Gior. There's no evasion, Lidia,

To gain the least delay, though I would buy it
At any rate. Greatness, with private men
Esteem'd a blessing, is to me a curse;
And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude
The only freemen, are the only slaves :
Happy the golden mean? riad I been born
In a poor sordid cottage, not nursed up
With expectation to command a court,

I might, like such of your condition, sweetest,
Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not,
As I am now, against my choice, compell'd;
Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised
So high upon the pinnacles of state,

That I must either keep my height with danger,
Or fall with certain ruin.

Lidia. Your own goodness Will be your faithful guard.

Gior. O, Lidia! For had I been your equal, I might have seen and lik'd with mine own eyes, And not, as now, with others. I might still, And without observation or envy, As I have done, continued my delights With you, that are alone, in my esteem, The abstract of society: we might walk In solitary groves, or in choice gardens; From the variety of curious flowers Contemplate nature's workmanship and wonders: And then, for change, near to the murmur of Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing, And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue, In my imagination conceive

With what melodious harınony a choir

Of angels sing above their Maker's praises.
And then, with chaste discourse, as we return'd,
Imp feathers to the broken wings of Time:

And all this I must part from.

One word more,

And then I come. And after this, when, with
Continued innocence of love and service,
I had grown ripe for hymeneal joys,
Embracing you, but with a lawful flame,
I might have been your husband.

Lidia. Sir, I was,

And ever am, your servant; but it was,
And 'tis far from me in a thought to cherish,
Such saucy hopes. If I had been the heir
Of all the globes and sceptres mankind bows to,
At my best you had deserv'd me; as I am,
Howe'er unworthy, in my virgin zeal,
I wish you, as a partner of your bed,
A princess equal to you; such a one
That may make it the study of her life,
With all the obedience of a wife, to please you;
May you have happy issue, and I live
To be their humblest handmaid!

Gior. I am dumb, and can make no reply;

This kiss, bathed in tears,

May learn you what I should say.

JOHN FORD.

Contemporary with Massinger, and possessing kindred tastes and powers, was JOHN FORD (15861639). This author wisely trusted to a regular profession, not to dramatic literature, for his support. He was of a good Devonshire family, and bred to the law. His first efforts as a writer for the stage, were made in unison with Webster and Dekker. He also joined with the latter, and with Rowley, in composing the Witch of Edmonton, already mentioned, the last act of which seems to be Ford's. In 1628 appeared the Lover's Melancholy, dedicated to his friends of the Society of Gray's Inn. In 1633 were printed his three tragedies, he Brother and

Sister, the Broken Heart, and Love's Sacrifice. He next wrote Perkin Warbeck, a correct and spirited historical drama. Two other pieces, Fancies Chaste and Noble, and the Lady's Trial, produced in 1638 and 1639, complete the list of Ford's works. He is supposed to have died shortly after the production of his last play.

A tone of pensive tenderness and pathos, with a peculiarly soft and musical style of blank verse, characterise this poet. The choice of his subjects was unhappy, for he has devoted to incestuous passion the noblest offerings of his muse. The scene in his 'Brother and Sister,' descriptive of the crin nal loves of Annabella and Giovanni, are painf interesting and harrowing to the feelings, but tain his finest poetry and expression. The old d... matists loved to sport and dally with such forbidden themes, which tempted the imagination, and awoke those slumbering fires of pride, passion, and wickedness, that lurk in the recesses of the human heart. They lived in an age of excitement-the newly-awakened intellect warring with the senses -the baser parts of humanity with its noblest qualities. In this struggle, the dramatic poets were plunged, and they depicted forcibly what they saw and felt. Much as they wrote, their time was not spent in shady retirement; they flung themselves into the full tide of the passions, sounded its depths, wrestled with its difficulties and defilements, and were borne onwards in headlong career. A few, like poor Marlow and Greene, sunk early in undeplored misery, and nearly all were unhappy. This very recklessness and daring, however, gave a mighty impulse and freedom to their genius. They were emancipated from ordinary restraints; they were strong in their sceptic pride and self-will; they surveyed the whole of life, and gave expression to those wild half-shaped thoughts and unnatural promptings, which wiser conduct and reflection would have instantly repressed and condemned. With them, the passion of love was an all-pervading fire, that consumed the decencies of life; sometimes it was gross and sensual, but in other moments imbued with a wild preternatural sweetness and fervour. Anger, pity, jealousy, revenge, remorse, and the other primary feelings and elements of our nature, were crowded into their short existence as into their scenes. Nor was the light of religion quenched: there were glimpses of heaven in the midst of the darkest vice and debauchery. The better genius of Shakspeare lifted him above this agitated region; yet his 'Venus and Adonis,' and the Sonnets,' show that he had been at one time soiled by some of its impurities. Ford was apparently of regular deportment, but of morbid diseased imagination. His latest biographer (Mr Hartley Coleridge) suggests, that the choice of horrible stories for his two best plays may have been merely an exercise of intellectual power. His moral sense was gratified by indignation at the dark possibilities of sin, and by compassion for rare extremes of suffering.' Ford was destitute of the fire and grandeur of the heroic drama. Mr Charles Lamb ranks him with the first order of poets; but this praise is excessive. Admitting his sway over the tender passions, and the occasional beauty of his language and conceptions, he wants the elevation of great genius. He has, as Hallam remarks, the power over tears; for he makes his readers sympathise even with his vicious characters.

Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair love good morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good morrow.
To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

Shepherd's Song.

We that have known no greater state
Than this we live in, praise our fate;
For courtly silks in cares are spent,
When country's russet breeds content.
The power of sceptres we admire,
But sheep-hooks for our use desire.
Simple and low is our condition,
For here with us is no ambition:
We with the sun our flocks unfold,
Whose rising makes their fleeces gold;
Our music from the birds we borrow,
They bidding us, we them, good morrow.
Our habits are but coarse and plain,
Yet they defend from wind and rain;
As warm too, in an equal eye,
As those be-stain'd in scarlet dye.
The shepherd, with his home-spun lass,
As many merry hours doth pass,
As courtiers with their costly girls,
Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls;
And, though but plain, to purpose woo,
Nay, often with less danger too.
Those that delight in dainties' store,
One stomach feed at once, no more;
And, when with homely fare we feast,
With us it doth as well digest;
And many times we better speed,
For our wild fruits no surfeits breed.
If we sometimes the willow wear,
By subtle swains that dare forswear,
We wonder whence it comes, and fear
They've been at court and learnt it there.

[Shipwreck by Drink.]

[From the English Traveller.]

-This gentleman and I

Pass'd 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 :
And there this night was held a sumptuous feast.
In the height of their carousing, all their brains
Warm'd with the heat of wine, discourse was offer'd
Of ships and storms at sea: when suddenly,
Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives
The room wherein they quaff'd to be a pinnace
Moving and floating, and the confus'd noise
To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners;
That their unsteadfast footing did proceed
From rocking of the vessel. This conceiv'd,
Each one begins to apprehend the danger,
And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one,
Up to the main-top, and discover. He
Climbs by the bed-post to the tester, there
Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards;
And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives,
To cast their lading overboard. At this
All fall to work, and hoist into the street,

As to the sea, what next came to their hand,
Stools, tables, tressels, trenches, bedsteads, cups,
Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles;
They take him for the boatswain: one lies struggling
Upon the floor, as if he swam for life:
A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat,
Sits in the bellow on't, labours, and rows;
His oar the stick with which the fiddler play'd :
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;
The constable is call'd t' atone the broil;
Which done, and hearing such a noise within
Of imminent shipwreck, enters the 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 appease the waves :
And at this point we left them.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

The last of these dramatists' a great race,' says Mr Charles Lamb, 'all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common' was JAMES SHIRLEY, born in London in 1596. Designed for holy orders, Shirley was educated first at Oxford, where Archbishop Laud refused to ordain him on account of his appearance being disfigured by a mole on his left cheek. He afterwards took the degree of A.M. at Cambridge, and officiated as curate near St Albans. Like his brother divine and poet, Crashaw, Shirley embraced the communion of the church of Rome. He lived as a schoolmaster in St Albans, but afterwards settled in London, and became a voluminous dramatic writer. Thirty-nine plays proceeded from his prolific pen; and a modern edition of his works, edited by Gifford, is in six octavo volumes. When the Master of the Revels, in 1633, licensed Shirley's play of the Young Admiral, he entered on his books an expression of his admiration of the drama, because it was free from oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness; trusting that his approbation would encourage the poet 'to pursue this beneficial and cleanly way of poetry.' Shirley is certainly less impure than most of his contemporaries, but he is far from faultless in this respect. His dramas seem to have been tolerably successful. When the civil wars broke out, the poet exchanged the pen for the sword, and took the field under his patron the Earl of Newcastle. After the cessation of this struggle, a still worse misfortune befell our author, in the shutting of the theatres, and he was forced to betake himself to his former occupation of a teacher. The Restoration does not seem to have mended his fortunes. In 1666, the great fire of London drove the poet and his family from their house in Whitefriars; and shortly after this event, both he and his wife died on the same day. A life of various labours and reverses, thus found a sudden and tragic termination. Shirley's plays have less force and dignity than those of Massinger; less pathos than those of Ford. His comedies have the tone and manner of good society. Mr Campbell has praised his 'polished and refined dialect, the 'airy touches of his expression, the delicacy of his sentiments, and the beauty of his similes.' He admits, however, what every reader feels, the want in Shirley of any strong passion or engrossing interest. Hallam more justly and comprehensively states- Shirley has no originality, no force in conceiving or delineating character, little of pathos, and less, perhaps, of wit; his dramas produce no deep impression in reading, and of course can leave none in the memory. But his mind was poetical; his better characters, especially females, express pure thoughts in pure language; he is never tumid or affected, and seldom obscure; the incidents succeed rapidly, the personages are numerous, and there is a general animation in the scenes, which causes us to read him with some pleasure. No very good play, nor possibly any very good scene, could be found in Shirley; but he has many lines of considerable beauty.' Of these fine lines, Dr Farmer, in his 'Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare,' quoted perhaps the most beautiful, being part of Fernando's description, in the 'Brothers,' of the charms of his

mistress :

