Gior. There's no evasion, Lidia, To gain the least delay, though I would buy it And we, whom, for our high births, they conclude I might, like such of your condition, sweetest, That I must either keep my height with danger, Lidia. Your own goodness Will be your faithful guard. Giov. O, Lidia! For had I been your equal, I might have seen and lik'd with mine own eyes, And without observation or envy, With what melodious harmony a choir Of angels sing above their Maker's praises. One word more, And then I come. And after this, when, with Lidia. Sir, I was, And ever am, your servant; but it was, Of all the globes and sceptres mankind bows to, At my best you had deserv'd me; as I am, I wish you, as a partner of your bed, A princess equal to you; such a one That may make it the study of her life, With all the obedience of a wife, to please you; May you have happy issue, and I live To be their humblest handmaid! Giov. I am dumb, and can make no reply; This kiss, bathed in tears, May learn you what I should say. JOHN FORD. Contemporary with Massinger, and possessing kindred tastes and powers, was JOHN FORD (15861639). This author wisely trusted to a regular profession, not to dramatic literature, for his support. He was of a good Devonshire family, and bred to the law. His first efforts as a writer for the stage, were made in unison with Webster and Dekker. He also joined with the latter, and with Rowley, in composing the Witch of Edmonton, already mentioned, the last act of which seems to be Ford's. In 1628 appeared the Lover's Melancholy, dedicated to his friends of the Society of Gray's Inn. In 1633 were printed his three tragedies, the Brother and Sister, the Broken Heart, and Love's Sacrifice. He next wrote Perkin Warbeck, a correct and spirited historical drama. Two other pieces, Fancies Chaste and Noble, and the Lady's Trial, produced in 1638 and 1639, complete the list of Ford's works. He is supposed to have died shortly after the production of his last play. A tone of pensive tenderness and pathos, with a peculiarly soft and musical style of blank verse, characterise this poet. The choice of his subjects was unhappy, for he has devoted to incestuous passion the noblest offerings of his muse. The scenes in his 'Brother and Sister,' descriptive of the criminal loves of Annabella and Giovanni, are painfully interesting and harrowing to the feelings, but contain his finest poetry and expression. The old dramatists loved to sport and dally with such forbidden themes, which tempted the imagination, and awoke those slumbering fires of pride, passion, and wickedness, that lurk in the recesses of the human heart. They lived in an age of excitement-the newly-awakened intellect warring with the senses -the baser parts of humanity with its noblest qualities. In this struggle, the dramatic poets were plunged, and they depicted forcibly what they saw and felt. Much as they wrote, their time was not spent in shady retirement; they flung themselves into the full tide of the passions, sounded its depths, wrestled with its difficulties and defilements, and were borne onwards in headlong career. A few, like poor Marlow and Greene, sunk early in undeplored misery, and nearly all were unhappy. This very recklessness and daring, however, gave a mighty impulse and freedom to their genius. They were emancipated from ordinary restraints; they were strong in their sceptic pride and self-will; they surveyed the whole of life, and gave expression to those wild half-shaped thoughts and unnatural promptings, which wiser conduct and reflection would have instantly repressed and condemned. With them, the passion of love was an all-pervading fire, that consumed the decencies of life; sometimes it was gross and sensual, but in other moments imbued with a wild preternatural sweetness and fervour. Anger, pity, jealousy, revenge, remorse, and the other primary feelings and elements of our nature, were crowded into their short existence as into their scenes. Nor was the light of religion quenched: there were glimpses of heaven in the midst of the darkest vice and debauchery. The better genius of Shakspeare lifted him above this agitated region; yet his Venus and Adonis,' and the Sonnets,' show that he had been at one time soiled by some of its impurities. Ford was apparently of regular deportment, but of morbid diseased imagination. His latest biographer (Mr Hartley Coleridge) suggests, that the choice of horrible stories for his two best plays may have been merely an exercise of intellectual power. His moral sense was gratified by indignation at the dark possibilities of sin, and by compassion for rare extremes of suffering.' Ford was destitute of the fire and grandeur of the heroic drama. Mr Charles Lamb ranks him with the first order of poets; but this praise is excessive. Admitting his sway over the tender passions, and the occasional beauty of his language and conceptions, he wants the elevation of great genius. He has, as Hallam remarks, the power over tears; for he makes his readers sympathise even with his vicious characters. * Some unknown contemporary has preserved a graphic trait of Ford's appearance and reserved deportment 'Deep in a dump John Ford alone was got, [A Dying Bequest.] (From the Broken Heart.") CALANTHA-PENTHEA. Cal. Being alone, Penthea, you have granted The opportunity you sought, and might At all times have commanded. Pen. 'Tis a benefit Which I shall owe your goodness even in death for. Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams, Cal. Contemn not your condition for the proof Pen. To place before ye A perfect mirror, wherein you may see How weary I am of a lingering life, Who count the best a misery. Cal. Indeed You have no little cause; yet none so great As to distrust a remedy. Pen. That remedy Must be a winding-sheet, a fold of lead, Cal. Speak, and enjoy it. Pen. Vouchsafe, then, to be my executrix; And take that trouble on ye, to dispose Such legacies as I bequeath impartially: I have not much to give, the pains are easy; Heaven will reward your piety and thank it, When I am dead: for sure I must not live; I hope I cannot. Cal. Now beshrew thy sadness; Thou turn'st me too much woman. Pen. Her fair eyes Melt into passion: then I have assurance My will was character'd; which you, with pardon, Of mere imagination! Speak the last. I strangely like thy will. Pen. This jewel, madam, Is dearly precious to me; you must use The best of your discretion, to employ This gift as I intend it. Cal. Do not doubt me. Pen. 'Tis long ago, since first I lost my heart; Long I have liv'd without it: but instead Of it, to great Calantha, Sparta's heir, By service bound, and by affection vow'd, I do bequeath in holiest rites of love Mine only brother Ithocles. Cal. What saidst thou? Pen. Impute not, heav'n-blest lady, to ambition, A faith as humbly perfect as the prayers Of a devoted suppliant can endow it: Look on him, princess, with an eye of pity; How like the ghost of what he late appear'd He moves before you! Cal. Shall I answer here, Or lend my ear too grossly! Pen. First his heart Shall fall in cinders, scorch'd by your disdain, Ere he will dare, poor man, to ope an eye On these divine looks, but with low-bent thoughts He dares not utter any but of service; Cal. What new change Appears in my behaviour, that thou darest Pen. I must leave the world, To revel in Elysium; and 'tis just To wish my brother some advantage here. Cal. You have forgot, Penthea, Pen. But remember I am sister: though to me this brother [Contention of a Bird and a Musician.]* MENAPHON and AMETHUS. Men. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales To Thessaly I came; and living private, Men. I shall soon resolve you. A sound of music touch'd mine ears, or rather, * For an amplification of the subject of this extract, see article RICHARD CRASHAW.' This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute, Men. A nightingale, Nature's best skill'd musician, undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain his ready pen down to the year 1640. In one of his prologues, he thus adverts to the various sources of his multifarious labours: To give content to this most curious age, The gods themselves we've brought down to the stage, (Saving the muse's rapture) further we The well-shaped youth could touch, she sung her own; As well in opening each hid manuscript He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument, than she, That such they were, than hope to hear again. Men. You term them rightly; For they were rivals, and their mistress, harmony. Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes, To end the controversy, in a rapture Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly, Men. The bird, ordain'd to be Fail'd in, for grief, down dropp'd she on his lute, To weep a funeral elegy of tears; That, trust me, my Amethus, I could chide Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me THOMAS HEYWOOD. THOMAS HEYWOOD was one of the most indefatigable of dramatic writers. He had, as he informs his readers, an entire hand, or at least a main finger,' in two hundred and twenty plays. He wrote also several prose works, besides attending to his business as an actor. Of his huge dramatic library, only twenty-three plays have come down to us, the best of which are, A Woman Killed with Kindness, the English Traveller, A Challenge for Beauty, the Royal King and Loyal Subject, the Lancashire Witches, the Rape of Lucrece, Love's Mistress, &c. The few particulars respecting Heywood's life and history have been gleaned from his own writings and the dates of his plays. The time of his birth is not known; but he was a native of Lincolnshire, and was a fellow of Peter-House, Cambridge: he is found writing for the stage in 1596, and he continued to exercise As tracks more vulgar, whether read or sung This was written in 1637, and it shows how eager the play-going public were then for novelties, though they possessed the theatre of Shakspeare and his contemporaries. The death of Heywood is equally unknown with the date of his birth. As a dramatist, he had a poetical fancy and abundance of classical imagery; but his taste was defective; and scenes of low buffoonery, 'merry accidents, intermixed with apt and witty jests,' deform his pieces. His humour, however, is more pure and moral than that of most of his contemporaries, There is a natural repose in his scenes,' says a dramatic critic, which contrasts pleasingly with the excitement that reigns in most of his contemporaries. Middleton looks upon his characters with the feverish anxiety with which we listen to the trial of great criminals, or watch their behaviour upon the scaffold. Webster lays out their corpses in the prison, and sings the dirge over them when they are buried at midnight in unhallowed ground. Heywood leaves his characters before they come into these situations. He walks quietly to and fro among them while they are yet at large as members of society; contenting himself with a sad smile at their follies, or with a frequent warning to them on the consequences of their crimes.'* The following description of Psyche, from Love's Mistress,' is in his best manner: ADMETUS. ASTIOCHE.-PETREA. Adm. Welcome to both in one! Oh, can you tell What fate your sister hath ? Both. Psyche is well. Adm. So among mortals it is often said, Children and friends are well when they are dead. In 1635, Heywood published a poem entitled the Hierarchy of Angels. Various songs are scattered through Heywood's neglected plays, some of them easy and flowing : Song. Pack clouds away, and welcome day, * Edinburgh Review, vol. 63, p. 223. Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my love good morrow. To give my love good morrow, To give my love good morrow, Shepherd's Song. We that have known no greater state [Shipwreck by Drink.] (From the English Traveller.") -This gentleman and I Pass'd but just now by your next neighbour's house, Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel, An unthrift youth; his father now at sea: And there this night was held a sumptuous feast. In the height of their carousing, all their brains Warm'd with the heat of wine, discourse was offer'd Of ships and storms at sea: when suddenly, Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives The room wherein they quaff'd to be a pinnace Moving and floating, and the confus'd noise To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners; That their unsteadfast footing did proceed From rocking of the vessel. This conceiv'd, Each one begins to apprehend the danger, And to look out for safety. Fly, saith one, Up to the main-top, and discover. He Climbs by the bed-post to the tester, there Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards; And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives, To cast their lading overboard. At this All fall to work, and hoist into the street, As to the sea, what next came to their hand, A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat, JAMES SHIRLEY. The last of these dramatists-' a great race,' says Mr Charles Lamb, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common'--was JAMES SHIRLEY, born in London in 1596. Designed for holy orders, Shirley was educated first at Oxford, where Archbishop Laud refused to ordain him on account of his appearance being disfigured by a mole on his left cheek. He afterwards took the degree of A.M. at Cambridge, and officiated as curate near St Albans. Like his brother divine and poet, Crashaw, Shirley embraced the communion of the church of Rome. He lived as a schoolmaster in St Albans, but afterwards settled in London, and became a voluminous dramatic writer. Thirty-nine plays proceeded from his prolific pen; and a modern edition of his works, edited by Gifford, is in six octavo volumes. When the Master of the Revels, in 1633, licensed Shirley's play of the Young Admiral, he entered on his books an expression of his admiration of the drama, because it was free from oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness; trusting that his approbation would encourage the poet to pursue this beneficial and cleanly way of poetry.' Shirley is certainly less impure than most of his contemporaries, but he is far from faultless in this respect. His dramas seem to have been tolerably successful. When the civil wars broke out, the poet exchanged the pen for the sword, and took the field under his patron the Earl of Newcastle. After the cessation of this struggle, a still worse misfortune befell our author, in the shutting of the theatres, and he was forced to betake himself to his former occupation of a teacher. The Restoration does not seem to have mended his fortunes. In 1666, the great fire of London drove the poet and his family from their house in Whitefriars; and shortly after this event, both he and his wife died on the same day. A life of various labours and reverses, thus found a sudden and tragic termination. Shirley's plays have less force and dignity than those of Massinger; less pathos than those of Ford. His comedies have the tone and manner of good society, Mr Campbell has praised his polished and refined dialect, the airy touches of his expression, the delicacy of his sentiments, and the beauty of his similes.' He admits, however, what every reader feels, the want in Shirley of any strong passion or engrossing interest. Hallam more justly and comprehensively states- Shirley has no originality, no force in conceiving or delineating character, little of pathos, and less, perhaps, of wit; his dramas produce no deep impression in reading, and of course can leave none in the memory. But his mind was poetical; his better characters, especially females, express pure thoughts in pure language; he is never tumid or affected, and seldom obscure; the incidents succeed rapidly, the personages are numerous, and there is a general animation in the scenes, which causes us to read him with some pleasure. No very good play, nor possibly any very good scene, could be found in Shirley; but he has many lines of considerable beauty.' Of these fine lines, Dr Farmer, in his Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare,' quoted perhaps the most beautiful, being part of Fernando's description, in the 'Brothers,' of the charms of his mistress : Her eye did seem to labour with a tear, In the same vein of delicate fancy and feeling is the following passage in the Grateful Servant, where Cleona learns of the existence of Foscari, from her page Dulcino: Cle. The day breaks glorious to my darken'd thoughts. He lives, he lives yet! Cease, ye amorous fears, More to perplex me. Prithee speak, sweet youth; How fares my lord? Upon my virgin heart I'll build a flaming altar, to offer up A thankful sacrifice for his return To life and me. Speak, and increase my comforts. Dul. Not perfect, madam, Until you bless him with the knowledge of Cle. O get thee wings and fly then; And did refresh it when 'twas dull and sad, -Yet stay, Relate his gestures when he gave thee this. What other words? Did mirth smile on his brow? Cle. The sun's lov'd flower, that shuts his yellow curtain When he declineth, opens it again At his fair rising with my parting lord The Prodigal Lady. [From the Lady of Pleasure."] ARETINA and the STEWARD. Stew. Be patient, madam, you may have your plea sure. Aret. 'Tis that I came to town for; I would not Endure again the country conversation To be the lady of six shires! The men, Stew. These, with your pardon, are no argument Prais'd for your hospitality, and pray'd for: Arct. You do imagine, No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted London past all defence. Your master should Do well to send you back into the country, With title of superintendent bailie. Enter SIR THOMAS BORNWELL. Born. How now, what's the matter? Angry, sweetheart? Aret. I am angry with myself, To be so miserably restrain'd in things Wherein it doth concern your love and honour To see me satisfied. Born. In what, Aretina, Dost thou accuse me? Have I not obeyed For a lady of my birth and education? Born. I am not ignorant how much nobility And be the fable of the town, to teach Brought in the balance so, sir? Born. Though you weigh Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest, Nay study, ways of pride and costly ceremony. 1 A favourite though homely dance of those days, taking its title from an actor named St Leger. |