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^/ In the lowest room of hell.
Art thou born of human race 1
No, no, I have a furier face.
Art thou in city, town, or court?

I to every place resort.
Oh, why into the world is sorrow sent?

Men afflicted best repent.
What dost thou feed on?

Broken sleep.

What takest thou pleasure in?
To weep,

To sigh, to sob, to pine, to groan,
To wring my hands, to sit alone.
Oh when, oh when shall sorrow quiet have 1
Never, never, never, never.
Never till she finds a grave.



THOMAS GOFFE.
15921627.

[THOMAS GOFFE was born in Essex, about 1592, and edu-
cated at Westminster. In 1609 he entered Christ Church,
Oxford, and having had the degree of bachelor of divinity
conferred upon him, was preferred to the living of East
Clandon, in Surrey, in 1623. He is said to have been a pro-
fessed woman-hater, yet, notwithstanding, married the wife
of his predecessor, who revenged the wrongs of the whole sex
upon him by the violence of her temper, and finally, it is sup-
posed, shortened his life. He died in 1627. He was the
author of four dramas, and is believed in the latter part of his
life to have embraced the church of Rome.]

THE DEAMATISTS. 13



190 SONGS FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

ORESTES. 1633.



NURSE'S SONG

T TJLLABY, lullaby, baby,

- ^ Great Argos' joy,

The King of Greece thou art born to be,

In despite of Troy.

Rest ever wait upon thy head,

Sleep close thine eyes,

The blessdd guard tend on thy bed

Of deities.

O, how this brow will beseem a crown !
How these locks will shine 1
Like the rays of the sun on the ground,
These locks of thine !
The nurse of heaven will send thee milk ;
Mayst thou suck a Queen.
Thy drink love's nectar, and clothes of silk ;
A god mayst thou seem.
Cupid sit on this rosean cheek,

On these ruby lips.
May thy mind like a lamb be meek,

In the vales which trips.
Lullaby, lullaby, baby, &c.

THE MADNESS OP ORESTES.

TT7EEP, weep, you Argonauts,
^ * Bewail the day
That first to fatal Troy
You took your way.
Weep, Greece, weep, Greece,
Two kings are dead.
Argos, thou Argos, now a grave
Where kings are buried;
No heir, no heir is left,



THOMAS GOFFE. 191

But one that's mad.

See, Argos, hast not thou

Cause to be sad 1 ?

Sleep, sleep, wild brain,

Best, rock thy sense,

Live if thou canst

To grieve for thy offence.

Weep, weep, you Argonauts !

THE CAEELESS SHEPHERDESS. 1656.



' THE FOLLY OF LOVE.

NOW fie on love, it ill befits, /
Or man and woman know it,
Love was not meant for people in their wits,

And they that fondly show it
Betray their too much feathered brains,
And shall have only Bedlam for their pains.

To love is to distract my sleep,

And waking to wear fetters ;
To love is but to go to school to weep;

I'll leave it for my betters.
If single love be such a curse,
To marry is to make it ten times worse.

THE TYRANNY OF CUPID.

BLIND Cupid lay aside thy bow,
Thou dost not know its use,
For love, thou tyranny dost show,
Thy kindness is abuse.

Thou wert called a pretty boy,

Art thought a skeleton,
For thou like death dost still destroy,

When thou dost strike but one.

132



192 SONGS FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

Each vulgar hand can do as much ;

Thine heavenly skill we see
When we behold one arrow touch

Two marks that distant be.

Love always looks for love again,
If ever thou wound man's heart,

Pierce by the way his rib, and then
He'll kiss, not curse thy dart.

LOVE WITHOUT RETURN.

fl BIEVE not, fond man, nor let one tear
^ Steal from thine eyes ; she'll hear
No more of Cupid's shafts; they fly
For wounding her, so let them die.
For why shouldst thou nourish such flames as burn
Thy easy breast, and not have like return]
Love forces Iov3, as flames expire
If not increased by gentle fire.

Let then her frigid coolness move
Thee to withdraw thy purer love;
And since she is resolved to show
She will not love, do thou so too :
For why should beauty so charm thine eyes,
That if she frown, thou'lt prove her sacrifice?
Love, &c.



