And, though but plain, to purpose woo,
Nay, often with less danger too.
Those that delight in dainties' store,
One stomach feed at once, no more;
And, when with homely fare we feast,
With us it doth as well digest;
And many times we better speed,
For our wild fruits no surfeits breed.
If we sometimes the willow wear,
By subtle swains that dare forswear,
We wonder whence it comes, and fear
They've been at court, and learnt it there.

[Shipwreck by Drink.]

[From the English Traveller.]

This gentleman and I

Passed but just now by your next neighbour's house,
Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel,
An unthrift youth; his father now at sea:

And there this night was held a sumptuous feast.
In the height of their carousing, all their brains
Warmed with the heat of wine, discourse was offered
Of ships and storms at sea: when suddenly,
Out of his giddy wildness, one conceives
The room wherein they quaffed to be a pinnace
Moving and floating, and the confused noise
To be the murmuring winds, gusts, mariners;
That their unsteadfast footing did proceed
From rocking of the vessel. This conceived,
Each one begins to apprehend the danger,
And to look out for safety. 'Fly,' saith one,
'Up to the main-top, and discover.' He
Climbs by the bedpost to the tester, there
Reports a turbulent sea and tempest towards;
And wills them, if they'll save their ship and lives,
To cast their lading overboard. At this
All fall to work, and hoist into the street,
As to the sea, what next came to their hand,
Stools, tables, tressels, trenchers, bedsteads, cups,
Pots, plate, and glasses. Here a fellow whistles;
They take him for the boatswain: one lies struggling
Upon the floor, as if he swam for life:

A third takes the bass-viol for the cock-boat,
Sits in the bellow on 't, labours, and rows;
His oar the stick with which the fiddler played:
A fourth bestrides his fellow, thinking to 'scape-
As did Arion-on the dolphin's back,
Still fumbling on a gittern. The rude multitude,
Watching without, and gaping for the spoil

Cast from the windows, went by th' ears about it;
The constable is called t' atone the broil;
Which done, and hearing such a noise within

became a voluminous dramatic writer. Thirtynine plays proceeded from his prolific pen; and a modern edition of his works, edited by Gifford, is in six octavo volumes. When the Master of the Revels, in 1633, licensed Shirley's play of the Young Admiral, he entered on his books an expression of his admiration of the drama, because it was free from oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness; trusting that his approbation would encourage the poet 'to pursue this beneficial and cleanly way of poetry.' Shirley is certainly less impure than most of his contemporaries, but he is far from faultless in this respect. His dramas seem to have been tolerably successful. When the civil wars broke out, the poet exchanged the pen for the sword, and took the field under his patron the Earl of Newcastle. After the cessation of this struggle, a still worse misfortune befell our author, in the shutting of the theatres, and he was forced to betake himself to his former occupation of a teacher. The Restoration does not seem to have mended his fortunes. In 1666, the great fire of London drove the poet and his family from their house in Whitefriars; and shortly after this event, both he and his wife died on the same day. A life of various labours and reverses thus found a sudden and tragic termination. Shirley's plays have less force and dignity than those of Massinger; less pathos than those of Ford. His comedies have the tone and manner of good society. Mr Campbell has praised his 'polished and refined dialect, the airy touches of his expression, the delicacy of his sentiments, and the beauty of his similes.' He admits, however, what every reader feels, the want in Shirley of any strong passion or engrossing interest. Hallam more justly and comprehensively states: 'Shirley has no originality, no force in conceiving or delineating character, little of pathos, and less, perhaps, of wit; his dramas produce no deep impression in reading, and of course can leave none in the memory. But his mind was poetical; his better characters, especially females, express pure thoughts in pure language; he is never tumid or affected, and seldom obscure; the incidents succeed rapidly, the personages are numerous, and there is a general animation in the scenes, which causes us to read him with some pleasure. No very good play, nor possibly any very good scene, could be found in Shirley; but he has many lines of considerable beauty.' these fine lines, Dr Farmer, in his Essay on the Learning of Shakspeare, quoted perhaps the most

Of

In this confusion: they adore his staff,

And think it Neptune's trident; and that he
Comes with his Tritons-so they called his watch-
To calm the tempest and appease the waves:
And at this point we left them.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

