Fal. These four came all-afront, and mainly thrust at me. I made me no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

P. Henry. Seven? why, there were but four even

now.

Fal. In buckram.

Poins. Ay, four in buckram suits.

Fal. Seven, by these hilte, or I am a villain else. P. Henry. Pr'ythee, let him alone; we shall have

more anon.

Fal. Dost thou hear me, Hal?

P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

Fal. Do so, for it is worth the list'ning to. These

nine in buckram, that I told thee of

P. Henry. So, two more already.

Fal. Their points being broken

Poins. Down fell their hose.

Fal. Began to give me ground. But I follow'd me close, came-in foot and hand; and with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.

P. Henry. O monstrous! - eleven buckram men grown out of two!

Fal. But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brain'd guts; thou knotty-pated fool; thou whoreson, obscene, greasy tallow-keech

Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth the truth?

P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason? What say'st thou to this?

Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

Fal. What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I— P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse backbreaker, this huge hill of flesh!

Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried reat's tongue, you stock-fish. O for breath to utter what is like thee!-you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck;

P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this.

Poins. Mark, Jack.

P. Henry. We two saw you four set on four; you bound them, and were masters of their wealth. Mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two set on you four; and, with a word, outfaced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house; and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting hole, canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack; what trick hast thou

now?

Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters. Was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou know'st I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant

lion, and thou, for a true prince. But, lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What! shall we be merry?-shall we have a play extempore?

P. Henry. Content ; and the argument shall be thy running away. Fal. Ah! no more of that, Hal, an thou lov'st me. First Part of Henry IV.

[Falstaff arrested by his hostess, Dame Quickly.]

TO FALSTAFF and HOSTESS, with BARDOLPH and two Sheriff's Officers, enter the CHIEF JUSTICE, attended.

Ch. Just. What's the matter? keep the peace here, ho! Host. Good, my lord, be good to me! I beseech you, stand to me!

Ch. Just. How now, Sir John! what, are you brawling here?

Doth this become your place, your time, and business! You should have been well on your way to York. Stand from him, fellow! Wherefore hang'st thou on

him?

Host. It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all, all I have. He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his: but I will have some of it out again, or I'll ride thee o' nights, like the mare.

Fal. I think I am as like to ride the mare, if I have any vantage of ground to get up.

Ch. Just. How comes this, Sir John? Fie! what man of good temper would endure this tempest of exclamation? Are you not ashamed to enforce a poor widow to so rough a course to come by her own? Fal. What is the gross sum that I owe thee ? Host. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a

A Goblet from the Boar's-Head Tavern, supposed to
be that alluded to by Dame Quickly.

parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing-man of Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then, and call me gossip Quickly? coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar, telling us she had a good dish of prawns; whereby thou didst desire to eat some; whereby I told thee, they were ill for a green wound! And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire me to be no

Host. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers.

Fal. Glasses, glasses is the only drinking; and for thy walls, a pretty slight drollery, or the story of the prodigal, or the German hunting in water-work, is worth a thousand of these bed-hangings, and these flybitten tapestries. Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, if it were not for thy humours, there is not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw thy action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me; do'st not know me? Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this.

Host. Pray thee, Sir John, let it be but twenty nobles; I am loath to pawn my plate, in good earnest, la!

Fal. Let it alone; I'll make other shift: you'll be

a fool still.

The second name in the dramatic literature of this period has been generally assigned to BEN JONSON, though some may be disposed to claim it for the more Shakspearian genius of Beaumont and Fletcher. Jonson was born ten years after Shakspeare-in 1574-and appeared as a writer for the stage in his twentieth year. His early life was full of hardship and vicissitude. His father, a clergyman in Westminster (a member of a Scottish family from Annandale), died before the poet's birth, and his mother marrying again to a bricklayer, Ben was brought from Westminster school and put to the same employment. Disliking the occupation of his father-in-law, he enlisted as a soldier, and served in the Low Countries. He is reported to have killed one of the enemy in single combat, in the view of both armies, and to have otherwise distinguished himself for his youthful bravery. As a poet, Jonson afterwards reverted with pride to his conduct as a soldier. On his return to England, he entered St John's college, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short-probably on account of his straitened circumstances-for, about the age of twenty, he is found married, and an actor in London. Ben made his debut at a low theatre near!

