Mrs. F. Impiety! O, that men endued with reason Should have no more grace in them!

Bird. Be there not other

Vocations as thriving, and more honest?
Bailiffs, promoters, jailors, and apparitours,
Beadles and martials-men, the needful instruments
Of the republic; but to make themselves
Such monsters! for they are monsters-th' are

monsters

Base, sinful, shameless, ugly, vile, deform❜d,
Pernicious monsters!

Mrs. F. I have heard our vicar

Call play-houses the colleges of transgression,
Wherein the seven deadly sins are studied.
Bird. Why then the city will in time be made
An university of iniquity.

We dwell by Black-Friars college, where I wonder
How that profane nest of pernicious birds
Dare roost themselves there in the midst of us,
So many good and well-disposed persons.
O impudence!

Mrs. F. It was a zealous prayer

I heard a brother make concerning play-houses. Bird. For charity, what is't?

Mrs. F. That the Globe*

Wherein (quoth he) reigns a whole world of vice,
Had been consumed; the Phoenix burnt to ashes;
The Fortune whipt for a blind whore; Black-Friars
He wonders how it 'scaped demolishing
I' th' time of reformation: lastly, he wish'd
The Bull might cross the Thames to the Bear-
And there be soundly baited.

Bird. A good prayer!

[garden,

Mrs. F. Indeed, it something pricks my conscience,

I come to sell 'em pins and looking-glasses. Bird. I have their custom, too, for all their feathers;

'Tis fit that we, which are sincere professors, Should gain by infidels.

SPEECH OF ACOLASTUS THE EPICURE.

MUSE'S LOOKING-GLASS.

O! Now for an eternity of eating!

-I would have My senses feast together; Nature envied us In giving single pleasures. Let me have My ears, eyes, palate, nose, and touch, at once Enjoy their happiness. Lay me in a bed Made of a summer's cloud; to my embraces Give me a Venus hardly yet fifteen, Fresh, plump, and active-she that Mars enjoy'd Is grown too stale; and then at the same instant My touch is pleased, I would delight my sight With pictures of Diana and her nymphs Naked and bathing, drawn by some Apelles; By them some of our fairest virgins stand,

*That the Globe, &c.-The Globe, the Phoenix, the Fortune, the Blackfriars, the Red Bull, and Bear Garden, were names of several playhouses then in being.

That I may see whether 'tis art or nature
Which heightens most my blood and appetite.
Nor cease I here: give me the seven orbs,
To charm my ears with their celestial lates,
To which the angels that do move those spheres
Shall sing some am'rous ditty. Nor yet here
Fix I my bounds: the sun himself shall fire
The phoenix nest to make me a perfume,
While I do eat the bird, and eternally
Quaff off eternal nectar! These, single, are
But torments; but together, O together,
Each is a paradise! Having got such objects
To please the senses, give me senses too
Fit to receive those objects; give me, therefore,
An eagle's eye, a blood-hound's curious smell,
A stag's quick hearing; let my feeling be
As subtle as the spider's, and my taste
Sharp as a squirrel's-then I'll read the Alcoran,
And what delights that promises in future,
I'll practise in the present.

Colax, the flatterer, between the dismal philosopher Anaisthetus and the epicure Acolastus, accommodating his opinions to both.

Acolastus. THEN let's go drink a while. Anaisthetus. 'Tis too much labour. Happy TanThat never drinks! [talus,

Colax. Sir, I commend this temperance. Your Is able to contemn these petty baits, [arm'd soul These slight temptations, which we title pleasures, That are indeed but names. Heaven itself knows No such like thing. The stars nor eat, nor drink, Nor lie with one another, and you imitate Those glorious bodies; by which noble abstinence You gain the name of moderate, chaste, and sober, While this effeminate gets the infamous terms Of glutton, drunkard, and adulterer; Pleasures that are not man's, as man is man, But as his nature sympathies with beasts. You shall be the third Cato-this grave look And rigid eyebrow will become a censorBut I will fit you with an object, Sir, My noble Anaisthetus, that will please you; It is a looking-glass, wherein at once You may see all the dismal groves and caves, The horrid vaults, dark cells, and barren deserts, With what in hell itself can dismal be!

Anaisth. This is, indeed, a prospect fit for me. [Exit.

To provide pleasures, and shall we be niggards
At plentiful boards? He's a discourteous guest
That will observe a diet at a feast.

When Nature thought the earth alone too little
To find us meat, and therefore stored the air
With winged creatures; not contented yet,
She made the water fruitful to delight us !
Nay, I believe the other element too

Doth nurse some curious dainty for man's food,
If we would use the skill to catch the salamander.
Did she do this to have us eat with temperance?
Or when she gave so many different odours
Of spices, unguents, and all sorts of flowers,
She cried not,“Stop your noses." Would she
So sweet a choir of wing'd musicians, [give us
To have us deaf? or when she placed us here-
Here in a paradise, where such pleasing prospects,
So many ravishing colours, entice the eye,
Was it to have us wink? When she bestow'd
So powerful faces, such commanding beauties,
On many glorious nymphs, was it to say,
Be chaste and continent? Not to enjoy
All pleasures, and at full, were to make Nature
Guilty of that she ne'er was guilty of-
A vanity in her works.

