Wherein they sit, it being the sov'reign place
Of all that palace, and reserved to grace

The worthiest queen: these, without envy' on her,
In life, desired that honour to confer,
Which, with their death, no other should enjoy.
She this embracing with a virtuous joy,
Far from self-love, as humbling all her worth
To him that gave it, hath again brought forth
Their names to memory; and means this night,
To make them once more visible to light:
And to that light, from whence her truth of spirit
Confesseth all the lustre of her merit;

To you, most royal and most happy king,
Of whom Fame's house in every part doth ring
For every virtue, but can give no increase:
Not, though her loudest trumpet blaze your peace.
Lo you, that cherish every great example
Contracted in yourself; and being so ample
A field of honour, cannot but embrace
A spectacle, so full of love, and grace
Unto your court: where every princely dame
Contends to be as bounteous of her fame
To others, as her life was good to her;
For by their lives they only did confer
Good on themselves; but, by their fame, to yours,
And every age, the benefit endures.

Here the throne wherein they sat, being machina versatilis, suddenly changed; and in the place of it appeared Fama bona, as she is described (in Iconolog. di Cesare Ripa) attired in white, with white wings, having a collar of gold about her neck, and a heart hanging at it: which Orus Apollo, in his hierogl., interprets the note of a good Fame. In her right hand she bore a trumpet, in her left an olive-branch: and for her state, it was, as Virgil describes her, at the full, her feet on the ground, and her head in the clouds. She, after the music had done, which waited on the turning of the machine, called from thence to Heroic Virtue, and spake this following speech.

FAME.

Virtue, my father and my honour; thou
That mad'st me good as great; and dar'st avow
No Fame for thine but what is perfect: aid,
To-night, the triumphs of thy white-wing'd maid.
Do those renowned queens all utmost rites
Their states can ask. This is a night of nights.
In mine own chariots let them, crownéd, ride;
And mine own birds and beasts, in gears applied
To draw them forth. Unto the first car tie
Far-sighted eagles, to note Fame's sharp eye.
Unto the second, griffons, that design

Swiftness and strength, two other gifts of mine.
Unto the last, our lions, that imply
The top of graces, state, and majesty.
And let those hags be led as captives, bound
Before their wheels, whilst I my trumpet sound.

At which the loud music sounded as before, to give the
masquers time of descending.

By this time, imagine the masquers descended; and again mounted into three triumphant chariots, ready to come forth. The first four were drawn with eagles (whereof I gave the reason, as of the rest, in Fame's speech), their four torchbearers attending on the chariots' sides, and four of the hags bound before them. Then followed the second, drawn by

griffons, with their torch-bearers, and four other hags. Then the last, which was drawn by lions, and more eminent (wherein Her Majesty was), and had six torch-bearers more, peculiar to her, with the like number of hags. After which, a full triumphant music, singing this song, while they rode in state about the stage:

Help, help, all tongues, to celebrate this wonder:
The voice of Fame should be as loud as thunder.
Her house is all of echo made,

Where never dies the sound;
And as her brow the clouds invade,

Her feet do strike the ground.

Sing then, good Fame, that 's out of Virtue born:
For, who doth Fame neglect, doth Virtue scorn.

Here they lighted from their chariots, and danced forth their first dance: then a second, immediately following it: both right curious, and full of subtle and excellent changes, and seemed performed with no less spirits, than of those they personated. The first was to the cornets, the second to the violins. After which, they took out the men, and danced the measures; entertaining the time, almost to the space of an hour, with singular variety: when, to give them rest, from the music which attended the chariots, by that most excellent tenor voice, and exact singer (her Majesty's servant, master Jo. Allen) this ditty was sung:

When all the ages of the earth

Were crown'd, but in this famous birth;
And that, when they would boast their store
Of worthy queens, they knew no more:
How happier is that age, can give

A queen, in whom all they do live!

