From thence to honour thee, I would not seek
For names, but call forth thund'ring Eschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

35 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To life again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
40 Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime,
45 When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines.
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
50 As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,

As they were not of Nature's family.
55 Yet must I not give Nature all; thy Art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat
60 (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same,

And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made, as well as born.

65 And such wert thou! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue, even so the race

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-turned and true-filed lines:

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,

70 As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were

To see thee in our waters yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,
That so did take Eliza, and our James!

75 But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere

Advanced, and made a constellation there!

Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage,

Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,

80 And despairs day but for thy volume's light.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT

and

JOHN FLETCHER.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT (1584-1616) was five years younger than his literary partner JOHN FLETCHER (1579-1625), but died nine years before him. They both came of good family the first being a lawyer's, the second a bishop's son

and both received a university education. Early they contracted a warm friendship for each other, which became so close, that they lived together in the same house in Southwark, till Beaumont married about 1613. No less than 52 plays have been published under their names; but it cannot be made out how far they were joint productions of the two, or the sole property of one or the other. They all show a remarkable verbal felicity and a great naturalness in their dialogues, a delightful ease and grace in their versification, and a great knowledge of stage effect, which kept them on the stage till the beginning

of the 19th century. Their plots, however, though skilfully woven, are not free from improbable situations and unnatural characters. Beaumont and Fletcher's dramatic work is also interesting for the marked Spanish influence which can be traced in many of their plays. Unfortunately some of them are disfigured by a certain vulgarity or licentiousness. The best-known of their numerous plays are probably: The Knight of the Burning Pestle (1608?), A King and no King, Philaster (before 1611), The Maid's Tragedy (before 1611), Thierry and Theodoret (ab. 1616). The songs and lyrical pieces scattered throughout all the plays are of exquisite beauty and delicate sweetness.

The charming pastoral, The Faithful Shepherdess (1609?), by Fletcher alone, is an improvement on Ben Jonson's Sad Shepherd, and a worthy precursor of Milton's Comus.

From PHILASTER.
[Ab. 1608]

Act I, Scene 2.

(Philaster, heir to the King of Sicily, who had been unjustly deposed by the King of Calabria, wins the love of the king's daughter Arethusa.)

Philaster. Madam, your messenger

Made me believe you wished to speak with me.

Arethusa. 'Tis true, Philaster; but the words are such

I have to say, and do so ill beseem

The mouth of woman, that I wish them said,

And yet am loath to speak them. Have you known

That I have aught detracted from your worth?

Have I in person wronged you? or have set

My baser instruments to throw disgrace

10 Upon your virtues?

Phi.

Never, madam, you.

Are. Why, then, should you, in such a public place,
Injure a princess, and a scandal lay

Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great,

Calling a great part of my dowry in question?

15 Phi. Madam, this truth which I shall speak will be
Foolish: but for your fair and virtuous self,

I could afford myself to have no right

20

Are. Both, or I die: By fate, I die, Philaster,
If I not calmly may enjoy them both.

Phi. I would do much to save that noble life:
Yet would be loath to have posterity
Find in our stories, that Philaster gave

25 His right unto a scepter and a crown
To save a lady's longing.

Are.

Nay, then, hear:

I must and will have them, and more

Phi.

What more?

Are. Or lose that little life the gods prepared To trouble this poor piece of earth withal.

Phi. Madam, what more?

30

Turn, then, away thy face.

Do.

Phi. I can endure it. Turn away my face?

I never yet saw enemy that looked

So dreadfully, but that I thought myself

35 As great a basilisk as he; or spake

So horribly, but that I thought my tongue
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his;

Nor beast that I could turn from: shall I then
Begin to fear sweet sounds? a lady's voice,
40 Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life;
Why, I will give it you; for 'tis to me

45

50

A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask

Of so poor use, that I shall make no price:
If you entreat, I will unmovedly hear.

Are. Yet for my sake, a little bend thy looks.
Phi. I do.

Are. With it, it were too little to bestow

On thee: Now, though thy breath do strike me dead, (Which, know, it may) I have unript my breast.

Phi. Madam, you are too full of noble thoughts, To lay a train for this contemned life,

55 Which you may have for asking: to suspect Were base, where I deserve no ill: Love you! By all my hopes, I do, above my life!

But how this passion should proceed from you

So violently, would amaze a man

60 That would be jealous.

Are. Another soul into my body shot

Could not have filled me with more strength and spirit
Than this thy breath. But spend not hasty time.

In seeking how I came thus: 'tis the gods,

our love

65 The gods, that make me so; and, sure,
Will be the nobler and the better blest,
In that the secret justice of the gods
Is mingled with it. Let us leave, and kiss;
Lest some unwelcome guest should fall betwixt us,
70 And we should part without it.

Phi.

I should abide here long.

Are.

"Twill be ill,

'Tis true; and worse

Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent
Not yet seen in the court. Hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain's side,
Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst,
80 And paid the nymph again as much in tears.
A garland lay him by, made by himself
Of many several flowers bred in the vale,
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me: but ever when he turned
85 His tender eyes upon 'em, he would weep,
As if he meant to make 'em grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story:
He told me that his parents gentle died,

90 Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,

Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs,
Which did not stop their courses; and the sun,
Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light.
Then took he up his garland, and did show
95 What every flower, as country-people hold,
Did signify, and how all, ordered thus,

Express'd his grief; and, to my thoughts, did read
The prettiest lecture of his country art
That could be wished: so that methought I could

100 Have studied it. I gladly entertained

Him, who was glad to follow; and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy
That ever master kept. Him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.

Act II, Scene 1.

(Philaster prefers Bellario to the service of Arethusa.)

Phi. And thou shalt find her honourable, boy,
Full of regard unto thy tender youth,

For thine own modesty; and for my sake,
Apter to give than thou wilt be to ask,

5 Ay, or deserve.

Bell. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing, And only yet am something by being yours;

You trusted me unknown; and that which you were apt To construe a simple innocence in me,

10 Perhaps might have been craft, the cunning of a boy Harden'd in lies and theft; yet ventured you

To part my miseries and me; for which,

I never can expect to serve a lady

That bears more honour in her breast than you.

15 Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee; thou art young, And bear'st a childish overflowing love

To them that clap thy cheeks, and speak thee fair yet. But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions, Thou wilt remember best those careful friends

20 That placed thee in the noblest way of life:

She is a princess I prefer thee to.

Bell. In that small time that I have seen the world,

I never knew a man hasty to part

With a servant he thought trusty; I remember,

25 My father would prefer the boys he kept

To greater men than he, but did it not

Till they were grown too saucy for himself.
Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all
In thy behaviour.

30 A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth;
I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn.
Age and experience will adorn my mind
With larger knowledge: and if I have done
A wilful fault, think me not past all hope
35 For once. What master holds so strict a hand
Over his boy, that he will part with him
Without one warning? Let me be corrected
To break my stubbornness if it be so,

40

Rather than turn me off; and I shall mend.

Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay,
That, trust me, I could weep to part with thee.
Alas, I do not turn thee off; thou knowest
It is my business that doth call thee hence;
And when thou art with her, thou dwell'st with me;
45 Think so, and 'tis so. And when time is full,
That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust,