in Kent, by a Mr Roger Bird and himself in a preposterous boat made of brown paper. In 1630 he made a collection of these pieces: All the Workes of John Taylor, the Water Poet; being Sixty and Three in Number. He continued, however, to write during more than twenty years after this period, and ultimately his works consisted of not less than one hundred and thirty-eight separate publications. Taylor was a staunch royalist and orthodox Churchman, abjuring all sectaries and schismatics. There is nothing in his works, as Southey remarks, which deserves preservation for its intrinsic merit alone, but there is some natural humour, much small jingling wit, and a great deal to illustrate the manners of his age. A complete reprint of his works was issued by the Spenser Society in 1868-78.

Richard Corbet (1582-1635) was the son of a Ewell gardener who is commended in Ben Jonson's Underwoods. Educated at Westminster School and Broadgates Hall (Pembroke College), Oxford, he took orders, and became Dean of Christ Church (1620), Bishop of Oxford (1624), and Bishop of Norwich (1632). The social qualities of witty Bishop Corbet and his never-failing vivacity, joined to a moderate share of dislike to the Puritans, recommended him to the patronage of King James, to whom he owed his mitre. Ben Jonson loved him well, as also his father, 'my dear Vincent Corbet,' whom he commemorated. The Bishop's habits were rather too convivial for the dignity of his office, if we may credit some of the anecdotes which have been told of him. One market-day at Abingdon, meeting a ballad-singer who complained he could get no custom, the jolly Doctor put off his gown and arrayed himself in the leathern jacket of the itinerant vocalist, and being a handsome man, with a clear, full voice, he presently vended the whole stock of ballads. Once at a confirmation, the country people pressing in to see the ceremony, Corbet exclaimed, 'Bear off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staff.' And sometimes, by Aubrey's telling, he would take the key of the wine-cellar, and he and his chaplain, Dr Lushington, would go and lock themselves in and be merry. Then first he layes down his episcopal hat "There lyes the Dr." Then he putts off his gowne "There lyes the bishop." Then 'twas "Here's to thee, Corbet," and "Here's to thee, Lushington." Jovialities such as these seem more like the feats of the jolly Friar of Copmanhurst than the acts of a Protestant bishop; but Corbet had higher qualities; his toleration, solid sense, and lively talents procured him esteem. His poems, many of which are little better than rollicking doggerel, were first collected and published in 1647 (4th ed. by Octavius Gilchrist, 1807). They are of a miscellaneous character, the best known being a Journey to France, the Iter Boreale (the tour of four students in the Midlands to the north of Oxford), and the Farewell to the Fairies.

To Vincent Corbet, his Son.

What I shall leave thee, none can tell,
But all shall say I wish thee well:

I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghostly health;

Nor too much wealth nor wit come to thee,
So much of either may undo thee.

I wish thee learning, not for show,
Enough for to instruct and know;
Not such as gentlemen require
To prate at table or at fire.

I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
Thy father's fortunes and his places.
I wish thee friends, and one at court,
Not to build on, but support;
To keep thee not in doing many
Oppressions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee peace in all thy ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious, days;
And, when thy soul and body part,
As innocent as now thou art.

From the 'Journey to France.' I went from England into France, Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance, Nor yet to ride or fence : Nor did I go like one of those That do return with half a nose

They carried from hence.

But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory in the song,

Upon a holy tide.

I on an ambling nag did get-
I trust he is not paid for yet-

And spurred him on each side.
And to Saint Dennis fast we came,
To see the sights of Nostre Dame-

The man that shews them snufflesWhere who is apt for to beleeve, May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve, And eke her old pantofles;

Her breast, her milk, her very gown That she did wear in Bethlehem town,

When in the inn she lay :

Yet all the world knows that's a fable,
For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable,
Upon a lock of hay. . . .

There is one of the cross's nails,
Which whoso sees his bonnet vails,

And, if he will, may kneel.
Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so ;
Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,

It is as true as steel.

There is a lanthorn which the Jews,
When Judas led them forth, did use ;

It weighs my weight downright :
But, to believe it, you must think
The Jews did put a candle in 't,

And then 'twas very light.

There's one saint there hath lost his nose: Another 's head, but not his toes,

His elbow and his thumb.

