Ler. In such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her... Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn : Fes. I'm never merry when I hear sweet music. If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, By the sweet power of music. Therefore, the poet Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Merchant of Venice, Act V. sc. I. Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels; And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge. Hor. Is it a custom? Ham. Ay, marry, is 't: But to my mind-though I am native here, More honoured in the breach than the observance. From our achievements, though performed at height, So, oft it chances in particular men, That for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth (wherein they are not guilty, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason; Or by some habit, that too much o'er-leavens Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault: The dram of base Doth all the noble substance often dout, To his own scandal. Enter GHOST. Hor. Look, my lord, it comes! Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us !— Thou com'st in such a questionable shape, That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee, Hamlet, Hor. It beckons you to go away with it, Mar. Look, with what courteous action Hor. No, by no means. [Holding Hamlet. Ham. It will not speak: then I will follow it. Ham. Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee; It waves me forth again.-I'll follow it. Hor. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff, That beetles o'er his base into the sea; And there assume some other horrible form, Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, And draw you into madness? Think of it. The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain, That looks so many fathoms to the sea, And hears it roar beneath. Ham. It waves me still.-Go on, I'll follow thee. Act I. sc. 4. Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death. To be, or not to be, that is the question- To sleep!-perchance to dream !-ay, there's the rub; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, 149 ་ The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; Act III. sc. I. Mark Antony over Casar's Body. Antony. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. So are they all, all honourable men- He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept ; You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And, sure, he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke; And men have lost their reason!-Bear with me: 1st Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. 2d Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Cæsar has had great wrong. 3d Cit. Has he, masters? I fear there will a worse come in his place. 4th Cit. Marked ye his words? He would not take the crown; Therefore, 'tis certain he was not ambitious. Ist Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. 2d Cit. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with weeping. 3d Cit. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. 4th Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak. Ant. But yesterday, the word of Cæsar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. Oh, masters! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honourable men. Let but the commons hear this testament- And, dying, mention it within their wills, 4th Cit. We'll hear the will; read it, Mark Antony. All. The will! the will! We will hear Cæsar's will! Ant. Have patience, gentle friends! I must not read it; It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.' 4th Cit. Read the will! we will hear it, Antony: You shall read us the will; Cæsar's will! Ant. Will you be patient? will you stay a while? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honourable men Whose daggers have stabbed Cæsar. I do fear it. 4th Cit. They were traitors. Honourable men! All. The will! the testament ! 2d Cit. They were villains, murderers! The will! Read the will! Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will? Shall I descend? And will you give me leave? 2d Cit. Descend. [He comes down from the pulpit. 3d Cit. You shall have leave. 4th Cit. A ring! Stand round. ist Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. 2d Cit. Room for Antony-most noble Antony ! Ant. Nay, press not so upon me: stand far off. All. Stand back! room! bear back! Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Cæsar put it on; Look! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through; 2d Cit. O noble Cæsar! Bolingbroke's Entry into London. DUKE OF YORK and the DUCHESS. Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off Of our two cousins coming into London. York. Where did I leave? Duch. At that stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned hands, from windows' tops, Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great BolingbrokeMounted upon a hot and fiery steed, Which his aspiring rider seemed to know- Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rode he the York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men, Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes That had not God, for some strong purpose, steeled King Richard II. Act V. sc. 2. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ; The weariest and most loathed worldly life, Measure for Measure, Act III. sc. 1. Perseverance. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devoured As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright: to have done, is to hang Or, like a gallant horse, fall'n in first rank, O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours; That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And Farewell goes out sighing. O! let not Virtue seek To envious and calumniating Time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kinThat all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt, More laud than gilt o'erdusted: The present eye praises the present object. Mercy. The quality of mercy is not strained; And earthly power doth then shew likest God's, Merchant of Venice, Act IV. sc. I. The Forest of Arden. DUKE, senior, AMIENS, and other Lords. Duke. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind; Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say: This is no flattery; these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head : And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Amiens. Happy is your grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Duke. Come, shall we go and kill us venison? Should, in their own confines, with forked heads, First Lord. Indeed, my lord, Duke. But what said Jaques? First Lord. O yes, into a thousand similes. To that which had too much.' Then, being alone, The World Compared to a Stage. All the world's a stage, Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion: Obe. That very time I saw (but thou couldst not), At a fair vestal, throned by the west; In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower Before, milk-white; now, purple with love's wound- Fetch me that flower; the herb I shewed thee once; Puck. I'll put a girdle round about the earth Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II. sc. 2. BEN JONSON. The second name in the dramatic literature of this period has been generally assigned to BEN JONSON, though some may be disposed to claim it for the more Shakspearian genius of Beaumont and Fletcher. Jonson was born nine years after Shakspeare-in 1573-and appeared as a writer for the stage in his twentieth year. His early life was full of hardship and vicissitude. His father, a clergyman in Westminster-a member of a Scottish family from Annandale-died before the poet's birth, and his mother marrying again, Ben was brought from Westminster School, and put to the employment of his stepfather, which was that of a bricklayer. Disliking the occupation, Jonson enlisted as a soldier, and served in the Low Countries. He is reported to have killed one of the enemy in single combat, in the view of both armies, and to have otherwise distinguished himself for his youthful bravery. As a poet, Jonson afterwards reverted with pride to his conduct as a soldier. On his return, he is said to have entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short-if he ever was enrolled of the university-for, about the age of twenty, he is found married, and an actor in London. Ben made his début at a low theatre near Clerkenwell, and, as his opponents afterwards reminded him, failed completely as an actor. At the same time, he was engaged in writing for the stage, either by himself or conjointly with others. He quarrelled with another performer, and on their fighting a duel with swords, Jonson had the misfortune to kill his antagonist, and was severely wounded himself. He was committed to prison on a charge of murder, but was released without a trial. On regaining his liberty, he commenced writing for the stage, and produced, in 1596, his Every Man in his Humour. The scene was laid in Italy, but the characters and manners depicted in the piece were English; and Jonson afterwards recast the whole, and transferred the scene to England. In its revised form, Every Man in his Humour was brought out at the Globe Theatre in 1598, and Shakspeare was one of the performers in the play. He had himself produced some of his finest comedies by this time, but Jonson was no imitator of his great rival, who blended a spirit of poetical romance with his comic sketches, and made no attempt to delineate the domestic manners of his countrymen. Jonson opened a new walk in the drama: he felt his strength, and the public cheered him on with its plaudits. Queen Elizabeth patronised the new poet, and ever afterwards he was ‘a man of mark and likelihood.' In 1599, appeared his Every Man out of his Humour, a less able performance than its predecessor. Cynthia's Revels and the Poetaster followed, and the fierce rivalry and contention which clouded Jonson's after-life seem to have begun about this time. He had attacked Marston and Dekker, two of his brotherdramatists, in the Poetaster. Dekker replied with spirit in his Satiromastix, and Ben was silent for two years, 'living upon one Townsend, and scorning the world,' as is recorded in the diary of a contemporary. In 1603, he tried 'if tragedy had a more kind aspect,' and produced his classic drama of Sejanus. Shortly after the accession of King James, a comedy called Eastward Hoe was written conjointly by Jonson, Chapman, and Marston. Some passages in this piece reflected on the Scottish nation; and the matter was represented to the king by one of his courtiers-Sir James Murray-in so strong a light, that the authors were thrown into prison, and threatened with the loss of their ears and noses. They were not tried; and when Ben was set at liberty, he gave an entertainment to his friends-Selden and Camden being of the number. His mother was present on this joyous occasion, and she produced a paper of poison, which, she said, she intended to have given her son in his liquor, rather than he should submit to personal mutilation and disgrace, and another dose which she intended afterwards to have taken herself. The old lady must, as Whalley remarks, have been more of an antique Roman than a Briton. Jonson's own conduct in this affair was noble and spirited. He had no considerable share in the composition of the piece, and was, besides, in such favour, that he would not have been molested; 'but this did not satisfy him,' says Gifford ; and he, therefore, with a high sense of honour, voluntarily accompanied his two friends to prison, determined to share their fate.' We cannot now ascertain what was the mighty satire that moved the patriotic indignation of James; it was doubtless softened before publication; but in some copies of Eastward Hoe (1605), there is a passage in which the Scots are said to be 'dispersed over the face of the whole earth;' and the dramatist sarcastically adds: 'But as for them, there are no greater friends to Englishmen and England, when they are out on't, in the world, than they are; and, for my part, I would a hundred thousand of them were there [in Virginia], for we are all one countrymen now, you know, and we should find ten times more comfort of them there than we do here.' The offended nationality of James must have been laid to rest by the subsequent adulation of Jonson in his court-masks, for he eulogised the vain and feeble monarch as one that would raise the glory of England more than Elizabeth! Jonson's three great comediesVolpone, or the Fox; Epicene, or the Silent Woman; and the Alchemist-were his next serious labours; his second classical tragedy, Catiline, appeared in 1611. His fame had now reached its highest elevation; but he produced several other comedies, and a vast number of court entertainments, ere his star began sensibly to decline. In 1618, Jonson made a journey on foot to Scotland, where he had many friends. He was well received by the Scottish gentry, and was so pleased with the country, that he meditated a poem, or drama, on the beauties of Loch Lomond. The last of his visits was made to Drummond of Hawthornden, with whom he lived three weeks; and Drummond kept notes of his conversation, which, in a subsequent age, were communicated to the world. In conclusion, Drummond entered on his journal the following character of Ben himself: 'He is a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner and scorner of others; given rather to lose a friend than a jest; jealous of every word and action of those about him, especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which he liveth; a dissembler of ill parts which reign in him; a bragger of some good that he wanteth; thinketh nothing well but what either he himself or some of his friends and countrymen hath said or done; he is passionately kind and angry; careless either to gain or keep; vindictive, but, if well answered, at himself; for any religion, as being versed in both;* interpreteth best sayings and deeds often to the worst; oppressed with fantasy, which hath ever mastered his reason, a general disease in many poets.' This character, it must be confessed, is far from being a flattering one; and probably it was, unconsciously, overcharged, owing to the recluse habits and staid demeanour of Drummond. We believe it, however, to be substantially correct. Inured to hardships and to a free, boisterous life in his early days, Jonson seems to have contracted a roughness of manner and habits of intemperance which never wholly left him. Priding himself immoderately on his classical acquirements, he was apt to slight and condemn his less learned associates; while the conflict between his limited means and his love of social pleasures, rendered him too often severe and saturnine in his temper. Whatever he did was done with labour, and hence was highly prized. His contemporaries seemed fond of mortifying his pride, and he was often at war with actors and authors. With the celebrated Inigo Jones, who was joined with him in the preparation of the court-masks, Jonson waged a long and bitter feud, in which both parties were to blame. When his better nature prevailed, and exorcised the demon of envy or spleen, Jonson was capable of a generous warmth of * Drummond here alludes to Jonson having been at one period of his life a Roman Catholic. When in prison, after killing the actor, a priest converted him to the Church of Rome, and he contime, he returned to the Protestant communion. As a proof of his enthusiastic temperament, it is mentioned that Jonson drank out ciliation with the Church of England. the full cup of wine at the communion-table, in token of his recon tinued a member of it for twelve years. At the expiration of that |