I do repent; and yet I do despair:
Hell strives with grace for conquest in my
breast:

What shall I do to shun the snares of death?

Meph. Thou traitor, Faustus, I arrest thy soul
For disobedience to my sovereign lord:
Revolt, or I'll in piecemeal tear thy flesh.

Faust. Sweet Mephistophilis, entreat thy lord
To pardon my unjust presumption,
And with my blood again I will confirm
My former vow I made to Lucifer.

Meph. Do it then, quickly, with unfeigned
heart,

Lest greater danger do attend thy drift.

Enter FAUSTUS, with Scholars.
Faust. Ah, gentlemen!

First Schol. What ails Faustus?

Faust. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee, then had I lived still; but now I die eternally! Look, comes he not? comes he not?

Sec. Schol. What means Faustus?

Third Schol. Belike he is grown into some sickness by being over-solitary.

First Schol. If it be so, we'll have physicians to cure him.-'Tis but a surfeit; never fear, man. Faust. A surfeit of deadly sin, that hath

Faust. Torment, sweet, friend, that base and damned both body and soul.
crooked age,1

That durst dissuade me from my Lucifer,
With greatest torments that our hell affords.
Meph. His faith is great; I cannot touch his
soul;

But what I may afflict his body with
I will attempt, which is but little worth.
Faust. One thing, good servant, let me crave
of thee,

To glut the longing of my heart's desire,—
That I might have unto my paramour
That heavenly Helen which I saw of late,
Whose sweet embracings may extinguish clean
Those thoughts that do dissuade me from my

[Kisses her.

Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!-
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again.
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.

I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy, shall Wertenberg be sack'd;
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colours on my plumed crest,
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars;
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appear'd to hapless Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa's azur'd arms;
And none but thou shalt be my paramour!

Enter the Old Man.

[Exeunt.

Sec. Schol. Yet, Faustus, look up to heaven; remember God's mercies are infinite.

Faust. But Faustus' offence can ne'er be pardoned: the serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus. Ah, gentlemen, hear me with patience, and tremble not at my speeches! Though my heart pants and quivers to remember that I have been a student here these thirty years, oh, would I had never seen Wertenberg, never read book! and what wonders I have done, all' Germany can witness, yea, all the world; for which Faustus hath lost both Germany and the world, yea, heaven itself,-heaven, the seat of God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy, and must remain in hell for ever, hell, ah, hell, for ever! Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus, being in hell for ever?

Third Schol. Yet, Faustus, call on God.

Faust. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured! On God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed! Ah, my God, I would weep! but the devil draws in my tears. Gush forth blood, instead of tears! yea, life and soul! Oh, he stays my tongue! I would lift up my hands; but see, they hold them, they hold them!

Faust. God forbade it, indeed; but Faustus hath done it for vain pleasure of twenty-four years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood: the date is expired; the time will come, and he will fetch me.

First Schol. Why did not Faustus tell us of this before, that divines might have prayed for thee?

Faust. Oft have I thought to have done so; but the devil threatened to tear me in pieces if I named God, to fetch both body and soul if I once gave ear to divinity: and now 'tis too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me.

Sec. Schol. Oh, what shall we do to save Faustus?

Faust. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart..

Third Schol. God will strengthen me; I will stay with Faustus.

First Schol. Tempt not God, sweet friend; but let us into the next room, and there pray for him.

Faust. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever ye hear, come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.

Sec. Schol. Pray thou, and we will pray that God may have mercy upon thee.

Faust. Gentlemen, farewell: if I live till

1 cunning-knowledge, skill.

BEN JONSON.

[BENJAMIN, or as he himself and his friends were frequently in the habit of abbreviating his name, Ben Jonson, was born in Westminster in the early part of the year 1574. His grandfather belonged to Annandale in Scotland, and subsequently settled in Carlisle. His father was a clergyman, and died before Ben was born; his mother, shortly after her son's birth, marrying a bricklayer. Ben was sent by his stepfather to a private school near St. Martin'sin-the-Fields, and subsequently to Westminster School, where he had the celebrated Camden for his teacher, whom he ever afterwards revered, and whom he thus addresses in one of his epigrams:

'Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe

All that I am in arts, and all I know.'