Corbet's visit to Paris was in 1618: the curiosities he describes, including, for example, the milk and the lanthorn at St Denis, the unfinished palace of the queen-dowager, and the sights of Paris generally, are described at more length by Peter Heylin in France painted to the Life, the outcome of a visit to France in 1625. The king slain (in 1610) at the Church of the Holy Innocents was Henry IV.; the extraordinarily absorptive virtue of the earth in that churchyard was an article of faith, and is referred to by Sir Thomas Browne in Urn-burial (see below). The mysterious 'Saint Q. Pater' of Notre Dame, unexplained in the editions (all subsequent to the Bishop's death), must be a misreading for St. Christopher,' the colossal figure which for hundreds of years was a chief curiosity of Notre Dame, and as such was duly described by Heylin, Coryate, and other English travellers. The bell, the 'great bourdon of Notre Dame,' was, and still is, another.

Farewell to the Fairies.

Farewell rewards and fairies,

Good housewives now may say,

For now foul sluts in dairies

Do fare as well as they.

And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do,

'Yet who of late for cleanliness

Finds sixpence in her shoe?

Lament, lament, old abbeys,

The fairies lost command;

They did but change priests' babies,

But some have changed your land;

And all your children sprung from thence
Are now grown Puritans;

Who live as changelings ever since,
For love of your domains.

At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cis to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabour,
And nimbly went their toes.

Witness those rings and roundelays

Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain; But since of late Elizabeth, And later, James came in, They never danced on any heath As when the time hath been.

By which we note the fairies
Were of the old profession,
Their songs were Ave-Maries,

Their dances were procession:
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for religion fled,

Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And whoso kept not secretly

Their mirth was punished sure; It was a just and Christian deed, To pinch such black and blue : Oh, how the commonwealth doth need Such justices as you! . . .

Sir Robert Naunton (1563-1635), born at Alderton, Woodbridge, became public orator at Cambridge in 1594, travelled four or more years on the Continent, went with an embassy to Denmark in 1603, entered Parliament in 1606, and was Secretary of State 1618-23. He died at his Suffolk seat, Letheringham Priory. His Fragmenta Regalia (1641) is sketches of Elizabeth's courtiers. See his Memoirs (1814).

Queen Elizabeth.

Under Edward [VI.] she was his, and one of the darlings of fortune: for besides the consideration of bloud, there was between these two princes a concurrency and sympathy in their natures and affections, together with the celestiall (conformity in religion) which made them one, and friends; for the king ever called her his sweetest and dearest sister, and was scarce his own man, she being absent, which was not so between him and the Lady Mary. Under his sister she found her condition much altered for it was resolved, and her destiny had decreed to set her an apprentice in the school of affliction, and to draw her through the ordeall fire of tryall, the better to mould and fashion her to rule and sovereignty; which finished, and fortune calling to mind that the time of her servitude was expired, gave up her indentures, and therewith delivered up into her custody a scepter as a reward for her patience, which was about the twenty sixth year of her age; a time in which (as for externals) she was full blown, so was she for her internals grown ripe, and seasoned with adversity, and in the exercise of her vertue; for it seems fortune meant no more than to shew her a piece of her variety and changeablenesse of her nature, and so to conduct her to her destined felicity. She was of personage tall, of hair and complexion fair, and therewith well favoured, but high nosed, of limbs and feature neat, and which added to the lustre of those exteriour graces, of stately and majestick comportment; participating in this more of her father than mother, who was of inferiour allay, plausible, or as the French hath

it, more debonaire and affable, vertues which might well suit with majesty; and which descending as hereditary to the daughter, did render of a more sweeter temper, and endeared her more to the love and liking of the people; who gave her the name and fame of a most gracious and popular prince; the atrocity of her fathers nature being rebated in hers by the mothers sweeter inclinations. For to take, and that no more than, the character out of his own mouth; he never spared man in his anger, nor woman in his lust.

Sir Walter Raleigh.

He had in the outward man a good presence, in a handsome and well compacted person, a strong naturall wit, and a better judgement, with a bold and plausible tongue, whereby he could set out his parts to the best advantage; and to these he had the adjuncts of some generall learning, which by diligence he enforced to a great augmentation and perfection; for he was an indefatigable reader, whether by sea or land, and none of the least observers both of men and the times; and I am confident, that among the second causes of his growth, that variance between him and my Lord Grey in his descent into Ireland was a principall; for it drew them both over the councell table, there to plead their cause, where (what advantage he had in the cause, I know not) but he had much better in the telling of his tale; and so much, that the Queen and the lords took no slight mark of the man, and his parts; for from thence he came to be known, and to have accesse to the Queen and the lords; and then we are not to doubt how such a man would comply and learn the way of progression. And whether Leicester had then cast in a good word for him to the Queen, which would have done no harm, I doe not determine but true it is, he had gotten the Queens eare at a trice, and she began to be taken with his elocution, and loved to hear his reasons to her demands : ̧ and the truth is, she took him for a kind of oracle, which netled them all; yea, those that he relyed on began to take his suddain favour as an allarum, and to be sensible of their own supplantation, and to project his, which made him shortly after sing, Fortune my foe, &c. So that finding his favour declining, and falling into a recesse, he undertook a new peregrination, to leave that terra infirma of the court for that of the warres, and by declining himself and by absence to expell his and the passion of his enemies, which in court was a strange device of recovery, but that he knew there was some ill office done him, that he durst not attempt to mind any other wayes than by going aside; thereby to teach envy a new way of forgetfulnesse, and not so much as to think of him; howsoever, he had it alwayes in mind never to forget himself; and his device took so well that at his return he came in (as rammes doe, by going backward) with the greater strength, and so continued to her last, great in her grace, and Captain of the Guard, where I must leave him; but with this observation, that though he gained much at the court, yet he took it not out of the Exchequer or meerly out of the Queens purse, but by his wit and the help of the prerogative; for the Queen was never profuse in the delivering out of her treasure, but payed many, and most of her servants, part in money and the rest with grace, which as the case stood was taken for good payment, leaving the arrear of recompence due to their merit to her great successor, who payed them all with advantage.

Thomas Middleton (1570?-1627), a prolific but extraordinarily unequal dramatist, was a Londoner; as city chronologer (from 1620) wrote a chronicle of the city, now lost, and some civi pageants; and left over twenty plays, a score of pageants and masques, a paraphrase of the Wisdom. of Solomon, six satires, and a number of prose pieces. Blurt, Master Constable (1602), is a light comedy. Father Hubbard's Tale and The Black Book are tracts exposing London rogues. The Honest Whore was mainly written by Dekker. The Phonix and Michaelmas Term (1607) are lively comedies; A Trick to catch the Old One (1608) and A Mad World, my Masters (from which Aphra Behn pilfered), are perhaps more amusing. The Roaring Girl (1611; with Dekker) describes the exploits of a noted cut-purse and virago. A Chasti Maid in Cheapside was probably produced in 1613 as was No Wit, No Help like a Woman's. A Fair Quarrel (1617) and The World Tost at Tennis (1620) were written in conjunction with Rowley, as were probably More Dissemblers besides Women (1622?) and The Mayor of Quinborough. The Old Law is mainly the work of Rowley, supplemented by Middleton, and revised by Massinger. The fact that The Witch (published by Reed in 1778 from the author's MS.) contains in full two songs of which only the first lines are given in Macbeth (see below at page 461) has been explained by the theory that they were originally by Middleton and were introduced into later acting editions of Macbeth. (They are given in full in D'Avenant's altered version of Macbeth.) Mr Bullen and Professor Herford hold it almost certain that Middleton here imitated and expanded Shakespeare, or the song Shakespeare referred to in his stage directions. The date of the Witch is unknown, and it may have preceded Macbeth; but it is vastly more probable that the lesser author was the imitator. In The Changeling, The Spanish Gipsy, and Women beware Women (in the first two of which at least Rowley had a share) Middleton's genius is seen at its best. The Widow was mainly by Middleton. Anything for a Quiet Life (c. 1619) may have been revised by Shirley. Middleton contributed to some of the plays included in the works of Beaumont and Fletcher.

The Game at Chess (1624) provoked enormous interest, but gave great offence at court by bringing on the stage the king of Spain and his ambassador, Gondomar, as well as James himself and English politicians. Gondomar's successor complained to King James of the insult, and Middleton-who at first 'shifted out of the way' --and the players were brought before the Privy Council and sharply reprimanded for their audacity in bringing modern Christian kings upon the stage.' The Induction was spoken by Loyola and his intimate acquaintance Error. James was the White King, the Black King was Philip IV., Gondomar the Black Knight, the White Queen's Pawn is the Church of England, and so forth.

