Mar. He thinks he has good cards for her, and likes

His game well.

And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants,

To stifle us at home and show abroad,

More motley than the French or the Venetian,

About your coach, whose rude postilion

Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers

And common cries pursue your ladyship

And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls,

For hind'ring o' the market.

Aret. Have you done, sir?

Born. I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe

And prodigal embroideries, under which

Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare

Not show their own complexions. Your jewels,
Able to burn out the spectator's eyes,

And show like bonfires on you by the tapers.
Something might here be spared, with safety of
Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth
Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers.
I could urge something more.

Aret. Pray do; I like

Your homily of thrift.

Born. I could wish, madam, You would not game so much.

Aret. A gamester too?

Born. But are not come to that repentance yet Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit; You look not through the subtlety of cards And mysteries of dice, nor can you save

Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls; Nor do I wish you should. My poorest servant Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire, Purchas'd beneath my honour. You may play, Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex Yourself and my estate by 't.

Aret. Good-proceed.

Born. Another game you have, which consumes more Your fame than purse; your revels in the night, Your meetings called the ball, to which appear, As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants And ladies, thither bound by a subpæna

Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure;
'Tis but the family of love translated

Into more costly sin. There was a play on 't,
And had the poet not been brib'd to a modest
Expression of your antic gambols in 't,

Some darks had been discover'd, and the deeds too;
In time he may repent, and make some blush
To see the second part danc'd on the stage.
My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me
By any foul act, but the virtuous know
"Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the
Suspicions of our shame.

Aret. Have you concluded

Your lecture?

Born. I have done; and howsoever
My language may appear to you, it carries
No other than my fair and just intent

To your delights, without curb to their modest
And noble freedom.

In the 'Ball,' a comedy partly by Chapman, but chiefly by Shirley, a coxcomb (Bostock), crazed on the point of family, is shown up in the most admirable manner. Sir Marmaduke Travers, by way of fooling him, tells him that he is rivalled in his suit of a particular lady by Sir Ambrose Lamount.

Bos. Be an understanding knight,

And take my meaning; if he cannot show
As much in heraldry-

Mar. I do not know how rich he is in fields,

But he is a gentleman.

Bos. Is he a branch of the nobility?

How many lords can he call cousin ? else
He must be taught to know he has presumed
To stand in competition with me.

Mar. You will not kill him?

Bos. You shall pardon me;

I have that within me must not be provok'd;
There be some living now that have been kill'd
For lesser matters.

Mar. Some living that have been kill'd?

Bos. I mean some living that have seen examples,

Not to confront nobility; and I
Am sensible of my honour.

Mar. His name is

Sir Ambrose.

Bos. Lamount; a knight of yesterday, And he shall die to-morrow; name another.

Mar. Not so fast, sir; you must take some breath.

Bos. I care no more for killing half a dozen
Knights of the lower house-I mean that are not
Descended from nobility-than I do

To kick any footman; an Sir Ambrose were
Knight of the Sun, king Oberon should not save him,
Nor his queen Mab.

Enter SIR AMBROSE LAMOUNT.

Mar. Unluckily he's here, sir.

Bos. Sir Ambrose,

Bos. I think it would not; so my lord told me ; Thou know'st my lord, not the earl, my other Cousin? there's a spark his predecessors Have match'd into the blood; you understand He put me upon this lady; I proclaim No hopes; pray let's together, gentlemen; If she be wise-I say no more; she shall not Cost me a sigh, nor shall her love engage me To draw a sword; I have vow'd that.

Mar. You did but jest before.

Amb. "Twere pity that one drop

Of your heroic blood should fall to th' ground:
Who knows but all your cousin lords may die.
Mar. As I believe them not immortal, sir.
Amb. Then you are gulf of honour, swallow all,
May marry some queen yourself, and get princes
To furnish the barren parts of Christendom.

There was a long cessation of the regular drama. In 1642, the nation was convulsed with the elements of discord, and in the same month that the sword

was drawn, the theatres were closed. On the 2d of September, the Long Parliament issued an ordinance, 'suppressing public stage plays throughout the kingdom during these calamitous times. An infraction of this ordinance took place in 1644, when some players were apprehended for performing Beaumont and Fletcher's 'King and no King'-an ominous title for a drama at that period. Another ordinance was issued in 1647, and a third in the following year, when the House of Commons appointed a provost marshall, for the purpose of suppressing plays and seizing ballad singers. Parties of strolling actors occasionally performed in the country; but there was no regular theatrical performances in London, till Davenant brought out his opera, the Siege of Rhodes, in the year 1656. Two years afterwards, he removed to the Cockpit Theatre, Drury Lane, where he performed until the eve of the Restoration. A strong partiality for the drama existed in the nation, which all the storms of the civil war, and the zeal of the Puritans, had not been able to crush or subdue.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF THE PERIOD 1558-1649. [Convivial Song, by Bishop Still.]

