Bian. Pray do not talk of aught what I have said t'ye. That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Cesa. As I wish health, I will not! [Pastoral Love.] [From the Faithful Shepherdess.'] TO CLORINDA a SATYR enters. Satyr. Through yon same bending plain And live therefore on this mould Here be grapes whose lusty blood Is the learned poet's good, Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown Than the squirrel whose teeth crack them; For these, black-eyed Driope Hath oftentimes commanded me With my clasped knee to climb. See how well the lusty time Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red, Here be berries for a queen, Some be red, some be green; The great god Pan himself doth eat: All these, and what the woods can yield, The hanging mountain or the field, I freely offer, and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong; Till when, humbly leave I take, Lest the great Pan do awake, From this rude man and beast!-sure I am mortal; The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal, And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink, My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair, PERIGOT and AMORET appoint to meet at the Virtuous Peri. Stay, gentle Amoret, thou fair-brow'd maid, Thy shepherd prays thee stay, that holds thee dear, Equal with his soul's good. Amo. Speak, I give Thee freedom, shepherd, and thy tongue be still As he whose conversation never knew Peri. When I fall off from my affection, Or mingle my clean thoughts with ill desires, Of ill is yet unknown, fall speedily, Amo. I pray thee, gentle shepherd, wish not so: I do believe thee, 'tis as hard for me To think thee false, and harder than for thee Peri. O you are fairer far Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star Head of an aged mountain, and more white Amo. Shepherd, be not lost, Y'are sail'd too far already from the coast Peri. Did you not tell me once I should not love alone, I should not lose Those many passions, vows, and holy oaths, I've sent to heaven? Did you not give your hand, Amo. Shepherd, so far as maiden's modesty Once more I give my hand; be ever free Peri. I take it as my best good; and desire, to that holy wood is consecrate By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn Hath crown'd the head of her long loved shepherd The GOD of the RIVER rises with AMORET in his arms. River God. What pow'rful charms my streams With such force, that I their god, On which there is no plaster bound; Yet she's warm, her pulses beat, If thou be'st a virgin pure, I must have this bleeding staid. Is at once to heal and draw. The blood returns. I never saw [do bring Amo. Who hath restor❜d my sense, given me new breath, And brought me back out of the arms of death! God. I have heal'd thy wounds. Amo. Ah me! God. Fear not him that succour'd thee: I am this fountain's god! Below, My waters to a river grow, And 'twixt two banks with osiers set, Through the meadows do they glide, In the cool stream shalt thou lie, I will give thee for thy food The Song. Do not fear to put thy feet Will bite thy foot, when thou hast trod; Nor let the water rising high, As thou wad'st in, make thee cry And not a wave shall trouble thee! The lyrical pieces scattered throughout Beaumont and Fletcher's plays are generally in the same graceful and fanciful style as the poetry of the Faithful Shepherdess:' some are here subjoined : [Melancholy.] [From Nice Valour."] Hence, all you vain delights, Wherein you spend your folly! Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, A look that's fasten'd to the ground, [Song.] [From the False One.'] Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! That breaks out clearer still and higher. And soft Love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind, Neither check nor chain hath found. Look out nobly, then, and dare Ev'n the fetters that you wear! [The Power of Love.] Hear ye, ladies that despise Fair Calisto was a nun: 209 Leda, sailing on the stream, What the mighty Love can do; Fear the fierceness of the boy; The chaste moon he makes to woo Vesta, kindling holy fires, Circled round about with spies masterly dramatic effort. Previous to this, Chapman had translated part of the Iliad; and his lofty fourteen-syllable rhyme, with such lines as the following, would seem to have promised a great tragic poet: From his bright helm and shield did burn a most unwearied fire, Like rich Autumnus' golden lamp, whose brightness men admire, Past all the other host of stars, when with his cheerful face, Fresh wash'd in lofty ocean waves, he doth the sky enchase. The beauty of Chapman's compound Homeric epithets (quoted by Thomas Warton), as silver-footed Thetis, the triple-feathered helm, the fair-haired boy, high-walled Thebes, the strong-winged lance, &c., bear the impress of a poetical imagination, chaste yet luxuriant. But however spirited and lofty as a translator, Chapman proved but a heavy and cumbrous dramatic writer. He continued to supply the theatre with tragedies and comedies up to 1620, or later; yet of the sixteen that have descended to us, not one possesses the creative and vivifying power of dramatic genius. In didactic observation