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OLD FORTUNATUS.

[First printed in 1600.]

VIRTUE AND VICE.

VIRTUE'S branches wither, virtue pines,
O pity! pity! and alack the time!
Vice doth flourish, vice in glory shines,
Her gilded boughs above the cedar climb.

Vice hath golden cheeks, O pity, pity!
She in every land doth monarchize:
Virtue is exiled from every city,
Virtue is a fool, Vice only wise.

O pity, pity! Virtue weeping dies!

Vice laughs to see her faint, alack the time!
This sinks; with painted wings the other flies;
Alack, that best should fall, and bad should climb.

O pity, pity, pity! mourn, not sing;
Vice is a saint, Virtue an underling;
Vice doth flourish, Vice in glory shines,
Virtue's branches wither, Virtue pines.

T. DEKKER AND R. WILSON.

[WILSON was an actor of humorous parts, and one of the boon companions over the 'Mermaid wine,' alluded to by Beaumont, in his verses to Ben Jonson:

'Filled with such moisture, in most grievous qualms
Did Robert Wilson write his singing psalms.'

He was considered by Meres one of the best comedywriters of his time. He wrote, however, only one entire piece, The Cobbler's Prophecy; but assisted Chettle, Dekker, and others, in the composition of several.]

THE SHOEMAKER'S HOLIDAY; OR, THE GENTLE

CRAFT. 1594.

THE SUMMER'S QUEEN.

O, To month of the no green, to green, so

THE month of May, the merry month of May,

O, and then did I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen.
Now the nightingale, the pretty nightingale,
The sweetest singer in all the forest's quire,

[green!

Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love's tale:
Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier.

But O, I spy the cuckoo, the cuckoo, the cuckoo;
See where she sitteth; come away, my joy:
Come away, I prithee, I do not like the cuckoo
Should sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy.
O, the month of May, the merry month of May,
So frolick, so gay, and so green, so green, so green;
And then did I unto my true love say,
Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen.

SAINT HUGH!

COLD'S the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh be our good speed!

Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

Troll the bowl, the jolly nut-brown bowl,
And here kind mate to thee!
Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul,
And down it merrily.

Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,

Hey derry derry down-a-down.
Ho! well done, to me let come,
Ring compass, gentle joy!

DEKKER, CHETTLE, AND HAUGHTON.
Troll the bowl, the nut-brown bowl,

And here kind, &c.

Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain,
Saint Hugh! be our good speed;
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

179

THOMAS DEKKER, HENRY CHETTLE, AND
WILLIAM HAUGHTON.

[THE names of Chettle and Haughton are attached to a great number of plays, generally in conjunction with those of other writers. It is difficult to determine their respective merits; but as far as any speculation may be founded upon such evidence of their independent labours as can be traced with certainty, Chettle had a more serious vein than Haughton, whose special force lay in comedy. How this joint authorship was conducted, we have no means of ascertaining. The likelihood is that in most cases there was one principal writer, with whom the subject may have originated, and that when he had completed his design, either as a sketch or a finished work, the others filled in, added, retrenched, or altered. If there be any weight in this supposition, the largest share in the comedy of Patient Grissell should perhaps be assigned to Dekker, whose name stands first of the three in the entry acknowledging a payment in earnest of the play, in Henslowe's Diary.

The story of Patient Grissell was first thrown into a narrative shape by Boccaccio; and the earliest drama on the subject was brought upon the stage by the French, in 1393. About 1538, Richard Radcliffe, a schoolmaster in Hertfordshire, wrote a play called Patient Griselde, founded on Boccaccio, of which nothing has survived but the name. Dekker and his coadjutors may probably have been to some

extent indebted to Radcliffe's production. The story, however, was well-known, and existed in other shapes; Chaucer having long before rendered it familiar to English readers in the Canterbury Tales. The date of the receipt in Henslowe's Diary-19 December, 1599-determines the date of the play from which the following songs are derived.]

THE PLEASANT COMEDY OF PATIENT GRISSELL.

SWEET CONTENT.

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?

Oh, sweet content!

Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
Oh, punishment!

Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O, sweet content! O, sweet, &c.

Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;

Then hey noney, noney, hey noney, noney.

Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O, sweet content!

Swimmest thou in wealth, yet sinkest in thine
O, punishment!

[own tears?

Then he that patiently want's burden bears,

No burden bears, but is a king, a king!

O, sweet content! &c.

LULLABY.

Work apace, apace, &c.

GOLDEN slumbers kiss your eyes,

Smiles awake you when you rise.

Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,

And I will sing a lullaby:

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:

Rock them, rock them, lullaby.

BEAUTY, ARISE !

EAUTY, arise, shew forth thy glorious shining;
Thine eyes feed love, for them he standeth pining
Honour and youth attend to do their duty
To thee, their only sovereign beauty.

Beauty, arise, whilst we, thy servants, sing,
Io to Hymen, wedlock's jocund king.
Io to Hymen, Io, Io, sing,

Of wedlock, love, and youth, is Hymen king.

Beauty, arise, thy glorious lights display,
Whilst we sing Io, glad to see this day.
Io, Io, to Hymen, Io, Io, sing,

Of wedlock, love, and youth, is Hymen king.

6

JOHN WEBSTER.

[IN passionate energy and intensity of expression Webster resembles Marston and transcends him. He had a profounder dramatic power, and possessed a command over the sources of terror which none of our dramatists have exhibited so effectively. To move a terror skilfully,' observes Lamb, 'to touch a soul to the quick, to lay upon fear as much as it can bear, to wear and weary a life till it is ready to drop, and then step in with mortal instruments to take its last forfeit: this only a Webster can do. Writers of an inferior genius may 'upon horror's head horrors accumulate,' but they cannot do this. They mistake quantity for quality, they 'terrify babies with painted devils,' but they know not how a soul is capable of being moved; their terrors want dignity, their affright

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