[From the play of Gammer Gurton's Needle,' about 1565.]
I cannot eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,

I nothing am a-cold;
I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;

And little bread shall do me stead;

Much bread I nought desire.

No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow,

Can hurt me if I wold,

I am so wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd,

Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side, &c.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life
Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she troul to me the bowl,
Even as a maliworm should,

And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.'
Back and side, &c.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,

Even as good fellows should do ;

They shall not miss to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to.

And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls,

Or have them lustily troul'd,

God save the lives of them and their wives,

Whether they be young or old.
Back and side, &c.

My Mind to me a Kingdom is.
[From Byrd's 'Psalıns, Sonnets, &c. 1588.]
My mind to me a kingdom is,

Such perfect joy therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss

That God or nature hath assign'd:

Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

No princely port, nor wealthy store,
Nor force to win a victory;
No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall,
For why, my mind despise them all.
I see that plenty surfeits oft,

And hasty climbers soonest fall;
I see that such as are aloft,

Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares my mind can never bear. I press to bear no haughty sway; I wish no more than may suffice; I do no more than well I may,

Look what I want, my mind supplies; Lo, thus I triumph like a king, My mind's content with anything. I laugh not at another's loss,

Nor grudge not at another's gain; No worldly waves my mind can toss;

I brook that is another's bane; I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. My wealth is health and perfect ease, And conscience clear my chief defence; I never seek by bribes to please, Nor by desert to give offence; Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all do so as well as I!

Song.

[From the same.]

What pleasure have great princes More dainty to their choice, Than herdsmen wild, who careless

In quiet life rejoice:

And Fortune's fate not fearing,
Sing sweet in summer morning.

Their dealings plain and rightful,
Are void of all deceit ;
They never know how spiteful

It is to feel and wait
On favourite presumptuous,
Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.
All day their flocks each tendeth,
All night they take their rest,
More quiet than who sendeth
His ship into the East,
Where gold and pearl are plenty,
But getting very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading
They esteem it not a straw;
They think that honest meaning
Is of itself a law;
Where Conscience judgeth plainly,
They spend no money vainly.
O happy who thus liveth,

Not caring much for gold,
With clothing which sufficeth
To keep him from the cold:
Though poor and plain his diet,
Yet merry it is and quiet.

Meditation when we go to Bed.

[From the Handful of Honeysuckles.' By William Hunnis: 1585.]

O Lord my God, I wandered have
As one that runs astray,

And have in thought, in word, and deed,
In idleness and play,

15

"From the Poor Widow's Mite." By William Hunnis: 1585.]
Thou, God, that rul'st and reign'st in light,
That flesh cannot attain;

Thou, God, that know'st the thoughts of men
Are altogether vain;

Thou, God, whom neither tongue of man

Nor angel can express;

Thou, God, it is that I do seek,

Thou pity my distress!

Thy seat, O God, is everywhere,

Thy power all powers transcend;

Thy wisdom cannot measured be,

For that it hath no end!

Thou art the power and wisdom too,
And sole felicity;

But I a lump of sinful flesh,
Nurse of iniquity.

Thou art by nature merciful,
And Mercy is thy name;
And I by nature miserable,

The thrall of sin and shame:

Then let thy nature, O good God !
Now work this force in me;

And cleanse the nature of my sin,

And heal my misery.

One depth, good Lord, another craves;

My depth of sinful crime

Requires the depth of mercy great,

For saving health in time.

Sweet Christ, grant that thy depth of grace

May swallow up my sin;

That I thereby may whiter be,

Than even snow hath been.

Preferring poverty before a dangerous life in wealth. When Curan heard of her escape, the anguish in his heart

Was more than much; and after her from court he did depart:

Forgetful of himself, his birth, his country, friends, and all,

And only minding whom he mist-the foundress of his

thrall!

Normeans he after to frequent, or court, or stately towns,
But solitarily to live amongst the country grownes.
A brace of years he lived thus; well-pleased so to live;
And shepherd-like to feed a flock, himself did wholly
give.

So wasting, love, by work and want, grew almost to the

wane:

But then began a second love, the worser of the twain! A country wench, a neatherd's maid, where Curan kept his sheep,

Did feed her drove; and now on her was all the shepherd's keep.

