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Form. I beseech your worship to pardon me. I happened into ill company by chance, that cast me into a sleep, and stript me of all my clothes.

Clem. Well, tell him I am Justice Clement, and do pardon him: but what is this to your armour? what may that signify?

Form. An't please you, sir, it hung up in the room where I was stript: and I borrow'd it of one of the drawers to come home in, because I

was loth to do penance through the street in my

shirt.

Clem. Well, stand by a while.

Enter E. KNOWell, Wellbred, and BRIDGET. Who be these? Oh, the young company; welcome, welcome! Give you joy. Nay, Mistress Bridget, blush not; you are not so fresh a bride, but the news of it is come hither afore you. Master Bridegroom, I have made your peace, give me your hand: so will I for all the rest ere you forsake my roof.

E. Know. We are the more bound to your humanity, sir.

Clem. Only these two have so little of man in them, they are no part of my care.

Wel. Yes, sir, let me pray you for this gentleman, he belongs to my sister the bride.

Clem. In what place, sir?

Wel. Of her delight, sir, below the stairs, and in public: her poet, sir.

Clem. A poet! I will challenge him myself presently at extempore.

Mount up thy Phlegon, Muse, and testify,
How Saturn, sitting in an ebon cloud,
Disrobed his podex, white as ivory,

And through the welkin thunder'd all aloud. Wel. He is not for extempore, sir: he is all for the pocket muse; please you command a sight of it.

Clem. Yes, yes, search him for a taste of his vein. [They search MATHEW's pockets. Wel. You must not deny the queen's justice, sir, under a writ of rebellion.

Clem. What! all this verse? Body o' me, he carries a whole realm, a commonwealth of paper in his hose: let us see some of his subjects.

[Reads.

Unto the boundless ocean of thy face, [eyes. Runs this poor river, charg'd with streams of How! this is stolen.

E. Know. A parody! a parody! with a kind of miraculous gift, to make it absurder than it

was.

Clem. Is all the rest of this batch? bring me a torch; lay it together, and give fire. Cleanse the air. [Sets the papers on fire.] Here was enough to have infected the whole city, if it had not been taken in time. See, see, how our poet's glory shines! brighter and brighter! still it increases! Oh, now it is at the highest; and now it declines as fast. You may see, sic transit gloria mundi!' Know. There's an emblem for you, son, and your studies.

'so vanishes the glory of the world.'

Clem. Nay, no speech or act of mine be drawn against such as profess it worthily. They are not born every year, as an alderman. There goes more to the making of a good poet, than a sheriff. Master Kitely, you look upon me!though I live in the city here amongst you, I will do more reverence to him, when I meet him, than I will to the mayor out of his year. these paper-pedlars! these ink-dabblers! they cannot expect reprehension or reproach; they have it with the fact.

But

E. Know. Sir, you have saved me the labour of a defence.

Clem. It shall be discourse for supper between your father and me, if he dare undertake me. But to despatch away these, you sign o' the soldier, and picture of the poet (but both so false, I will not have you hanged out at my door till midnight), while we are at supper, you two shall penitently fast it out in my court without; and, if you will, you may pray there that we may be so merry within as to forgive or forget you when we come out. Here's a third, because we tender your safety, shall watch you, he is provided for the purpose. Look to your charge, sir.

Step. And what shall I do? Clem. Oh! I had lost a sheep an' he had not bleated. Why, sir, you shall give Master Downright his cloak; and I will entreat him to take it. A trencher and a napkin you shall have in the buttery, and keep Cob and his wife company here; whom I will entreat first to be reconciled; and you to endeavour with your wit to keep them so.

Step. I'll do my best.

Cob. Why, now I see thou art honest, Tib, I receive thee as my dear and mortal wife again.

Tib. And I you, as my loving and obedient husband.

Clem. Good compliment! It will be their bridal night too. They are married anew. Come, I conjure the rest to put off all discontent. You, Master Downright, your anger; you, Master Knowell, your cares; Master Kitely and his wife, their jealousy.

For, I must tell you both, while that is fed,
Horns in the mind are worse than on the head.

Kit. Sir, thus they go from me; kiss me, sweetheart.

See what a drove of horns fly in the air,
Wing'd with my cleansed and my credulous breath!
Watch 'em suspicious eyes, watch where they fall,
See, see! on heads that think they have none at all!
Oh, what a plenteous world of this will come!
When air rains horns, all may be sure of some.
I have learn'd so much verse out of a jealous
man's part in a play.