quarrelled with another performer, and on their fighting a duel with swords, Jonson had the misfortune to kill his antagonist, and was severely wounded himself. He was committed to prison on a charge of murder, but was released without a trial. On regaining his liberty, he commenced writing for the stage, and produced, in 1596, his Every Man in his Humour. The scene was laid in Italy, but the characters and manners depicted in the piece were English, and Jonson afterwards recast the whole, and transferred the scene to England. In its revised form, Every Man in his Humour' was brought out at the Globe Theatre in 1598, and Shakspeare was one of the performers in the play. He had himself produced some of his finest comedies by this time, but Jonson was no imitator of his great rival, who blended a spirit of poetical romance with his comic sketches, and made no attempt to delineate the domestic manners of his countrymen. Jonson opened a new walk in the drama: he felt his strength, and the public cheered him on with its plaudits. Queen Elizabeth patronised the new poet, and ever afterwards he was a man of mark and likelihood.' In 1599, appeared his Every Man out of his Humour, a less able performance than its predecessor. Cynthia's Revels and the Poetaster followed, and the fierce rivalry and contention which clouded Jonson's afterlife seem to have begun about this time. He had attacked Marston and Dekker, two of his brother dramatists, in the 'Poetaster.' Dekker replied with spirit in his 'Satiromastix,' and Ben was silent fortwo years, 'living upon one Townsend, and scorning the world,' as is recorded in the diary of a contemporary. In 1603, he tried 'if tragedy had a more kind aspect,' and produced his classic drama of Sejanus. Shortly after the accession of King James, a comedy called Eastward Hoe, was written conjointly by Jonson, Chapman, and Marston. Some passages in this piece reflected on the Scottish nation, and the matter was represented to the king by one of his courtiers (Sir James Murray) in so strong a light, that the authors were thrown into prison, and threatened with the loss of their ears and noses. They were not tried; and when Ben was set at liberty, he gave an entertainment to his friends (Selden and Camden being of the number): his mother was present on this joyous occasion, and she produced a paper of poison, which she said she intended to have given her son in his liquor, rather than he should submit to personal mutilation and disgrace, and another dose which she intended afterwards to have taken herself. The old lady must, as Whalley remarks, have been more of an antique Roman than a Briton. Jonson's own conduct in this affair was noble and spirited. He had no considerable share in the composition of the piece, and was, besides, in such favour, that he would not have been molested; 'but this did not satisfy him,' says Gifford; and he, therefore, with a high sense of honour, voluntarily accompanied his two friends to prison, determined to share their fate.' We cannot now ascertain what was the mighty satire that moved the patriotic indignation of James; it was doubtless softened before publication; but in some copies of 'Eastward Hoe' (1605), there is a passage in which the Scots are said to be 'dispersed over the face of the whole earth;' and the dramatist sarcastically adds, 'But as for them, there are no greater friends to Englishmen and England, when they are out on't, in the world, than they are; and for my part, I would a hundred thousand of them were there (in Virginia), for we are all one countrymen now, you know, and we should find ten times more comfort of them there than we do here.' The offended nationality of James must have been laid to rest by the subsequent adulation of Jonson in his Court Masques, for he eulogised the vain and feeble monarch as one that would raise the glory of England more than Elizabeth.* Jonson's three great comedies, Volpone, or the Fox, Epicene, or the Silent Woman, and the Alchemist, were his next serious labours; his second classical tragedy, Catiline, appeared in 1611. His fame had now reached its highest elevation; but he produced several other comedies, and a vast number of court entertainments, ere his star began sensibly to decline. In 1619, he received the appointment of poet laureate, with a pension of a hundred merks. The same year Jonson made a journey on foot to Scotland, where he had many friends. He was well received by the Scottish gentry, and was so pleased with the country, that he meditated a poem, or drama, on the beauties of Lochlomond. The last of his visits was made to Drummond of Hawthornden, with whom he lived three weeks, and Drummond kept notes of his conversation, which, in a subsequent age, were communicated to the world. In conclusion, Drummond entered on his journal the following character of Ben himself :'He is a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner and scorner of others; given rather to lose a friend than a jest; jealous of every word and action of those about him, especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which he liveth; a dissembler of ill parts which reign in him; a bragger of some good that he wanteth; thinketh nothing well but what either he himself or some of his friends and countrymen hath said or done; he is passionately kind and angry; careless either to gain or keep; vindictive, but, if well answered, at himself; for any religion, as being versed in both; † interpreteth best