He borrow'd, on the working days, his holly ruffets oft: And of the bacon's fat, to make his startups black and

soft:

And lest his tar-box should offend, he left it at the fold; Sweet growt or whig, his bottle had as much as it

I pray thee, nay, conjure thee, too, to nourish as thine

would hold;

own

A sheave of bread as brown as nut, and cheese as white

Thy niece, my daughter Argentile, till she to age be grown,

For beauty: though I clownish am, I know what beauty is,

Or did I not, yet, seeing thee, I senseless were to miss. Suppose her beauty Helen's like, or Helen's somewhat less,

And every star consorting to a pure complexion guess.

she.'

They sweetly surfeiting in joy, and silent for a space, Whereas the ecstacy had end, did tenderly embrace; And for their wedding, and their wish, got fitting time and place.

Thy twice beloved Agentile submitteth her to thee: And for thy double love presents herself a single fee; In passion, not in person chang'd, and I, my lord, am

Sonnet.

[By George Chapman, the Translator of Homer: 1595.] Muses, that sing Love's sensual empirie, And lovers kindling your enraged fires At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye, Blown with the empty breath of vain desires; You, that prefer the painted cabinet Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye, That all your joys in dying figures set, And stain the living substance of your glory; Abjure those joys, abhor their memory; And let my love the honour'd subject be Of love and honour's complete history ! Your eyes were never yet let in to see The majesty and riches of the mind, That dwell in darkness; for your god is blind.

The Woodman's Walk.

(From England's Helicon,' 1600, where it is signed, 'Shep. Tonie.'"]

Through a fair forest as I went,
Upon a summer's day,

I met a woodman, quaint and gent,
Yet in a strange array.

I marvell'd much at his disguise,
Whom I did know so well:

But thus, in terms both grave and wise,
His mind he 'gan to tell;

Friend! muse not at this fond array,
But list a while to me:
For it hath holpe me to survey
What I shall show to thee.

Long liv'd I in this forest fair,
Till, weary of my weal,
Abroad in walks I would repair,
As now I will reveal.

My first day's walk was to the court,
Where beauty fed mine eyes ;
Yet found I that the courtly sport
Did mask in sly disguise:

For falsehood sat in fairest looks,
And friend to friend was coy:
Court favour fill'd but empty rooks,
And then I found no joy.

Desert went naked in the cold,

When crouching craft was fed :
Sweet words were cheaply bought and soll,
But none that stood in stead.

Wit was employed for each man's own;
Plain meaning came too short;
All these devices, seen and known,
Made me forsake the court.

Unto the city next I went,
In hope of better hap;

Where liberally I launcht and spent,
As set on Fortune's lap.

The little stock I had in store,
Methought would ne'er be done;
Friends flock'd about me more and more,
As quickly lost as won.

For, when I spent, then they were kind;
But when my purse did fail,
The foremost man came last behind:
Thus love with wealth doth quail.

Once more for footing yet I strove,
Although the world did frown:
But they, before that held me up,
Together trod me down.

And, lest once more I should arise,
They sought my quite decay:
Then got I into this disguise,
And thence I stole away.

And in my mind (methought), I said,
Lord bless me from the city:
Where simpleness is thus betray'd
Without remorse or pity.

Yet would I not give over so,
But once more try my fate;
And to the country then I go,
To live in quiet state.

There did appear no subtle shows,
But yea and nay went smoothly;
But, lord! how country folks can gloze,
When they speak most untruly!

More craft was in a buttoned cap,
And in an old wife's rail,
Than in my life it was my hap
To see on down or dale.

There was no open forgery
But underhanded gleaning,
Which they call country policy,
But hath a worser meaning.

Some good bold face bears out the wrong,
Because he gains thereby;

The poor man's back is crack'd ere long,
Yet there he lets him lie.

And no degree, among them all,
But had such close intending,
That I upon my knees did fall,
And pray'd for their amending.

Back to the woods I got again,
In mind perplexed sore;
Where I found ease of all my pain,
And mean to stray no more.

There city, court, nor country too,
Can any way annoy me;
But as a woodman ought to do,
I freely may employ me;

There live I quietly alone,
And none to trip my talk:
Wherefore, when I am dead and gone,
Think on the woodman's walk !

There is a Garden in her Face.

[From 'An Hour's Recreation in Music,' by Rich. Alison: 1606.]

There is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do inclose
Of orient pearl a double row,

Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:

Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.