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Ler. In such a night

Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,

Slander her love, and he forgave it her...
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night
Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
Enter Musicians.

Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn :
With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
And draw her home with music.

Fes. I'm never merry when I hear sweet music.
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive;
For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud-
Which is the hot condition of their blood-

If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound,

Or any air of music touch their ears,

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze,

By the sweet power of music. Therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark as Erebus:
Let no such man be trusted.

Merchant of Venice, Act V. sc. I.

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Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels; And as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out

The triumph of his pledge.

Hor. Is it a custom?

Ham. Ay, marry, is 't:

But to my mind-though I am native here,
And to the manner born-it is a custom

More honoured in the breach than the observance.
This heavy-headed revel, east and west,
Makes us traduced, and taxed of other nations;
They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
Soil our addition; and, indeed, it takes

From our achievements, though performed at height,
The pith and marrow of our attribute.

So, oft it chances in particular men,

That for some vicious mole of nature in them,

As in their birth (wherein they are not guilty,
Since nature cannot choose his origin),
By the o'ergrowth of some complexion,

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason;

Or by some habit, that too much o'er-leavens
The form of plausive manners; that these men,
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect;
Being nature's livery, or fortune's star,
Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man may undergo,

Shall in the general censure take corruption

From that particular fault: The dram of base Doth all the noble substance often dout,

To his own scandal.

Enter GHOST.

Hor. Look, my lord, it comes!

Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us !—
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned,
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,

That I will speak to thee. I'll call thee, Hamlet,
King, Father, Royal Dane; Oh, answer me ;
Let me not burst in ignorance! but tell
Why thy canonised bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements! why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly inurned,
Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws,
To cast thee up again! What may this mean,
That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous; and we fools of nature,
So horribly to shake our disposition,
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?
Say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?
[Ghost beckons Hamlet.

Hor. It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.

Mar. Look, with what courteous action
It waves you off to a removed ground :
But do not go with it.

Hor. No, by no means.

[Holding Hamlet.

Ham. It will not speak: then I will follow it.
Hor. Do not, my lord.

Ham. Why, what should be the fear?

I do not set my life at a pin's fee;
And, for my soul, what can it do to that,
Being a thing immortal as itself?

It waves me forth again.-I'll follow it.

Hor. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff, That beetles o'er his base into the sea; And there assume some other horrible form, Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, And draw you into madness? Think of it. The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain, That looks so many fathoms to the sea, And hears it roar beneath.

Ham. It waves me still.-Go on, I'll follow thee. Act I. sc. 4.

Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death.

To be, or not to be, that is the question-
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them? To die--to sleep-
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to !-'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die-to sleep-

To sleep!-perchance to dream !-ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

149

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To groan and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death-
That undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns-puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to other that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

Act III. sc. I.

Mark Antony over Casar's Body.

Antony. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.

I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones:
So let it be with Cæsar. Noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious;
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest-
For Brutus is an honourable man,

So are they all, all honourable men-
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me;

But Brutus says he was ambitious;

And Brutus is an honourable man.

He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill.
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?

When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept ;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.

You all did see that on the Lupercal

I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse.

Was this ambition?

Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;

And, sure, he is an honourable man.

I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke;
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,

And men have lost their reason!-Bear with me:
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

1st Cit. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings.

2d Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Cæsar has had great wrong.

3d Cit. Has he, masters? I fear there will a worse come in his place.

4th Cit. Marked ye his words? He would not take the crown;

Therefore, 'tis certain he was not ambitious.

Ist Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. 2d Cit. Poor soul! his eyes are red as fire with weeping.

3d Cit. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony.

4th Cit. Now mark him, he begins again to speak. Ant. But yesterday, the word of Cæsar might Have stood against the world; now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. Oh, masters! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,

I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,

Who, you all know, are honourable men.
I will not do them wrong: I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar :
I found it in his closet; 'tis his will.

Let but the commons hear this testament-
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read-
And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,

And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue.

4th Cit. We'll hear the will; read it, Mark Antony. All. The will! the will! We will hear Cæsar's will! Ant. Have patience, gentle friends! I must not read it;

It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.'
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ;
And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;
For if you should, oh, what would come of it!

