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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 exqrisite touches of pathos and natural feeling. The gries of a group of mourners over a dead body is thus described :

I found them winding of Marcello's corse,
And there is such a solemn melody,
'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies,
Such as old grandames watching by the dead
Were wont to outwear the nights with; that, be-

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,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole,

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And, when gay tombs are robb'd, sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

The following couplet has been admired :T

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.

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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 to preserve earthworms. 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.

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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)

Where I may kill, to pardon. Where are your cubs? twenty years' sooner than on a merry milkmaid's.

Duch. Whom?

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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.

Makes them all equal.

Duch. Do you visit me for this?

Duch. I am Duchess of Malfy still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken.

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You violate a sacrament o' th' church,

Could you have liv'd thus always: for, indeed,
You were too much i' th' light-but no more;

? come to seal my peace with you. Here's a hand

[Gives her a dead man's hand.

Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright;
But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light..

Duch. Thou art very plain.

Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living. I am a tomb-maker.

Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb !
Bos. Yes.

Duch. Let me be a little merry.

Of what stuff wilt thou make it?

Pos. Nav, 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.

Bus. 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.

Duck. Let me see it.

I have so much obedience in my blood,

I wish it in their veins to do them good.
Bos. This is your last presence chamter.
Chr. O, my sweet lady.

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.

Duck. 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,
Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay 's now competent.
A long war disturb'd your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign'd.

Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin, their conception; their birth, weeping:
Their life, a general mist of error,
Their death, a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Den clean linen, bathe your feet :
Ard (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck.

'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.

Drach. To whom; to our next neighbours? They

are mad folks.

Farewell, Cariola.

a pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrup for his cold; and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please;

What death?

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With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls 1
I know death hath ten thousand several doors
For men to take their exits: and 'tis found
They go on such strange geometrical hinges,

You may open them both ways: any way (for heav'n

sake)

So I were out of your whispering: tell my brothers
That I perceive death (now I'm well awake)
Best gift is they can give or I can take.
I would fain put off my last woman's fault;
I'd not be tedious to you.

Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down heaven upon me.

Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd
As princes' palaces; they that enter there
Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death,

Serve for Mandragora to make me sleep.
Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out,

They then may feed in quiet.

[They strangle her, kneeling.

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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 Shakspeare'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

appeared. We know that after this date Middleton

was writing for the stage, as, in 1624, his play, A Game at Chess, was brought out, and gave great offence at court, by bringing on the stage the king of Spain, and his ambassador, Gondomar. The latter complained to King James of the insult, and Middleton (who at first shifted out of the way') and the poor players were brought before the privycouncil. They were only reprimanded for their audacity in 'bringing modern Christian kings upoti the stage.' If the dramatic sovereign had been James himself, nothing less than the loss of ears and noses would have appeased offended royalty! Middleton wrote about twenty plays: in 1603, we find him assisting Dekker at a court-pageant, and he was afterwards concerned in different pieces with Rowley, Webster, and other authors. He would seem to have been well-known as a dramatic writer. On Shrove Tuesday, 1617, the London apprentices, in an idle riot, demolished the Cockpit Theatre, and an old ballad describing the circumstance, states

Books old and young on heap they flung,
And burnt them in the blazes,
Tom Dekker, Heywood, Middleton,
And other wandering crazys.

In 1620, Middleton was made chronologer, or city poet, of London, an office afterwards held by Ben Jonson, and which expired with Settle in 1724.* He died in July 1627. The dramas of Middleton have no strongly-marked character; his best is Women Beware of Women, a tale of love and jealousy, from the Italian. The following sketch of married happiness is delicate, and finely expressed :

[Happiness of Married Life.]

How near am I now to a happiness

That earth exceeds not! not another like it:
The treasures of the deep are not so precious,
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house.
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet bed's not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting house built in a garden,
On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch side.

-Now for a welcome,

Able to draw men's envies upon man; A kiss now that will hang upon my lip As sweet as morning dew upon a rose,

And full as long!

The Witch' is also an Italian plot, but the supernatural agents of Middleton are the old witches of legendary story, not the dim mysterious unearthly beings that accost Macbeth on the blasted heath. The Charm Song' is much the same in both :

The Witches going about the Cauldron.

Black spirits and white; red spirits and grey;
Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may.
Titty, Tiffin, keep it stiff in;
Firedrake, Puckey, make it lucky;
Liard, Robin, you must bob in;
Round, around, around, about, about;
All ill come running in; all good keep out!
1st Witch. Here's the blood of a bat.
Hecate. Put in that; oh put in that.
2d Witch. Here's libbard's bane.

