MACBETH. I Witch. THE WITCHES' RENDEZVOUS. WE HEN shall we three meet again, In thunder, lightning, or in rain? 2 Witch. When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won: 3 Witch. That will be ere set of sun. I Witch. Where the place? 2 Witch. Upon the heath; 3 Witch. There to meet with Macbeth. I Witch. I come, Grimalkin !* All. Paddockt calls:-Anon. Fair is foul, and foul is fair; I Witch. THE 2 Witch. THE CHARM. 'HRICE the brinded‡ cat hath mewed. Thrice; and once the hedgehog whined. 3 Witch. Harpier cries :-'Tis time, 'tis time. I Witch. Round about the caldron go: In the poisoned entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone, Days and nights hath thirty-one, Sweltered venom sleeping got, Boil thou first in the charmed pot! All. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire, burn; and, caldron, bubble. 2 Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; *A cat. + A toad. + Fierce. For a charm of powerful trouble; 3 Witch. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf; 2 Witch. Cool it with a baboon's blood, TIMON OF ATHENS. APEMANTUS'S GRACE. IMMORTAL gods, I crave no pelf; Rich men sin, and I eat root. *Entrails. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. он! он! - НА! НА! LOVE, love, nothing but love, still more! For, oh, love's bow Shoots buck and doe: But tickles still the sore. These lovers cry-Oh! oh! they die! Oh! oh! a while, but ha! ha! ha! ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. COME, BACCHANALIAN ROUND. OME, thou monarch of the vine, In thy vats our cares be drowned; Cup us, till the world go round! BEN JONSON. 1574-1637. [AFTER Shakespeare's songs all others appear to disadvantage. He shows an instinctive knowledge of the secret of this kind of writing as of everything else. His songs possess in perfection all the essential elements of gaiety and tenderness, facility and grace, idiomatic purity, melody in the expression, THE DRAMATISTS. 8 7 variety, suddenness, and completeness. In their airiness and sweetness, their spontaneity and full-throated ease, they resemble the songs of birds. The contrast with Ben Jonson is striking. Here we have a great command of resources, and a visible air of preparation. The lines are thoughtful, and occasionally rugged, and must be read, even in the singing, with a certain degree of emphasis and deliberation. They do not spring at once to the heart and the fancy. Without a particle of pedantry, of which Jonson was unjustly accused by his detractors, the spirit of the Greek anthology is in them, and is felt either in the allusions, the phrase, the subject, or the diction. Yet, in a different way, they are as charming as Shakespeare's, and worthy to stand beside them. If they do not recall the ravishing music of the lark or the nightingale, they hold us in the spell of some fine instrument whose rich notes are delivered with the skill of a master. It is the difference between impulse and premeditation, and, in a general sense, between nature and art, although we are compelled to acknowledge in Shakespeare the presence of the highest art also. Ben Jonson is generally supposed to be distinguished chiefly, if not exclusively, by his learning and his humour. But his songs, his masques, and pastoral scenes are strewn with beauties of another order, and exhibit, over and above his more special qualities, singular elegance of thought and a luxuriant fancy. The dates attached to the titles of the plays from which the following lyrics are extracted, are the dates of their production upon the stage.] CYNTHIA'S REVELS. 1600. ECHO MOURNING THE DEATH OF NARCISSUS. SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears; Yet slower, yet, O faintly gentle springs: List to the heavy part the music bears, Woe weeps out her division when she sings. Droop herbs and flowers; Our beauties are not ours; Like melting snow upon some craggy hill, Since nature's pride is, now, a withered daffodil. THE KISS. THAT joy so soon should waste! As a kiss Might not for ever last! So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious, The dew that lies on roses, When the morn herself discloses, Is not so precious. O rather than I would it smother, THE GLOVE OF THE DEAD LADY. THOU THOU more than most sweet glove, Suffer me to store with kisses Thou art soft, but that was softer; |