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! And all thy furious conflicts were but slumbers :

Caesar. You look now, king, Here they take life; here they inherit honour,

And you that have been agents in this glory, Grow fix'd, and shoot up everlasting triumphs. For our especial favour ? | Take it, and look upon thy humble servant,

Ptol. We desire it. With noble eyes look on the princely Ptolemy,

Cæsar. And doubtless you expect rewards ?
That offers with this head, most mighty Cæsar,

Sce. Let me give 'em :
What thou wouldst once have given for't, all Egypt. I'll give 'em such as Nature never dream'd of;

Ach. Nor do not question it, most royal conqueror, I'll beat him and his agents in a mortar,
Nor disesteem the benefit that meets thee,

Into one man, and that one man I'll bake then.
Because 'tis easily got, it comes the safer :

Cæsar. Peace !-I forgive you all ; that's recomYet, let me tell thee, most imperious Cæsar,

pense. Though he oppos'd no strength of swords to win this, You're young and ignorant ; that pleads your pardon ; Nor labour'd through no showers of darts and lances, | And fear, it may be, more than hate, provok'd you. Yet here he found a fort, that faced him strongly, Your ministers, I must think, wanted judgment, An inward war: He was his grandsire's guest, | And so they err'd : I'm bountiful to think this, Friend to his father, and when he was expellid Believe me, most bountiful. Be you most thankful ; And beaten from this kingdom by strong hand, That bounty share amongst ye. If I knew what And had none left him to restore his honour, | To send you for a present, king of Egypt, No hope to find a friend in such a misery,

I mean a head of equal reputation, Then in stept Pompey, took his feeble fortune, And that you lov'd, tho''twere your brightest sister's Strengthend, and cherish'd it, and set it right again : (But her you hate), I would not be behind you. This was a love to Cæsar.

Ptol. Hear me, great Cæsar ! Sve. Give me hate, gods !

Cæsar. I have heard too much ; Pho. This Cæsar may account a little wicked ; | And study not with smooth shows to invade But yet remember, if thine own hands, conqueror, My noble mind, as you have done my conquest : Had fall’n upon him, what it had been then;

You're poor and open. I must tell you roundly, If thine own sword had touch'd his throat, what that | That man that could not recoinpense the benefits, way!

The great and bounteous services of Pompey, He was thy son-in-law; there to be tainted

Can never dote upon the name of Cæsar. Had been most terrible! Let the worst be render'd, Though I had hated Pompey, and allow'd his ruin, We have deserv'd for keeping thy hands innocent. I gave you no commission to perform it. Cesar, Oh, Sceva, Sceva, see that head! See, cap- Hasty to please in blood are seldom trusty ; tains,

And, but I stand environ'd with my victories, The head of godlike Pompey!

My fortune never failing to befriend me, Sce. He was basely ruin'd;

My noble strengths, and friends about my person, But let the gods be griev'd that suffer'd it.

I durst not try you, nor expect a courtesy, And be you Cæsar.

Above the pious love you show'd to Pompey. Cæsar. Oh thou conqueror,

You've found me merciful in arguing with ye; Thou glory of the world once, now the pity ;

Swords, hangmen, fires, destructions of all natures, Thou awe of nations, wherefore didst thou fall thus? | Demolishments of kingdoms, and whole ruins, What poor fate follow'd thee and pluck'd thee on Are wont to be my orators. Turn to tears, To trust thy sacred life to an Egyptian ?

You wretched and poor reeds of sun-burnt Egypt, The life and light of Rome to a blind stranger, And now you've found the nature of a conqueror, That honourable war ne'er taught a nobleness,

That you cannot decline, with all your flatteries, Nor worthy circumstance show'd what a man was? That where the day gives light, will be himself still; That never heard thy name sung but in banquets, Know how to meet his worth with humane courtesies ! And loose lascivious pleasures ? to a boy,

Go, and embalm those bones of that great soldier, That had no faith to comprehend thy greatness, Howl round about his pile, fling on your spices, No study of thy life to know thy goodness!

Make a Sabean bed, and place this phenix And leave thy nation, nay, thy noble friend,

Where the hot sun may emulate his virtues, Leave him distrusted, that in tears falls with thee, And draw another Pompey from his ashes In soft relenting tears! Hear me, great Pompey; Divinely great, and fix him 'inongst the worthies ! If thy great spirit can hear, I must task thee!

