Did signify; and how all, order'd thus, The Maid's Tragedy, supposed to be written about the same time, is a drama of a powerful but unpleasing character. The purity of female virtue in Amintor and Aspatia, is well contrasted with the guilty boldness of Evadne; and the rough soldierlike bearing and manly feeling of Melantius, render the selfish sensuality of the king more hateful and disgusting. Unfortunately, there is much licentiousness in this fine play-whole scenes and dialogues are disfigured by this master vice of the theatre of Beaumont and Fletcher. Their dramas are a rank unweeded garden,' which grew only the more disorderly and vicious as it advanced to maturity. Flet-ledge of stage-effect and contrivance, their fertility cher must bear the chief blame of this defect, for he wrote longer than his associate, and is generally understood to have been the most copious and fertile composer. Before Beaumont's death, they had, in addition to Philaster,' and the Maid's Tragedy,' produced King and no King, Bonduca, The Laws of Candy (tragedies); and The Woman Hater, The Knight of the Burning Pestle, The Honest Man's For-poetic beauty of imagery, their mixture of the grave tune, The Coxcomb, and The Captain (comedies). Fletcher afterwards produced three tragic dramas, and nine comedies, the best of which are, The Chances, The Spanish Curate, The Beggar's Bush, and Rule a Wife and Have a Wife. He also wrote an exquisite pastoral drama, The Faithful Shepherdess, which Mil-gination into his own vast and awful world of tragic ton followed pretty closely in the design, and partly in the language and imagery, of Comus. A higher though more doubtful honour has been assigned to the twin authors; for Shakspeare is said to have assisted them in the composition of one of their works, The Two Noble Kinsmen, and his name is joined with Fletcher's on the title page of the first edition. The bookseller's authority in such matters is of no weight; and it seems unlikely that our great poet, after the production of some of his best dramas, should enter into a partnership of this description. The Two Noble Kinsmen' is certainly not superior to some of the other plays of Beaumont and Fletcher. The genius of Beaumont is said to have been more correct, and more strongly inclined to tragedy, than that of his friend. The later works of Fletcher are chiefly of a comic character. His plots are sometimes inartificial and loosely connected, but he is always lively and entertaining. There is a rapid succession of incidents, and the dialogue is witty, elegant, and amusing. Dryden considered that they understood and imitated the conversation of gentlemen much better than Shakspeare; and he states that their plays were, in his day, the most pleasant and frequent entertainments of the stage; two of theirs being acted through the year, for one of Shakspeare's or Jonson's.' It was different some forty years previous to this. In 1627, the King's Company bribed the Master of the Revels with £5, to interfere in preventing the players of the theatre called the Red Bull, from performing the dramas of Shakspeare. One cause of the preference of Beaumont and Fletcher, may have been the license of their dramas, suited to the perverted taste of the court of Charles II., and the spirit of intrigue which they adopted from the Spanish stage, and naturalised on the English. We cannot deny,' remarks Hallam, 'that the depths of Shakspeare's mind were often unfathomable by an audience; the bow was drawn by a matchless hand, but the shaft went out of sight. All might listen to Fletcher's pleasing, though not profound or vigorous, language; his thoughts are noble, and tinged with the ideality of romance; his metaphors vivid, though sometimes too forced; he possesses the idiom of English without much pedantry, though in many passages he strains it beyond common use; his versification, though studiously irregular, is often rhythmical and sweet; yet we are seldom arrested by striking beauties. Good lines occur in every page, fine ones but rarely. We lay down the volume with a sense of admiration of what we have read, but little of it remains distinctly in the memory. Fletcher is not much quoted, and has not even afforded copious materials to those who cull the beauties of ancient lore.' His comic powers are certainly far superior to his tragic. Massinger impresses the reader more deeply, and has a moral beauty not possessed by Beaumont and Fletcher, but in comedy he falls infinitely below them. Though their characters are deficient in variety, their know. of invention, and the airy liveliness of their dialogue, give the charm of novelty and interest to their scenes. Mr Macaulay considers that the models which Fletcher had principally in his eye, even for his most serious and elevated compositions, were not Shakspeare's tragedies, but his comedies. It was these, with their idealised truth of character, their with the playful in thought, their rapid yet skilful transitions from the tragic to the comic in feeling; it was these, the pictures