and description he is sometimes happy, and hence he has been praised for possessing more thinking' than most of his contemporaries of the buskined muse. His judgment, however, vanished in action, for his plots are unnatural, and his style was too hard and artificial to admit of any nice delineation of character. His extravagances are also as bad as those of Marlow, and are seldom relieved by poetic thoughts or fancy. The best known plays of Chapman are Eastward Hoe (written in conjunction with Jonson and Marston), Bussy D'Ambois, Byron's Conspiracy, All Fools, and the Gentleman Usher. In a sonnet prefixed to 'All Fools,' and addressed to Walsingham, Chapman states that he was 'mark'd by age for aims of greater weight.' This play was written in 1599. It contains the following fanciful lines:I tell thee love is Nature'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, without love, All beauties bred in women are in vain, All virtues bred in men lie buried; For love informs them as the sun doth colours. In 'Bussy D'Ambois' is the following invocation for a Spirit of Intelligence, which has been highly lauded by Charles Lamb: I long to know How my dear mistress fares, and be inform'd 'The life of Chapman was a scene of content and prosperity. He was born at Hitching Hill, in Hertfordshire, in 1557; was educated both at Oxford and Cambridge; enjoyed the royal patronage of King James and Prince Henry, and the friendship of Spenser, Jonson, and Shakspeare. He was temperate and pious, and, according to Oldys, preserved, in his conduct, the true dignity of poetry, which he compared to the flower of the sun, that disdains to open its leaves to the eye of a smoking taper.' The life of this venerable scholar and poet closed in 1634, at the ripe age of seventy-seven. Chapman's Homer is a wonderful work, considering the time when it was produced, and the continued spirit which is kept up. Marlow had succeeded in the fourteen-syllable verse, but only in select passages of Ovid and Musæus. Chapman had a vast field to traverse, and though he trod it hurriedly and negligently, he preserved the fire and freedom of his great original. Pope and Waller both praised his translation, and perhaps it is now more frequently in the hands of scholars and poetical students than the more polished and musical version of Pope. Chapman's translations consist of the Iliad' (which he dedicated to Prince Henry), the 'Odyssey' (dedicated to the royal favourite Carr, Earl of Somerset), and the Georgics of Hesiod,' which he inscribed to Lord Bacon. A version of 'Hero and Leander,' left unfinished by Marlow, was completed by Chapman, and published in 1606. THOMAS DEKKER. THOMAS DEKKER appears to have been an industrious author, and Collier gives the names of above twenty plays which he produced, either wholly or in part. He was connected with Jonson in writing for the Lord Admiral's theatre, conducted by Henslowe; but Ben and he became bitter enemies, and the former, in his 'Poetaster,' performed in 1601, has satirised Dekker under the character of Crispinus, representing himself as Horace! Jonson's charges against his adversary are 'his arrogancy and impudence in commending his own things, and for his translating.' The origin of the quarrel does not appear, but in an apologetic dialogue added to the 'Poetaster,' Jonson says Whether of malice, or of ignorance, Or itch to have me their adversary, I know not, Or all these mix'd; but sure I am, three years They did provoke me with their petulant styles On every stage. Dekker replied by another drama, Satiromastix, or the Untrussing the Humorous Poet, in which Jonson appears as Horace junior. There is more raillery and abuse in Dekker's answer than wit or poetry, but it was well received by the play-going public. Dekker's Fortunatus, or the Wishing Cap, and the Honest Whore, are his best. The latter was a great favourite with Hazlitt, who says it unites the simplicity of prose with the graces of poetry.' The poetic diction of Dekker is choice and elegant, but he often wanders into absurdity. Passages like the following would do honour to any dramatist. Of Patience: Patience why, 'tis the soul of peace: Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven : The contrast between female honour and shame- That follow'd her, went with a bashful glance: For, as if heaven had set strange marks on such, No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will feed, Dekker is supposed to have died about the year 1638. His life seems to have been spent in irregularity and poverty. According to Oldys, he was three years in the King's Bench prison. In one of his own beautiful lines, he says We ne'er are angels till our passions die. But the old dramatists lived in a world of passion, of revelry, want, and despair. JOHN WEBSTER. JOHN WEBSTER, the noble-minded,' as Hazlitt designates him, lived and died about the same time as Dekker, with whom he wrote in the conjunct authorship then so common. His original dramas are the Duchess of Malfy, Guise, or the Massacre of France, the Devil's Law Case, Appius and Virginia, and the White Devil, or Vittoria Corombena. Webster, it has been said, was clerk of St Andrew's church, Holborn; but Mr Dyce, his editor and biographer, searched the registers of the parish for his The White Devil' and the name without success. 