sayings and deeds often to the worst; oppressed with fantasy, which hath ever mastered his reason, a general disease in many poets.'

This character, it must be confessed, is far from being a flattering one; and probably it was, unconsciously, overcharged, owing to the recluse habits and staid demeanour of Drummond. We believe it, however, to be substantially correct. Inured to hardships and to a free boisterous life in his early days, Jonson seems to have contracted a roughness of manner, and habits of intemperance, which never wholly left him. Priding himself immoderately on his classical acquirements, he was apt to slight and condemn his less learned associates; while the conflict between his limited means and his love of social pleasures, rendered him too often severe and saturnine in his temper. Whatever he did was done with labour, and hence was highly prized. His contemporaries seemed fond of mortifying his pride, and he was often at war with actors and authors. With the celebrated Inigo Jones, who was joined with him in the preparation of the Court Masques, Jonson waged a long and bitter feud, in which both parties were to blame. When his better nature prevailed, and exorcised the demon of envy or spleen, Jonson was capable of a generous warmth of friendship, and of just discrimination of genius and character. His literary reputation, his love of conviviauty, and his high colloquial powers, rendered his society much courted, and he became the centre of a band of wits and revellers. Sir Walter Raleigh founded a club, known to all posterity as the Mermaid Club, at which Jonson, Shakspeare, Beaumont and Fletcher, and other poets, exercised themselves with 'wit-combats' more bright and genial than their wine.* One of the favourite haunts of these bright-minded men was the Falcon Tavern, near the theatre in Bankside, Southwark, of which a sketch has been preservea. The latter days of Jonson were dark and painful. Attacks of palsy confined him to his house, and his necessities compelled him to write for the stage when his pen had lost its vigour, and wanted the charm of novelty. In 1630, he produced his comedy, the New Inn, which was unsuccessful on the stage. The king sent him a present of £100, and raised his laureate pension to the same sum per annum, adding a yearly tierce of canary wine. Next year, however, we find Jonson, in an Epistle Mendicant, soliciting assistance from the lord-treasurer. He continued writing to the last. Dryden has styled the latter works of Jonson his dotages; some are certainly unworthy of him, but the Sad Shepherd, which he left unfinished, exhibits the poetical fancy of a youthful composition. He died in 1637, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, where a square stone, marking the spot where the poet's body was disposed vertically, was long afterwards shown, inscribed only with the words, 'O RARE BEN JONSON!'

As a proof of his enthusiastic temperament, it is mentioned, that Jonson drank out the full cup of wine at the communion table, in token of his reconciliation with the church of England.

