158

I would be wise, but that I often see

The fox suspected while the ass goes free;
I would be fair, but see the fair and proud
Like the bright sun oft setting in a cloud;
I would be poor, but know the humble grass
Still trampled on by each unworthy ass;

Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd if poor;
Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envied

more.

I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair-poor I'll be rather.

Would the world now adopt me for her heir,
Would beauty's queen entitle me "the fair,"
Fame speak me fortune's minion, could I vie
Angels with India; with a speaking eye
Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike justice
dumb

As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue
To stones by epitaphs; be call'd great master
In the loose rhymes of every poetaster;
Could I be more than any man that lives,
Great, fair, rich, wise, all in superlatives:
Yet I more freely would these gifts resign,
Than ever fortune would have made them

mine;

And hold one minute of this holy leisure Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure.

Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent groves!

These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves.

Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring;
A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass,
In which I will adore sweet virtue's face;
Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace cares,
No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced
fears:

Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn to affect a holy melancholy;
And if Contentment be a stranger then,
I'll ne'er look for it but in heav'n again.
* Angels-pieces of money.

ON THE SUDDEN RESTRAINT OF THE EARL OF SOMERSET (THE FAVOURITE OF JAMES L) THEN FALLING FROM FAVOUR.

DAZZLED thus with height of place,
Whilst our hopes our wits beguile,
No man marks the narrow space
"Twixt a prison and a smile.

Yet since Fortune's favours fade,
You that in her arms do sleep
Learn to swim and not to wade,

For the hearts of kings are deep.

But if greatness be so blind
As to trust in towers of air,
Let it be with goodness lined,

That at least the fall be fair.

Then though dark and you shall say, When friends fail and princes frown, Virtue is the roughest way,

But proves at night a bed of down.

A MEDITATION.

FROM SANSCROFT'S COLLECTION.

[Mr. Malone, from whose handwriting I copy this, says, "not, I think, printed."]

O, THOU great Power! in whom we move,
By whom we live, to whom we die,
Behold me through thy beams of love,
Whilst on this couch of tears I lie,
And cleanse my sordid soul within
By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin.
No hallow'd oils, no gums I need,

No new-born drams of purging fire;
One rosy drop from David's seed

Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire:
O, precious ransom! which once paid,
That Consummatum est was said.

And said by him, that said no more,

But seal'd it with his sacred breath:
Thou then, that has dispurged our score,

And dying wert the death of death,
Be now, whilst on thy name we call,
Our life, our strength, our joy, our all!

on the Continent as tutor to the Earl of Argyll; and after his return to his native country (Scotland), having in vain solicited a mistress, whom he celebrates in his poetry by the name of Aurora, he married the daughter of Sir William Erskine.

he obtained the notice of the monarch, was appointed gentleman usher to Prince Charles, and was knighted by James. Both of those sovereigns patronized his scheme for colonizing Nova Scotia, of which the latter made him lord lieutenant.

Charles the First created him Earl of Sterline in 1633, and for ten years he held the office of secretary of state for Scotland, with the praise of moderation, in times that were rendered pecu

liarly trying by the struggles of Laud against the Scottish presbyterians.-He wrote some very heavy tragedies; but there is elegance of expression in a few of his shorter pieces*.

FROM HIS

SOME men delight huge buildings to behold,
Some theatres, mountains, floods, and famous
springs,

Some monuments of monarchs, and such things
As in the books of fame have been enroll'd,
Those stately towns that to the stars were raised ;
Some would their ruins see (their beauty's gone),
Of which the world's three parts each boasts of one:
Though none of those, I love a sight as rare,
Even her that o'er my life as queen doth sit;
Juno in majesty, Pallas in wit,

As Phoebe chaste, than Venus far more fair;
And though her looks even threaten death to me,
Their threat'nings are so sweet I cannot flee.

I CHANCED, my dear, to come upon a day
Whilst thou wast but arising from thy bed,
And the warm snows, with comely garments cled,
More rich than glorious, and more fine than gay.
Then, blushing to be seen in such a case,

O how thy curled locks mine eyes did please ;
And well become those waves thy beauty's seas,
Which by thy hairs were framed upon thy face;
Such was Diana once, when being spied
By rash Actæon, she was much commoved:

"AURORA."

Yet, more discreet than th' angry goddess proved, Thou knew'st I came through error, not of pride, And thought the wounds I got by thy sweet sight Were too great scourges for a fault so light.

AWAKE, my muse, and leave to dream of loves,
Shake off soft fancy's chains- I must be free ;
I'll perch no more upon the myrtle tree,
Nor glide through th' air with beauty's sacred
doves;

But with Jove's stately bird I'll leave my nest,
And try my sight against Apollo's rays.

Then, if that ought my vent'rous course dismays,
Upon th' olive's boughs I'll light and rest;
I'll tune my accents to a trumpet now,
And seek the laurel in another field.
Thus I that once (as Beauty's means did yield)
Did divers garments on my thoughts bestow,
Like Icarus, I fear, unwisely bold,

Am purposed other's passions now t' unfold.

[* "Lord Sterline is rather monotonous, as sonneteers usually are, and he addresses his mistress by the appellation, Fair tygress.' Campbell observes that there is elegance of expression in a few of his shorter pieces."HALLAM, Lit. Hist., vol. iii. p. 505.]

Ar the close of the sixteenth century we find that the theatres, conducted by Henslowe and Alleyn, chiefly depended on Jonson, Heywood, Chettle, and this poet, for composing or retouching their pieces. Marston and Dekker had laboured frequently in conjunction with Jonson, when their well-known hostility with him commenced. What grounds of offence Marston and Dekker alleged, cannot now be told; but Jonson affirms, that after the appearance of his comedy, "Every Man in his Humour," they began to provoke him on every stage with their "petulant styles," as if they wished to single him out for their adversary. When Jonson's Cynthia's Revels appeared, they appropriated the two characters of Hedon and Anaides to themselves, and

were brooding over their revenge when the Poetaster came forth, in which Dekker was recognized as Demetrius. Either that his wrath made him more willing, or that he was chosen the champion of the offended host, for his rapid powers and popularity, he furnished the Satiromastix; not indeed a despicable reply to Jonson, but more full of rage than of ridicule. The little that is known of Dekker's history, independent of his quarrel with Jonson, is unfortunate. His talents were prolific, and not contemptible; but he was goaded on by want to hasty productions acquainted with spunging-houses, and an inmate of the King's Bench prison*. Oldys thinks that he was alive in 1638.

Give me but leave to borrow wonder's eye,
To look (amazed) at thy bright majesty,
Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and
riches?

For. Before thy soul (at this deep lottery)
Draw forth her prize, ordain'd by destiny,
Know that here's no recanting a first choice:
Choose then discreetly, (for the laws of fate
Being graven in steel, must stand inviolate.)

Fort. Daughters of Jove and the unblemish'd Night,

Most righteous Parcæ, guide my genius right! Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and riches?

For. Stay,Fortunatus, once more hear me speak,
If thou kiss wisdom's cheek and make her thine,
She'll breathe into thy lips divinity,
And thou (like Phoebus) shalt speak oracle ;
Thy heaven-inspired soul, on wisdom's wings,
Shall fly up to the parliament of Jove,
And read the statutes of eternity,

And see what's past, and learn what is to come :
If thou lay claim to strength, armies shall quake
To see thee frown; as kings at mine do lie,
So shall thy feet trample on empery:
Make health thine object, thou shalt be strong proof,
'Gainst the deep searching darts of surfeiting;

Be ever merry, ever revelling:

Wish but for beauty, and within thine eyes
Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim,
And on thy cheeks I'll mix such white and red,
That Jove shall turn away young Ganymede,
And with immortal arms shall circle thee:
Are thy desires long life? thy vital thread
Shall be stretch'd out; thou shalt behold the change
Of monarchies; and see those children die
Whose great-great-grandsires now in cradles lie:
If through gold's sacred hunger thou dost pine,
Those gilded wantons which in swarms do run,
To warm their slender bodies in the sun,
Shall stand for number of those golden piles,
Which in rich pride shall swell before thy feet;
As those are, so shall these be, infinite.
Awaken then thy soul's best faculties,
And gladly kiss this bounteous hand of fate,
Which strives to bless thy name of Fortunate.

*He was there at one time for three years, according to Oldys. No wonder poor Dekker could rise a degree above the level of his ordinary genius in describing the blessings of Fortunatus's inexhaustible purse: he had probably felt but too keenly the force of what he expresses in the misanthropy of Ampedo.

I'm not enamour'd of this painted idol,

This strumpet world; for her most beauteous looks
Are poison'd baits, hung upon golden hooks.
When fools do swim in wealth, her Cynthian beams
Will wantonly dance on the silver streams;
But when this squint-eyed age sees virtue poor,
And by a little spark set shivering,
Begging of all, relieved at no man's door,
She smiles on her as the sun shines on fire,
To kill that little heat.

Fort. Oh, whither am I rapt beyond myself?
More violent conflicts fight in every thought,
Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall wrought.
Shall I contract myself to wisdom's love?
Then I lose riches; and a wise man poor,
Is like a sacred book that's never read,

