In Italy and France, even in these days,
Compar'd with ours, are rather jigs than plays :
Like of the Spanish may be said, and Dutch,
None vers'd in language but confess them such.
They do not build their projects on that ground,
Nor have their phrases half the weight and sound
Our laboured scenes have had; and yet our nation,
(Already too much tax'd for imitation,
In seeking to ape others) cannot quit
Some of our poets, who have sinn'd in it.
For where, before, great patriots, dukes and kings
Presented for some high facinorous things,1
Were the stage subject; now we strive to fly
In their low pitch, who never could soar high:
For now the common argument entreats,
Of puling lovers, crafty bawds, or cheats.
Nor blame I their quick fancies, who can fit
These queasy times, with humours flash'd in wit,
Whose art I both encourage and commend;
I only wish that they would sometimes bend
To memorise the valours of such men,
Whose very names might dignify the pen;
And that our (once applauded) Roscian strain,
In acting such might be reviv'd again :
Which you to countenance would the stage make proud,
And poets strive to key their strings more loud.
1 The foundations of the English Drama were laid up in tragedy by Marlow and others-Marlow especially-while our comedy was yet in its lisping state. To this tragic preponderance (forgetting his own sweet comedies, and Shakspeare's), Heywood seems to refer with regret; as in the "Roscian Strain" he evidently alludes to Alleyn, who was great in the "Jew of Malta," as Heywood elsewhere testifies, and in the principal tragic parts both of Marlow and Shakspeare.
THE ROYAL KING AND THE LOYAL SUBJECT.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
Noble Traitor.
A PERSIAN history
I read of late, how the great Sophy, once
Flying a noble falcon at the herne,
In comes by chance an eagle passing by,
Which when the hawk espies, leaves her first game,
And boldly ventures on the king of birds.
Long tugg'd they in the air, till at the length
The falcon, better breath'd, seiz'd on the eagle,
And struck it dead. The barons prais'd the bird,
And for her courage she was peerless held.
The Emperor, after some deliberate thoughts,
Made him no less: he caus'd a crown of gold
To be new fram'd, and fitted to her head,
In honour of her courage. Then the bird,
With great applause, was to the market-place
In triumph borne, where, when her utmost worth
Had been proclaim'd, the common executioner
First by the King's command took off her crown,
And after with a sword struck off her head,
As one no better than a noble traitor
Unto the king of birds.
In the Prologue to this Play, Heywood descants upon the variety of topics which had been introduced upon the English stage in that age-the rich Shaksperian epoch.
To give content to this most curious
The gods themselves we've brought down to the
And figur'd them in planets; made even hell
Deliver up the Furies, by no spell
Saving the Muses' rapture: further, we
Have traffick'd by their help; no history
We have left unrifled; our pens have been dipt,
As well in opening each hid manuscript,
As tracts more vulgar, whether read or sung
In our domestic, or more foreign tongue.
Of fairy elves, nymphs of the sea and land,
The lawns and groves, no number can be scann'd,
Which we've not given feet to; nay, 'tis known,
That when our chronicles have barren grown
Of story, we have all invention stretch'd,
Div'd low as to the center, and then reach'd
Unto the primum mobile above
(Nor 'scapt things intermediate). For your love,
These have been acted often; all have pass'd
Censure, of which some live, and some are cast.
For this in agitation, stay the end;
Though nothing please, yet nothing can offend.
THE LATE LANCASHIRE WITCHES, A COMEDY:
BY THOMAS HEYWOOD AND RICHARD BROME.
MR GENEROUS, by taking off a bridle from a seeming horse in his stable, discovers it to be his wife, who has transformed herself by magical practices,
MR GENEROUS. WIFE. ROBIN, a groom.
Gen. My blood is turn'd to ice, and all my vitals
Have ceased their working! Dull stupidity
Surpriseth me at once, and hath arrested
That vigorous agitation, which till now
Exprest a life within me : I, methinks,
Am a mere marble statue, and no man ;
Unweave my age, O time, to my first thread;
Let me lose fifty years in ignorance spent,
That being made an infant once again,
I may begin to know, what, or where am I,
To be thus lost in wonder?
Gen. Amazement still pursues me: how am
chang'd,
Or brought ere I can understand myself,
Into this new world?
Rob. You will believe no witches?
Gen. This makes me believe all, ay, anything;
And that myself am nothing: prithee, Robin,
Lay me to myself open-what art thou,
Or this new transform'd creature?
Rob. I am Robin, and this your wife, my mistress.
Gen. Tell me the earth
Shall leave its seat, and mount to kiss the moon;
Or that the moon, enamour'd of the earth,
Shall leave her sphere, to stoop to us thus low.
What! what's this in my hand, that, at an instant,
Can, from a four-leg'd creature, make a thing
So like a wife?
Rob. A bridle, a juggling bridle, sir.
Gen. A bridle, hence enchantment,
A viper were more safe within my hand,
Than this charm'd engine.-
A witch! my wife a witch!
The more I strive to unwind
Myself from this meander, I the more
Therein am intricated: prithee, woman,
Wife. It cannot be deny'd I am such a curst creature. Gen. Keep aloof, and do not come too near me, O
Have I, since first I understood myself,
Been of my soul so chary, still to study
What best was for its health, to renounce all
The works of that black fiend with my best force,
And hath that serpent twin'd me so about,
That I must lie so often and so long
With a devil in my bosom !
Wife. Pardon, sir.
Gen. Pardon! can such a thing as that be hop'd?
Lift up thine eyes, lost woman, to yon hills;
It must be thence expected: look not down
Unto that horrid dwelling, which thou hast sought At such dear rate to purchase: prithee, tell me, (For now I can believe,) art thou a witch?
Gen. With that word I am thunderstruck,
And know not what to answer; yet resolve me, Hast thou made any contract with that fiend, The enemy of mankind?
Wife. O! I have.
Gen. What? and how far?
Wife. I have promis'd him my soul.
Gen. Ten thousand times better thy body had
Been promis'd to the stake, ay, and mine too,
To have suffer'd with thee in a hedge of flames,
Than such a compact ever had been made. Oh!
Resolve me, how far doth that contract stretch?
Wife. What interest in this soul myself could claim,
I freely gave him, but his part that made it
I still reserve, not being mine to give.
Gen. O cunning devil! foolish woman, know
Where he can claim but the least little part,
the whole th' art a lost woman.
Wife. I hope not so.
Gen. Why hast thou any hope?
Wife. Yes, sir, I have.
Gen. Make it appear to me.
Wife. I hope I never bargain'd for that fire,
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