am mad: then methinks I am a brave fellow; then I do wonders: but reason abuseth me; and there's the torment, there's the hell. At last, sir, bring me to one of the murderers; were he as strong as Hector, thus would I tear and drag him up and down. [He beats the Painter in. [These scenes, which are the very salt of the old play (which without them is but a caput mortuum, such another piece of flatness as Locrine), Hawkins, in his republication of this tragedy, has thrust out of the text into the notes; as omitted in the Second Edition, "printed for Ed. Allde, amended of such gross blunders as passed in the first:" and thinks them to have been foisted in by the players.-A late discovery at Dulwich College has ascertained that two sundry payments were made to Ben Jonson by the Theatre for furnishing additions to Hieronimo. See last edition of Shakspeare by Reed. There is nothing in the undoubted plays of Jonson which would authorize us to suppose that he could have supplied the scenes in question. I should suspect the agency of some "more potent spirit." Webster might have furnished them. They are full of that wild solemn preternatural cast of grief which bewilders us in the Duchess of Malfy.] ARDEN OF FEVERSHAM, HIS TRUE AND LAMENTABLE TRAGEDY. AUTHOR UNKNOWN, 1592. ALICE ARDEN with MOSBIE her Paramour conspire the murder of her husband. Mos. How now, Alice? what, sad and passionate ? Make me partaker of thy pensiveness: Fire divided burns with lesser force. Al. But I will dam that fire in my breast, Mos. Such deep pathaires, like to a cannon's burst Breaks my relenting heart in thousand pieces. Ungentle Alice, thy sorrow is my sore; Al. It is not love that loves to murder love. Mos. How mean you that? Al. Thou knowest how dearly Arden loved me. Al. And then-conceal the rest, for 'tis too bad, And published in the world to both our shames. Al. Ay, to my former happy life again, From title of an odious strumpet's name To honest Arden's wife, not Arden's honest wife- I was bewitched: woe worth the hapless hour Mos. Nay, if thou ban, let me breathe curses forth, I have neglected matters of import That would have stated me above thy state, I left the marriage of an honest maid, Whose dowry would have weighed down all thy wealth, Whose beauty and demeanour far exceeded thee: Al. Ay, now I see, and too soon find it true, And hold no other sect but such devotion. And heard as quickly as the fearful hare, When I have bid thee hear or see or speak, My wings are feathered for a lowly flight. And I too blind to judge him otherwise. Flowers sometimes spring in fallow lands, Weeds in gardens, roses grow on thorns; So, whatsoe'er my Mosbie's father was, Himself is valued gentle by his worth. Mos. Ah, how you women can insinuate, And clear a trespass with your sweet-set tongue! I will forget this quarrel, gentle Alice, Provided I'll be tempted so no more. ARDEN, with his friend FRANKLIN, travelling at night to ARDEN's house at Feversham, where he is lain in wait for by Ruffians, hired by ALICE and MOSBIE to murder him; FRANKLIN is interrupted in a story he was beginning to tell by the way of a BAD WIFE, by an indisposition, ominous of the impending danger of his friend. Ard. Come, master Franklin, onwards with your tale. Ard. Come, master Franklin, let us go on softly: I have been often so, and soon amended. Frank. Do you remember where my tale did leave? Ard. Ay, where the gentleman did check his wifeFrank. She being reprehended for the fact, Witness produced that took her with the deed, Her glove brought in which there she left behind, And many other assured arguments, Her husband asked her whether it were not so. Frank. First did she cast her eyes down on the earth, And with a majesty addressed herself To encounter all their accusations. Pardon me, master Arden, I can no more; This fighting at my heart makes short my wind. Ard. Come, we are almost now at Raynum Down : Your pretty tale beguiles the weary way; I would you were in state to tell it out. [They are set upon by the Ruffians. THE WARS OF CYRUS: A TRAGEDY. AUTHOR UNKNOWN, 1594. Dumb show exploded. Chorus (to the audience). Xenophon Warrants what we record of Panthea. It is writ in sad and tragic terms, May move you tears; then, you content, our Muse, |