Ptol. We will do all. Th' hast most unnobly robb'd me of my victory,

Cæsar. You've robb’d him of those tears My love and mercy.

His kindred and his friends kept sacred for him, Ant. Oh, how brave these tears show!

The virgins of their funeral lamentations ; How excellent is sorrow in an enemy!

And that kind earth that thought to cover hiin Dol. Glory appears not greater than this goodness. (His country's earth) will cry out 'gainst your cruelty, Cæsar. Egyptians, dare ye think your highest pyra- | And weep unto the ocean for revenge, mids,

Till Nilus raise his seven heads and devour ye ! Built to outdare the sun, as you suppose,

My grief has stopt the rest! When Pompey livid, Where your unworthy kings lie rak'd in ashes, He us'd you nobly; now he's dead, use him so. (Exit. Are monuments fit for him! No ; brood of Nilus,

The False One. Nothing can cover his high fame but heaven, No pyramids set off his memories,

[Grief of Aspatia for the Marriage of Amintor and But the eternal substance of his greatness,

Eradne.]
To which I leave him. Take the head away,
And, with the body, give it noble burial :

EVADNE, Aspatia, Dula, and other Ladics.
Your earth shall now be bless'd to hold a Roman,
Whose braveries all the world's earth cannot balance. | Erad, Would thou could'st instil [To Dula.

Sce. If thou be'st thus loving, I shall honour thee : / Some of thy mirth into Aspatia. But great men may dissemble, 'tis held possible, I Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek : And be right glad of what they seem to weep for; It were a fitter hour for me to laugh, There are such kind of philosophers. Now do I wonder When at the altar the religious priest How he would look if Pompey were alive again ; Were pacifying the offended powers But how he'd set his face.

| With sacrifice, than now. This should have been

Bian. Pray do not talk of aught what I have said t'ye. That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Cesa. As I wish health, I will not !

Under a broad beech's shade.
Bian. Pity me;

I must go, I must run, But never love me more !

Swifter than the fiery sun. Cesa. Nay, now you're cruel:

Clor. And all my fears go with thee. Why all these tears ? Thou shalt not go.

What greatness, or what private hidden potret, Bian. I'll pray for you,

Is there in me to draw submission That you may have a virtuous wife, a fair one; From this rude man and beast !--sure I am mortal And when I'm dead

The daughter of a shepherd ; he was mortal, Cesa. Fie, fie !

And she that bore me mortal; prick my hand Bian. Think on me sometimes,

And it will bleed ; a fever shakes me, and With mercy for this trespass !

The self-same wind that makes the young lambs Cesa. Let us kies

Makes me a-cold : my fear says I am mortal: At parting, as at coming!

Yet I have heard (my mother told it me), Bian. This I have

And now I do believe it, if I keep As a free dower to a virgin's grave;

My virgin flower uncropt, pure, chaste, and fall, All goodness dwell with you!

[Exit. No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend, Cesa. Harmless Biancha !

Satyr, or other power that haunts the grores, Unskill'd! what handsome toys are maids to play with! Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion

Draw me to wander after idle fires, [Pastoral Love.]

Or voices calling me in dead of night

To make me follow, and so tole me on (From the Faithful Shepherdess.")

Through mire and standing pools, to find my MIL To CLORINDA a SATYR enters.

Else why should this rough thing, who never koks

Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats Satyr. Through yon same bending plain

Are rougher than himself, and more misshape, That flings his arms down to the main,

Thus mildly kneel to me! Sure there's a porci And through these thick woods have I run,

In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast Whose bottom never kiss'd the sun.

All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites Since the lusty spring began,

That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity, All to please my master Pan,

Be thou my strongest guard : for here I'll drell Have I trotted without rest,

| In opposition against fate and hell. To get him fruit ; for at a feast He entertains, this coming night,

PERIGOT and ANORET appoint to meet at the Virtua His paramour the Syrinx bright :

Well. But behold a fairer sight!