The Black Knight uses great freedom of speech, and not obscurely indicates that he has wheedled and duped the White King for his own ends.

Middleton is great in single scenes, and is a versatile and ingenious writer, a keen observer and satirist of London life and London types. But he repeats the same character under different names, interests rather than charms or fascinates, Women and is sometimes distinctly tedious. beware Women is a tale of love and jealousy from the Italian. The rage and madness of women crossed,' 'hell - bred malice and strife,' constitute the principal material of a somewhat cynical representation; but the following sketch of married happiness is admirably realised:

How near am I now to a happiness

That earth exceeds not! not another like it :
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the conceal'd comforts of a man
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house :
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet-bed 's not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch-side.
Now for a welcome

Able to draw men's envies upon man;
A kiss now, that will hang upon my lip
As sweet as morning-dew upon a rose,
And full as long.

The blank verse is some of it very unrhythmical and irregular; it is difficult sometimes to know whether the lines are meant for verse or prose.

Yet Mr Bullen agrees with an anonymous critic that, in daring and happy concentration of imagery and a certain imperial confidence in the use of words, he of all the dramatists of that time is the disciple that comes nearest the master.' And he holds that the colloquy between Beatrice and De Flores in the Changeling 'testifies beyond dispute that in dealing with a situation of sheer passion none of Shakespeare's followers trod so closely in the master's steps.' "Neither Webster nor Cyril Tourneur nor Ford has given us any scene so profoundly impressive, so absolutely ineffaceable, so Shakespearean,' though as an artistic whole the Changeling cannot challenge comparison with The Maid's Tragedy, The Broken Heart, or The Duchess of Malfi. But if the Changeling, Women beware Women, the Spanish Gipsy, and A Fair Quarrel do not justify Middleton's claims to be considered a great artist,' Mr Bullen 'knows not which of Shakespeare's followers is worthy of the title.' In the Changeling, Beatrice, daughter of Vermandero, is betrothed to Alonzo de Piracquo ere she sees and loves Alsemero, a new-comer to her father's castle. She regards Alonzo with loathing, and reveals her hatred to De Flores, a poor gentleman in her

father's service, who passionately loves her. Zealous to do her a service, De Flores assassinates Alonzo, and hopes not for gold or jewels, but for Beatrice's love.

From The Changeling.'

De Flores. My thoughts are at a banquet; for the deed, I feel no weight in 't; 'tis but light and cheap For the sweet recompense that I set down for 't. [Aside. Beatrice. De Flores!

De F. Lady?

Beat. Thy looks promise cheerfully.

De F. All things are answerable, time, circumstance, Your wishes, and my service.

Beat. Is it done, then?

De F. Piracquo is no more.

Beat. My joys start at mine eyes; our sweet'st delights Are evermore born weeping.

De F. I've a token for you.

Beat. For me?

De F. But it was sent somewhat unwillingly;

I could not get the ring without the finger.

[Holding out Alonzo's finger with the ring on it. Beat. Bless me, what hast thou done? De F. Why, is that more

Than killing the whole man? I cut his heart-strings: A greedy hand thrust in a dish at court,

In a mistake hath had as much as this.

Beat. 'Tis the first token my father made me send him.
De F. And I have made him send it back again

For his last token; I was loath to leave it,
And I'm sure dead men have no use of jewels;
He was as loath to part with 't, for it stuck

As if the flesh and it were both one substance.

Beat. At the stag's fall, the keeper has his fees;
'Tis soon applied, all dead men's fees are yours, sir:
I pray, bury the finger, but the stone

You may make use on shortly; the true value,
Take 't of my truth, is near three hundred ducats.

De F. Twill hardly buy a capcase for one's conscience
To keep it from the worm, as fine as 'tis : [though,
Well, being my fees, I'll take it;
Great men have taught me that, or else my merit
Would scorn the way on 't.

Beat.
It might justly, sir;
Why, thou mistak'st, De Flores, 'tis not given
In state of recompense.

De F.

No, I hope so, lady;
You should soon witness my contempt to 't then.
Beat. Prithee-thou look'st as if thou wert offended.
De F. That were strange, lady; 'tis not possible
My service should draw such a cause from you:
Offended! could you think so? that were much
For one of my performance, and so warm
Yet in my service.

