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But the old dramatists lived in a world of passion, of wild revelry, alternating with want and despair.

JOHN WEBSTER.

JOHN WEBSTER, the 'noble-minded,' as Hazlitt designates him, lived and died about the same time as Dekker, with whom he wrote in the con

junct authorship then so common. His original dramas are the Duchess of Malfi; Guise, or the Massacre of France; the Devil's Law-case; Appius and Virginia; and the White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona. Webster, it has been said, was clerk of St Andrew's Church, Holborn; but Mr Dyce, his editor and biographer, searched the registers of the parish for his name without success. The White Devil and the Duchess of Malfi have divided the opinion of critics as to their relative merits. They are both powerful dramas, though filled with 'supernumerary horrors.' The former was not successful on the stage, and the author published it with a dedication, in which he states, that 'most of the people that come to the playhouse resemble those ignorant asses who, visiting stationers' shops, their use is not to inquire for good books, but new books.' He was accused, like Jonson, of being a slow writer, but he consoles himself with the example of Euripides, and confesses that he did not write with a goose-quill winged with two feathers. In this slighted play there are some exquisite touches of pathos and natural feeling. The grief of a group of mourners over a dead body is thus described :

I found them winding of Marcello's corse,
And there is such a solemn melody

'Tween doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies,
Such as old grandames watching by the dead

literature must feel to be peculiar to Webster. The duchess, captured by Bosola, is brought into the presence of her brother in an imperfect light, and is taught to believe that he wishes to be reconciled to her.

Scene from the Duchess of Malfi,

Ferdinand. Where are you?
Duchess. Here, sir.

Ferd. This darkness suits you well.
Duch. I would ask you pardon.
Ferd. You have it ;

For I account it the honourablest revenge,
Where I may kill, to pardon. Where are your cubs ?

Duch. Whom?

Ferd. Call them your children,

For, though our national law distinguish bastards
From true legitimate issue, compassionate nature
Makes them all equal.

Duch. Do you visit me for this?
Will make you howl in hell for 't,
You violate a sacrament o' th' church,

Ferd. It had been well

Could you have lived thus always: for, indeed,
You were too much i' th' light-but no more;
I come to seal my peace with you. Here's a hand
[Gives her a dead man's hand.
To which you have vowed much love: the ring upon 't
You gave.'

Duch. I affectionately kiss it.

Ferd. Pray, do, and bury the print of it in your heart.
I will leave this ring with you for a love-token;
And the hand, as sure as the ring; and do not doubt
But you shall have the heart too: when you need a
friend,

Send to him that owed it, and you shall see
Whether he can aid you.

Duch. You are very cold:

I fear you are not well after your travel.

Were wont to outwear the nights with; that, believe me, Ha! lights! O horrible!

I had no eyes to guide me forth the room,
They were so overcharged with water.

that

The funeral dirge for Marcello, sung by his mother, possesses, says Charles Lamb, intenseness of feeling which seems to resolve itself into the elements which it contemplates :'

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To raise him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And, when gay tombs are robbed, sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he 'll dig them up again,

The Duchess of Malfi abounds more in the terrible graces. It turns on the mortal offence which the lady gives to her two proud brothers, Ferdinand, Duke of Calabria, and a cardinal, by indulging in a generous though infatuated passion for Antonio, her steward.

'This passion,' Mr Dyce justly remarks, 'a subject most difficult to treat, is managed with infinite delicacy; and, in a situation of great peril for the author, she condescends without being degraded, and declares the affection with which her dependent had inspired her without losing anything of dignity and respect.' The last scenes of the play are conceived in a spirit which every intimate student of our elder dramatic

Ferd. Let her have lights enough.

[Exit.

Duch. What witchcraft doth he practise, that he hath left

A dead man's hand here?

Here is discovered, behind a traverse, the artificial figures of Antonio and his children, appearing as if they were dead.

Bosola. Look you, here's the piece from which 'twas

ta'en.

He doth present you this sad spectacle,

That, now you know directly they are dead,
Hereafter you may wisely cease to grieve
For that which cannot be recovered.

Duch. There is not between heaven and earth one wish

I stay for after this.

Afterwards, by a refinement of cruelty, the brother sends a troop of madmen from the hospital to make a concert round the duchess in prison. After they have danced and sung, Bosola enters, disguised as an old man.

Death of the Duchess.

Duch. Is he mad too?
Bos. I am come to make thy tomb.
Duch. Ha! my tomb?

Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed,
Gasping for breath: Dost thou perceive me sick?
Bos. Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sick-
ness is insensible.

Duch. Thou art not mad sure: dost know me?
Bos. Yes.

Duch. Who am I?

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Bos. Thou art a box of wormseed; at best but a salvatory of green mummy. What's this flesh ? a little crudded milk, fantastical puff-paste. Our bodies are weaker than those paper-prisons boys use to keep flies in; more contemptible, since ours is to preserve earthDidst thou ever see a lark in a cage? Such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf of grass; and the heaven o'er our heads, like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison.

worms.

Duch. Am not I thy duchess?

Bos. Thou art some great woman, sure, for riot begins to sit on thy forehead-clad in gray hairs-twenty years sooner than on a merry milkmaid's. Thou sleepest worse, than if a mouse should be forced to take up her lodging in a cat's ear: a little infant that breeds its teeth, should it lie with thee, would cry out, as if thou wert the more unquiet bedfellow.

Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still.

Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken. Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright; But, looked to near, have neither heat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain.

Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the living.

I am a tomb-maker.

Duch. And thou comest to make my tomb?

Bos. Yes.

Duch. Let me be a little merry.

Of what stuff wilt thou make it?

Bos. Nay, resolve me first; of what fashion? Duch. Why, do we grow fantastical in our death-bed? Do we affect fashion in the grave?

Bos. Most ambitiously. Princes' images on their tombs do not lie as they were wont, seeming to pray up to heaven; but with their hands under their cheeks (as if they died of the toothache): they are not carved with their eyes fixed upon the stars; but as their minds were wholly bent upon the world, the selfsame way they seem to turn their faces.

Duch. Let me know fully, therefore, the effect Of this thy dismal preparation,

This talk, fit for a charnel.

Bos. Now I shall.

[A coffin, cords, and a bell produced. Here is a present from your princely brothers; And may it arrive welcome, for it brings Last benefit, last sorrow.

Duch. Let me see it.

I have so much obedience in my blood,

I wish it in their veins to do them good.

Bos. This is your last presence-chamber.
Cariola. O my sweet lady.

Duch. Peace! it affrights not me.
Bos. I am the common bellman,

That usually is sent to condemned persons

The night before they suffer.

Duch. Even now thou saidst

Thou wast a tomb-maker.

Bos. 'Twas to bring you

By degrees to mortification: Listen.

DIRGE.

Hark! now every thing is still;

This screech-owl, and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,

And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent;

Your length in clay's now competent.
A long war disturbed your mind;
Here your perfect peace is signed.

Of what is 't fools make such vain keeping?
Sin, their conception: their birth, weeping:
Their life, a general mist of error;

Their death, a hideous storm of terror.

Strew your hair with powder sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet:

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Farewell, Cariola.

I pray thee look thou giv'st my little boy
Some syrup for his cold; and let the girl
Say her prayers ere she sleep.-Now what you please.
What death?

Bos. Strangling. Here are your executioners.
Duch. I forgive them.

The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs,
Would do as much as they do.

Bos. Doth not death fright you?
Duch. Who would be afraid on 't,
Knowing to meet such excellent company
In th' other world.

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What would it pleasure me to have my throat cat With diamonds? or to be smothered

With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls? I know death hath ten thousand several doors For men to take their exits: and 'tis found

sake

They go on such strange geometrical hinges,
You may open them both ways: any way for heaven
So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers
That I perceive death-now I'm well awake—
Best gift is they can give or I can take.

I'd not be tedious to you.
I would fain put off my last woman's fault;

Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down heaven upon me.

Yet stay; heaven gates are not so highly arched
As princes' palaces; they that enter there
Must go upon their knees. Come, violent death,
Serve for mandragora to make me sleep.
Go, tell my brothers, when I am laid out,
They then may feed in quiet.

[They strangle her, kneeling.

