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 Hedon and Anaides to themselves, and were brooding over their revenge when the Poetaster came forth, in which Dekker was recognized 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 spunging-houses, and an inmate of the King's Bench prison*. Oldys thinks that he was alive in 1638. FORTUNE GIVING FORTUNATUS HIS CHOICE OF GOODS. 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 Night, 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 : Be ever merry, ever revelling: 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 Fort. Oh, whither am I rapt beyond myself? To himself he lives, and to all else seems dead : Than of a thread-bare saint in wisdom's school. For. Thy latest words confine thy destiny; 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! 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 *[ 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 occur in them; and I examined the MSS. belonging to the Parish Clerks' Hall, in Wood Street, with as little success."-DYCE's Webster, vol. i. p. 1.] 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, 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. M 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. VITTORIA, THE MISTRESS OF BRACHIANO, RELATING HER DREAM TO HIM. FROM VITTORIA COROMBONA, THE VENETIAN COURTEZAN. Persons.- -VITTORIA COROMBONA; DUKE OF BRACHIANO; COROMBONA, the mother, and FLAMINEO, the brother of VITTORIA. [grace Vittoria. To pass away the time, I'll tell your A dream I had last night. Brachiano. Most wishedly. Vit. A foolish idle dream : Methought I walk'd, about the mid of night, Chequer'd with cross sticks, there came stealing in Bra. That tree? Vit. This harmless yew. They told me my intent was to root up That well-grown yew, and plant i'the stead of it A wither'd black-thorn, and for that they vow'd To bury me alive: my husband straight With pick-axe 'gan to dig, and your fell duchess, With shovel, like a fury, voided out The earth, and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methought I trembled, and yet for all this terror I could not pray. Fla. No, the devil was in your dream. Vit. When to my rescue there arose methought And both were struck dead by that sacred yew, To make away his duchess, and her husband. you From all the fevers of a jealous husband, Cor. Woe to light hearts, they still forerun our fall. 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, Servant. Duch. WHAT hideous noise was that? Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother Duch. Indeed I thank him: nothing but noise 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 Duch. Thou art a fool: The robin-redbreast and the nightingale Cari. Pray dry your eyes. Duch. Of nothing: 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. am acquainted with sad misery, As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar: A deal of life in show, but none in practice; 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. Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still. 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? 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 tombs Do not lie, as they were wont, seeming to pray, Up to heaven; but with their hands under their cheeks (As if they died of the tooth-ache); they are not carved With their eyes fix'd upon the stars: but as Their minds were wholly bent upon the world, The self-same way they seem to turn their faces. Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk, fit for a charnel! Bos. Now I shall. Here is a present from your princely brothers, [A coffin, cords, and a bell. And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow. Duch. Let me see it : I have so much obedience in my blood, Cari. O my sweet lady! Duch. Peace, it affrights not me. Bos. I am the common bellman, That usually is sent to condemn'd persons The night before they suffer. Duch. Even now thou said'st Thou wast a tomb-maker? Bos. 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification. Listen: The screech-owl and the whistler shrill, And bid her quickly don her shroud. Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? Cari. Hence villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas! What will you do with my lady? call for help. Duch. To whom, to our next neighbours? they Bos. Remove that noise. [are mad folks. Duch. Farewell, Cariola ; In my last will I have not much to give- Cari. I will die with her. Duch. I pray thee look thou givest my little boy Some syrup for his cold, and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep. Now what you please. What death? Bos. Strangling: here are your executioners. The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' lungs, Bos. Doth not death fright you? Bos. Yet, methinks, The manner of your death should much afflict you? This cord should terrify you. Duch. Not a whit: What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls ? So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers Duch. Pull, and pull strongly; for your able Fetch her some other strangle the children. Cari. Oh, you are damn'd Perpetually for this. My turn is next, Bos. Yes; and I am glad I am not prepared for't; I will not die; I will first come to my answer, and know Bos. Come, despatch her! You kept her counsel, now you shall keep ours. Cari. I will not die; I must not; I am contracted And should I die this instant, I had lived Bos. It seems she was born first. You have bloodily approved the ancient truth, Ferd. Let me see her face again. An excellent honest man might'st thou have been, I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits, An infinite mass of treasure by her death; And what was the main cause? Her marriage! Bos. Let me quicken your memory, for I perceive |