceive you then. Sir, either draw. 
 And that not slightingly, but with the care 
 Of j^our best preservation, with that watchfulness 
 As you 'd defend yourself from circular fire. 
 Your sin's rage, or her lord, (this will require it), 
 Or you '11 be too soon lost, for I 've an anger 
 Has gather'd mighty strength against you ; mighty. 
 Yet you shall find it honest to the last, 
 Noble and fair. 30 
 
 Col. I '11 venture it once again ; 
 And if 't be but as true as it is wondrous, 
 I shall have that I come for : your leave. Gentlemen. 
 
 [They fight. 
 
 First Friend. If he should do 't indeed, and 
 
 deceive us all now 
 
 Stay, by this hand he offers ; fights i 'faith ! 
 Fights : by this light, he fights, Sir. 
 
 Sec. Friend. So metliinks. Sir. 
 
 First Friend. An alxsolute Punto, ha ? 
 
 Sec. Friend. 'Twas a Passado, Sir. 
 
 First Friend. Why, let it pass, and 'twas ; I 'm 
 sure 'twas somewhat 40
 
 284 THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY. 
 
 What 's that now ? 
 
 Sec. Friend. That 's a Piinto, 
 
 First Friend. 0, go to, then, 
 I knew 'twas not far off : What a world 's this ! 
 Is Coward a more stirring meat than Bastard ? 
 
 ho ! I honour thee : 
 
 'Tis riyht and fair, and he that breathes against it. 
 He hreatlies against the jnstice of a man ; 
 And man to cut him off, 'tis no injustice. 9 
 
 Thanks, thanks, for this most unexjiected nobleness. 
 
 [77(6 Colonel is disarmed. 
 
 Cap, Trutli never fails her servant, Sir, nor leaves 
 him 
 With the day's shame upon him. 
 
 First Friend. Thou 'st redeemed 
 Thy worth to the same height 'twas first esteem'd. 
 
 [The insipid levelling morality to which the modern 
 stage is tied down would not admit of such admirable 
 passions as those scenes are tilled with. A puritanical 
 obtuseness of sentiment, a stupid infantile goodness, 
 is creeping among us, instead of the vigorous passions, 
 and virtues clad in flesh and blood, with which the 
 old dramatists present us. Those noble and liberal 
 casuists could discern in the differences, the quarrels, 
 the animosities of man, a lieautj' and trutli of moral 
 feeling, no less than in the iterately inculcated duties 
 of forgiveness and atonement. With us all is hypo- 
 critical meekness. A reconciliation scene (let the 
 occasion be never so absurd or unnatm-al) is always 
 sure of applause. Our audiences come to the theatre 
 to be complimented on their goodness. They compare 
 notes with the amiable characters in the play, and find 
 a wonderful similarity of disposition between them. 
 We have a common stock of dramatic morality out of 
 which a wiiter may be supplied, without the trouble of 
 copying it from originals within his own breast. To 
 know the boundaries of honour, to be judiciously valiant, 
 to have a temperance which shall beget a smoothness 
 in the angry swellings of youth, to esteem life as 
 nothing when the sacred reputation of a parent is to 
 be defended, yet to shake and tremble under a pious 
 cowardice when that ark of an honest confidence is 
 found to be frail and tottering, to feel the true blows 
 of a real disgrace blunting that sword which the 
 imaginary strokes of a supposed false imputation had
 
 A FAIR QUARREL. 285 
 
 put so keen an edge upon but lately : to do, or to 
 imagine this done in a feigned story, asks something 
 more of a moral sense, somewhat a greater delicacy of 
 perception in questions of right and wrong, than goes 
 to the writing of two or three hacknej'ed sentences 
 about the laws of honour as opposed to the laws of the 
 land, or a commonplace against dueUing. Yet such 
 things would stand a wi-iter nowadays in far better 
 stead than Captain Ager and his conscientious honour ; 
 and he would be considered as a far better teacher of 
 morality than old Kowley or Middleton if they were 
 living.]
 
 NOTES.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Thomas Norton (1532-1584). 
 Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst (1536-1608). 
 
 FERREX AND PORREX : a tragedy set forth witJmtt 1. 
 addition or altcratioit, hut altogether as the same vas shoioed 
 on the stage before the Queen's Mitjesti/ ahont nine years past, 
 n-., the I8th day of January 1561-2, by the Gentlemen of 
 the Inner Temple; ivo, about 1570. This is the onlyg-eniiine 
 text of what may he styled the first regular English 
 tragedy : the play had been printed in 1565, without 
 authority, under the title of the Tragedy if Oorboduc, 
 and this edition was republished in 1590. 
 
 Lamb's Extract was unfortunately derived from the 
 1590 text ; hence such errors as the following :— page 1, 
 litie 7: 'grave' for 'grow'; 3, 10: 'wounds' for 
 ' wound ' ; 4, 4 : ' the ' for ' thy ' ; 4, 16 : ' there charge ' 
 for ' and charge ' ; 4, 37 : ' this heav'ns ' for ' the 
 heaven's' ; &c. Further, 1, 10-11 : wrongly transposed 
 in old eds ; 3, 28 : ' when with a braid ' ; Lamb, 
 ' wherewith abraid, ' glossing ' abraid ' by ' awakened, 
 raised up ' ; there is, however, no authority for the 
 reading ; ' braid ' = ' a sudden movement, a start.' 
 
 Gorboduc's ' stiff and cumbersome style ' proceeds, in 
 great part, from its Senecan form ; the same applies to 
 its sententious ' morality.' It has the defects of its 
 qualities. Translations of Seneca's tragedies preceded 
 this first academic experiment at original drama. The 
 best examples in English of this form of drama, viz., 
 Daniel's Philutas and Cleopatra, and Kyd's translation 
 of Gamier's Cornelia, are not represented in the 
 ' Specimens ' ; the three succeeding extracts are from 
 plays on the same ancient model. 
 
 'TANCRED AND GISMUND,' probably the first I L 
 English tragedy on an Italian plot, was acted before 
 the Court by the gentlemen of the Inner Temple in 
 I. T
 
 290 NOTES. 
 
 the year 1568 ; the phiy was the work of no less than 
 five members of the Inn. It was jmblished in 1.591, 
 ' newly revised and polished according to the decorum 
 of these daies,' l)y Robert Wilmot, one of the original 
 authors. The version of 1568 is still extant in MS.* 
 Lamb's Extract from the fifth act represents Wilmot's 
 best effort ; the fifth act had been his originally ; he 
 has practically rewritten it, and, departing from the 
 Horatian precept, has added the death-scene of Gismund 
 and her father. _ The unrhyming of the old version in 
 the more rhetorical scenes is noteworthy : cp. e.g. page 
 6, U. 4-19, with the following in the 1568 version : — 
 
 ' Now, now, alas, come is that hour accurst 
 That I poor wight so long have looked for. 
 Now hath my father filled his eager thirst 
 With guiltless blood which he desired so sore. 
 This pierced heart it is mine earl's, I know. 
 My father's words do prove the same too well. 
 This bloody cup his doleful death doth show. 
 This message doth the same too plainly tell. 
 Certes unto so noble a heart could not 
 A fitter hearse be 'lotted than of gold. 
 Discreetly therefore hath my father wrought 
 That thus hath sent it me for to behold.' 
 
 P. 6, 30: 'ah pleasant haiborough'; i.e. 'harbour,, 
 shelter, refuge ' ; merely the old spelling of ' harbour. ' 
 Lamb's 'harbonrer' is misleading. 6, 40: 'lusteth,' 
 old eds. ' hasteth.' 
 
