Banks. I do, witch; I do : And worse I would, knew I a name more hateful. Saw. Gather a few rotten sticks to warm me. 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 ache, thy joints cramp, And convulsions stretch and crack thy sinews. Banks. Cursing, thou hag? take that, and that. [Exit. arm, Whose blows have lamed me, drop from the rotten trunk. May the thing called Familiar be purchased? And hated like a sickness; made a scorn Rats, ferrets, weasels, and I wot not what, Blasphemous speeches, oaths, detested oaths, A Drowned Soldier. From Tourneur's Atheist's Tragedy. A man that folds his arms, or wrings his hands, For grief-ebbed from the body, and descends; A sweeter swan than ever sung in Po; The following extract introduces us to Marlowe, Jonson, and Shakspeare; but to the last only as the author of the Venus and Lucrece. Ingenioso reads out the names, and Judicio pronounces judg ment: Ingenioso. Christopher Marlowe. Judicio. Marlowe was happy in his buskined 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. 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 was in times past in laying of a brick. William Shakspeare. Jud. Who loves Adonis' love or Lucrece' rape; The author afterwards introduces Kempe and 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 mask, and of several other plays. In Microcosmus is the following fine song of love: Welcome, welcome, happy pair, No winter's ice, no summer's scorching beam; Day always springing from eternal light. An anonymous play, the Return from Parnassus, was acted by the students of St John's-NATHANIEL FIELD (who was one of the actors College, Cambridge, about the year 1602: it is in Ben Jonson's Poetaster) began to write for the remarkable for containing criticisms on contem-stage about 1609 or 1610, and produced Woman porary authors, all poets. Each author is sum- is a Weathercock, Amends for Ladies, &c. He moned 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 Spenser : had the honour of being associated with Massinger in the composition of the Fatal Dowry.-JOHN DAY, in conjunction with Chettle, wrote the Blina Beggar of Bethnal Green, a popular comedy, and was also author of two or three other plays, all of which were destroyed by his cook for culiand some miscellaneous poems.-HENRY GLAP-nary purposes. Massinger was found dead in his THORNE is mentioned as 'one of the chiefest bed, at his house on the Bankside, one morning dramatic poets of the reign of Charles I.' Five in March 1639. The Virgin Martyr (about of his plays are printed-Albertus Wallenstein, 1620), the Bondman (1623), the Fatal Dowry the Hollander, Argalus and Parthenia, Wit in (about 1620), the New Way to Pay Old Debts a Constable, the Lady's Privilege, &c. There is a (about 1623), and the City Madam (1632), are his certain smoothness and prettiness of expression best-known productions. The New Way to Pay about Glapthorne, particularly in his Albertus, Old Debts has kept possession of the stage, chiefly but he is deficient in passion and energy.- on account of the effective and original character THOMAS RANDOLPH (1605–34) wrote the Muses of Sir Giles Overreach, which has been a favourite Looking-glass, the Jealous Lovers, &c. In an with great English actors. A tragedy of Masanonymous play, Sweetman the Woman-hater, is singer's, entitled Believe as you List, which had the following happy simile: been long lost, was discovered in 1844, and was included in the poet's works, by his latest editor, Lieutenant-colonel Cunningham (1868). Massinger's comedy resembles Ben Jonson's, in its eccentric strength and wayward exhibitions of human nature. The greediness of avarice, the tyranny of unjust laws, and the miseries of poverty, are drawn with a powerful hand. The luxuries and vices of a city-life, also, afford Massinger scope for his indignant and forcible invective. Genuine humour or sprightliness he had none. His dialogue is often coarse and indelicate, and his characters in low life too depraved. The tragedies of Massinger have a calm and dignified seriousness, a lofty pride, that impresses the imagination very strongly. His genius was more eloquent and descriptive than impassioned or inventive; yet his pictures of suffering virtue, its struggles and its trials, are calculated to touch the heart, as well as gratify the taste. His versification is smooth and mellifluous. Owing, perhaps, to the sedate and dignified tone of Massinger's plays, they were not revived after the Restoration. Even Dryden did not think him worthy of mention, or had forgot his works, when he wrote his Essay on Dramatic Poesy. Justice, like lightning, ever should appear To few men's ruin, but to all men's fear. -RICHARD BROME (died 1652), 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 who, dying almost unknown, was buried with no other inscription than the note in the parish register, 'Philip Massinger, a stranger' -meaning he did not belong to the parish. This poet was born about the year 1584, and it is supposed at Salisbury. His father, as appears from the dedication of one of his plays, was in the service of the Earl of Pembroke; and as he was at one time intrusted with letters to Queen Elizabeth, and employed in delicate negotiations by Lord Pembroke, the situation of the elder Massinger must have been a confidential one. Whether Philip ever 'wandered in the marble halls and pictured galleries of Wilton, that princely seat of old magnificence, where Sir Philip Sidney composed his Arcadia, is not known: in 1602, he was entered of Alban Hall, Oxford. He is supposed to have quitted the university abruptly in 1606, and to have commenced writing for the stage. The first notice of him is in Henslowe's diary, about 1614, where he makes a joint application, with N. Field and R. Daborne, for a loan of £5, without which, they say, they could not be bailed. Field and Daborne were both actors and dramatic authors. The sequel of Massinger's history is only an enumeration of his plays. He wrote a great number of pieces, of which nineteen have been preserved. The manuscripts of eight of his plays were in existence in the middle of the last century, but they fell into the hands of a certain John Warburton, Somerset herald, who had collected no less than fifty-five genuine unpublished English dramas of the golden period, A Midnight Scene.-From the Virgin Martyr. Angelo. Here, most holy mistress. Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never Ang. No, my dear lady. I could weary stars, Dor. Be nigh me still, then. In golden letters down I'll set that day 175 Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye So likes so poor a servant. Dor. I have offered Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. Ang. I am not: I did never Know who my mother was; but, by yon palace, Dor. A blessed day! Pride of Sir Giles Overreach in his Daughter. Overreach. To my wish: we are private. With her, my lord, comes to you; nor shall you have I live too long, since every year I'll add Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too. Lovel. You are a right kind father. Over. You shall have reason To think me such. How do you like this seat? Lov. 'Tis a wholesome air, And well built pile; and she that 's mistress of it, Over. She the mistress ! It may be so for a time; but let my lord Say only that he but like it, and would have it; I say, ere long 'tis his. Lov. Impossible. Over. You do conclude too fast; not knowing me, Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone The Lady Allworth's lands, for those once Wellborn's (As by her dotage on him I know they will be) Shall soon be mine; but point out any man's In all the shire, and say they lie convenient And useful for your lordship, and once more, I say aloud, they are yours. Lov. I dare not own What's by unjust and cruel means extorted: Over. You run, my lord, no hazard : Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill, Cast any foul aspersion upon yours. For though I do contemn report myself Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot Right honourable; which my lord can make her : I am of a solid temper, and, like these, Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword, Lov. I admire The toughness of your nature. Over. 'Tis for you, My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble. Compassion for Misfortune.-From the City Madam' I hope, shall give offence: nor let it relish I glory in the bravery of your mind, To which your wealth's a servant. Not that riches Of other's miseries-I have found it, sir; Heaven keep me thankful for 't!-while they are cursed As rigid and inexorable. Sir John. I delight not To hear this spoke to my face. Luke. That shall not grieve you. Your affability and mildness, clothed In the garments of your thankful debtors' breath, Can you think, sir, In your unquestioned wisdom, I beseech you, The goods of this poor man sold at an outcry, His wife turned out of doors, his children forced To beg their bread; this gentleman's estate But you may urge—pray you, pardon me, my zeal For being defeated. Suppose this, it will not When the rebels unto reason, passions, fought it. Lord Lacy. Our divines Luke. No, sir, but entreated To do yourself a benefit, and preserve What you possess entire. Sir John. How, my good brother? Luke. By making these your beadsmen. they eat, When Sir John. You shall prevail; The abstract of society: we might walk With what melodious harmony a choir Contarini. You forget The haste imposed upon us. And after this, when, with And ever am, your servant; but it was, Of all the globes and sceptres mankind bows to, I wish you, as a partner of your bed, A princess equal to you; such a one With all the obedience of a wife, to please you; May you have happy issue, and I live To be their humblest handmaid! Giov. 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 Give them longer day: but, do you hear? no talk of 't. kindred tastes and powers, was JOHN FORD (1586 Should this arrive at twelve on the Exchange, I shall be laughed at for my foolish pity, Which money-men hate deadly. Unequal Love.-From the Great Duke of Florence. GIOVANNI, nephew to the Grand-duke, taking leave of LIDIA, daughter of his Tutor. Lidia. Must you go, then, So suddenly? Giovanni. There's no evasion, Lidia, To gain the least delay, though I would buy it And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude That I must either keep my height with danger, Lidia. Your own goodness Will be your faithful guard. Giov. O Lidia! For had I been your equal, I might have seen and liked 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 1639). 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, the 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 scenes in his Brother and Sister, descriptive of the criminal loves of Annabella and Giovanni, are painfully interesting and harrowing to the feelings, but contain his finest poetry and expression. The old dramatists 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 Marlowe 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, shew 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. 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. *Some unknown contemporary has preserved a graphic trait of Ford's appearance and reserved deportment: Deep in a dump John Ford alone was got, Pen. That remedy Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead, Cal. Speak, and enjoy it. Pen. Vouchsafe, then, to be my executrix ; And take that trouble on ye, to dispose Such legacies as I bequeath impartially: I have not much to give, the pains are easy; Heaven will reward your piety and thank it, When I am dead: for sure I must not live; I hope I cannot. Cal. Now beshrew thy sadness; Thou turn'st me too much woman. Pen. Her fair eyes Melt into passion: then I have assurance It is a pretty earnest. Pen. I have left me Pen. To virgin wives; such as abuse not wedlock By freedom of desires, but covet chiefly The pledges of chaste beds, for ties of love Rather than ranging of their blood and next, To married maids; such as prefer the number Of honourable issue in their virtues, Before the flattery of delights by marriage; May those be ever young. Čal. A second jewel You mean to part with? Pen. 'Tis my fame; I trust By scandal yet untouched: this I bequeath Cal. How handsomely thou play'st with harmless sport Of mere imagination! Speak the last. Pen. This jewel, madam, Is dearly precious to me; you must use This gift as I intend it. Cal. Do not doubt me. Pen. 'Tis long ago, since first I lost my heart; Long I have lived without it: but instead Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir, By service bound, and by affection vowed, I do bequeath in holiest rites of love Mine only brother Ithocles. Cal. What saidst thou? Pen. Impute not, heaven-blest lady, to ambition, A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers Of a devoted suppliant can endow it: |