Once more I give my hand; be ever free Peri. I take it as my best good; and desire, For stronger confirmation of our love, To meet this happy night in that fair grove, Where all true shepherds have rewarded been For their long service. * * to that holy wood is consecrate 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 Back again unto their spring, With such force, that I their god, Three times striking with my rod, Could not keep them in their ranks! My fishes shoot into the banks; See upon her breast a wound, The blood returns. I never saw Her deadly slumber: Virgin, speak. [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, I will give thee for thy food No fish that useth in the mud! But trout and pike, that love to swim Through the pure streams may be seen: The Song. Do not fear to put thy feet 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! A midnight bell, a parting groan! Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley: [Song.] [From the 'False One."] Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air! [The Power of Love.] Hear ye, ladies that despise Fear examples and be wise: Fair Calisto was a nun; 14 Leda, sailing on the stream, The chaste moon he makes to woo [From 'Rollo."] Take, oh take those lips away, GEORGE CHAPMAN. 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 The beauty of Chapman's compound Homeric epi- 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 GEORGE CHAPMAN, the translator of Homer, wrote 1 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. IHe 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, 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 : It makes men look like gods. The best of men That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit: The first true gentleman that ever breath'd. The contrast between female honour and shame- That follow'd her, went with a bashful glance: hem; For, as if heaven had set strange marks on such, The picture of a lady seen by her lover- 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 Corombona. 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. name without success. The White Devil' and the '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, lieve me, I had no eyes to guide me forth the room, They were so o'ercharged with water. 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, The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm, 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. Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed; at best but a salvatory of green mummy. What's this flesh? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in, more contemptible; since ours is tc preserve carthworms. 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. i 1 Duch. Am not I thy duchess ? Ferd. You have it; For I account it the honourablest revenge, Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) 1 Duch. Whom? 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. Let me be a little merry. Of what stuff wilt thou make it ? Bos. Nay, resolve me first; of what fashion ? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our deathbed? Do we affect fashion in the grave ? Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven: but with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of the toothache): they are not carved with their eyes fixed upon the stars; but, as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the self-same way they seem to turn their faces. Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk, fit for a charnel. Bos. Now I shall. [A coffin, cords, and a bell produced. Here is a present from your princely brothers; And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. Duch. Let me see it. I have so much obedience in my blood, Duch. Peace, it affrights not me. Bos. I am the common bellman, That usually is sent to condemn'd persons The night before they suffer. Duch. Even now thou saidst Thou wast a tomb-maker. Bos. 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification: Listen. Dirge. Hark, now every thing is still; This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, And bid her quickly don her shroud. Their death, a hideous storm of terror. 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day: End your groan, and come away. Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers: alas! What will you do with my lady! Call for help. With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls ? You may open them both ways: any way (for heav'n sake) So I were out of your whispering: tell my brothers Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep. They then may feed in quiet. [They strangle her, kneeling. A conjecture that an old neglected drama by ТноMAS MIDDLETON supplied the witchcraft scenery, and part of the lyrical incantations, of Macbeth,' has kept alive the name of this poet. So late as 1778, Middleton's play, the Wich, was first published by Reed from the author's manuscript. It is possible that the 'Witch' may have preceded 'Macbeth;' but as the latter was written in the fulness of Shak. speare's fame and genius, we think it is more probable that the inferior author was the borrower. He may have seen the play performed, and thus caught the spirit and words of the scenes in question; or, for aught we know, the 'Witch' may not have been written till after 1623, when Shakspeare's first folio Duch. To whom; to our next neighbours? They appeared. We know that after this date Middleton are mad folks. Farewell, Cariola. I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy What death? Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, Bos. Doth not death fright you? Knowing to meet such excellent company was writing for the stage, as, in 1624, his play, A |