Hecate. Put in again.

1st Witch. The juice of toad, the oil of adder.
2d Witch. Those will make the younker madder.

All. Round, around, around, &c.

The flight of the witches by moonlight is described with a wild gusto and delight; if the scene was written before 'Macbeth, Middleton deserves the credit of truc poetical imagination:

Enter HECATE, STADLIN, HOPPO, and other Witches. Hec. The moon's a gallant; see how brisk she rides! Stad. Here's a rich evening, Hecate.

Hec. Ay, is't not, wenches,

To take a journey of five thousand miles ?

Hop. Ours will be more to night.

Hec. Oh, it will be precious. Heard you the owl yet? Stad. Briefly in the copse,

As we came through now.

* The salary given to the city poet is incidentally mentioned by Jonson in an indignant letter to the Earl of Newcastle in 1631. Yesterday the barbarous Court of Aldermen have with. nrawn their chandlery pension for verjuice and mustardL.33, 6s. 84.

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Hec. And selago.

Hedge Hissop too! How near he goes my cuttings! Were they all cropt by moonlight?

Fire. Every blade of 'em, or I'm a mooncalf, mother. Hec. Hie thee home with 'em.

Look well to th' house to-night; I am for aloft.

Fire., Aloft, quoth you! I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly. [Aside.]-Hark, hark, mother! they are above the steeple already, flying over your head with a noise of musicians.

Hec. They are, indeed; help me! help me! I'm too late else.

Song.

[In the air above.]

Come away, come away,

Hecate, Hecate, come away,

Hec. I come, I come, I come, I come;

With all the speed I may;
With all the speed I may.
Where's Stadlin?

[Above.] Here.

Hec. Where's Puckle?

[Above.] Here.

And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too :
We lack but you, we lack but you.
Come away, make up the count.

Hec. I will but 'noint and then I mount.

[A Spirit descends in the shape of a cat. [Above.] There's one come down to fetch his dues; A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood;

And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, I muse,
Since th' air's so sweet and good.

Hec. Oh, art thou come;

What news, what news?

Spirit. All goes still to our delight,

Hec.

Either come, or else
Refuse, refuse.

Now, I am furnish'd for the flight.

Fire. Hark, hark! The cat sings a brave treble

in her own language.

Hec. [Ascending with the Spirit.] Now I go, now I fly,
Malkin, my sweet spirit, and I.
Oh, what dainty pleasure 'tis
To ride in the air,

When the moon shines fair,

And sing, and dance, and toy and kiss!
Over woods, high rocks, and mountains,
Over seas, our mistress' fountains,

Over steep towers and turrets,

We fly by night, 'mongst troops of spirits.
No ring of bells to our ears sounds;
No howls of wolves, no yelp of hounds;
No, not the noise of waters' breach,
Or cannon's roar our height cor reach.

[Above.] No ring of bells, &c.

JOHN MARSTON.

JOHN MARSTON, a rough and vigorcus satirist and dramatic writer, produced his Malcontent, a comedy, prior to 1600; his Antonio and Mellida, a tragedy, in 1602; the Insatiate Countess, What You Will, and other plays, written between the latter date and 1634, when he died. He was also connected with Jonson and Chapman in the composition of the unfortunate comedy, Eastward Hoe. In his subsequent quarrel with Jonson, Marston was satirised by Ben in his 'Poetaster,' under the name of Demetrius.

Marston was author of two volumes of miscellaneous poetry, translations, and satires, one of which (Pigmalion's Image) was ordered to be burned for its icentiousness. Mr Collier, who states that Marston seems to have attracted a good deal of attention in

his own day, quotes from a contemporary diary the | following anecdote :- 'Nov. 21, 1602.-Jo. Marston,

the last Christmas, when he danced with Alderman More's wife's daughter, a Spaniard born, fell into a strange commendation of her wit and beauty. When he had done, she thought to pay him home, and told him she thought he was a poet. 'Tis true, said he, for poets feign and lie; and so did I when I commended your beauty, for you are exceeding foul. This coarseness seems to have been characteristic of Marston: his comedies contain strong biting satires, but he is far from being a moral writer. Hazlitt says, his forte was not sympathy either with the stronger or softer emotions, but an impatient scorn and bitter indignation against the vices and follies of men, which vented itself either in comic irony or in lofty invective. The following humorous sketch of a scholar and his dog is worthy of Shakspeare :I was a scholar: seven useful springs

