Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast, Shepherd's Song. We that have known no greater state [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, 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 inteHallam 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 noue rest. 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 1 : mistress: Her eve did seem to labour with a tear, In the same vein of delicate fancy and feeling is the Cle. The day breaks glorious to my darken'd thoughts. • 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, Cle. O get thee wings and fly then; -Yet stay, Thou goest away too soon; where is he? speak. Cle. Time has no feathers; he walks now on Relate his gestures when he gave thee this. Cle. The sun's lov'd flower, that shuts his yellow curtain When he declineth, opens it again The Prodigal Lady. [From the 'Lady of Pleasure."" ABETIVA and the STEWARD. How they become the morris, with whose bells Stew. These, with your pardon, are no argument Aret. You do imagine, No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted Enter SIR THOMAS BORNWELL. Born. How now, what's the matter? Aret. I am angry with myself, Born. In what, Aretina, Dost thou accuse me? Have I not obeyed Born. I am not ignorant how much nobility All the best ornaments which become my fortura, Aret. Am I then Brought in the balance so, sir? Born. Though you weigh Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest, Nay study, ways of pride and costly ceremony. Fourscore pound suppers for my lord, your kinsman; Stear. Be patient, madam, you may have your plea- Banquets for t'other lady, aunt and cousins; sure. Aret. 'Tis that I came to town for; I would not Radure again the country conversation 1 A favourite though homely dance of those days, taking itt title from an actor named St Leger. And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants, To stifle us at home and show abroad, More motley than the French or the Venetian, 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, And show like bonfires on you by the tapers. 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 Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls; 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 subpœna Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure; Into more costly sin. There was a play on 't, Some darks had been discover'd, and the deeds too; Aret. Have you concluded Your lecture? Born. I have done; and howsoever 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, Mar. I do not know how rich he is in fields, Bos. Is he a branch of the nobility? Mar. You will not kill him? Bos. You shall pardon me; I have that within me must not be provok'd; Mar. Some living that have been kill'd? Bos. I mean some living that have seen examples, Not to confront nobility; and I 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 To kick any footman; an Sir Ambrose were Enter SIR AMBROSE LAMOUNT. Mar. Unluckily he's here, sir. Bos. Sir Ambrose, How does thy knighthood? ha' Amb. My nymph of honour, well; I joy to see thee. Bos. Sir Marmaduke tells me thou art suitor to 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: There was a long cessation of the regular drama, In 1642, the nation was convulsed with the element of discord, and in the same month that the swore 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.] Vrom the play of Gammer Gurton's Needle,' about 1565.] I nothing am a-cold; Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, 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 And saith, 'Sweetheart, I took my part 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 Psalms, 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, No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to win a loving eye; And hasty climbers soonest fall; 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 Their dealings plain and rightful, It is to feel and wait For lawyers and their pleading Not caring much for gold, 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, From the Poor Widow's Mite.' By William Hunnis: 1585.] Thou, God, that know'st the thoughts of men 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, Thou art the power and wisdom too, But I a lump of sinful flesh, Thou art by nature merciful, The thrall of sin and shame: And heal my misery. One depth, good Lord, another craves; Requires the depth of mercy great, For saving health in tome. Sweet Christ, grant that thy depth of grace That I thereby may whiter be, Than even snow hath been. 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, 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 shep- ין 1 1 By our byparted crown, of which the moiety is mine, By God, to whom my soul must pass, and so in time soft: may thine, 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 grown, And wildings, or the season's fruit, he did in scrip bestow |