Madam, good-night; may no discontent
Grow 'twixt your love and you; but if there do,
Inquire of me, and I will guide your moan;
Teach you an artificial way to grieve,

To keep your sorrow waking. Love your lord
No worse than I ; but if you love so well,
Alas! you may displease him; so did I.
This is the last time you shall look on me :
Ladies, farewell; as soon as I am dead,
Come all, and watch one night about my hearse ;
Bring each a mournful story and a tear
To offer at it when I go to earth :
With flattering ivy clasp my coffin round,
Write on my brow my fortune, let my bier
Be borne by virgins that shall sing by course
The truth of maids and perjuries of men.
Evad. Alas! I pity thee.
Asp. Go, and be happy in your lady's love;

[Amintor enters.

[To Amintor.

May all the wrongs that you have done to me
Be utterly forgotten in my death.
I'll trouble you no more, yet I will take
A parting kiss, and will not be denied.

You'll come, my lord, and see the virgins weep
When I am laid in earth, though you yourself
Can know no pity: thus I wind myself
Into this willow garland, and am prouder
That I was once your love-though now refused-
Than to have had another true to me.

The Maid's Tragedy, Act II. sc. 1.

Palamon and Arcite, Captives in Greece.

Palamon. How do you, noble cousin?
Arcite. How do you, sir?

Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery, And bear the chance of war yet; we are prisoners, I fear for ever, cousin.

Arc. I believe it,

And to that destiny have patiently

Laid up my hour to come.

Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite,

Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country?
Where are our friends and kindreds? Never more
Must we behold those comforts, never see
The hardy youths strive for the games of honour,
Hung with the painted favours of their ladies,
Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst them,
And as an east wind leave them all behind us
Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite,
Even in the wagging of a wanton leg,
Outstript the people's praises, won the garlands
Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, never
Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour,
Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses
Like proud seas under us; our good swords now-
Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore-
Ravished our sides, like age, must run to rust,
And deck the temples of those gods that hate us;
These hands shall never draw them out like lightning
To blast whole armies more!

Arc. No, Palamon,

Those hopes are prisoners with us; here we are, And here the graces of our youths must wither Like a too timely spring; here age must find us, And-which is heaviest-Palamon, unmarried; The sweet embraces of a loving wife

Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids,
Shall never clasp our necks! no issue know us,
No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see,
To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them
Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say,
'Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!'
The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments,
And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune,
Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done
To youth and nature. This is all our world :
We shall know nothing here but one another;
Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes.
The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it :
Summer shall come, and with her all delights,
But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still.

Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds,
That shook the aged forest with their echoes,
No more now must we halloo; no more shake
Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine
Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages,

Struck with our well-steeled darts! All valiant uses-
The food and nourishment of noble minds-
In us two here shall perish: we shall die-
Which is the curse of honour-lastly,
Children of grief and ignorance.

Arc. Yet, cousin,

Even from the bottom of these miseries,

From all that fortune can inflict upon us,

I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings,
If the gods please to hold here: a brave patience,
And the enjoying of our griefs together.
Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish
If I think this our prison!

Pal. Certainly

'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes
Were twined together; 'tis most true, two souls
Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer
The gall of hazard, so they grow together,
Will never sink; they must not; say they could,
A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done.

Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place
That all men hate so much?

Pal. How, gentle cousin?

Arc. Let's think this prison a holy sanctuary,
To keep us from corruption of worse men!
We are young, and yet desire the ways of honour,
That liberty and common conversation,

The poison of pure spirits, might-like women-
Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing
Can be, but our imaginations

May make it ours? And here being thus together,
We are an endless mine to one another;

We are one another's wife, ever begetting

New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance;
We are, in one another, families;

I am your heir, and you are mine; this place
Is our inheritance; no hard oppressor
Dare take this from us: here, with a little patience,
We shall live long, and loving; no surfeits seek us;
The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas
Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty,
A wife might part us lawfully, or business;
Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men
Crave our acquaintance; I might sicken, cousin,
Where you should never know it, and so perish
Without your noble hand to close mine eyes,
Or prayers to the gods: a thousand chances,
Were we from hence, would sever us.

Pal. You have made me

I thank you, cousin Arcite !—almost wanton
With my captivity: what a misery

It is to live abroad, and everywhere!

'Tis like a beast, methinks! I find the court here, I'm sure, a more content; and all those pleasures, That woo the wills of men to vanity,

I see through now; and am sufficient

To tell the world, 'Tis but a gaudy shadow,

Pastoral Love.-From the Faithful Shepherdess.
CLORIN and a SATYR with basket of fruit.
Satyr. Through yon same bending plain
That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods, have I run,
Whose bottom never kissed the sun,
Since the lusty spring began.
All to please my master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest,
To get him fruit; for at a feast
He entertains, this coming night,
His paramour the Syrinx bright:
But behold a fairer sight!
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods; for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,

And live therefore, on this mould
Lowly do I bend my knee,
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells,
Fairer by the famous wells,
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better, nor more true.
Here be grapes whose lusty blood
Is the learned poets' good,

Sweeter yet did never crown

[Seeing CLORIN.