 In Lamb's MS. the following passage is quoted from 
 Wilmot's dedicatory letter to the 'Right Worshipful 
 and Virtuous Ladies, the Lady Mary Peter and the 
 Lady Anne Gray ' : — 
 
 _' And now for that weary winter is come upon us, which 
 bringeth with him drooping days and tedious nights, 
 if it be true, that the motions of our minds follow the 
 temperature of the air wherein we live, then I think 
 the perusing of some mournful matter, tending to the 
 view of a notable example, will refresh your wits in a 
 gloom}' day, and ease your weariness of the louring 
 night, which, if it please you, may serve ve also for a 
 solemn revel against this festival time, for OismviaVs 
 bloody shadow, with a little cost, may be entreated in 
 her self-life person to speak to ye.' 
 
 * An edition, by the editor of these volumes, is in preparation, 
 for the ' Tudor Library ' (Nutt).
 
 NOTES. 291 
 
 FuLKE Greville, Lord Brooke (155-1-1628). 
 
 Neither ALAHAM nor MUSTAPHA was ever acted ; III,-IV. 
 they were published in the foUo edition of Brooke's 
 Poems, 1633. Afragmentary 4toof 'Mustapha' appeared 
 as early as 1609, probably unauthorised. In his ' Life of 
 Sidnej",' Brooke states his reasons for writing these 
 tragedies. 
 
 P. 11, 8 : 'clouds,' old eds. 'cloud' ; 15, 32 : old eds. 
 
 ' to my heart didst give ; ' 19, 28 : ' sereness ' ; read 
 
 ' serenes ; ' ' serene ' = ' a blight, or unwholesome aii-,' cp. 
 
 ' Some serene blast me, or dire lightning strike 
 
 This my offending face.'— B. Jons. Fox. ii. 6. 
 
 Cotgrave explains, Fr. sernui, from which it is derived, 
 as 'the mildew or harmefuli dew of some summer 
 evenings.' 
 
 P. 20, 12, inserted in this edition ; 27, 4, inserted. 
 
 P. 28, 34 : 'to me,' old eds. ' unto me.' 
 
 P. 29, 5 : 'In this writer's estimate of his own mind,' 
 &c.;inthe 'Life of Sidney,' alluded to above, Brooke 
 m-ites :— ' For my own part, I found my creephig 
 genius more fixed upon the images of life than the 
 images of wit. ' 
 
 John Lily (c. 1553-1606). 
 SAPHO andPHAO, acted 1582, by the Chapel chil- V.-VI. 
 dren, and publicly by the Paul's boys at Blackfriars : 
 printed, 1584. 
 
 LOVE'S METAMORPHOSIS, probably acted at Court 
 bv the children of Paul's in 1588-9 ; printed in 1601. 
 
 'The Courtly Drama of Euphuism was wholly un- 
 represented in the ' Specimens ' of 1808 ; the Garrick 
 Extracts, though fairly typical, do Lily scant justice. 
 Lamb does not seem to have lighted on Blount's famous 
 edition (1632) of Lily's Six Court Comedies, or assuredly 
 the play of 'Endimion' would have afforded him at 
 least one scene. To Edward Blount we owe the Songs 
 omitted in the earher 4tos, so that Lamb had no 
 idea of Lily's tuneful lyre : — 
 
 ' Lily, a goldfinch in a twisted cage, 
 Fed by some gay great lady's pettish page. 
 Till short sweet songs gush lUce short spring showers. ' 
 
 Christopher Marlowe (1564-1593). 
 TAMBURLAINE (I. and XL), acted probably in VIL-X, 
 1587 ; printed 1590, 1592, 1605-6. Lamb's comments
 
 292 NOTES. 
 
 on ' Tamburlaine ' disappoint modern readers ; Mine 
 Ancient's hurlcsriue seems to have blinded him to the 
 now familiar beauties of the plays. One looks in vain 
 even for the famous passage on Beauty, (' If all the 
 pens that ever poets held,' <!kc., I. Act v., Sc. 1), for the 
 Zenocraie rhapsody (II., ii. 4), and the like. Lamb 
 found it as difficult (or rather much more) to cull a few 
 sane lines from this as 'from the preceding play,' i.e., 
 from ' Lust's Dominion ! ' {see note on Extract XXIV). 
 
 P. 34, 23 : ' And blow the morning from their 
 nosterils,' old eds. 'nostrils'; cp. 'As monstrous as 
 Gorgon Prince of Hell,' (Tamb. I., Act iv., So. 1, 8). 
 The trisyllabic form, necessarj' for the scansion, occurs 
 in the 1605-6 edition. 
 
 P. 34, 24: 'clouds,' old eds. 'glades,' for which 
 there is no authority. 
 VIII. FAUSTUS, acted probably in 1588 ; printed 1604, 
 
 1609, 1616, &c. The third 4to. contains scenes wholly 
 re-wi-itten or added for the first time. The first and 
 second 4tos represent the truer version of the play. 
 Lamb's Extract was derived from the 1624 ed., i.e., an 
 edition based on the 1616 text ; this has been now 
 corrected for the most part by the earlier editions. The 
 present text differs from Lamb's in a large number of 
 points. 
 
 The following are noteworthy : — p. 35, 16, &c. : 
 ' Wittenberg ' for ' Wirtenberg,' though the latter is 
 the reading of the earlier 4tos ; p. 36, 11 ; ' On cai me 
 on ' ; Mr Bullen's brilliant emendation for ' oeconomy,' 
 of the later. The 1604 ed. reads: 'Oncaymseon,' an 
 obvious corruption, now that the true reading has been 
 fixed, of the Aristotelian 6v ku'l /xt) 6v (' being and not 
 being '). 37, 28 : ' silk ' ; Dyce's suggestion for the old 
 reading ' skill.' 
 
 P. 42, 11. 15-39. This passage does not occur in the 
 early 4tos, but it is probably genuine. 
 
 There is a curiously interesting passage on ' Faust ' 
 in one of Lamb's Letters to Ainsworth (dated Dec. 9th, 
 1823): — "I thoroughly agree with you as to 'The 
 German Faust,' as far as I can do justice to it from an 
 English translation. 'Tis a disagreeable canting tale of 
 seduction, which has nothing to do with the spirit of 
 Faustus — curiosity. Was the , dark secret to be 
 explored to end in the seducing of a weak girl, which 
 might have been accomplished by earthly agency? 
 When Marlowe gives his Faustus a mistress, he flies him
 
 NOTES. 293 
 
 at Helen, flower of Greece, to be sure, and not at Miss 
 Betsy, or Miss Sally Thoughtless. 
 
 ' Cut is the branch that bore the goodly fruit. 
 
 And withered is Apollo's laurel tree : {sic.) 
 
 Faustus is dead.' (*'iV.) 
 
 What a noble natural trarusition from metaphor to 
 plain speaking ! As if the figurative had flagged in 
 description of such a loss, and was reduced to tell the 
 fact simply." 
 
 THE JEW OF MALTA, first pei-foi-med after 'the IX. 
 death of the Guise,' 2-3rd December, 1588 ; first published 
 in 1633, edited by T. Heywood ; from the Introductory 
 Epistle we learn that AllejTi plaj-ed the part of Barabas. 
 Marlowe cannot be held guilty of all the grotesque 
 buffoonery which disfigures the latter half of the play, 
 more especially the scenes with Bellamira and Pilia 
 Borsa. A feeble travesty of Marlowe's famous ditty 
 ' Come live with me and be my love,' occurs in Act iv. 
 scene 4. : — 
 
 ' The meads, the orchards, and the primrose lanes, 
 Instead of sedge and reed, bear sugar-canes ; 
 Thou in these groves, by Dis above, 
 Shalt live with me, and be my love.' 
 
