&c.

A third class of his pe performances disclosed the writer's peculiar knowledge of all town vices and villainies-as A Notable Discovery of Cozenage, Coney-catching, The Black Book's Messenger, &c. The plays of Greene are-Orlando Furioso, a tragedy; Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay; Alphonsus, King of Arragon; Fames IV.; George-a-Green, the Pinner of Wakefield; and a 'mystery play,' written in conjunction with Lodge, called A Looking-glass for London and England. Amidst a good deal of bombast and extravagance, there is genuine poetry in these plays. Some of the verses scattered through the tales are also remarkable for sweetness of expression and ornate diction. In his Pandosto, from which Shakspeare took the plot of his Winter's Tale, are the following lines:

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair,

Or but as mild as she is seeming so,

Then were my hopes greater than my despair-
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt e'en with the mildest touch,
Then knew I where to seat me in a land
Under the wide heavens, but yet not such.
So as she shews, she seems the budding rose,
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;
Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows,
Compassed she is with thorns and cankered flower;
Yet, were she willing to be plucked and worn,

She would be gathered though she grew on thorn.

The blank verse of Greene approaches next to that of Marlowe, though less energetic. His imagination was lively and discursive, fond of legendary lore, and filled with classical images and illustrations. In his Orlando, he thus apostrophises the evening star :

Fair queen of love, thou mistress of delight,
Thou gladsome lamp that wait'st on Phœbe's train,
Spreading thy kindness through the jarring orbs,
That in their union praise thy lasting powers;
Thou that hast stayed the fiery Phlegon's course,
And mad'st the coachman of the glorious wain
To droop in view of Daphne's excellence;
Fair pride of morn, sweet beauty of the even,
Look on Orlando languishing in love.
Sweet solitary groves, whereas the nymphs
With pleasance laugh to see the satyrs play,
Witness Orlando's faith unto his love.

various tricks, receives the pardon of King Edward :

George-a-Green, give me thy hand: there is None in England that shall do thee wrong. Even from my court I came to see thyself, And now I see that fame speaks nought but truth. The following is a specimen of the simple humour and practical jokes in the play; it is in a scene between George and his servant :

Jenkin. This fellow comes to me,
And takes me by the bosom: 'You slave,'
Said he, 'hold my horse, and look
He takes no cold in his feet.'

No, marry, shall he, sir,' quoth I;
'I'll lay my cloak underneath him.'
I took my cloak, spread it all along,
And set his horse on the midst of it.

George. Thou clown, didst thou set his horse upon
thy cloak?

Jenkin. Ay, but mark how I served him. Madge and he were no sooner gone down into the ditch, But I plucked out my knife, cut four holes in my cloak, And made his horse stand on the bare ground.

Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay is Greene's best comedy. His friars are conjurers, and the piece concludes with one of their pupils being carried off to hell on the back of one of Friar Bacon's devils. Mr Collier thinks this was one of the latest instances of the devil being brought upon the stage in propria persona. The play was acted in 1591, but may have been produced a year or two earlier.

In some hour of repentance, when death was nigh at hand, Greene wrote a tract, called A Groats Worth of Wit, bought with a Million of Repentance, in which he deplores his fate more feelingly than Nash, and also gives ghostly advice to his acquaintances that spend their wit in making plays.' The first he styles 'thou famous gracer of tragedians,' and he accuses him of atheism: 'why should thy excellent wit, His gift, be so blinded, that thou shouldst give no glory to the giver?" The allusion here is clearly to Marlowe, whom all his contemporaries charge with atheism. The second dramatist is addressed as 'Young Juvenal, that biting satirist that lastly with me together writ a comedy sweet boy, might I advise thee, be advised, and get not many enemies by bitter words; inveigh against vain men, for thou canst do it-no man better, no man so well.' Lodge is supposed to be the party here addressed. Finally, Greene counsels another dramatist, 'no less deserving than the

Tread she these lawns?-kind Flora, boast thy pride: Seek she for shades?-spread, cedars, for her sake.

Fair Flora, make her couch amidst thy flowers.

Sweet crystal springs,

Wash ye with roses when she longs to drink.

Smile, joy in her that my content hath wrought.

