And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants, Aret. Have you done, sir? Born. I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe And prodigal embroideries, under which Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not show their own complexions. Your jewels, Able to burn out the spectator's eyes, And show like bonfires on you by the tapers. Something might here be spared, with safety of Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. I could urge something more. Born. Another game you have, which consumes more Into more costly sin. There was a play on 't, Some darks had been discover'd, and the deeds too; My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me Aret. Have you concluded Your lecture? Born. I have done; and howsoever My language may appear to you, it carries In the Ball,' a comedy partly by Chapman, but chiefly by Shirley, a coxcomb (Bostock), crazed on the point of family, is shown up in the most admirable manner. Sir Marmaduke Travers, by way of fooling him, tells him that he is rivalled in his suit of a particular lady by Sir Ambrose Lamount. Mar. He thinks he has good cards for her, and likes His game well. Bos. Be an understanding knight, And take my meaning; if he cannot show Mar. I do not know how rich he is in fields, Bos. Is he a branch of the nobility? Mar. You will not kill him? Bos. You shall pardon me; I have that within me must not be provok'd; Mar. Some living that have been kill'd? Bos. I mean some living that have seen examples, Not to confront nobility; and I Am sensible of my honour. Mar. His name is Sir Ambrose. Bos. Lamount; a knight of yesterday, And he shall die to-morrow; name another. Mar. Not so fast, sir; you must take some breath. Bos. I care no more for killing half a dozen Knights of the lower house-I mean that are not Descended from nobility-than I do To kick any footman; an Sir Ambrose were Enter SIR AMBROSE LAMOUNT. Mar. Unluckily he's here, sir. How does thy knighthood? ha! Amb. My nymph of honour, well; I joy to see thee. Bos. Sir Marmaduke tells me thou art suitor to Lady Lucina. Amb. I have ambition To be her servant. But I could never see you there. Sir, we may live. Bos. I'll tell you, gentlemen, Cupid has given us all one livery; I serve that lady too; you understand me? But who shall carry her, the fates determine; Amb. That would be no addition to Bos. I think it would not; so my lord told me ; Mar. You did but jest before. Of your heroic blood should fall to th' ground: There was a long cessation of the regular drama. In 1642, the nation was convulsed with the elements of discord, and in the same month that the sword was drawn, the theatres were closed. On the 2d of September, the Long Parliament issued an ordinance, 'suppressing public stage plays throughout the kingdom during these calamitous times.' An infraction of this ordinance took place in 1644, when some players were apprehended for performing Beaumont and Fletcher's King and no King'-an ominous title for a drama at that period. Another ordinance was issued in 1647, and a third in the following year, when the House of Commons appointed a provost marshall, for the purpose of suppressing plays and seizing ballad singers. Parties of strolling actors occasionally performed in the country; but there was no regular theatrical performances in London, till Davenant brought out his opera, the Siege of Rhodes, in the year 1656. Two years afterwards, he removed to the Cockpit Theatre, Drury Lane, where he performed until the eve of the Restoration. A strong partiality for the drama existed in the nation, which all the storms of the civil war, and the zeal of the Puritans, had not been able to crush or subdue. MISCELLANEOUS PIECES OF THE PERIOD 1558-1649. [Convivial Song, by Bishop Still.] [From the play of Gammer Gurton's Needle,' about 1565.] I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure I think that I can drink I stuff my skin so full within Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, And little bread shall do me stead; No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow, Can hurt me if I wold, I am so wrap p'd, and thoroughly lapp'd, Back and side, &c. And Tib, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek, And saith, Sweetheart, I took my part Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Good ale doth bring men to. And all poor souls that have scour'd bowls, Or have them lustily troul'd, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old. Back and side, &c. No princely port, nor wealthy store, No shape to win a loving eye; And hasty climbers soonest fall; Mishap doth threaten most of all; These get with toil, and keep with fear: Such cares my mind can never bear. I press to bear no haughty sway; I wish no more than may suffice; I do no more than well I may, Look what I want, my mind supplies; Lo, thus I triumph like a king, My mind's content with anything. I laugh not at another's loss, Nor grudge not at another's gain; No worldly waves my mind can toss ; I brook that is another's bane; I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. Song. [From the same.] What pleasure have great princes On favourite presumptuous, His ship into the East, For lawyers and their pleading O happy who thus liveth, Meditation when we go to Bed. [From the Handful of Honeysuckles.' By William Hunnis: 1585.] O Lord my God, I wandered have As one that runs astray, And have in thought, in word, and deed, 15 Offended sore thy Majesty, In heaping sin to sin, And yet thy mercy hath me spar'd, O Lord, my faults I now confess, O Lord, what wilt thou more? It is thy grace must bring that spirit For which I humbly pray, And that this night thou me defend, As thou hast done this day. And grant, when these mine eyes and tongue Meditation. "From the Poor Widow's Mite.' By William Hunnis: 1585.] Thou, God, that rul'st and reign'st in light, Thou, God, that know'st the thoughts of men Thou, God, whom neither tongue of man Nor angel can express; Thou, God, it is that I do seek, Thy seat, O God, is everywhere, Thou art the power and wisdom too, But I a lump of sinful flesh, The thrall of sin and shame : One depth, good Lord, another craves; Requires the depth of mercy great, For saving health in time. Sweet Christ, grant that thy depth of grace That I thereby may whiter be, The maid, with whom he fell in love, as much as one might be. Unhappy youth! what should he do? his saint was kept in mew, Nor he, nor any noble man admitted to her view. At length the high controller, Love, whom none may disobey, Imbased him from lordliness unto a kitchen drudge, That so, at least, of life or death she might become his judge. Access so had to see, and speak, he did his love bewray, And tells his birth: her answer was, she husbandless would stay. Meanwhile, the king did beat his brains, his booty to achieve, Not caring what became of her, so he by her might thrive: At last his resolution was, some peasant should her wive. And, which was working to his wish, he did observe with joy How Curan, whom he thought a drudge, scapt many an amorous toy. The king, perceiving such his vein, promotes his vassal still, Lest that the baseness of the man should let, perhaps, his will. Assured therefore of his love, but not suspecting who The lover was, the king himself in his behalf did woo. The lady, resolute from love, unkindly takes that he Should bar the noble, and unto so base a match agree; And therefore, shifting out of doors, departed thence by stealth, Preferring poverty before a dangerous life in wealth. When Curan heard of her escape, the anguish in his heart Was more than much; and after her from court he did depart: Forgetful of himself, his birth, his country, friends, and all, And only minding whom he mist-the foundress of his thrall! Nor means he after to frequent, or court, or stately towns, So wasting, love, by work and want, grew almost to the And whilst his pieba. cur did sleep, and sheep-hook lay him by, On hollow quills of paten straw he piped melody. But when he spied her, his saint, he wip'd his greasy shoes, And clear'd the drivel from his beard, and thus the shepherd woos: 'I have, sweet wench, a piece of cheese, as good as tooth may chaw, And bread, and wildings, souling well; and therewithal did draw His lardry; and, in eating, 'See yon crumpled ewe,' quoth he, 'Did twin this fall; faith thou art too elvish, and too coy; Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, that such a flock enjoy? I wis I am not; yet that thou dost hold me in disdain is brim abroad, and made a gibe to all that keep this plain. There be as quaint, at least that think themselves as quaint, that crave The match which thou (I wot not why) may'st, but mislik'st to have. How would'st thou match? (for well I wot, thou art a female); I, I know not her, that willingly, in maidenhood would die. The ploughman's labour hath no end, and he a churl will prove; The craftsman hath more work in hand than fitteth on to love; The merchant, trafficking abroad, suspects his wife at home; A youth will play the wanton, and an old man prove Her stature comely tall, her gait well graced, and her wit To marvel at, not meddle with, as matchless, I omit. A globe-like head, a gold-like hair, a forehead smooth and high, An even nose, on either side stood out a grayish eye: Two rosy checks, round ruddy lips, with just set teeth within, A mouth in mean, and underneath a round and dimpled chin. Her snowy neck, with bluish veins, stood bolt upright upon Her portly shoulders; beating balls, her veined breasts, anon, Add more to beauty; wand-like was her middle, falling still And more, her long and limber arms had white and azure wrists, And slender fingers answer to her smooth and lily fists! A leg in print, and pretty foot; her tongue of speech was spare; But speaking, Venus seem'd to speak, the ball from Ide to bear! With Pallas, Juno, and with both, herself contends in face; Where equal mixture did not want of mild and stately grace: Her smiles were sober, and her looks were cheerful unto all, And such as neither wanton seem, nor wayward; mell, nor gall. A quict mind, a patient mood, and not disdaining any; Not gibing, gadding, gawdy; and her faculties were many. A nymph, no tongue, no heart, no eye, might praise, might wish, might see, For life, for love, for form, more good, more worth, more fair than she ! Yet such an one, as such was none, save only she was such : Of Argentile, to say the most, were to be silent much.' I knew the lady very well, but worthless of such praise,' The neatress said; and muse I do, a shepherd thus should blaze The coat of beauty. Credit me, thy latter speech bewrays Thy clownish shape, a coined show. But wherefore dost thou weep ?' (The shepherd wept, and she was woe, and both did silence keep.) In troth,' quoth he, "I am not such as seeming L profess; But then for her, and now for thee, I from myself digress. Her loved I, wretch that I am, a recreant to be; I loved her, that hated love; but now I die for thee. At Kirkland is my father's court, and Curan is my Sonnet. [By George Chapman, the Translator of Homer: 1595.] Muses, that sing Love's sensual empirie, That dwell in darkness; for your god is blind. The Woodman's Walk. [From England's Helicon,' 1600, where it is signed, 'Shep. Tonie."] Through a fair forest as I went, I met a woodman, quaint and gent, I marvell'd much at his disguise, But thus, in terms both grave and wise, Friend! muse not at this fond array, For it hath holpe me to survey Long liv'd I in this forest fair, My first day's walk was to the court, For falschood sat in fairest looks, And friend to friend was coy : Court favour fill'd but empty rooks, Desert went naked in the cold, When crouching craft was fed: Sweet words were cheaply bought and soll, But none that stood in stead. Wit was employed for each man's own; Unto the city next I went, In hope of better hap; Where liberally I launcht and spent, The little stock I had in store, Methought would ne'er be done; Friends flock'd about me more and more, As quickly lost as won. For, when I spent, then they were kind; The foremost man came last behind : Once more for footing yet I strove, And, lest once more I should arise, And in my mind (methought), I said, Yet would I not give over so, There did appear no subtle shows, But yea and nay went smoothly ; More craft was in a buttoned cap, There was no open forgery But underhanded gleaning, Which they call country policy, But hath a worser meaning. Some good bold face bears out the wrong, Because he gains thereby ; The poor man's back is crack'd ere long, Yet there he lets him lie. And no degree, among them all, And pray'd for their amending. Back to the woods I got again, There city, court, nor country too, There live I quietly alone, And none to trip my talk: Wherefore, when I am dead and gone, Think on the woodman's walk! There is a Garden in her Face. [From 'An Hour's Recreation in Music,' by Rich. Alison: 1606.] There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow Those cherries fairly do inclose They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow: |