Fragment.

[FROM "ENGLAND'S PARNASSUS." 1600.]

I WALKED along a stream, for pureness rare, | Upon this brim the eglantine and rose, Brighter than sunshine; for it did ac

The tamarisk, olive, and the almond
tree,

As kind companions, in one union grows,
Folding their twining arms, as oft we see
Turtle-taught lovers either other close,

Lending to dulness feeling sympathy:
And as a costly valance o'er a bed,
So did their garland-tops the brook o'er-
spread.

Their leaves that differed both in shape and
show,

Though all were green, yet difference such in green,

Like to the checkered bent of Iris' bow, Prided the running main, as it had been

[This Dialogue was first published by Mr. Collier in his volume of Alleyn Papers, edited for the Shakespeare Society. The original MS., found amongst the documents of Dulwich College, was written in prose on one side of a sheet of paper, with the name "Kitt Marlowe" inscribed in a modern hand on the back. "What connexion, if any, he may have had with it," says Mr. Collier, "it is impossible to determine, but it was obviously worthy of preservation, as a curious stage relic of an early date, and unlike anything else of the kind that has come down to us.' The words in brackets were deficient in the original, and have been supplied by Mr. Collier. The Dialogue was probably intended as an interlude in a play, or as an entertainment, terminating with a dance, after a play. It is essentially dramatic in character; but it would be rash to speculate upon the authorship from the internal evidence.-R. BELL.]

JACK.

SEEST thou not yon farmer's son?

He hath stolen my love from me, alas!

What shall I do? I am undone ;

My heart will ne'er be as it was.

Oh, but he gives her gay gold rings,
And tufted gloves [for] holiday,
And many other goodly things,
That hath stoln my love away.

FRIEND.

Let him give her gay gold rings

Or tufted gloves, were they ne'er so [gay];

Or were her lovers lords or kings,

They should not carry the wenst

away.

In obitum honoratissimi viri, Rogeri Manwood, Militis,
Quæstorii Reginalis Capitalis Baronis.

NOCTIVAGI terror, ganeonis triste flagellum,
Et Jovis Alcides, rigido vulturque latroni,
Urnâ subtegitur. Scelerum, gaudete, ne-
potes!

Insons, luctificâ sparsis cervice capillis,
Plange! fori lumen, venerandæ gloria legis,
Occidit: heu, secum effoetas Acherontis ad

oras

| Multa abiit virtus. Pro tot virtutibus uni,
Livor, parce viro; non audacissimus esto
Illius in cineres, cujus tot millia vultus
Mortalium attonuit: sic cum te nuntia
Ditis

Vulneret exsanguis, feliciter ossa quiescant,
Famaque marmorei superet monumenta
sepulcri.

[Mr. Collier found this Epitaph, with Marlowe's name attached, on the back of the title-page of a copy of the 1629 edition of Hero and Leander. Sir Roger Manwood was born at Sandwich in 1525, and may have been an early Kentish acquaintance of Marlowe's. He was appointed Chief Baron of the Exchequer in 1578, and died December 14th, 1592. This Epitaph, therefore, must have been written within the last six months of Marlowe's life; unless, indeed, the Judge, who erected his own morument while still alive, had also taken the precaution to procure an Epitaph in advance.]

The First Book of Lucan.

TO HIS KIND AND TRUE FRIEND, EDWARD BLUNT.

BLUNT, I purpose to be blunt with you, and, out of my dulness, to encounter you with a Dedication in memory of that pure elemental wit, Chr. Marlowe, whose ghost or genius is to be seen walk the Churchyard in, at the least, three or four sheets. Methinks you should presently look wild now, and grow humorously frantic upon the taste of it. Well, lest you should, let me tell you, this spirit was sometime a familiar of your own, Lucan's First Book translated; which, in regard of your old right in it, I have raised in the circle of your patronage. But stay now, Edward: if I mistake not, you are to accommodate yourself with some few instructions, touching the property of a patron, that you are not yet possessed of; and to study them for your better grace, as our gallants do fashions. First, you must be proud, and think you have merit enough in you, though you are ne'er so empty; then, when I bring you the book, take physic, and keep state; assign me a time by your man to come again; and, afore the day, be sure to have changed your lodging; in the mean time sleep little, and sweat with the invention of some pitiful dry jest or two, which you may happen to utter, with some little, or not at all, marking of your friends, when you have found a place for them to come in at ; or, if by chance something has dropped from you worth the taking up, weary all that come to you with the often repetition of it; censure scornfully enough, and somewhat like a traveller; commend nothing, lest you discredit your (that which you would seem to have) judgment. These things, if you can mould yourself to them, Ned, I make no question but they will not become you. One special virtue in our patrons of these days I have promised myself you shall fit excellently, which is, to give nothing; yes, thy love I will challenge as my peculiar object, both in this, and, I hope, many more succeeding offices. Farewell: I affect not the world should measure my thoughts to thee by a scale of this nature: leave to think good of me when I fall from thee.

Thine in all rites of perfect friendship,

WARS worse than civil on Thessalian plains,

And outrage strangling law, and people strong,

We sing, whose conquering swords their own breasts lanced,

Armies allied, the kingdom's league uprooted,

Th' affrighted world's force bent on public spoil,

Trumpets and drums, like deadly threatening other,

Eagles alike displayed, darts answering darts.

Romans, what madness, what huge lust of war,

THOMAS THORPE.

Now Babylon, proud through our spoil, should stoop,

While slaughtered Crassus' ghost walks unrevenged,

Will ye wage war, for which you shall not triumph?

Ah me! oh, what a world of land and

sea

Might they have won whom civil broils have slain !

As far as Titan springs, where night dims heaven,

Ay, to the torrid zone where mid-day burns,

And where stiff winter, whom no spring re solves

Hath made barbarians drunk with Latin Fetters the Euxine Sea with chains of ice; Scythia and wild Armenia have been yoked,

blood?