Did I deflower in quotations

Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man;

The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt.
Delight, my spaniel, slept, whilst I baus'd leaves,
Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old print
Of titled words and still my spaniel slept.
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh,
Shrunk up my veins: and still my spaniel slept.
And still I held converse with Zabarell,
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw
Of Antick Donate: still my spaniel slept.
Still on went I; first, an sit anima;

Then, an it were mortal. O hold, hold; at that
They're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain
Pell-mell together; still my spaniel slept.
Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixt,
Ex traduce, but whether 't had free will
Or no, hot philosophers

Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt;
I stagger'd, knew not which was firmer part,
But thought, quoted, read, observ'd, and pried,
Stufft noting-books and still m, spaniel slept.
At length he wak'd, and yawn'd; and by yon sky,
For aught I know, he knew as much as 1.

ROBERT TAYLOR-WILLIAM ROWLEY CYRIL

TOURNEUR.

Among the other dramatists at this time may be mentioned ROBERT TAYLOR, author of the Hog hath Lost his Pearl; WILLIAM ROWLEY, an actor and joint writer with Middleton and Dekker, who produced several plays; CYRIL TOURNEUR, author of two good dramas, the Atheist's Tragedy and the Revenger's Tragedy. A tragi-comedy, the Witch of Edmonton, is remarkable as having been the work of at least three authors-Rowley, Dekker, and Ford. It embodies, in a striking form, the vulgar superstitions respecting witchcraft, which so long debased the popular mind in England :

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Throw all their scandalous malice upon me?
'Cause I am poor, deform'd, and ignorant,
And like a bow buckled and bent together
By some more strong in mischiefs than myself;
Must I for that be made a common sink
For all the filth and rubbish of men's tongues
To fall and run into? Some call me witch,
And being ignorant of myself, they go
About to teach me how to be one: urging
That my bad tongue (by their bad usage made so)

Forespeaks their cattle, doth bewitch their corn,

Themselves, their servants, and their babes at nurse :

This they enforce upon me; and in part

Make me to credit it.

BANKS, a Farmer, enters.

Banks. Out, out upon thee, witch!
Saw. Dost call me witch?

Banks. I do, witch; I do:

And worse I would, knew I a name more hateful.
What makest thou upon my ground ?

Saw. Gather a few rotten sticks to warm me.
Banks. Down with them when I bid thee, quickly;
I'll make thy bones rattle in thy skin else.

Saw. You won't! churl, cut-throat, miser! there they be. Would they stuck 'cross thy throat, thy bowels, thy maw, thy midriff

Banks. Say'st thou me so? Hag, out of my ground. Saw. Dost strike me, slave, curmudgeon? Now thy bones aches, thy joints cramps,

And convulsions stretch and crack thy sinews.
Banks. Cursing, thou hag? take that, and that.

[Exit.

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And hated like a sickness; made a scorn

To all degrees and sexes.

I have heard old beldams

Talk of familiars in the shape of mice,

Rats, ferrets, weasels, and I wot not what,

That have appear'd; and suck'd, some say, their blood.
But by what means they came acquainted with them,
I'm now ignorant. Would some power, good or bad,
Instruct me which way I might be reveng'd
Upon this churl, I'd go out of myself,
And give this fury leave to dwell within
This ruin'd cottage, ready to fall with age:
Abjure all goodness, be at hate with prayer,

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[From Tourneur's 'Atheist's Tragedy]
Walking upon the fatal shore,
Among the slaughter'd bodies of their men,
Which the full-stomach'd sea had cast upon
The sands, it was my unhappy chance to light
Upon a face, whose favour, when it lived,
My astonish'd mind inform'd me I had seen.
He lay in his armour, as if that had been
His coffin; and the weeping sea (like one
Whose milder temper doth lament the death
Of him whom in his rage he slew) runs up
The shore, embraces him, kisses his cheek;
Goes back again, and forces up the sands
To bury him; and every time it parts,
Sheds tears upon him; till at last (as if
It could no longer endure to see the man
Whom it had slain, yet loath to leave him), with
A kind of unresolv'd unwilling pace,
Winding her waves one in another (like
A man that folds his arms, or wrings his hands,
For grief), ebb'd from the body, and descends;
As if it would sink down into the earth,

And hide itself for shame of such a deed.