Beat. 'Twere misery in me to give you cause, sir.
De F. I know so much, it were so; misery
In her most sharp condition.

Beat.

'Tis resolv'd then ;

Look you, sir, here's three thousand golden florens;

I have not meanly thought upon thy merit.
De F. What! salary? now you move me.
Beat.

How, De Flores? De F. Do you place me in the rank of verminous fellows,

To destroy things for wages? offer gold
For the life-blood of man? is any thing

To double my vexation, that's the good you do.

Beat. Bless me, I'm now in worse plight than I was ;

I know not what will please him. [Aside.]-For my fear's sake,

I prithee, make away with all speed possible;
And if thou be'st so modest not to name

The sum that will content thee, paper blushes not,
Send thy demand in writing, it shall follow thee;
But, prithee, take thy flight.

De F. You must fly too then.
Beat. I?

De F. I'll not stir a foot else.

Beat. What's your meaning?

De F. Why, are not you as guilty? in, I'm sure,
As deep as I; and we should stick together:
Come, your fears counsel you but ill; my absence
Would draw suspect upon you instantly,

There were no rescue for you.

Beat.
He speaks home!
De F. Nor is it fit we two, engag'd so jointly,
Should part and live asunder.

[Aside.

What makes your lip so strange?

And were I not resolv'd in my belief
That thy virginity were perfect in thee,

I should but take my recompense with grudging,
As if I had but half my hopes I agreed for.

Beat. Why, 'tis impossible thou canst be so wicked, Or shelter such a cunning cruelty,

To make his death the murderer of my honour!
Thy language is so bold and vicious,

I cannot see which way I can forgive it
With any modesty.

De F.

Push! you forget yourself;

A woman dipp'd in blood, and talk of modesty!
Beat. O misery of sin! would I'd been bound
Perpetually unto my living hate

In that Piracquo, than to hear these words!
Think but upon the distance that creation

Set 'twixt thy blood and mine, and keep thee there.
De F. Look but into your conscience, read me there;
'Tis a true book, you'll find me there your equal :
Push fly not to your birth, but settle you

In what the act has made you, you're no more now ;
You must forget your parentage to me;

You are the deed's creature; by that name
You lost your first condition, and I challenge you,
As peace and innocency have turn'd you out,
And made you one with me.

Beat.
With thee, foul villain!
De F. Yes, my fair murderess; do you urge me?
Though thou writ'st maid, thou whore in thy affection!
'Twas chang'd from thy first love, and that's a kind
Of whoredom in the heart; and he's chang'd now
To bring thy second on, thy Alsemero,
Whom, by all sweets that ever darkness tasted,
If I enjoy thee not, thou ne'er enjoyest!
I'll blast the hopes and joys of marriage,
I'll confess all; my life I rate at nothing.
Beat. De Flores!

De F. I shall rest from all love's plagues then ;
I live in pain now; that shooting eye
Will burn my heart to cinders.

Quickly!

My pleasure from me;

O, I never shall!

Speak it yet further off, that I may lose

What has been spoken, and no sound remain on 't;

I would not hear so much offence again
For such another deed.

The last is not yet paid for: O, this act

Has put me into spirit; I was as greedy on 't

As the parch'd earth of moisture, when the clouds weep:
Did you not mark, I wrought myself into 't,

Nay, sued and kneel'd for 't? why was all that pains took?
You see I've thrown contempt upon your gold;
Not that I want it not, for I do piteously,
In order I'll come unto 't, and make use on 't,
But 'twas not held so precious to begin with,
For I place wealth after the heels of pleasure;

Can you weep Fate from its determin'd purpose?
So soon may you weep me.

Beat.
Vengeance begins;
Murder, I see, is follow'd by more sins:
Was my creation in the womb so curst,
It must engender with a viper first?
De F. [raising her] Come, rise and shroud year
blushes in my bosom ;

Silence is one of pleasure's best receipts :
Thy peace is wrought for ever in this yielding.
'Las, how the turtle pants! thou 'lt love anon
What thou so fear'st and faint'st to venture on.

Capcase, band-box; push, pish! Your parentage to me, y a [high] birth as compared with mine. For that shooting eye. Dyce, followed by Bullen, thinks the author must have written 'that love-shooting eye.'