CHETTLE AND MUNDAY.
THE DEATH OF ROBERT, EARL OF HUNTINGDON.



THE DEATH OP ROBIN HOOD.

TT7EEP, weep, ye woodmen wail,

Your hands with sorrow wring ;
Your master Eobin Hood lies dead,
Therefore sigh as you sing.



THOMAS HEYWOOD. 193

Here lie his primer and his beads,
His bent bow and his arrows keen,
His good sword and his holy cross :
"Now cast on flowers fresh and green ;

And as they fall shed tears and say,
Wella, wella-day, wella, wella-day :
Thus cast ye flowers and sing,
And on to Wakefield take your way.



THOMAS HEYWOOD.
15 16 .

[' HEYWOOD/ says Charles Lamb, ' is a sort of prose Shake-
speare, his scenes are to the full as natural and affecting. But
we miss the poet, that which in Shakespeare always appears
out and above the surface of the nature. Hey wood's cha-
racters, his country gentlemen, &c., are exactly what we see
(but of the best kind of what we see) in life. Shakespeare
makes us believe, while we are among his lovely creations, that
we see nothing but what we are familiar with, as in dreams
new things seem old; but we awake, and sigh for the dif-
ference.' The test to which this comparison subjects the
writings of Hey wood is a severe one; but he comes out of it
with credit. Considering how much he wrote, and the cir-
cumstances under which he appears to have written, it is no
slight merit to have produced scenes as natural and affecting,
and characters as true to life as those of Shakespeare, even
without the power of idealizing his conceptions. Of all our
dramatic writers he was the most voluminous, having been
concerned in no less than two hundred and twenty dramatic
pieces, besides his Apology for Actors, and other works. It
was only by the most persevering and systematic industry
such a prodigious quantity of labour could have been accom-
plished, and Kirkman says that he ' not only acted almost



194 SONGS FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

every day, but obliged himself to write a sheet every day for
several years together/ Many of his plays were written in
this way in taverns. ' As one proof of the rapidity of his
composition/ observes the last editor of Dodsley, ' it may be
mentioned that at the end of his Nine Books of Various
History concerning Women, a folio of 466 pages, printed in
1624, are the following words: Opus excogitatum, inchoatum,
explicitum et typograpJio excusum inter septemdecem septi-
manas' We can hardly form a just estimate of the various
merits of such a writer from the scanty evidence that has
come down to us, twenty -three of his plays being all that are
known to exist in print. He seems, indeed, to have written
his plays solely for the stage without any view to publication,
and he tells us that many of them were lost by the shifting
and change of companies, that others were retained in the
hands of the actors, who considered it injurious to their pro-
fits to suffer them to be printed, that having sold his copies to
them he thought he had no right to print them without their
consent, and that, even if he had the right to print them, he
never had ' any great ambition to be, in this kind, voluminously
read/

The earliest notice that has been traced of Thomas Hey wood
occurs in Henslowe's Diary under the date of 1596, from
which it appears that he had at that time written a play for
the Lord Admiral's company. In 1598 he entered Henslowe's
company as a regular actor and sharer. On the accession of
James I., he became one of the theatrical servants of the Earl
of Worcester, was afterwards transferred to the service of '
Queen Anne, and upon her Majesty's death returned to Lord
Worcester. Amongst the numerous works he either contem-
plated or produced was a collection of The Lives of all the
Poets, Modern and Foreign, upon the materials for which
he was for many years engaged. Few further particulars are
known concerning him. We learn from an elegy on Sir
George Saint Poole, whom he calls his countryman, that he
was born in Lincolnshire; and William Cartwright says that
he was a fellow of Peter House, in Cambridge, which is in



THOMAS HEYWOOD. 195

some degree confirmed by an allusion of his own to ' the time
of his residence at Cambridge.'