* Many were the wit-combats betwixt Shakspeare and Ben

Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon and Jonson founded a style of regular English comedy, massive, well compacted, and fitted to endure, yet not very attractive in its materials. His works, altogether, consist of about fifty dramatic pieces, but by far the greater part are masques and interludes. His principal comedies are, 'Every Man in his Humour,'

'Volpone,' the 'Silent Woman,' and the 'Alchemist.' His Roman tragedies may be considered literal impersonations of classic antiquity, robust and richly graced, yet stiff and unnatural in style and construction. They seem to bear about the same resemblance to Shakspeare's classic dramas that sculpture does to actual life. The strong delineation of character is the most striking feature in Jonson's comedies. The voluptuous Volpone is drawn with great breadth and freedom; and generally his por

traits of eccentric characters-men in whom some

peculiarity has grown to an egregious excess-are ludicrous and impressive. His scenes and characters show the labour of the artist, but still an artist possessing rich resources; an acute and vigorous intellect; great knowledge of life, down to its lowest descents; wit, lofty declamation, and a power of dramatising his knowledge and observation, with singular skill and effect. His pedantry is often misplaced and ridiculous: when he wishes to satirise his opponents of the drama, he lays the scene in the court of Augustus, and makes himself speak as Horace. In one of his Roman tragedies, he prescribes for the composition of a mucus, or wash for the face! His comic theatre is a gallery of strange, clever, original portraits, powerfully drawn, and skilfully disposed, but many of them repulsive in expression, or so exaggerated, as to look like caricatures or libels on humanity. We have little deep passion or winning tenderness to link the beings of his drama with those we love or admire, or to make us sympathise with them as with existing mortals. The charm of reality is generally wanting, or when

As he must fight with one of the two armies
That then had near inclosed him, it pleas'd fate
To make us the object of his desperate choice,
Wherein the danger almost pois'd the honour:
And, as he rose, the day grew black with him,
And fate descended nearer to the earth,
As if she meant to hide the name of things
Under her wings, and make the world her quarry.
At this we roused, lest one small minute's stay
Had left it to be inquired what Rome was;
And (as we ought) arm'd in the confidence
Of our great cause, in form of battle stood,
Whilst Catiline came on, not with the face
Of any man, but of a public ruin:
His countenance was a civil war itself;
And all his host had, standing in their looks,
The paleness of the death that was to come;
Yet cried they out like vultures, and urged on,
As if they would precipitate our fates.
Nor stay'd we longer for 'em, but himself
Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a life,
Which out, it seem'd a narrow neck of land
Had broke between two mighty seas, and either
Flow'd into other; for so did the slaughter;
And whirl'd about, as when two violent tides
Meet and not yield. The furies stood on hills,
Circling the place, and trembling to see men
Do more than they; whilst pity left the field,
Griev'd for that side, that in so bad a cause
They knew not what a crime their valour was.
The sun stood still, and was, behind the cloud
The battle made, seen sweating, to drive up
His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backwara:
And now had fierce Enyo, like a flame,

Consum'd all it could reach, and then itself,
Had not the fortune of the commonwealth,
Come, Pallas-like, to every Roman thought;
Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops
Cover'd the earth they 'ad fought on with their trunks,
Ambitious of great fame, to crown his ill,
Collected all his fury, and ran in
(Arm'd with a glory high as his despair)
Into our battle, like a Libyan lion
Upon his hunters, scornful of our weapons,
Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him,
Till he had circled in himself with death:
Then fell he too, t' embrace it where it lay.
And as in that rebellion 'gainst the gods,
Minerva holding forth Medusa's head,
One of the giant brethren felt himself
Grow marble at the killing sight; and now,
Almost made stone, began to inquire what flint,
What rock, it was that crept through all his limbs,
And, ere he could think more, was that he fear'd:
So Catiline, at the sight of Rome in us,
Became his tomb; yet did his look retain
Some of his fierceness, and his hands still mov'd,

13

Afer. The triumph that thou hadst in Germany

For thy late victory on Sacrovir,

Thou hast enjoy'd so freely, Caius Silius,

As no man it envy'd thee; nor would Cæsar,
Or Rome admit, that thou wert then defrauded

Of any honours thy deserts could claim,

In the fair service of the commonwealth:

But now, if after all their loves and graces (Thy actions and their courses being discover'd), It shall appear to Cæsar, and this senate,

Thou hast defil'd those glories with thy crimesSil. Crimes ?

