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What's by unjust and cruel means extorted:
My fame and credit are more dear to me
Than so to expose 'em to be censured by
The public voice.

Over. You run, my lord, no hazard:
Your reputation shall stand as fair
In all good men's opinions as now:

Nor can my actions, though condemn'd for ill,
Cast any foul aspersion upon yours.
For though I do contemn report myself
As a mere sound, I still will be so tender
Of what concerns you in all points of honour,
That the immaculate whiteness of your fame,
Nor your unquestion'd integrity,
Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or sp
That may take from your innocence and cadour.
All my ambition is to have my daughter
Right honourable; which my lord can make her:
And might I live to dance upon my knee
A young Lord Lovell, born by her unto you,
I write nil ultra to my proudest hopes.
As for possessions and annual rents,
Equivalent to maintain you in the port
Your noble birth and present state require,

I do remove that burden from your shoulders,

And take it on mine own; for though I ruin

The country to supply your riotous waste,

[Compassion for Misfortune.]

[From the City Madam.']

Luke. No word, sir,

I hope, shall give offence: nor let it relish Of flattery, though I proclaim aloud,

I glory in the bravery of your mind,

To which your wealth's a servant. Not that riches
Is, or should be, contemn'd, it being a blessing
Deriv'd from heaven, and by your industry
Pull'd down upon you; but in this, dear sir,
You have many equals: such a man's possession
His bags as full; a third in credit flies
Extend as far as yours; a second hath

As high in the popular voice: but the distinction
And noble difference by which you are
Divided from them, is, that you are styled
Gentle in your abundance, good in plenty ;
And that you feel compassion in your bowels

Of others' miseries (I have found it, sir;

Heaven keep me thankful for't !), while they are curs'd As rigid and inexorable.

*

Your affability and mildness, clothed

In the garments of your thankful debtors' breath,
Shall everywhere, though you strive to conceal it,
Be seen and wonder'd at, and in the act
With a prodigal hand rewarded. Whereas, such
As are born only for themselves, and live so,
Though prosperous in worldly understandings,
Are but like beasts of rapine, that, by odds
Of strength, usurp and tyrannise o'er others
Brought under their subjection.

Can you think, sir,

In your unquestion'd wisdom, I beseech you,
The goods of this poor man sold at an outcry,
His wife turn'd out of doors, his children forc'd
To beg their bread; this gentleman's estate
By wrong extorted, can advantage you?

Or that the ruin of this once brave merchant,
For such he was esteem'd, though now decay'd,
Will raise your reputation with good men?
But you may urge (pray you, pardon me, my zeal
Makes me thus bold and vehement), in this
You satisfy your anger, and revenge

The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find For being defeated. Suppose this, it will not

you.

Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations

And curses of whole families, n.ade wretched

By your sinister practices ?

Over. Yes, as rocks are

When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs; or as the moon is moved

When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her bright

ness.

I am of a solid temper, and, like these,

Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword,
If call'd into the field, I can make that right
Which fearful enemies murmur'd at as wrong.
Now, for those other piddling complaints,
Breath'd out in bitterness; as, when they call me
Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder
On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser
Of what was common to my private use;
Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries,
And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold,

I only think what 'tis to have my daughter

Right honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm,
Makes me insensible of remorse or pity,
Or the least sting of conscience.

Lov. I admire

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Repair your loss, and there was never yet
But shame and scandal in a victory,

When the rebels unto reason, passions, fought it.
Then for revenge, by great souls it was ever
Contemn'd, though offer'd; entertain'd by none
But cowards, base and abject spirits, strangers
To moral honesty, and never yet
Acquainted with religion.

Sir John. Shall I be
Talk'd out of my money?

Luke. No, sir, but intreated

To do yourself a benefit, and preserve
What you possess entire.

Sir John. How, my good brother?

Luke. By making these your beadsmen. When they eat,

Their thanks, next heaven, will be paid to your

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Giov. There's no evasion, Lidia,

To gain the least delay, though I would buy it
At any rate. Greatness, with private men
Esteem'd a blessing, is to me a curse;

And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude
The only freemen, are the only slaves:
Happy the golden mean? riad I been born
In a poor sordid cottage, not nursed up
With expectation to command a court,

I might, like such of your condition, sweetest,
Have ta'en a safe and middle course, and not,
As I am now, against my choice, compell'd;
Or to lie grovelling on the earth, or raised
So high upon the pinnacles of state,

That I must either keep my height with danger,
Or fall with certain ruin.

Lidia. Your own goodness Will be your faithful guard.