Her eye did seem to labour with a tear,
Which suddenly took birth, but overweigh'd,
With its own swelling, dropt upon her bosom,
Which, by reflection of her light appear'd
As nature meant her sorrow for an ornament.
After, her looks grew cheerful, and I saw
A smile shoot graceful upward from her eyes,
As if they had gain'd a victory o'er grief;
And with it many beams twisted themselves,
Upon whose golden threads the angels walk
To and again from heaven.

In the same vein of delicate fancy and feeling is the following passage in the Grateful Servant, where Cleona learns of the existence of Foscari, from her page Dulcino:

Cle. The day breaks glorious to my darken'd thoughts. He lives, he lives yet! Cease, ye amorous fears, More to perplex me. Prithee speak, sweet youth; How fares my lord? Upon my virgin heart

I'll build a flaming altar, to offer up

A thankful sacrifice for his return

To life and me. Speak, and increase my comforts.
Is he in perfect health?

Dul. Not perfect, madam,
Until you bless him with the knowledge of
Your constancy.

Cle. O get thee wings and fly then;
Tell him my love doth burn like vestal fire,
Which, with his memory richer than all spices,
Disperses odours round about my soul,
And did refresh it when 'twas dull and sad,
With thinking of his absence.

-Yet stay,

Thou goest away too soon; where is he? speak.
Dul. He gave me no commission for that, lady;
He will soon save that question by his presence.

Cle. Time has no feathers; he walks now on crutches.

Relate his gestures when he gave thee this.
What other words? Did mirth smile on his brow?
I would not for the wealth of this great world
He should suspect my faith. What said he, prithee?
Dul. He said what a warm lover, when desire
Makes eloquent, could speak; he said you were
Both star and pilot.

Cle. The sun's lov'd flower, that shuts his yellow

curtain

When he declineth, opens it again
At his fair rising with my parting lord
I clos'd all my delight; till his approach
It shall not spread itself.

The Prodigal Lady.

[From the Lady of Pleasure."]

ARETINA and the STEWARD.

To be the lady of six shires! The inen,
So near the primitive making, they retain
A sense of nothing but the earth; their brains
And barren heads standing as much in want
Of ploughing as their ground: to hear a fellow
Make himself merry and his horse with whistling
Sellinger's round; t' observe with what solemnity
They keep their wakes, and throw for pewter candle-
sticks;

How they become the morris, with whose bells
They ring all into Whitsun ales, and swear
Through twenty scarfs and napkins, till the hobbyhorse
Tire, and the Maid-Marian, dissolved to a jelly,
Be kept for spoon meat.

Stew. These, with your pardon, are no argument
To make the country life appear so hateful;
At least to your particular, who enjoy'd
A blessing in that calm, would you be pleas'd
To think so, and the pleasure of a kingdom:
While your own will commanded what should move
Delights, your husband's love and power joined
To give your life more harmony. You liv'd there
Secure and innocent, belov'd of all;
Prais'd for your hospitality, and pray'd for:
You might be enviëd, but malice knew
Not where you dwelt. I would not prophesy,
But leave to your own apprehension
What may succeed your change.

Aret. You do imagine,

No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted London past all defence. Your master should Do well to send you back into the country, With title of superintendent bailie.

Enter SIR THOMAS BORNWELL.

Born. How now, what's the matter? Angry, sweetheart?

Aret. I am angry with myself, To be so miserably restrain'd in things Wherein it doth concern your love and honour To see me satisfied.

Born. In what, Aretina,

Dost thou accuse me? Have I not obeyed
All thy desires against mine own opinion?
Quitted the country, and remov'd the hope
Of our return by sale of that fair lordship
We liv'd in; chang'd a calm and retir'd life
For this wild town, compos'd of noise and charge?

Aret. What charge more than is necessary
For a lady of my birth and education?

Born. I am not ignorant how much nobility
Flows in your blood; your kinsmen, great and powerful
I' th' state, but with this lose not your memory
Of being my wife. I shall be studious,
Madam, to give the dignity of your birth
All the best ornaments which become my fortune,
But would not flatter it to ruin both,

And be the fable of the town, to teach
Other men loss of wit by mine, employed
To serve your vast expenses.

sure.

Aret. 'Tis that I came to town for; I would not Endure again the country conversation

1 A favourite though homely dance of those days, taking its title from an actor named St Leger.