The following curious notice of Heywood, in which an
allusion is made to the poverty under which he suffered at one
period of his life, if not throughout his whole career of labour
and struggle, is extracted from a poem on the Times' Poets,
published by Mr. Halliwell amongst the miscellaneous papers
of the Shakespeare Society. It occurs in a very scarce volume,
bearing the date of 1656, and entitled Choyce Drollery,
Songs, and Sonnets, being a collection of divers excellent
pieces of poetry of several eminent authors, never before
printed:

The squibbling Middleton, and Heywood sage,

The apologetic Atlas of the stage ;

Well of the Golden Age he could entreat,

But little of the metal he could get ;

Threescore sweet babes he fashioned from the lump,

For he was christened in Parnassus' pump,

The Muses gossip to Aurora's bed,

And ever since that time his face was red.]

THE RAPE OP LUCRECE.



WHAT IS LOVE?

NOW what is love I will thee tell,
It is the fountain and the well,
Where pleasure and repentance dwell :
It is perhaps the sansing bell,*
That rings all in to heaven or hell,
And this is love, and this is love, as I hear tell.

Now what is love I will you show :

A thing that creeps and cannot go ;

A prize that passeth to and fro ;

A thing for me, a thing for mo' :

And he that proves shall find it so,

And this is love, and this is love, sweet Mend, I trow.



* Sanctus bell, or Saint's bell, that called to prayers.



196 SONGS FROM THE DRAMATISTS.



TAVERN SIGNS.

THE gentry to the King's Head,
The nobles to the Crown,
The knights unto the Golden Fleece,
And to the Plough the clown.
The churchman to the Mitre,
The shepherd to the Star,
The gardener hies him to the Rose,
To the Drum the man of war;
To the Feathers, ladies, you; the Globe
The sea-man doth not scorn :
The usurer to the Devil, and
The townsman to the Horn.
The huntsman to the White Hart,
To the Ship the merchants go,
But you that do the muses love,
The Sign called River Po.
The banquerout to the World's End,
The fool to the Fortune hie,
Unto the Mouth the oyster wife,
The fiddler to the Pie.
The punk unto the Cockatrice,
The drunkard to the Vine,
The beggar to the Bush, then meet,
And with Duke Humphrey dine.

THE DEATH BELL.

, list and hark, the bell doth toll
For some but now departing soul.
And was not that some ominous fowl,
The bat, the night-crow, or screech-owl?
To these I hear the wild wolf howl,
In this black night that seems to scowl.
All these my black-book death enroll,
For hark, still, still, the bell doth toll
For some but now departing soul.



THOMAS HEYWOOD. 197



LOVES MISTKESS; OR, THE QUEENS MASQUE.
THE PRAISES OP PAN.

THOU that art called the bright Hyperion,
Wert thou more strong than Spanish Geryon
That had three heads upon one man,
Compare not with our great god Pan.

They call thee son of bright Latona,
But girt thee in thy torrid zona,
Sweat, baste and broil, as best thou can;
Thou art not like our dripping Pan.

What cares he for the great god Neptune,
With all the broth that he is kept in;
Vulcan or Jove he scorns to bow to,
Hermes, or the infernal Pluto.

Then thou that art the heavens' bright eye,
Or burn, or scorch, or broil, or fry,
Be thou a god, or be thou man,
Thou art not like our frying Pan.

They call thee Phoebus, god of day,

Years, months, weeks, hours, of March and May ;

Bring up thy army in the van,

We'll meet thee with our pudding Pan.

Thyself in thy bright chariot settle,
With skillet armed, brass-pot or kettle,
With jug, black-pot, with glass or can,
No talking to our warming Pan.

Thou hast thy beams thy brows to deck,
Thou hast thy Daphne at thy beck :
Pan hath his horns, Syrinx, and Phillis,
And I, Pan's swain, my Amaryllis.



198 SONGS FKOM THE DRAMATISTS.

FIRST PART OF KING EDWARD IV.



AGINCOURT.

A GINCOTJRT, Agincourt! know ye not Agincourt?
-** Where the English slew and hurt

All the French foemen?
With our guns and bills brown,
Oh, the French were beat down,
Morris-pikes and bowmen.

THE SILVER AGE.



HARVEST-HOME.