Passages like this prove that Greene succeeds well, as Hallam remarks, 'in that florid and gay style, a little redundant in images, which Shak speare frequently gives to his princes and courtiers,

happy talent,

a

O tiger's heart, wrapt in a woman's hide!

The Winter's Tale is believed to be one of Shakspeare's late dramas, not written till long after Greene's death; consequently, if this be correct, the unhappy man could not allude to the plagiarism of the plot from his tale of Pandosto. Some forgotten play of Greene and his friend may have been alluded to; perhaps the old dramas on which Shakspeare constructed his Henry VI. for in one of these the line O tiger's heart, &c. also occurs. These old plays, however, seem above the pitch of Greene in tragedy. Shakspeare was certainly indebted to Marlowe, one of the dramatists thus addressed by Greene. The Groat's Worth of Wit was published after Greene's death by a brotherdramatist, Henry Chettle, who, in the preface to a subsequent work, apologised indirectly for the allusion to Shakespeare. 'I am as sorry,' he says, 'as if the original fault had been my fault, because myself have seen his demeanour no less civil than he excellent in the quality he professes. Besides, divers of worship have reported his uprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that approves his art.' This is a valuable statement: full justice is done Shakspeare's moral worth and civil deportment, depo and to his respectability as an actor and author. Chettle's apology or explanation was made in 1593.

to

The conclusion of Greene's Groat's Worth of Wit contains more pathos than all his plays; it is a harrowing picture of genius debased by vice, and sorrowing in repentance :

But now return I again to you three [Marlowe, Lodge, and Peele], knowing my misery is to you no news: and let me heartily entreat you to be warned by my harms. Delight not, as I have done, in irreligious oaths, despise drunkenness, fly lust, abhor those epicures whose loose life hath made religion loathsome to your ears; and when they soothe you with terms of mastership, remember Robert Greene-whom they have often flattered-perishes for want of comfort. Remember, gentlemen, your lives are like so many light-tapers that are with care delivered to all of you to maintain; these, with wind-puffed wrath, may be extinguished, with drunkenness put out, with negligence let fall. The fire of my light is now at the last snuff. My hand is tired, and I forced to leave where I would begin; desirous that you should live, though himself be dying. -ROBERT GREENE,

His death was wretched in the extreme. Having, at a supper where Nash was a guest, indulged to excess in pickled herrings and Rhenish wine, he contracted a mortal illness, under which he continued for a month, supported by a poor charitable cordwainer; and he was buried the day after his death in the New Churchyard near Bedlam, the cost of his funeral being 6s. 4d. Harvey says Greene's corpse was decked by the cordwainer's wife with 'a garland of bays, pursuant to his last request !"

Content.-A Sonnet.

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content :
The quiet mind is richer than a crown :
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent :
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride nor care,

The mean, that 'grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth's and music's fare.
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

Sephestia's Song to her Child, after escaping from
Shipwreck.

Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy,
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe,
Fortune changed made him so ;
When he had left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leapt;
More he crowed, more he cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide;
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bless;
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

The Shepherd and his Wife.

It was near a thicky shade,
That broad leaves of beech had made,
Joining all their tops so nigh,
That scarce Phœbus in could pry;
Where sat the swain and his wife,
Sporting in that pleasing life,
That Corydon commendeth so,
All other lives to over-go.
He and she did sit and keep
Flocks of kids and flocks of sheep :
He upon his pipe did play,
She tuned voice unto his lay.
And, for you might her housewife know,
Voice did sing and fingers sew.
He was young, his coat was green,
With welts of white seamed between,
Turned over with a flap,

That breast and bosom in did wrap,
Skirts side and plighted free,
Seemly hanging to his knee,
A whittle with a silver chape;
Cloak was russet, and the cape
Served for a bonnet oft,
To shroud him from the wet aloft :
A leather scrip of colour red,
With a button on the head;
A bottle full of country whig,
By the shepherd's side did lig;
And in a little bush hard by,
There the shepherd's dog did lie,
Who, while his master 'gan to sleep,
Well could watch both kids and sheep.
The shepherd was a frolic swain,
For, though his 'parel was but plain,
Yet do the authors soothly say,
His colour was both fresh and gay;
And in their writs plain discuss,
Fairer was not Tityrus,
Nor Menalcas, whom they call
The alderleefest1 swain of all!
Seeming him was his wife,
Both in line and in life.
Fair she was, as fair might be,
Like the roses on the tree;

