to have disliked Jonson's indulgence in that conviviality which Ben had shared with his Fletcher and Shakspeare at the Mermaid. In consequence of those anecdotes, Jonson's memory has been damned for brutality, and Drummond's for perfidy. Jonson drank freely at Hawthornden, and talked big-things neither incredible nor unpardonable. Drummond's perfidy amounted to writing a letter, beginning "Sir," with one very❘ kind sentence in it, to the man whom he had described unfavourably in a private memorandum, which he never meant for publication. As to Drummond's decoying Jonson under his roof with any premeditated design on his reputation, no one can seriously believe it*. By the continued kindness of King James, our poet was, some years after [Sept. 1621,] presented with the reversionary grant of the mastership of the revels, but from which he derived no advantage, as the incumbent, Sir John Astley, survived him. It fell, however, to the poet's son, by the permission of Charles I.+ King James, in the contemplation of his laureat's speedy accession to this office, was desirous of conferring on him the rank of knighthood; but Jonson was unwilling to accept the distinction, and prevailed on some of his friends about the court to dissuade the monarch from his purpose. After the death of his patron James, necessity brought him again upon the theatre, and he produced the Staple of News, a comedy of no ordinary merit. Two evils were at this time rapidly gaining on him, "Disease and poverty, fell pair." He was attacked by the palsy in 1625, and had also a tendency to dropsy, together with a scorbutic affection inherent from his youth, which pressed upon the decaying powers of his constitution. From the first stroke of the palsy he gradually recovered so far as to be able to write, in the following year, the antimasque of Sophiel. For the three succeeding years his biographer suspects that the court had ceased to call upon him for his customary contributions, a circumstance which must have aggravated his poverty; and his salary, it appears, was irregularly paid. Meanwhile his infirmities increased, and he was unable to leave his room. In these circumstances he produced his New Inn, a comedy that was driven from the stage with violent hostility. The epilogue to this piece forms a melancholy contrast to the tone of his former addresses to the audience. [*" The furious invective of Gifford against Drummond for having written private memoranda of his conversations with Ben Jonson, which he did not publish, and which, for aught we know, were perfectly faithful, is absurd. Any one else would have been thankful for so much literary anecdote."-HALLAM, Lit. Hist.vol.iii. p.505.] [t This is not quite correct: the son died in 1635, Ben himself in 1637, and Astley a year or so after. Astley thus survived the father, to whom the reversion had been granted, and the son, to whom the transfer had been made. See GIFFORD, p. cxliv. and COLLIER's Annals, vol. ii. p. 89. Sir Henry Herbert was Astley's successor.] He "whom the morning saw so great and hight," was now so humble as to speak of his "faint and faultering tongue, and of his brain set round with pain." An allusion to the king and queen in the same epilogue awoke the slumbering kindness of Charles, who instantly sent him 1007. and, in compliance with the poet's request, also converted the 100 marks of his salary into pounds, and added, of his own accord, a yearly tierce of canary, Jonson's favourite wine. His majesty's injunctions for the preparation of masques for the court were also renewed till they were discontinued at the suggestion of Inigo Jones, who preferred the assistance of one Aurelian Townsend to that of Jonson, in the furnishing of those entertainments. His means of subsistence were now, perhaps, both precariously supplied and imprudently expended. The city in 1631, from whom he had always received a yearly allowance of 100 nobles, by way of securing his assistance in their pageants, withdrew their pensions. He was compelled by poverty to supplicate the Lord Treasurer Weston for relief. On the rumour of his necessities, assistance came to him from various quarters, and from none more liberally than from the Earl of Newcastle. On these and other timely bounties his sickly existence was propped up to accomplish two more comedies, the Magnetic Lady, which appeared in 1632, and the Tale of a Tub, which came out in the following year. In the last of these, the last, indeed, of his dramatic career, he endeavoured to introduce some ridicule on Inigo Jones, through the machinery of a puppet-show. Jones had distinguished himself at the representation of the Magnetic Lady, by his boisterous derision. The attempt at retaliation was more natural than dignified; but the court prevented it, and witnessed the representation of the play at Whitehall with coldness. Whatever humour its manners contain, was such as courtiers were not likely to understand. In the spring of 1633 Charles visited Scotland, and on the road was entertained by the Earl of Newcastle with all the luxury and pageantry of loyal hospitality. To grace the entertainment, Jonson sent, in grateful obedience to his benefactor the Earl, a little interlude, entitled, Love's Welcome at Welbeck, and another of the same kind for the king and queen's reception at Bolsover. In despatching the former of these to his noble patron, the poet alludes to his past bounties, which had "fallen, like the dew of Heaven, on his necessities." In his unfinished pastoral drama of the Sad Shepherd, his biographer traces one bright and sunny ray that broke through the gloom of his setting days. Amongst his papers were found the plot and opening of a domestic tragedy on the story of Mortimer Earl of March, together with the Discoveries, and Grammar of the English Tongue; works containing, no doubt, the philological and critical reflections of more vigorous years, but which, it is probable that he must have continued to write till he was near his dissolution. That event took place on the 6th of August, 1637. SONG OF HESPERUS. IN CYNTHIA'S REVELS, QUEEN, and huntress, chaste and fair, Earth, let not thy envious shade Lay thy bow of pearl apart, Space to breathe, how short soever : SONG. IN THE SILENT WOMAN. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, Give me a look, give me a face, They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. If all the air my Flora drew, To dance their wilder rounds about, Of sweet, and several sliding rills, SONG OF NIGHT. IN THE MASQUE OF THE VISION OF DELIGHT. BREAK, Phant'sie, from thy cave of cloud, And various shapes of things; It must have blood, and nought of phlegm ; And though it be a waking dream, Cho. Yet let it like an odour rise To all the senses here, And fall like sleep upon their eyes, CHORUS. IN THE SAME. In curious knots and mazes so, And thence did Venus learn to lead As if the wind, not she, did walk; ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. FROM HIS EPIGRAMS. THIS morning, timely rapt with holy fire, I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, What kind of creature I could most desire, To honour, serve, and love; as poets use. I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise, Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great; I meant the day-star should not brighter rise, Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride; I meant each softest virtue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learned, and a manly soul I purposed her; that should, with even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the sheers control Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see, My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she! EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L. II. WOULD'ST thou hear what man can say In a little reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die : Which in life did harbour give To more virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault. The other let it sleep with death: TO CELIA. FROM "THE FOREST." Kiss me, sweet! the wary lover Or the stars that gild his streams, In the silent summer-nights, SONG. FROM THE SAME, FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you; At morn and even shades are longest ; But grant us perfect, they're not known. [* "Pembrok and his Lady discoursing, the Earl said, The woemen were men's shadowes, and she maintained them. Both appealing to Jonson, he affirmed it true, for which my Lady gave a pennance to prove it in verse; hence his epigram."-DRUMMOND'S Informations, Arch. Scot. iv. 95.] SONG TO CELIA. FROM THE SAME. DRINK to me, only with thine eyes, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise, But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, It could not wither'd be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. In a body should be there. Well he should his clothes, too, wear, Or were set up in a brake. Valiant he should be as fire, Showing danger more than ire. Bounteous as the clouds to earth, And as honest as his birth; All his actions to be such, As to do no thing too much : Nor do wrongs, nor wrongs receive, Such a man, with every part, FROM THE CELEBRATION OF CHARIS. Of your trouble, Ben, to ease me, And a woman God did make me ; Young I'd have him too, and fair, He should have a hand as soft SONG. Oн do not wanton with those eyes, O be not angry with those fires, For then their threats will kill me ; Nor look too kind on my desires, For then my hopes will spill me. O do not steep them in thy tears, A NYMPH'S PASSION. I LOVE, and he loves me again, Yet dare I not tell who; For if the nymphs should know my swain, I fear they'd love him too; Yet if he be not known, The pleasure is as good as none, For that's a narrow joy is but our own. I'll tell, that if they be not glad, It were a plague 'bove scorn: He is, if they can find him, fair, That are this morning blown; And fear much more, that more of him be shown. But he hath eyes so round, and bright, Where Love may all his torches light, But then, t' increase my fears, What nymph soe'er his voice but hears, Will be my rival, though she have but ears. I'll tell no more, and yet I love, And he loves me ; yet no One unbecoming thought doth move But so exempt from blame, EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. UNDERNEATH this sable herse THE PICTURE OF THE BODY. SITTING, and ready to be drawn, Send these suspected helps to aid Yet something to the painter's view, Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, Then let the beams of that disperse FROM THE FOX. VOLPONE, aided by his servant Mosca, cheating the visitants who bring him presents, each in the hope of being his heir. Volp. Good morning to the day; and next, my gold! Open the shrine, that I may see my saint. [MOSCA withdraws the curtain, and discovers piles of gold, plate, jewels, &c. Hail the world's soul, and mine! more glad than is The teeming earth to see the long'd-for sun Peep through the horns of the celestial Ram, Am I, to view thy splendour darkening his ; That lying here, amongst my other hoards, Show'st like a flame by night, or like the day Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled Unto the centre. O thou son of Sol, But brighter than thy father, let me kiss, With adoration, thee, and every relic Of sacred treasure in this blessed room. Well did wise poets, by thy glorious name, Title that age which they would have the best ; Thou being the best of things, and far transcending All style of joy, in children, parents, friends, Or any other waking dream on earth: Thy looks when they to Venus did ascribe, [pids; They should have given her twenty thousand CuSuch are thy beauties and our loves! Dear saint, Riches, the dumb god, that givest all men tongues, That canst do nought, and yet makest men do all things; The price of souls; even hell, with thee to boot, Is made worth heaven. Thou art virtue, fame, Honour, and all things else. Who can get thee, He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise Mos. And what he will, sir. Riches are in forA greater good than wisdom is in nature. [tune Volp. True, my beloved Mosca. Yet I glory More in the cunning purchase of my wealth, Than in the glad possession, since I gain No common way; I use no trade, no venture: I wound no earth with plough-shares, fat no beasts, To feed the shambles; have no mills for iron, Oil, corn, or men, to grind them into powder : I blow no subtle glass, expose no ships To threat'nings of the furrow-faced sea: I turn no monies in the public bank, Mos. No, sir, nor devour Soft prodigals. You shall have some will swallow |