COLAX TO PHILOTIMIA, OR THE PROUD LADY.

Colax. MADAM Superbia,
You're studying the lady's library,

The looking-glass: 'tis well, so great a beauty
Must have her ornaments; nature adorns
The peacock's tail with stars; 'tis she arrays
The bird of paradise in all her plumes,
She decks the fields with various flowers; 'tis she
Spangled the heavens with all their glorious lights;
She spotted th' ermine's skin, and arm'd the fish
In silver mail: but man she sent forth naked-
Not that he should remain so-but that he,
Endued with reason, should adorn himself
With every one of these. The silk-worm is
Only man's spinster, else we might suspect
That she esteem'd the painted butterfly
Above her master-piece; you are the image
Of that bright goddess, therefore wear the jewels
Of all the East-let the Red Sea be ransack'd
To make you glitter!

THE PRAISE OF WOMAN.
FROM HIS MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

HE is a parricide to his mother's name,
And with an impious hand murthers her fame,
That wrongs the praise of women; that dares write
Libels on saints, or with foul ink requite
The milk they lent us! Better sex! command
To your defence my more religious hand,
At sword or pen; yours was the nobler birth,
For you of man were made, man but of earth-
The sun of dust; and though your sin did breed
His fall, again you raised him in your seed.
Adam, in 's sleep, again full loss sustain'd,
That for one rib a better half regain'd,
Who, had he not your blest creation seen
In Paradise an anchorite had been.
Why in this work did the creation rest,
But that Eternal Providence thought you best
Of all his six days' labour? Beasts should do
Homage to man, but man shall wait on you;
You are of comelier sight, of daintier touch,
A tender flesh, and colour bright, and such
As Parians see in marble; skin more fair,
More glorious head, and far more glorious hair;
Eyes full of grace and quickness; purer roses
Blush in your cheeks, a milder white composes
Your stately fronts; your breath, more sweet than
his,

Breathes spice, and nectar drops at every kiss.

If, then, in bodies where the souls do dwell,
You better us, do then our souls excel?
No *

Boast we of knowledge, you are more than we,
You were the first ventured to pluck the tree;
And that more rhetoric in your tongues do lie,
Let him dispute against that dares deny
Your least commands; and not persuaded be
With Samson's strength and David's piety,
To be your willing captives.

Thus, perfect creatures, if detraction rise
Against your sex, dispute but with your eyes,
Your hand, your lip, your brow, there will be sent
So subtle and so strong an argument,
Will teach the stoic his affections too,
And call the cynic from his tub to woo.

THE anecdotes of this facetious bishop, quoted by Headley from the Aubrey MSS. would fill several pages of a jest-book. It is more to his honour to be told, that though entirely hostile in his principles to the Puritans, he frequently softened, with his humane and characteristic

pleasantry, the furious orders against them which Laud enjoined him to execute. On the whole he does credit to the literary patronage of James, who made him dean of Christ's Church, and successively bishop of Oxford and Norwich.

But now, then, for these parts he must
Be enstiled Lewis the Just,
Great Henry's lawful heir;

When to his stile to add more words,
They'd better call him King of Birds,
Than of the great Navarre.

He hath besides a pretty quirk,
Taught him by nature, how to work
In iron with much ease;
Sometimes to the forge he goes,
There he knocks and there he blows,
And makes both locks and keys;

Which puts a doubt in every one,
Whether he be Mars or Vulcan's son,
Some few believe his mother;

But let them all say what they will,
I came resolved, and so think still,
As much th' one as th' other.

The people too dislike the youth, Alleging reasons, for, in truth, Mothers should honour'd be;

Yet others say, he loves her rather
As well as ere she loved his father,
And that's notoriously-

His queen*, a pretty little wench,
Was born in Spain, speaks little French,
She's ne'er like to be mother;
For her incestuous house could not
Have children which were not begot
By uncle or by brother.

Nor why should Lewis, being so just,
Content himself to take his lust
With his Lucina's mate,

And suffer his little pretty queen,
From all her race that yet hath been,
So to degenerate ?

'Twere charity for to be known
To love others' children as his own,
And why it is no shame,
Unless that he would greater be
Than was his father Henery,
Who, men thought, did the same.
[* Anne of Austria.]

THE dates of this author's birth and death are both unknown, though his living reputation, as the literary associate of Jonson, Fletcher, Massinger, Dekker, and Rowley, must have been considerable. If Oldys be correct*, he was alive after November 1627. Middleton was appointed chronologer to the city of London† in 1620, and in 1624 was cited before the privy council, as author of The Game of Chess. The verses of Sir W. Lower, quoted by Oldys, allude to the poet's white locks, so that he was probably born as early as the middle of the 16th century. His tragicomedy, The Witch, according to Mr. Malone, was written anterior to Macbeth, and suggested to Shakspeare the witchcraft scenery in

the latter play. The songs beginning "Come away," &c. and "Black Spirits," &c. of which only the two first words are printed in Macbeth, are found in the Witch. Independent of having afforded a hint to Shakspeare, Middleton's reputation cannot be rated highly for the pieces to which his name is exclusively attached. His principal efforts were in comedy, where he deals profusely in grossness and buffoonery. The cheats and debaucheries of the town are his favourite sources of comic intrigue. With a singular effort at the union of the sublime and familiar, he introduces, in one of his coarse drafts of London vice, an infernal spirit prompting a country gentleman to the seduction of a citizen's wife§.