Peri. Stay, gentle Amoret, thou fair-brow'd like By that heavenly form of thine,

Thy shepherd prays thee stay, that holds thee 16 Brightest fair, thou art divine,

Equal with his soul's good. Sprung from great immortal race

Amo. Speak, I give Of the gods, for in thy face

Thee freedom, shepherd, and thy tongue be stad Shines inore awful majesty

The same it ever was, as frec from ill, Than dull weak mortality

As he whose conversation never knew Dare with misty eyes behold,

The court or city, be thou ever true. And live: therefore on this mould

Peri. When I fall off from my affection, Lowly do I bend my knee

Or mingle my clean thoughts with ill desires, In worship of thy deity.

First let our great God cease to keep my boca Deign it, goddess, from my hand

That being left alone without a guard, To receive whate'er this land

eat heat,

The wolf, or winter's rage, summer's great de From her fertile womb doth send

And want of water, rots, or what to us Of her choice fruits ; and but lend

Of ill is yet unknown, fall speedily, Belief to that the Satyr tells,

And in their general ruin let me go Fairer by the famous wells

Amo. I pray thee, gentle shepherd, wi To this present day ne'cr grew,

I do believe thee, 'tis as hard for me Never better, nor more true.

To think thee false, and harder than for the Here be grapes whose lusty blood

To hold me foul. Is the learned poet's good,

Peri. O you are fairer far Sweeter yet did never crown

Than the chaste blushing morn, or that The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown

That guides the wand'ring seamen througe Than the squirrel whose teeth crack thein ;

Straiter than straitest pine upon the stee! Deign, O fairest fair, to take them :

Head of an aged mountain, and more ! For these, black-eyed Driope

Than the new milk we strip before daylig Hath oftentimes commanded me

From the full-freighted bags of our fair to With my clasped knee to climb.

Your hair more beauteous than those hang See how well the lusty time

Of young Apollo. Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red,

Amo. Shepherd, be not lost, Such as on your lips is spread.

Y'are sail'd too far already from the coas Here be berries for a queen,

Of our discourse. Some be red, some be green ;

Peri. Did you not tell me once These are of that luscious ineat

I should not love alone, I should not lose The great god Pan himself doth eat :

Those many passions, vows, and holy oaladir hand, All these, and what the woods can yield,

I've sent to heaven? Did you not give The hanging mountain or the field,

Even that fair hand, in hostage ! Do not I freely offer, and ere long

Give back again those sweets to other beu Will bring you more, more sweet and strong ;

You yourself vow'd were mine. Till when, humbly leave I take,

Amo. Shepherd, so far as maiden's mou Lest the great Pan do awake,

| May give assurance, I am once more thillc 208

Wish Dots:

men through the des

e hanging lord

five your hand, Po not then

I will give thee for thy food
No fish that useth in the mud !
But trout and pike, that love to swim
Where the gravel from the brim
Through the pure streams may be seen :
Orient pearl fit for a queen,
Will I give, thy love to win,
And a shell to keep them in :
Not a fish in all my brook
That shall disobey thy look,
But, when thou wilt, come sliding by,
And from thy white hand take a fly.
And to make thee understand
How I can my waves command,
They shall bubble whilst I sing,
Sweeter than the silver string.

The Song.
Do not fear to put thy feet
Naked in the river, sweet;
Think not leech, or newt, or toad,
Will bite thy foot, when thou hast trod;
Nor let the water rising high,
As thou wad'st in, make thee cry
And sob; but ever live with me,

And not a wave shall trouble thee ! The lyrical pieces scattered throughout Beaumont ! and Fletcher's plays are generally in the same graceful and fanciful style as the poetry of the • Faithful Shepherdess :' some are here subjoined :

Once more I give my hand ; be ever free

From that great foe to faith, foul jealousy.
! Peri. I take it as my best good; and desire,

For stronger confirmation of our love,
To meet this happy night in that fair grove,
Where all true shepherds have rewarded been
For their long service.
--- to that holy wood is consecrate
A Virtuous Wels, about whose flowery banks
The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds
By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes
Their stolen children, so to make them free
From dying flesh and dull mortality.
By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn
And given away his freedom, many a troth
Been plight, which neither envy nor old time

Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given ! In hope of coming happiness : by this

Fresh fountain many a blushing maid
Hath crown'd the head of her long loved shepherd
With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung
Lays of his love and dear captivity.
The God of the River rises with AMORET in his arms.

