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Flora and Zephyrus were seen busily gathering with roses, wedding garments, rocks, and spindles, flowers from the bower, throwing them into baskets which two sylvans held, attired in changeable taffety. Besides two other allegorical characters, Night and Hesperus, there were nine masquers, representing Apollo's knights, and personated by

young men of rank.

After songs and recitative, the whole vale was suddenly withdrawn, and a hill with Diana's tree discovered. Night appeared in her house with Nine Hours, apparelled in large robes of black taffety, painted thick with stars; their hair long, black, and spangled with gold; on their heads coronets of stars, and their faces black. Every Hour bore in his hand a black torch painted with stars, and lighted.

Night. Vanish, dark vales, let night in glory shine,
As she doth burn in rage; come, leave our shrine,
You black-haired hours, and guide us with your lights,
Flora hath wakened wide our drowsy sprites.
See where she triumphs, see her flowers are thrown,
And all about the seeds of malice sown ;
Despiteful Flora, is't not enough of grief,

That Cynthia's robbed, but thou must grace the thief?
Or didst not hear Night's sovereign queen1 complain
Hymen had stolen a nymph out of her train,
And matched her here, plighted henceforth to be
Love's friend and stranger to virginity?
And mak'st thou sport for this?

Flora. Be mild, stern Night;

Flora doth honour Cynthia and her right;

*

The nymph was Cynthia's while she was her own,

But now another claims in her a right,

By fate reserved thereto, and wise foresight.

hearts transfixed with arrows, others flaming, vir-
gins' girdles, garlands, and worlds of such like.'
Enter Venus in her chariot, attended by the Graces,
and delivers a speech expressive of her anxiety to
recover her son Cupid, who has run away from her.
The Graces then make proclamation as follows:-
1st Grace. Beauties, have you seen this toy,
Called love, a little boy,

Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, say;
He is Venus' runaway.

2d Grace. She that will but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How or where herself would wish;
But who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss, and another.

3d Grace. He hath marks about him plenty ;
You shall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire,
That, being shot like lightning in,
Wounds the heart but not the skin.

1st Grace. At his sight the sun hath turn'd,
Neptune in the waters burn'd;
Hell hath felt a greater heat;
Jove himself forsook his seat;
From the centre to the sky
Are his trophies reared high.

Zephyrus. Can Cynthia one kind virgin's loss be- 2d Grace. Wings he hath, which though ye clip,

moan?

How, if perhaps she brings her ten for one?

After some more such dialogue, in which Hesperus takes part, Cynthia is reconciled to the loss of her

He will leap from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart,
But not stay in any part;
And if chance his arrow misses,
He will shoot himself in kisses.

nymph; the trees sink, by means of enginery, under 3d Grace. He doth bear a golden bow,

the stage, and the masquers come out of their tops to fine music. Dances, processions, speeches, and songs follow, the last being a duet between a Sylvan and an Hour, by the way of tenor and bass.

Syl. Tell me, gentle Hour of Night,

Wherein dost thou most delight

Hour. Not in sleep. Syl. Wherein, then?

Hour. In the frolic view of men.

Syl. Lov'st thou music? Hour. Oh, 'tis sweet.

Syl. What's dancing! Hour. Even the mirth of feet.

Syl. Joy you in fairies and in elves?

Hour. We are of that sort ourselves :

But, Sylvan, say, why do you love
Only to frequent the grove?

Syl. Life is fullest of content,

Where delight is innocent.

Hour. Pleasure must vary, not be long; Come, then, let's close and end our song.

Then the masquers made an obeisance to the king, and attended him to the banqueting room.

And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrows, that outbrave
Dian's shafts; where, if he have
Any head more sharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

1st Grace. Still the fairest are his fuel.
When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers' hearts are all his food,
And his baths their warmest blood;
Nought but wounds his hand doth season,
And he hates none like to Reason.

2d Grace. Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.

All his practice is deceit ;

Every gift it is a bait ;
Not a kiss but poison bears;
And most treason in his tears.

3d Grace. Idle minutes are his reign;

Then the straggler makes his gain,
By presenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think them joys;
"Tis the ambition of the elf
To have all childish as himself.
If by these ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but show him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him.
Since you hear his falser play,
And that he 's Venus' runaway.
Cupid enters, attended by twelve boys, representing
'the Sports and pretty Lightnesses that accompany

The masques of Jonson contain a great deal of fine poetry, and even the prose descriptive parts are remarkable for grace and delicacy of language—as, for instance, where he speaks of a sea at the back of a scene, catching the eye afar off with a wander | 1st Grace. ing beauty.' In that which was produced at the marriage of Ramsay, Lord Haddington, to Lady Elizabeth Ratcliff, the scene presented a steep red cliff, topped by clouds, allusive to the red cliff from which the lady's name was said to be derived; before which were two pillars charged with spoils of love, amongst which were old and young persons bound

1 Diana.

2d Grace.