After it, succeeded their third dance; than which, a more numerous composition could not be seen: graphically disposed into letters, and honouring the name of the most sweet and ingenious prince, Charles duke of York. Wherein, beside that principal grace of perspicuity, the motions were so even and apt, and their expression so just, as if mathematicians had lost proportion, they might there have found it. The author was master Thomas Giles. After this, they danced galliards and corrantos. And then their last dance, no less elegant in the place than the rest, with which they took their chariots again, and triumphing about the stage, had their return to the House of Fame celebrated with this last song; whose notes (as the former) were the work and honour of my excellent friend, Alfonso Ferrabosco.

Who, Virtue, can thy power forget,
That sees these live, and triumph yet?
Th' Assyrian pomp, the Persian pride,
Greeks' glory, and the Romans' died:
And who yet imitate

Their noises tarry the same fate.
Force greatness all the glorious ways

You can, it soon decays;

But so good Fame shall never:

Her triumphs, as their causes, are for ever.

To conclude which, I know no worthier way of epilogue, than the celebration of who were the celebraters.

Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher are dramatists who wrote much together, and whose plays belong only to the reign of James I. Fletcher was the son of a bishop, Beaumont the son of a judge. Fletcher was born in 1576, Beaumont in 1586. Beaumont, who was ten years younger, died nine years before Fletcher, Beaumont dying in March, 1616 (a month before Shakespeare), and Fletcherof the plague in August, 1625, not many months after the death of James I. The friends began their fellowship as poets in 1607, when there appeared some lines of verse from each of them among the tributes of honour paid to Ben Jonson for his "Volpone." There were eighteen years of activity as a dramatist in Fletcher's life. During nine or ten of them he and Beaumont worked together, but memory of the fellowship clings to the work done by himself, sometimes alone, sometimes with other dramatists, during the other nine years, and the whole body of his plays is contained in volumes known as the works of Beaumont and Fletcher. Their first thorough success together was achieved in 1608 with the play of

PHILASTER.

The First Act opens in the palace of the usurping King of Sicily and Calabria, with a dialogue between Dion, a Lord (father to the sad Eufrasia, who is disguised as the page Bellario, in Philaster's service), and Cloremont and Thrasiline, two noble gentlemen, his associates. Their speech is of the King's daughter, the Princess Arethusa

Cle. Horo's nor lords, nor ladies.

Dion. Credit me, gentlemen, I wonder at it. They received strict charge from the king to attend here: besides, it was loudly published, that no officer should forbid any gentlemen that desired to attend and hear.

Cle. Can you guess the cause?

Dion. Nir, it is plain, about the Spanish Prince that's come to marry our kingdom's heir, and be our sovereign. Thra. Many, that will seem to know much, say, she looks not on him like a maid of love.

Dion. Oh, sir, the multitude (that seldom know anything but their own opinions) speak that they would have; but the Prince, before his own approach, received so many confident messages from the State, that, I think, she's resolved to be ruled.

Cle. Sir, it is thought, with her he shall enjoy both these kingdoms of Sicily and Calabria.

But

Dion. Sir, it is, without controversy, so meant. 'twill be a troublesome labour for him to enjoy both these kingdoms with safety, the right heir to one of them living, and living so virtuously; especially, the people admiring the bravery of his mind, and lamenting his injuries.

Cle. Who? Philaster?

Dion. Yes, whose father, we all know, was by our late king of Calabria unrighteously deposed from his fruitful Sicily. Myself drew some blood in those wars, which I would give my hand to be washed from.

Cle. Sir, my ignorance in State policy will not let me know, why, Philaster being heir to one of these kingdoms, the king should suffer him to walk abroad with such free liberty.

Dion. Sir, it seems, your nature is more constant than to enquire after State news. But the king, of late, made a

hazard of both the kingdoms, of Sicily and his own, with offering but to imprison Philaster. At which the city was in arms, not to be charmed down by any State order or proclamation till they saw Philaster ride through the streets pleased, and without a guard; at which they threw their hats, and their arms from them; some to make bonfires, some to drink, all for his deliverance: which, wise men say, is the cause the king labours to bring in the power of a foreign nation to awe his own with.

