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No, marry, shall he, sir, quoth I;
I'll lay my cloak underneath him.

I took my cloak, spread it all along,
And his horse on the midst of it.

epicures, whose loose life hath made religion loathsome to your ears; and when they soothe you with terms of mastership, remember Robert Greene (whom they have often flattered) perishes for want of comfort.


George. Thou clown, did'st thou set his horse upon member, gentlemen, your lives are like so many lightthy cloak?

Jenkin. Ay, but mark how I served him. Madge and he were no sooner gone down into the ditch,

But I plucked out my knife, cut four holes in my cloak,

And made his horse stand on the bare ground.

'Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay' is Greene's best comedy. His friars are conjurors, and the piece concludes with one of their pupils being carried off to hell on the back of one of Friar Bacon's devils. Mr Collier thinks this was one of the latest instances of the devil being brought upon the stage in propria persona. The play was acted in 1591, but may have been produced a year or two earlier.

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In some hour of repentance, when death was nigh at haid, Greene wrote a tract called A Groat's Worth of Wit, Bought with a Million of Repentance, in which he deplores his fate more feelingly than Nash, and also gives ghostly advice to his acquaintances, that spend their wit in making plays.' Marlow he accuses of atheism: Lodge he designates young Juvenal,' and 'a sweet boy;' Peele he considers too good for the stage; and he glances thus at Shakspeare:- For there is an upstart crow beautified with our feathers, that, with his tiger's heart wrapt in a player's hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you; and being an absolute Johannes Fac-totum, is, in his own conceit, the only Shake-scene in a country.' The punning allusion to Shakspeare is palpable: the expressions, tiger's heart,' &c. are a parody on the line in Henry VI., part third

O tiger's heart wrapt in a woman's hide.

The Winter's Tale is believed to be one of Shakspeare's late dramas, not written till long after Greene's death; consequently, if this be correct, the unhappy man could not allude to the plagiarism of the plot from his tale of Pandosto. Some forgotten play of Greene and his friends may have been alluded to; perhaps the old dramas on which Shakspeare constructed his Henry VI., for in one of these, the line, O tiger's heart,' &c., also occurs.


old plays, however, seem above the pitch of Greene in tragedy. The 'Groat's Worth of Wit' was published after Greene's death by a brother dramatist, Henry Chettle, who, in the preface to a subsequent work, apologised indirectly for the allusion to Shakspeare. I am as sorry,' he says, 'as if the original fault had been my fault, because myself have seen his demeanour no less civil than he excellent in the quality he professes. Besides, divers of worship have reported his uprightness of dealing, which argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that approves his art.' This is a valuable statement: full justice is done to Shakspeare's moral worth and civil deportment, and to his respectability as an actor and author. Chettle's apology or explanation was made in 1593.

The conclusion of Greene's' Groat's Worth of Wit' contains more pathos than all his plays: it is a harrowing picture of genius debased by vice, and sorrowing in repentance :---

'But now return I again to you three (Marlow, Lodge, and Peele), knowing my misery is to you no news and let me heartily intreat you to be warned by my harms. Delight not, as I have done, in irreligious oaths, despise drunkenness, fly lust, abhor those

tapers that are with care delivered to all of you to maintain; these, with wind-puffed wrath, may be extinguished, with drunkenness put out, with negligence let fall. The fire of my light is now at the last snuff. My hand is tired, and I forced to leave where I would begin; desirous that you should live, though himself be dying.-ROBERT GREENE.'

Content-A Sonnet.

Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content:
The quiet mind is richer than a crown:
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent:
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride nor care,
The mean, that 'grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth's and music's fare.
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

[Sephestia's Song to her Child,

After escaping from Shipwreck.]
Mother's wag, pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy,
When thy father first did see
Such a boy by him and me,
He was glad, I was woe,
Fortune changed made him so;
When he had left his pretty boy,
Last his sorrow, first his joy.

Weep not my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.
The wanton smiled, father wept,
Mother cried, baby leap'd;
More he crow'd, more he cried,
Nature could not sorrow hide;
He must go, he must kiss
Child and mother, baby bless;
For he left his pretty boy,
Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.

The Shepherd and his Wife.