3d Grace.

Love,' who dance, and then Venus apprehends her son, and a pretty dialogue ensues between them and Hymen. Vulcan afterwards appears, and, claiming the pillars as his workmanship, strikes the red cliff, which opens, and shows a large luminous sphere containing the astronomical lines and signs of the zodiac. He makes a quaint speech, and presents the sphere as his gift to Venus on the triumph of her son. The Lesbian god and his consort retire amicably to their chariot, and the piece ends by the singing of an epithalamium, interspersed with dances of masquers :

Up, youths and virgins, up, and praise

The god, whose nights outshine his days;
Hymen, whose hallow'd rites

Could never boast of brighter lights;

Whose bands pass liberty.

Two of your troop, that with the morn were free,
Are now waged to his war.
And what they are,
If you'll perfection see,
Yourselves must be.

Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star!

What joy, what honours can compare

With holy nuptials, when they are
Made out of equal parts

Of years, of states, of hands, of hearts!
When in the happy choice

The spouse and spoused have foremost voice!
Such, glad of Hymen's war,

Live what they are,

And long perfection see;

And such ours be.

Shine, Hesperus, shine forth, thou wished star!

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The Golden Age Restored.

The court being seated and in expectation,

Loud Music: PALLAS in her chariot descending to a softer music.

Look, look! rejoice and wonder

That you, offending mortals, are (For all your crimes) so much the care Of him that bears the thunder.

Jove can endure no longer,

Your great ones should your less invade; Or that your weak, though bad, be made A prey unto the stronger,

And therefore means to settle

Astræa in her seat again;

And let down in his golden chain An age of better metal.

Which deed he doth the rather,

That even Envy may behold

Time not enjoy'd his head of gold

Alone beneath his father,

But that his care conserveth,

As time, so all time's honours too, Regarding still what heav'n should do, And not what earth deserveth.

[A tumult, and clashing of arms heard within.

But hark! what tumult from yond' cave is heard? What noise, what strife, what earthquake and alarms, As troubled Nature for her maker fear'd,

And all the Iron Age were up in arms!

Hide me, soft cloud, from their profaner eyes,
Till insolent Rebellion take the field;
And as their spirits with their counsels rise,
I frustrate all with showing but my shield.

[She retires behind a cloud.

The IRON AGE presents itself, calling forth the EVILS. I. Age. Come forth, come forth, do we not hear What purpose, and how worth our fear, The king of gods hath on us?

He is not of the Iron breed,

That would, though Fate did help the deed,
Let Shame in so upon us.

Rise, rise then up, thou grandame Vice
Of all my issue, Avarice,

Bring with thee Fraud and Slander,
Corruption with the golden hands,
Or any subtler Ill, that stands
To be a more commander.

Thy boys, Ambition, Pride, and Scorn,
Force, Rapine, and thy babe last born,
Smooth Treachery, call hither.

Arm Folly forth, and Ignorance,
And teach them all our Pyrrhic dance:
We may triumph together,

Upon this enemy so great,
Whom, if our forces can defeat,

And but this once bring under,
We are the masters of the skies,
Where all the wealth, height, power lies,
The sceptre, and the thunder.

Which of you would not in a war
Attempt the price of any scar,

To keep your own states even?
But here, which of you is that he,
Would not himself the weapon be,
To ruin Jove and heaven?

About it, then, and let him feel
The Iron Age is turn'd to steel,

Since he begins to threat her: And though the bodies here are less Than were the giants; he'll confess Our malice is far greater.

The EVILS enter for the Antimasque, and dance to two drums, trumpets, and a confusion of martial music. At the end of which PALLAS re-appears, showing her shield. The EVILS are turned to statues.

Pal. So change, and perish, scarcely knowing how, That 'gainst the gods do take so vain a vow, And think to equal with your mortal dates, Their lives that are obnoxious to no fates. 'Twas time t' appear, and let their folly see 'Gainst whom they fought, and with what destiny. Die all that can remain of you, but stone, And that be seen a while, and then be none ! Now, now descend, you both belov'd of Jove, And of the good on earth no less the love.

[The scene changes, and she calls ASTREA and the GOLDEN AGE.

