Of some ill it includes, would fain lie hid:
And rise thou with it in thy greater light..

In addition to his translation of the Iliad, already noticed, Chapman produced a version of Homer's Odyssey,' and one of 'The Works and Days' of Hesiod. He also completed a translation of 'Hero and Leander,' which had been begun by Marlow. His life is represented to have been one continuous scene of content and prosperity, thus contrasting remarkably with the lives of the great majority of his dramatic contemporaries. In his personal habits he was temperate and pious, and, according to Oldys, 'preserved in his conduct the true dignity of poetry, which he compared to the flower of the sun, that disdains to open its leaves to the eye of a smoking taper.' The life of this venerable scholar and poet closed in 1634, at the advanced age of seventy-seven years.

THOMAS DEKKER was, perhaps, a few years younger than Chapman, though he commenced his dramatic career at about the same time. Neither the period nor the place of his birth is now known, nor have we any record of his family or of his early studies. He was evidently, however, a good scholar, and was a very industrious writer, having himself produced, according to Collier, more than twenty entire dramas, besides a number conjointly with other dramatists. He was, for some time, connected with Ben Jonson in writing for the Admiral's theatre; but Jonson and he became, eventually, bitter enemies, and the former, in his 'Poetaster,' satirized 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.' To these charges Dekker replied in his 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 play-going public. Dekker's Fortunatus, or the Wishing Cap, unites the simplicity of prose with the graces of poetry, and is, perhaps, his best drama. His poetio diction is choice and elegant, but he often wanders into absurdity. Passages like the following are frequent in his plays, and would do honor to any dramatist:

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 breath'd.

FEMALE HONOUR AND SHAME CONTRASTED.

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 seem'd to all a dove when I pass'd by,
And I to all a raven: every eye

That follow'd 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 unvanquish'd, would they all vail:
'Gainst me swoln rumour hoisted every sail;

She, crown'd with reverend praises, pass'd by them;
I, though with face mask'd, 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 betray'd 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 can not 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 pictur'd on 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.

Dekker's life was passed in irregularity and poverty, presenting thus, a striking contrast with that of Chapman. He was, according to Oldys, three years in King's Bench prison; thus reminding us of one of his own beautiful lines:

We ne'er are angels till our passions die.

He died in want and despair, at an advanced age, in 1638.

JOHN WEBSTER was another of that race of remarkable contemporary dramatists about whose early life scarcely any thing is known. The date of his birth is supposed to have corresponded very nearly with that of Dekker, and it is certain that they both died in the same year. Webster, it has

been said, was at one time clerk of St. Andrew's church, Holborn; but Dyce, the editor of his works, searched the register of the parish for his name without success. He commenced his dramatic course of writing conjointly with Dekker-a practice at that time, as we have already had occasion to notice, very common. The dramas which he produced unaided, are, The Duchess of Malfy, Guise, or the Massacre of France, The Devil's Law-Case, Appius and Virginia, and The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona.

'The White Devil,' and 'The Duchess of Malfy' have divided the opinion of critics as to their relative merits. They are both powerful dramas, though filled with 'supernumerary horrors.' The former was not successful on the stage, which so incensed the 'noble-minded' author, that in a dedication which accompanied its publication, he introduces the following sarcastic remark:-Most of the people that come to the play-house resemble those ignorant asses who, visiting stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire for good books, but new books.' Webster was accused of being a slow writer, but he consoled himself with the example of Euripides, and confessed that he did not write with a goose quill winged with two feathers. In this slighted drama there are some exquisite touches of pathos and natural feeling. The grief of a group of mourners over a dead body is thus beautifully 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 believe me,

I had no eyes to guide me forth the room,

They were so o'ercharged with water.

The funeral dirge also, for Marcello, sung by his mother, possesses 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 gray 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 Duchess of Malfy' abounds more in the terrible than 'The White Devil.' 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, a subject always most difficult to treat, is managed in this case 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 has inspired her, without losing any thing of dignity and respect. The last scene of this play is conceived in a spirit which every attentive student of early English dramatic literature must feel to be peculiar to Webster. By an act of the most refined cruelty Ferdinand, the duke, sends a troop of madmen from the hospital to make a concert round the duchess, who has been seized and cast into prison. This troop is led by Bosola, one of the duke's officers, who, after the lunatics have ended their dancing and singing, enters the prison, and with the following terrific scene the drama closes :—

Duch. Is he mad too?

DEATH OF THE DUCHESS.

Bos. I am come to make thy tomb.

Duch. Ha! my tomb?

Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed,

Gasping for breath: Dost thou perceive me sick?

Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible.
Duch. Thou art not mad sure: dost know me?

Bos. Yes.

Duch. Who am I?

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 earth-worms. 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 heavens o'er our heads like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison.

Duch. Am not I thy duchess?

Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in gray hairs) twenty years sooner than on a merry milkmaid's. 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.

Duch. I am Duchess of Malfy still.

Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken.

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?

Bos. Nay, resolve me first; of what fashion?

Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our death-bed?

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.

Bos. 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.

Duch. 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 chamber
Car. 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.

Duch. Even now thou said'st

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 whistle 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,

Don clean linen, bathe your feet:

And, (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.

Duch. To whom? to our next neighbours? They are mad folks.

Farewell, Cariola,

I 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?

Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners.

Duch. I forgive them.