BEN JONSON: 157 3-1 6 3 7. Ben Jonson, the posthumous son of a clergyman in Westminster, in early life worked as a bricklayer with his stepfather, but, disliking the occupation, he enlisted as a soldier, and served in the Low Countries. On his return, he became an actor in London, and began to write for the stage. His plays consist of the tragedies of The Fall of Sejanus and Catiline, and the comedies of Every Man in His Humour, Volpone or The Fox, Epicene or The Silent Woman, and The Alchemist. Jonson also brought to perfection the compositions called Masques, which were generally founded on some story from the Greek or Roman mythology, and formed a favourite amusement of the court. Jonson became poet-laureate in 1619. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, and the flagstone over his grave was inscribed with the words, 'O rare Ben Jonson !' THE FALL OF CATILINE. From Catiline. [The conspiracy of Catiline against the Roman Commonwealth was put an end to by a battle fought in Etruria between Catiline, at the head of 12,000 men, and the Roman army, commanded by Petreius.] Petreius. The straits and needs of Catiline being such, As he must fight with one of the two armies Struck the first stroke, and with it fled a life, His frighted horse, whom still the noise drove backward : Covered the earth they 'ad fought on with their trunks, Ambitious of great fame, to crown his ill, Collected all his fury, and ran in— Into our battle, like a Libyan lion Upon his hunters, scornful of our weapons, Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him, Then fell he too, t' embrace it where it lay. With those rebellious parts. 1 War, the goddess of war. HYMN TO DIANA. From the masque of Cynthia's Revels. [Diana, as sister of the sun-god Apollo, was regarded as the goddess of the moon. She was called Cynthia from Mount Cynthus, in the isle of Delos, the place of her birth.] Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep; State in wonted manner keep. Earth, let not thy envious shade Heaven to clear when day did close; Bless us then with wished sight, Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal shining quiver ; Give unto the flying hart, Space to breathe, how short soever; Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright! JOSEPH HALL: 1574-1656. Hall, Bishop of Norwich, is noted for his Satires, which Pope affirms 'to be the best poetry and the truest satire in the English language.' He is also distinguished as a prose-writer. (See Readings in English Prose, p. 24.) THE POOR GALLANT. From his Satires. Seest thou how gaily my young master goes, ... 'Tis Ruffio: Trow'st thou where he dined to-day? In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphrey.2 1 The evening, the west. 2 In St Paul's Cathedral, an open public place in the time of Queen Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer, Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host. His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head, As if he meant to wear a native cord, If chance his fates should him that bane afford. All British bare upon the bristled skin, Whose thousand double turnings never met: As if he meant to fly with linen wings. long Elizabeth, there was a tomb, erroneously supposed to be that of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, which was the resort of gentlemen upon town who had occasion to look out for a dinner. When unsuccessful in getting an invitation, they were said to dine with Duke Humphrey. BEAUMONT and FLETCHER. (Francis Beaumont: 1586–1615, and John Fletcher: 1576-1625.) Beaumont and Fletcher were two men of good birth and education, who wrote plays in company. Fifty-two dramatic compositions were the result of their literary partnership. They share with Ben Jonson the second rank in English dramatic literature. PALAMON AND ARCITE From The Two Noble Kinsmen. Pal. How do you, noble cousin? Arc. How do you, sir? Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery, And bear the chance of war yet; we are prisoners, I fear, for ever, cousin. Arc. I believe it, And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come. Pal. Oh, cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now? where is our noble country? The hardy youths strive for the games of honour, Outstript the people's praises, won the garlands Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses Like proud seas under us, our good swords now→ Arc. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us; here we are, 1 Captives in Greece. |