Descend, you long, long wish'd and wanted pair,
And as your softer times divide the air,
So shake all clouds off with your golden hair;
For Spite is spent: the Iron Age is fled,
And, with her power on earth, her name is dead.

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Cho. Let narrow natures, how they will, mistake,
The great should still be good for their own sake.
[They come forward.
Pal. Welcome to earth, and reign.
Ast. G. Age. But how, without a train,
Shall we our state sustain ?

Pal. Leave that to Jove: therein you are
No little part of his Minerva's care.
Expect awhile.-

You far-famed spirits of this happy isle,
That, for your sacred songs have gain'd the style
Of Phoebus' sons, whose notes the air aspire
Of th' old Egyptian, or the Thracian lyre,
That Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate, Spenser, hight,
Put on your better flames, and larger light,

To wait upon the Age that shall your names new nourish,

Since Virtue press'd shall grow, and buried Arts shall

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That in Elysian bowers the blessed seats do keep, That for their living good, now semi-gods are made, And went away from earth, as if but tam'd with sleep? These we must join to wake; for these are of the strain That justice dare defend, and will the age sustain.

Cho. Awake, awake, for whom these times were kept. O wake, wake, wake, as you had never slept! Make haste and put on air, to be their guard, Whom once but to defend, is still reward.

Pal. Thus Pallas throws a lightning from her shield. [The scene of light discovered.

Cho. To which let all that doubtful darkness yield. Ast. Now Peace.

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The first Dance.

Pal. Already do not all things smile?
Ast. But when they have enjoy'd a while
The Age's quickening power:

Age. That every thought a seed doth bring,
And every look a plant doth spring,
And every breath a flower:

Pal. The earth unplough'd shall yield her crop,
Pure honey from the oak shall drop,
The fountain shall run milk:
The thistle shall the lily bear,
And every bramble roses wear,
And every worm make silk.

Cho. The very shrub shall balsam sweat,
And nectar melt the rock with heat,
Till earth have drank her fill:
That she no harmful weed may know,
Nor barren fern, nor mandrake low,
Nor mineral to kill.

Here the main Dance. After which,

Pal. But here's not all: you must do more,
Or else you do but half restore
The Age's liberty.

Poe. The male and female us'd to join,
And into all delight did coin
That pure simplicity.

Then Feature did to Form advance,
And Youth call'd Beauty forth to dance,
And every Grace was by:

It was a time of no distrust,

So much of love had nought of lust;
None fear'd a jealous eye.

The language melted in the ear,
Yet all without a blush might hear;
They liv'd with open vow.

Cho. Each touch and kiss was so well plac'd,
They were as sweet as they were chaste,
And such must yours be now.

Here they dance with the Ladies. Ast. What change is here! I had not more Desire to leave the earth before,

Than I have now to stay;

My silver feet, like roots, are wreath'd
Into the ground, my wings are sheath'd,
And I cannot away.

Of all there seems a second birth;
It is become a heaven on earth,
And Jove is present here.

I feel the godhead; nor will doubt
But he can fill the place throughout,
Whose power is everywhere.

This, this, and only such as this,
The bright Astræa's region is,

Where she would pray to live;
And in the midst of so much gold,
Unbought with grace, or fear unsold,
The law to mortals give.

Here they dance the Galliards and Corantos.
PALLAS [ascending, and calling the Poets.]
'Tis now enough; behold you here,
What Jove hath built to be your sphere,
You hither must retire.

And as his bounty gives you cause,
Be ready still without your pause,

To show the world your fire.

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Like lights about Astræa's throne,
You here must shine, and all be one,
In fervour and in flame;
That by your union she may grow,
And, you sustaining her, may know
The Age still by her name.

Who vows, against or heat or cold,
To spin your garments of her gold,
That want may touch you never;
And making garlands ev'ry hour,

To write your names in some new flower,
That you may live for ever.

Cho. To Jove, to Jove, be all the honour given,
That thankful hearts can raise from earth to heaven.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT-JOHN FLETCHER.

The literary partnerships of the drama which we have had occasion to notice were generally brief and incidental, confined to a few scenes or a single play. In BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, we have the interesting spectacle of two young men of high genius, of good birth and connexions, living together for ten years, and writing in union a series of dramas, passionate, romantic, and comic, thus blending together their genius and their fame in indissoluble connexion. Shakspeare was undoubtedly the inspirer of these kindred spirits. They appeared when his

Fletcher.

genius was in its meridian splendour, and they were completely subdued by its overpowering influence. They reflected its leading characteristics, not as slavish copyists, but as men of high powers and attainments, proud of borrowing inspiration from a source which they could so well appreciate, and which was at once ennobling and inexhaustible. Francis Beaumont was the son of Judge Beaumont, a member of an ancient family settled at Grace Dieu, in Leicestershire. He was born in 1586, and educated at Cambridge. He became a student of the Inner Temple, probably to gratify his father, but does not seem to have prosecuted the study of the law. He was married to the daughter and co-heiress of Sir Henry Isley of Kent, by whom he had two daughters. He died before he had completed his thirtieth year, and was buried, March 9, 1615-6, at the entrance to St Benedict's chapel, Westminster Abbey. John Fletcher was the son of Dr Richard Fletcher, bishop

of Bristol, and afterwards of Worcester. He was born ten years before his friend, in 1576, and he survived him ten years, dying of the great plague in 1625, and was buried in St Mary Overy's church, Southwark, on the 19th of August.

The dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher are fiftytwo in number. The greater part of them were not printed till 1647, and hence it is impossible to assign the respective dates to each. Dryden mentions, that Philaster was the first play that brought them into esteem with the public, though they had written two or three before. It is improbable in plot, but interesting in character and situations. The jealousy of Philaster is forced and unnatural; the character of Euphrasia, disguised as Bellario, the page, is a copy from Viola, yet there is something peculiarly delicate in the following account of her hopeless attachment to Philaster:

My father oft would speak

Your worth and virtue; and, as I did grow
More and more apprehensive, I did thirst
To see the man so prais'd; but yet all this
Was but a maiden longing, to be lost
As soon as found; till, sitting in my window,
Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,
I thought (but it was you), enter our gates.
My blood flew out, and back again as fast
As I had puff'd it forth and suck'd it in
Like breath. Then was I called away in haste
To entertain you. Never was a man
Heav'd from a sheep-cote to a sceptre raised
So high in thoughts as I: you left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever. Í did hear you talk,
Far above singing! After you were gone,
I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd
What stirr'd it so. Alas! I found it love;
Yet far from lust; for could I but have lived
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feign'd pilgrimage, and dress'd myself
In habit of a boy; and for I knew

My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you. And, understanding well
That when I made discovery of my sex,

I could not stay with you, I made a vow,
By all the most religious things a maid

Could call together, never to be known,

Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eyes, For other than I seem'd, that I might ever

Abide with you: then sat I by the fount

Where first you took me up.

Philaster had previously described his finding the disguised maiden by the fount, and the description is highly poetical and picturesque :

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Hunting the buck,

I found him sitting by a fountain-side,
Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears.
A garland lay him by, made by himself,
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me: But ever when he turn'd
His tender eyes upon them he would weep,
As if he meant to make them grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story.
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland, and did show
What every flower, as country people hold,

Did signify; and how all, order'd thus,
Express'd his grief: and to my thoughts did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
That could be wish'd; so that methought I could
Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him
Who was as glad to follow.

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The Maid's Tragedy, supposed to be written about the same time, is a drama of a powerful but unpleasing character. The purity of female virtue in Amintor and Aspatia, is well contrasted with the guilty boldness of Evadne; and the rough soldierlike bearing and manly feeling of Melantius, render the selfish sensuality of the king more hateful and disgusting. Unfortunately, there is much licentiousness in this fine play-whole scenes and dialogues are disfigured by this master vice of the theatre of Beaumont and Fletcher. Their dramas are a rank unweeded garden,' which grew only the more disorderly and vicious as it advanced to maturity. Fletcher must bear the chief blame of this defect, for he wrote longer than his associate, and is generally understood to have been the most copious and fertile composer. Before Beaumont's death, they had, in addition to Philaster,' and the Maid's Tragedy,' produced King and no King, Bonduca, The Laws of Candy (tragedies); and The Woman Hater, The Knight of the Burning Pestle, The Honest Man's Fortune, The Coxcomb, and The Captain (comedies). Fletcher afterwards produced three tragic dramas, and nine comedies, the best of which are, The Chances, The Spanish Curate, The Beggar's Bush, and Rule a Wife and Have a Wife. He also wrote an exquisite pastoral drama, The Faithful Shepherdess, which Milton followed pretty closely in the design, and partly in the language and imagery, of Comus. A higher though more doubtful honour has been assigned to the twin authors; for Shakspeare is said to have assisted them in the composition of one of their works, The Two Noble Kinsmen, and his name is joined with Fletcher's on the title page of the first edition. The bookseller's authority in such matters is of no weight; and it seems unlikely that our great poet, after the production of some of his best dramas, should enter into a partnership of this description. The Two Noble Kinsmen' is certainly not superior to some of the other plays of Beaumont and Fletcher.

