The Works of the British Dramatists: Carefully Selected from Theoriginal ...

THOMAS HEYWOOD.

[OF this, the most voluminous dramatic writer in the English, and probably in any language, almost nothing is known for certain, but that he had, as he himself informs us, 'an entire hand, or at least a main finger,' in two hundred and twenty plays. He wrote, besides, several prose works, all the while attending to his duties as an actor. From two of his works we learn that he was a native of Lincolnshire; and Cartwright, in his dedication to The Actor's Vindication-a posthumous edition of Heywood's Apology for Actors-states that the author was a Fellow of Peter House, Cambridge.

From Henslowe's papers it is ascertained that Heywood wrote for the stage as early as 1596; and Heywood himself, writing in 1615, and speaking of his first published drama, The Death of Robert Earl of Huntingdon, which appeared in 1601, says that it was written 'many years since in my infancy of judgment, in this kind of poetry, and my first practice.' He continued writing for the stage down to, at least, 1640. In the notice of Heywood in the last edition of Dodsley's Old Plays, the following testimony to his industry is quoted from Kirkman, the author of a catalogue of plays: he says that Heywood 'was very laborious; for he not only acted almost every day, but also obliged himself to write a sheet every day for several years together; but many of his plays being composed loosely in taverns, occasions them to be mean. I could say somewhat more of him, and of all the old poets, having taken pleasure to converse with those that were acquainted with them." As the editor of Dodsley well remarks, 'It is much to be lamented that Kirkman did not communicate to the world that information which he boasts of being able to give concerning the old poets, whose memory, for want of such intelligence, is now almost wholly lost to the world.' Of the multitude of plays written by this dramatist, only twenty-three are extant; of these the principal are, The Fair Maid of the Exchange (published 1607); A Woman Killed with Kindness (1607, acted previous to 1604); The Rape of Lucrece (1630); The Fair Maid of the West (1631);, The English Traveller (1633); The Lancashire Witches (1634); Love's Mistress (1636); The Royal King and the Loyal Subject (1637).

The quantity of Heywood's writings was too great to allow of their quality being preeminent; there is nothing very marked or vigorous in his style, the chief characteristics of his dramas being softness, smoothness, repose, combined with a pleasant poetical fancy; his characters generally are not drawn with any great distinctness. Although some of the scenes in his plays are sufficiently immoral, and some of his characters of the lowest type, still he never descends to the use of the disgustingly filthy language which characterizes the works of many of his contemporaries. The following is Hazlitt's estimate of Heywood:'As Marlowe's imagination glows like a furnace, Heywood's is a gentle, lambent flame, that purifies without consuming. His manner is simplicity itself. There is nothing supernatural, nothing startling, or terrific. He makes use of the commonest circumstances of every-day life, and of the easiest tempers, to show the workings, or rather the inefficacy of the passions, the vis inertiæ of tragedy. His incidents strike from their very familiarity, and the distresses he paints invite our sympathy from the calmness and resignation with which they are borne. The pathos might be deemed purer, from its having no mixture of turbulence or vindictiveness in it; and in proportion as the sufferers are made to deserve a better fate. In the midst of the most untoward reverses and cutting injuries, good-nature and good sense keep their accustomed sway. He describes men's errors with tenderness, and their duties only with zeal, and the heightenings of a poetic fancy. His style is equally natural, simple, and unconstrained. The dialogue (bating the verse) is such as might be uttered in ordinary conversation. It is beautiful prose put into heroic measure. It is not so much that he uses the common English idiom for everything (for that I think the most poetical and impassioned of our elder dramatists do equally), but the simplicity of the characters and the equable flow of the sentiments do not require or suffer it to be warped from the tone of level speaking, by figurative expressions, or hyperbolical allusions.'

We have selected as a specimen of this writer, A Woman Killed with Kindness, of some passages in which Hazlitt speaks with admiration.]

To tell you what these preparations mean.
Look for no glorious state: our Muse is bent
Upon a barren subject, a bare scene.

We could afford this twig a timber tree,

Our coarse fare, banquets; our thin water, wine;
Our brook, a sea; our bat's eyes, eagle's sight;
Our poet's dull and earthy muse, divine;

Our ravens, doves; our crow's black feathers, white:

Whose strength might boldly on your favours But gentle thoughts, when they may give the

the shaking of the sheets. This was the name of a dance and a very popular tune, frequently mentioned in ancient plays.

Sir F. Music, ho!-
By your leave, sister; by your husband's leave
I should have said. The hand that but this
day

Was given you in the church I'll borrow.

Sound!

This marriage music hoists me from the ground. Frank. Ay, you may caper, you are light and free:

Marriage hath yok'd my heels; pray, pardon

me.

