He never shall be flattered; Love only hate; affect no higher Than praise of Heaven, wine, a fire; Luck of thy days in silent breath, When that's snuffed out, come Seignor Death!" Whether this was Marston's native humor, and that in which he lived, I do not know, but it is certainly not a very agreeable one to contemplate. In contrast to him, is the sunny-tempered Thomas Dekker,* who was a prolific writer of dramas and Born 1575? of prose tracts. His plays have not much dra- Died 1641 ? matic interest, although some of the characters are wonderfully life-like and vivid, and there is a serene and noble philosophy in his lines, that puts to shame the cynicism that inspires so much of Marston's pen. Here is a specimen : 66 Why should we grieve at want? Say that the world made thee her minion, that Thy head lay in her lap, and that she danced thee Upon her wanton knee; she could but give thee a whole world, Wert twenty kingdoms thine thou'dst live in care. If then thou wantest, make that want thy pleasure; No In the same spirit as this is a beautiful song, which I find in an old play, of which Dekker was joint author with two other of the dramatists, and the song was, without doubt, written by Dekker: ་་ Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O, sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? O, punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed— *Dekker's name is spelled also Decker, Dekkar and Deckar. "O, sweet, O, sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace; Honest Labor bears a bonny face! Can'st drink the waters of the crystal spring? O, sweet content! Swim'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? Then he that patiently life's burthen bears, O, sweet, O, sweet content!" In one of Dekker's plays there is an old man, Orlando Friscobaldo, who has always been a great favorite of mine. I think there is no character in any of these old plays whose wise and witty sayings came so near my heart as these of old Orlando. Here is a scene in which he meets Hippolito, the hero of the play: Orlando [entering]. My noble Lord! the Lord Hippolito! The Duke's son! his brave daughter's brave husband! How does your honored lordship? Does your nobility remember so poor a gentleman as Signor Orlando Friscobaldo? old, mad Orlando? Hippo. Oh, sir, our friends, they ought to be unto us as our jewels; as dearly valued being locked up and unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see, Friscobaldo, age hath not command of your blood; for all Time's sickle has gone over you; you are Orlando still. Orl. Why, my Lord, are not the fields mown and cut down, and stript bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? Tho' my head be like the leek, white, may not my heart be like the blade, green? Hip. Scarce can I read the stories in your brow which age has writ there; you look youthful still. Orl. I eat snakes, my lord, I eat snakes. My heart shall never have a wrinkle in it so long as I can cry Hem! with a clear voice. Hip. You are the happier man, sir! Orl. Happy man? I'll give you, my lord, the true picture of a happy man; I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it; an excellent Italian painter drew it; if I have it in the right colors I'll bestow it on your lordship. Hip. I stay for it. Orl. He for whom poor men's curses dig no grave; He that is neither lord's nor lawyer's slave; He that makes this his sea, and that his shore; He that in 's coffin's richer than before; He that counts youth his sword, and age his staff; And dead, no crow: he is a happy man. Hip. Its very well; I thank you for this picture. Orl. After this picture, my lord, do I strive to have my face drawn, for I am not covetous, am not in debt, sit neither at the duke's side, nor lie at his feet; I sowed leaves in my youth and I reap now books in my age. I fill this hand, and empty this; and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a swan and go singing to my rest, why so! May not old Orlando be merry now? Hip. You may; would I were partner in your mirth. Orl. I have a little, have all things, have nothing. I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick; and why should I not be jocundare? Hip. Is your wife, then, departed? .Orl. She's an old dweller in those high countries, (pointing to heaven), yet not from me; here, she's here: (touching his heart), a good couple are seldom parted. Hip. You had a daughter too, sir, had you not? Orl. O, my lord, this old tree had one branch, and but one branch growing out of it. It was young, it was fair, it was straight; I pruned it daily, drest it carefully, kept it from the wind, helped it to the sun; yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked; I hewed it down; what's become of it I neither know nor care. Hip. Then I can tell you what's become of it. The branch is withered. Orl. So 'twas long ago. Hip. Her name, I think, was Bellafront. She's dead. Orl. Ha! dead? Hip. Yes, what was left of her not worth the keeping, even in my sight, was thrown into a grave. Orl. good Dead! My last and best peace go with her! I see death's a trencherman; he can eat coarse meat as well as the daintiest. Is she dead? Hip. Orl. I am She's turned to earth. Would she were turned to Heaven. Umph! is she dead? glad the world has lost one of his idols. In her grave sleep all my shame, and her own: all my sorrows and all her sins. Hip. I'm glad you are wax, not marble; you are made By which a father's love was frozen up, Are thaw'd in those sweet showers fetched from your eyes. We are ne'er like angels till our passions die. I think she's poor, and more to clip her wings, For killing of a man; to save his blood Join all your force with mine; mine shall be shown The getting of his life preserves your own. Orl. In my daughter, you will say: Does she live, then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a wanton. But the best is I have a handkerchief to drink them up; soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor? Hip. Trust me, I think she is. Hip. Is your hate so old? When did you see her? Orl. Older. It has a white head, and shall never die till she be buried; her wrongs shall be my bedfellow. Hip. Nay, but Friscobaldo Orl. I detest her; I defy; she's not mine, she's Hip. Fare you well, for I'll trouble you no more. [Exit Hippolito]. Orl. [Looking after him]. And fare you well, sir; go thy ways; we have few lords of thy making. 'Las, my girl, art thou poor? Poverty dwells next door to despair--there's but a wall between them: despair is one of hell's catchpoles, and lest that devil arrest her, I'll to her: yet she shall not know me: she shall drink of my wealth as beggars do of running water, yet never know from what fountain-head it flows. Shall a silly bird pick her own breast to nourish her young ones, and can a father see his child starve! That were hard. The pelican does it, and shall not I? I think I have quoted enough to show you that Dekker's "heart had no wrinkles in it," if his poetry was prompted by his disposition. Born 1584. Born 1586. Died 1639? Massinger and Ford are near the end of the list of the great poets of this era. They each wrote Died 1640. a number of dramas, and one of Massinger's, A New Way to Pay Old Debts, still is an acting play, partly because the principal character, Sir Giles Overreach, has so much power that the part is a favorite with actors. But I think we should be little interested to read the plays of these authors, or those of James Shirley, who ranks among the last of this line of dramatic writers. He was born in Elizabeth's reign, and lived in that of Charles II. He wrote many plays, in one of which occurs a song which was a favorite with the merry monarch, and with this song, by which we will remember Shirley, I will close this long talk on our dramatists: "The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, "The garlands wither on your brow; See where the victor-victim bleeds. To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust." |