An anonymous play, the Return from Parnassus, was acted by the students of St John's college, Cambridge, about the year 1602: it is remarkable for containing criticisms on contemporary authors, all poets. Each author is summoned up for judgment,

and dismissed after a few words of commendation or

censure.

Some of these poetical criticisms are finely written, as well as curious. Of SpenserA sweeter swan than ever sung in Po; A shriller nightingale than ever blest The prouder groves of self-admiring Rome. Blithe was each valley, and each shepherd proud While he did chant his rural minstrelsy. Attentive was full many a dainty ear: Nay, hearers hung upon his melting tongue, While sweetly of the Faery Queen he sung; While to the water's fall he tuned her fame, And in each bark engrav'd Eliza's name.

The following extract introduces us to Marlow, Jonson, and Shakspeare; but to the latter only as the author of the 'Venus' and 'Lucrece.' Ingenioso reads out the names, and Judicio pronounces judg

ment:

Ing. Christopher Marlow.

Jud. Marlow was happy in his buskin'd muse;

Alas! unhappy in his life and end.
Pity it is that wit so ill should well,

Wit lent from heaven, but vices sent from hell.

Ing. Our theatre hath lost, Pluto hath got, A tragic penman for a dreary plot.Benjamin Jonson.

Jud. The wittiest fellow of a bricklayer in England. Ing. A mere empiric, one that gets what he hath by observation, and makes only nature privy to what he indites; so slow an inventor, that he were better betake himself to his old trade of bricklaying; a blood whoreson, as confident now in making of a book, as he vas in times past in laying of a brick.Villiam Shakspeare.

Jud. Who loves Adonis' love or Lucrece' rape;
His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life,
Could but a graver subject him content,
Without love's lazy foolish languishment.

The author afterwards introduces Kempe and Burbage, the actors, and makes the former state, in reference to the university dramatists-'Why, here's our fellow Shakspeare puts them all down; ay, and Ben Jonson too.' Posterity has confirmed this 'Return from Parnassus.'

GEORGE COOKE-THOMAS NABBES-NATHANIEL FIELD -JOHN DAY-HENRY GLAPTHORNE THOMAS RAN

DOLPH-RICHARD BROME.

A lively comedy, called Green's Tu Quoque, was written by GEORGE COOKE, a contemporary of Shakspeare. THOMAS NABBES (died about 1645) was the author of Microcosmus, a masque, and of several other plays. In 'Microcosmus' is the following fine song of love:—

Welcome, welcome, happy pair,
To these abodes where spicy air
Breathes perfumes, and every sense
Doth find his object's excellence;
Where's no heat, nor cold extreme,
No winter's ice, no summer's scorching beam;
Where's no sun, yet never night,
Day always springing from eternal light.
Chorus. All mortal sufferings laid aside,

Here in endless bliss abide.

NATHANIEL FIELD (who was one of the actors in Ben Jonson's 'Poetaster') began to write for the stage about 1609 or 1610, and produced Woman is a Weathercock, Amends for Ladies, &c. He had the honour of being associated with Massinger in the composition of the Fatal Dowry. JOHN DAY, in conjunction with Chettle, wrote the Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green, a popular comedy, and was also author of two or three other plays, and some miscellaneous poems. HENRY GLAPTHORNE is mentioned as 'one of the chiefest dramatic poets of the reign of Charles I.' Five of his plays are printed-Albertus Wallenstein, the Hollander, Argalus and Parthenia, Wit in a Constable, the Lady's Privilege, &c. There is a certain smoothness and prettiness of expression about Glapthorne (particularly in his 'Albertus'), but he is deficient in passion and energy. THOMAS RANDOLPH (1607-1634) wrote the Muses' LookingGlass, the Jealous Lovers, &c. In an anonymous play, Sweetman the Woman-hater, is the following happy simile :

Justice, like lightning, ever should appear
To few men's ruin, but to all men's fear.

RICHARD BROME, one of the best of the secondary dramatists, produced several plays, the Antipodes, the City Wit, the Court Beggar, &c. Little is known of the personal history of these authors: a few scattered dates usually make up the whole amount of their biography. The public demand for theatrical novelties called forth a succession of writers in this popular and profitable walk of literature, who seem to have discharged their ephemeral tasks, and sunk with their works into oblivion. The glory of Shakspeare has revived some of the number, like halos round his name; and the rich stamp of the age, in style and thought, is visible on the pages of most of them.

PHILIP MASSINGER,

The reign of James produced no other tragic poet equal to PHILIP MASSINGER, an unfortunate author, whose life was spent in obscurity and poverty, and

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