Giov. Ŏ, Lidia! For had I been your equal,
I might have seen and lik'd 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
With you, that are alone, in my esteem,
The abstract of society: we might walk
In solitary groves, or in choice gardens;
From the variety of curious flowers
Contemplate nature's workmanship and wonders:
And then, for change, near to the murmur of
Some bubbling fountain, I might hear you sing,
And, from the well-tuned accents of your tongue,
In my imagination conceive

With what melodious harmony a choir
Of angels sing above their Maker's praises.
And then, with chaste discourse, as we return'd,
Imp feathers to the broken wings of Time:
And all this I must part from.

One word more,

And then I come. And after this, when, with
Continued innocence of love and service,
I had grown ripe for hymeneal joys,
Embracing you, but with a lawful fame,
I might have been your husband.

Lidia. Sir, I was,

And ever am, your servant; but it was,
And 'tis far from me in a thought to cherish,
Such saucy hopes. If I had been the heir

Of all the globes and sceptres mankind bows to,
At my best you had deserv'd me; as I am,
Howe'er unworthy, in my virgin zeal,

I wish you, as a partner of your bed,

A princess equal to you; such a one
That may make it the study of her life,

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 kindred tastes and powers, was JOHN FORD (15861639). 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, he 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 Marlow 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,' show 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. Mr 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.

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* Some unknown contemporary has preserved a graphic trait Ford's appearance and reserved deportment—

'Deep in a dump John Ford alone was got,
With folded arms and melancholy hat.'

[A Dying Bequest.]

[From the Broken Heart."]

CALANTHA.-PENTHEA.

Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted The opportunity you sought, and might At all times have commanded.

Pen. "Tis a benefit

Which I shall owe your goodness even in death for.
My glass of life, sweet princess, hath few minutes
Remaining to run down; the sands are spent:
For, by an inward messenger, I feel
The summons of departure short and certain.
Cal. You feed too much your melancholy.
Pen. Glories

Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams,
And shadows soon decaying on the stage
Of my mortality my youth hath acted
Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length;
By varied pleasures sweeten'd in the mixture,
But tragical in issue.

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Cal. Contemn not your condition for the proof Of bare opinion only to what end

Reach all these moral texts ?

Pen. To place before ye

A perfect mirror, wherein you may see
How weary I am of a lingering life,

Who count the best a misery.

Cal. Indeed

You have no little cause; yet none so great

As to distrust a remedy.

Pen. That remedy

Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead,
And some untrod-on corner in the earth.
Not to detain your expectation, princess,
I have an humble suit.

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
Encouraging my boldness. In this paper

My will was character'd; which you, with pardon,
Shall now know from mine own mouth.

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Shall fall in cinders, scorch'd by your disdain,

Ere he will dare, poor man, to ope an eye

On these divine looks, but with low-bent thoughts Accusing such presumption: as for words,

He dares not utter any but of service;

Yet this lost creature loves you. Be a princess In sweetness as in blood; give him his doom, Or raise him up to comfort.

Cal. What new change

Appears in my behaviour, that thou darest
Tempt my displeasure?

Pen. I must leave the world,

To revel in Elysium; and 'tis just

To wish my brother some advantage here.
Yet by my best hopes, Ithocles is ignorant
Of this pursuit. But if you please to kill him,
Lend him one angry look, or one harsh word,
And you shall soon conclude how strong a power
Your absolute authority holds over
His life and end.

Cal. You have forgot, Penthea,
How still I have a father.

Pen. But remember

I am sister: though to me this brother

Hath been, you know, unkind, O most unkind. Cal. Christalla, Philema, where are ye? Lady, Your check lies in my silence.

[Contention of a Bird and a Musician.]* [From the 'Lover's Melancholy."]

MENAPHON and AMETHUS.

Men. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales
Which poets of an elder time have feign'd
To glorify their Tempe, bred in me
Desire of visiting that paradise.

To Thessaly I came; and living private,
Without acquaintance of more sweet companions
Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts,
I day by day frequented silent groves,
And solitary walks. One morning early
This accident encounter'd me: I heard
The sweetest and most ravishing contention,
That art [and] nature ever were at strife in.
Amet. I cannot yet conceive what you infer
By art and nature.

Men. I shall soon resolve you.

A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather,
Indeed, entranced my soul: As I stole nearer,
Invited by the melody, I saw

*For an amplification of the subject of this extract, see article RICHARD CRASHAW.'