It was near a thicky shade,
That broad leaves of beech had made,
Joining all their tops so nigh,
That scarce Phoebus in could pry;
Where sat the swain and his wife,
Sporting in that pleasing life,
That Coridon commendeth so,
All other lives to over-go."
He and she did sit and keep
Flocks of kids and flocks of sheep:
He upon his pipe did play,
She tuned voice unto his lay.
And, for you might her housewife know,
Voice did sing and fingers sew.
He was young, his coat was green,
With welts of white seamed between,
Turned over with a flap,

That breast and bosom in did wrap,
Skirts side and plighted free,
Seemly hanging to his knee,

A whittle with a silver chape; Cloak was russet, and the cape Served for a bonnet oft,

To shroud him from the wet aloft:
A leather scrip of colour red,
With a button on the head;
A bottle full of country whig,
By the shepherd's side did lig;
And in a little bush hard by,
There the shepherd's dog did lie,
Who, while his master 'gan to sleep,
Well could watch both kids and sheep.
The shepherd was a frolic swain,
For, though his 'parel was but plain,
Yet doon the authors soothly say,
His colour was both fresh and gay;
And in their writs plain discuss,
Fairer was not Tityrus,

Nor Menalcas, whom they call
The alderleefest swain of all!
Seeming him was his wife,
Both in line and in life.
Fair she was, as fair might be,
Like the roses on the tree;
Buxom, blithe, and young, I ween,
Beauteous, like a summer's queen;
For her cheeks were ruddy hued,
As if lilies were imbrued

With drops of blood, to make the white
Please the eye with more delight.
Love did lie within her eyes,

In ambush for some wanton prize;
A leefer lass than this had been,
Coridon had never seen.

Nor was Phillis, that fair may,
Half so gaudy or so gay.

She wore a chaplet on her head;
Her cassock was of scarlet red,
Long and large, as straight as bent;
Her middle was both small and gent.
A neck as white as whales' bone,
Compast with a lace of stone;
Fine she was, and fair she was,
Brighter than the brightest glass;
Such a shepherd's wife as she,
Was not more in Thessaly.

[Philador, seeing this couple sitting thus lovingly, noted the concord of country amity, and began to conjecture with himself, what a sweet kind of life those men use, who were by their birth too low for dignity, and by their fortunes too simple for envy. well, he thought to fall in prattle with them, had not the shepherd taken his pipe in hand, and began to play, and his wife to sing out, this roundelay :-]

Ah! what is love! It is a pretty thing,
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,

And sweeter too:

For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,
And cares can make the sweetest cares to frown:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
His flocks are folded; he comes home at night
As merry as a king in his delight,

And merrier too:

For kings bethink them what the state require,
Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat
His cream and curd, as doth the king his meat,
And blither too :

1 Do.

For kings have often fears when they sup,
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain !
Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound
As doth the king upon his beds of down,
More sounder too:

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?
Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe
As doth the king at every tide or syth,
And blither too :

For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,
When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain !


THOMAS LODGE was an actor in London in 1584. He had previously been a servitor of Trinity college, Oxford (1573), and had accompanied Captain Clarke in his voyage to the Canary Islands. He first studied law at Lincoln's Inn, but afterwards practised medicine. He took the degree of M.D. at Avignon. In 1590, he published a novel called Rosalind, Euphues' Golden Legacy, in which he recommends the fantastic style of Lyly. From part of this work (the story of Rosalind) Shakspeare constructed his As You Like It. If we suppose that Shakspeare wrote first sketches of the 'Winter's Tale' and As You Like It,' before 1592 (as he did of 'Romeo and Juliet,' Hamlet,' &c.), we may account for Greene's charge of plagiarism, by assuming that the words beautified with our feathers,' referred to the tales of Pandosto' and Rosalind.' In 1594, Lodge wrote a historical play, the Wounds of Civil War, Lively set forth in the True Tragedies of Marius and Sylla; this play is heavy and uninteresting, but Lodge had the good taste to follow Marlow's Tamburlaine, in the adoption of blank verse. ample

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Ay, but the milder passions show the man; For, as the leaf doth beautify the tree, The pleasant flowers bedeck the painted spring, Even so in men of greatest reach and power, A mild and piteous thought augments renown. The play, A Looking- Glass for London and England, written by Lodge and Greene, is directed to the defence of the stage. It applies the scriptural story of Nineveh to the city of London, and amidst drunken buffoonery, and clownish mirth, contains some powerful satirical writing. Lodge also wrote a volume of satires and other poems, translated Josephus, and penned a serious prose defence of the drama. was living in 1600, as is proved by his obtaining that year a pass from the privy council, permitting himself and his friend, Henry Savell, gent.,' to travel into the archduke's country, taking with them two servants, for the purpose of recovering some debts due them there. The actor and dramatist had now merged in the prosperous and wealthy physician: Lodge had profited by Greene's example and warning. According to Wood, Lodge died of the plague in September 1625.


It is impossible to separate the labours of Greene and Lodge in their joint play, but the former was certainly the most dramatic in his talents. In Lodge's 'Rosalind,' there is a delightful spirit of romantic fancy

and a love of nature that marks the true poet. We subjoin some of his minor pieces :


Like to the clear in highest sphere,
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of self-same colour is her hair,

Whether unfolded or in twines:
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,

Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear, when as they glow,
And I do tremble when I think."
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud,
That beautifies Aurora's face;
Or like the silver crimson shroud,

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace. Her lips are like two budded roses,

Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh; Within which bounds she balm encloses, Apt to entice a deity.

