There are thus in this anthology no less than eighty-one extracts ascribed to Chapman, besides two of which one is known and the other suspected to be the work of his hand; these are wrongly assigned to Spenser. At the time of this publication Chapman was in his forty-second year; he had published but two plays and three volumes of verse, the third being his continuation of Marlowe's Hero and Leander. Of the eighty-three passages numbered above, thirty-two are taken from this poem, twenty-five from Ovid's Banquet of Sense, ten from The Shadow of Night, eight from The Contention of Phillis and Flora, a quaint and sometimes a graceful version into the Elizabethan dialect of a Latin or more probably a quasiLatin poem ascribed by Ritson to one of the most famous among mediæval masters; one is taken from the first scene of his first play, one is spurious, and six (including the passage wrongly referred in a former list to Ovid's Banquet of Sense), whether spurious or genuine, have yet to be traced to their true source. In his critical memoir of Marlowe (Works, vol. i. p. lvii. ed. 1850), Mr. Dyce observes that the editor of England's Parnassus appears never to have resorted to manuscript sources;' and if, as is of course most probable, the supposition of that great scholar and careful critic be well founded, we must conclude that these passages, as well as the more precious and exquisite fragment of a greater poet which called forth this remark from his editor, were extracted by Allot from some printed book or books long lost to human sight. One small but noticeable extract of two lines and a half descriptive of midnight is evidently I think from a lost play. The taste of the worthy person who compiled this first English anthology was remarkable apparently for its equal relish of good verse and bad; but we may be grateful that it was by no means confined to the more popular and dominant authors of his age, such as Spenser and Sidney; since his faculty of miscellaneous admiration has been the means of preserving many curious fragments of fine or quaint verse, and occasionally a jewel of such price as the fragment of Marlowe which alike for tone of verse and tune of thought so vividly recalls Shelley's poem, The Question, written in the same metre and spirit, that one is tempted to dream that some particles of the 'predestined plot of dust and soul' which had once gone to make up the elder must have been used again in the composition of the younger poet, who in fiery freedom of thought and speech was like no other of our greatest men but Marlowe, and in that as in his choice of tragic motive was so singularly like this one ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. Commendatory Verses. VERSES PREFIXED TO OVID'S BANQUET OF SENSE, 1595. RICHARD STAPLETON TO THE AUTHOR. PHOEBUS hath given thee both his bow and muse; With one thou slay'st the artisans of thunder, And to thy verse dost such a sound infuse, That gather'd storms therewith are blown in sunder. The other decks her with her golden wings, If nearer your unhallow'd eyes will pierce Then with the satyr kiss this sacred fire To scorch your lips, that dearly taught thereby, Your only soul's fit objects may aspire. But you high spirits in this cloud of gold Enjoy like Jove this bright Saturnian muse, Your eyes can well the dazzling beams behold This Pythian lightener freshly doth effuse; Spread beyond measure in thy ample To daunt the baseness of that bastard verse; Where she, as in her bowers of laurel, sings Sweet philosophic strains that fiends might pierce. The soul of brightness in thy darkness shines, Most new and dear, unstain'd with foreign graces; And when aspiring spirits shall reach thy lines, They will not hear our treble-toned basses. With boldness then thy able Poems use; Phoebus hath given thee both his bow and muse. THO WILLIAMS OF THE INNER TEMPLE. ISSUE of Semele that will embrace With fleshly arms the three-wing'd wife of thunder, Let her sad ruin such proud thoughts abase, And view aloof this verse in silent wonder. train, I. D. OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE. ONLY that eye which for true love doth weep, Only that heart which tender love doth pierce, May read and understand this sacred verse, For other wits too mystical and deep. Between these hallow'd leaves Cupid doth keep The golden lesson of his second artist, For love till now hath still a master miss'd Since Ovid's eyes were closed with iron sleep. But now his waking soul in Chapman lives, Which shows so well the passions of his soul, And yet this muse more cause of wonder gives, And doth more prophet-like love's art enrol. For Ovid's soul now grown more old and wise, Pours forth itself in deeper mysteries. ANOTHER. SINCE Ovid, Love's first gentle master, died, He hath a most notorious truant been, And in that rank I put thee in the front Treasures of art that treasure can command. Ah would they could! then should thy wealth and wit Be equal, and a lofty fortune fit. was I To be of that most blessed company : For if they most are blest that most are crost, Then poets, I am sure, are blessed most. Yet we with rhyme and reason trim the times, Though they give little reason for our rhymes. The reason is, else error blinds my wits, They reason want to do what honour fits, But let them do as please them, we must do What Phoebus, Sire of Art, moves Nature to. Jo: DAVIES, of Hereford.* TO GEORGE CHAPMAN. GEORGE, it is thy genius innated, And hath not once in thrice five ages Thou pick'st not flowers from another's seen That same sweet muse that was his first field, PREFIXED TO CHAPMAN'S HESIOD, 1618. TO MY WORTHY FRIEND MR. GEORGE CHAPMAN AND HIS TRANSLATED HESIOD. CHAPMAN, we find by thy past-prized fraught What wealth thou dost upon this land confer; Th' old Grecian prophets hither that hast brought Of their full words the true interpreter; And by thy travel strongly hast exprest The large dimensions of the English tongue, Delivering them so well, the first and best That to the world in numbers ever sung. Which till the graceful Muses did begin In blest Elysium, in a place most fit, Smoothing their rugged foreheads; and do What treasure hast thou brought us! and smile, After so many hundred years to see Each his good Genius whispering in his ear, That with so lucky and auspicious fate were, And gave their verses such a lasting date. Where, slightly passing by the Thespian spring, Many long after did but only sup; Nature, then fruitful, forth these men did bring, To fetch deep rouses from Jove's plenteous cup. what store |