Rirer God. What pow'rful charms my streams
Back again unto their spring, [do bring
With such force, that I their god,
Three times striking with my rod,
Could not keep them in their ranks !
My fishes shoot into the banks ;
There's not one that stays and feeds,
All have hid them in the weeds.
Here's a mortal almost dead,
Fall'n into my river-head,
Hallow'd so with many a spell,
That till now none ever fell.
"Tis a female, young and clear,
Cast in by some ravisher.
See upon her breast a wound,
On which there is no plaster bound ;
Yet she's warm, her pulses beat,
'Tis a sign of life and heat.
If thou be’st a virgin pure,
I can give a present cure.
Take a drop into thy wound
From my watery locks, more round
Than orient pearl, and far more pure
Than unchaste flesh may endure.
See, she pants, and from her flesh
The warın blood gusheth out afresh.
She is an unpolluted maid ;
I must have this bleeding staid.
From my banks I pluck this flow'r
With holy hand, whose virtuous pow'r
Is at once to heal and draw.
The blood returns. I never saw
A fairer mortal. Now doth break
Her deadly slumber: Virgin, speak.
Amo. Who hath restor'd my sense, given me

new breath,
And brought me back out of the arms of death?

God. I have heal'd thy wounds.
Amo. Ah me!
God. Fear not him that succour'd thee :
I am this fountain's god! Below,
My waters to a river grow,
And 'twixt two banks with osiers set,
That only prosper in the wet,
Through the meadows do they glide,
Wheeling still on ev'ry side,
Sometimes winding round about,
To find the even'st channel out.
And if thou wilt go with me,
Leaving mortal company,
In the cool stream shalt thou lie,
Free from harm as well as I ;

[Melancholy.]

(From Nice Valour.')
Hence, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,

But only melancholy!
Welcome, folded arins, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten’d to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up, without a sound !
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves !
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owls !

A midnight bell, a parting groan!

These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley : Nothing's so dainty-sweet as lovely melancholy,

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face,

Leda, sailing on the stream,

masterly dramatic effort. Previous to this, ChapTo deceive the hopes of man,

man had translated part of the Iliad; and his lofty Love accounting but a dream,

fourteen-syllable rhyme, with such lines as the folDoted on a silver swan;

lowing, would seem to have promised a great tragic Danac in a brazen tower,

poet: Where no love was, lor'd a shower.

From his bright helm and shield did burn a most unIlear ye, ladies that are coy,

wearied fire, What the mighty Love can do;

Like rich Autumnus' golden lamp, whose brightness Fear the fierceness of the boy ;

men admire,
The chaste moon he makes to woo

Past all the other host of stars, when with his cheerful
Vesta, kindling holy fires,
Circled round about with spies

Fresh wash'd in lofty ocean waves, he doth the sky
Nerer dreaning loose desires,

enchase. Doting at the altar dies;

The beauty of Chapman's compound Homeric epiIlion in a short hour higher,

thets (quoted by Thomas Warton), as silver-footed He can build, and once more fire.

Thetis, the triple-feathered helm, the fair-haired boy,

high-walled Thebes, the strong-winged lance, &c., bear [To Sleep.]

the impress of a poetical imagination, chaste yet

luxuriant. But however spirited and lofty as a (From the Same.)

translator, Chapman proved but a heavy and cumCare-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes,

brous dramatic writer. He continued to supply the Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose

theatre with tragedies and comedies up to 1620, or On this afflicted prince: fall like a cloud

later; yet of the sixteen that have descended to us, In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud

not one possesses the creative and vivifying power Or painful to his sluinbers ; easy, sweet [light ?],

of dramatic genius. In didactic observation and And as a purling stream, thou son of night,

description he is sometimes happy, and hence he has Pass by his troubled senses, sing his pain

been praised for possessing more thinking' than Like hollow murmuring wind or gentle rain.

most of his contemporaries of the buskined muse. Into this prince, gently, oh, gently slide, .

His judgment, however, vanished in action, for bis And kiss him into slunibers like a bride!

plots are unnatural, and his style was too hard and

artificial to admit of any nice delineation of charac[Song to Pan, at the conclusion of the Faithful ter. His extravagances are also as bad as those of Shepherdess.]