Her neck like to a stately tower,

Where Love himself imprison'd lies, To watch for glances, every hour,

From her divine and sacred eyes. With orient pearl, with ruby red, With marble white, with sapphire blue, Her body everywhere is fed,

Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view. Nature herself her shape admires,

The gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires, And at her eyes his brand doth light.

[Rosalind's Madrigal.]

Love in my bosom, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:

Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,
The live-long night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye?
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offence;

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,

I'll count your power not worth a pin ;
Alas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod ?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O, Cupid! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee.


Turn I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;
If so I gaze upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found;
Search I the shade to fly my pain,
Love meets me in the shade again;
Want I to walk in secret grove,
E'en there I meet with sacred love;
If so I bathe me in the spring,
E'en on the brink I hear him sing;
If so I meditate alone,

He will be partner of my moan;
If so I mourn he weeps with me,
And where I am there will he be !


The greatest of Shakspeare's precursors in the drama was CHRISTOPHER MARLOW-a fiery imaginative spirit, who first imparted consistent character and energy to the stage, in connexion with a finely modulated and varied blank verse. Marlow is supposed to have been born about the year 1562, and is said to have been the son of a shoemaker at Canterbury. He had a learned education, and took the degree of M.A. at Bennet college, Cambridge, in 1587. Previous to this, he had written his tragedy of Tamburlaine the Great, which was successfully brought out on the stage, and long continued a favourite. Shakspeare makes ancient Pistol quote, in ridicule, part of this play

Holla, ye pamper'd jades of Asia, &c.

But, amidst the rant and fustian of Tamburlaine,' there are passages of great beauty and wild grandeur, and the versification justifies the compliment afterwards paid by Ben Jonson, in the words, 'Marlow's mighty line.' His high-sounding blank verse is one of his most characteristic features. Marlow now commenced the profession of an actor; but if we are to credit a contemporary ballad, he was soon incapacitated for the stage by breaking his leg in one lewd scene.' His second play, the Life and Death of Dr Faustus, exhibits a far wider range of dramatic power than his first tragedy. The hero studies necromancy, and makes a solemn disposal of his soul to Lucifer, on condition of having a familiar spirit at his command, and unlimited enjoyment for twentyfour years; during which period Faustus visits different countries, calls up spirits from the vasty deep,' and revels in luxury and splendour. At length the time expires, the bond becomes due, and a party of evil spirits enter, amidst thunder and lightning, to claim his forfeited life and person. Such a plot afforded scope for deep passion and variety of adventure, and Marlow has constructed from it a powerful though irregular play. Scenes and passages of terrific grandeur, and the most thrilling agony, are intermixed with low humour and preternatural machinery, often ludicrous and grotesque. The ambition of Faustus is a sensual, not a lofty ambition. A feeling of curiosity and wonder is excited by his necromancy and his strange compact with Lucifer; but we do not fairly sympathise with him till all his disguises are stripped off, and his meretricious splendour is succeeded by horror and despair. Then, when he stands on the brink of everlasting ruin, waiting for the fatal moment, imploring, yet distrusting repentance, a scene of enchaining interest, fervid passion, and overwhelming pathos, carries captive the sternest heart, and proclaims the full triumph of the tragic poet.

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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, I 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.

The Clock strikes Twelve.

It strikes, it strikes; now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell.
Oh soul, be chang'd into small water drops,
And fall into the ocean: ne'er be found.

Thunder, and enter the Devils.

Oh mercy, heaven, look not so fierce on me.
Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while.
Ugly hell gape not; come not, Lucifer:
I'll burn my books: Oh, Mephostophilis !


Enter Scholars.

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.

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

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

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.

'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 splendid scenes. Another tragedy, Lust's Dominion, was That sometime grew within this learned man: published long after Marlow's death, with his name Faustus is gone! Regard his hellish fall, as author on the title page. Mr Collier has shown Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise that this play, as it was then printed, was a much Only to wonder at unlawful things: later production, and was probably written by DekWhose deepness doth entice such forward wits ker and others. It contains passages and characTo practise more than heavenly power permits. ters, however, which have the impress of Marlow's The classical taste of Marlow is evinced in the fine genius, and we think he must have written the oriapostrophe to Helen of Greece, whom the spirit Me-ginal outline. Great uncertainty hangs over many 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

[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

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
by order of the Archbishop of Canterbury, yet they
interdict. Poor Marlow lived, as he wrote, wildly:
were often reprinted in defiance of the ecclesiastical
but there is no trace of this in his plays. He came
he was accused of entertaining atheistical opinions,
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

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.'

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