Chapter 18

‘I know he is not dead; I know proud deathDurst not behold such sacred majesty.’· · · · ·‘Hang both your greedy ears upon my lips,Let them devour my speech, suck in my breath.’· · · · ·——‘From discontent grows treason,And on the stalk of treason, death.’· · · · ·‘Tyrants swim safest in a crimson flood.’· · · · ·

‘I know he is not dead; I know proud deathDurst not behold such sacred majesty.’

‘I know he is not dead; I know proud death

Durst not behold such sacred majesty.’

· · · · ·

‘Hang both your greedy ears upon my lips,Let them devour my speech, suck in my breath.’

‘Hang both your greedy ears upon my lips,

Let them devour my speech, suck in my breath.’

· · · · ·

——‘From discontent grows treason,And on the stalk of treason, death.’

——‘From discontent grows treason,

And on the stalk of treason, death.’

· · · · ·

‘Tyrants swim safest in a crimson flood.’

· · · · ·

The two following lines—

‘Oh! I grow dull, and the cold hand of sleepHath thrust his icy fingers in my breast’—

‘Oh! I grow dull, and the cold hand of sleep

Hath thrust his icy fingers in my breast’—

are the same as those in King John—

‘And none of you will bid the winter comeTo thrust his icy fingers in my maw.’

‘And none of you will bid the winter come

To thrust his icy fingers in my maw.’

and again the Moor’s exclamation,

‘Now by the proud complexion of my cheeks,Ta’en from the kisses of the amorous sun’—

‘Now by the proud complexion of my cheeks,

Ta’en from the kisses of the amorous sun’—

is the same as Cleopatra’s—

‘But I that am with Phœbus’ amorous pinches black’—&c.

Eleazar’s sarcasm,

——‘These dignities,Like poison, make men swell; this rat’s-bane honour,Oh, ’tis so sweet! they’ll lick it till they burst’—

——‘These dignities,

Like poison, make men swell; this rat’s-bane honour,

Oh, ’tis so sweet! they’ll lick it till they burst’—

shews the utmost virulence of smothered spleen; and his concluding strain of malignant exultation has been but tamely imitated by Young’s Zanga.

‘Now tragedy, thou minion of the night,Rhamnusia’s pewfellow,[17]to thee I’ll sing,Upon a harp made of dead Spanish bones,The proudest instrument the world affords:To thee that never blushest, though thy cheeksAre full of blood, O Saint Revenge, to theeI consecrate my murders, all my stabs,’ &c.

‘Now tragedy, thou minion of the night,

Rhamnusia’s pewfellow,[17]to thee I’ll sing,

Upon a harp made of dead Spanish bones,

The proudest instrument the world affords:

To thee that never blushest, though thy cheeks

Are full of blood, O Saint Revenge, to thee

I consecrate my murders, all my stabs,’ &c.

It may be worth while to observe, for the sake of the curious, that many of Marlowe’s most sounding lines consist of monosyllables, or nearly so. The repetition of Eleazar’s taunt to the Cardinal, retorting his own words upon him, ‘Spaniard or Moor, the saucy slave shall die’—may perhaps have suggested Falconbridge’s spirited reiteration of the phrase—‘And hang a calve’s skin on his recreant limbs.’

I do not thinkthe rich Jew of Maltaso characteristic a specimen of this writer’s powers. It has not the same fierce glow of passion or expression. It is extreme in act, and outrageous in plot and catastrophe; but it has not the same vigorous filling up. The author seems to have relied on the horror inspired by the subject, and the national disgust excited against the principal character, to rouse the feelings of the audience: for the rest, it is a tissue of gratuitous, unprovoked, and incredible atrocities, which are committed, one uponthe back of the other, by the parties concerned, without motive, passion, or object. There are, notwithstanding, some striking passages in it, as Barabbas’s description of the bravo, Philia Borzo[18]; the relation of his own unaccountable villainies to Ithamore; his rejoicing over his recovered jewels ‘as the morning lark sings over her young;’ and the backwardness he declares in himself to forgive the Christian injuries that are offered him,[19]which may have given the idea of one of Shylock’s speeches, where he ironically disclaims any enmity to the merchants on the same account. It is perhaps hardly fair to compare the Jew of Malta with the Merchant of Venice; for it is evident, that Shakespear’s genius shews to as much advantage in knowledge of character, in variety and stage-effect, as it does in point of general humanity.

EdwardII.is, according to the modern standard of composition, Marlowe’s best play. It is written with few offences against the common rules, and in a succession of smooth and flowing lines. The poet however succeeds less in the voluptuous and effeminate descriptions which he here attempts, than in the more dreadful and violent bursts of passion. EdwardII.is drawn with historic truth, but without much dramatic effect. The management of the plot is feeble and desultory; little interest is excited in the various turns of fate; the characters are too worthless, have too little energy, and their punishment is, in general, too well deserved, to excite our commiseration; so that this play will bear, on the whole, but a distant comparison with Shakespear’s RichardII.in conduct, power, or effect. But the death of Edward II. in Marlow’s tragedy, is certainly superior to that of Shakespear’s King; and in heart-breaking distress, and the sense of human weakness, claiming pity from utter helplessness and conscious misery, is not surpassed by any writer whatever.

‘Edward.Weep’st thou already? List awhile to me,And then thy heart, were it as Gurney’s is,Or as Matrevis, hewn from the Caucasus,Yet will it melt ere I have done my tale.This dungeon, where they keep me, is the sinkWherein the filth of all the castle falls.Lightborn.Oh villains.Edward.And here in mire and puddle have I stoodThis ten days’ space; and lest that I should sleep,One plays continually upon a drum.They give me bread and water, being a king;So that, for want of sleep and sustenance,My mind’s distempered, and my body’s numbed:And whether I have limbs or no, I know not.Oh! would my blood drop out from every vein,As doth this water from my tatter’d robes!Tell Isabel, the Queen, I look’d not thus,When for her sake I ran at tilt in France,And there unhors’d the Duke of Cleremont.’