Sir F. I'll have you dance too, brother.

Sir C. Master Frankford,

You are a happy man, sir; and much joy
Succeed your marriage mirth: you have a wife
So qualified, and with such ornaments

Both of the mind and body. First, her birth
Is noble, and her education such

As might become the daughter of a prince:

Her own tongue speaks all tongues, and her own hand

Can teach all strings to speak in their best grace,
From the shrill'st treble to the hoarsest base.
To end her many praises in a word,

She's Beauty and Perfection's eldest daughter,
Only found by yours, though many a heart hath

sought her.

Frank. But that I know your virtues and chaste thoughts,

I should be jealous of your praise, Sir Charles.
Cran. He speaks no more than you approve.
Mal. Nor flatters he that gives to her her due.
Mrs. Anne. I would your praise could find a
fitter theme

Than my imperfect beauties to speak on:
Such as they be, if they my husband please,
They suffice me now I am married.

This sweet content is like a flatt'ring glass,
To make my face seem fairer to mine eye;
But the least wrinkle from his stormy brow
Will blast the roses in my cheeks that grow.

Sir F. A perfect wife already, meek and patient.
How strangely the word husband fits your mouth,
Not married three hours since! Sister, 'tis good;
You that begin betimes thus must needs prove
Pliant and duteous in your husband's love. -
Gramercies, brother! wrought her to't already?
Sweet husband, and a curtsey, the first day?
Mark this, mark this, you that are bachelors,
And never took the grace of honest man;
Mark this, against you marry, this one phrase:
In a good time that man both wins and woos
That takes his wife down in her wedding shoes.
Frank. Your sister takes not after you, Sir
Francis;

All his wild blood your father spent on you.
He got her in his age, when he grew civil:
All his mad tricks were to his land entail'd,
And you are heir to all: your sister, she
Hath to her dower her mother's modesty.

Sir C. Lord, sir, in what a happy state live you!

This morning, which to many seems a burden too
Heavy to bear, is unto you a pleasure.
This lady is no clog, as many are:

She doth become you like a well-made suit,
In which the tailor hath us'd all his art;
Not like a thick coat of unseason'd frieze,
Forc'd on your back in summer. She's no chain
To tie your neck, and curb ye to the yoke;
But she's a chain of gold to adorn your neck.
You both adorn each other, and your hands,
Methinks, are matches: there's equality
In this fair combination; you are both
Scholars, both young, both being descended

nobly.

There's music in this sympathy; it carries
Consort, and expectation of much joy,
Which God bestow on you from this first day,
Until your dissolution; that's for aye.

Sir F. We keep you here too long, good brother Frankford.

Into the hall. Away! Go cheer your guests. What! bride and bridegroom both withdrawn

at once?

If you be miss'd, the guests will doubt their

welcome,

And charge you with unkindness.

Frank. To prevent it,

I'll leave you here, to see the dance within. Mrs. A. And so will I.

Sir F. To part you it were sin.

Now, gallants, while the town musicians

[Exeunt.

be small,

Yet they tread heavy where their hobnails fall. Sir C. Well, leave them to their sports. Sir Francis Acton,

'I'll make a match with you: meet to-morrow At Chevy Chase, I'll fly my hawk with yours. Sir F. For what? for what?

Sir C. Why, for a hundred pound.

Sir F. Pawn me some gold of that.

Sir C. Here are ten angels;

I'll make them good a hundred pound to-morrow
Upon my hawk's wing.

Sir F. 'Tis a match: 'tis done.
Another hundred pound upon your dogs:
Dare ye, Sir Charles?

Sir C. I dare: were I sure to lose,
I durst do more than that: here is my hand;
The first course for a hundred pound.

Sir F. A match.

I'll rise into my saddle ere the sun
Rise from his bed.

Sir C. If there you miss me, say
I am no gentleman. I'll hold my day.

Sir F. It holds on all sides. - Come, to-night let's dance;

Early to-morrow let's prepare to ride: We had need be three hours up before the bride. [Exeunt.

Enter NICHOLAS and JENKIN, JACK SLIME, ROGER BRICKBAT, with Country Wenches and two or three Musicians.

Jen. Come, Nick, take you Joan Miniver, to trace withal; Jack Slime, traverse you with Sisly Milkpail; I will take Jane Trubkin, and Roger Brickbat shall have Isabel Motley. And now that they are busy in the parlour, come, strike up; we'll have a crash here in the yard.

Nich. My humour is not compendious: dancing I possess not, though I can footit; yet, since I am fallen into the hands of Sisly Milkpail, I

consent.

J. Slime. Truly, Nick, though we were never brought up like serving courtiers, yet we have been brought up with serving creatures; ay, and God's creatures, too; for we have been brought up to serve sheep, oxen, horses, hogs, and such like; and, though we be but country fellows, it may be in the way of dancing we can do the horse trick as well as the serving-men.