This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, With strains of strange variety and harmony, Proclaiming, as it seem'd, so bold a challenge To the clear choristers of the woods, the birds, That, as they flock'd about him, all stood silent, Wond'ring at what they heard. I wonder'd too. Amet. And so do I; good! on

Men. A nightingale,

Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain

his ready pen down to the year 1640. In one of his prologues, he thus adverts to the various sources of his multifarious labours:

To give content to this most curious age,

The gods themselves we've brought down to the stage,
And figured them in planets; made even hell
Deliver up the furies, by no spell

(Saving the muse's rapture) further we
Have traffick'd by their help; no history
We have left unrifled; our pens have been dipt

The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own; As well in opening each hid manuscript

He could not run division with more art
Upon his quaking instrument, than she,
The nightingale, did with her various notes
Reply to: for a voice, and for a sound,
Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe

That such they were, than hope to hear again.
Amet. How did the rivals part?
Men. You term them rightly;

For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony.
Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last
Into a pretty anger, that a bird

Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes,
Should vie with him for mastery, whose study
Had busied many hours to perfect practice:

To end the controversy, in a rapture
Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly,
So many voluntaries, and so quick,
That there was curiosity and cunning,
Concord in discord, lines of differing method
Meeting in one full centre of delight.
Amet. Now for the bird.

Men. The bird, ordain'd to be
Music's first martyr, strove to imitate
These several sounds: which, when her warbling

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THOMAS HEYWOOD was one of the most indefatigable of dramatic writers. He had, as he informs his readers, an entire hand, or at least a main finger,' in two hundred and twenty plays. He wrote also several prose works, besides attending to his business as an actor. Of his huge dramatic library, only twenty-three plays have come down to us, the best of which are, A Woman Killed with Kindness, the English Traveller, A Challenge for Beauty, the Royal King and Loyal Subject, the Lancashire Witches, the Rape of Lucrece, Love's Mistress, &c. The few particulars respecting Heywood's life and history have been gleaned from his own writings and the dates of his plays. The time of his birth is not known; but he was a native of Lincolnshire, and was a fellow of Peter-House, Cambridge: he is found writing for the stage in 1596, and he continued to exercise

As tracks more vulgar, whether read or sung
In our domestic or more foreign tongue :
Of fairies, elves, nymphs of the sea and land,
The lawns, the groves, no number can be scann'd
Which we have not given feet to.

6

This was written in 1637, and it shows how eager the play-going public were then for novelties, though they possessed the theatre of Shakspeare and his contemporaries. The death of Heywood is equally unknown with the date of his birth. As a dramatist, he had a poetical fancy and abundance of classical imagery; but his taste was defective; and scenes of low buffoonery, 'merry accidents, intermixed with apt and witty jests,' deform his pieces. His humour, however, is more pure and moral than that of most of his contemporaries, There is a natural repose in his scenes,' says a dramatic critic, which contrasts pleasingly with the excitement that reigns in most of his contemporaries. Middleton looks upon his characters with the feverish anxiety with which we listen to the trial of great criminals, or watch their behaviour upon the scaffold. Webster lays out their corpses in the prison, and sings the dirge over them when they are buried at midnight in unhallowed ground. Heywood leaves his characters before they come into these situations. He walks quietly to and fro among them while they are yet at large as members of society; contenting himself with a sad smile at their follies, or with a frequent warning to them on the consequences of their crimes.' * The following description of Psyche, from 'Love's Mistress,' is in his best manner :--

ADMETUS.ASTIOCHE.-PETREA.

Adm. Welcome to both in one! Oh, can you tell What fate your sister hath !

Both. Psyche is well.

Adm. So among mortals it is often said,

Children and friends are well when they are dead.
Ast. But Psyche lives, and on her breath attend
Delights that far surmount all earthly joy;
Music, sweet voices, and ambrosian fare;
Winds, and the light-wing'd creatures of the air;
Clear channell❜d rivers, springs, and flowery meads,
Are proud when Psyche wantons on their streams,
When Psyche on their rich embroidery treads,
When Psyche gilds their crystal with her beams.
We have but seen our sister, and, behold!
She sends us with our laps full brimm'd with gold.

In 1635, Heywood published a poem entitled the Hierarchy of Angels. Various songs are scattered through Heywood's neglected plays, some of them easy and flowing:

Song.

Pack clouds away, and welcome day,
With night we banish sorrow:
Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft,
To give my love good morrow:
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow:

* Edinburgh Review, vol. 63, p. 223.

Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good morrow.

To give my love good morrow,
Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair love good morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves,
Sing my fair love good morrow.

To give my love good morrow,
Sing, birds, in every furrow.

Shepherd's Song.

We that have known no greater state
Than this we live in, praise our fate;
For courtly silks in cares are spent,
When country's russet breeds content.
The power of sceptres we admire,
But sheep-hooks for our use desire.
Simple and low is our condition,
For here with us is no ambition:
We with the sun our flocks unfold,
Whose rising makes their fleeces gold;
Our music from the birds we borrow,
They bidding us, we them, good morrow.
Our habits are but coarse and plain,
Yet they defend from wind and rain;
As warm too, in an equal eye,
As those be-stain'd in scarlet dye.
The shepherd, with his home-spun lass,
As many merry hours doth pass,
As courtiers with their costly girls,
Though richly deck'd in gold and pearls ;
And, though but plain, to purpose woo,
Nay, often with less danger too.
Those that delight in dainties' store,
One stomach feed at once, no more;
And, when with homely fare we feast,
With us it doth as well digest;
And many times we better speed,
For our wild fruits no surfeits breed.
If we sometimes the willow wear,
By subtle swains that dare forswear,
We wonder whence it comes, and fear
They've been at court and learnt it there.

[Shipwreck by Drink.]

[From the English Traveller."]

-This gentleman and I Pass'd but just now by your next neighbour's house, Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, An unthrift youth; his father now at sea: And there this night was held a sumptuous feast. In the height of their carousing, all their brains Warm'd with the heat of wine, discourse was offer'd Of ships and storms at sea: when suddenly, Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives The room wherein they quaff'd to be a pinnace Moving and floating, and the confus'd noise To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners; That their unsteadfast footing did proceed From rocking of the vessel. This conceiv'd, Each one begins to apprehend the danger, And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one, Up to the main-top, and discover. He Climbs by the bed-post to the tester, there Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards; And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives, To cast their lading overboard. At this All fall to work, and hoist into the street,

As to the sea, what next came to their hand,
Stools, tables, tressels, trenches, bedsteads, cups,
Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles;
They take him for the boatswain: one lies struggling
Upon the floor, as if he swam for life:

A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat,
Sits in the bellow on't, labours, and rows;
His oar the stick with which the fiddler play'd:
A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to 'scape
(As did Arion) on the dolphin's back,

Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude,
Watching without, and gaping for the spoil
Cast from the windows, went by th' ears about it;
The constable is call'd t' atone the broil;
Which done, and hearing such a noise within
Of imminent shipwreck, enters the house, and finds them
In this confusion: they adore his staff,

And think it Neptune's trident; and that he
Comes with his Tritons (so they call'd his watch)
To calm the tempest, and appease the waves :
And at this point we left them.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

The last of these dramatists-' a great race,' says Mr Charles Lamb, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common'-was JAMES SHIRLEY, born in London in 1596. Designed for holy orders, Shirley was educated first at Oxford, where Archbishop Laud refused to ordain him on account of his appearance being disfigured by a mole on his left cheek. He afterwards took the degree of A.M. at Cambridge, and officiated as curate near St Albans. Like his brother divine and poet, Crashaw, Shirley embraced the communion of the church of Rome. He lived as a schoolmaster in St Albans, but afterwards settled in London, and became a voluminous dramatic writer. Thirty-nine plays proceeded from his prolific pen; and a modern edition of his works, edited by Gifford, is in six octavo volumes. When the Master of the Revels, in 1633, licensed Shirley's play of the Young Admiral, he entered on his books an expression of his admiration of the drama, because it was free from oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness; trusting that his approbation would encourage the poet to pursue this beneficial and cleanly way of poetry.' Shirley is certainly less impure than most of his contemporaries, but he is far from faultless in this respect. His dramas seem to have been tolerably successful. When the civil wars broke out, the poet exchanged the pen for the sword, and took the field under his patron the Earl of Newcastle. After the cessation of this struggle, a still worse misfortune befell our author, in the shutting of the theatres, and he was forced to betake himself to his former occupation of a teacher. The Restoration does not seem to have mended his fortunes. In 1666, the great fire of London drove the poet and his family from their house in Whitefriars; and shortly after this event, both he and his wife died on the same day. A life of various labours and reverses, thus found a sudden and tragic termination. Shirley's plays have less force and dignity than those of Massinger; less pathos than those of Ford. His comedies have the tone and manner of good society. Mr Campbell has praised his 'polished and refined dialect, the airy touches of his expression, the delicacy of his sentiments, and the beauty of his similes.' He admits, however, what every reader feels, the want in Shirley of any strong passion or engrossing interest. Hallam more justly and comprehensively states- Shirley has no originality, no force in conceiving or delineating character, little of pathos, and less, perhaps, of wit; his dramas produce no deep impression in reading, and of course can leave none

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