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ON THE SUDDEN RESTRAINT OF THE EARL OF
SOMERSET (THE FAVOURITE OF JAMES I.) 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 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.

THE HAPPY LIFE.

How happy is he born and taught
That serveth not another's will,
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care

Of public fame or private breath.

Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise,
Nor rules of state, but rules of good.

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat,
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great.
Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend,
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend.
This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

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, But now, whilst on thy name we call, Our life, our strength, our joy, our all!

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THOMAS DEKKER.

[Died about 1638.]

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

FORTUNE GIVING FORTUNATUS HIS CHOICE OF GOODS.

For. Six gifts I spend upon mortality, Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and Out of my bounty, one of these is thine, [riches; Choose then which likes thee best.

Fort. Oh, most divine!

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

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

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Hedon and Anaides to themselves, and were brooding over their revenge when the Poetaster came forth, in which Dekker was recognised 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 spunginghouses, and an inmate of the King's Bench prison.* Oldys thinks that he was alive in 1638.

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.

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 my arm should conquer twenty worlds,
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,

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.

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WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STERLINE.

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;
Still when thou thrust'st thy hand into the same,
Thou shalt draw forth ten pieces of bright gold,
Current in any realm where then thou breathest:
If thou canst dribble out the sea by drops,
Then shalt thou want; but that can ne'er be done,
Nor this grow empty.

Fort. Thanks, great deity!

For. The virtue ends when thou and thy sons end. This path leads thee to Cyprus, get thee hence:

Farewell, vain covetous fool, thou wilt repent, That for the love of dross thou hast despised Wisdom's divine embrace; she would have borne thee

On the rich wings of immortality;

But now go dwell with cares, and quickly die.

FROM "THE HONEST WHORE." 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.

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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 Acteon, she was much commoved:
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, [doves;
Nor glide through th' air with beauty's sacred
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.

JOHN WEBSTER.

[Died about 1638.]

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 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,

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

FROM VITTORIA COROMBONA, THE VENETIAN COURTESAN. Persons.-VITTORIA COROMBONA; DUKE OF BRACHIANO; CoROMBONA, the mother, and FLAMINEO, the brother of VIT

TORIA.

Vittoria. To pass away the time, I'll tell your

grace

A dream I had last night.

Brachiano. Most wishedly.
Vit. A foolish idle dream:

Methought I walk'd, about the mid of night,
Into a churchyard, where a goodly yew tree
Spread her large root in ground; under that yew,
As I sat sadly leaning on a grave,
Chequer'd with cross sticks, there came stealing in
Your duchess and my husband; one of them
A pick-axe bore, th' other a rusty spade,
And in rough terms they 'gan to challenge me
About this yew.

Bra. That tree?

Vit. This harmless yew.

They told me my intent was to root up
That well-grown yew, and plant i'the stead of it
A wither'd black-thorn, and for that they vow'd
To bury me alive: my husband straight
With pick-axe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchess,

[* "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

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. 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.

With shovel, like a fury, voided out

The earth, and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methought

I trembled, and yet for all this terror
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.

occur in them; and I examined the MSS. belonging to the Parish Clerks' Hall, in Wood Street, with as little suc cess."-DYCE's Webster, vol. i. p. 1.-C.]

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 attendant; FERDINAND, her cruel brother; BosoLA, his creature and instrument of cruelty; Madmen, Executioners, Ser

vant.

Duch. WHAT hideous noise was that?
Cari. "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.

Duch. Very proper;

And fortune seems only to have her eye-sight To behold my tragedy. How now,

What noise is that?

Serv. I am come to tell you

Your brother hath intended you some sport:
A great physician, when the pope was sick
Of a deep melancholy, presented him

With several sorts of mad-men, which wild object
(Being full of change and sport) forced him to laugh,
And so th' imposthume broke: the self-same cure
The Duke intends on you.

[The Mad-men enter, and whilst they dance to suitable music, the DUCHESS, perceiving BOSOLA among them, says,

Duch. Is he mad too?

Serv. Pray question him. I'll leave you.
Bos. I am come to make thy tomb.
Duch. Ha! my tomb?

Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed
Gasping for breath. Dost thou perceive me sick?
Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy
sickness is insensible.

Duch. Thou art not mad sure! Dost know me? Bos. Yes.

Duch. Who am I?

Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed....
Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still.

Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken: Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain.

Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the I am a tomb-maker. [living: Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb? Bos. Yes.

Duch. Let me be a little merry—

Of what stuff wilt thou make it?

Bos. Nay, resolve me first of what fashion? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical on our death-bed?

Do we affect fashion in the grave?

Bos. Most ambitiously: princes' images on their

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