4th Cit. Read the will! we will hear it, Antony: You shall read us the will; Cæsar's will!

Ant. Will you be patient? will you stay a while? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it.

I fear I wrong the honourable men

Whose daggers have stabbed Cæsar. I do fear it. 4th Cit. They were traitors. Honourable men! All. The will! the testament !

2d Cit. They were villains, murderers! The will! Read the will!

Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will?
Then make a ring about the corpse of Cæsar,
And let me shew you him that made the will.

Shall I descend? And will you give me leave?
All. Come down.

2d Cit. Descend.

[He comes down from the pulpit.

3d Cit. You shall have leave.

4th Cit. A ring! Stand round.

ist Cit. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. 2d Cit. Room for Antony-most noble Antony ! Ant. Nay, press not so upon me: stand far off.

All. Stand back! room! bear back!

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember

The first time ever Cæsar put it on;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent;
That day he overcame the Nervii.

Look! In this place ran Cassius' dagger through;
See, what a rent the envious Casca made!
Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed;
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it!
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
Oh, now you weep; and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls! What! weep you when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here!
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.
1st Cit. O piteous spectacle!

2d Cit. O noble Cæsar!

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Bolingbroke's Entry into London.

DUKE OF YORK and the DUCHESS.

Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off Of our two cousins coming into London.

York. Where did I leave?

Duch. At that stop, my lord,

Where rude misgoverned hands, from windows' tops, Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.

York. Then, as I said, the duke, great BolingbrokeMounted upon a hot and fiery steed,

Which his aspiring rider seemed to know-
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course,
While all tongues cried: God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
Upon his visage; and that all the walls,
With painted imagery, had said at once:
Jesu preserve thee! welcome, Bolingbroke!
Whilst he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare-headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespake them thus: I thank you, countrymen.
And thus still doing, thus he passed along.

Duch. Alas, poor Richard! where rode he the
whilst?

York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-graced actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:

Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard; no man cried: God save him;
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home :
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off-
His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience-

That had not God, for some strong purpose, steeled
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.

King Richard II. Act V. sc. 2.
Fear of Death.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where ;
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
This sensible warm motion to become
A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit
To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;
To be imprisoned in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence round about
The pendent world; or to be worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts
Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible!

The weariest and most loathed worldly life,
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a paradise
To what we fear of death.

Measure for Measure, Act III. sc. 1.

Perseverance.

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for Oblivion,
A great-sized monster of ingratitudes :

Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devoured
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon

As done. Perseverance, dear my lord,

Keeps honour bright: to have done, is to hang
Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail
In monumental mockery. Take the instant way,
For honour travels in a strait so narrow,
Where one but goes abreast: Keep, then, the path;
For Emulation hath a thousand sons,
That one by one pursue: if you give way,
Or hedge aside from the direct forthright,
Like to an entered tide, they all rush by,
And leave you hindmost ;-

Or, like a gallant horse, fall'n in first rank,
Lie there for pavement to the abject rear,

O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in

present,

Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours;
For Time is like a fashionable host,

That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand,
And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly,
Grasps in the comer: Welcome ever smiles,

And Farewell goes out sighing. O! let not Virtue seek
Remuneration for the thing it was; for beauty, wit,
High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service,
Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all

To envious and calumniating Time.

One touch of nature makes the whole world kinThat all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt,

More laud than gilt o'erdusted:

The present eye praises the present object.
Troilus and Cressida, Act III. sc. 3

Mercy.

The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown :
His sceptre shews the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
But mercy is above the sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then shew likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.

Merchant of Venice, Act IV. sc. I.

The Forest of Arden.

DUKE, senior, AMIENS, and other Lords.

Duke. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons' difference; as, the icy fang, And churlish chiding of the winter's wind; Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say: This is no flattery; these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am. Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head :

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it!

Amiens. Happy is your grace,

That can translate the stubbornness of fortune
Into so quiet and so sweet a style!

Duke. Come, shall we go and kill us venison?
And yet it irks me, the poor dappled fools,
Being native burghers of this desert city,

Should, in their own confines, with forked heads,
Have their round haunches gored.