‘Edward.Weep’st thou already? List awhile to me,

And then thy heart, were it as Gurney’s is,

Or as Matrevis, hewn from the Caucasus,

Yet will it melt ere I have done my tale.

This dungeon, where they keep me, is the sink

Wherein the filth of all the castle falls.

Lightborn.Oh villains.

Edward.And here in mire and puddle have I stood

This ten days’ space; and lest that I should sleep,

One plays continually upon a drum.

They give me bread and water, being a king;

So that, for want of sleep and sustenance,

My mind’s distempered, and my body’s numbed:

And whether I have limbs or no, I know not.

Oh! would my blood drop out from every vein,

As doth this water from my tatter’d robes!

Tell Isabel, the Queen, I look’d not thus,

When for her sake I ran at tilt in France,

And there unhors’d the Duke of Cleremont.’

There are some excellent passages scattered up and down. The description of the King and Gaveston looking out of the palace window, and laughing at the courtiers as they pass, and that of the different spirit shewn by the lion and the forest deer, when wounded, are among the best. The Song ‘Come, live with me and be my love,’ to which Sir Walter Raleigh wrote an answer, is Marlowe’s.

Heywood I shall mention next, as a direct contrast to Marlowe in everything but the smoothness of his verse. As Marlowe’s imagination glows like a furnace, Heywood’s is a gentle, lambent flame thatpurifies without consuming. His manner is simplicity itself. There is nothing supernatural, nothing startling, or terrific. He makes use of the commonest circumstances of every-day life, and of the easiest tempers, to shew the workings, or rather the inefficacy of the passions, thevis inertiæof tragedy. His incidents strike from their very familiarity, and the distresses he paints invite our sympathy, from the calmness and resignation with which they are borne. The pathos might be deemed purer from its having no mixture of turbulence or vindictiveness in it; and in proportion as the sufferers are made to deserve a better fate. In the midst of the most untoward reverses and cutting injuries, good-nature and good sense keep their accustomed sway. He describes men’s errors with tenderness, and their duties only with zeal, and the heightenings of a poetic fancy. His style is equally natural, simple, and unconstrained. The dialogue (bating the verse), is such as might be uttered in ordinary conversation. It is beautiful prose put into heroic measure. It is not so much that he uses the common English idiom for everything (for that I think the most poetical and impassioned of our elder dramatists do equally), but the simplicity of the characters, and the equable flow of the sentiments do not require or suffer it to be warped from the tone of level speaking, by figurative expressions, or hyperbolical allusions. A few scattered exceptions occur now and then, where the hectic flush of passion forces them from the lips, and they are not the worse for being rare. Thus, in the play calledA Woman killed with Kindness, Wendoll, when reproached by Mrs. Frankford with his obligations to her husband, interrupts her hastily, by saying

——‘Oh speak no more!For more than this I know, and have recordedWithin thered-leaved tableof my heart.’

——‘Oh speak no more!

For more than this I know, and have recorded

Within thered-leaved tableof my heart.’

And further on, Frankford, when doubting his wife’s fidelity, says, with less feeling indeed, but with much elegance of fancy,

‘Cold drops of sweat sit dangling on my hairs,Like morning dew upon the golden flow’rs.’

‘Cold drops of sweat sit dangling on my hairs,

Like morning dew upon the golden flow’rs.’

So also, when returning to his house at midnight to make the fatal discovery, he exclaims,

——‘Astonishment,Fear, and amazement beat upon my heart,Even as a madman beats upon a drum.’

——‘Astonishment,

Fear, and amazement beat upon my heart,

Even as a madman beats upon a drum.’

It is the reality of things present to their imaginations, that makes these writers so fine, so bold, and yet so true in what they describe.Nature lies open to them like a book, and was not to them ‘invisible, or dimly seen’ through a veil of words and filmy abstractions. Such poetical ornaments are however to be met with at considerable intervals in this play, and do not disturb the calm serenity and domestic simplicity of the author’s style. The conclusion of Wendoll’s declaration of love to Mrs. Frankford may serve as an illustration of its general merits, both as to thought and diction.

‘Fair, and of all beloved, I was not fearfulBluntly to give my life into your hand,And at one hazard, all my earthly means.Go, tell your husband: he will turn me off,And I am then undone. I care not, I;’Twas for your sake. Perchance in rage he’ll kill me;I care not; ’twas for you. Say I incurThe general name of villain thro’ the world,Of traitor to my friend: I care not, I;Poverty, shame, death, scandal, and reproach,For you I’ll hazard all: why what care I?For you I love, and for your love I’ll die.’

‘Fair, and of all beloved, I was not fearful

Bluntly to give my life into your hand,

And at one hazard, all my earthly means.

Go, tell your husband: he will turn me off,

And I am then undone. I care not, I;

’Twas for your sake. Perchance in rage he’ll kill me;

I care not; ’twas for you. Say I incur

The general name of villain thro’ the world,

Of traitor to my friend: I care not, I;

Poverty, shame, death, scandal, and reproach,

For you I’ll hazard all: why what care I?

For you I love, and for your love I’ll die.’