The genius of Beaumont is said to have been more correct, and more strongly inclined to tragedy, than that of his friend. The later works of Fletcher are chiefly of a comic character. His plots are sometimes inartificial and loosely connected, but he is always lively and entertaining. There is a rapid succession of incidents, and the dialogue is witty, elegant, and amusing. Dryden considered that they understood and imitated the conversation of gentlemen much better than Shakspeare; and he states that their plays were, in his day, the most pleasant and frequent entertainments of the stage; two of theirs being acted through the year, for one of Shakspeare's or Jonson's.' It was different some forty years previous to this. In 1627, the King's Company bribed the Master of the Revels with £5, to interfere in preventing the players of the theatre called the Red Bull, from performing the dramas of Shakspeare. One cause of the preference of Beaumont and Fletcher, may have been the license of their dramas, suited to the perverted taste of the court of Charles II., and the spirit of intrigue which they adopted from the Spanish stage, and naturalised on the English. 'We cannot deny,' remarks Hallam, 'that the depths of Shakspeare's mind were often unfathomable by an audience; the bow was drawn by a matchless hand, but the shaft went out of sight. All might listen to Fletcher's pleasing, though not

profound or vigorous, language; his thoughts are noble, and tinged with the ideality of romance; his metaphors vivid, though sometimes too forced; he possesses the idiom of English without much pedantry, though in many passages he strains it beyond common use; his versification, though studiously irregular, is often rhythmical and sweet; yet we are seldom arrested by striking beauties. Good lines occur in every page, fine ones but rarely. We lay down the volume with a sense of admiration of what we have read, but little of it remains distinctly in the memory. Fletcher is not much quoted, and has not even afforded copious materials to those who cull the beauties of ancient lore.' His comic powers are certainly far superior to his tragic. Massinger impresses the reader more deeply, and has a moral beauty not possessed by Beaumont and Fletcher, but in comedy he falls infinitely below them. Though their characters are deficient in variety, their knowledge of stage-effect and contrivance, their fertility of invention, and the airy liveliness of their dialogue, give the charm of novelty and interest to their scenes. Mr Macaulay considers that the models which Fletcher had principally in his eye, even for his most serious and elevated compositions, were not Shakspeare's tragedies, but his comedies. It was these, with their idealised truth of character, their poetic beauty of imagery, their mixture of the grave with the playful in thought, their rapid yet skilful transitions from the tragic to the comic in feeling; it was these, the pictures in which Shakspeare had made his nearest approach to portraying actual life, and not those pieces in which he transports the imagination into his own vast and awful world of tragic action, and suffering, and emotion-that attracted Fletcher's fancy, and proved congenial to his cast of feeling.' This observation is strikingly just, applied to Shakspeare's mixed comedies or plays, like the Twelfth Night,' the 'Winter's Tale," As You Like It,' &c. The rich and genial comedy of Falstaff, Shallow, and Slender, was not imitated by Fletcher. His Knight of the Burning Pestle' is an admirable burlesque of the false taste of the citizens of London for chivalrous and romantic adventures, without regard to situation or probability. On the whole, the dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher impress us with a high idea of their powers as poets and dramatists. The vast variety and luxuriance of their genius seem to elevate them above Jonson, though they were destitute of his regularity and solidity, and to place them on the borders of the 'magic circle' of Shakspeare. The confidence and buoyancy of youth are visible in their productions. They had not tasted of adversity, like Jonson or Massinger; and they had not the profoundly-meditative spirit of their great master, cognisant of all human feelings and sympathies; life was to them a scene of enjoyment and pleasure, and the exercise of their genius a source of refined delight and ambition. They were gentlemen who wrote for the stage, as gentlemen have rarely done before or since.

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[Generosity of Cæsar.]

[Ptolemy, king of Egypt, having secured the head of Pompey, comes with his friends Achoreus and Photinus to present it to Cæsar, as a means of gaining his favour. To them enter Caesar, Antony, Dolabella, and Sceva.]

Pho. Do not shun me, Cæsar.
From kingly Ptolemy I bring this present,
The crown and sweat of thy Pharsalian labour,
The goal and mark of high ambitious honour.
Before, thy victory had no name, Cæsar,
Thy travel and thy loss of blood, no recompense;
Thou dream'dst of being worthy, and of war,

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