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Welcome, gentlemen.

Sec. Sch. Pray thou, and we will pray, that God may have mercy upon thee.

Faust. Gentlemen, farewell; if I live till morning, I'll visit you if not, Faustus is gone to hell. Scholars. Faustus, farewell.

FAUSTUS alone.-The Clock strikes Eleven.
Faust. Oh, Faustus,

Now hast thou but one bare hour to live,
And then thou must be damn'd perpetually.

Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven,
That time may cease and midnight never come.

First Sch. Now, worthy Faustus, methinks your Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make looks are changed.

Faust. Oh, gentlemen.

Sec. Sch. 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. Oh, my dear Faustus, what imports this fear?

Sec. Sch. Is all our pleasure turned to melancholy? Third Sch. He is not well with being over solitary. Sec. Sch. If it be so, we will have physicians, and Faustus shall be cured.

First Sch. 'Tis but a surfeit, sir; fear nothing. Faust. A surfeit of a deadly sin, that hath damn'd 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, but not Faustus. Oh, gentlemen, hear 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 ever. Hell, Oh hell, for ever. Sweet friends, what shall become of Faustus being in hell for ever?

Sec. Sch. Yet, Faustus, call on God. Faust. On God, whom Faustus hath abjured? on God, whom Faustus hath blasphemed? Oh, 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?

Perpetual day or let this hour be but

:

A year, a month, a week, a natural day,
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 damn'd.
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 threat'ning 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. Oh no, it will not harbour me.
You stars that reign'd 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, Metempsycosis, were that true,
This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd
Into some brutish beast.

All beasts are happy, for when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements:

Faust. Why, Lucifer and Mephostophilis. Oh, gen- But mine must live still to be plagued in hell. tlemen, I gave them my soul for my cunning. Scholars. Oh, 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 us 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; and now it is too late. Gentlemen, away, lest you perish with me.

Sec. Sch. Oh, what may we do to save Faustus? Faust. Talk not of me, but save yourselves, and depart. Third Sch. God will strengthen me, will stay with

Faustus.

First Sch. Tempt not God, sweet friend, but let us into the next room and pray for him.

Faust. Ay, pray for me, pray for me; and what noise soever you hear, come not unto me, for nothing

can rescue me.

Curst be the parents that engender'd me:
No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer,
That hath depriv'd thee of the joys of heaven.

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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.

DRAMATISTS.

ENGLISH LITERATURE.

Sec. Sch. O help us heavens! see, here are Faustus' vengeance on his enemies, he is overmatched himself, he thus limbs

All torn asunder by the hand of death.

Third Sch. The devil whom Faustus serv'd 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 seem'd all on fire
With dreadful horror of these damned fiends.

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

As every Christian heart laments to think on ;
Yet, for he was a scholar once admired

For wondrous knowledge in our German schools,
We'll give his mangled limbs due burial:
And all the scholars, cloth'd in mourning black,
Shall wait upon his heavy funeral.

Chorus. Cut is the branch that might have grown
full 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 Marlow is evinced in the fine
apostrophe to Helen of Greece, whom the spirit Me-
phostophilis conjures up between two Cupids,' to
gratify the sensual gaze of Faustus:-

Was this the face that launch'd a thousand ships
And burn'd 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.

O thou art fairer than the evening air,
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars!
Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter
When he appear'd to hapless Semele ;
More lovely than the monarch of the sky
In wanton Arethusa's azure arms;
And none but thou shall be my paramour.
Before 1593, Marlow produced three other dra-
mas, the Jew of Malta, the Massacre at Paris, and
a historical play, Edward the Second. 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 embittered 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 enclose my flesh,
And hide these extreme sorrows from mine eyes.

[But when his comforters are gone, he throws off the mask of sorrow to show 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

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 fram'd the challenge that did make them meet.
Know, Calymath, I aim'd thy overthrow;
And had I but escap'd this stratagem,

I would have brought confusion on you all,
Damn'd 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 the Second' is considered as superior to the
two plays mentioned in connexion with it: it is a
noble drama, with ably-drawn characters and splen-
did scenes. Another tragedy, Lust's Dominion, was
published long after Marlow's death, with his name
as author on the title page. Mr Collier has shown
that this play, as it was then printed, was a much
later production, and was probably written by Dek-
ker and others. It contains passages and charac-
ters, however, which have the impress of Marlow's
genius, and we think he must have written the ori-
ginal outline. 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 Marlow'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 addi-
tion to the above dramatic productions, Marlow
assisted Nash in the tragedy of Dido, Queen of Car-
thage, and translated part of Hero and Leander (after-
wards completed by Chapman), and the Elegies of
Ovid; the latter was so licentious as to be burned
were often reprinted in defiance of the ecclesiastical
by order of the Archbishop of Canterbury, yet they
interdict. Poor Marlow lived, as he wrote, wildly:
he was accused of entertaining atheistical opinions,
but there is no trace of this in his plays. He came
to an early and singularly unhappy end. He was
attached to a lady, who favoured another lover;
Marlow found them in company one day, and in a
frenzy of rage attempted to stab the man with his
dagger. His antagonist seized him by the wrist, and
turned the dagger, so that it entered Marlow's own
head, in such sort,' says Anthony Wood, 'that, not-
withstanding all the means of surgery that could be
brought, he shortly after died of his wound.' Some
of the accounts represent the poet's rival as a mere
'serving man,' the female a courtesan, and the scene
of the fatal struggle a house of ill-fame. The old
ballad to which we have alluded thus describes the
affair :-

His lust was lawless as his life,
And brought about his death;
For in a deadly mortal strife,
Striving to stop the breath'
Of one who was his rival foe,
With his own dagger slain;

He groan'd, and word spoke never moe,
Pierc'd through the eye and brain.*

*First published in 1834 by Mr Collier, in his New Particulars regarding the Works of Shakspeare.'

173

Thus, condemned by the serious and puritanical, and stained with follies, while his genius was rapidly maturing and developing its magnificent resources, Marlow fell a victim to an obscure and disgraceful brawl. The last words of Greene's address to him a year or two before are somewhat ominous :-Refuse not (with me) till this last point of extremity; for little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt be visited.' The warning was

Like the sad presaging raven, that tolls
The sick man's passport in her hollow beak,
And in the shadow of the silent night
Doth shake contagion from her sable wings.
Jew of Malta.

Marlow's fatal conflict is supposed to have taken place at Deptford, as he was buried there on the 1st of June 1593. The finest compliment paid to the genius of this unfortunate poet was by his contemporary and fellow-dramatist, Michael Drayton:

Next Marlow, bathed in the Thespian springs,
Had in him those brave translunary things
That the first poets had: his raptures were
All air and fire, which made his verses clear;
For that fine madness still he did retain,
Which rightly should possess a poet's brain.

We subjoin part of the death-scene of Edward II. in his historical drama, a scene which Charles Lamb says, 'moves pity and terror beyond any scene, ancient or modern.' It may challenge comparison with Shakspeare's death of Richard II.; but Marlow could not interest us in his hero as the great dramatist does in the gentle Richard:

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Edw. Who's there? what light is that? wherefore com'st thou ?

Light. To comfort you, and bring you joyful news. Edw. Small comfort finds poor Edward in thy looks. Villain, I know thou com'st to murder me.

Light. To murder you, my most gracious lord!
Far is it from my heart to do you harm.
The queen sent me to see how you were us'd,
For she relents at this your misery:
And what eyes can refrain from shedding tears,
To see a king in this most piteous state.

Edw. Weep'st thou already? list a while to me,
And then thy heart, were it as Gurney's1 is,
Or as Matrevis',1 hewn from the Caucasus,
Yet will it melt, ere I have done my tale.
This dungeon where they keep me is a sink
Wherein the filth of all the castle falls.
Light. O villains!

Edw. And there, in mire and puddle have I stood
This ten days' space; and lest that I should sleep,
One plays continually upon a drum.
They give me bread and water, being a king;
So that, for want of sleep and sustenance,
My mind's distemper'd, and my body's numb'd,
And whether I have limbs or no, I know not.
O would my blood drop out from every vein,
As doth this water from my tattered robes!
Tell Isabel the queen, I look'd not thus,
When for her sake I ran at tilt in France,
And there unhors'd the Duke of Cleremont.

Edw. These looks of thine can harbour nought but death:

I see my tragedy written in thy brows.
Yet stay a while, forbear thy bloody hand,
And let me see the stroke before it comes,
That even then when I shall lose my life,
My mind may be more steadfast on my God.
Light. What means your highness to mistrust me
thus ?

Edw. What mean'st thou to dissemble with me thus? Light. These hands were never stain'd with innocent blood,

Nor shall they now be tainted with a king's.

But

Edw. Forgive my thought, for having such a thought. One jewel have I left, receive thou this. Still fear I, and I know not what's the cause, Oh, if thou harbour'st murder in thy heart, every joint shakes as I give it thee. Let the gift change thy mind, and save thy soul. Know that I am a king: Oh, at that name I feel a hell of grief. Where is my crown? Gone, gone; and do I still remain alive?

Light. You're overwatch'd my lord ; lie down and rest. Edw. But that grief keeps me waking, I should sleep; For not these ten days have these eyelids closed. Now as I speak they fall, and yet with fear Open again. O wherefore sitt'st thou here?

Light. If you mistrust me, I'll be gone, my lord. Edw. No, no; for if thou mean'st to murder me, Thou wilt return again; and therefore stay. Light. He sleeps.

Edw. O let me not die; yet stay, O stay a while.
Light. How now, my lord?

Edw. Something still buzzeth in mine ears,
And tells me if I sleep I never wake;
This fear is that which makes me tremble thus.
And therefore tell me, wherefore art thou come ?
Light. To rid thee of thy life; Matrevis, come.
Edw. I am too weak and feeble to resist :
Assist me, sweet God, and receive my soul.

The taste of the public for the romantic drama, in preference to the classical, seems now to have been confirmed. An attempt was made towards the close of Elizabeth's reign, to revive the forms of the classic stage, by DANIEL the poet, who wrote two plays, Cleopatra and Philotas, which are smoothly versified, but undramatic in their character. LADY PEMBROKE Co-operated in a tragedy called Antony, written in 1590; and SAMUEL BRANDON produced, in 1598, a tame and feeble Roman play, Virtuous Octavia.

ANTHONY MUNDAY-HENRY CHETTLE.

In the throng of dramatic authors, the names of ANTHONY MUNDAY and HENRY CHETTLE frequently occur. Munday was an author as early as 1579, and he was concerned in fourteen plays. Francis Meres, in 1598, calls him the best plotter' among the writers for the stage. One of his dramas, Sir John Oldcastle, was written in conjunction with Michael Drayton and others, and was printed in 1600, with the name of Shakspeare on the titlepage! The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntington, printed in 1601, was a popular play by Munday, assisted by Chettle. The pranks of Robin Hood and Maid Marian in merry Sherwood are thus gaily set forth :

Light. O speak no more, my lord! this breaks my Wind once more, jolly huntsmen, all your horns, heart.

Lie on this bed, and rest yourself a while.

1 Ilis keepers.

Whose shrill sound, with the echoing woods' assist,
Shall ring a sad knell for the fearful deer,
Before our feather'd shafts, death's winged darts,
Bring sudden summous for their fatal ends.

Give me thy hand: now God's curse on me light,
If I forsake not grief in grief's despite.
Much, make a cry, and yeomen stand ye round:
I charge ye, never more let woeful sound
Be heard among ye; but whatever fall,
Laugh grief to scorn, and so make sorrow small. *
Marian, thou seest, though courtly pleasures want,
Yet country sport in Sherwood is not scant.
For the soul-ravishing delicious sound
Of instrumental music, we have found
The winged quiristers, with divers notes,
Sent from their quaint recording pretty throats,
On every branch that compasseth our bower,
Without command contenting us each hour.
For arras hangings, and rich tapestry,
We have sweet nature's best embroidery.
For thy steel glass, wherein thou wont'st to look,
Thy crystal eyes gaze on the crystal brook.
At court, a flower or two did deck thy head,
Now, with whole garlands it is circled;
For what in wealth we want, we have in flowers,
And what we lose in halls, we find in bowers.

Chettle was engaged in no less than thirty-eight plays between the years 1597 and 1603, four of which have been printed. Mr Collier thinks he had written for the stage before 1592, when he published Greene's posthumous work, 'A Groat's Worth of Wit.' Among his plays, the names of which have descended to us, is one on the subject of Cardinal Wolsey, which probably was the original of Shakspeare's Henry VIII. The best drama of this prolific author which we now possess, is a comedy called Patient Grissell, taken from Boccaccio. The humble charms of the heroine are thus finely described :

See where my Grissell and her father is,
Methinks her beauty, shining through those weeds,
Seems like a bright star in the sullen night.
How lovely poverty dwells on her back!
Did but the proud world note her as I do,
She would cast off rich robes, forswear rich state,
To clothe her in such poor habiliments.

The names of Haughton, Antony Brewer, Porter, Smith, Hathaway (probably some relation of Shakspeare's wife), Wilson, &c., also occur as dramatic writers. From the diary of Henslowe, it appears that, between 1591 and 1597, upwards of a hundred different plays were performed by four of the ten or eleven theatrical companies which then existed. Henslowe was originally a pawnbroker, who advanced money and dresses to the players, and he ultimately possessed a large share of the wardrobe and properties of the playhouses with which he was concerned. The name of Shakspeare does not once occur in his diary.

Several good dramas of this golden age have descended to us, the authors of which are unknown. A few of these possess merit enough to have been considered first sketches of Shakspeare, but this opinion has been gradually abandoned by all but one or two German critics. Most of them have been published in Dodsley's Collection of Old Plays. The best are, the Merry Devil of Edmonton,' the London Prodigal,' the Yorkshire Tragedy,' 'Lord Cromwell, the Birth of Merlin,' the Collier of Croydon,' 'Mucedorus,' Locrine,'' Arden of Feversham,' the 'Misfortunes of Arthur,' 'Edward III.,' &c. The most correct and regular of these anonymous dramas is 'Arden of Feversham,' a domestic tragedy, founded on a murder which took place in 1551. Alice, the wife of Arden, proves unfaithful, and joins with her paramour Mosbie, and some assassins, in murdering her husband. Tieck has translated this play into German, as a genuine production of Shakspeare, but

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the style is different. In the earliest acknowledged works of the Warwickshire bard, there is a play of wit, and of what Hallam calls analogical imagery,' which is not seen in 'Arden of Feversham,' though it exhibits a strong picture of the passions, and indicates freedom of versification and dramatic art. We subjoin one touching scene between Alice and her paramour-a scene of mutual recrimination, guilt, and tenderness :

[Scene from Arden of Feversham.]

ALICE ARDEN.-MOSBIE.

Mos. How now, Alice? What! sad and passionate! Make me partaker of thy pensiveness;

Fire divided burns with lesser force.

Al. But I will dam that fire in my breast,
Till by the force thereof my part consume.
Ah, Mosbie !

Mos. Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon's burst,
Discharged against a ruinated wall,
Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces.
Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore;
Thou knowest it well, and 'tis thy policy
To forge distressful looks, to wound a breast
Where lies a heart which dies when thou art sad.
It is not love that loves to anger love.

Al. It is not love that loves to murder love.
Mos. How mean you that?

Al. Thou know'st how dearly Arden loved me.
Mos. And then-

Al. And then-conceal the rest, for 'tis too bad,
Lest that my words be carried to the wind,
And published in the world to both our shames.
I pray thee, Mosbie, let our spring-time wither;
Our harvest else will yield but loathsome weeds.
Forget, I pray thee, what has past betwixt us:
For now I blush and tremble at the thoughts.
Mos. What are you changed?

Al. Ay, to my former happy life again;
From title of an odious strumpet's name
To honest Arden's wife, not Arden's honest wife-

Ha, Mosbie ! 'tis thou hast rifled me of that,
And made me slanderous to all my kin.
Even in my forehead is thy name engraven,
A mean artificer, that low-born name!

I was bewitcht; woe-worth the hapless hour
And all the causes that enchanted me.

Mos. Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth;
And if you stand so nicely at your fame,
Let me repent the credit I have lost.
I have neglected matters of import,
That would have 'stated me above thy state;
For slow'd advantages, and spurned at time;
Ay, fortune's right hand Mosbie hath forsook,
To take a wanton giglot by the left.
I left the marriage of an honest maid,
Whose dowry would have weigh'd down all thy wealth;
Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee.
This certain good I lost for changing bad,
And wrapt my credit in thy company.
I was bewitcht; that is no theme of thine;
And thou unhallow'd hast enchanted me.
But I will break thy spells and exorcisms,
And put another sight upon these eyes,
That showed my heart a raven for a dove.
Thou art not fair; I view'd thee not till now:
Thou art not kind; till now I knew thee not:
And now the rain hath beaten off thy gilt,
Thy worthless copper shows thee counterfeit.
It grieves me not to see how foul thou art,
But mads me that ever I thought thee fair.
Go, get thee gone, a copesmate for thy hinds;
am too good to be thy favourite.

I

Al. Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true,

Which often hath been told me by my friends,
That Mosbie loves me not but for my wealth;
Which too incredulous I ne'er believed.
Nay, hear me speak, Mosbie, a word or two;
I'll bite my tongue if I speak bitterly.
Look on me, Mosbie, or else I'll kill myself.
Nothing shall hide me from thy stormy look;
If thou cry war, there is no peace for me.
I will do penance for offending thee;
And burn this prayer book, which I here use,
The holy word that has converted me.
See, Mosbie, I will tear away the leaves,
And all the leaves; and in this golden cover
Shall thy sweet phrases and thy letters dwell,
And thereon will I chiefly meditate,

And hold no other sect but such devotion.

Wilt thou not look? is all thy love o'erwhelm'd?
Wilt thou not hear what malice stops thy ears?

Why speak'st thou not? what silence ties thy tongue?
Thou hast been sighted as the eagle is,

And heard as quickly as the fearful hare,

And spoke as smoothly as an orator,

When I have bid thee hear, or see, or speak :

And art thou sensible in none of these?

Weigh all thy good turns with this little fault,
And I deserve not Mosbie's muddy looks.
A fence of trouble is not thicken'd still;
Be clear again; I'll ne'er more trouble thee.
Mos. O fie, no; I'm a base artificer;
My wings are feathered for a lowly flight.
Mosbie, fie, no; not for a thousand pound
Make love to you; why, 'tis unpardonable.
We beggars must not breathe where gentles are.
Al. Sweet Mosbie is as gentle as a king,
And I too blind to judge him otherwise.
Flowers sometimes spring in fallow lands,
Weeds in gardens, roses grow on thorns;
So whatsoe'er my Mosbie's father was,
Himself is valued gentle by his worth.

Mos. Ah, how you women can insinuate,
And clear a trespass with your sweet set tongue.
I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice,
Provided I'll be tempted so no more.

'Arden of Feversham' was first printed in 1592. The Yorkshire Tragedy,' another play of the same kind, but apparently more hastily written, was performed in 1604, and four years afterwards printed with Shakspeare's name. Both Dyce and Collier, able dramatic antiquaries and students, are inclined to the opinion, that this drama contains passages which only Shakspeare could have written. But in lines like the following-though smooth and natural, and quoted as the most Shakspearian in the play -we miss the music of the great dramatist's thoughts and numbers. It is, however, a forcible picture of a luckless, reckless gambler :

What will become of us! All will away!
My husband never ceases in expense,
Both to consume his credit and his house;
And 'tis set down by heaven's just decrec,
That Riot's child must needs be Beggary.

Are these the virtues that his youth did promise?
Dice and voluptuous meetings, midnight revels,
Taking his bed with surfeits, ill beseeming
The ancient honour of his house and name!
And this not all, but that which kills me most,
When he recounts his losses and false fortunes,
The weakness of his state, so much dejected,
Not as a man repentant, but half mad.
His fortunes cannot answer his expense.

He sits and sullenly locks up his arms,

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Mliam Shakspeare

[Copy of the Bust at Stratford.]

with more variety of character and action, with deep passion, and true poetry. The latter, indeed, was tinged with incoherence and extravagance, but the sterling ore of genius was, in Marlow at least, abundant. Above all, they had familiarised the public ear to the use of blank verse. The last improvement was the greatest; for even the genius of Shakspeare would have been cramped and confined, if it had been condemned to move only in the fetters of rhyme. The quick interchange of dialogue, and the various nice shades and alternations of character and feeling, could not have been evolved in dramatic action, except in that admirable form of verse which unites rhythmical harmony with the utmost freedom, grace, and flexibility. When Shakspeare, therefore, appeared conspicuously on the horizon, the scene may be said to have been prepared for his reception. The Genius of the Drama had accumulated materials for the use of the great poet, who was to extend her empire over limits not yet recognised, and invest it with a splendour which the world had never seen before.

The few incidents in Shakspeare's life are surrounded with doubt and fable. The fond idolatry with which he is now regarded, was only turned to his personal history at a late period, when little could

Forgetting heaven, looks downward, which makes him be gathered even by the most enthusiastic collector.

Appear so dreadful, that he frights my heart: Walks heavily, as if his soul were earth;

Not penitent for those his sins are past,

Our best facts are derived from legal documents. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE was born at Stratford-onAvon, in the county of Warwick, in April 1564. There

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