The affecting remonstrance of Frankford to his wife, and her repentant agony at parting with him, are already before the public, in Mr. Lamb’s Specimens. The winding up of this play is rather awkwardly managed, and the moral is, according to established usage, equivocal. It required only Frankford’s reconciliation to his wife, as well as his forgiveness of her, for the highest breach of matrimonial duty, to have made a Woman Killed with Kindness a complete anticipation of the Stranger. Heywood, however, was in that respect but half a Kotzebue!—The view here given of country manners is truly edifying. As in the higher walk of tragedy we see the manners and moral sentiments of kings and nobles of former times, here we have the feuds and amiable qualities of country ‘squires and their relatives; and such as were the rulers, such were their subjects. The frequent quarrels and ferocious habits of private life are well exposed in the fatal rencounter between Sir Francis Acton and Sir Charles Mountford about a hawking match, in the ruin and rancorous persecution of the latter in consequence, and in the hard, unfeeling, cold-blooded treatment he receives in his distress from his own relations, and from a fellow of the name of Shafton. After reading the sketch of this last character, who is introduced as a mere ordinary personage, the representative of a class, without any preface or apology, no one can doubt the credibility of that of Sir Giles Over-reach, who is professedly held up (I should think almost unjustly) as a prodigy of grasping and hardened selfishness. The influence of philosophyand prevalence of abstract reasoning, if it has done nothing for our poetry, has done, I should hope, something for our manners. The callous declaration of one of these unconscionable churls,

‘This is no world in which to pity men,’

might have been taken as a motto for the good old times in general, and with a very few reservations, if Heywood has not grossly libelled them.—Heywood’s plots have little of artifice or regularity of design to recommend them. He writes on carelessly, as it happens, and trusts to Nature, and a certain happy tranquillity of spirit, for gaining the favour of the audience. He is said, besides attending to his duties as an actor, to have composed regularly a sheet a day. This may account in some measure for the unembarrassed facility of his style. His own account makes the number of his writings for the stage, or those in which he had a main hand, upwards of 200. In fact, I do not wonder at any quantity that an author is said to have written; for the more a man writes, the more he can write.

The same remarks will apply, with certain modifications, to other remaining works of this writer, the Royal King and Loyal Subject, a Challenge for Beauty, and the English Traveller. The barb of misfortune is sheathed in the mildness of the writer’s temperament, and the story jogs on very comfortably, without effort or resistance, to theeuthanasiaof the catastrophe. In two of these, the person principally aggrieved survives, and feels himself none the worse for it. The most splendid passage in Heywood’s comedies is the account of Shipwreck by Drink, in the English Traveller, which was the foundation of Cowley’s Latin Poem,Naufragium Joculare.

The names of Middleton and Rowley, with which I shall conclude this Lecture, generally appear together as two writers who frequently combined their talents in the production of joint-pieces. Middleton (judging from their separate works) was ‘the more potent spirit’ of the two; but they were neither of them equal to some others. Rowley appears to have excelled in describing a certain amiable quietness of disposition and disinterested tone of morality, carried almost to a paradoxical excess, as in his Fair Quarrel, and in the comedy of A Woman never Vexed, which is written, in many parts, with a pleasing simplicity andnaivetéequal to the novelty of the conception. Middleton’s style was not marked by any peculiar quality of his own, but was made up, in equal proportions, of the faults and excellences common to his contemporaries. In his Women Beware Women, there is a rich marrowy vein of internal sentiment, with fine occasional insight into human nature, and cool cutting irony of expression. He is lamentably deficient in the plot and denouementof the story. It is like the rough draught of a tragedy, with a number of fine things thrown in, and the best made use of first; but it tends to no fixed goal, and the interest decreases, instead of increasing, as we read on, for want of previous arrangement and an eye to the whole. We have fine studies of heads, a piece of richly-coloured drapery, ‘a foot, an hand, an eye from Nature drawn, that’s worth a history’; but the groups are ill disposed, nor are the figures proportioned to each other or the size of the canvas. The author’s power isinthe subject, notoverit; or he is in possession of excellent materials, which he husbands very ill. This character, though it applies more particularly to Middleton, might be applied generally to the age. Shakespear alone seemed to stand over his work, and to do what he pleased with it. He saw to the end of what he was about, and with the same faculty of lending himself to the impulses of Nature and the impression of the moment, never forgot that he himself had a task to perform, nor the place which each figure ought to occupy in his general design.—The characters of Livia, of Bianca, of Leantio and his Mother, in the play of which I am speaking, are all admirably drawn. The art and malice of Livia shew equal want of principle and acquaintance with the world; and the scene in which she holds the mother in suspense, while she betrays the daughter into the power of the profligate Duke, is a master-piece of dramatic skill. The proneness of Bianca to tread the primrose path of pleasure, after she has made the first false step, and her sudden transition from unblemished virtue to the most abandoned vice, in which she is notably seconded by her mother-in-law’s ready submission to the temptations of wealth and power, form a true and striking picture. The first intimation of the intrigue that follows, is given in a way that is not a little remarkable for simplicity and acuteness. Bianca says,

‘Did not the Duke look up? Methought he saw us.’

To which the more experienced mother answers,

‘That’s every one’s conceit that sees a Duke.If he looks stedfastly, he looks straight at them,When he perhaps, good careful gentleman,Never minds any, but the look he castsIs at his own intentions, and his objectOnly the public good.’

‘That’s every one’s conceit that sees a Duke.

If he looks stedfastly, he looks straight at them,

When he perhaps, good careful gentleman,

Never minds any, but the look he casts

Is at his own intentions, and his object

Only the public good.’

It turns out however, that he had been looking at them, and not ‘at the public good.’ The moral of this tragedy is rendered more impressive from the manly, independent character of Leantio in thefirst instance, and the manner in which he dwells, in a sort of doting abstraction, on his own comforts, in being possessed of a beautiful and faithful wife. As he approaches his own house, and already treads on the brink of perdition, he exclaims with an exuberance of satisfaction not to be restrained—

‘How near am I to a happinessThat earth exceeds not! Not another like it:The treasures of the deep are not so precious,As are the conceal’d comforts of a manLock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the airOf blessings when I come but near the house:What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!The violet-bed’s not sweeter. Honest wedlockIs like a banquetting-house built in a garden,On which the spring’s chaste flowers take delightTo cast their modest odours; when base lust,With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,Is but a fair house built by a ditch side.When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet,Sparkling in beauty and destruction too,Both at a twinkling, I do liken straightHer beautified body to a goodly templeThat’s built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting;And so by little and little I shrink back again,And quench desire with a cool meditation;And I’m as well, methinks. Now for a welcomeAble to draw men’s envies upon man:A kiss now that will hang upon my lip,As sweet as morning dew upon a rose,And full as long; after a five days’ fastShe’ll be so greedy now and cling about me:I take care how I shall be rid of her;And here ‘t begins.’

‘How near am I to a happiness

That earth exceeds not! Not another like it:

The treasures of the deep are not so precious,

As are the conceal’d comforts of a man

Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air

Of blessings when I come but near the house:

What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!

The violet-bed’s not sweeter. Honest wedlock

Is like a banquetting-house built in a garden,

On which the spring’s chaste flowers take delight

To cast their modest odours; when base lust,

With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,

Is but a fair house built by a ditch side.

When I behold a glorious dangerous strumpet,

Sparkling in beauty and destruction too,

Both at a twinkling, I do liken straight

Her beautified body to a goodly temple

That’s built on vaults where carcasses lie rotting;

And so by little and little I shrink back again,

And quench desire with a cool meditation;

And I’m as well, methinks. Now for a welcome

Able to draw men’s envies upon man:

A kiss now that will hang upon my lip,

As sweet as morning dew upon a rose,

And full as long; after a five days’ fast

She’ll be so greedy now and cling about me:

I take care how I shall be rid of her;

And here ‘t begins.’

This dream is dissipated by the entrance of Bianca and his Mother.

‘Bian.Oh, sir, you’re welcome home.Moth.Oh, is he come? I am glad on ‘t.Lean.(Aside.) Is that all?Why this is dreadful now as sudden deathTo some rich man, that flatters all his sinsWith promise of repentance when he’s old,And dies in the midway before he comes to ‘t.Sure you’re not well, Bianca! How dost, prithee?Bian.I have been better than I am at this time.Lean.Alas, I thought so.Bian.Nay, I have been worse too,Than now you see me, sir.Lean.I’m glad thou mendst yet,I feel my heart mend too. How came it to thee?Has any thing dislik’d thee in my absence?Bian.No, certain, I have had the best contentThat Florence can afford.Lean.Thou makest the best on ‘t:Speak, mother, what ‘s the cause? you must needs know.Moth.Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself;Unless it be the same gave Lucifer a tumbling cast; that’s pride.Bian.Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind;I’d have some pleasant lodging i’ th’ high street, sir;Or if ’twere near the court, sir, that were much better;’Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewomanTo stand in a bay-window, and see gallants.Lean.Now I have another temper, a mere strangerTo that of yours, it seems; I should delightTo see none but yourself.Bian.I praise not that;Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish:I would not have a husband of that proneness,To kiss me before company, for a world:Beside, ’tis tedious to see one thing still, sir,Be it the best that ever heart affected;Nay, were ‘t yourself, whose love had power you knowTo bring me from my friends, I would not stand thus,And gaze upon you always; troth, I could not, sir;As good be blind, and have no use of sight,As look on one thing still: what’s the eye’s treasure,But change of objects? You are learned, sir,And know I speak not ill; ’tis full as virtuousFor woman’s eye to look on several men,As for her heart, sir, to be fixed on one.Lean.Now thou com’st home to me; a kiss for that word.Bian.No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass;’Tis but a toy, we ‘ll not so much as mind it;Let’s talk of other business, and forget it.What news now of the pirates? any stirring?Prithee discourse a little.Moth.(Aside.) I am glad he ‘s here yetTo see her tricks himself; I had lied monst’rouslyIf I had told ’em first.Lean.Speak, what ‘s the humour, sweet,You make your lips so strange? This was not wont.Bian.Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife,Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship,And be still billing? ’tis the idlest fondnessThat ever was invented; and ’tis pityIt ‘s grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen;There ‘s many a disease kiss’d in a year by ‘t,And a French court’sy made to’t: Alas, sir,Think of the world, how we shall live, grow serious;We have been married a whole fortnight now.Lean.How? a whole fortnight! why, is that so long?Bian.’Tis time to leave off dalliance; ’tis a doctrineOf your own teaching, if you be remember’d,And I was bound to obey it.Moth.(Aside.) Here’s one fits him;This was well catch’d i’ faith, son, like a fellowThat rids another country of a plague,And brings it home with him to his own house.[A Messenger from the Duke knocks within.Who knocks?Lean.Who’s there now? Withdraw you, Bianca;Thou art a gem no stranger’s eye must see,Howe’er thou ‘rt pleas’d now to look dull on me.[Exit Bianca.

‘Bian.Oh, sir, you’re welcome home.

Moth.Oh, is he come? I am glad on ‘t.

Lean.(Aside.) Is that all?Why this is dreadful now as sudden deathTo some rich man, that flatters all his sinsWith promise of repentance when he’s old,And dies in the midway before he comes to ‘t.Sure you’re not well, Bianca! How dost, prithee?

Lean.(Aside.) Is that all?

Why this is dreadful now as sudden death

To some rich man, that flatters all his sins

With promise of repentance when he’s old,

And dies in the midway before he comes to ‘t.

Sure you’re not well, Bianca! How dost, prithee?

Bian.I have been better than I am at this time.

Lean.Alas, I thought so.

Bian.Nay, I have been worse too,Than now you see me, sir.

Bian.Nay, I have been worse too,

Than now you see me, sir.

Lean.I’m glad thou mendst yet,I feel my heart mend too. How came it to thee?Has any thing dislik’d thee in my absence?

Lean.I’m glad thou mendst yet,

I feel my heart mend too. How came it to thee?

Has any thing dislik’d thee in my absence?

Bian.No, certain, I have had the best contentThat Florence can afford.

Bian.No, certain, I have had the best content

That Florence can afford.

Lean.Thou makest the best on ‘t:Speak, mother, what ‘s the cause? you must needs know.

Lean.Thou makest the best on ‘t:

Speak, mother, what ‘s the cause? you must needs know.

Moth.Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself;Unless it be the same gave Lucifer a tumbling cast; that’s pride.

Moth.Troth, I know none, son; let her speak herself;

Unless it be the same gave Lucifer a tumbling cast; that’s pride.

Bian.Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind;I’d have some pleasant lodging i’ th’ high street, sir;Or if ’twere near the court, sir, that were much better;’Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewomanTo stand in a bay-window, and see gallants.

Bian.Methinks this house stands nothing to my mind;

I’d have some pleasant lodging i’ th’ high street, sir;

Or if ’twere near the court, sir, that were much better;

’Tis a sweet recreation for a gentlewoman

To stand in a bay-window, and see gallants.

Lean.Now I have another temper, a mere strangerTo that of yours, it seems; I should delightTo see none but yourself.

Lean.Now I have another temper, a mere stranger

To that of yours, it seems; I should delight

To see none but yourself.

Bian.I praise not that;Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish:I would not have a husband of that proneness,To kiss me before company, for a world:Beside, ’tis tedious to see one thing still, sir,Be it the best that ever heart affected;Nay, were ‘t yourself, whose love had power you knowTo bring me from my friends, I would not stand thus,And gaze upon you always; troth, I could not, sir;As good be blind, and have no use of sight,As look on one thing still: what’s the eye’s treasure,But change of objects? You are learned, sir,And know I speak not ill; ’tis full as virtuousFor woman’s eye to look on several men,As for her heart, sir, to be fixed on one.

Bian.I praise not that;

Too fond is as unseemly as too churlish:

I would not have a husband of that proneness,

To kiss me before company, for a world:

Beside, ’tis tedious to see one thing still, sir,

Be it the best that ever heart affected;

Nay, were ‘t yourself, whose love had power you know

To bring me from my friends, I would not stand thus,

And gaze upon you always; troth, I could not, sir;

As good be blind, and have no use of sight,

As look on one thing still: what’s the eye’s treasure,

But change of objects? You are learned, sir,

And know I speak not ill; ’tis full as virtuous

For woman’s eye to look on several men,

As for her heart, sir, to be fixed on one.

Lean.Now thou com’st home to me; a kiss for that word.

Bian.No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass;’Tis but a toy, we ‘ll not so much as mind it;Let’s talk of other business, and forget it.What news now of the pirates? any stirring?Prithee discourse a little.

Bian.No matter for a kiss, sir; let it pass;

’Tis but a toy, we ‘ll not so much as mind it;

Let’s talk of other business, and forget it.

What news now of the pirates? any stirring?

Prithee discourse a little.

Moth.(Aside.) I am glad he ‘s here yetTo see her tricks himself; I had lied monst’rouslyIf I had told ’em first.

Moth.(Aside.) I am glad he ‘s here yet

To see her tricks himself; I had lied monst’rously

If I had told ’em first.

Lean.Speak, what ‘s the humour, sweet,You make your lips so strange? This was not wont.

Lean.Speak, what ‘s the humour, sweet,

You make your lips so strange? This was not wont.

Bian.Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife,Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship,And be still billing? ’tis the idlest fondnessThat ever was invented; and ’tis pityIt ‘s grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen;There ‘s many a disease kiss’d in a year by ‘t,And a French court’sy made to’t: Alas, sir,Think of the world, how we shall live, grow serious;We have been married a whole fortnight now.

Bian.Is there no kindness betwixt man and wife,

Unless they make a pigeon-house of friendship,

And be still billing? ’tis the idlest fondness

That ever was invented; and ’tis pity

It ‘s grown a fashion for poor gentlewomen;

There ‘s many a disease kiss’d in a year by ‘t,

And a French court’sy made to’t: Alas, sir,

Think of the world, how we shall live, grow serious;

We have been married a whole fortnight now.

Lean.How? a whole fortnight! why, is that so long?

Bian.’Tis time to leave off dalliance; ’tis a doctrineOf your own teaching, if you be remember’d,And I was bound to obey it.

Bian.’Tis time to leave off dalliance; ’tis a doctrine

Of your own teaching, if you be remember’d,

And I was bound to obey it.

Moth.(Aside.) Here’s one fits him;This was well catch’d i’ faith, son, like a fellowThat rids another country of a plague,And brings it home with him to his own house.

Moth.(Aside.) Here’s one fits him;

This was well catch’d i’ faith, son, like a fellow

That rids another country of a plague,

And brings it home with him to his own house.

[A Messenger from the Duke knocks within.

Who knocks?

Lean.Who’s there now? Withdraw you, Bianca;Thou art a gem no stranger’s eye must see,Howe’er thou ‘rt pleas’d now to look dull on me.

Lean.Who’s there now? Withdraw you, Bianca;

Thou art a gem no stranger’s eye must see,

Howe’er thou ‘rt pleas’d now to look dull on me.

[Exit Bianca.

The Witch of Middleton is his most remarkable performance; both on its own account, and from the use that Shakespear has made of some of the characters and speeches in his Macbeth. Though the employment which Middleton has given to Hecate and the rest, in thwarting the purposes and perplexing the business of familiar and domestic life, is not so grand or appalling as the more stupendous agency which Shakespear has assigned them, yet it is not easy to deny the merit of the first invention to Middleton, who has embodied the existing superstitions of the time, respecting that anomalous class of beings, with a high spirit of poetry, of the most grotesque and fanciful kind. The songs and incantations made use of are very nearly the same. The other parts of this play are not so good; and the solution of the principal difficulty, by Antonio’s falling down a trap-door, most lame and impotent. As a specimen of the similarity of the preternatural machinery, I shall here give one entire scene.