Afer. Patience, Silius.

Sil. Tell thy moil of patience

I am a Roman. What are my crimes? proclaim them. Am I too rich? too honest for the times?

Have I or treasure, jewels, land, or houses,

That some informer gapes for? Is my strength
Too much to be admitted? or my knowledge?
These now are crimes.

Afer. Nay, Silius, if the name
Of crime so touch thee, with what impotence
Wilt thou endure the matter to be search'd!

Sil. I tell thee, Afer, with more scorn than fear:
Employ your mercenary tongue and art.
Where's my accuser?

Var. Here.

Arr. Varro the consul.

Is he thrust in ?

Var. 'Tis I accuse thee, Silius.

Against the majesty of Rome, and Cæsar, I do pronounce thee here a guilty cause,

The magistrate, to call forth private men;
And to appoint their day: which privilege
We may not in the consul see infring'd,
By whose deep watches, and industrious care,
It is so labour'd as the commonwealth
Receive no loss, by any oblique course.

Sil. Cæsar, thy fraud is worse than violence.
Tib. Silius, mistake us not, we dare not use
The credit of the consul to thy wrong;
But only do preserve his place and power,
So far as it concerns the dignity
And honour of the state.

Arr. Believe him, Silius.

Cot. Why, so he may, Arruntius.

Arr. I say so.

And he may choose too.

Tib. By the Capitol,

And all our gods, but that the dear republic,

Our sacred laws, and just authority

Are interess'd therein, I should be silent.

Afer. 'Please Cæsar to give way unto his trial;

He shall have justice.

Sil. Nay, I shall have law;

Shall I not, Afer? speak.

Afer. Would you have more?

Sil. No, my well-spoken man, I would no more;

Nor less: might I enjoy it natural,

Not taught to speak unto your present ends,
Free from thine, his, and all your unkind handling,

Furious enforcing, most unjust presuming,
Malicious, and manifold applying,

Foul wresting, and impossible construction.

Afer. He raves, he raves.

Sil. Thou durst not tell me so,

Hadst thou not Cæsar's warrant. I can see

Whose power condemns me.

Var. This betrays his spirit.

This doth enough declare him what he is.
Sil. What am I? speak.

Var. An enemy to the state.

Sil. Because I am an enemy to thee, And such corrupted ministers o' the state, That here art made a present instrument To gratify it with thine own disgrace.

Sej. This to the consul is most insolent! And impious!

First of beginning and occasioning,

Next, drawing out the war in Gallia,

For which thou late triumph'st; dissembling long

That Sacrovir to be an enemy,

Only to make thy entertainment more:

Sil. Ay, take part. Reveal yourselves. Alas! I scent not your confed'racies, Your plots, and combinations! I not know Minion Sejanus hates me; and that all This boast of law, and law is but a form, A net of Vulcan's filing, a mere engine, To take that life by a pretext of justice, Which you pursue in malice? I want brain, Or nostril to persuade me, that your ends And purposes are made to what they are,

Wherein, with sordid base desire of gain,

Whose justice not a world of wolf-turn'd men

Thou hast discredited thy actions' worth,

And been a traitor to the state.

Sil. Thou liest.

Shall make me to accuse, howe'er provok'd; Have I for this so oft engag'd myself? Stood in the heat and fervour of a fight,

Than I the field, against the blue-ey'd Gauls
And crisped Germans? when our Roman eagles
Have fann'd the fire with their labouring wings.
And no blow dealt, that left not death behind it!
When I have charg'd, alone, into the troops
Of curl'd Sicambrians, routed them, and came
Not off, with backward ensigns of a slave,
But forward marks, wounds on my breast and face,
Were meant to thee, O Cæsar, and thy Rome!
And have I this return? did I for this

Perform so noble and so brave defeat

On Sacrovir? (O Jove, let it become me
To boast my deeds, when he, whom they concern,
Shall thus forget them.)