First Lord. Indeed, my lord,
The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
Than doth your brother that hath banished you.
To-day, my lord of Amiens and myself
Did steal behind him, as he lay along
Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out
Upon the brook that brawls along this wood;
To the which place a poor sequestered stag,
That from the hunters' aim had ta'en a hurt,
Did come to languish : and, indeed, my lord,
The wretched animal heaved forth such groans,
That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat
Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
Coursed one another down his innocent nose
In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook,
Augmenting it with tears.

Duke. But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralise this spectacle?

First Lord. O yes, into a thousand similes.
First, for his weeping in the needless stream--
'Poor deer,' quoth he, 'thou mak'st a testament
As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more

To that which had too much.' Then, being alone,
Left and abandoned of his velvet friends;
"'Tis right,' quoth he; 'thus misery doth part
The flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd,
Full of the pasture, jumps along by him,
And never stays to greet him: Ay,' quoth Jaques,
'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
'Tis just the fashion: Wherefore do you look
Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'
As You Like It, Act II. sc. 1.

The World Compared to a Stage.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms:
And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, the soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel ;
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shanks; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion:
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Ibid. Act II. sc. 7.

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Obe. That very time I saw (but thou couldst not),
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all armed; a certain aim he took

At a fair vestal, throned by the west;
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts:
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quenched in the chaste beams of the watery moon;
And the imperial votaress passed on,

In maiden meditation, fancy-free.

Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell:

It fell upon a little western flower

Before, milk-white; now, purple with love's wound-
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.

Fetch me that flower; the herb I shewed thee once;
The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid,
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb: and be thou here again,
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

Puck. I'll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.

Midsummer Night's Dream, Act II. sc. 2.

BEN JONSON.

The second name in the dramatic literature of this period has been generally assigned to BEN JONSON, though some may be disposed to claim it for the more Shakspearian genius of Beaumont and Fletcher. Jonson was born nine years after Shakspeare-in 1573-and appeared as a writer for the stage in his twentieth year. His early life was full of hardship and vicissitude. His father, a clergyman in Westminster-a member of a Scottish family from Annandale-died before the poet's birth, and his mother marrying again, Ben was brought from Westminster School, and put to the employment of his stepfather, which was that of a bricklayer. Disliking the occupation, Jonson enlisted as a soldier, and served in the Low Countries. He is reported to have killed one of the enemy in single combat, in the view of both armies, and to have otherwise distinguished himself for his youthful bravery. As a poet, Jonson afterwards reverted with pride to his conduct as a soldier. On his return, he is said to have entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short-if he ever was enrolled of the university-for, about the age of twenty, he is found married, and an actor in London. Ben made his début at a low theatre near Clerkenwell, and, as his opponents afterwards reminded him, failed completely as an actor. At the same time, he was engaged in writing for the stage, either by himself or conjointly with others. He quarrelled with another performer, and on their fighting a duel with swords, Jonson had the misfortune to kill his antagonist, and was severely wounded himself. He was committed to prison on a charge of murder, but was released without a trial. On