‘The Witches’ Habitation.EnterHeccat, Stadlin, Hoppo,and other Witches.Hec.The moon’s a gallant: see how brisk she rides.Stad.Here’s a rich evening, Heccat.Hec.Aye, is ‘t not, wenches,To take a journey of five thousand miles?Hop.Our’s will be more to-night.Hec.Oh, ‘twill be precious. Heard you the owl yet?Stad.Briefly, in the copse,As we came thro’ now.Hec.’Tis high time for us then.Stad.There was a bat hung at my lips three timesAs we came thro’ the woods, and drank her fill:Old Puckle saw her.Hec.You are fortunate still,The very scritch-owl lights upon your shoulder,And woos you like a pidgeon. Are you furnish’d?Have you your ointments?Stad.All.Hec.Prepare to flight then.I’ll overtake you swiftly.Stad.Hye then, Heccat!We shall be up betimes.Hec.I’ll reach you quickly.[They ascend.EnterFirestone.

‘The Witches’ Habitation.

EnterHeccat, Stadlin, Hoppo,and other Witches.

Hec.The moon’s a gallant: see how brisk she rides.

Stad.Here’s a rich evening, Heccat.

Hec.Aye, is ‘t not, wenches,To take a journey of five thousand miles?

Hec.Aye, is ‘t not, wenches,

To take a journey of five thousand miles?

Hop.Our’s will be more to-night.

Hec.Oh, ‘twill be precious. Heard you the owl yet?

Stad.Briefly, in the copse,As we came thro’ now.

Stad.Briefly, in the copse,

As we came thro’ now.

Hec.’Tis high time for us then.

Stad.There was a bat hung at my lips three timesAs we came thro’ the woods, and drank her fill:Old Puckle saw her.

Stad.There was a bat hung at my lips three times

As we came thro’ the woods, and drank her fill:

Old Puckle saw her.

Hec.You are fortunate still,The very scritch-owl lights upon your shoulder,And woos you like a pidgeon. Are you furnish’d?Have you your ointments?

Hec.You are fortunate still,

The very scritch-owl lights upon your shoulder,

And woos you like a pidgeon. Are you furnish’d?

Have you your ointments?

Stad.All.

Hec.Prepare to flight then.I’ll overtake you swiftly.

Hec.Prepare to flight then.

I’ll overtake you swiftly.

Stad.Hye then, Heccat!We shall be up betimes.

Stad.Hye then, Heccat!

We shall be up betimes.

Hec.I’ll reach you quickly.[They ascend.

Hec.I’ll reach you quickly.

[They ascend.

EnterFirestone.

Fire.They are all going a birding to-night. They talk of fowls i’ th’ air, that fly by day, I’m sure they’ll be a company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have not mortality affeared, I’ll be hang’d, for they are able to putrify it, to infect a whole region. She spies me now.

Hec.What, Firestone, our sweet son?

Fire.A little sweeter than some of you; or a dunghill were too good for me.

Hec.How much hast there?

Fire.Nineteen, and all brave plump ones; besides six lizards, and three serpentine eggs.

Hec.Dear and sweet boy! What herbs hast thou?

Fire.I have some mar-martin, and man-dragon.

Hec.Marmarittin, and mandragora, thou would’st say.

Fire.Here’s pannax, too. I thank thee; my pan akes, I am sure, with kneeling down to cut ’em.

Hec.And selago,Hedge-hissop too! How near he goes my cuttings!Were they all cropt by moon-light?

Hec.And selago,

Hedge-hissop too! How near he goes my cuttings!

Were they all cropt by moon-light?

Fire.Every blade of ’em, or I’m a moon-calf, mother.

Hec.Hie thee home with ’em.Look well to th’ house to-night: I’m for aloft.

Hec.Hie thee home with ’em.

Look well to th’ house to-night: I’m for aloft.

Fire.Aloft, quoth you! I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly (Aside).—Hark, hark, mother! They are above the steeple already, flying over your head with a noise of musicians.

Hec.They are indeed. Help me! Help me! I’m too late else.SONG, (in the air above).Come away, come away!Heccat, Heccat, come away!Hec.I come, I come, I come, I come,With all the speed I may,With all the speed I may.Where’s Stadlin?(Above).Here.Hec.Where’s Puckle?(Above).Here:And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too:We lack but you, we lack but you.Come away, make up the count!Hec.I will but ‘noint, and then I mount.(A Spirit descends in the shape of a Cat).(Above).There’s one come down to fetch his dues;A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood;And why thou stay’st so long, I muse, I muse,Since th’ air’s so sweet and good?Hec.Oh, art thou come,What news, what news?Spirit.All goes still to our delight,Either come, or elseRefuse, refuse.Hec.Now I am furnish’d for the flight.Fire.Hark, hark! The cat sings a brave treble in her own language.Hec.(Ascending with the Spirit).Now I go, now I fly,Malkin, my sweet spirit, and I.Oh, what a dainty pleasure ’tisTo ride in the airWhen the moon shines fair,And sing, and dance, and toy, and kiss!Over woods, high rocks, and mountains,Over seas our mistress’ fountains,Over steep towers and turrets,We fly by night, ‘mongst troops of spirits.No ring of bells to our ears sounds,No howls of wolves, no yelp of hounds:No, not the noise of water’s breach,Or cannon’s roar, our height can reach.(Above.)No ring of bells, &c.

Hec.They are indeed. Help me! Help me! I’m too late else.

SONG, (in the air above).

Come away, come away!Heccat, Heccat, come away!Hec.I come, I come, I come, I come,With all the speed I may,With all the speed I may.Where’s Stadlin?

Come away, come away!

Heccat, Heccat, come away!

Hec.I come, I come, I come, I come,

With all the speed I may,

With all the speed I may.

Where’s Stadlin?

(Above).Here.

Hec.Where’s Puckle?

(Above).Here:And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too:We lack but you, we lack but you.Come away, make up the count!

(Above).Here:

And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too:

We lack but you, we lack but you.

Come away, make up the count!

Hec.I will but ‘noint, and then I mount.

(A Spirit descends in the shape of a Cat).