The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown

Than the squirrel whose teeth crack them;
Deign, O fairest fair, to take them :

For these, black-eyed Driope
Hath oftentimes commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb:
See how well the lusty time

Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread.

Here be berries for a queen,
Some be red, some be green;
These are of that luscious meat

The great god Pan himself doth eat:

All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain or the field,

I freely offer, and ere long

Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;
Till when, humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,

That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade.

I must go, I must run,

Swifter than the fiery sun.

Clorin. And all my fears go with thee.

What greatness, or what private hidden power,

Is there in me to draw submission

[Exit.

From this rude man and beast?-sure I am mortal;

The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal,

And she that bore me mortal; prick my hand

And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and

The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink,
Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal:

Yet I have heard-my mother told it me-
And now I do believe it, if I keep

My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fair,
No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,
Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves,
Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion
Draw me to wander after idle fires,
Or voices calling me in dead of night
To make me follow, and so tole me on
Through mire and standing pools, to find my ruin.
Else why should this rough thing, who never knew
Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats
Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen,
Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there's a power
In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites
That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity,
Be thou my strongest guard; for here I'll dwell'
In opposition against fate and hell!

PERIGOT and AMORET appoint to meet at the Virtuous Well.

Perigot. Stay, gentle Amoret, thou fair-browed maid. Thy shepherd prays thee stay, that holds thee dear, Equal with his soul's good.

Amoret. Speak, I give

Thee freedom, shepherd, and thy tongue be still
The same it ever was, as free from ill

As he whose conversation never knew
The court or city: be thou ever true.

Peri. When I fall off from my affection,

Or mingle my clean thoughts with ill desires,
First let our great God cease to keep my flocks,
That being left alone without a guard,

The wolf, or winter's rage, summer's great heat,
And want of water, rots, or what to us

Of ill is yet unknown, fall speedily,

And in their general ruin let me go.

Amo. I pray thee, gentle shepherd, wish not so:

I do believe thee, 'tis as hard for me

To think thee false, and harder than for thee

To hold me foul.

Peri. Oh, you are fairer far

Than the chaste blushing morn, or that fair star
That guides the wandering seamen through the deep,
Straighter than straightest pine upon the steep
Head of an aged mountain, and more white
Than the new milk we strip before daylight
From the full-freighted bags of our fair flocks.
Your hair more beauteous than those hanging locks
Of young Apollo.

Amo. Shepherd, be not lost,

Y' are sailed too far already from the coast
Of our discourse.

Peri. Did you not tell me once

I should not love alone, I should not lose

Those many passions, vows, and holy oaths,

I've sent to heaven? Did you not give your hand,
Even that fair hand, in hostage? Do not then
Give back again those sweets to other men
You yourself vowed were mine.

Amo. Shepherd, so far as maiden's modesty
May give assurance, I am once more thine.
Once more I give my hand; be ever free
From that great foe to faith, foul jealousy.
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. Say, sweet, shall it hold?
Amo. Dear friend, you must not blame me if I make
A doubt of what the silent night may do-
Maids must be fearful.

Peri. Oh, do not wrong my honest simple truth; Myself and my affections are as pure

As those chaste flames that burn before the shrine
Of the great Dian: only my intent

To draw you thither was to plight our troths,
With interchange of mutual chaste embraces,
And ceremonious tying of ourselves.
For to that holy wood is consecrate

A Virtuous Well, about whose flowery banks
The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds
By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes
Their stolen children, so to make them free
From dying flesh and dull mortality.

By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn
And given away his freedom, many a troth
Been plight, which neither Envy nor old Time
Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given
In hope of coming happiness: by this
Fresh fountain many a blushing maid

Hath crowned the head of her long-loved shepherd
With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung
Lays of his love and dear captivity.

Act I. sc. 2.

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,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,

But only melancholy !

Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up, without a sound!

Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch your bones in a still gloomy valley:
Nothing's so dainty-sweet as lovely melancholy.

Song-From the 'False One

Look out, bright eyes, and bless the air!
Even in shadows you are fair.
Shut-up beauty is like fire,

That breaks out clearer still and higher.
Though your beauty be confined,

And soft Love a prisoner bound,
Yet the beauty of your mind

Neither check nor chain hath found.
Look out nobly, then, and dare
Even the fetters that you wear!