 The Extracts are both from the First Scene of the 
 First Act, and are ' the very salt ' of tlie play. In 
 a letter to Southey in 1798, Lamb had already called 
 attention to certain striking passages. The reference 
 in the note (' wo write plays to flatter it ') was probably 
 to Cumberland's play of The Jew, 1794. 
 
 P. 44, 1. 4: 'As to those Sabans ' ; Mr Bullen's 
 emendation for ' Samnites,' the reading of modern 
 editors for ' Samintes ' of the old eds. Leigh Hunt 
 ('Imagination and Fancy') has an ingenious comment on 
 ' Samnites' and '3fen of Uz,' and ' .Spanish oils' : — ' That 
 is to say, countrymen and contemporaries of old Rome, 
 of Arabian Job, and the modern Spanish merchants ! 
 Marlowe, though he was a scholar, cared no more for 
 geography and consistent history than Shakesjaeare, &c.' 
 
 P. 44, 6 : 'silverlings ' ; Dyce's suggestion for old eds., 
 'silverbings.' 
 
 EDWARD II, proliably acted 1590 ; printed 1594 (8vo. X. 
 and 4to. eds)., 1598, 1612, &c. ; the editions differ but 
 slightly. Lamb's remark ' on the reluctant pangs of 
 abdicating Royalty ' has been often enough discussed 
 by subsequent critics. It is now generally accepted 
 that Shakespeare's Richard owes much to Marlowe's
 
 294 NOTES. 
 
 Edvard, the first Ent^lish historical drama, as opposed 
 to the earlier crude chronicle plays. 
 
 P. 49, 15: 'borderers,' old eds. 'brothers' (without 
 iuithority). 
 
 P. 50, "19 : ' cloy,' old eds. ' claw' ; 50, 21 : old eds. 
 ' Full oft am I soaring up to high heaven.' 
 
 P. 53, 15 : ' dropped,' old eds. ' drop.' 
 
 P. 54, 3: 'Gone, gone, and do I remain?' old eds. 
 ' and do I still remain alive ' ; there is no authority for the 
 insertion of ' still ' ; ed. 1598 : ' do I remain ahve ' ; the 
 reading of the later 4tos is, I think, to be preferred ; 
 the omission of ' alive ' adds much to the strength of 
 the line, and presents no particular difficulty as far as 
 the scansion of the line is concerned — two monosyllabic 
 feet followed by a syllabic pause : — 
 
 Gone ! | g6ne ! | « and | do I' | remc'tin ? | 
 
 It is almost unnecessary to remind Lamb's readers 
 that the name of the villain in the ' miniature romance ' 
 of Rosamond Gray, Matravis, is derived from this play 
 of Marlowe's. 
 
 George Peele (c. 1558-c.1597). 
 
 XI. -XIV. THE ARRAIGNMENT OF PARIS, pubUshed anony- 
 
 mously in 1584 ; the authorship is known from Nash's 
 preface to Greene's Menaphon (1589), wherein Peele is 
 styled 'the Atlas of Poeti-ie and jjrimus verhorum artifex' ; 
 as regards the Arrai<j,iment, Nash considers ' he goeth a 
 step beyond all that write.' 
 
 P. 55, 7 : 'water-flowers,' old eds. 'watery flowers' ; 
 55, 35 : ' take in worth,' i.e., ' take in good part.' 
 
 P. 56, 2 ; the capitals are Lamb's. 
 
 P. 57, 4: 'Phorcj's,' old eds. ' Phorcias ' ; ' trick ' = 
 'trim'; 57, 8: 'nones,' old eds. 'nonce'; 57, 12: 
 Queen Ceres,' old eds. ' Queen Pluto.' 
 
 P. 58, 19: 'to my esteemed friend, &c., V.N.' i.e., 
 Vincent Novello, Lamb's ' dear Fugueist,' Cowden 
 Clarke's father-in-law. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF ALCAZAR, pubhshed anonymously 
 in 1594 ; described by Lamb as savouring strongly of 
 Marlowe, but by an unknown author. Peele's author- 
 ship is now known ; quotations occur in EnglancVs 
 Parmmus (1600) and are there assigned to ' G. Peele' ; 
 the play was obviously written to satisfy the demand 
 for plays of the Tamburlaine tyi^e." 
 
 P. 59, 3 : ' for a princess meet,' old eds. ' a princess' 
 meat.'
 
 NOTES. 295 
 
 DAVID AND BETHSABE, first printed in 1599. The 
 play has been praised extravagantly by some critics for 
 its rich sweetness ; it has been condemned by others as 
 ' a mess of cloying sugar-plums. ' Lamb, notwithstand- 
 ing his curt dismissal of the play in the ' Specimens,' 
 could not resist a second surfeit, and Extract XIV. 
 (from the ' Garrick Plays ') is perhaps the most dignified 
 passage in the whole play. Peele's Old Wivfs Tales 
 (1595) is unfortunately unrepresented. There was no 
 copy of the extremely scarce 4to in the Garrick collection. 
 
 P. 60, 6 : 'cause of my mourning,' old eds. 'cause of 
 mourning ' ; 60, 13 : ' thy,' old eds. ' the ' (Dyce's correc- 
 tion). 
 
 P. 62, 1 : 'carry,' old eds. ' carries '; 62, 26: 'the poor 
 man's store'; old eds. 'partly, poor man's store,' the 
 reading of the 4to ; the line is corrupt ; the present 
 emendation possibly restores the true reading. 
 
 P. 64, 5: 'flowering,' old eds. 'flowing'; 64, 19: 
 'sovereign's face,' old eds. ' Sovereign.' 
 
 P. 65, 13 : ' pure,' old eds. ' sure.' 
 
 Thoalvs Lodge (c. 1558-1625). 
 Robert Greene (c. 1560-1592.) 
 
 The Extract from The Looking-glass for England and XV. 
 London (printed 1594, 1598, 1602) does not adequately 
 represent Greene's powers as a dramatist. It is a pity 
 that Lamb had not read his Friar Bacon : the charming 
 love-scenes would have afforded him some delightful 
 extracts ; a passage or two from Alpkonsusojin Orla/tdo 
 would have been at least as welcome as the Extract from 
 Peele's Alcazar. 
 
 P. 66, 15 : 'rest,' old eds. 'jest' ; 66, 39 : ' Cynthia^s 
 fere,' i.e., 'mate, companion': old eds. 'C3nthia's 
 sphere ' ; an ingenious reading, for which, however, 
 there does not seem any authority. 
 
 Thomas Kyd (c. 1557-c.l595). 
 
 THE SPANISH TRAGEDY, composed probably 1588, XVI. 
 first printed in 1592 : of this earliest edifion no copy is 
 extant ; it was published again in 1594, ' newly cor- 
 rected and amended of such grosse faults as passed in 
 the first impression ' ; several other editions were 
 issued, the 'additions' to the drama, quoted by 
 Lamb, first appearing in the 4to of 1602. The evi- 
 dence of the entry in llenslowe's diary, referring the
 
 296 NOTKS. 
 
 ' additions ' to Joiison, cannot be gainsaid, though 
 Lamb's scepticism as to his authorshii> of the scenes 
 is well founded, fnjin the point of view of stylo. It must 
 be remembered that Jonson's earliest tragic composi- 
 tions (e.g., Richard Crookback) have not come down to 
 us. The pLay was the object of ridicule to all the 
 writers of the time, and it is noteworthy that Jonson 
 himself scoffs at ' the old Uieronimo, as it teas first acted,' 
 in the Iiuhiction to his Cynthia's Revels. 
 
