ON THE SUDDEN RESTRAINT OF THE EARL OF DAZZLED thus with height of place, But if greatness be so blind As to trust in towers of air, Then though dark and you shall say, But proves at night a bed of down. THE HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught Whose passions not his masters are, Of public fame or private breath. Who envies none that chance doth raise, Who hath his life from rumours freed, More of his grace than gifts to lend, A MEDITATION. FROM SANSCROFT'S COLLECTION. [Mr. Malone, from whose handwriting I copy this, says, "not, I think, printed."] O, THOU great Power! in whom we move, No new-born drams of purging fire; Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire: But seal'd it with his sacred breath: And dying wert the death of death, But now, whilst on thy name we call, Our life, our strength, our joy, our all! THOMAS DEKKER. [Died about 1638.] Ar the close of the sixteenth century we find that the theatres, conducted by Henslowe and Alleyn, chiefly depended on Jonson, Heywood, Chettle, and this poet, for composing or retouching their pieces. Marston and Dekker had laboured frequently in conjunction with Jonson, when their well-known hostility with him commenced. What grounds of offence Marston and Dekker alleged, cannot now be told; but Jonson affirms, that after the appearance of his comedy, Every Man in his Humour," they began to provoke him on every stage with their "petulant styles," as if they wished to single him out for their adversary. When Jonson's Cynthia's Revels appeared, they appropriated the two characters of FORTUNE GIVING FORTUNATUS HIS CHOICE OF GOODS. For. Six gifts I spend upon mortality, Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and Out of my bounty, one of these is thine, [riches; Choose then which likes thee best. Fort. Oh, most divine! Give me but leave to borrow wonder's eye, For. Before thy soul (at this deep lottery) Fort. Daughters of Jove and the unblemish'd Most righteous Parcæ, guide my genius right! Wisdom, strength, health, beauty, long life, and riches? For. Stay, Fortunatus,once more hear me speak. And see what's past, and learn what is to come: Wish but for beauty, and within thine eyes He was there at one time for three years, according to Oldys. No wonder poor Dekker could rise a degree above the level of his ordinary genius in describing the blessings of Fortunatus's inexhaustible purse: he had probably felt but too keenly the force of what he expresses in the misanthropy of Ampedo. I'm not enamour'd of this painted idol, This strumpet world; for her most beauteous looks 28 Hedon and Anaides to themselves, and were brooding over their revenge when the Poetaster came forth, in which Dekker was recognised as Demetrius. Either that his wrath made him more willing, or that he was chosen the champion of the offended host, for his rapid powers and popularity, he furnished the Satiromastix; not indeed a despicable reply to Jonson, but more full of rage than of ridicule. The little that is known of Dekker's history, independent of his quarrel with Jonson, is unfortunate. His talents were prolific, and not contemptible; but he was goaded on by want to hasty productions-acquainted with spunginghouses, and an inmate of the King's Bench prison.* Oldys thinks that he was alive in 1638. Two naked Cupids amorously shall swim, Fort. Oh, whither am I rapt beyond myself? More violent conflicts fight in every thought, Than his whose fatal choice Troy's downfall wrought. Shall I contract myself to wisdom's love? Are poison'd baits, hung upon golden hooks. 218 WILLIAM ALEXANDER, EARL OF STERLINE. The fairest cheek hath oftentimes a soul For. Thy latest words confine thy destiny; Fort. Thanks, great deity! For. The virtue ends when thou and thy sons end. This path leads thee to Cyprus, get thee hence: Farewell, vain covetous fool, thou wilt repent, That for the love of dross thou hast despised Wisdom's divine embrace; she would have borne thee On the rich wings of immortality; But now go dwell with cares, and quickly die. FROM "THE HONEST WHORE." Hipolito's thoughts on his mistress's picture, from which he turns to look on a scull that lies before him on a table. My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye, No lip worth tasting. Here the worms will feed! I CHANCED, my dear, to come upon a day AWAKE, my muse, and leave to dream of loves, Am purposed other's passions now t' unfold. JOHN WEBSTER. [Died about 1638.] LANGBAINE only informs us of this writer, that he was clerk of St. Andrew's parish, Holborn,* and esteemed by his contemporaries. He wrote, in conjunction with Rowley, Dekker, and Marston. Among the pieces, entirely his own, are The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona, the tragedy of Appius and Virginia, the Devil's Law Case, and the Duchess of Malfi. From the advertisement prefixed to Vittoria Corombona, the piece seems not to have been successful in the representation. The author says, that it wanted that which is the only grace and setting out of a tragedy, a full and understanding auditory." The auditory, VITTORIA, THE MISTRESS OF BRACHIANO, RELATING HER DREAM TO HIM. FROM VITTORIA COROMBONA, THE VENETIAN COURTESAN. Persons.