The Power of Love.-From 'Valentinian.
Hear ye, ladies that despise

What the mighty Love has done;

Fear examples, and be wise:
Fair Calisto was a nun:
Leda, sailing on the stream,
To deceive the hopes of man,
Love accounting but a dream,
Doted on a silver swan;
Danae in a brazen tower,
Where no love was, loved a shower.

Hear ye, ladies that are coy,
What the mighty Love can do;
Fear the fierceness of the boy;
The chaste moon he makes to woo;
Vesta, kindling holy fires,

Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,
Doting at the altar dies;
Ilion, in a short hour, higher
He can build, and once more fire.

To Sleep-From the same. Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose On this afflicted prince: fall like a cloud In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet [light?], And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, Pass by his troubled senses, sing his pain Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain. Into this prince, gently, oh, gently slide, And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!

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,

Or itch to have me their adversary, I know not,
Or all these mixed; but sure I am, three years
They did provoke me with their petulant styles
On every stage.

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 playgoing public. Jonson had complained that his lines were often maliciously misconstrued and misapplied, complacently remarking:

The error is not mine, but in their eye
That cannot take proportions.

Dekker replies happily to this querulous display of egotism:

Horace! to stand within the shot of galling tongues
Proves not your guilt; for could we write on paper
Made of these turning leaves of heaven, the clouds,
Or speak with angels' tongues, yet wise men know
That some would shake the head, though saints should
sing:

Some snakes must hiss, because they're born with stings.

Be not you grieved

If that which you mould fair, upright, and smooth,
Be screwed awry, made crooked, lame, and vile,
By racking comments.

So to be bit it rankles not, for Innocence
May with a feather brush off the foul wrong.
But when your dastard wit will strike at men

In corners, and in riddles fold the vices

Of your best friends, you must not take to heart
If they take off all gilding from their pills,
And only offer you the bitter core.

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 breathed.

The contrast between female honour and shame :
Nothing did make me, when I loved them best,
To loathe them more than this: when in the street
A fair, young, modest damsel I did meet ;
She seemed to all a dove when I passed by,
And I to all a raven: every eye
That followed her, went with a bashful glance:
At me each bold and jeering countenance
Darted forth scorn: to her, as if she had been
Some tower unvanquished, would they all vail :
'Gainst me swoln Rumour hoisted every sail;

She, crowned with reverend praises, passed by them;
I, though with face masked, could not 'scape the hem;
For, as if heaven had set strange marks on such,
Because they should be pointing-stocks to man,
Drest up in civilest shape, a courtesan,
Let her walk saint-like, noteless, and unknown,
Yet she's betrayed by some trick of her own.

The picture of a lady seen by her lover:
My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye,
The dimple on her cheek: and such sweet skill
Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown,
These lips look fresh and lively as her own;
Seeming to move and speak. Alas! now I see
The reason why fond women love to buy
Adulterate complexion: here 'tis read;
False colours last after the true be dead.
Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,
Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,
Of all the music set upon her tongue,
Of all that was past woman's excellence,
In her white bosom; look, a painted board
Circumscribes all! Earth can no bliss afford ;.
Nothing of her but this! This cannot speak ;
It has no lap for me to rest upon;

No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will feed,
As in her coffin. Hence, then, idle art,
True love's best pictured in a true love's heart.
Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead,
So that thou livest twice, twice art buried.
Thou figure of my friend, lie there!

Picture of Court-life.-From Old Fortunatus?
For still in all the regions I have seen,

I scorned to crowd among the muddy throng
Of the rank multitude, whose thickened breath-
Like to condensed fogs-do choke that beauty,
Which else would dwell in every kingdom's cheek.
No; I still boldly stept into their courts:
For there to live 'tis rare, O 'tis divine!
There shall you see faces angelical;

There shall you see troops of chaste goddesses,
Whose starlike eyes have power-might they still

shine

To make night day, and day more crystalline.
Near these you shall behold great heroes,
White-headed councillors, and jovial spirits,
Standing like fiery cherubim to guard
The monarch, who in godlike glory sits
In midst of these, as if this deity

Had with a look created a new world,
The standers-by being the fair workmanship.

And. Oh, how my soul is rapt to a third heaven!
I'll travel sure, and live with none but kings.
Amp. But tell me, father, have you in all courts
Beheld such glory, so majestical,

In all perfection, no way blemished?

Fort. In some courts shall you see Ambition
Sit, piecing Dædalus's old waxen wings;
But being clapt on, and they about to fly,
Even when their hopes are busied in the clouds,
They melt against the sun of Majesty,
And down they tumble to destruction.
By travel, boys, I have seen all these things.
Fantastic Compliment stalks up and down,
Trickt in outlandish feathers; all his words,
His looks, his oaths, are all ridiculous,
All apish, childish, and Italianate.

Dekker is supposed to have died about the year 1641. His life seems to have been spent in irregu larity 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.