 V. 68, 14 : 
 ' And his great mind, too full of honour, 
 Took him us to mercy, that valiant but ignoble Portin- 
 
 gale.' 
 So the better texts ; old eds. : — 
 
 'And his great mind, too full of honour, took 
 To mercy that valiant but ignoble Portuguese.' 
 
 XVII. The first 4to of this noble tragedy was printed in 
 
 1592, with the following title : — The Lamcidahie and True 
 Tru'jedie of M. Arden of Feversham in Kent, vho vas 
 most wickedlye murdered, by means of his disloyall and 
 tvautonu-yfe, who for the lone she bare to one Mosbie, hyred 
 tico desperai 7-ujfins Blachtvile and Shalcbag to kill him. 
 Wherein is shewed the great malice and discimulatiou of a 
 Kicked woman, tlie unsutiable desire of filthie lust, and the 
 shainefull end of all mvrderers. Subsequent editions 
 appeared in 1.599, 1633. In 1770 a fourth edition was 
 published by Edward Jacob, a Faversham Antiquary, 
 with a preface imputing the play to Shakespeare. 
 Among modern critics Mr Swinburne inclines to the 
 same view, while Mr BuUsn (in his reprint of the 1592 
 4to) admits the probability of Shakespeare's revision 
 and correction of an older version. The play, based on 
 the records of English crime, is undoubtedly the finest 
 example of Elizabethan Domestic Tragedy. Another 
 example is Yarrington's Ti'-o Tragedies in One [see 
 Extract XXI.), clearly modelled on Arden. It is im- 
 possible to write of the play without recalling Mr 
 Swinburne's gloi-ious sonnet : — 
 
 ' Mother whose womb brought forth our man of 
 
 men, 
 Was it thy son's young passion-guided pen. ..." 
 
 P. 74, 3 : ' Such deep j;(r7/(rtim ' ; this word has 
 hitherto proved the crux of the play. ' Deep-fet airs," 
 ' deep-fet sighs,' &c., have been suggested. I am 
 inclined to think that no emendation is necessary.
 
 NOTES. 297 
 
 'Pathaire ' I take to be some special form of ' petarre,' 
 i.e., ' petard, ' probably used in the metaphorical sense 
 of 'passionate outburst.' 
 
 P. 75, 12 : ' But maddens me," old eds. ' but mads me 
 that ever, ' &c. 
 
 P. 76, 8 : ' Flowers do sometimes ' ; old eds. ' flowers 
 sometimes.' 
 
 P. 76, 17 : 'I assure,' old eds. ' I '11 assure.' 
 
 Heney Porter (fl. 1598). 
 
 THE PLEASANT HISTORY OF THE TWO XVIII. 
 ANGRY WOMEN OF ABINGTON 'with the humor- 
 ous mirth of Dick Coombes and Nicholas Proverbs, 
 two serving-men,' was published twice in 1599. 
 Nothing is known of the author ; he is possibly- 
 identical with a bachelor of music, of Christ Church, 
 Oxford. In the Prologue to the play, Porter alludes 
 to his poverty. Lamb Ls perhaps extravagant in his 
 praise of this ' pleasant Comedy,' but the ' To.o Angry 
 Women ' must have been a great discovery. 
 
 P. 78, 16 : ' flat, flat, God knows,' old eds. ' flat, flat, 
 and ne'er a word to say. ' 
 
 P. 79, 3 : ' oft,' old eds. ' often.' 79, 32 : ' Blushing.' 
 Lamb's characteristic letter to Hone in connection with 
 this Extract is extant and cannot be withheld : — 
 
 "Damnable erratum (can't you notice it?) in the 
 last Une but two of the last Extract in No. 9, Garrick 
 Plays — 
 
 ' Blushing forth golden hair and glorious red.' 
 A sun-bright line spoil'd. 
 Bluah for Blushinr/. 
 
 N.B. — The general number was excellent. Also a 
 few lines higher :— 
 
 ' Restrained Liberty attain'd is sweet ' 
 should have a fuU stop. 'Tis the end of the old man's 
 speech. These little blemishes kill such delicate things : 
 prose feeds on grosser punctuaUties. " 
 
 EDWARD III., first edition, anonymous, 1596 ; again XIX. 
 in 1599. Attributed to Shakespeare, without authority, 
 as early as 1656. The Countless Episodes, quoted in 
 the Extracts, contain many Shakespearian echoes, and 
 there is strong reason for the assignment to Shake- 
 'Speare of this portion of the play. The striking line
 
 298 NOTES. 
 
 (p. 84, 18) ' Lilies that fester, smell far worse than 
 weeds,' occvii-s again in Shakespeare's Sonnet, xciv. 10 ; 
 there is seemingly a direct allusion in the play to 
 Shakespeare's Lucrece, and many parallels occur to 
 passages in Shakespeare's undoubted plays, c.cj., p. 83, 
 o ; cp. 
 
 " It were as good 
 
 To pardon him that hath from nature stol'n 
 
 A man already made, as to remit 
 
 Their saucy sweetness, that do coin heav'n's image 
 
 In stamps that are forbid." — {Meamre for Mecwire, 
 ii. 4, 42-46). 
 
 P. 83, 7: 'you,' misprint for 'your'; 83, 20: 
 omitted in old eds. ; 83, 23 : 'therein guilty,' old eds. 
 'guilty therein'; 83, 29: 'beauties words,' old eds. 
 'beauty word'; 83, 31: 'made by,' old eds. 'made 
 in.' 
 
 P. 84, 16 : ' sheweth,' old eds. 'shews.' 
 
 XX. THE WARS OF CYRUS, Kinc, of Persia, against 
 Antiockus, King of Assi/ria, n-ith /he Tragical end of 
 Panthaa: planed hij the Children of Her Majesty s 
 Chapel. 4to, 1594, 
 
 P. 84, 4 : The unique copy in the Garrick collection 
 reads : — 
 
 " then you content, our Muse 
 That seems to trouble you again, &c." 
 Lamb ' scorns. ' 
 
 P. 84, 30 : Lamb's ingenious punctuation and in- 
 terpretation of the line seems unnecessary ; the reading 
 of the 4to is quite clear, (with a full stop at do, which is 
 omitted) : — 
 
 " As trash of their tradition, that can bring 
 Nor instance nor excuse for what they do." 
 
 Robert Yarrington (fl, 1600). 
 
 XXI. TWO LAMENTABLE TRAGEDIES ; the one, of the 
 Murther of MaMer Beech, a Chnndler, in Thames Street, 
 and his Boy, done hy Thomas Merry : the other of a 
 young Child, murthered in « Wood by tivo Ruffins, with 
 the consent of their Uncle. 4to, 1601. 
 
 The murder of Beech was a fertile subject for ballads 
 and plays of the period ; John Day and William 
 Haughton appear to have written a drama for Hens- 
 lowe on the subject, in 1599. Chettle began a play 
 called The Tragedy of the Orphans about the same date.
 
 NOTES. 299 
 
 Mr Fleay has suggested that ' Yamngton,' of whom 
 nothing is known, is a fictitious name, and that the 
 present play was made out of the two plays by Chettle, 
 Day, and Haughton. 
 
 P. 85, 9 : ' ure ' ; so the 4to ; Lamb, ' act' ; 85, 13, 
 refers to the music between the acts. 
 
 Heney Chettle (1562-C.1607). 
 Anthony Munday (1553-1633). 
 THEDOWNFALL OF ROBERT, Earl of Huntingdon,, XXII. 
 aftei-wards called Robin Hood of Merry Sherwood; uHh 
 his love to chaste Matilda, the Lord Fitzirater'g Daughter, 
 afterwards his fair Maid Marian. 4to, 1601. Anony- 
 mous. This play and its continuation, ' The Death of 
 Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, were formerly, without 
 authority, assigned to T. Heywood. They are now 
 known, from Henslowe's diary, to be by IMunday and 
 Chettle, 'The Dotrnfall,' being mainly by the former, 
 ' The Death ' by the two dramatists working together. 
 The part played by Skelton in ' The Doimfall ' is note- 
 worthy ; it has been suggested by Mr H. L. D. Ward, 
 in his most valuable discussion of the French Romance 
 of Fulk Fitz-Warin (Catalogue of Romances in the 
 British Museum, vol. i), that possibly the play was 
 reallv founded on a May-day pageant by Skelton ; the 
 value of the suggestion lies herein, that the patron 
 of Skelton's living at Diss, in Norfolk, was none other 
 than Robert, Lord Fitzwater, who had inherited the 
 lordship of Diss through his grandmother, the last of 
 the old Fitz-Waters. No one was more likely than 
 Skelton to devise a new Robin Hood pageant for his 
 old pupil, Henry VIII. In the play, the piece is re- 
 hearsed with a view to performing it before the 
 monarch. (Cp. Extract CXLI., and note thereon.) 
 
 P. 88, 19 : This line has been interpolated ; 
 omitted in old eds. 88, 22 : ' lightning's fire,' old eds. 
 'light fire.' 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF HOFFMANN : Or, A Revenge XXIII. 
 for a Father. 4to, 1631. Anonymous. Now known, from 
 Henslowe's Diary, tobethe workof Chettle; actedin 1602. 
 
 P. 89, 5: 'Sax'ny's tongue,' old eds. 'Saxon's 
 ton"-ue '; 89, 25 : ' foot of war,' old eds. ' foot of man ' ; 
 
 Pt 90, 15 : ' this same Hermit, old eds. 'this Hermit ' ; 
 90, 22 :' 'your,' old eds. ' they.' 
 
 P. 91, 2 : ' either,' old eds. ' any.'
 
 3i>0 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 XXIV. LUST'S DOMINION : or, The Lascivious Queen, pub- 
 lished in 1657, as a tragedy by Marlowe. In the old 
 eds. of the 'Specimens' it precedes Tandurlaine (cp. 
 note to Extract VII.); the play in its present form 
 contains references to historical events that happened 
 after Marlowe's death. It is possibly, though doubt- 
 fully, identical with T/ie S2)anijik Moors Tnujedii (1600) 
 by Haughton, Day, and Dekker. The best' scenes re- 
 mind one of Dekker. It is possible that Lust's Dominion 
 is a revision of an older [play, written soon after Mar- 
 lowe's ^¥?ra)-rf //. The pa-ssagc quoted on page 92, U. 
 24-30 is clearly a Marlowan reminiscence (cp. p. 47. 
 11. 7-14). 
 
 XXV. THE WISDOM OF DR DODIPOLL : o.s it hath been 
 sundry times acted hy the Children of St Paul's. 4to, 1600. 
 Anonymous. The first six lines of Peele's song, ' ' What 
 is Love," from the lost pastoral, The Hunting of Cupid, 
 occurs in the play, immediately before the passage on 
 page 95, describing a Cameo. 
 
 Nothing is known of the authorship of the play ; 
 reniiniscenccs of Shakespeare's earlier plays, Romeo 
 and Juliet ami Midsummer Night's Dream in par- 
 ticular, are readily detected : e.<j. , p. 93, 5, cp. Romeo 
 and Juliet iii. 2, 23 : — 
 
 " Take him and cut him out in little stars," &c. 
 P. 96, 27, cp. Midsummer Night's Dream, ii. 1, 15 : — 
 "And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear." 
 
 Mr Bullen has gratified the readers of Lamb's 
 Extracts by printing the entire play, but, as he justly 
 remarks in his Preface, ' Dr Dodypol affords a curious 
 illustration of the astounding inequality in the work of 
 old dramatists.' The panegyric on Painting has called 
 forth the unstinted admiration of many readers ; while 
 Mr Swinburne has described it as ' the most lovely and 
 fervid of all imaginative panegyrics,' and has celebrated 
 its nameless poet, 'that sweet-tongued shadow,' in 
 one of his matchless sonnets.* 
 
 In the old 4to the directions at the opening of the play 
 are as follows : — ' A curtain drawn. Earl Lassenhcrgh is 
 discovered {like a painter), -painting Lucilia, who sits 
 workijig on a piece of cushion work.' 
 
 P. 94. 7 : 'ground,' old eds. 'jart' ; 94, 27: 'With 
 so sweet,' old eds. ' with thy so sweet ' ; 94, 35 : Mr 
 Bullen reads ' adoring ' ; but ' adorn ' for ' adore ' is 
 
 * Sonnets of the Dramatists, XVII.
 
 NOTES. 301 
 
 not uncommon in Old English ; 94, 41 : ' ruby, old 
 eds. 'rosy.' 
 
 P. 95, 11. 4-14 : In the original these lines form 
 a dialogue between Flores (the Jeweller) and Lord 
 Alberdure ; 1. 11 : old eds. omit 'my lord,' 4to 'my 
 lords;' 95, 20: 'No,' 4to. 'Ne'; 95, 21: 'close,' so 
 4to ; Bullen ' ? cliff ' ; hut ' close ' = ' mountaiia - pass ' ; 
 95, 30 ; ' my son-ow'd, tired limbs,' 4to, ' sorrowed tired,' 
 Bullen ' sorrow-tired ' ; but cp. 'their sorrowed render,' 
 Timon, v. 2 ; 95, 32 : 4to, 'no way ' ; 95, 33 : 'unpleased \ ; 
 Bullen ' displeased ' ; but ' unfit . . . unpleased ' is 
 obviously preferable. 
 
 96, 36 : ' you ' ; so 4to ; old eds. ' thee ' ; 96, 37 : ' thy,' 
 old eds. ' this.' 
 
 JACK DRUM'S ENTERTAINMENT, or, the Comedy XXVI. 
 of Pasqidl and Katharine. As it hath been sundry times 
 jihu/ed by the Children of St Paul's. 4to, 1601. Anony- 
 mous. 
 
 According to E. Pudseye's Note-book, written in the 
 early part of the seventeenth century, this drama was 
 by .John Marston (see Halliwell-PhilHpp's sale catalogue. 
 July 1889, No. 1257), whose hand is clearly discern- 
 ible throughout the play. Certain passages therein 
 are ridiculed in the Poetaster, and it seems probable 
 that the dramatis personce represent, under a thin 
 disguise, Jonson, and other wi-iters of the day. Mr 
 Fleay identifies Sir Edward Fortune, knight, with 
 Edward Allej-n, who was then building the Fortune 
 Theatre ; the agreement was made 8th January 1600. 
 
 SIR GILES GOOSE-CAP, KNIGHT : A Comedy pre- XXVIL 
 sented by tfie Children of the C/oapel ; pubUshed anony- 
 mously in 1606, 1636 ; in the second edition the author 
 is said to be then dead. From the point of view of 
 style, there is good reason for assigning the play to 
 Chapman, who was early connected with the ' Children 
 of the Chapel.' 
 
 John Tomkins (fl. 1598-1614). 
 
 LINGUA, or the Combat of the Tongue and thefiveSenses XXVIII. 
 ferr Superiority : A pleasant Comedy. 4to, 1607. Anony- 
 mous. Formerly attributed to Antony Brewer, but 
 now definitely known to be by John Tomkins, the 
 author of AWamazar, who was Scholar of Trinity, 
 Cambridge, 1594-98. The play was probably written
 
 302 NOTES. 
 
 early in 1603, after James' accession. There is a 
 doubtful tradition that, on its heing performed at 
 Trinity, Oliver Cromwell acted the part of Tactus in 
 it, ' from which he first imbibed his sentiments of 
 ambition.' This cannot of coui-se refer to the original 
 performance, when Cromwell was about three years 
 old. Mr Fleay has an ingenious theory that the play 
 was first performed at ' the matchless entertainment ' 
 given at liinchinbrook before James I., by Cromwell's 
 uncle, when the heads of the University came to meet 
 the king on his entrance-journey to London ; if so, it is 
 not unlikely that on this occasion the part of Small 
 Beer, consisting of two words only, ' Beer forsooth ! 
 Beer forsooth ! ' was taken by the tlirce-year-old 
 youngster. 
 