How near I am now to a happiness
That earth exceeds not! not another like it.
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air
Of blessings, when I come but near the house.
* MS. notes on Langbaine.

[ Or city poet. Jonson and Quarles filled the office after Middleton, which expired with Elkanah Settle in 1723-4.] [The verses in question I believe to be a forgery of Chetwood.-DYCE's Middleton, vol. i. p. xiii.]

What a delicious breath marriage sends forth,
The violet bed's not sweeter! Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting house built in a garden,
On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch side.

[§ Middleton's dramatic works, since this was written, have been collected by the Rev. A. Dyce, a gentleman to whom the pristine literature of England is greatly indebted.]

Now for a welcome Able to draw men's envies upon man; A kiss, now, that will hang upon my lip As sweet as morning dew upon a rose, And full as long.

LEANTIO'S AGONY FOR THE DESERTION OF HIS

WIFE.

FROM THE SAME.

Leantio, a man of humble fortune, has married a beautiful wife, who is basely seduced by the Duke of Florence. The duke, with refined cruelty, invites them both to a feast, where he lavishes his undisguised admiration on his mistress. The scene displays the feelings of Leantio, restrained by ceremony and fear, under the insulting hospitality, at the conclusion of which he is left alone with Livia, a lady of the court, who has fallen in love with him, and wishes to attach his affections.

Leantio. (Without noticing Livia. ) O HAST thou left me then, Bianca, utterly?

O Bianca, now I miss thee! Oh! return,
And save the faith of woman. I ne'er felt
The loss of thee till now: 'tis an affliction

Of greater weight than youth was made to bear;
As if a punishment of after life

Were fall'n upon man here, so new it is

To flesh and blood; so strange, so insupportable; A torment even mistook, as if a body

Whose death were drowning, must needs therefore suffer it

In scalding oil.

Livia. Sweet sir!

Lean. (Without noticing her.) As long as mine eye saw thee,

I half enjoy'd thee.

Liv. Sir!

Lean. (Without noticing her.) Canst thou forget
The dear pains my love took? how it has watch'd
Whole nights together, in all weathers, for thee,
Yet stood in heart more merry than the tempest
That sung about mine ears, like dangerous flatterers,
That can set all their mischiefs to sweet tunes,
And then received thee from thy father's window,
Into these arms, at midnight; when we embraced
As if we had been statues only made for't,
To show art's life, so silent were our comforts;
And kiss'd as if our lips had grown together.
Liv. This makes me madder to enjoy him now.
Lean. (Without noticing her.) Canst thou forget
all this, and better joys

That we met after this, which then new kisses
Took pride to praise ?

Liv. I shall grow madder yet :-Sir !

Quite to undo thyself with thine own kind heart?
Thou art too good and pitiful to woman:
Marry, sir, thank thy stars for this bless'd fortune,
That rids the summer of thy youth so well
From many beggars, that had lain a sunning
In thy beams only else, till thou hadst wasted
The whole days of thy life in heat and labour.
What would you say now to a creature found
As pitiful to you, and as it were

E'en sent on purpose from the whole sex general,
To requite all that kindness you have shown to't?
Lean. What's that, madam?

Liv. Nay, a gentlewoman, and one able To reward good things; ay, and bears a conscience to't:

Couldst thou love such a one, that (blow all fortunes)
Would never see thee want?

Nay more, maintain thee to thine enemy's envy,
And shalt not spend a care for❜t, stir a thought,
Nor break a sleep? unless love's music waked thee,
No storm of fortune should look upon me,
And know that woman.

[out?

Lean. Oh, my life's wealth, Bianca !
Liv. Still with her name? will nothing wear it
That deep sigh went but for a strumpet, sir.
Lean. It can go for no other that loves me.
Liv. (Aside) He's vex'd in mind; I came too
soon to him:

Where's my discretion now, my skill, my judgment?
I'm cunning in all arts but my own, love.
'Tis as unseasonable to tempt him now
So soon, as [for] a widow to be courted

but of some close bawd's working:—

Cry mercy, lady! What would you say to me?
My sorrow makes me so unmannerly,
So comfort bless me, I had quite forgot you.
Liv. Nothing, but e'en in pity to that passion
Would give your grief good counsel.

Lean. Marry, and welcome, lady,
It never could come better.

By the grave side, and take a young man there : Her strange departure stands like a hearse yet Before his eyes; which time will take down shortly.

[Exit.

Lean. Is she my wife till death, yet no more mine? [for? That's a hard measure: then what's marriage good Methinks by right I should not now be living,