stars; but, as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the self-same way they seem to turn their faces. Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect Of this thy dismal preparation, This talk, fit for a charnel. Bos. Now I shall. [A coffin, cords, and a bell produced.] Here is a present from your princely brothers; And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Duch. Let me see it. I have so much obedience in my blood, Duch. Peace, it affrights not me. That usually is sent to condemn'd persons Duch. Even now thou said'st Thou wast a tomb-maker. Bos. 'Twas to bring you By degrees to mortification; Listen. DIRGE. Hark, now every thing is still; This screech-owl, and the whistle shrill, Call upon our dame aloud, And bid her quickly don her shroud. Much you had of land and rent; Your length in clay 's now competent. Here your perfect peace is sign'd. Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping? Their death, a hideous storm of terror. Strew your hair with powders sweet, Don clean linen, bathe your feet: And, (the foul fiend more to check,) A crucifix let bless your neck. 'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day: Car. Hence, villains, tyrants, murderers; alas! What will you do with my lady? Call for help. Duch. To whom? to our next neighbours? They are mad folks. Farewell, Cariola, I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy Some syrup for his cold; and let the girl Say her prayers ere she sleep.-Now what you please; What death? Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners. Duch. I forgive them. The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs, Would do as much as they do. Bos. Doth not death fright you? Duch. Who would be afraid on 't, Knowing to meet such excellent company In th' other world Bos. Yet methinks, The manner of your death should much afflict you: Duch. Not a whit. What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls? I know death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits: and 'tis found They go on such strange geometrical hinges, You may open them both ways: any way (for heav'n sake), That I perceive death (now I'm well awake) Best gift is they can give or I can take. I would fain put off my last woman's fault; I'd not be tedious to you. Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength Yet stay, heaven gates are not so highly arch'd [They strangle her, kneeling.] [Ferdinand enters.] Ferd. Is she dead? Bos. She is what you would have her. Fix your eyes here. Ferd. Constantly. Bos. Do you not weep? Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out, The element of water moistens the earth, But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens. Ferd. Cover her face: mine eyes dazzle: she died young. Bos. I think not so: her infelicity Seem'd to have years too many. Ferd. She and I were twins: And should I die this instant, I had lived THOMAS MIDDLETON, born about 1560, was, himself, the author of more than twenty plays, and was also frequently engaged with others in the production of dramas and court-pageants. In 1620, he stood so high in public favor, that he was made chronologer, or city poet, of London-an office which Ben Jonson was proud, afterward, to fill. Middleton died in July, 1627, at the age of about sixty-eight. The dramas of Middleton have no strongly-marked character. Perhaps his best are Woman Beware of Women, The Witch, and A Game of Chess, The following sketch of married happiness, from the first of these plays, is delicate, and finely expressed : HAPPINESS OF MARRIED LIFE. How near am I now to a happiness That earth exceeds not! not another like it: Able to draw men's envies upon man; "The Witch' of this author is supposed, by many critics, to have supplied the witchcraft scenery, and part of the lyrical incantations of Shakspeare's Macbeth; but the supernatural agents of Middleton are the old witches of legendary story, and not the dim mysterious unearthly beings that accost Macbeth on the blasted heath. The Charm Song is much the same in both plays : [The witches going about the Cauldron.] Black spirits and white; red spirits and gray; Firedrake, Puckey, make it lucky; Round, around, around, about, about; All ill come running in; all good keep out! Sec. Witch. Here 's libbard's bane. Hecate. Put in again. First Witch. The juice of toad, the oil of adder. Sec. Witch. Those will make the younker madder. The flight of the witches by moonlight is described with a wild gusto and delight, that confer, upon the dramatist, the credit of true poetical imagination. We very much doubt whether the following scene is greatly surpassed by even Shakspeare: [Enter Hecate, Stadlin, Hoppo, and other Witches.] Hec. The moon 's a gallant; see how brisk she rides! Stad. Here's a rich evening, Hecate. Hec. Ay, is 't not, wenches, To take a journey of five thousand miles? Hop. Ours will be more to-night. Hec. Oh, it will be precious. Heard you the owl yet? Stad. Briefly in the copse As we came through now. Hec. 'Tis high time for us then. Stad. There was a bat hung at my, lips three times Hec. You are fortunate still. The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder, Fire. They are all going a-birding to-night. They talk of fowls i' th' air that fly by day; I'm sure they'll be a company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have not mortality affear'd, I'll be hang'd, for they are able to putrify it to infect a whole region. She spies me now. Hec. What! Firestone, our sweet son? Fire. A little sweeter than some of you; or a dunghill were too good for one. Hec. How much hast there? Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones; besides six lizards, and three serpentine eggs. Hec. Dear and sweet boy! What herbs hast thou? Fire. I have some mar-martin and mandragon. Hec. Mar-maritin and mandragora thou would'st say. Fire. Here's pannax too. I thank thee; my pan akes I am sure, with kneeling down to cut 'em. Hec. And selago. Hedge Hissop too! How near he goes my cuttings! Were they all cropt by moonlight? Fire. Every blade of 'em, or I'm a mooncalf, mother. Hec. Hie thee home with 'em. Look well to th' house to-night; I am for aloft. Fire. Aloft, quoth you? I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly. [Aside.] Hark, hark, mother! they are above the steeple already, flying over your head with a noise of musicians. Hec. They are, indeed; help me! help me! I'm too late else. SONG. [In the air above.] Come away, come away, Hec. I come, I come, I come, I come; With all the speed I may. Above. Here. Hec. Where's Puckle ? Above. Here. And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too: Hec. I will but 'noint, and then I mount. [A Spirit descends in the shape of a cat.] Above. There's one come down to fetch his dues; A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood; And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, I muse, Hec. Oh, art thou come; What news, what news? Spirit. All goes still to our delight. Refuse, refuse. Hec. Now I am furnished for the flight. Fire. Hark, hark! The cat sings a brave treble In her own language. Hec. [Ascending with the Spirit.] Now I go, now I fly. Oh, what dainty pleasure 'tis To ride in the air, When the moon shines fair, And sing and dance, and toy and kiss! Over woods, high rocks, and mountains, Over seas, our mistress' fountains, We fly by night, 'mongst troops of spirits. No ring of bells to our ears sounds; Or cannon's roar our height can reach. JOHN MARSTON was a rough and vigorous satirist, as well as a dramatic writer. He was, for some time, a student in Corpus Christi College, Oxford, but where he was born, or of what family descended, is not known. His principal dramas are The Malcontent, a comedy performed in 1600, Antonio and Mellida, a tragedy, in 1602, The Insatiate Countess, and What You Will. Besides these dramas, Marston wrote, in connection with Jonson and Chapman, the unfortunate comedy of 'Eastward Hoe.' He was the author of a volume of satires also, under the title of The Scourge of the Villainy. His death occurred in 1614, and the last literary labor of the great Shakspeare is represented to have been the editing of his plays. Hazlitt remarks that 'Marston's forte was not sympathy either with the stronger or softer emotions, but an impatient scorn and bitter indignation |