1 Alder, of all; alderleefest, or alderlevest, dearest of all.

135

With drops of blood, to make the white

Please the eye with more delight.
Love did lie within her eyes,
In ambush for some wanton prize;
A leefer lass than this had been,
Corydon had never seen.
Nor was Phillis, that fair May,
Half so gaudy or so gay.
She wore a chaplet on her head;
Her cassock was of scarlet red,
Long and large, as straight as bent;
Her middle was both small and gent.
A neck as white as whales' bone,
Compast with a lace of stone;
Fine she was, and fair she was,
Brighter than the brightest glass;
Such a shepherd's wife as she
Was not more in Thessaly.

Philador, seeing this couple sitting thus lovingly, noted

concord of country amity, and began to conjecture with himself, what a sweet kind of life those men use, who were by their birth too low for dignity, and by their fortunes too simple for envy; well, he thought to fall in prattle with them, had not the shepherd taken his pipe in hand, and begun to play, and his wife to sing out, this roundelay.

Ah! what is love? It is a pretty thing,
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,

And sweeter too :

THOMAS LODGE.

THOMAS LODGE is usually classed among the precursors of Shakspeare; he was a poor dramatist. He wrote one tragedy, The Wounds of Civil War, lively set forth in the True Tragedies of Marius and Sylla, 1594. This is in blank verse, but without modulation, and the play is heavy and uninteresting. The 'mystery-play,' A Looking-glass for London and England, written by Lodge and Greene, is directed to the defence of the stage. It applies the scriptural story of Nineveh to the city of London, and amidst drunken buffoonery and clownish mirth, contains some powerful satirical writing.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.

The greatest of Shakspeare's precursors in the drama was CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE-a fiery imaginative spirit, who first imparted consistent character and energy to the stage, in connection with a high-sounding and varied blank verse. Marlowe was born at Canterbury, and baptised on the 26th of February 1563-4. He was the son of a shoemaker, but through the aid of some local patron-supposed to be Sir Roger Manwood, chief baron of the Exchequer, on whom he wrote a Latin epitaph-he was admitted into the King's School of Canterbury, founded for the education of fifty scholars, who received each a stipend of £4 per annum, and retained their scholarships for five years. From this institution, Marlowe was enabled to proceed, in 1581, to Bennet College, Cambridge, where he took the degree of B.A. in 1583, and that of M.A. in 1587. Previous to this, he is supposed to have written his tragedy of Tamburlaine the Great, which was successfully brought out on the stage, and long continued a favourite. Shakspeare makes ancient Pistol quote, in ridicule, part of this play:

Holla, ye pampered jades of Asia, &c.

But, amidst the rant and fustian of Tamburlaine, there are passages of great beauty and wild grandeur, and the versification justifies the compliment afterwards paid by Ben Jonson, in the words, 'Marlowe's mighty line.' His lofty blank verse is one of his most characteristic features. His second play, the Life and Death of Dr Faustus, exhibits a far wider range of dramatic power than his first tragedy. The hero studies necromancy, and makes a solemn disposal of his soul to Lucifer, on condition of having a familiar spirit at his command, and unlimited enjoyment for twenty-four years; during which period Faustus visits different countries, 'calls up spirits from the vasty deep,' and revels in luxury and splendour. At length the time expires, the bond becomes due, and a party of evil spirits enter, amidst thunder and lightning, to claim his forfeited life and person. Such a plot afforded scope for deep passion and variety of adventure, and Marlowe has constructed from it a powerful though irregular play. Scenes and passages of terrific grandeur and the most thrilling agony, are intermixed with low humour and preternatural machinery, often ludicrous and grotesque. The ambition of Faustus is a sensual, not a lofty ambition. A feeling of curiosity and

wonder is excited by his necromancy and his strange compact with Lucifer; but we do not fairly sympathise with him till all his disguises are stripped off, and his meretricious splendour is succeeded by horror and despair. Then, when he stands on the brink of everlasting ruin, waiting for the fatal moment, imploring, yet distrusting repentance, a scene of enchaining interest, fervid passion, and overwhelming pathos, carries captive the sternest heart, and proclaims the full triumph of the tragic poet.

