And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants, To stifle us at home and show abroad, More motley than the French or the Venetian, About your coach, whose rude postilion Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls, And common cries pursue your ladyship For hind'ring o' the market. Aret. Have you done, sir? Born. I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe And prodigal embroideries, under which Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not show their own complexions. Your jewels, Able to burn out the spectator's eyes, And show like bonfires on you by the tapers. Something might here be spared, with safety of Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. I could urge something more. Aret. Pray do; I like Your homily of thrift. Born. I could wish, madam, You would not game so much. Aret. A gamester too? Born. But are not come to that repentance yet Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit; You look not through the subtlety of cards And mysteries of dice, nor can you save Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls; Nor do I wish you should. My poorest servant Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire, Purchas'd beneath my honour. You may play, Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex Yourself and my estate by 't. Aret. Good-proceed. Born. Another game you have, which consumes more Into more costly sin. There was a play on 't, Some darks had been discover'd, and the deeds too; Aret. Have you concluded Your lecture? Born. I have done; and howsoever My language may appear to you, it carries In the Ball,' a comedy partly by Chapman, but chiefly by Shirley, a coxcomb (Bostock), crazed on the point of family, is shown up in the most admirable manner. Sir Marmaduke Travers, by way of fooling him, tells him that he is rivalled in his suit of a particular lady by Sir Ambrose Lamount. Mar. He thinks he has good cards for her, and likes His game well. Bos. Be an understanding knight, And take my meaning; if he cannot show Mar. I do not know how rich he is in fields, Bos. Is he a branch of the nobility? Mar. You will not kill him? I have that within me must not be provok'd; Mar. Some living that have been kill'd? Bos. I mean some living that have seen examples, Not to confront nobility; and I Am sensible of my honour. Mar. His name is Sir Ambrose. Bos. Lamount; a knight of yesterday, And he shall die to-morrow; name another. Mar. Not so fast, sir; you must take some breath. Bos. I care no more for killing half a dozen Knights of the lower house-I mean that are not Descended from nobility-than I do To kick any footman; an Sir Ambrose were Enter SIR AMBROSE LAMOUNT. Mar. Unluckily he's here, sir. How does thy knighthood? ha! Amb. My nymph of honour, well; I joy to see thee. Bos. Sir Marmaduke tells me thou art suitor to Lady Lucina. Amb. I have ambition To be her servant. Bos. Hast? thou'rt a brave knight, and I commend Thy judgment. Amb. Sir Marmaduke himself leans that way too. Bos. Why didst conceal it? Come, the more the merrier. But I could never see you there. Sir, we may live. Bos. I'll tell you, gentlemen, Cupid has given us all one livery; I serve that lady too; you understand me? But who shall carry her, the fates determine; Amb. That would be no addition to Bos. I think it would not; so my lord told me; Thou know'st my lord, not the earl, my other Cousin there's a spark his predecessors Have match'd into the blood; you understand He put me upon this lady; I proclaim No hopes; pray let's together, gentlemen; If she be wise-I say no more; she shall not Cost me a sigh, nor shall her love engage me To draw a sword; I have vow'd that. Mar. You did but jest before. Amb. Twere pity that one drop Of your heroic blood should fall to th' ground: Who knows but all your cousin lords may die. Mar. As I believe them not immortal, sir. Amb. Then you are gulf of honour, swallow all, May marry some queen yourself, and get princes To furnish the barren parts of Christendom. There was a long cessation of the regular drama. In 1642, the nation was convulsed with the elements of discord, and in the same month that the sword was drawn, the theatres were closed. On the 2d of September, the Long Parliament issued an ordinance, *suppressing public stage plays throughout the kingdom during these calamitous times.' An infraction of this ordinance took place in 1644, when some players were apprehended for performing Beaumont and Fletcher's King and no King'-an ominous title for a drama at that period. Another ordinance was issued in 1647, and a third in the following year, when the House of Commons appointed a provost marshall, for the purpose of suppressing plays and seizing ballad singers. Parties of strolling actors occasionally performed in the country; but there was no regular theatrical performances in London, till Davenant brought out his opera, the Siege of Rhodes, in the year 1656. Two years afterwards, he removed to the Cockpit Theatre, Drury Lane, where he performed until the eve of the Restoration. A strong partiality for the drama existed in the nation, which all the storms of the civil war, and the zeal of the Puritans, had not been able to crush or subdue. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF THE PERIOD 1558-1649. [Conrivial Song, by Bishop Still.] [From the play of Gammer Gurton's Needle,' about 1565.] I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good; But sure I think that I can drink I stuff my skin so full within Back and side go bare, go bare; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And little bread shall do me stead; No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold, I am so wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd, Back and side, &c. And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, And saith,Sweetheart, I took my part Back and side, &c. No princely port, nor wealthy store, No shape to win a loving eye; Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares my mind can never bear. I press to bear no haughty sway; I laugh not at another's loss, I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; Nor by desert to give offence; Song. [From the same.] What pleasure have great princes And Fortune's fate not fearing, On favourite presumptuous, All day their flocks each tendeth, His ship into the East, For lawyers and their pleading O happy who thus liveth, Meditation when we go to Bed. [From the Handful of Honeysuckles. By William Hunnis: 1585.] O Lord my God, I wandered have As one that runs astray, And have in thought, in word, and deed, 15 Offended sore thy Majesty, In heaping sin to sin, And yet thy mercy hath me spar'd, But not so much as fain I would: O Lord, what wilt thou more? It is thy grace must bring that spirit For which I humbly pray, And that this night thou me defend, As thou hast done this day. And grant, when these mine eyes and tongue Meditation. [From the Poor Widow's Mite.' By William Hunnis: 1585.] Thou, God, that rul'st and reign'st in light, That flesh cannot attain; Thou, God, that know'st the thoughts of men Thou, God, whom neither tongue of man Nor angel can express; Thou, God, it is that I do seek, Thou art the power and wisdom too, But I a lump of sinful flesh, Thou art by nature merciful, The thrall of sin and shame : One depth, good Lord, another craves; For saving health in time. Sweet Christ, grant that thy depth of grace That I thereby may whiter be, The maid, with whom he fell in love, as much as one might be. Unhappy youth! what should he do? his saint was kept in mew, Nor he, nor any noble man admitted to her view. One while in melancholy fits he pines himself away; Anon he thought by force of arms to win her if he may. And still against the king's restraint did secretly inveigh. At length the high controller, Love, whom none may disobey, Imbased him from lordliness unto a kitchen drudge, That so, at least, of life or death she might become his judge. Access so had to see, and speak, he did his love bewray, And tells his birth: her answer was, she husbandless would stay. Assured therefore of his love, but not suspecting who The lover was, the king himself in his behalf did woo. The lady, resolute from love, unkindly takes that he Should bar the noble, and unto so base a match agree; And therefore, shifting out of doors, departed thence by stealth, Preferring poverty before a dangerous life in wealth. When Curan heard of her escape, the anguish in his heart Was more than much; and after her from court he did depart : Forgetful of himself, his birth, his country, friends, and all, And only minding whom he mist-the foundress of his thrall! Nor means he after to frequent, or court, or stately towns, So wasting, love, by work and want, grew almost to the wane : But then began a second love, the worser of the twain! A country wench, a neatherd's maid, where Curan kept his sheep, Did feed her drove; and now on her was all the shepherd's keep. He borrow'd, on the working days, his holly ruffets oft And of the bacon's fat, to make his startups black and soft: And lest his tar-box should offend, he left it at the fold; Sweet growt or whig, his bottle had as much as it would hold ; A sheave of bread as brown as nut, and cheese as white as snow, And wildings, or the season's fruit, he did in scrip bestow: And whilst his piebald cur did sleep, and sheep-hook lay him by, On hollow quills of oaten straw he piped melody. But when he spied her, his saint, he wip'd his greasy shoes, And clear'd the drivel from his beard, and thus the shepherd woos: 'I have, sweet wench, a piece of cheese, as good as tooth may chaw, And bread, and wildings, souling well;' and therewithal did draw His lardry; and, in eating, 'See yon crumpled ewe,' quoth he, 'Did twin this fall; faith thou art too elvish, and too Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, that such a flock enjoy? I wis I am not; yet that thou dost hold me in disdain Is brim abroad, and made a gibe to all that keep this plain. There be as quaint, at least that think themselves as quaint, that crave The match which thou (I wot not why) may'st, but mislik'st to have. How would'st thou match? (for well I wot, thou art a female); I, I know not her, that willingly, in maidenhood would die. Her stature comely tall, her gait well graced, and her wit To marvel at, not meddle with, as matchless, I omit. A globe-like head, a gold-like hair, a forehead smooth and high, An even nose, on either side stood out a grayish eye: Two rosy cheeks, round ruddy lips, with just set teeth within, A mouth in mean, and underneath a round and dimpled chin. Her snowy neck, with bluish veins, stood bolt upright upon Her portly shoulders; beating balls, her veined breasts, anon, Add more to beauty; wand-like was her middle, falling still * And more, her long and limber arms had white and azure wrists, And slender fingers answer to her smooth and lily fists! A leg in print, and pretty foot; her tongue of speech was spare; But speaking, Venus seem'd to speak, the ball from Ide to bear! With Pallas, Juno, and with both, herself contends in face; Where equal mixture did not want of mild and stately grace: Her smiles were sober, and her looks were cheerful unto all, And such as neither wanton seem, nor wayward; mell, nor gall. A quiet mind, a patient mood, and not disdaining any; Not gibing, gadding, gawdy; and her faculties were The coat of beauty. Credit me, thy latter speech bewrays Thy clownish shape, a coined show. But wherefore dost thou weep?' (The shepherd wept, and she was woe, and both did silence keep.) 'In troth,' quoth he, 'I am not such as seeming I profess; But then for her, and now for thee, I from myself digress. Her loved I, wretch that I am, a recreant to be ; 'She bore,' Thy twice beloved Agentile submitteth her to thee: And for thy double love presents herself a single fee; How fair she was, and who she was. quoth he, the bell For beauty: though I clownish am, I know what beauty is, Or did I not, yet, seeing thee, I senseless were to miss. Suppose her beauty Helen's like, or Helen's somewhat less, And every star consorting to a pure complexion guess. In passion, not in person chang'd, and I, my lord, am she.' They sweetly surfeiting in joy, and silent for a space, Whereas the ecstacy had end, did tenderly embrace; And for their wedding, and their wish, got fitting time and place. Sonnet. [By George Chapman, the Translator of Homer: 1595.] Blown with the empty breath of vain desires; That dwell in darkness; for your god is blind. The Woodman's Walk. [From 'England's Helicon,' 1600, where it is signed, ‘Shep. Tonie."] Through a fair forest as I went, I met a woodman, quaint and gent, I marvell'd much at his disguise, But thus, in terms both grave and wise, Friend! muse not at this fond array, But list a while to me: For it hath holpe me to survey Long liv'd I in this forest fair, Till, weary of my weal, Abroad in walks I would repair, As now I will reveal. My first day's walk was to the court, For falsehood sat in fairest looks, Desert went naked in the cold, When crouching craft was fed: Sweet words were cheaply bought and sold, But none that stood in stead. Wit was employed for each man's own ; All these devices, seen and known, Unto the city next I went, In hope of better hap; Where liberally I launcht and spent, As set on Fortune's lap. The little stock I had in store, Methought would ne'er be done; Friends flock'd about me more and more, As quickly lost as won. For, when I spent, then they were kind ; Once more for footing yet I strove, And, lest once more I should arise, And in my mind (methought), I said, Yet would I not give over 80, But once more try my fate; And to the country then I go, To live in quiet state. There did appear no subtle shows, More craft was in a buttoned cap, There was no open forgery But underhanded gleaning, Which they call country policy, But hath a worser meaning. Some good bold face bears out the wrong, Because he gains thereby; The poor man's back is crack'd ere long, Yet there he lets him lie. And no degree, among them all, And pray'd for their amending. There city, court, nor country too, There live I quietly alone, And none to trip my talk: Wherefore, when I am dead and gone, Think on the woodman's walk! There is a Garden in her Face. [From 'An Hour's Recreation in Music,' by Rich. Alison: 1606.] There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; Those cherries fairly do inclose |