'Duchess of Malfy' have divided the opinion of critics as to their relative merits. They are both powerful dramas, though filled with 'supernumerary horrors.' The former was not successful on the stage, and the author published it with a dedication, in which he states, that most of the people that come to the play-house resemble those ignorant asses who, visiting stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire for good books, but new books.' He was accused, like Jonson, of being a slow writer, but he consoles himself with the example of Euripides, and confesses that he did not write with a goose quill winged with two feathers. In this slighted play there are some exquisite touches of pathos and natural feeling. The grief of a group of mourners over a dead body is thus described: I found them winding of Marcello's corse, "Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies, To which you have vow'd much love: the ring upon't You gave. Duch. I affectionately kiss it. Ferd. Pray do, and bury the print of it in your heart. I will leave this ring with you for a love token; Send to him that ow'd it, and you shall see Duch. You are very cold: Were wont to outwear the nights with; that, be- I fear you are not well after your travel. lieve me, I had no eyes to guide me forth the room, The funeral dirge for Marcello, sung by his mother, possesses, says Charles Lamb, 'that intenseness of feeling which seems to resolve itself into the elements which it contemplates:' Call for the robin red-breast and the wren, And with leaves and flowers do cover The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And, when gay tombs are robb'd, sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again. The following couplet has been admired: Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright; But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. The 'Duchess of Malfy' abounds more in the terrible graces. It turns on the mortal offence which the lady gives to her two proud brothers, Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria, and a cardinal, by indulging in a generous though infatuated passion for Antonio, her steward. "This passion,' Mr Dyce justly remarks, a subject most difficult to treat, is managed with infinite delicacy; and, in a situation of great peril for the author, she condescends without being degraded, and declares the affection with which her dependant had inspired her without losing anything of dignity and respect.' The last scenes of the play are conceived in a spirit which every intimate student of our elder dramatic literature must feel to be peculiar to Webster. The duchess, captured by Bosola, is brought into the presence of her brother in an imperfect light, and is taught to believe that he wishes to be reconciled to her. For I account it the honourablest revenge, Ha! lights! O horrible! Ferd. Let her have lights enough. [Exit. Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left A dead man's hand here? [Here is discovered, behind a traverse, the artificial figures of Antonio and his children, appearing as if they were dead.] Bos. Look you, here's the piece from which 'twas ta'en. He doth present you this sad spectacle, Duch. There is not between heaven and earth one wish I stay for after this. Afterwards, by a refinement of cruelty, the brother sends a troop of madmen from the hospital to make a concert round the duchess in prison. After they have danced and sung, Bosola enters disguised as an old man. [Death of the Duchess.] Duch. Is he mad too? Bos. I am come to make thy tomb. Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my deathbed, Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sick. ness is insensible. Duch. Thou art not mad sure: dost know me ? Duch. Who am I? Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed; at best but a salvatory of green mummy. What's this flesh a bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our to keep flies in, more contemptible; since ours is tc preserve earthworms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf of grass; and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison. Duch. Am not I thy duchess ? Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) Where I may kill, to pardon. Where are your cubs? twenty years' sooner than on a merry milkmaid's. Duch. Whom? Ferd. Call them your children, For, though our national law distinguish bastards From true legitimate issue, compassionate nature Makes them all equal. Duch. Do you visit me for this? You violate a sacrament o' th' church, Will make you howl in hell for't. Ferd. It had been well Could you have liv'd thus always: for, indeed, Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear: a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. Duch. I am Duchess of Malfy still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken. Duch. Thou art very plain. Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living. I am a tomb-maker. Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb? Bos. Yes. |