TT7ITH fair Ceres, Queen of Grain,

* * The reaped fields we roam, roam, roam :
Each country peasant, nymph, and swain,

Sing their harvest home, home, home;
Whilst the Queen of Plenty hallows
Growing fields, as well as fallows.

Echo, double all our lays,

Make the champaigns sound, sound, sound,
To the Queen of Harvest's praise,

That sows and reaps our ground, ground, ground.
Ceres, Queen of Plenty, hallows
Growing fields, as well as fallows.

THE FAIR MAID OF THE EXCHANGE.



GO, PRETTY BIRDS.

YE little birds that sit and sing
Amidst the shady valleys,
And see how Phillis sweetly walks,

Within her garden-alleys ;
Go, pretty birds, about her bower;
Sing, pretty birds, she may not lower;
Ah, me ! methinks I see her frown !
Ye pretty wantons, warble.



THOMAS HEYWOOD. 199

Go, tell her, through your chirping bills,

As you by me are bidden,
To her is only known my love,

Which from the world is hidden.
Go, pretty birds, and tell her so;
See that your notes strain not too low,
For still, methinks, I see her frown,

Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Go, tune your voices' harmony,

And sing, I am her lover;
Strain loud and sweet, that every note

With sweet content may move her.
And she that hath the sweetest voice,
Tell her I will not change my choice;
Yet still, methinks, I see her frown.

Ye pretty wantons, warble.

Oh, fly ! make haste ! see, see, she falls

Into a pretty slumber.
Sing round about her rosy bed,

That waking, she may wonder.
Say to her, 'tis her lover true
That sendeth love to you, to you;
And when you hear her kind reply,

Return with pleasant warblings.

A CHALLENGE FOR BEAUTY.



THE NATIONS.

Spaniard loves his ancient slop;
A Lombard the Venetian;
And some like breechless women go,
The Russe, Turk, Jew, and Grecian:

The thrifty Frenchman wears small waist,
The Dutch his belly boasteth;
The Englishman is for them all,
And for each fashion coasteth.



200 SONGS FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

The Turk in linen wraps his head,
The Persian his in lawn too,
The Russe with sables furs his cap,
And change will not be drawn to.

The Spaniard's constant to his block,
The French inconstant ever;
But of all felts that may be felt,
Give me your English beaver.

The German loves his coney-wool,
The Irishman his shag too,
The Welch his Monmouth loves to wear,
And of the same will brag too.

Some love the rough, and some the smooth,
Some great, and others small things;
But oh, your liquorish Englishman,
He loves to deal in all things.

The Buss drinks quasse; Dutch, Lubeck's beer,
And that is strong and mighty ;
The Briton he Metheglen quaffs,
The Irish aqua vitse.

The French affects the Orleans grape,
The Spaniard sips his sherry,
The English none of these can 'scape,
But he with all makes merry.

The Italian in her high chioppine,*
Scotch lass, and lovely Erse too,
The Spanish donna, French madam,
He doth not fear to go to.

Nothing so full of hazard, dread,
Nought lives above the centre,
No health, no fashion, wine or wench,
On which he dare not venture, t



* Choppine, a clog or patten,
t This song is introduced into the Rape of Lucrece.



THOMAS HEY WOOD. 201



THE GOLDEN AGE.



DIANA'S NYMPHS.

HAIL, beauteous Dian, queen of shades,
That dwell' st beneath these shadowy glades.
Mistress of all those beauteous maids

That are by her allowed.
Virginity we all profess,
Abjure the worldly vain excess,
And will to Dian yield no less

Than we to her have vowed.
The shepherds, satyrs, nymphs, and fawns,
For thee will trip it o'er the lawns.

Come, to the forest let us go,
And trip it like the barren doe ;
The fawns and satyrs still do so,

And freely thus they may do.
The fairies dance and satyrs sing,
And on the grass tread many a ring,
And to their caves their venison bring;

And we will do as they.

The shepherds, satyrs, <kc., &c.

Our food is honey from the bees,

And mellow fruits that drop from trees;

In chace we climb the high degrees

Of every steepy mountain.
And when the weary day is past,
We at the evening hie us fast,
And after this, our field repast,

We drink the pleasant fountain.