regaining his liberty, he commenced writing for the stage, and produced, in 1596, his Every Man in his Humour. The scene was laid in Italy, but the characters and manners depicted in the piece were English; and Jonson afterwards recast the whole, and transferred the scene to England. In its revised form, Every Man in his Humour was brought out at the Globe Theatre in 1598, and Shakspeare was one of the performers in the play. He had himself produced some of his finest comedies by this time, but Jonson was no imitator of his great rival, who blended a spirit of poetical romance with his comic sketches, and made no attempt to delineate the domestic manners of his countrymen. Jonson opened a new walk in the drama: he felt his strength, and the public cheered him on with its plaudits. Queen Elizabeth patronised the new poet, and ever afterwards he was ‘a man of mark and likelihood.' In 1599, appeared his Every Man out of his Humour, a less able performance than its predecessor. Cynthia's Revels and the Poetaster followed, and the fierce rivalry and contention which clouded Jonson's after-life seem to have begun about this time. He had attacked Marston and Dekker, two of his brotherdramatists, in the Poetaster. Dekker replied with spirit in his Satiromastix, and Ben was silent for two years, 'living upon one Townsend, and scorning the world,' as is recorded in the diary of a contemporary. In 1603, he tried 'if tragedy had a more kind aspect,' and produced his classic drama of Sejanus. Shortly after the accession of King James, a comedy called Eastward Hoe was written conjointly by Jonson, Chapman, and Marston. Some passages in this piece reflected on the Scottish nation; and the matter was represented to the king by one of his courtiers-Sir James Murray-in so strong a light, that the authors were thrown into prison, and threatened with the loss of their ears and noses. They were not tried; and when Ben was set at liberty, he gave an entertainment to his friends-Selden and Camden being of the number. His mother was present on this joyous occasion, and she produced a paper of poison, which, she said, she intended to have given her son in his liquor, rather than he should submit to personal mutilation and disgrace, and another dose which she intended afterwards to have taken herself. The old lady must, as Whalley remarks, have been more of an antique Roman than a Briton. Jonson's own conduct in this affair was noble and spirited. He had no considerable share in the composition of the piece, and was, besides, in such favour, that he would not have been molested; 'but this did not satisfy him,' says Gifford ; and he, therefore, with a high sense of honour, voluntarily accompanied his two friends to prison, determined to share their fate.' We cannot now ascertain what was the mighty satire that moved the patriotic indignation of James; it was doubtless softened before publication; but in some copies of Eastward Hoe (1605), there is a passage in which the Scots are said to be 'dispersed over the face of the whole earth;' and the dramatist sarcastically adds: 'But as for them, there are no greater friends to Englishmen and England, when they are out on't, in the world, than they are; and, for my part, I would a hundred thousand of them were there [in Virginia], for we are all one countrymen now, you know, and we should find ten times more comfort of them

there than we do here.' The offended nationality of James must have been laid to rest by the subsequent adulation of Jonson in his court-masks, for he eulogised the vain and feeble monarch as one that would raise the glory of England more than Elizabeth! Jonson's three great comediesVolpone, or the Fox; Epicene, or the Silent Woman; and the Alchemist-were his next serious labours; his second classical tragedy, Catiline, appeared in 1611. His fame had now reached its highest elevation; but he produced several other comedies, and a vast number of court entertainments, ere his star began sensibly to decline. In 1618, Jonson made a journey on foot to Scotland, where he had many friends. He was well received by the Scottish gentry, and was so pleased with the country, that he meditated a poem, or drama, on the beauties of Loch Lomond. The last of his visits was made to Drummond of Hawthornden, with whom he lived three weeks; and Drummond kept notes of his conversation, which, in a subsequent age, were communicated to the world. In conclusion, Drummond entered on his journal the following character of Ben himself:

'He is a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner and scorner of others; given rather to lose a friend than a jest; jealous of every word and action of those about him, especially after drink, which is one of the elements in which he liveth; a dissembler of ill parts which reign in him; a bragger of some good that he wanteth; thinketh nothing well but what either he himself or some of his friends and countrymen hath said or done; he is passionately kind and angry; careless either to gain or keep; vindictive, but, if well answered, at himself; for any religion, as being versed in both;* interpreteth best sayings and deeds often to the worst; oppressed with fantasy, which hath ever mastered his reason, a general disease in many poets.'

This character, it must be confessed, is far from being a flattering one; and probably it was, unconsciously, overcharged, owing to the recluse habits and staid demeanour of Drummond. We believe it, however, to be substantially correct. Inured to hardships and to a free, boisterous life in his early days, Jonson seems to have contracted a roughness of manner and habits of intemperance which never wholly left him. Priding himself immoderately on his classical acquirements, he was apt to slight and condemn his less learned associates; while the conflict between his limited means and his love of social pleasures, rendered him too often severe and saturnine in his temper. Whatever he did was done with labour, and hence was highly prized. His contemporaries seemed fond of mortifying his pride, and he was often at war with actors and authors. With the celebrated Inigo Jones, who was joined with him in the preparation of the court-masks, Jonson waged a long and bitter feud, in which both parties were to blame. When his better nature prevailed, and exorcised the demon of envy or spleen, Jonson was capable of a generous warmth of

* Drummond here alludes to Jonson having been at one period

of his life a Roman Catholic. When in prison, after killing the actor, a priest converted him to the Church of Rome, and he contime, he returned to the Protestant communion. As a proof of his enthusiastic temperament, it is mentioned that Jonson drank out ciliation with the Church of England. the full cup of wine at the communion-table, in token of his recon

tinued a member of it for twelve years. At the expiration of that

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