in which Shakspeare had made his nearest approach to portraying actual life, and not those pieces in which he transports the ima action, and suffering, and emotion-that attracted Fletcher's fancy, and proved congenial to his cast of feeling.' This observation is strikingly just, applied to Shakspeare's mixed comedies or plays, like the Twelfth Night,' the Winter's Tale,' As You Like It,' &c. The rich and genial comedy of Falstaff, Shallow, and Slender, was not imitated by Fletcher. His Knight of the Burning Pestle' is an admirable burlesque of the false taste of the citizens of London for chivalrous and romantic adventures, without regard to situation or probability. On the whole, the dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher impress us with a high idea of their powers as poets and dramatists. The vast variety and luxuriance of their genius seem to elevate them above Jonson, though they were destitute of his regularity and solidity, and to place them on the borders of the magic circle' of Shakspeare. The confidence and buoyancy of youth are visible in their productions. They had not tasted of adversity, like Jonson or Massinger; and they had not the profoundly-meditative spirit of their great master, cognisant of all human feelings and sympathies; life was to them a scene of enjoyment and pleasure, and the exercise of their genius a source of refined delight and ambition. They were gentlemen who wrote for the stage, as gentlemen have rarely done before or since. [Generosity of Cæsar.] [Ptolemy, king of Egypt, having secured the head of Pompey, comes with his friends Achoreus and Photinus to present it to Caesar, as a means of gaining his favour. To them enter Cæsar, Antony, Dolabella, and Sceva.] Pho. Do not shun me, Cæsar. And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers: Sce. Give me hate, gods! Pho. This Cæsar may account a little wicked; But yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, Had fall'n upon him, what it had been then ; If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that way! He was thy son-in-law; there to be tainted Had been most terrible! Let the worst be render'd, We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent. Cæsar. Oh, Sceva, Sceva, see that head! See, captains, The head of godlike Pompey! Sce. He was basely ruin'd; But let the gods be griev'd that suffer'd it. Casar. Oh thou conqueror, Thou glory of the world once, now the pity; Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus ? Ant. Oh, how brave these tears show! How excellent is sorrow in an enemy! Dol. Glory appears not greater than this goodness. Casar. Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyramids, Built to outdare the sun, as you suppose, But the eternal substance of his greatness, Caesar. And doubtless you expect rewards? I'll give 'em such as Nature never dream'd of; Into one man, and that one man I'll bake then. Cæsar. Peace!-I forgive you all; that's recompense. You're young and ignorant; that pleads your pardon; I mean a head of equal reputation, And that you lov'd, tho' 'twere your brightest sister's And study not with smooth shows to invade Cæsar. You've robb'd him of those tears Till Nilus raise his seven heads and devour ye! The False One. [Grief of Aspatia for the Marriage of Amintor and Evadne.] EVADNE, ASPATIA, DULA, and other Ladies. Evad. Would thou could'st instil [To Dula. Some of thy mirth into Aspatia. Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek; It were a fitter hour for me to laugh, When at the altar the religious priest Were pacifying the offended powers With sacrifice, than now. This should have been 12a My night, and all your hands have been employ'd To young Amintor's bed, as we are now Or both thought so; perhaps he found me worthless; Erad. Nay, leave this sad talk, madam. Asp. Would I could, then should I leave the cause. Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew. Erad. That's one of your sad songs, madam. Asp. Believe me, 'tis a very pretty one. Evad. How is it, madam? Asp. Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew; Maidens, willow branches bear, Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth; Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth! Madam, good night; may no discontent To keep your sorrow waking. Love your lord [Amintor enters. And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come. Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country? Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour, Arc. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us; here we are, Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds Arc. Yet, cousin, 'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place Pal. How, gentle cousin? Arc. Let's think this prison holy sanctuary, Can be, but our imaginations May make it ours? And here being thus together, We are an endless mine to one another; We are one another's wife, ever begetting New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaint ance; We are, in one another, families; I am your heir, and you are mine. This place Dare take this from us; here, with a little patience, A wife might part us lawfully, or business; Pal. You have made me (I thank you, cousin Arcite) almost wanton With my captivity: what a misery It is to live abroad, and everywhere! 