 XXIX. THE MERRY DEVIL OF EDMONTON : as it hath 
 
 been sundri/ times acted by his Majesty's ser cants, at the 
 Globe oil the Banhnde. 4to, 1608, 1612, &c. Anonymous. 
 No evidence has as yet been discovered as to its author- 
 ship ; the play has been variously assigned to 
 Shakespeare, Drayton, and Heywood. As far as 
 Drayton's claims are concerned, Mr Fleay ingeniously 
 maintains his authorship of the piece, but the problem 
 canr;ot be considered finally solved. Drayton was 
 certainly writing for the stage between 1597 and 1602, 
 though he never allowed his name to appear in print as 
 an author for the stage (cp. Chronicle History, vol. i. , 
 p. 152). Written probably about 1597, the comedy soon 
 became one of the most popular productions of the 
 time. Jonson, in his Prologue to The Devil is an Ass, 
 refers to it enthusiastically : — 
 
 ' And show this but the same face you have done 
 Your dear delight, the Devil of Edmonton ! ' 
 
 The charm of the play has certainly never been more 
 delightfully expressed than by Mr S^vinburne in his 
 eighteenth Sonnet : — 
 
 ' And that sweet pageant of the kindly fiend. 
 
 Who, seeing three friends in spirit and heart 
 made one, 
 Crowned with good hap the true-love wiles he 
 screened 
 In the pleached lanes of pleafiant Edmonton.' 
 
 Lamb evidently used Dodsley's edition (1744) of the 
 text, which was in its turn based on an edition
 
 NOTES. 303 
 
 published in 16.35. The following are among the more 
 important emendations : — 
 
 P. 101, 1 : 'my Clare' (Hazlitt's suggestion) for 'by 
 Clare,' the old reading; 101, 20: 'brined,' old eds. 
 brinish ; 104, 10 : ' your haj)py soul,' old eds. ' your 
 soul ; ' 104, 25 : ' toll,' old eds. ' tell ; ' 105, 9 : ' bid your 
 beads ; ' old eds. ' bind.' 
 
 LODOWICK BaRBY [temp. James I.). 
 
 RAM ALLEY ; or Merry Tricks; a Comedy divers times XXX. 
 heretofore acted bi/ the Children of the King's Bevels. 4to, 
 1611. Probably first performed Christmas 1609-10. The 
 'home-bred mirth,' for which apology is made in the 
 Prologue, is the Author's euphemism for the extreme 
 coarseness of his production. 
 
 Samuel Daniel (1562-1619). 
 
 TETHYS FESTIVAL: or the Queens Wake; celehrated XXXI. 
 at Whitehall the 5th day of June 1610. Devised by S.D. 
 one of the grooms of her Majesty's most Honourable Privy 
 Chamber. 4to, 1610. Written and performed to cele- 
 brate the Creation of King James's eldest son Heniy as 
 Prince of Wales. 
 
 HYMEN'S TRIUMPH ; A Pastoral Tragi-Comedy. XXXIL 
 Presented at the Queen's Court in the Strand at her 
 Majesty's magnifice/it entertainment of the King's most ex- 
 cellent Majesty, being at the nuptials of the Lord Roxbrovgh. 
 By Samuel Daniel. 8vo, 1615. 
 
 In Chapter XVIII. of Coleridge's Biographia Liferaria 
 there is the famous criticism on Daniel and special refer- 
 ence to this ' fine and almost faultless Extract, eminent 
 as for other beauties so for its perfection in this species 
 of diction,' {i.e., that style, which, as neutral ground 
 of jDrose and verse, is common to both). Daniel must 
 have been among Lamb's earliest Elizabethan friends. 
 Ab'eady in ' Rosamond Gray ' he quotes the lines at the 
 beginning of the Extract entitled ' Love in Infancy.' 
 
 P. 106, 31 : 'length,' old eds. ' lengthen' ; 108, 37 : 
 'sudden,' old eds. 'suddenly'; 108, 41: 'name of 
 woman,' old eds. ' name of a woman ' ; 109, 3 : ' these,' 
 old eds. ' those ' ; 109, 36 : ' dear mother, hear, it is for 
 me,' old eds. ' dear mother, it's for me ' ; 109, 39 : ' thy ; ' 
 old eds. ' the ' ; 110, 35 : ' rapt ' ; old eds. ' wrapt.'
 
 304 NOTES. 
 
 Ben Jonson (1573-1635). 
 
 XXXIII.- THE CASE IS ALTERED (1598-9). 4to, 1609. Poet- 
 XL. aster, or Ills Arraignment, A Comical Satire (1601). 4to, 
 
 1602. Sejanm, His Fall; A Traejechi (1603). 4to, 1605. 
 Volj)one,'or the Fox: A Comedii (1605). 4to, 1607. Cati- 
 line, His Conitpiracy, A Tragedy (1611). 4to, 1611. The 
 Alchemist, A Comedy (1610). 4to, 1612. TJie ^^ew Inn, 
 or The Light Heo.rt (1629). Svo, 1631. The Sad Shepherd, 
 or A Tale of Rohin Hood (fragment), fol. 1641. 
 
 Lamb's Extracts from the old editions of the plays 
 have been corrected throughout ; the minute corrections, 
 for tlie most part unimportant, need not be specified. 
 \Nota bene. — (p. 148), Extract XXXIX. should precede 
 Extract XXXVI II. ; the final sentence in the Note at the 
 end of The New Inn refers to the passages quoted from 
 The Alchemist. In this particular case the chrono- 
 logical arrangement of the plays should have been 
 sacrificed.] 
 
 Lamb's criticism on Jonson's genius is intentionally 
 meagre ; his business was rather with the less known of 
 Shakespeare's contemporaries. He wisely eschewed to 
 bring the drama of Jonson into comparisons of rivalry 
 with the Shakespearian. As Coleridge finely puts it — 
 ' This should not be. Let its inferiority to the Shake- 
 spearian be at once fairly owned, but, at the same time, 
 as the inferiority of an altogether different genius of the 
 clrama. On this grovmd old Ben still maintains his 
 proud height. He, no less than Shakespeare, stands on 
 the summit of his hill, and looks round him like a 
 master, — though his be Lattrig and Shakespeare's 
 Skiddaw.' 
 
 George Chapman (1557 or 9-1634). 
 
 XLI.- BUSSY D'AMBOIS, A TRAGEDY. 4to, 1607 ('re- 
 
 XLIX. visedby the Author,' 1641). All Fools. 4to, 1605. The 
 
 Gentleman Usher. 4to, l606. Cccsar and Pompey, A 
 Roman Tragedy, declaring their tears out of n-hose events is 
 evicted this proposition — Only a just man is a free man,4to. 
 1631. The Conspiracy, and Tragedy of Charle,-<, Duke of 
 Byron, Marshall of France ; ' .A^cted lately in two 
 Piays ; ' 4to, 1608. The Revenge of Bussy d'Ambois. 4to, 
 1613. 
 
 George Chapman and James Shirley. 
 
 L.-LI. THE TRAGEDY OF CB.ABOT 'Admiral of France; 
 
 4to, 1639. 
 