1 on the hoigh-eager, riotous.-NARES. 2 crash

HANMER.

entertainment. NAKES. Merry bout. 1 Rogero-the name of a ballad tune, so also, The beginning of the world; John, come kiss me now; Tom Tyler, etc., mentioned afterwards.

R. Brick. Ay, and the cross-point too.

Jen. Oh, Slime! oh, Brickbat! do not you know that comparisons are odious? Now we are odious ourselves, too, therefore there are no comparisons to be made betwixt us.

Nich. I am sudden, and not superfluous;

I am quarrelsome, and not seditious;
I am peaceable, and not contentious;
I am brief, and not compendious.

J. Slime. Foot it quickly. If the music overcome not my melancholy, I shall quarrel; and if they suddenly do not strike up, I shall presently strike thee down.

Jen. No quarrelling, for God's sake! Truly, if you do, I shall set a knave between ye.

J. Slime. I come to dance, not to quarrel. Come, what shall it be? Rogero ?1

Jen. Rogero! no; we will dance the beginning of the world.

Sisly. I love no dance so well as, John, come kiss me now.

Nich. I that have ere now deserv'd a cushion, call for the Cushion-dance.

R. Brick. For my part, I like nothing so well as Tom Tyler.

Jen. No; we'll have the Hunting of the Fox. J. Slime. The hay! the hay! there's nothing like the hay.

Nich. I have said, do say, and will say againJen. Every man agree to have it as Nick says. All. Content.

Nich. It hath been, it now is, and it shall beSisly. What, Master Nicholas? what?

Nich. Put on your smock o' Monday.

Jen. So the dance will come cleanly off. Come, for God's sake, agree of something: if you like not that, put it to the musicians; or let me speak for all, and we'll have Sellenger's Round. All. That, that, that!

Nich. No; I am resolv'd thus it shall be: First take hands, then take ye to your heels. Jen. Why, would you have us run away? Nich. No; but I would have you shake your heels.

Wind horns. Enter Sir CHARLES MOUNTFORD, Sir FRANCIS ACTON, MALBY, CRANWELL, WENDOLL, Falconer, and Huntsmen.

Sir C. So; well cast off. Aloft, aloft! Well flown!

Oh! now she takes her at the souse, and strikes her

Down to th' earth, like a swift thunder-clap.

Sir C. Now she hath seiz'd the fowl, and 'gins to plume her,

Rebeck her not: rather stand still and check her. So, seize her gets, her jesses, and her bells.

Away!

Sir F. My hawk kill'd too.

Sir C. Ay, but 'twas at the quarre,

Not at the mount, like mine.

Sir F. Judgment, my masters.

Cran. Yours missed her at the ferre.

Wen. Ay, but our merlin first hath plum'd the fowl,

And twice renew'd her from the river too:
Her bells, Sir Francis, had not both one weight,
Nor was one semitone above the other.
Methinks these Milain bells do sound too full,
And spoil the mounting of your hawk,
Sir C. 'Tis lost.

Sir F. I grant it not. Mine likewise seiz'd a fowl

Within her talons: and you saw her paws
Full of the feathers: both her petty singles1
And her long singles grip'd her more than other;
The terrials of her legs were stain'd with blood:
Not of the fowl only she did discomfit,"
Some of her feathers; but she brake away.
Come, come; your hawk is but a rifler.
Sir C. How!

Sir F. Ay, and your dogs are trindle-tails 3

and curs.

part.

Cran. On this side heaves my hand.
Wen. Here goes my heart.

[They divide themselves. Sir CHARLES
MOUNTFORD, CRANWELL, Falconer, and
Huntsman, fight against Sir FRANCIS
ACTON, WENDOLL, his Falconer and
Huntsman; and Sir CHARLES hath the
better, and beats them away, killing both
of Sir FRANCIS's Huntsmen.

Sir C. My God! What have I done? What have I done?

My rage hath plung'd into a sea of blood,
In which my soul lies drown'd. Poor innocents,
For whom we are to answer! Well, 'tis done,
And I remain the victor. A great conquest,

Wen. She hath struck ten angels out of my When I would give this right hand, nay, this

way.

Sir F. A hundred pound for me. Sir C. What, falconer!

Falc. At hand, sir.

head,

To breathe in them new life whom I have slain!

