ΕTON.

CHAPMAN.—MIDDLETON.

141

really true applied to Chapman." Little can be added to this brief but judicious estimate. Chapman's Homeric vein occasionally crops up in his plays, as, for instance, in the following, from his "Byron's Conspiracy:”—

As when the moon hath comforted the night,
And set the world in silver of her light,
The planets, asterisms, and whole state of heaven,
In beams of gold descending: all the winds
Bound up in caves, charged not to drive abroad
Their cloudy heads: a universal peace
(Proclaim'd in silence) of the quiet earth:
Soon as her hot and dry fumes are let loose,
Storms and clouds mixing suddenly put out
The eyes of all those glories; the creation
Turn'd into chaos; and we then desire,
For all our joy of life, the death of sleep.
So when the glories of our lives (men's loves,
Clear consciences, our fames and loyalties,)
That did us worthy comfort, are eclipsed,
Grief and disgrace invade us; and for all
Our night of life besides, our misery craves
Dark earth would ope, and hide us in our graves.

Thomas Middleton, the date of whose birth is not known with any certainty, but who died about the year 1626, is the author of some thirty dramatic productions. In many of these, like Chapman and other of his literary brethren, as was common at the time, he was only joint partner. His principal piece is entitled "The Witch," and is full of great creative talent. Most of Middleton's productions are pervaded with a comic vein, in which he surpassed many of his contemporaries. Mr. Dyce has published an excellent. edition of his works.

Ben Jonson's famous antagonist, Thomas Decker, has perhaps fallen into greater oblivion than his contest with the author of "The Poetaster" would seem to warrant; for in his dramas are to be found some

elegant bits of fancy and pathos, marred very much at times by the vulgar and licentious language prevalent at the period. Hazlitt has spoken of his merits in extremely eulogistic terms, selecting for particular commendation "The Honest Whore.” The plots of Decker's plays are generally ill-managed, and he seems to have bestowed little care on the mechanical niceties of his art. His "Old Fortunatus" and his share of "Patient Grissil," however, should still keep him fresh in our remembrance. The date of Decker's birth is

unknown, but he died somewhere about 1640.

The following is an extract from Decker's "Old Fortunatus," and embraces the scene between the goddess Fortune and Fortunatus :

Fortune. 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.

Fortunat. Daughters of Jove and the unblemish'd Night,
Most righteous Parcæ, guide my genius right:

Wisdom, Strength, Health, Beauty, Long Life and Riches.
Fortune. 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) shall speak oracle;

Thy heaven-inspirèd 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
Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim,

And on thy cheeks I'll mix such white and red
That Jove shall turn away young Ganymede,

OLD FORTUNATUS.

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.

Fortunat. O, 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 love 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 threadbare saint in Wisdom's school.

I will be strong: then I refuse Long Life;

And though mine 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 enrol :
Therefore I'll beg for Beauty; yet I will not:
The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul
Leprous 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;
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;
O, therefore, make me rich!

143

John Webster, in reply to a charge that he was long in finishing his tragedies, confessed that he did not "write with a goose-quill winged with two feathers;" and it is perhaps owing to the circumstance intended to be expressed in this metaphor, that we have from his hands but eight dramatic pieces, in the composi tion of four of which he received the assistance of some of his fellows. His two principal tragedies are "Vittoria Corombona, or the White Devil," and "The Duchess of Malfy." This latter piece still holds its place on our stage. Webster, in dramatic construction and arrangement, certainly excels many of his contemporaries; and in "moving a horror skilfully," as Charles Lamb expresses it, he is approached by none of them but Ford. The play of the "White Devil" is full of eloquent passages and striking images -indeed these characteristics are prominent throughout Webster's chief works. Here are one or two instances. First, a dirge :—

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with flowers and leaves do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm,

And, when gay tombs are robb'd, sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

On portraits of women :—

Must you have my picture?

You will enjoin me to a strange punishment.
With what a compelled face a woman sits
While she is drawing! I have noted divers
Either to feign smiles, or suck in the lips,
To have a little mouth; ruffle the cheeks,

MARSTON.-DECKER.

To have the dimple seen; and so disorder
The face with affectation, at next sitting

It has not been the same. I have known others
Have lost the entire fashion of their face
In half an hour's sitting-in hot weather-
The painting on their face has been so mellow,
They have left the poor man harder work by half
To mend the copy he wrought by. But indeed,
If ever I would have mine drawn to the life,
I would have a painter steal at such a time
I were devoutly kneeling it at my prayers;
There is then a heavenly beauty in't, the soul
Moves in the superficies.

145

Parental fondness is thus forcibly depicted. Virginius addresses his daughter :

Farewell, my sweet Virginia, never, never,
Shall I taste fruit of the most blessed hope
I had in thee. Let me forget the thought
Of thy most pretty infancy; when first,
Returning from the wars, I took delight
To rock thee in my target; when my girl
Would kiss her father in his burjanet

Of glittering steel, hung 'bout his armed neck,
And, viewing the bright metal, smile to see
Another fair Virginia smile on thee;

When I first taught thee how to go, to speak;
And (when my wounds have smarted) I have sung
With an unskilful, yet a willing voice,

To bring my girl asleep. O my Virginia,
When we begun to be, begun our woes;
Increasing still, as dying life still grows.

John Marston shared with Decker the honour (or otherwise) of figuring in Jonson's "Poetaster," where they are both soundly ridiculed; but Marston was no contemptible rival of the great Ben. His works, which occupy three octavo volumes, include several plays of somewhat unequal merit, of which he was author either in whole or part; besides a collection of coarse but powerful satires, entitled "The Scourge of Villany." His plays contain many fine passages like

L