Malone says that Ben went straight from school to Cambridge University; but this statement appears to have little authority. If he was at college at all, it was only for a few weeks. He was forced, probably from the poverty of his parents, to enter upon his father's occupation, to which, however, he had such an antipathy that he ran off and enlisted as a soldier, and was sent to serve in Flanders. Here he behaved himself with great bravery; but probably did not stay longer than one campaign, either disliking the service or despairing of promotion. Shortly after his return home, prompted both by inclination and necessity, he adopted the profession of an actor, making his debut at a low theatre in Clerkenwell. In this profession he appears to have completely failed. A quarrel with another actor led to a duel, in which Ben killed his antagonist, he himself being severely wounded; he was committed to prison on a charge of murder, but was shortly released without trial. While in prison he was visited by a Roman Catholic priest, who induced him to renounce the Protestant faith and become a Roman Catholic. He, however, returned to the bosom of the English Church in 1606. Shortly after his release from prison, probably not later than 1594, he married a woman who appears to have made Ben a good, patient, and faithful wife. Having renounced the stage as an actor, he now began to support himself as a writer of plays, his earliest known piece, Every Man in his Humour, appearing in 1596. The scene was laid in Italy, but in 1598 it was reproduced at the Globe Theatre with the scene changed to England; Shakespeare, whose friendship with Jonson commenced about this time, is said to have supported one of the characters in this play. In 1599 appeared his Every Man out of his Humour, the representation of which was honoured by the presence of Queen Elizabeth, who patronized the new poet, and ever afterwards he was 'a man of mark and likelihood.' Afterwards appeared Cynthia's Revels, and, in 1600, The Poetaster, in which he satirized two of his brother dramatists, Marston and Dekker. The latter replied with some spirit in his Satiromastix. 'Since the comic muse had proved so ominous' to him, he resolved to try tragedy, and in 1603 appeared his Sejanus. Shortly after the accession of King James to the English throne appeared a comedy, Eastward Hoe, written conjunctly by Jonson, Chapman, and Marston, in which there were some passages reflecting on the Scottish nation. Chapman and Marston were sent to prison, and Jonson voluntarily accompanied them; but they were soon released without being tried, although there had been some talk of their getting their ears and noses slit. On Jonson's release, his mother, it is said, produced a paper of poison, which, she declared, had the mutilation and disgrace taken place, she intended to have given to her son in his drink; and, to show that she was no churl,' says her son, 'she designed to have drunk first herself.' Jonson's three great, undoubtedly his best comedies,

were his next most important works: Volpone, or the Fox, appearing in 1605, Epicéne, or the Silent Woman, in 1609, and The Alchemist in 1610. Between 1605 and 1609 Jonson produced, sometimes for the court, sometimes for the civic bodies, a number of the representations known as pageants or masques, so popular in his time. In 1611 appeared his second classical tragedy Catiline; and in 1612 he went abroad, but how long he remained is not known. He was in London again in 1614, in which year appeared his Bartholomew Fair, and in 1616 his comedy of The Devil is an Ass. Either in this year or in 1619, Jonson was created poet-laureate, with a salary of 100 merks. In 1618 he made a journey to Scotland on foot, and appears to have been well received by the Scottish gentry. The last visit he paid was to the poet Drummond of Hawthornden, who took copious notes of the conversations he had with Jonson, which were afterwards given to the world. How far these notes can be depended on for faithfulness it is difficult to say: one would fain hope that Drummond was guilty of considerable exaggeration, as he presents Jonson in no very agreeable light, as full of bitterness and spite towards his brother authors. The following is Drummond's character of Ben :

'Ben Jonson was a great lover and praiser of himself, a contemner and scorner of others, given rather to lose a friend than a jest, jealous of every word and action of those about him, especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which he lived: a dissembler of the parts which reign in him ; a bragger of some good that he wanted; thinketh nothing well done but what either he himself or some of his friends have said or done. He is passionately kind and angry, careless either to gain or keep; vindictive, but if he be well answered at himself; interprets best sayings and deeds often to the worst. He was for any religion, as being versed in both; oppressed with fancy which hath overmastered his reason, a general disease in many poets: his inventions are smooth and easy, but above all he excelleth in a translation.'

'This character,' says one of Jonson's biographers, it must be confessed, is far from being a flattering one; and probably it was, unconsciously, overcharged, owing to the recluse habits and staid demeanour of Drummond. We believe it, however, to be substantially correct. Inured to hardships and to a free boisterous life in his early days, Jonson seems to have contracted a roughness of manner and habits of intemperance which never wholly left him. Priding himself immoderately on his classical acquirements, he was apt to slight and condemn his less learned associates; while the conflict between his limited means and his love of social pleasures rendered him too often severe and saturnine in his temper. Whatever he did was done with labour, and hence was highly prized. His contemporaries seemed fond of mortifying his pride, and he was often at war with actors and authors. When his better nature prevailed, and exorcised the demon of envy or spleen, Jonson was capable of a generous warmth of friendship, and of just discrimination of genius and character. His literary reputation, his love of conviviality, and his high colloquial powers, rendered his society much courted, and he became the centre of a band of wits and revellers. Sir Walter Raleigh founded a club, known to all posterity as the Mermaid Club, at which Jonson, Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, and other poets exercised themselves with "wit combats," more bright and genial than their wine. One of the favourite haunts of these bright-minded men was the Falcon Tavern, near the theatre in Bankside.' After his return to London in 1619, Jonson continued writing, producing a few inferior dramas, a great many masques, and one or two prose works, including an English Grammar and a translation of Aristotle's Poetics. His best days were however past, his pen had lost much of its vigour and cunning; but as his extravagant living kept him very poor, he was compelled to write hurriedly what would pay best. In 1625 he was attacked by palsy, which enfeebled both his body and mind. In 1630, nevertheless, he produced the comedy of The New Inn, which shows a lamentable falling off from his earlier productions, and which proved unsuccessful on the stage. King Charles, however, sent him a present of £100, and raised his salary as laureate to the same sum, adding a yearly tierce of canary wine. Even this, however, did not suffice to supply his necessities, as we find him shortly after begging assistance from the Lord Chancellor. In 1632 he produced The Magnetic Lady, and, the year after, The Tale of a Tub. His last work, which he left unfinished, was the Sad Shepherd, which is much superior to anything he wrote for years before. He died in 1637, and was buried in West