Marlow, and are seldom relieved by poetic thoughts

or fancy. The best known plays of Chapman are All ye woods, and trees, and bow'rs,

Eastward Hoe (written in conjunction with Jonson
All ye rirtues and ve pow'rs
That inhabit in the lakes,

and Marston), Bussy D'Ambois, Byron's Conspiracy,

All Fools, and the Gentleman Usher.
In the pleasant springs or brakes,

In a sonnet
More your feet

prefixed to‘All Fools,' and addressed to Walsingham, To our sound,

Chapman states that he was ‘mark'd by age for

aims of greater weight.' This play was written in Whilst we greet All this ground,

1599. It contains the following fanciful lines :With his honour and his name

I tell thee love is Nature's second sun,
That defends our flocks from blame.

Causing a spring of virtues where he shines :

And as without the sun, the world's great eye,
He is great, and he is just,

All colours, beauties both of art and nature,
He is ever good, and must

Are given in vain to men ; so, without love,
Thus be honour'd. Daffodilies,

All beauties bred in women are in vain,
Roses, pinks, and loved lilies,

All virtues bred in men lie buried ;
Let us fling,

For love informs them as the sun doth colours.
Whilst we sing,
Ever holy,

In ‘Bussy D'Ambois' is the following invocation
Ever holy,

for a Spirit of Intelligence, which has been highly Ever honour'd, ever young !

lauded by Charles Lamb: Thus great Pan is ever sung.

I long to know

How my dear mistress fares, and be inform'd [From Rollo.')

What hand she now holds on the troubled blood
Take, oh take those lips away,

Of her incensed lord. Methought the spirit,
That so sweetly were forsworn,

When he had utter'd his perplex'd presage,
And those eyes, the break of day,

Threw his chang'd count'nance headlong into clouds:
Lights that do mislead the morn;

His forehead bent, as he would hide his face :
But my kisses bring again,

He knock'd his chin against his darken'd breast,
Seals of love, though scal'd in vain.

And struck a churlish silence through his powers.

Terror of darkness ! O thou king of flames!
Hide, oh hide those hills of snow,

That with thy music-footed horse dost strike
Which thy frozen bosom bears,

The clear light out of crystal on dark earth;
On whose tops the pinks that grow

And hurl'st instinctive fire about the world :
Are yet of those that April wears ;

Wake, wake the drowsy and enchanted night
But first set my poor heart free,

That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle.
Bound in those icy chains by thee.

Or thou, great prince of shades, where never sun

Sticks his far-darted beams; whose eyes are made GEORGE CHAPMAN.

To see in darkness, and see ever best George CHAPMAN, the translator of Homer, wrote Where sense is blindest : open now the heart early and copiously for the stage. His first play, | Of thy abashed oracle, that, for fear the Blind Beygar of Alexandria, was printed in 1598, | Of some ill it includes, would fain lie hid: the same year that witnessed Ben Jonson's first and | And rise thou with it in thy greater light,

The life of Chapman was a scene of content and The contrast between female honour and shameprosperity. He was born at Hitching Hill, in Hert

Nothing did make me, when I loved them best, fordshire, in 1557; was educated both at Oxford and

To loathe them more than this : when in the street Cambridge; enjoyed the royal patronage of King

A fair, young, modest damsel I did meet ; James and Prince Henry, and the friendship of

She seem'd to all a dove when I pass'd by, Spenser, Jonson, and Shakspeare. He was tempe

And I to all a raven : every eye rate and pious, and, according to Oldys, preserved,

That follow'd her, went with a bashful glance: in his conduct, the true dignity of poetry, which he

At me each bold and jeering countenance compared to the flower of the sun, that disdains to

Darted forth scorn : to her, as if she had been open its leaves to the eye of a smoking taper.' The

Some tower unvanquished, would they all vail : life of this venerable scholar and poet closed in 1634,

'Gainst me swoln rumour hoisted erery sail ; at the ripe age of seventy-seven.

She, crown’d with reverend praises, pass'd by them; Chapman's Homer is a wonderful work, consider

I, though with face mask'd, could not 'scape the ing the time when it was produced, and the continued

hem; spirit which is kept up. Marlow had succeeded in

For, as if heaven had set strange marks on such, the fourteen-syllable verse, but only in select pas Because they should be pointing-stocks to man, sages of Ovid and Musæus. Chapman had a vast

Drest up in civilest shape, a courtesan. field to traverse, and though he trod it hurriedly

Let her walk saint-like, noteless, and unknown, and negligently, he preserved the fire and freedom Yet she's betray'd by some trick of her own. of his great original. Pope and Waller both praised

his translation, and perhaps it is now more fre The picture of a lady seen by her loveri quently in the hands of scholars and poetical stu My Infelice’s face, her brow, her eye,

dents than the more polished and musical version of The dimple on her cheek : and such sweet skill Pope. Chapman's translations consist of the “Iliad'

Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown. 1 (which he dedicated to Prince Henry), the “Odyssey' These lips look fresh and lively as her own ; | (dedicated to the royal favourite Carr, Earl of

Seeming to move and speak. Alas! now I see · Somerset), and the Georgics of Hesiod,' which he

The reason why fond women love to buy inscribed to Lord Bacon. A version of 'Hero and Adulterate complexion : here 'tis read;

Leander,' left unfinished by Marlow, was completed False colours last after the true be dead. il by Chapman, and published in 1606.

Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,
Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,

Of all the music set upon her tongue,
THOMAS DEKKER.

Of all that was past woman's excellence,

In her white bosom ; look, a painted board THOMAS DEKKER appears to have been an indus

Circumscribes all ! Earth can no bliss afford; trious author, and Collier gives the names of above Nothing of her but this! This cannot speak; twenty plays which he produced, either wholly or It has no lap for me to rest upon ; in part. He was connected with Jonson in writing No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will feed, for the Lord Admiral's theatre, conducted by Hens As in her coffin. Hence, then, idle art, lowe; but Ben and he became bitter enemies, and True love 's best pictured in a true love's heart. the former, in his 'Poetaster,' performed in 1601, has Here art thou drawn, sweet maid, till this be dead, satirised Dekker under the character of Crispinus, So that thou livest twice, twice art buried. representing himself as Horace! Jonson's charges Thou figure of my friend, lie there ! against his adversary are his arrogancy and impudence in commending his own things, and for his

Dekker is supposed to have died about the year translating. The origin of the quarrel does not

1638. His life seems to have been spent in irreappear, but in an apologetic dialogue added to the

gularity and poverty. According to Oldys, he was *Poetaster,' Jonson says

three years in the King's Bench prison. In one of

his own beautiful lines, he saysWhether of malice, or of ignorance,

We ne'er are angels till our passions die. Or itch to have me their adversary, I know not, | But the old dramatists lived in a world of passion, Or all these mix'd ; but sure I am, three years They did provoke me with their petulant styles

of revelry, want, and despair. On every stage.

JOHN WEBSTER. Dekker replied by another drama, Satiromastir, or JOHN WEBSTER, the noble minded,' as Hazlitt the Untrussing the Humorous Poet, in which Jonson designates him, lived and died about the same time appears as Horace junior. There is more raillery as Dekker, with whom he wrote in the conjunct and abuse in Dekker's answer than wit or poetry, authorship then so common. His original dramas but it was well received by the play-going public. are the Duchess of Malfy, Guise, or the Massacre of Dekker's Fortunatus, or the Wishing Cap, and the France, the Devil's Law Case, Appius and Virginia, Honest Whore, are his best. The latter was a great and the White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona. Webfavourite with Hazlitt, who says it unites the sim ster, it has been said, was clerk of St Andrew's plicity of prose with the graces of poetry.' The church, Holborn; but Mr Dyce, his editor and biopoetic diction of Dekker is choice and elegant, but grapher, searched the registers of the parish for his he often wanders into absurdity. Passages like the name without success. The White Devil' and the following would do honour to any dramatist. Of Duchess of Malfy’ have divided the opinion of critics Patience:

as to their relative merits. They are both powerful

dramas, though filled with 'supernumerary horrors.' Patience ! why, 'tis the soul of peace :

The former was not successful on the stage, and the Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven : author published it with a dedication, in which he It makes men look like gods. The best of men states, that “most of the people that come to the That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer, play-house resemble those ignorant asses who, visitA soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit: ing stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire for The first true gentleman that ever breath’d. | good books, but new books. He was accused, like

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