(Above).There’s one come down to fetch his dues;A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood;And why thou stay’st so long, I muse, I muse,Since th’ air’s so sweet and good?

(Above).There’s one come down to fetch his dues;

A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood;

And why thou stay’st so long, I muse, I muse,

Since th’ air’s so sweet and good?

Hec.Oh, art thou come,What news, what news?

Hec.Oh, art thou come,

What news, what news?

Spirit.All goes still to our delight,Either come, or elseRefuse, refuse.

Spirit.All goes still to our delight,

Either come, or else

Refuse, refuse.

Hec.Now I am furnish’d for the flight.

Fire.Hark, hark! The cat sings a brave treble in her own language.

Hec.(Ascending with the Spirit).Now I go, now I fly,Malkin, my sweet spirit, and I.Oh, what a dainty pleasure ’tisTo ride in the airWhen the moon shines fair,And sing, and dance, and toy, and kiss!Over woods, high rocks, and mountains,Over seas our mistress’ fountains,Over steep towers and turrets,We fly by night, ‘mongst troops of spirits.No ring of bells to our ears sounds,No howls of wolves, no yelp of hounds:No, not the noise of water’s breach,Or cannon’s roar, our height can reach.

Hec.(Ascending with the Spirit).

Now I go, now I fly,

Malkin, my sweet spirit, and I.

Oh, what a dainty pleasure ’tis

To ride in the air

When the moon shines fair,

And sing, and dance, and toy, and kiss!

Over woods, high rocks, and mountains,

Over seas our mistress’ fountains,

Over steep towers and turrets,

We fly by night, ‘mongst troops of spirits.

No ring of bells to our ears sounds,

No howls of wolves, no yelp of hounds:

No, not the noise of water’s breach,

Or cannon’s roar, our height can reach.

(Above.)No ring of bells, &c.

Fire.Well, mother, I thank you for your kindness. You must be gamboling i’ th’ air, and leave me here like a fool and a mortal.

[Exit.’

The Incantation scene at the cauldron, is also the original of that in Macbeth, and is in like manner introduced by the Duchess’s visiting the Witches’ Habitation.

‘The Witches’ Habitation.EnterDuchess, Heccat, Firestone.Hec.What death is’t you desire for Almachildes?Duch.A sudden and a subtle.Hec.Then I’ve fitted you.Here lie the gifts of both; sudden and subtle;His picture made in wax, and gently moltenBy a blue fire, kindled with dead men’s eyes,Will waste him by degrees.Duch.In what time, pr’ythee?Hec.Perhaps in a month’s progress.Duch.What? A month?Out upon pictures! If they be so tedious,Give me things with some life.Hec.Then seek no farther.Duch.This must be done with speed, dispatched this night,If it may possibly.Hec.I have it for you:Here’s that will do ‘t. Stay but perfection’s time,And that’s not five hours hence.Duch.Can’st thou do this?Hec.Can I?Duch.I mean, so closely.Hec.So closely do you mean too?Duch.So artfully, so cunningly.Hec.Worse and worse; doubts and incredulities,They make me mad. Let scrupulous creatures know,Cum volui, ripis ipsis mirantibus, amnesIn fontes rediere suos: concussaque sisto,Stantia concutio cantu freta; nubila pello,Nubilaque induco: ventos abigoque vocoque.Vipereas rumpo verbis et carmine fauces;Et silvas moveo, jubeoque tremiscere montes,Et mugire solum, manesque exire sepulchres.Te quoque luna traho.Can you doubt me then, daughter?That can make mountains tremble, miles of woods walk;Whole earth’s foundations bellow, and the spiritsOf the entomb’d to burst out from their marbles;Nay, draw yon moon to my involv’d designs?

‘The Witches’ Habitation.

EnterDuchess, Heccat, Firestone.

Hec.What death is’t you desire for Almachildes?

Duch.A sudden and a subtle.

Hec.Then I’ve fitted you.Here lie the gifts of both; sudden and subtle;His picture made in wax, and gently moltenBy a blue fire, kindled with dead men’s eyes,Will waste him by degrees.

Hec.Then I’ve fitted you.

Here lie the gifts of both; sudden and subtle;

His picture made in wax, and gently molten

By a blue fire, kindled with dead men’s eyes,

Will waste him by degrees.

Duch.In what time, pr’ythee?

Hec.Perhaps in a month’s progress.

Duch.What? A month?Out upon pictures! If they be so tedious,Give me things with some life.

Duch.What? A month?

Out upon pictures! If they be so tedious,

Give me things with some life.

Hec.Then seek no farther.

Duch.This must be done with speed, dispatched this night,If it may possibly.

Duch.This must be done with speed, dispatched this night,

If it may possibly.

Hec.I have it for you:Here’s that will do ‘t. Stay but perfection’s time,And that’s not five hours hence.

Hec.I have it for you:

Here’s that will do ‘t. Stay but perfection’s time,

And that’s not five hours hence.

Duch.Can’st thou do this?

Hec.Can I?

Duch.I mean, so closely.

Hec.So closely do you mean too?

Duch.So artfully, so cunningly.

Hec.Worse and worse; doubts and incredulities,They make me mad. Let scrupulous creatures know,Cum volui, ripis ipsis mirantibus, amnesIn fontes rediere suos: concussaque sisto,Stantia concutio cantu freta; nubila pello,Nubilaque induco: ventos abigoque vocoque.Vipereas rumpo verbis et carmine fauces;Et silvas moveo, jubeoque tremiscere montes,Et mugire solum, manesque exire sepulchres.Te quoque luna traho.Can you doubt me then, daughter?That can make mountains tremble, miles of woods walk;Whole earth’s foundations bellow, and the spiritsOf the entomb’d to burst out from their marbles;Nay, draw yon moon to my involv’d designs?