The shepherds, satyrs, &c., &c.



202 SONGS FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

PHILIP MASSINGER.
15841640.

[THE struggle of Massinger's life is pathetically summed up
in the entry of his burial in the parish register of St.
Saviour's: ' March 20, 1639-40 buried Philip Massinger, a
stranger' This entry tells his whole story, its obscurity,
humiliations, and sorrows. Dying in his house at Bankside,
in the neighbourhood of the theatre which had been so often
enriched by his genius, the isolation in which he lived is pain-
fully indicated by this touching memorial. Yet there is little
trace of a resentment against fortune in his writings, which
are generally marked, on the contrary, by religious feeling,
and that gentleness and patience of spirit by which he is said
to have been distinguished in his intercourse with his con-
temporaries. The only passages that have an air of discontent
are those in which he rails at kings, and chastises the vices
and hollowness of fashionable life and its vulgar imitators;
but these topics were the common property of all the
dramatists. Massinger was not so profound in his develop-
ment of the stronger passions as he was true and chaste in
the delineation of quiet emotions and ordinary experiences.
His vehement tragic bursts sometimes degenerate into rant;
but his calmer scenes are always natural and just. 'He
wrote,' observes Lamb, ' with that equability of all the
passions which made his English style the purest and most
free from violent metaphors and harsh constructions of any of
the dramatists who were his contemporaries.'

The dates attached to the plays indicate the years in which
they were produced upon the stage.]

THE PICTURE. 1629.

THE SWEETS OP BEAUTY.

THHE blushing rose, and purple flower,
-*- Let grow too long, are soonest blasted;
Dainty fruits, though sweet, will sour,
And rot in ripeness, left untasted.



PHILIP MASSINGER. 203

Yet here is one more sweet than these :
The more you taste the more shell please.

Beauty that's enclosed with ice,

Is a shadow chaste as rare ;
Then how much those sweets entice,

That have issue full as fair !
Earth cannot yield, from all her powers,
One equal for dame Venus' bowers.

THE EMPEROR OF THE EAST. 1631.



DEATH.



WHY art thou slow, thou rest of trouble, Death,
To stop a wretch's breath,
That calls on thee, and offers her sad heart

A prey unto thy dart?
I am nor young nor fair; be, therefore, bold:

Sorrow hath made me old,
Deformed, and wrinkled; all that I can crave,

Is quiet in my grave.
Such as live happy, hold long life a jewel;

But to me thou art cruel,
If thou end not my tedious misery ;

And I soon cease to be.
Strike, and strike home, then ; pity unto me,

In one short hour's delay, is tyranny.



THE GUARDIAN. 1633.



THE BRIDAL.

Juno to the Bride.

TENTER a maid; but made a bride,
J-^ Be bold and freely taste
The marriage banquet, ne'er denied
To such as sit down chaste.



204 SONGS FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

Though he unloose thy virgin zone,

Presumed against thy will,
Those joys reserved to him alone,

Thou art a virgin still.

Hymen to the Bridegroom.

Hail, bridegroom, hail ! thy choice thus made,

As thou wouldst have her true,
Thou must give o'er thy wanton trade,

And bid those fires adieu.
That husband who would have his wife

To him continue chaste,
In her embraces spends his life,

And makes abroad no waste.

Hymen and Juno.

Sport then like turtles, and bring forth

Such pledges as may be
Assurance of the father's worth,

And mother's purity.
Juno doth bless the nuptial bed;

Thus Hymen's torches burn.
Live long, and may, when both are dead,

Your ashes fill one urn !



WELCOME TO THE FOBEST'S QUEEN.

TT7ELCOME, thrice welcome to this shady green,

' * Our long- wished Cynthia, the forest's queen,
The trees begin to bud, the glad birds sing
In winter, changed by her into the spring.
We know no night,
Perpetual light

Dawns from your eye.
You being near,
We cannot fear,

Though death stood by.



JOHN FORD. 205

From yon our swords take edge, our heart grows

bold;

From you in fee their lives your liegemen hold.
These groves your kingdom, and our laws your will;
Smile, and we spare ; but if you frown, we kill.
Bless then the hour
That gives the power
In which you may,
At bed and board,
Embrace your lord

Both night and day.