Clem. 'Tis well, 'tis well! This night we'll dedicate to friendship, love, and laughter. Master Bridegroom, take your bride and lead; every one a fellow. Here is my mistress, Brainworm! to whom all my addresses of courtship shall have their reference: whose adventures this day, when our grandchildren shall hear to be made a fable, I doubt not but it shall find both spectators and applause. [Exeunt.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

[ALL who are acquainted with the history of the English drama know that it was a common thing for two or more of the Elizabethan dramatists to join their wits in the manufacture of a play thus A Looking-Glass for London and England was the joint production of Greene and Lodge; and Jonson, Chapman, and Marston were nearly losing their ears for being all three concerned in the manufacture of Eastward Hoe. No doubt they were frequently urged to enter into these literary partnerships by a desire to get their ware ready for the market as soon as possible, and thus speedily replenish their generally empty purses. Poverty, however, can have had nothing to do with the illustrious literary union formed by Beaumont and Fletcher, as both these dramatists were well connected, and apparently were quite independent of the proceeds of their pens.

John Fletcher, the elder of the two, was born at Rye, in Sussex, 1576 (1579 according to Dyce), his father being Dr. Richard Fletcher, afterwards Bishop of London, and a favourite of Queen Elizabeth. Fletcher was educated at Bennet College, Cambridge, but appears never to have taken his degree, although, it is said, he acquired much classical erudition; he must, at any rate, have had considerable acquaintance with French, Spanish, and Italian, as many of his plots are taken from then untranslated dramas in these languages. At what time he commenced writing for the stage is uncertain; but it is probable that in 1606 or 1607, somewhat before his partnership with Beaumont, he produced the comedy of The Woman Hater and the tragedy of Thierry and Theodoret. Little more is known of the details of his life, except that he died in August 1625 of the plague, while being detained in London waiting He appears to have been of a social, generous disposition, and for a new suit of clothes. somewhat more correct in his conduct than the majority of his brother dramatists. John Fletcher was cousin to Giles and Phineas Fletcher, two poets of considerable credit.

Francis Beaumont, like his literary partner, was well connected, belonging to an ancient and honourable family, which had been seated at Grace-Dieu, in Liecestershire, for many generations. He was the eldest son of Francis Beaumont, a judge of the Common Pleas, and was born in 1586, perhaps earlier, and became a gentleman-commoner of Broadgate Hall, now Pembroke College, in 1596. After leaving college, he attempted to study law in the Inner Temple, but soon gave it up, his tastes lying in quite another direction. When only sixteen he translated one of Ovid's fables into English rhyme, and must have become intimate with Ben Jonson before he was nineteen, as at that age he addressed some verses to the latter on his comedy of The Fox, produced in 1605, Jonson afterwards returning the compliment by some laudatory lines, beginning

'How do I love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse,

That unto me dost such religion prove!'

Beaumont, unlike his friend, did not die a bachelor, but married, in what year is not known, Ursula, daughter and co-heir of Henry Isley of Sundridge, Kent, by whom he left two daughters. One of these, Frances, was alive in 1700, enjoying a pension of one hundred pounds from the Duke of Ormond, in whose family she had been a domestic. Beaumont died ten years before his friend Fletcher, in March 1615-16, at the premature age of twentynine, and was buried near the entrance of St. Benedict's Chapel, Westminster Abbey, his grave, like that of his friend's, being unmarked by slab or epitaph. It is not known that

237

Beaumont wrote any drama previous to his connection with Fletcher. To judge from their portraits, both Beaumont and Fletcher seem to have been handsome and good-looking; and Beaumont, at least, was a member of the famous club which met at the Mermaid Tavern, he having written a lively poetical description of the wit-combats' which took place there.

'What things have we seen

Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been

So nimble and so full of subtle flame,

As if that every one from whom they came

Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,

And had resolved to live a fool the rest
Of his dull life.' . .