To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead :
This age thinks better of a gilded fool,
Than of a thread-bare saint in wisdom's school.
I will be strong: then I refuse long life;
And though mine arm should conquer twentyworlds,
There's a lean fellow beats all conquerors:
The greatest strength expires with loss of breath;
The mightiest (in one minute) stoop to death.
Then take long life, or health: should I do so,
I might grow ugly; and that tedious scroll
Of months and years, much misery may inroll;
Therefore I'll beg for beauty; yet I will not,
The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul
Lep'rous as sin itself, than hell more foul.
The wisdom of this world is idiotism;
Strength a weak reed; health sickness' enemy,
(And it at length will have the victory ;)
Beauty is but a painting; and long life
Is a long journey in December gone,
Tedious and full of tribulation.
Therefore, dread sacred empress, make me rich;
[Kneels down.
My choice is store of gold; the rich are wise:
He that upon his back rich garments wears,
Is wise, though on his head grow Midas' ears:
Gold is the strength, the sinews of the world;
The health, the soul, the beauty most divine;
A mask of gold hides all deformities;
Gold is heaven's physic, life's restorative;
Oh, therefore, make me rich! not as the wretch
That only serves lean banquets to his eye,
Has gold, yet starves; is famish'd in his store :
No, let me ever spend, be never poor.

For. Thy latest words confine thy destiny;
Thou shalt spend ever, and be never poor :
For proof receive this purse; with it this virtue;

Hipolito's thoughts on his mistress's picture, from which he turns to look on a scull that lies before him on a table.

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. 'Las! 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 cannot 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 pictured in 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.

LANGBAINE only informs us of this writer, that he was clerk of St. Andrew's parish, Holborn*, and esteemed by his contemporaries. He wrote, in conjunction with Rowley Dekker, and Marston. Among the pieces, entirely his own, are The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona, the tragedy

*[Gildon, I believe, was the first who asserted that our author was clerk of St. Andrew's. I searched the registers of that church, but the name of Webster did not occur in them; and I examined the MSS. belonging to the Parish Clerks' Hall, in Wood Street, with as little success."--DYCE's Webster, vol. i. p. 1.]

of Appius and Virginia, the Devil's Law Case, and the Duchess of Malfi. From the advertisement prefixed to Vittoria Corombona, the piece seems not to have been successful in the representation. The author says, "that it wanted that which is the only grace and setting out of a tragedy, a full and understanding auditory." The auditory, it may be suspected, were not quite so much struck with the beauty of Webster's horrors, as Mr. Lamb seems to have been in writing the notes to his Specimens of our old Dramatic Poetry.

M

In the same preface Webster deprives himself of the only apology that could be offered for his absurdities as a dramatist, by acknowledging that he wrote slowly; a circumstance in which he

modestly compares himself to Euripides. In his tragedy of the Duchess of Malfi, the duchess is married and delivered of several children in the course of the five acts.

VITTORIA, THE MISTRESS OF BRACHIANO, RELATING HER DREAM TO HIM.

I could not pray.

Fla. No, the devil was in your dream.

Vit. When to my rescue there arose methought A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm From that strong plant,

And both were struck dead by that sacred yew, In that base shallow grave that was their due. Fla. Excellent devil! she hath taught him, in a dream,

To make away his duchess, and her husband.

Bra. Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream. You are lodged within his arms who shall protect you

From all the fevers of a jealous husband,
From the poor envy of our phlegmatic duchess;
I'll seat you above law and above scandal.
Give to your thoughts the invention of delight
And the fruition, nor shall government
Divide me from you longer than a care
To keep you great: you shall to me at once
Be dukedom, health, wife, children, friends, and
all.

Cor. Woe to light hearts, they still forerun our fall.

FROM THE DUCHESS OF MALFI.

The Duchess of Malfi having privately married Antonio. her own steward, is inhumanly persecuted by her brother Ferdinand, who confines her in a house of madmen, and in concert with his creature Bosola murders her and her attendant Cariola.

SCENE-A Mad-house. Persons-DUCHESS OF MALFI; CARIOLA, her faithful atten dant; FERDINAND, her cruel brother; BOSOLA, his creature and instrument of cruelty, Madmen, Executioners, Servant.

Duch. WHAT hideous noise was that?
Car. 'Tis the wild concert

Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother
Hath placed about your lodging: this tyranny
I think was never practised till this hour.

Duch. Indeed I thank him: nothing but noise and folly

Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason
And silence make me stark mad. Sit down;
Discourse to me some dismal tragedy.

Cari. Oh, 'twill increase your melancholy.
Duch. Thou art deceived;

To hear of greater grief, would lessen mine.
This is a prison ?

Cari. Yes, but you shall live
To shake this durance off.

Duch. Thou art a fool:

The robin-redbreast and the nightingale
Never live long in cages.

Cari. Pray dry your eyes.
What think you of, madam?

Duch. Of nothing:

When I muse thus, I sleep.

Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes open. Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another In th' other world.

Cari. Yes; out of question.

Duch. O that it were possible we might But hold some two days' conference with the dead! From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle: I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass,

The earth of flaming sulphur ; yet I am not mad.
I am acquainted with sad misery,

As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar:
Necessity makes me suffer constantly,
And custom makes it easy. Who do I look like now?
Cari. Like to your picture in the gallery.

A deal of life in show, but none in practice;
Or rather like some reverend monument,
Whose ruins are even pitied.