Welcome, thrice welcome to this shady green,
Our long- wished Cynthia, the forest's queen !



JOHN FORD.
158616.

[WHILE Massinger was fighting against the ills and mortifi-
cations of a precarious pursuit, his contemporary Ford, two
years his junior, was persevering in the profession of the law,
filling up his leisure hours with dramatic poetry, and making
an independence, which at last enabled him to marry (if the
pleasant tradition may be trusted), and to spend the last years
of his life at ease in his native place. He was descended from
a family long settled in the north of Devonshire, was born in
Islington in 1586, and is supposed to have died about 1640.
In the poem on the Times' Poets, already quoted, he is
described in a characteristic couplet:

' Deep in a dump John Ford was alone got,
With folded arms and melancholy hat.'

Whether the ' melancholy hat' really conveys a faithful image
of the character of the man is questionable, for in the roll of
worthies enumerated by Hey wood in his Hierarchy of Angels,
we are told that he was always called by the familiar name of
Jack Ford, which argues a more social and genial nature.]

THE DEAMATISTS. 14



206 SONGS FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

THE SUN'S DARLING.* 1623.



THE KEAL AND THE IDEAL.

FANCIES are but streams
Of vain pleasure ;
They, who by their dreams

True joys measure,
Feasting starve, laughing weep,
Playing smart ; whilst in sleep
Fools, with shadows smiling,
Wake and find
Hopes like wind,
Idle hopes, beguiling. .
Thoughts fly away; Time hath passed them :
Wake now, awake ! see and taste them !

BIRDS' SONGS.

WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail?
'Tis Philomel, the nightingale;
Jugg, jugg, jugg, terue she cries,
And, hating earth, to heaven she flies.

Ha, ha ! hark, hark ! the cuckoos sing
Cuckoo ! to welcome in the Spring.

Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?

'Tis the lark's silver leer-a-leer.

Chirrup the sparrow flies away;

For he fell to't ere break of day.

Ha, ha ! hark, hark ! the cuckoos sing
Cuckoo ! to welcome in the Spring, f

LIVE WITH ME.

T IVE with me still, and all the measures,
-*-^ Played to by the spheres, I'll teach thee;
Let's but thus dally, all the pleasures

The moon beholds, her man shall reach thee.

* In this play Ford was joined by Dekker.

t Imitated from a song in Lyly's Alexander and Campaspe. See
ante, p. 5o.



JOHN FORD. 207

Dwell in mine arms, aloft we'll hover,
And see fields of armies fighting :

Oh, part not from me ! I'll discover
There all, but books of fancy's writing.

Be but my darling, age to free thee
From her curse, shall fall a-dying;

Call me thy empress ; Time to see thee
Shall forget his art of flying.

THE DEATH OP SPRING.

HEEE lies the blithe Spring,
Who first taught birds to sing;
Yet in April herself fell a crying :
Then May growing hot,
A sweating sickness she got,
And the first of June lay a-dying.

Yet no month can say,

But her merry daughter May
Stuck her coffins with flowers great plenty :

The cuckoo sung in verse

An epitaph o'er her hearse,
But assure you the lines were not dainty.

SUMMER SPORTS.

HAYMAKERS, rakers, reapers, and mowers,
Wait on your Summer-queen;
Dress up with musk-rose her eglantine bowers,
Daffodils strew the green;
Sing, dance, and play,
'Tis holiday;

The Sun does bravely shine
On our ears of corn.

Rich as a pearl
Comes every girl,

This is mine, this is mine, this is mine ;
Let us die, ere away they be borne.

142



208 SONGS FROM THE DRAMATISTS.

Bow to the Sun, to our queen, and that fair one

Come to behold our sports :
Each bonny lass here is counted a rare one,
As those in a prince's courts.
These and we
With country glee,
Will teach the woods to resound,
And the hills with echoes hollow :
Skipping lambs
Their bleating dams,
'Mongst kids shall trip it round;
For joy thus our wenches we follow.


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