-VITTORIA COROMBONA; DUKE OF BRACHIANO; CoROMBONA, the mother, and FLAMINEO, the brother of VIT TORIA. Vittoria. To pass away the time, I'll tell your grace A dream I had last night. Brachiano. Most wishedly. Methought I walk'd, about the mid of night, Bra. That tree? Vit. This harmless yew. They told me my intent was to root up [* "Gildon, I believe, was the first who asserted that our author was clerk of St. Andrew's. I searched the registers of that church, but the name of Webster did not it may be suspected, were not quite so much struck with the beauty of Webster's horrors, as Mr. Lamb seems to have been in writing the notes to his Specimens of our old Dramatic Poetry. In the same preface Webster deprives himself of the only apology that could be offered for his absurdities as a dramatist, by acknowledging that he wrote slowly; a circumstance in which he modestly compares himself to Euripides. In his tragedy of the Duchess of Malfi, the duchess is married and delivered of several children in the course of the five acts. With shovel, like a fury, voided out The earth, and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methought I trembled, and yet for all this terror Fla. No, the devil was in your dream. Vit. When to my rescue there arose methought A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm From that strong plant, And both were struck dead by that sacred yew, In that base shallow grave that was their due. Fla. Excellent devil! she hath taught him, in a dream, To make away his duchess, and her husband. Bra. Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream. You are lodged within his arms who shall protect you From all the fevers of a jealous husband, occur in them; and I examined the MSS. belonging to the Parish Clerks' Hall, in Wood Street, with as little suc cess."-DYCE's Webster, vol. i. p. 1.-C.] FROM THE DUCHESS OF MALFI. The Duchess of Malfi having privately married Antonio, her own steward, is inhumanly persecuted by her brother Ferdinand, who confines her in a house of madmen, and in concert with his creature Bosola murders her and her attendant Cariola. SCENE.-A Mad-house. Persons.-DUCHESS OF MALFI; CARIOLA, her faithful attendant; FERDINAND, her cruel brother; BosoLA, his creature and instrument of cruelty; Madmen, Executioners, Ser vant. Duch. WHAT hideous noise was that? Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother Duch. Indeed I thank him: nothing but noise and folly Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason Cari. Oh, 'twill increase your melancholy. To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. Cari. Yes, but you shall live To shake this durance off. Duch. Thou art a fool: The robin-redbreast and the nightingale Cari. Pray dry your eyes. What think you of, madam? When I muse thus, I sleep. Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes open. Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another In th' other world. Cari. Yes; out of question. Duch. O that it were possible we might But hold some two days' conference with the dead! From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle: I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, The earth of flaming sulphur; yet I am not mad. As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar: Duch. Very proper; And fortune seems only to have her eye-sight To behold my tragedy. How now, What noise is that? Serv. I am come to tell you Your brother hath intended you some sport: With several sorts of mad-men, which wild object [The Mad-men enter, and whilst they dance to suitable music, the DUCHESS, perceiving BOSOLA among them, says, Duch. Is he mad too? Serv. Pray question him. I'll leave you. Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed Duch. Thou art not mad sure! Dost know me? Bos. Yes. Duch. Who am I? Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed.... Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken: Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain. Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the I am a tomb-maker. [living: Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb? Bos. Yes. Duch. Let me be a little merry— Of what stuff wilt thou make it? Bos. Nay, resolve me first of what fashion? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical on our death-bed? Do we affect fashion in the grave? Bos. Most ambitiously: princes' images on their |