'Tis like a beast, methinks! I find the court here, I'm sure, a more content; and all those pleasures, That woo the wills of men to vanity, I see through now; and am sufficient To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow, The Two Noble Kinsmen. [Disinterestedness of Biancha.] [From the 'Fair Maid of the Inn.'] Enter CESARIO and a SERVANT. Cesa. Let any friend have entrance. Cesa. Any; I except none. Serv. We know your mind, sir. [Exit. Cesa. Pleasures admit no bounds. I'm pitch'd so high, To gratefulness, and those more liberal favours 1st. Serv. 'Tis my place. 2d. Serv. Yours? Here, fair one; I'll acquaint My lord. 1st. Serv. He's here; go to him boldly. 2d. Serv. Please you To let him understand how readily I waited on your errand! 1st. Serv. Saucy fellow! You must excuse his breeding. Cesa. What's the matter? Biancha? my Biancha?-To your offices! [Exeunt Serv. This visit, sweet, from thee, my pretty dear, So much the more timely: witness this free welcome, Bian. You may guess, sir; Yet, indeed, 'tis a rare one. My honest virtuous maid. Of Bian. Sir, I have heard your misfortunes; and I cannot tell you Whether I have more cause of joy or sadness, To know they are a truth. Cesa. What truth, Biancha? Misfortunes-how-wherein ? Bian. You are disclaim'd For being the lord Alberto's son, and publicly Acknowledg'd of as mean a birth as mine is: It cannot choose but grieve you. Cesa. Grieve me? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Is this all? Bian. This all? Cesa. Thou art sorry for❜t, I warrant thee; alas, good soul, Biancha! That which thou call'st misfortune is my happiness; My happiness, Biancha! Bian. If you love me, It may prove mine too. Cesa. May it I will love thee, My good, good maid, if that can make thee happy, Better and better love thee. Bian. Without breach, then, Of modesty, I come to claim the interest I saw you, I confess I wish'd I had been, Or not so much below your rank and greatness, Still, as you utter'd language of affection, That I might turn more fool to lend attention Bian. Willingly betray'd Myself to hopeless bondage. Cesa. A good girl! me, I thought I should not miss, whate'er thy answer was. Bian. But as I am a maid, sir, (and i' faith You believe may So dearly I respected both your fame for I am a maid), And quality, that I would first have perish'd In my sick thoughts, than ere have given consent To have undone your fortunes, by inviting A marriage with so mean a one as I am: I should have died sure, and no creature known Cesa. Pretty heart! Good soul, alas, alas! Bian. Now since I know There is no difference 'twixt your birth and mine, The advantage is on my side), I come willingly Cesa. For a husband? Speak sadly; dost thou mean so? Bian. In good deed, sir, "Tis pure love makes this proffer. Cesa. I believe thee. What counsel urg'd thee on? tell me; thy father! My worshipful smug host? Was't not he, wench! Or mother hostess? ha? Bian. D' you mock my parentage! I do not scorn yours: mean folks are as worthy Bian. Had your heart, Your hand, and tongue, been twins, you had reputed This courtesy a benefit. Cesa. Simplicity, How prettily thou mov'st me! Why, Biancha, Report has cozen'd thee; I am not fallen From my expected honours or possessions, Though from the hope of birthright. Bian. Are you not? Then I am lost again! I have a suit too; You'll grant it, if you be a good man. Cesa. Anything. 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! Bian. Pity me; But never love me more! Cesa. Nay, now you're cruel: Why all these tears!-Thou shalt not go. That you may have a virtuous wife, a fair one; And when I'm dead Cesa. Fie, fie! Bian. Think on me sometimes, With mercy for this trespass! Cesa. Let us kiss At parting, as at coming! Bian. This I have As a free dower to a virgin's grave; All goodness dwell with you! Cesa. Harmless Biancha! [Exit. Unskill'd! what handsome toys are maids to play with! [Pastoral Love.] [From the Faithful Shepherdess."] TO CLORINDA & SATYR enters. Satyr. Through yon same bending plain And live therefore on this mould Here be grapes whose lusty blood 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 See how well the lusty time Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Some be red, some be green; These are of that luscious meat 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, Under a broad beech's shade. I must go, I must run, Swifter than the fiery sun. Clor. And all my fears go with thee. What greatness, or what private hidden power, Is there in me to draw submission [Exit. From this rude man and beast-sure I am mortal; 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 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 I've sent to heaven? Did you not give your hand, Amo. Shepherd, so far as maiden's modesty |