Scenes from Marlowe's Faustus.
FAUSTUS.-WAGNER, his Servant.

Faustus. Say, Wagner, thou hast perused my will.
How dost thou like it?

Wagner. Sir, so wondrous well,

As in all humble duty I do yield
My life and lasting service for your love.

Three Scholars enter.

Faust. Gramercy, Wagner.

Welcome, gentlemen.

Faust. O gentlemen.

Second Scholar. What ails Faustus?

Faust. Ah, my sweet chamber-fellow, had I lived with thee, then had I lived still, but now must die eternally. Look, sirs, comes he not? comes he not?

First Sch. O my dear Faustus, what imports this

fear?

both body and soul.

Sec. Sch. Yet, Faustus, look up to Heaven, and remember mercy is infinite.

Faust. But Faustus's offence can ne'er be pardoned. The serpent that tempted Eve may be saved, saved, but not Faustus. O gentlemen, me with patience, and tremble not at my speeches. Though my heart pant and quiver to remember that I have been a student here these thirty years, oh, would I had ne'er seen Wirtemberg, never read book! and what wonders have I done, all Germany can witness, yea, all the world: for which Faustus hath lost both Germany and the world; yea, heaven itself-heaven the seat of God, the throne of the blessed, the kingdom of joy-and must remain in hell for Hell, O hell, for ever. Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus being in hell for ever?

ever.

Sec. Sch. Yet, Faustus, call on God.

Faust. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured? on God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed? O my God, I would weep, but the devil draws in my tears. Gush | forth blood instead of tears, yea, life and soul! Oh, he stays my tongue: I would lift up my hands, but see, they hold 'em, they hold 'em !

Scholars. Who, Faustus?

That Faustus may repent and save his soul.
O lente lente currite, noctis equi.

The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,
The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned.
Oh, I will leap to heaven: who pulls me down?

See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament:

One drop of blood will save me: Oh, my Christ,
Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ.
Yet will I call on him: O spare me, Lucifer.
Where is it now? 'tis gone!

And see a threatening arm and angry brow.
Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me,
And hide me from the heavy wrath of Heaven.
No? then I will headlong run into the earth:
Gape, earth! O no, it will not harbour me.
You stars that reigned at my nativity,
Whose influence have allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist
Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud;
That when you vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths,
But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven.

The Watch strikes.

Oh, half the hour is past: 'twill all be past anon.
Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin,
Impose some end to my incessant pain.
Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years,
A hundred thousand, and at the last be saved :
No end is limited to damned souls.

Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul?
Or why is this immortal that thou hast ?
Oh, Pythagoras' metempsychosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be changed
Into some brutish beast.

All beasts are happy, for when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolved in elements;

But mine must live still to be plagued in hell.

men, I gave them my soul for my cunning.

Scholars. O God forbid!

Faust. God forbid it indeed, but Faustus hath done it: for the vain pleasure of four-and-twenty years hath Faustus lost eternal joy and felicity. I writ them a bill with mine own blood; the date is expired: this is the time, and he will fetch me.

First Sch. Why did not Faustus tell of this before, that divines might have prayed for thee?

Faust. Oft have I thought to have done so; but the devil threatened to tear me in pieces if I named God; to fetch me body and soul if I once gave ear to divinity;

No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer,

That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven.

The Clock strikes Twelve.

It strikes, it strikes; now, body, turn to air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell.

Thunder, and enter the Devils.

O soul, be changed into small water-drops,
And fall into the ocean: ne'er be found.
O mercy, Heaven, look not so fierce on me.
Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while :

First Sch. Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus,

For such a dreadful night was never seen

Since first the world's creation did begin;

Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard;

Pray Heaven the Doctor have escaped the danger.

Sec. Sch. O help us, heavens! see, here are Faustus' limbs,

All torn asunder by the hand of death.

Third Sch. The devil whom Faustus served hath torn him thus:

For 'twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought
I heard him shriek and call aloud for help;
At which same time the house seemed all on fire
With dreadful horror of these damned fiends.

Sec. Sch. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be

straight,

And burned is Apollo's laurel bough

That sometime grew within this learned man:
Faustus is gone! Regard his hellish fall,
Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise
Only to wonder at unlawful things;
Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits
To practise more than heavenly power permits.

The classical taste of Marlowe is evinced in the fine apostrophe to Helen of Greece, whom the spirit Mephistophilis conjures up 'between two Cupids,' to gratify the sensual gaze of Faustus:

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships
And burned the topless towers of Ilium ?
Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!
Her lips suck forth my soul-see where it flies.
Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again:
Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips,
And all is dross that is not Helena.
I will be Paris, and for love of thee,
Instead of Troy shall Wittenberg be sacked;
And I will combat with weak Menelaus,
And wear thy colours on my plumed crest:
Yea, I will wound Achilles in the heel,
And then return to Helen for a kiss.

Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air,
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appeared to hapless Semele;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa's azure arms;

And none but thou shalt be my paramour.

Before 1593, Marlowe produced three other dramas-the Jew of Malta, the Massacre at Paris, and a historical play, Edward II. The more malignant passions of the human breast have rarely been represented with such force as they are in the Jew.

Passages from the 'Jew of Malta:

In one of the early scenes, Barabas the Jew is deprived of his wealth by the governor of Malta. While being comforted in his distress by two Jewish friends, he thus denounces his oppressors:

The plagues of Egypt, and the curse of heaven,
Earth's barrenness, and all men's hatred

Inflict upon them, thou great Primus Motor!
And here, upon my knees, striking the earth,
I ban their souls to everlasting pains
And extreme tortures of the fiery deep,

That thus have dealt with me in my distress.

So deeply have his misfortunes imbittered his life, that he would have it appear he is tired of it:

And henceforth wish for an eternal night,
That clouds of darkness may inclose my flesh,

And hide these extreme sorrows from mine eyes.

But when his comforters are gone, he throws off the mask of sorrow to shew his real feelings, which suggest to him schemes of the subtlest vengeance. With the fulfilment of these, the rest of the play is occupied, and when, having taken terrible vengeance on his enemies, he is overmatched himself, he thus confesses his crimes, and closes his career.

Then, Barabas, breathe forth thy latest fate,
And in the fury of thy torments, strive
To end thy life with resolution:

Know, governor, 'tis I that slew thy son;
I framed the challenge that did make them meet.
Know, Calymath, I aimed thy overthrow;
And had I but escaped this stratagem,

I would have brought confusion on you all,
Damned Christian dogs, and Turkish infidels.
But now begins the extremity of heat
To pinch me with intolerable pangs.

Die, life; fly, soul; tongue, curse thy fill, and die.

[Dies.

Edward II. is greatly superior to the two plays mentioned in connection with it: it is a noble drama, with ably drawn characters and splendid scenes. Another tragedy, Lust's Dominion, was published long after Marlowe's death, with his name, as author, on the title-page. Mr Collier has shewn that this play, as it was then printed, was a much later production, and was probably written by Dekker and others. It contains passages and characters, however, characteristic of Marlowe's style, and he may have written the original outline. The old play of Taming of a Shrew, printed in 1594, contains numerous lines to be found also in Marlowe's acknowledged works, and hence it has been conjectured that he was its author. Great uncertainty hangs over many of the old dramas, from the common practice of managers of theatres employing different authors, at subsequent periods, to furnish additional matter for established plays. Even Faustus was dressed up in this manner: In 1597-four years after Marlowe's death-Dekker was paid 20s. for making additions to this tragedy; and in other five years, Birde and Rowley were paid £4 for further additions to it. Another source of uncertainty as to the paternity of old plays, was the unscrupulous manner in which booksellers appropriated any popular name of the day, and affixed it to their publications. In addition to the above dramatic productions, Marlowe joined with Nash in writing the tragedy of Dido, Queen of Carthage, and translated part of Hero and Leander-afterwards completed by Chapman -and the Elegies of Ovid. The latter was so licentious as to be burned by order of the Archbishop of Canterbury, yet they were often reprinted, in defiance of the ecclesiastical interdict. Poor Marlowe lived, as he wrote, wildly: he was accused of entertaining atheistical opinions, a charge brought against him equally by his associates and by rigid moral censors. He evidently felt what he makes his own Tamburlaine express: