And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants,
To stifle us at home and show abroad,
More motley than the French or the Venetian,
About your coach, whose rude postilion
Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers
And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls,
And common cries pursue your ladyship
For hind'ring o' the market.

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.

Aret. Pray do; I like

Your homily of thrift.

Born. I could wish, madam, You would not game so much.

Aret. A gamester too?

Born. But are not come to that repentance yet Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit; You look not through the subtlety of cards And mysteries of dice, nor can you save Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls; Nor do I wish you should. My poorest servant Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire, Purchas'd beneath my honour. You may play, Not a pastime, but a tyranny, and vex Yourself and my estate by 't.

Arct. Good-proceed.

Born. Another game you have, which consumes more
Your fame than purse; your revels in the night,
Your meetings called the ball, to which appear,
As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants
And ladies, thither bound by a subpoena
Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure;
"Tis but the family of love translated
Into more costly sin. There was a play on 't,
And had the poet not been brib'd to a modest
Expression of your antic gambols in 't,

Some darks had been discover'd, and the deeds too;
In time he may repent, and make some blush
To see the second part danc'd on the stage.
My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me
By any foul act, but the virtuous know
"Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the
Suspicions of our shame.

Aret. Have you concluded

Your lecture?

Born. I have done; and howsoever

My language may appear to you, it carries
No other than my fair and just intent
To your delights, without curb to their modest
And noble freedom.

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

As much in heraldry

Mar. I do not know how rich he is in fields,
But he is a gentleman.

Bos. Is he a branch of the nobility?
How many lords can he call cousin ?-else
He must be taught to know he has presumed
To stand in competition with me.

Mar. You will not kill him?
Bos. You shall pardon me ;

I have that within me must not be provok'd;
There be some living now that have been kill'd
For lesser matters.

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
Knight of the Sun, king Oberon should not save him,
Nor his queen Mab.

Enter SIR AMBROSE LAMOUNT.

Mar. Unluckily he's here, sir.
Bos. Sir Ambrose,

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.

Bos. Hast thou'rt a brave knight, and I commend Thy judgment.

Amb. Sir Marmaduke himself leans that way too. Bos. Why didst conceal it? Come, the more the merrier.

But I could never see you there.
Mar. I hope,

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;

I could be knighted too.

Amb. That would be no addition to Your blood.

Bos. I think it would not; so my lord told me ;
Thou know'st my lord, not the earl, my other
Cousin there's a spark his predecessors
Have match'd into the blood; you understand
He put me upon this lady; I proclaim
No hopes; pray let's together, gentlemen ;
If she be wise-I say no more; she shall not
Cost me a sigh, nor shall her love engage me
To draw a sword; I have vow'd that.

Mar. You did but jest before.
Amb. "Twere pity that one drop

Of your heroic blood should fall to th' ground:
Who knows but all your cousin lords may die.
Mar. As I believe them not immortal, sir.
Amb. Then you are gulf of honour, swallow all,
May marry some queen yourself, and get princes
To furnish the barren parts of Christendom.

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

With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a-cold;

I stuff my skin so full within
Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side go bare, go bare;

Both foot and hand go cold;

But, belly, God send thee good ale enough,
Whether it be new or old.

I love no roast but a nut-brown toast,
And a crab laid in the fire;

And little bread shall do me stead;
Much bread I nought desire.

No frost, no snow, no wind, I trow,

Can hurt me if I wold,

I am so wrapp'd, and thoroughly lapp'd,
Of jolly good ale and old.

Back and side, &c.

And Tib, my wife, that as her life

Loveth well good ale to seek,
Full oft drinks she, till ye may see
The tears run down her cheek:
Then doth she troul to me the bowl,
Even as a maltworm should,

And saith,Sweetheart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and old.'

Back and side, &c.

No princely port, nor wealthy store,
Nor force to win a victory;
No wily wit to salve a sore,

No shape to win a loving eye;
To none of these I yield as thrall,
For why, my mind despise them all.
I see that plenty surfeits oft,

And hasty climbers soonest fall;
I see that such as are aloft,

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.
My wealth is health and perfect ease,

And conscience clear my chief defence; I never seek by bribes to please,

Nor by desert to give offence; Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all do so as well as I!

Song.

[From the same.]

What pleasure have great princes
More dainty to their choice,
Than herdsmen wild, who careless
In quiet life rejoice:

And Fortune's fate not fearing,
Sing sweet in summer morning.
Their dealings plain and rightful,
Are void of all deceit ;
They never know how spiteful
It is to feel and wait

On favourite presumptuous,
Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.

All day their flocks each tendeth,
All night they take their rest,
More quiet than who sendeth

His ship into the East,
Where gold and pearl are plenty,
But getting very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading
They esteem it not a straw;
They think that honest meaning
Is of itself a law;
Where Conscience judgeth plainly,
They spend no money vainly.

O happy who thus liveth,

Not caring much for gold, With clothing which sufficeth To keep him from the cold: Though poor and plain his diet, Yet merry it is and quiet.

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,
In idleness and play,

[From the Poor Widow's Mite.' By William Hunnis: 1585.]

Thou, God, that rul'st and reign'st in light,
That flesh cannot attain;

Thou, God, that know'st the thoughts of men
Are altogether vain ;

Thou, God, whom neither tongue of man

Nor angel can express;

Thou, God, it is that I do seek,
Thou pity my distress!

Thy seat, O God, is everywhere,
Thy power all powers transcend;
Thy wisdom cannot measured be,
For that it hath no end!

Thou art the power and wisdom too,
And sole felicity;

But I a lump of sinful flesh,
Nurse of iniquity.
Thou art by nature merciful,
And Mercy is thy name;
And I by nature miserable,

The thrall of sin and shame :
Then let thy nature, O good God!
Now work this force in me;
And cleanse the nature of my sin,

And heal my misery.

One depth, good Lord, another craves;
My depth of sinful crime

Requires the depth of mercy great,
For saving health in time.

Sweet Christ, grant that thy depth of grace
May swallow up my sin;
That I thereby may whiter be,
Than even snow hath been.

And then, as thou receivest, resign to her my throne.
A promise had for this bequest, the testator he dies,
But all that Edell undertook he afterward denies.
Yet well he fosters for a time the damsel, that was

grown

The fairest lady under heaven; whose beauty being known,

A many princes seek her love, but none might her obtain, For Grippel Edell to himselfher kingdom sought to gain; By chance one Curan, son unto a prince in Danske, did

see

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.
One while in melancholy fits he pines himself away;
Anon he thought by force of arms to win her if he may,
And still against the king's restraint did secretly in-
veigh.

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,
But solitarily to live amongst the country grownes.
A brace of years he lived thus; well-pleased so to live;
And shepherd-like to feed a flock, himself did wholly
give.

So wasting, love, by work and want, grew almost to the

And whilst his piebald cur did sleep, and sheep-hook lay him by,

On hollow quills of oaten 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

Or storms by sea, or stirs on land, or crack of credit lost, Nor spending franklier than his flock shall still defray the cost.

Well wot I, sooth they say, that say, more quiet nights and days

The shepherd sleeps and wakes than he whose cattle he doth graze.

Believe me, lass, a king is but a man, and so am I ; Content is worth a monarchy, and mischiefs hit the high.

As late it did a king and his, not dying far from hence,

Who left a daughter (save thyself) for fair, a matchless wench.'

Here did he pause, as if his tongue had made his

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 cheeks, 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 quiet 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 I 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

name;

In Edell's court sometimes in pomp, till love controll'd

But

the same:

now; what now? dear heart! how now? what ailest thou to weep?"

(The damsel wept, and he was woe, and both did silence keep.)

'I grant,' quoth she, it was too much, that you did love so much;

But whom your former could not move, your second love doth touch.

Thy twice beloved Agentile submitteth her to thee: And for thy double love presents herself a single fee; In passion, not in person chang'd, and I, my lord, am

she.'

They sweetly surfeiting in joy, and silent for a space, Whereas the ecstacy had end, did tenderly embrace; And for their wedding, and their wish, got fitting time and place.

Sonnet.

[By George Chapman, the Translator of Homer: 1595.] Muses, that sing Love's sensual empirie, And lovers kindling your enraged fires At Cupid's bonfires burning in the eye, Blown with the empty breath of vain desires; You, that prefer the painted cabinet Before the wealthy jewels it doth store ye, That all your joys in dying figures set, And stain the living substance of your glory; Abjure those joys, abhor their memory; And let my love the honour'd subject be Of love and honour's complete history! Your eyes were never yet let in to see The majesty and riches of the mind,

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,
Upon a summer's day,

I met a woodman, quaint and gent,
Yet in a strange array.

I marvell'd much at his disguise,
Whom I did know so well:

But thus, in terms both grave and wise,
His mind he 'gan to tell;

Friend! muse not at this fond array,

But list a while to me:
For it hath holpe me to survey
What I shall show to thee.

Long liv'd I in this forest fair,
Till, weary of my weal,
Abroad in walks I would repair,
As now I will reveal.

My first day's walk was to the court,
Where beauty fed mine eyes;
Yet found I that the courtly sport
Did mask in sly disguise:

For falsehood sat in fairest looks,
And friend to friend was coy :
Court favour fill'd but empty rooks,
And then I found no joy.

Desert went naked in the cold,

When crouching craft was fed :

Sweet words were cheaply bought and sold, But none that stood in stead.

Wit was employed for each man's own;
Plain meaning came too short;
All these devices, seen and known,

Made me forsake the court.

Unto the city next I went,

In hope of better hap;

Where liberally I launcht and spent,
As set on Fortune's lap.

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;
But when my purse did fail,
The foremost man came last behind :
Thus love with wealth doth quail.

Once more for footing yet I strove,
Although the world did frown:
But they, before that held me up,
Together trod me down.

And, lest once more I should arise,
They sought my quite decay:
Then got I into this disguise,
And thence I stole away.

And in my mind (methought), I said,
Lord bless me from the city:
Where simpleness is thus betray'd
Without remorse or pity.

Yet would I not give over so,
But once more try my fate;
And to the country then I go,
To live in quiet state.

There did appear no subtle shows,

But yea and nay went smoothly;
But, lord! how country folks can gloze,
When they speak most untruly!

More craft was in a buttoned cap,
And in an old wife's rail,
Than in my life it was my hap
To see on down or dale.

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,
But had such close intending,
That I upon my knees did fall,

And pray'd for their amending.

Back to the woods I got again,

In mind perplexed sore;
Where I found ease of all my pain,
And mean to stray no more.

There city, court, nor country too,
Can any way annoy me;
But as a woodman ought to do,
I freely may employ me;

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;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do inclose
Of orient pearl a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:
Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,
Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.