« НазадПродовжити »
! 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 ?
Sce. Let me give 'em :
Ach. Nor do not question it, most royal conqueror, I'll beat him and his agents in a mortar,
Into one man, and that one man I'll bake then.
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,
EVADNE, Aspatia, Dula, and other Ladics.
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,
Under a broad beech's shade.
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
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
men through the des
e hanging lord
five your hand, Po not then
I will give thee for thy food
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.
For stronger confirmation of our love,
Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given ! In hope of coming happiness : by this
Fresh fountain many a blushing maid
Rirer God. What pow'rful charms my streams
God. I have heal'd thy wounds.
(From Nice Valour.')
Wherein you spend your folly!
But only melancholy!
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,
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 ;
Past all the other host of stars, when with his cheerful
Fresh wash'd in lofty ocean waves, he doth the sky
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
and Marston), Bussy D'Ambois, Byron's Conspiracy,
All Fools, and the Gentleman Usher.
In a sonnet
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,
Causing a spring of virtues where he shines :
And as without the sun, the world's great eye,
All colours, beauties both of art and nature,
Are given in vain to men ; so, without love,
All beauties bred in women are in vain,
All virtues bred in men lie buried ;
For love informs them as the sun doth colours.
In ‘Bussy D'Ambois' is the following invocation
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
Of her incensed lord. Methought the spirit,
When he had utter'd his perplex'd presage,
Threw his chang'd count'nance headlong into clouds:
His forehead bent, as he would hide his face :
He knock'd his chin against his darken'd breast,
And struck a churlish silence through his powers.
Terror of darkness ! O thou king of flames!
That with thy music-footed horse dost strike
The clear light out of crystal on dark earth;
And hurl'st instinctive fire about the world :
Wake, wake the drowsy and enchanted night
That sleeps with dead eyes in this heavy riddle.
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 music set upon her tongue,
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