Jonson, of being a slow writer, but he consoles himself with the example of Euripides, and confesses that he did not write with a goose quill winged with two feathers. In this slighted play there are some exquisite touches of pathos and natural feeling. The grief of a group of mourners over a dead body is thus described :- I found them winding of Marcello's corse, "Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies, Were wont to outwear the nights with; that, believe me, I had no eyes to guide me forth the room, The funeral dirge for Marcello, sung by his mother, possesses, says Charles Lamb, that intenseness of feeling which seems to resolve itself into the elements which it contemplates : Call for the robin red-breast and the wren, And with leaves and flowers do cover The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright; But, look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. The Duchess of Malfy' abounds more in the terrible graces. It turns on the mortal offence which the lady gives to her two proud brothers, Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria, and a cardinal, by indulging in a generous though infatuated passion for Antonio, her steward. This passion,' Mr Dyce justly remarks, a subject most difficult to treat, is managed with infinite delicacy; and, in a situation of great peril for the author, she condescends without being degraded, and declares the affection with which her dependant had inspired her without losing anything of dignity and respect.' The last scenes of the play are conceived in a spirit which every intimate student of our elder dramatic literature must feel to be peculiar to Webster. The duchess, captured by Bosola, is brought into the presence of her brother in an imperfect light, and is taught to believe that he wishes to be reconciled to her. For I account it the honourablest revenge, Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed; at best but a salvatory of green mummy. What's this flesh a bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our to keep flies in, more contemptible; since ours is to preserve earthworms. Didst thou ever see a lark in a cage! Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf of grass; and the heaven o'er our heads like her looking glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison. Duch. Am not I thy duchess ? Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead (clad in grey hairs) Where I may kill, to pardon. Where are your cubs twenty years' sooner than on a merry milkmaid's. Duch. Whom? Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear: a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow. Duch. I am Duchess of Malfy still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken. Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living. I am a tomb-maker. Duck. 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 in our deathbed? Do we affect fashion in the grave? Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven but with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of the toothache): they are not carved with their eyes fixed upon the stars; but, as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the self-same way they seem to turn their faces. Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk, fit for a charnel. Bos. Now I shall. Hark, now every thing is still; This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill, And bid her quickly don her shroud. Your length in clay 's now competent. Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? And (the foul fiend more to check) 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day: Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers: alas ! What will you do with my lady? Call for help. Duch. To whom; to our next neighbours? They are mad folks. Farewell, Cariola. I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy What death? With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls? So I were out of your whispering: tell my brothers Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd [They strangle her, kneeling. A conjecture that an old neglected drama by THOMAS MIDDLETON supplied the witchcraft scenery, and part of the lyrical incantations, of Macbeth,' has kept alive the name of this poet. So late as 1778, Middleton's play, the Witch, was first published by Reed from the author's manuscript. It is possible that the 'Witch' may have preceded Macbeth;' but as the latter was written in the fulness of Shak. speare's fame and genius, we think it is more probable that the inferior author was the borrower. He may have seen the play performed, and thus caught the spirit and words of the scenes in question; or, for aught we know, the 'Witch' may not have been written till after 1623, when Shakspeare's first folio appeared. We know that after this date Middleton was writing for the stage, as, in 1624, his play, A Game at Chess, was brought out, and gave great offence at court, by bringing on the stage the king of Spain, and his ambassador, Gondomar. The latter complained to King James of the insult, and Middleton (who at first shifted out of the way') and the poor players were brought before the privycouncil. They were only reprimanded for their audacity in bringing modern Christian kings upon the stage.' If the dramatic sovereign had been James himself, nothing less than the loss of ears and noses would