The last of these dramatists-'a great race,' says Mr Charles Lamb, all of whom spoke nearly the same language, and had a set of moral feelings and notions in common'-was JAMES SHIRLEY, born in London in 1596. Designed for holy orders, Shirley was educated first at Oxford, where Arch. bishop Laud refused to ordain him on account of his appearance being disfigured by a mole on his He afterwards took the degree of A.M. at Cambridge, and officiated as curate near St Albans. Like his brother divine and poet, Crashaw, Shirley embraced the communion of the Church of Rome. He lived as a schoolmaster in St Albans, but afterwards settled in London, and |

left cheek.

the Brothers, of the charms of his mistress:

Her eye did seem to labour with a tear,
Which suddenly took birth, but overweighed
With its own swelling, dropt upon her bosom,
Which, by reflection of her light appeared
As nature meant her sorrow for an ornament.
After, her looks grew cheerful, and I saw
A smile shoot graceful upward from her eyes,
As if they had gained a victory o'er grief;
And with it many beams twisted themselves,
Upon whose golden threads the angels walk
To and again from heaven.

In the same vein of delicate fancy and feeling is the following passage in the Grateful Servant, where Cleona learns of the existence of Foscari, from her page Dulcino:

Cleona. The day breaks glorious to my darkened thoughts.

He lives, he lives yet! More to perplex me. How fares my lord?

Cease, ye amorous fears, Prithee, speak, sweet youth. Upon my virgin heart

Relate his gestures when he gave thee this.
What other words? Did mirth smile on his brow?
I would not for the wealth of this great world
He should suspect my faith. What said he, prithee?
Dul. He said what a warm lover, when desire
Makes eloquent, could speak; he said you were
Both star and pilot.

Cle. The sun's loved flower, that shuts his yellow curtain

When he declineth, opens it again

At his fair rising with my parting lord

I closed all my delight; till his approach
It shall not spread itself.

[The Prodigal Lady.]
[From the Lady of Pleasure.]

ARETINA and the STEWARD.

Steward. Be patient, madam; you may have your pleasure.

Aretina. 'Tis that I came to town for; I would not
Endure again the country conversation
To be the lady of six shires! The men,
So near the primitive making, they retain
A sense of nothing but the earth; their brains
And barren heads standing as much in want
Of ploughing as their ground: to hear a fellow
Make himself merry and his horse with whistling
Sellinger's round; t' observe with what solemnity
They keep their wakes, and throw for pewter candle-
sticks;

How they become the morris, with whose bells
They ring all into Whitsun-ales, and swear
Through twenty scarfs and napkins, till the hobbyhorse
Tire, and the Maid-Marian, dissolved to a jelly,
Be kept for spoon-meat.

Stew. These, with your pardon, are no argument
To make the country life appear so hateful;
At least to your particular, who enjoyed
A blessing in that calm, would you be pleased
To think so, and the pleasure of a kingdom:
While your own will commanded what should move
Delights, your husband's love and power joined
To give your life more harmony. You lived there
Secure and innocent, beloved of all;
Praised for your hospitality, and prayed for:
You might be envied, but malice knew
Not where you dwelt.-I would not prophesy,
But leave to your own apprehension
What may succeed your change.

Aret. You do imagine,

No doubt, you have talked wisely, and confuted
London past all defence. Your master should
Do well to send you back into the country,
With title of superintendent bailie.

1 A favourite though homely dance of those days, taking its title from an actor named St Leger.

Enter SIR THOMAS BORNWELL.

Bornwell. How now, what's the matter? Angry, sweetheart?

Aret. I am angry with myself,

To be so miserably restrained in things Wherein it doth concern your love and honour To see me satisfied.

Born. In what, Aretina,

Dost thou accuse me? Have I not obeyed
All thy desires against mine own opinion?
Quitted the country, and removed the hope
Of our return by sale of that fair lordship
We lived in; changed a calm and retired life
For this wild town, composed of noise and charge?
Aret. What charge more than is necessary
For a lady of my birth and education?

Born. I am not ignorant how much nobility
Flows in your blood; your kinsmen, great and powerful
I' th' state, but with this lose not your memory
Of being my wife. I shall be studious,
Madam, to give the dignity of your birth

All the best ornaments which become my fortune,
But would not flatter it to ruin both,
And be the fable of the town, to teach
Other men loss of wit by mine, employed
To serve your vast expenses.

Aret. Am I then

Brought in the balance so, sir?

Born. Though you weigh

Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest,
And must take liberty to think you have
Obeyed no modest counsel to affect,

Nay, study, ways of pride and costly ceremony.
Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures
Of this Italian master and that Dutchman's;
Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery,
Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate,
Antique and novel; vanities of tires;
Fourscore pound suppers for my lord, your kinsman;
Banquets for t' other lady, aunt and cousins; -
And perfumes that exceed all: train of servants,
To stifle us at home and shew 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.

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 subpœna
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 bribed to a modest
Expression of your antic gambols in't,

Some darks had been discovered, and the deeds too;
In time he may repent, and make some blush
To see the second part danced 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 shewn 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.

Bos. Be an understanding knight,

And take my meaning; if he cannot shew

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 provoked;
There be some living now that have been killed
For lesser matters.

Mar. Some living that have been killed?

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!

Thou know'st my lord-not the earl, my other
Cousin there's a spark his predecessors
Have matched 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 vowed 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-marshal, 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.

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 wrapped, and thoroughly lapped,
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.

Now let them drink till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do;
They shall not miss to have the bliss

Good ale doth bring men to.

And all poor souls that have scoured bowls,
Or have them lustily trouled,

God save the lives of them and their wives,
Whether they be young or old.
Back and side, &c.

My Mind to me a Kingdom is.

[From Byrd's Psalms, Sonnets, &c. 1588.]

My mind to me a kingdom is,

Such perfect joy therein I find,

That it excels all other bliss

That God or nature hath assigned:

Though much I want that most would have,
Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

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 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.

Tale of Argentile and Curan.

[From a poetical epitome of English history, entitled Albion's England, published in 1586, the composition of William Warner, an attorney of the Common Pleas, who died at a ripe age in 1609.]

The Brutons thus departed hence, seven kingdoms here begone,

Where diversely in diverse broils the Saxons lost and won. King Edell and King Adelbright in Divia jointly reign: In loyal concord during life these kingly friends remain. When Adelbright should leave his life, to Edell thus he

says:

'By those same bonds of happy love, that held us friends always;

By our byparted crown, of which the moiety is mine;
By God, to whom my soul must pass, and so in time may
thine,

I pray thee, nay, conjure thee, too, to nourish as thine own
Thy niece, my daughter Argentile, till she to age be grown,
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 himself her 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.

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 inveigh.
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.

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,

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 miss'd-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

wane:

But then began a second love, the worser of the twain ! A country wench, a neatherd's maid, where Curan kept his sheep,

Did feed her drove; and now on her was all the shepherd's keep.

He borrowed, on the working-days, his holly ruffets oft: And of the bacon's fat, to make his startups black and soft:

And lest his tar-box should offend, he left it at the fold;

Sweet growt or whig, his bottle had as much as it would hold;

A sheave of bread as brown as nut, and cheese as white as snow,

And wildings, or the season's fruit, he did in scrip bestow:

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 wiped his greasy shoes,

And cleared 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

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 a

mome;

Then choose a shepherd; with the sun he doth his flock unfold,

And all the day on hill or plain he merry chat can hold : And with the sun doth fold again: then jogging home betime,

He turns a crab, or tunes a round, or sings some merry rhyme ;

Nor lacks he gleeful tales to tell, whilst that the bowl doth trot:

And sitteth singing care away, till he to bed hath got. There sleeps he soundly all the night, forgetting morrow

cares,

Nor fears he blasting of his corn, or wasting of his wares, 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 heart offence.

The neatress, longing for the rest, did egg him on to tell How fair she was, and who she was. 'She bore,' quoth he, 'the bell

For beauty: though I clownish am, I know what beauty is,
Or did I not, yet, seeing thee, I senseless were to miss.
Suppose her beauty Helen's like, or Helen's somewhat
less,

And every star consorting to a pure complexion guess.
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 goldlike hair, a forehead smooth

and high,