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of his (De Flores in the "Changeling") which, for effect at once tragical, probable, and poetical, surpasses anything I know of in the drama of domestic life. Middleton has the honor of having furnished part of the witch poetry to Macbeth, and of being conjoined with it also in the powerful and beautiful music of Locke.
From Massinger, Ford, and the others (as far as I have met with them, and apart from the connexion of Massinger's name with Decker), I could find nothing to extract of a nature to suit this particular volume, and of equal height with its contents. It is proper to state, however, that I have only glanced through their works for though no easily daunted reader, I never read an entire play either of Ford or Massinger. They repel me with the conventional tendencies of their style, and their unnatural plots and characters. Ford, however, is elegant and thoughtful; and Massinger has passion, though (as far as I know) not in a generous shape. With these two writers began that prosaical part of the corruption of dramatic style (merging passionate language into conventional) which came to its head in Shirley.
Donusa. What magic hath transform'd me from myself?
Durham. To this unity, a mystery
Of providence points out a greater blessing
Ford's Perkin Warbeck.
Both these passages are the first I came to, on dipping into their works. One might fancy one's self reading Cato or the Grecian Daughter, instead of men who had breathed the air of the days of Shakspeare.
Massinger was joint author with Decker, of the play from which the scene of the lady and the angel is taken; but nobody who knows the style of the two men can doubt for a moment to which it belongs. I have, therefore, without hesitation assigned it according to the opinion expressed by Mr. Lamb.
FLIGHT OF WITCHES.
Scene, a Field. Enter HECATE, STADLIN, HoppO, and other Witches. FIRESTONE in the background.
Hec. The moon's a gallant; see how brisk she rides!
Stad. Here's a rich evening, Hecate.
Ay, is 't not, wenches,
O't will be precious!
Heard you the owl yet?
Briefly in the copse,
'T is high time for us then
I'll overtake you swiftly.
We shall be up betimes.
Prepare to flight then;
Hie thee, Hecate;
I'll reach you quickly.
[Exeunt all the Witches except HECATE. Fire. They are all going a birding to-night: they talk of fowls i' th' air that fly by day; I am sure they'll be a company of foul sluts there to-night: if we have not mortality after 't, I'll be hanged, for they are able to putrefy it, to infect a whole region She spies me now.
Hee. What, Firestone, our sweet son?
Fire. A little sweeter than some of you, or a dunghill were too good for
Hec How much hast here ?
Fire. six lizards and three serpentine eggs.
Hec. Dear and sweet boy! what herbs hast thou?
Nineteen, and all brave plump ones, besides
Fire. I have some marmartin and mandragon.
Fire. Here's panax too—I thank thee-my pan aches I'm sure, with kneeling down to cut 'em.
Hedge-hysop too; how near he goes my cuttings!
Every blade of 'em,
Or I'm a moon-calf, mother.
Fire. Aloft, quoth you? I would you would break your neck once, that
[A spirit like a cat descends [Voice above.] There's one comes down to fetch his dues, A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood;
And why thou stay'st so long, I muse,
Since the air 's so sweet and good?
Hec. O, art thou come? what news, what news?
Spirit. All goes still to our delight,
Either come, or else refuse.
Hec. Now I'm furnished for the flight.
Fire. Hark, hark, the cat rings a brave treble in her own language!
[Hec. going up.] Now I go, now I fly,
Malkin my sweet spirit and I.
To ride in the air
When the moon shines fair,
And sing and dance, and toy and kiss!
Or cannon's throat our height can reach.
[Voice above.] No ring of bells, &c.
Fire. Well, mother, I thank your kindness: you must be gambolling i' th' air, and leave me to walk here, like a fool and a mortal.
An ANGEL, in the guise of a Page, attends on DOROTHEA.
Dor. My book and taper
Here, most holy mistress.
Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never
Were every servant in the world like thee,
So full of goodness, angels would come down
Ang. No, my dear lady; I could weary stars,
Be nigh me still then.
This little, pretty body, when I, coming
Ang. Proud am I, that my lady's modest eye
I am not: I did never
DOROTHEA is executed; and the ANGEL visits THEOPHILUS, the Judge
that condemned her.
A pretty one; but let such horror follow
This Christian slut was well,
Are you amazed, sir?
So great a Roman spirit, and doth it tremble?
I had a mistress, late sent hence by you
Upon a bloody errand; you entreated,
That, when she came into that blessed garden