It has been conjectured that Beaumont and Fletcher commenced their literary partnership about 1608, and it continued till the former's death in 1616. Their union seems to have been one not of mere convenience, but of fast friendship; and, according to Aubrey, they lived together in one house 'on the Bankside,' and were on the most intimate and familiar terms. What was their modus operandi in the manufacture of their dramatic productions, we have no means of ascertaining, although there is an amusing story told of the two, which, if true, affords us a slight glimpse into their method of procedure. At a tavern, as our poets choose each his share of some future dramatic task, a fierce ejaculation is heard from their chamber: "I'll undertake to kill the king!" One who stood outside, readier to catch up a treasonable than a poetic idea, gives information of this regicide plot; and the poor dramatist, till he can explain, has a prospect of the block, which better befitted the blockhead than the betrayer.' All the works together attributed to 'Beaumont and Fletcher' amount to about fifty-two, of which, it has been conjectured, about seventeen were the joint production of the two friends, the remainder being mostly written by Fletcher, principally after the death of Beaumont. The first drama written by the two in conjunction is probably Philaster, produced some time previous to 1611. The other chief joint productions are The Maid's Tragedy (written before 1611), King and No King (1611), The Honest Man's Fortune (1613), The Coxcomb (1613), The Scornful Lady (printed 1616), The Little French Lawyer, The Laws of Candy, The Knight of Malta. Fletcher himself, before the death of his friend, wrote The Faithful Shepherdess (before 1611), an exquisite but not very pure pastoral, from which Milton is supposed to have borrowed the design of his Comus. His principal productions after Beaumont's death were The Loyal Subject (about 1618), The Chances (before 1621), The Spanish Curate (1622), The Beggar's Bush (1622), Rule a Wife and Have a Wife (1624), and The Fair Maid of the Inn (1625–6). Shakespeare is said to have assisted Fletcher in the composition of The Two Noble Kinsmen.

We have no means now of apportioning to each of these authors his share in their joint compositions, and to hazard a guess would be idle and profitless. The general opinion seems to be that Beaumont was the graver of the two wits, the deeper scholar, and more acute critic, while Fletcher had the more brilliant wit and loftier genius. Beaumont, according to quaint Tom Fuller, brought the ballast of judgment, and Fletcher the sail of phantasy, both compounding a poet to admiration.' 'Beaumont,' says Langbaine, 'was master of a good wit and a better judgment; he so admirably well understood the art of the stage that even Jonson himself thought it no disparagement to submit his writings to his correction. Mr. Fletcher's wit was equal to Mr. Beaumont's judgment, and was so luxurious that, like superfluous branches, it was frequently pruned by his judicious partner.' While this may be true in the main, still, if we may judge from those dramas which are the undoubted composition of each singly, both could manifest on occasion an equal degree of good taste, sound judgment, and brilliant fancy. Beaumont and Fletcher are generally allowed to have made a nearer approach to Shakespeare than did any other dramatist either before or after. This may be true in the general. No doubt in the construction of their plays, the smoothness, correctness, and general richness of their language, the reckless abundance of their fancy, and the occasional depth of passion, they do often remind one of the unapproachable master; as they likewise do by the occasional cropping out of an everlasting thought divinely worded.

Still, the intelligent reader must feel that their dramas are characterized by weakness, crudeness, want of strength and point, and a certain effeminate softness often not unpleasing. Nearly all their productions bear the marks of haste and carelessness; they seem to have revelled in composition, to have delighted in throwing off drama after drama, giving themselves little trouble about perfection in details. So far as genuine comedy is concerned, as well as perfection of dramatic construction, we are inclined to give the palm to Ben Jonson; and in respect to the power of depicting deep passion, and giving utterance to genuine pathos, perhaps Marlowe and Webster were their superiors. One of the greatest blots on the writings of these dramatists is the disgusting abundance of obscene language; for although, as we have said, they seem to have led more correct lives than most of their contemporaries, nearly every play is disfigured by ad nauseam language, having 'all the indecency and familiarity of a brothel.' In this respect they excel most of their contemporaries, none of whom are noted for the exceptional purity of their language.

We conclude by quoting Hazlitt's estimate of these dramatic partners; it seems to us to be, on the whole, just and discriminating

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"We find all the prodigality of youth, the confidence inspired by success, an enthusiasm bordering on extravagance, richness running riot, beauty dissolving in its own sweetness.

'It cannot be denied that they are lyrical and descriptive poets of the highest order; every page of their writings is a florilegium: they are dramatic poets of the second class in point of knowledge, variety, vivacity, and effect; there is hardly a passion, character, or situation, which they have not touched in their devious range, and whatever they touched they adorned with some new grace or striking feature: they are masters of style and versification in almost every variety of melting modulation or sounding pomp, of which they are capable in comic wit and spirit they are scarcely surpassed by any writers of any age. There they are in their element, "like eagles newly baited;" but I speak rather of their serious poetry, and this, I apprehend, with all its richness, sweetness, loftiness, and grace, wants something-stimulates more than it gratifies, and leaves the mind in a certain sense exhausted and unsatisfied. Their fault is a too ostentatious and indiscriminate display of power. Everything seems in a state of fermentation and effervescence, and not to have settled and found its centre in their minds. The ornaments, through neglect or abundance, do not always appear sufficiently appropriate: there is evidently a rich wardrobe of words and images to set off any sentiments that occur, but not equal felicity in the choice of the sentiments to be expressed; the characters in general do not take a substantial form, or excite a growing interest, or leave a permanent impression; the passion does not accumulate by the force of time, of circumstances, and habit, but wastes itself in the first ebullitions of surprise and novelty.

'Besides these more critical objections, there is a too frequent mixture of voluptuous softness or effeminacy of character with horror in the subjects, a conscious weakness (I can hardly think it wantonness) of moral constitution struggling with wilful and violent situations, like the tender wings of the moth, attracted to the flame that dazzles and consumes it. In the hey-day of their youthful ardour, and the intoxication of their animal spirits, they take a perverse delight in tearing up some rooted sentiment, to make a mawkish lamentation over it; and fondly and gratuitously cast the seeds of crimes into forbidden grounds, to see how they will shoot up and vegetate into luxuriance, to catch the eye of fancy. They are not safe teachers of morality: they tamper with it like an experiment tried in corpore vili, and seem to regard the decomposition of the common affections, and the dissolution of the strict bonds of society, as an agreeable study and a careless pastime. The tone of Shakespeare's writings is manly and bracing; theirs is at once insipid and meretricious in the comparison."]

PHILASTER; OR, LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING.

AS IT HATH BEEN DIVERS TIMES ACTED AT THE GLOBE AND BLACK FRIARS BY HIS MAJESTY'S SERVANTS.

WRITTEN BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER, GENT.

The Second Impression, Corrected and Amended. London. 1622.

KING.

Dramatis Personæ.

PHILASTER, Heir to the Crown of Sicily.
PHARAMOND, Prince of Spain.
DION, a Lord.
CLEREMONT,
THRASILINE,
An old Captain.
Five Citizens.

} Noble Gentlemen, his Associates.

A Country Fellow.

MESSINA.

Two Woodmen.

The King's Guard and Train

ARETHUSA, the King's Daughter.

GALATEA, a wise modest Lady, attending the Princess.
MEGRA, a Court Lady.

EUPHRASIA, Daughter of DION, but disguised as a
Page, under the name of BELLARIO.
Two other Ladies.

SCENE-Messina, and a Neighbouring Forest.

ACT I-SCENE I.

The Presence-Chamber in the Palace. Enter DION, CLEREMONT, and THRASILINE. Cle. Here'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 boldly published, that no officer should forbid any gentlemen that desire to attend and hear.

Cle. Can you guess the cause?

Dion. Sir, 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 in 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.

Dion. Sir, it is, without controversy, so meant. But '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

wash'd 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 inquire 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 charm'd 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.

Enter GALATEA, a Lady, and MEGRA. Thra. See, the ladies. What's the first? Dion. A wise and modest gentlewoman that attends the princess.

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Dion. Marry, I think she is one whom the state keeps for the agents of our confederate princes. She'll cog1 and lie with a whole army, before the league shall break: her name is common through the kingdom, and the trophies of her dishonour advanced beyond Hercules' Pillars. She loves to try the several constitutions of men's bodies; and, indeed, has destroyed the worth of her own body, by making experiment upon it, for the good of the commonwealth.

Cle. She's a profitable member

Meg. Peace, if you love me! You shall see these gentlemen stand their ground, and not

court us.

Gal. What if they should?
Lady. What if they should?

Meg. Nay, let her alone. What if they should? Why, if they should, I say they were never abroad. What foreigner would do so? It writes them directly untravelled.

Gal. Why, what if they be?

1 cog-flatter, cheat, cajole.

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