minster Abbey, a plain stone being placed over his remains, with the short inscription, 'O Rare Ben Jonson.'

To quote again the biographer above referred to: 'Jonson founded a style of regular English comedy, massive, well compacted, and fitted to endure, yet not very attractive in its materials. His Roman tragedies may be considered literal impersonations of classical antiquity, "robust and richly graced," yet stiff and unnatural in style and construction. They seem to bear about the same relation to Shakespeare's classic dramas that sculpture does to actual life. The strong delineation of character is the most striking feature in Jonson's comedies. Generally his portraits of eccentric characters-men in whom some peculiarity has grown to an egregious excess-are ludicrous and impressive. His scenes and character show the labour of the artist, but still an artist possessing rich resources; an acute and vigorous intellect; great knowledge of life, down to its lowest descents; wit, lofty declamation, and a power of dramatising his knowledge and observation with singular skill and effect. His pedantry is often misplaced and ridiculous. . . . His comic theatre is a gallery of strange, clever, original portraits, powerfully drawn, and skilfully disposed, but many of them repulsive in expression, or so exaggerated as to look like caricatures or libels on humanity. We have little deep passion, or winning tenderness, to link the beings of his drama with those we love or admire, or to make us sympathize with them as with existing mortals. The charm of reality is generally wanting, or, when found, it is not a pleasing reality. When the great artist escapes entirely from his elaborate wit and personified humours into the region of fancy, we are struck with the contrast it exhibits to his ordinary manner. He thus presents two natures-one hard, rugged, gross, and sarcastic, mountain belly and a rocky face," as he describes his own person; the other airy, fanciful, and graceful, as if its possessor had never combated with the world and its bad passions, but nursed his understanding and his fancy to poetical seclusion and observation.'

a

The selections we have made are two of his three best comedies, The Alchemist, and Epicone, or The Silent Woman, with neither of which have we deemed it necessary to take much liberty in the way of emasculation; also Every Man in his Humour, not only on account of its intrinsic excellence as a comedy, but as serving to illustrate the use of the word humour so common in Jonson's time, and as containing one of his most celebrated creations, Captain Bobadill.]

THE ALCHEMIST:1

A COMEDY.

ACTED IN THE YEAR 1610 BY THE KING'S MAJESTY'S SERVANTS.
THE AUTHOR B. J.

London: Printed by William Stansby, 1616.

TO THE LADY MOST DESERVING HER NAME AND BLOOD,
LADY MARY WROTH.

MADAM,-In the age of sacrifices, the truth of
religion was not in the greatness and fat of the
offerings, but in the devotion and zeal of the
sacrificers: else what could a handful of gums
have done in the sight of a hecatomb? or how
might I appear at this altar, except with those
affections that no less love the light and witness,
than they have the conscience of your virtue?
If what I offer bear an acceptable odour, and
hold the first strength, it is your value of it,
which remembers where, when, and to whom it

1 By this expression, says Whalley, is meant one who pretends to the knowledge of what is called the philosopher's stone, which was supposed to have the faculty of transmuting baser metals into gold. Alchemy bears the same relation to chemistry that astrology does to astronomy. Our poet in the choice of his subject was happy;

was kindled. Otherwise, as the times are, there comes rarely forth that thing so full of authority or example, but by assiduity and custom grows less, and loses. This, yet, safe in your judgment (which is a SIDNEY's) is forbidden to speak more, lest it talk or look like one of the ambitious faces of the time, who, the more they paint, are the less themselves.

Your ladyship's true honourer,

BEN JONSON.

for the age was then extremely addicted to the pursuit of alchemy, and favourable to the professors of it. The following comedy was therefore no unseasonable satire upon the reigning foible, since, among the few real artists, there was undoubtedly a far greater number of impostors.