Then enters Galatea, a discreet and modest lady attending on the Princess, with Megra, a lady of opposite nature, and another lady of weak character. A short exchange of words by these, preludes the entrance of the King and his train, with his daughter Arethusa, and with Pharamond, the Prince of Spain. The King commends his daughter to the Prince of Spain, and adds

Last, noble son, (for so I now must call you)
What I have done thus public, is not only
To add a comfort in particular

To you or me, but all; and to confirm
The nobles and the gentry of these kingdoms
By oath to your succession, which shall be
Within this month at most.

Thra. This will be hardly done.

Cle. It must be ill done, if it be done.

Dion. When 'tis at best, 'twill be but half done, whilst So brave a gentleman's wrong'd and flung off. Thra. I fear.

Dion. I fear not for myself, and yet I fear too. Well, we shall see, we shall see no more.

Pha. Kissing your white hand, mistress, I take leave To thank your royal father; and thus far

To be my own free trumpet. Understand,
Great King, and these your subjects, mine that must be,
(For so deserving you have spoke me, sir,
And so deserving I dare speak myself,)
To what a person, of what eminence,
Ripe expectation, of what faculties

Manners and virtues you would wed your kingdoms:
You in me have your wishes. Oh, this country!
By more than all my hopes, I hold it happy:
Happy, in their dear memories that have been
Kings great and good; happy in yours, that is;
And from you (as a chronicle to keep
Your noble name from eating age) do I
Opine it in myself most happy. Gentlemen,
Believe me in a word, a Prince's word,
There shall be nothing to make up a kingdom
Mighty, and flourishing, defencéd, feared,
Equal to be commanded and obeyed,
But through the travels of my life I'll find it,
And tie it to this country. And I vow,
My reign shall be so easy to the subject,
That every man shall be his prince himself,
And his own law: yet I his prince, and law.
And dearest lady, to your dearest self
(Dear, in the choice of him, whose name and lustre
Must make you more and mightier) let me say,
You are the blessed'st living; for, sweet princess,
You shall enjoy a man of men to be

Your servant; you shall make him yours, for whom
Great queens must die.

Dion. I wonder what's his price? For, certainly, He'll sell himself, he has so praised his shape:

But here comes one more worthy those large speeches
Than the large speaker of them.

Let me be swallow'd quick if I can find,
In all th' anatomy of yon man's virtues,

One sinew sound enough to promise for him
He shall be constable.

By this sun, he 'll ne'er make king,

Unless it be of trifles, in my poor judgment.

Phi. Right noble sir, as low as my obedience, And with a heart as loyal as my knee,

I beg your favour.

King. Rise, you have it, sir.

My language to you, Prince; you, foreign man.
Never stare, nor put on wonder, for you must
Endure and
me,
shall. This earth you tread on
you
(A dowry, as you hope, with this fair princess,)
By my dead father (oh! I had a father,
Whose memory I bow to) was not left
To your inheritance, and I up and living,
Having myself about me and my sword,
The souls of all my name, and memories,
These arms and some few friends, besides the gods,
To part so calmly with it, and sit still,

And say, I might have been. I tell thee, Pharamond,
When thou art king, look, I be dead and rotten,
And my name ashes; for hear me, Pharamond,
This very ground thou goest on, this fat earth
My father's friends made fertile with their faiths,
Before that day of shame, shall gape and swallow
Thee and thy nation, like a hungry grave,
Into her hidden bowels: Prince, it shall;
By Nemesis, it shall.

Cle. Peace! we are one soul.

Pha. What you have seen in me to stir offence

I cannot find; unless it be this lady

Offer'd into mine arms, with the succession,
Which I must keep though it hath pleas'd your fury

To mutiny within you, without disputing
Your genealogies, or taking knowledge

Whose branch you are. The king will leave it me,
And I dare make it mine. You have your answer.
Phi. If thou wert sole inheritor to him
That made the world his, and couldst see no sun
Shine upon anything but thine; were Pharamond
As truly valiant as I feel him cold,

And ring'd among the choicest of his friends,
(Such as would blush to talk such serious follies,
Or back such bellied commendations,)

And from this presence,' spite of all these bugs,
You should hear further from me.

King. Sir, you wrong the Prince :

I gave you not this freedom to brave our best friends.
You do deserve our frown go to, be better tempered.
Phi. It must be, sir, when I am nobler used.
Gal. Ladies,

This would have been a pattern of succession,
Had he ne'er met this mischief. By my life,
He is the worthiest the true name of man
This day within my knowledge.

Meg.
I cannot tell
What you may call your knowledge, but th' other is
The man set in mine eye; oh! 'tis a prince

And ease me of a load would bow strong Atlas. Cle. He dares not stand the shock. Dion. I cannot blame him, there's danger in 't. Every man in this age has not a soul of crystal for all men to read their actions through: men's hearts and faces are so far asunder, that they hold no intelligence. Do but view yon stranger well, and you shall see a fever through all his bravery, and feel him shake like a true recreant; if he give not back his crown again, upon the report of an elder gun, I have no augury.

King. Go to:

Be more yourself, as you respect our favour;
You'll stir us else: sir, I must have you know,

That you 're, and shall be, at our pleasure, what fashion we
Will put upon you: smooth your brow, or by the gods-
Phi. I am dead, sir, you 're my fate: it was not I
Said I was wrong'd: I carry all about me
My weak stars led me to, all my weak fortunes.
Who dares in all this presence speak (that is
But man of flesh and may be mortal) tell me,
I do not most entirely love this prince,
And honour his full virtues!

Phi. I can't endure it: turn away my face?

I never yet saw enemy that look'd

So dreadfully, but that I thought myself

As great a basilisk as he; or spake

So horribly, but that I thought my tongue

Bore thunder underneath, as much as his :
Nor beast that I could turn from: shall I then
Begin to fear sweet sounds? a lady's voice,
Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life;
Why, I will give it you; for it is of me

A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask
Of so poor use, that I shall make no price.

If you entreat, I will unmov'dly hear.

Are. Yet for my sake a little bend thy looks. Phi. I do.

So violently, would amaze a man,
That would be jealous.

Are. Another soul, into my body shot,

Could not have fill'd me with more strength and spirit,
Than this thy breath: but spend not hasty time,

In seeking how I came thus: 'tis the gods,
The gods, that make me so; and, sure, our love
Will be the nobler, and the better blest,

In that the secret justice of the gods

Is mingled with it. Let us leave and kiss;
Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us,
And we should part without it.

I have a boy

Phi.
Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent,
Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck,

I found him sitting by a fountain-side,

Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears;

A garland lay by him, made by himself
Of many several flowers bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystick order that the rareness
Delighted me: but ever when he turned
His tender eyes upon them, he would weep,
As if he meant to make them grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story;
He told me, that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light;
Then took he up his garland, and did show
What every flower, as country people hold,
Did signify; and how all, ordered thus,

Exprest his grief; and to my thoughts did read

The prettiest lecture of his country art

That could be wished: so that, methought, I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertained him,
Who was as glad to follow; and have got
The truest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy
That ever master kept him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.

:

Enter Lady.

Are. 'Tis well, no more.

Lady. Madam, the Prince is come to do his service.
Are. What will you do, Philaster, with yourself:
Phi. Why, that which all the gods have appointed out
for me.

Are. Dear, hide thyself. Bring in the Prince.
Phi. Hide me from Pharamond!--
When thunder speaks, which is the voice of Jove,
Though I do reverence, yet I hide me not;
And shall a stranger prince have leave to brag
Unto a foreign nation, that he made

Philaster hide himself?

Are. He cannot know it.

Phi. Though it should sleep for ever to the world,

It is a simple sin to hide myself,

Which will for ever on my conscience lie.