Hec.Worse and worse; doubts and incredulities,

They make me mad. Let scrupulous creatures know,

Cum volui, ripis ipsis mirantibus, amnes

In fontes rediere suos: concussaque sisto,

Stantia concutio cantu freta; nubila pello,

Nubilaque induco: ventos abigoque vocoque.

Vipereas rumpo verbis et carmine fauces;

Et silvas moveo, jubeoque tremiscere montes,

Et mugire solum, manesque exire sepulchres.

Te quoque luna traho.

Can you doubt me then, daughter?

That can make mountains tremble, miles of woods walk;

Whole earth’s foundations bellow, and the spirits

Of the entomb’d to burst out from their marbles;

Nay, draw yon moon to my involv’d designs?

Fire.I know as well as can be when my mother’s mad, and our great cat angry; for one spits French then, and th’ other spits Latin.

Duch.I did not doubt you, mother.Hec.No? what did you?My power’s so firm, it is not to be question’d.Duch.Forgive what’s past: and now I know th’ offensivenessThat vexes art, I’ll shun th’ occasion ever.Hec.Leave all to me and my five sisters, daughter.It shall be conveyed in at howlet-time.Take you no care. My spirits know their moments;Raven or scritch-owl never fly by th’ door,But they call in (I thank ’em), and they lose not by ‘t.I give ’em barley soak’d in infants’ blood:They shall havesemina cum sanguine,Their gorge cramm’d full, if they come once to our house:We are no niggard.[ExitDuchess.

Duch.I did not doubt you, mother.

Hec.No? what did you?My power’s so firm, it is not to be question’d.

Hec.No? what did you?

My power’s so firm, it is not to be question’d.

Duch.Forgive what’s past: and now I know th’ offensivenessThat vexes art, I’ll shun th’ occasion ever.

Duch.Forgive what’s past: and now I know th’ offensiveness

That vexes art, I’ll shun th’ occasion ever.

Hec.Leave all to me and my five sisters, daughter.It shall be conveyed in at howlet-time.Take you no care. My spirits know their moments;Raven or scritch-owl never fly by th’ door,But they call in (I thank ’em), and they lose not by ‘t.I give ’em barley soak’d in infants’ blood:They shall havesemina cum sanguine,Their gorge cramm’d full, if they come once to our house:We are no niggard.[ExitDuchess.

Hec.Leave all to me and my five sisters, daughter.

It shall be conveyed in at howlet-time.

Take you no care. My spirits know their moments;

Raven or scritch-owl never fly by th’ door,

But they call in (I thank ’em), and they lose not by ‘t.

I give ’em barley soak’d in infants’ blood:

They shall havesemina cum sanguine,

Their gorge cramm’d full, if they come once to our house:

We are no niggard.

[ExitDuchess.

Fire.They fare but too well when they come hither. They ate up as much t’ other night as would have made me a good conscionable pudding.

Hec.Give me some lizard’s brain: quickly, Firestone!Where’s grannam Stadlin, and all the rest o’ th’ sisters?

Hec.Give me some lizard’s brain: quickly, Firestone!

Where’s grannam Stadlin, and all the rest o’ th’ sisters?

Fire.All at hand, forsooth.

Hec.Give me marmaritin; some bear-breech. When?

Fire.Here’s bear-breech and lizard’s brain, forsooth.

Hec.Into the vessel;And fetch three ounces of the red-hair’d girlI kill’d last midnight.

Hec.Into the vessel;

And fetch three ounces of the red-hair’d girl

I kill’d last midnight.

Fire.Whereabouts, sweet mother?

Hec.Hip; hip or flank. Where is the acopus?

Fire.You shall have acopus, forsooth.

Hec.Stir, stir about, whilst I begin the charm.A CHARM SONG,(The Witches going about the Cauldron).Black spirits, and white; red spirits, and gray;Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may.Titty, Tiffin, keep it stiff in;Firedrake, Puckey, make it lucky;Liard, Robin, you must bob in.Round, around, around, about, about;All ill come running in; all good keep out!1st Witch.Here’s the blood of a bat.Hec.Put in that; oh, put in that.2d Witch.Here’s libbard’s-bane.Hec.Put in again.1st Witch.The juice of toad; the oil of adder.2d Witch.Those will make the yonker madder.Hec.Put in: there’s all, and rid the stench.Fire.Nay, here’s three ounces of the red-hair’d wench.All.Round, around, around, &c.Hec.See, see enough: into the vessel with it.There; ‘t hath the true perfection. I’m so lightAt any mischief: there’s no villainyBut is in tune, methinks.

Hec.Stir, stir about, whilst I begin the charm.

A CHARM SONG,

(The Witches going about the Cauldron).

Black spirits, and white; red spirits, and gray;Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may.Titty, Tiffin, keep it stiff in;Firedrake, Puckey, make it lucky;Liard, Robin, you must bob in.Round, around, around, about, about;All ill come running in; all good keep out!

Black spirits, and white; red spirits, and gray;

Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may.

Titty, Tiffin, keep it stiff in;

Firedrake, Puckey, make it lucky;

Liard, Robin, you must bob in.

Round, around, around, about, about;

All ill come running in; all good keep out!

1st Witch.Here’s the blood of a bat.

Hec.Put in that; oh, put in that.

2d Witch.Here’s libbard’s-bane.

Hec.Put in again.

1st Witch.The juice of toad; the oil of adder.

2d Witch.Those will make the yonker madder.

Hec.Put in: there’s all, and rid the stench.

Fire.Nay, here’s three ounces of the red-hair’d wench.

All.Round, around, around, &c.

Hec.See, see enough: into the vessel with it.There; ‘t hath the true perfection. I’m so lightAt any mischief: there’s no villainyBut is in tune, methinks.

Hec.See, see enough: into the vessel with it.

There; ‘t hath the true perfection. I’m so light

At any mischief: there’s no villainy

But is in tune, methinks.

Fire.A tune! ’Tis to the tune of damnation then. I warrant you that song hath a villainous burthen.

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