Forgive me, God! 'Twas in the heat of blood;
And anger quite removes me from myself.
It was not I, but rage, did this vile murder;
Yet I, and not my rage, must answer it.
Sir Francis Acton he is fled the field;

With him all those that did partake his quarrel;

2 The phrases here, and in the following part of this scene, are wholly taken from falconry:-at the souse, with sudden descent; plume, pluck off the feathers; rebeck, (?) beck or call back; gets (?), jesses, two leathern straps attached to each leg below the bells, which are two small hollow globes of thin metal; at the quarre, as the fowl rises; at the mount, aloft; at the ferre, at the far side of a river or pit.

1 petty singles-toes.

2 discomfit, etc.-Pluck off the feathers without taking the bird; if in the habit of doing so, it is called rifter. 3 trindle-tail or trundle-tail-curly tail; a cur.

you

Unto the utmost danger of the law.

Sir C. My conscience hath become mine enemy,
And will pursue me more than Acton can.
Susan. Oh! fly, sweet brother.
Sir C. Shall I fly from thee?

Why, Sue, art weary of my company?
Susan. Fly from your foe.

Sir C. You, sister, are my friend;

And flying you, I shall pursue my end.
Susan. Your company is as my eyeball dear;
Being far from you, no comfort can be near.
Yet fly to save your life: what would I care
To spend my future age in black despair,

So you were safe? And yet to live one week
Without my brother Charles, through every cheek
My streaming tears would downwards run so

rank,

Till they could set on either side a bank,
And in the midst a channel; so my face

For two salt water brooks shall still find place.

Sir C. Thou shalt not weep so much; for I will stay,

In spite of danger's teeth. I'll live with thee,
Or I'll not live at all. I will not sell

My country and my father's patrimony,

Nor thy sweet sight, for a vain hope of life.

Enter Sheriff, with Officers.

Sher. Sir Charles, I am made the unwilling instrument

Of your attach and apprehension:

I'm sorry that the blood of innocent men

Should be of you exacted. It was told me That you were guarded with a troop of friends, And therefore came thus arm'd.

Sir C. Oh, Master Sheriff!

I came into the field with many friends,
But see, they all have left me: only one
Clings to my sad disaster, my dear sister.
I know you for an honest gentleman;
I yield my weapons, and submit to you.
Convey me where you please.

Sher. To prison, then,

To answer for the lives of these dead men.
Susan. O God! O God!

Sir C. Sweet sister, every strain

Of sorrow from your heart augments my pain; Your grief abounds, and hits against my breast.

Frank. How happy am I amongst other men, That in my mean estate embrace content! I am a gentleman, and by my birth Companion with a king; a king's no more. I am possess'd of many fair revenues, Sufficient to maintain a gentleman. Touching my mind, I am studied in all arts; The riches of my thoughts, and of my time, Have been a good proficient; but the chief Of all the sweet felicities on earth, I have a fair, a chaste, and loving wife; Perfection all, all truth, all ornament. If man on earth may truly happy be, Of these at once possess'd, sure, I am he.

Enter NICHOLAS.

Nich. Sir, there's a gentleman attends without

to speak with you.

Frank. On horseback?

Nich. Yes, on horseback.

Frank. Entreat him to alight, and I'll attend him.

Know'st thou him, Nick?

Nich. Know him? Yes; his name is Wendoll. It seems he comes in haste: his horse is booted Up to the flank in mire, himself all spotted And stain'd with plashing. Sure, he rid in fear, Or for a wager: horse and man both sweat; I ne'er saw two in such a smoking heat.

Frank. Entreat him in: about it instantly.
[Exit NICHOLAS.

This Wendoll I have noted, and his carriage
Hath pleas'd me much: by observation
I have noted many good deserts in him.
He's affable, and seen in many things,
Discourses well, a good companion;
And though of small means, yet a gentleman
Of a good house, somewhat press'd by want.
I have preferr'd him to a second place
In my opinion, and my best regard.

Enter WENDOLL, Mrs. FRANKFORD, and
NICHOLAS.

Mrs. Anne. Oh, Mr. Frankford! Mr. Wendoll, here,

Brings you the strangest news that e'er you heard. Frank. What news, sweet wife? - What news, good Mr. Wendoll?

Wen. You knew the match made 'twixt Sir Francis Acton

And Sir Charles Mountford?

Frank. True; with their hounds and hawks. Wen. The matches were both played.

Frank. Ha! and which won?

Wen. Sir Francis, your wife's brother, had the worst,

And lost the wager.

Frank. Why, the worse his chance: Perhaps the fortune of some other day Will change his luck.

Mrs. A. Oh! but you hear not all. Sir Francis lost, and yet was loath to yield: At length the two knights grew to difference, From words to blows, and so to banding sides; Where valorous Sir Charles slew, in his spleen, Two of your brother's men, his falconer,

And his good huntsman, whom he lov'd so well. More men were wounded, no more slain outright.

1 attach-attachment, arrest.

1 seen-instructed.-DODSLEY.

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