have appeased offended royalty! Middleton wrote about twenty plays: in 1603, we find him assisting Dekker at a court-pageant, and he was afterwards concerned in different pieces with Rowley, Webster, and other authors. He would seem to have been well-known as a dramatic writer. On Shrove Tuesday, 1617, the London apprentices, in an idle riot, demolished the Cockpit Theatre, and an old ballad describing the circumstance, states And study curses, imprecations, [A Drowned Soldier.] (From Tourneur's Atheist's Tragedy.") Walking upon the fatal shore, An anonymous play, the Return from Parnassus, was acted by the students of St John's college, Cambridge, about the year 1602: it is remarkable for containing criticisms on contemporary authors, all poets. Each author is summoned up for judgment, and dismissed after a few words of commendation or censure. Some of these poetical criticisms are finely A sweeter swan than ever sung in Po; The following extract introduces us to Marlow, Jonson, and Shakspeare; but to the latter only as the author of the Venus' and 'Lucrece.' Ingenioso reads out the names, and Judicio pronounces judg ment: Ing. Christopher Marlow. Jud. Marlow was happy in his buskin'd muse; Jud. The wittiest fellow of a bricklayer in England. Jud. Who loves Adonis' love or Lucrece' rape; His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life, Could but a graver subject him content, Without love's lazy foolish languishment. The author afterwards introduces Kempe and Burbage, the actors, and makes the former state, in reference to the university dramatists-Why, here's our fellow Shakspeare puts them all down; ay, and Ben Jonson too.' Posterity has confirmed this 'Return from Parnassus.' GEORGE COOKE-THOMAS NABBES-NATHANIEL FIELD DOLPH-RICHARD BROME. A lively comedy, called Green's Tu Quoque, was written by GEORGE COOKE, a contemporary of Shakspeare. THOMAS NABBES (died about 1645) was the author of Microcosmus, a masque, and of several other plays. In 'Microcosmus' is the following fine song of love: Welcome, welcome, happy pair, No winter's ice, no summer's scorching beam; Day always springing from eternal light. Here in endless bliss abide. NATHANIEL FIELD (who was one of the actors in Ben Jonson's 'Poetaster') began to write for the stage Weathercock, Amends for Ladies, &c. He had the about 1609 or 1610, and produced Woman is a honour of being associated with Massinger in the composition of the Fatal Dowry. JOHN DAY, in conjunction with Chettle, wrote the Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green, a popular comedy, and was also laneous poems. HENRY GLAPTHORNE is mentioned author of two or three other plays, and some miscel as one of the chiefest dramatic poets of the reign of Charles I.' Five of his plays are printed-Albertus Wallenstein, the Hollander, Argalus and Parthenia, Wit in a Constable, the Lady's Privilege, &c. There is a certain smoothness and prettiness of expression about Glapthorne (particularly in his Albertus'), but he is deficient in passion and energy. THOMAS RANDOLPH (1607-1634) wrote the Muses' LookingGlass, the Jealous Lovers, &c. In an anonymous play, Sweetman the Woman-hater, is the following happy simile: 6 Justice, like lightning, ever should appear To few men's ruin, but to all men's fear. RICHARD BROME, one of the best of the secondary dramatists, produced several plays, the Antipodes, the City Wit, the Court Beggar, &c. Little is known of the personal history of these authors: a few scattered dates usually make up the whole amount of their biography. The public demand for theatrical novelties called forth a succession of writers in this popular and profitable walk of literature, who seem to have discharged their ephemeral tasks, and sunk with their works into oblivion. The glory of Shakspeare has revived some of the number, like halos style and thought, is visible on the pages of most of round his name; and the rich stamp of the age, in them. PHILIP MASSINGER. The reign of James produced no other tragic poet equal to PHILIP MASSINGER, an unfortunate author, whose life was spent in obscurity and poverty, and Lov. I dare not own What's by unjust and cruel means extorted: Over. You run, my lord, no hazard: Nor can my actions, though condemn'd for ill, Shall e'er be sullied with one taint or spot I do remove that burden from your shoulders, And take it on mine own; for though I ruin [Compassion for Misfortune.] (From the City Madam.') Luke. No word, sir, I hope, shall give offence: nor let it relish I glory in the bravery of your mind, As high in the popular voice: but the distinction * * Your affability and mildness, clothed In the garments of your thankful debtors' breath, Can you think, sir, In your unquestion'd wisdom, I beseech you, The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find For being defeated. Suppose this, it will not I am of a solid temper, and, like these, Steer on a constant course: with mine own sword, I only think what 'tis to have my daughter Right honourable; and 'tis a powerful charm, Lov. I admire The toughness of your nature. Over. "Tis for you, My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble. 1 The Lady Allworth. Repair your loss, and there was never yet Sir John. Shall I be Luke. No, sir, but intreated Sir John. How, my good brother? Luke. By making these your beadsmen. When they eat, Their thanks, next heaven, will be paid to your |