 Lamb's selections from Chapman, all from
 
 NOTES. 305 
 
 the 4to editions in the ' Garrick Collection ' were fairly 
 correct. The following corrections in the present 
 edition may be noted : — p. 151, 23 : old eds. ' other's 
 spirit ' ; 155, 4 : old eds. ' tries clink ' ; 156, 1 : old eds. 
 'the' (for 'ye'); 157, 27: old eds. 'man'; 158, 23: 
 old eds. ' I step me ' ; 161, 22 : old eds. ' in aii- ' ; 161, 27 : 
 old eds. ' when our,' for ' therefore when our '; 162, 20 : 
 old eds. ' Faint' ; 162, 27 : old eds. ' those invocations '; 
 167, 23 : old eds. ' both possess' ; 172, 2: old eds. 'swearer'; 
 178, 23 : old eds. ' in vapoiu-,' &c. 
 
 Lamb's Adventures of Ulysses appeared in the same 
 year as the famous panegyric on Chapman (p. 170), at 
 the end of Extraet XLVIII. In the preface to The Ad- 
 ventures he wrote : — 
 
 " If I were to state the obligations which I have had 
 to one obsolete version, I should have run the hazard 
 of depriving myself of the very slender degree of 
 reputation which I would hope to acquire from a trifle 
 like the present undertaking. " Years after, in a letter 
 to Bernard Barton, he again gave vent to his admiration 
 for the great translator :—" You like the Odyssey. 
 Did you over read my ' Adventiu-es of Ulysses,' founded 
 on Chapman's old translation for children or men? 
 Chapman is divine ; and my abridgment has not quite 
 emptied him of his divinity." 
 
 John Maeston (c. 1575-1634). 
 
 THEHISTORYOF ANTONIO and MELLIDA ; Tlte LIL- 
 First Part, 1602. Antonio's Revmge, ; The Secoml Part of ^ v 111. 
 A. and M., 1602. The Malcontent, 1604 (three eds. ; the 
 third, ' Augmented by M. with the additions ... by 
 John Webster "j. Parasitaster, or, The Faicn, 1606 (two 
 eds.). The Wonder of Women, oi; The Tragedy of 
 Sophonisba, 1606. What you Will, 1607. The Insatiate 
 Countess, 1613.* 
 
 In these selections, Lamb has done Marston more 
 than justice. Mr BuUen, in his excellent edition of 
 Marston's Works, referring to Extract LII,, rightly 
 
 * Tliis play was not Included in the 1633 edition of Marston's 
 plays. It is the opinion of Marston's latest editor that the 
 tragedy was left In a fragmentary state, and was completed by 
 the a«tor Barksteed, in whose poem Myrrha arc found the two 
 picturesque lines that occur at the close of the last scene of 
 the play : — 
 
 NlRht, like a masriuc, is entcr'd heav'n's great hall, 
 With thousand torches usherinR the way. 
 
 (Bdllen, Makston, p. xlL-i.
 
 306 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 observes :—" That scene deserves the eloquent praise 
 that it recoivotl at the hands of Lamb ; and if Alarston 
 had been able to keep tlio rest of the play at tlial, level, 
 the Fiivt Pari of Aufoido and MclUda would rank with 
 the masterpieces of Webster. But what is to bo said of 
 a writer, who, in describing a shipwreck, gives us such 
 lines as the following : — 
 
 ' Lo ! the sea grew mad, 
 His bowels rumbling with wind-passion ; 
 Straight swarthy darkness popp'd out Phccbus' eye, 
 And blurred the jocund face of bright-cheek'd day,'&c. 
 
 This is hardly a fair specimen of Marston's powers, 
 but it exhibits to perfection his besetting fault of 
 ' straining his style a peg too high ; of seeking to be 
 
 impressive by the use of exaggerated and unnatural 
 imagery. When he disencumbers himself of this fatal 
 habit his verse is clear and massive," &c. 
 
 P. 180_, 7: 'open' ; so old eds. ; properly 'chaune,' 
 the reading of the 4tos ; the word was evidently too 
 archaic for Lamb ; 180, 28; 'spoke,' old eds. 'speak' ; 
 183,32: 'cleaves,' old eds. ' cleare ' ; 186, 23: 'pain,' 
 old eds. ' pierce ' ; 188, 5 : old eds. ' From half-rot sear- 
 cloths ; and she,' &c. ; 190, 19 : ' hot philosophers ' ; so 
 old eds. ; the 4tos read ' ho philosophers ' (cp. Bullen). 
 
 Thomas Dekkek (?1570-?146i). 
 
 LIX. - OLD FORTUNATUS, 1600 ; Satlro-masih; or, The Un 
 
 LXIIL imssinf/of the Ilvmorm'jt Poet, 1602. The Ilo/iest Whore, 
 
 with tkehv.mours of the Patient Man and the Longinfi Wife 
 (Part I.), 'by Thomas Dekker, assisted by Thomas 
 Middleton,' 1604 ; Part II., 1630. 
 
 Thomas Dekker and John Webster, 
 LXIV. WESTWARD HOE, a.f /;; hath been divers times acted 
 
 Iji) the Children of Paul's, 1607. 
 
 Lamb's final verdict on Dekker finds expression in a 
 note to a later Extract, from The Virgin Marti/r (vol. ii. 
 p. 167) : — "Dekker, who wrote Fortunatus, had poetry 
 enough for anything." It might well be added that 
 when the Muses dowered him so richly, wayward Fortune 
 denied him power to exercise his gifts save at rare 
 intervals. Much of Dekker's work contains mere dross ; 
 the residuum of gold is precious indeed. Lamb's 
 enthusiasm for the character of Qrleans (]>. 199) is by 
 some critics considered excessive ; on the other hand, 
 Jlr Swinburne, in his eloquent study of Dekker, (Nine-
 
 NOTES. 307 
 
 teenth Ceniv.ry, 1887), holds that "even Lamb was for 
 once less than just when he said of the ' frantic love ' 
 in Old Fortunatus that ' he talks pure Eiron and 
 Eomeo, he is almost as poetical as they.' The word 
 ' almost ' should be supplanted by the word ' fully ' ; 
 and the criticism would then be no less adequate than 
 apt. Sidney himself might have applauded the verses 
 which clothe with living music a passion as fervent and 
 as fieiy a fancy as his own." 
 P. 195, 39 : ' mine ears,' old eds. ' mine years.' 
 P. 198, 35 : ' destiny ' ; Mr Swinburne's brilliant 
 emendation ' disdain ' restores the line to its original 
 beauty : — ' melting against the sun of thy disdain.' 
 P. 202, 28 : 'poisoned,' old eds. ' poison.' 
 
 Thomas Heywood (c. 1573-C.1641). 
 
 A WOMAN KILLED WITH KINDNESS (acted 1603), LXV.- 
 printed 1607. The Fair Maid at the Exchange, with the LXXV. 
 pleasant Humours of the Cripple of Fenchurch, 1607. The 
 Golden Age, or, The Lives of Jiifiier and Saturn, n-ith 
 the defining of the Heathen Gods, 1611. The Silver Age, 
 including the love of Jupiter to Alcmena : the Miih of 
 Hercules, and the Rape of Proserpine, conchiding with 
 the Arraignmeyit of the Moon, 1613. The Brazen Age, The 
 First Act, containing the Death of the Centa%ir Nessus ; The 
 Second, The Tragedy of Meleager ; The Third, The 
 Tragedy of Jason and Medea ; The Fourth, Vulcan's Net; 
 The Fifth, The Laboiirs and Death of Hercules, 1613. 
 The Moyal King and The Loyal Subject: 'a tragi- 
 comedy by Thomas Hey wood, assisted by Wentworth 
 Smith,' 1637. The Fuglish Traveller, 1633. A Challenge 
 for Beauty, 1636. 
 
 Thomas Hetwood and William Rowley 
 (c. 1585-C.1631). 
 
 FORTUNE BY LAND AND SEA : ' a tragi-comedy. LXXVI. 
 As it was acted with great applause by the Queen's 
 servants,' 1655. 
 
 Thomas Hetwood and Richard Broome. 
 
 THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES : A Co^nedy^ LXXVII.- 
 by T. H. and R. B., 1634. ' LXXVIII. 
 
 Other plays erroneously attributed to Heywood in 
 the old editions are The Diichess of Suffolk {see CXLIII.), 
 and The Dcroynfall of llohert. Earl of Huntingdon (see 
 CXXII.) ; there is very good reason to doubt Heywood's
 
 308 NOTES. 
 
 authorship of The Faire Maid of the Exchange; the play 
 was published anonyniouslj', and on verj' slender gi'ound 
 has been attributed to II ey wood [aee Fleay, ' English 
 Drama,' p. 230). 
 
 Lamb's description of Hey wood as 'a prose Shake- 
 speare ' is probably as brilliant a paradox as could be 
 found in his criticisms ; and if the task were imposed 
 on one to characterise in a word this most pi-olitic of 
 Elizabethan playwrights, Lamb's epigram would, I think, 
 admirably hit off the total impression his best work 
 leaves on the reader's mind. 'But,' as Dr Ward 
 obsen'es with reference to this particular phrase, ' to 
 be even a prose Shakespeare, Thomas Heywood lacked 
 that power of characterisation without which all re- 
 semblances to Shakespeare are merely superficial. . . . 
 Even in his two best serious dramas, it is the situations 
 rather than the characters as developed out of them 
 which engage our attention. A prose Shakespeare 
 would have made the erring wife and the imperturbably 
 loyal vassal figures which we could remember by them- 
 selves, living beings of whom we could say, thus, and 
 not otherwise, they must have acted ' (vol. ii. p. 130). 
 
 In one passage Lamb has, I think, shown overmuch 
 zeal for our poet, to wit, in his rapturous praise of the 
 ' touch of truest pathos, which the writer has put into 
 the mouth of Meleager,' — 
 
 And yd farewell I— [p. 225, 1. 22). 
 
 The passage runs as follows : — 
 
 ' Happy Anceus and Adonis blest. 
 You died with fame, and honour crowns your rest 
 My flame increaseth still ; Oh father CEneus, 
 And you Althea, whom I would call mother 
 But that my genius prompts me th'art unkind, 
 And yet farewell, Atlanta, beauteous maid, 
 I cannot speak my thoughts for tortiu-e, death. 
 Anguish and pains, &c. ' 
 
 Surely the 'yet' marks the climax of enumeration, 
 and implies 'furthermore, lastly,' and not 'neverthe- 
 less,' as Lamb would have it. It seems to me to have 
 little more than the force of the Latin ' etiam.' 
 ' Farewell ' belongs by sense to the previous clauses 
 ('QSneus' . . . 'and you Althea'), by 'podtion to the 
 third only. 
 
 P. 207, 19 : ' under yom- feet,' old eds, ' under feet ' ; 
 210, 4: 'a rebate wire,' i.e., 'a wire to stiffen or set
 
 NOTES. 309 
 
 a rebate, whicli was the name for a species of ruff worn 
 round the neck'; 212, 7: 'arrival,' read 'arrive,' as 
 1st 4to; 213, 5; 'hath forgiven His death,' old eds. 
 'hath for us given His death' ; 214, 22: 'wrote,' per- 
 haps better ' wTought,' so 1st 4to ; 218, 25 : ' sucklings ' 
 (so 4tos), old eds. ' striplings '; 219, 10 : interpolated in 
 this edition ; 219, 16 : ' the iields,' old eds. ' the trees' ; 
 219, 24 : the 1613 4to reads ' water-nymphs and sea- 
 gods ' ; 221, 30 : 'a modest blush ' (so 4to), old eds. 
 ' fear ' ; 228, 2 : ' in this age, ' old eds. ' in his age ' ; 
 237, 38: 'she was,' old eds. 'that she was;' 241, 14 : 
 ' I was not born to brook this,' interpolated in this ed. ; 
 242, 22: 'colour faU,' old eds. 'colom- pale'; 247, 
 25-2 8 : old eds. :— 
 
 ' My uncle has of late become the sole 
 
 Discourse of all the country ; for of a man respected 
 
 As master of a govern'd family,' &c. 
 
 Thomas Middleton (c. 1570-1627). 
 
 BLURT, MASTER-CONSTABLE or, The Spaniard's LXXIX.- 
 iXiffht-waU, 1602. A Chaste Maid in Cheapside, 1630. LXXXV. 
 2Iore Dissemblers besides Womeii, 1657. 
 
 *{S} 
 
 LiJce 
 
 A Woman's. A Comedy, by Thos. Middleton, Gent. 
 London, 1657. Women hcware Women, 1657. A Tragi- 
 comedy, called the Witch, long since acted by llis 
 Majesty's servants at the Blacl-friars, first printed from 
 a MS. by Isaac Reed in 1778. A Game at Chess (acted 
 in Jime 1624 ; early editions undated). 
 
 Thomas Middleton and William Rowley. 
 
 A FAIR QUARREL ; as it was acted before the King LXXXVI. 
 and dicers times 'publicly by the Prince his Highness ser- 
 vants, 1617. (Another edition with ' additions ' in the 
 same year). 
 
 In his Essay on ' the Sanity of true Genius, ' Lamb 
 again touches on the character of supernatural in 
 Shakespeare, expanding his criticism ' on the weird 
 sisters ' at the end of Middleton's Witch (p. 272) :— 
 ' Caliban, the witches are as true to the laws of their 
 own nature (our, with a difference) as Othello, Hamlet, 
 and Macbeth. Herein the great and the little wits
 
 310 NOTES. 
 
 are differenced ; that if the hxttor wander ever so 
 little from nature or actual existence, they lose them- 
 selves and their readers. Their phantoms are lawless ; 
 their visions nightmares. They do not create, which 
 implies shaping and consistency,' &c. (Cf. Lamb's 
 remarks on Rowley's ]Vilch of Edmonlon, vol. ii. p. 17.) 
 
 As regards the priority of Middleton's Witch and 
 Shakespeare's Macbeth, the evidence seems strongly in 
 favour of the latter play (cp. Bullen, Middleton, I., p. 
 liv.). 
 
 The more important differences between this and 
 the earlier editions occur in the extracts from The 
 Witch, e. g. :— p. 263, 9 : ' leek,' old eds. ' like ' ; 263, 22 : 
 ' Eleoselinum,' old eds. ' Eleaselinum ' ; 263, 25: 
 Acorum Vulgaretoo.'old eds. ' Acharum, Vulgaro.too ' ; 
 263, 26 : ' Pentaphillon," old eds. ' Dentaphillon ' ; 264, 
 5: 'sup,' old eds. 'soup'; 264, 8: 'dew-skirted,' old 
 eds. 'dew'd skirted'; 264, 10 : 'swathy,' old eds. 
 'swarthy'; 264, 11: 'sylvans,' old eds. 'silence'; 
 264,13 : 'spoorn,' old eds. 'spoon'; &c. Further, 274, 
 32: 'raise,' old eds. 'rise'; 275, 27: 'my belief,' old 
 eds. 'my grief; 275, 30: 'a firm faith,' old eds. 'a 
 firmness.' 
 
 TURNBULL AND SPEAKS, PRINTERS, EMNBUltGH.
 
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