FERDINAND enters.

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in the fulness of Shakspeare's fame and genius, we think it is more probable that the inferior author was the borrower. He may have seen the play performed, and thus caught the spirit and words of the scenes in question; or, for aught we know, the Witch may not have been written till after 1623, when Shakspeare's first folio appeared. We know that after this date Middleton was writing for the stage, as, in 1624, his play, A Game at Chess, was brought out, and gave great offence at court, by bringing on the stage the king of Spain, and his ambassador, Gondomar. The latter complained to King James of the insult, and Middleton-who at first 'shifted out of the way' and the poor players were brought before the privy-council. They were only reprimanded for their audacity in 'bringing modern Christian kings upon the stage.' If the dramatic sovereign had been James himself, nothing less than the loss of ears and noses would have appeased offended royalty! Middleton wrote about twenty plays : in 1603, we find him assisting Dekker at a courtpageant, and he was afterwards concerned in different pieces with Rowley, Webster, and other authors. He would seem to have been well-known as a dramatic writer. On Shrove-Tuesday, 1617, the London apprentices, in an idle riot, demolished the Cockpit Theatre; and an old ballad, describing the circumstance, states :

Books old and young on heap they flung,
And burned them in the blazes-
Tom Dekker, Heywood, Middleton,
And other wandering crazys.

In 1620, Middleton was made chronologer, or city poet, of London, an office afterwards held by Ben Jonson, and which expired with Settle in 1724 He died in July 1627. The dramas of Middleton have no strongly marked character; his best is Women, beware of Women, a tale of love and jealousy, from the Italian. The following sketch of married happiness is delicate, and finely expressed:

Happiness of Married Life.

How near am I now to a happiness

That earth exceeds not! not another like it:
The treasures of the deep are not so precious,
As are the concealed comforts of a man
Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air
Of blessings when I come but near the house.
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth!
The violet bed's not sweeter. Honest wedlock
Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden,
On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight
To cast their modest odours; when base lust,
With all her powders, paintings, and best pride,
Is but a fair house built by a ditch-side.
Now for a welcome,

Able to draw men's envies upon man;
A kiss now that will hang upon my lip
As sweet as morning-dew upon a rose,
And full as long!

The Witch is also an Italian plot; but the supernatural agents of Middleton are the old witches of legendary story, not the dim, mysterious,

unearthly beings that accost Macbeth on the blasted heath. The 'Charm-song' is much the same in both :

The Witches going about the Caldron.
Black spirits and white; red spirits and gray;
Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may.
Titty, Tiffin, keep it stiff in ;

Firedrake, Puckey, make it lucky;
Liard, Robin, you must bob in;
Round, around, around, about, about;
All ill come running in; all good keep out !
1st Witch. Here's the blood of a bat.
Hecate. Put in that; oh, put in that.
2d Witch. Here's libbard's bane.
Hec. Put in again.

1st Witch. The juice of toad, the oil of adder.
2d Witch. Those will make the younker madder.
All. Round, around, around, &c.

scribed with a wild gusto and delight: if the scene The flight of the witches by moonlight is de

was written before Macbeth, Middleton deserves the credit of true poetical imagination :

Enter HECATE, STADLIN, HOPPO, and other Witches.
Hec. The moon's a gallant; see how brisk she rides!
Stadlin. Here's a rich evening, Hecate.
Hec. Ay, is 't not, wenches,

To take a journey of five thousand miles?
Hoppo. Ours will be more to-night.

Hec. Oh, it will be precious. Heard you the owl yet?
Stad. Briefly in the copse,

As we came through now.

Hec. 'Tis high time for us then.

Stad. There was a bat hung at my lips three times As we came through the woods, and drank her fill: Old Puckle saw her.

Hec. You are fortunate still.

The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder,
And woos you like a pigeon. Are you furnished?
Have you your ointments?
Stad. All.

Hec. Prepare to flight then:
I'll overtake you swiftly.

Stad. Hie, then, Hecate :
We shall be up
betimes.
Hec. I'll reach you quickly.

Enter FIRESTONE.

[They ascend.

Firestone. They are all going a-birding to-night. They talk of fowls i' th' air that fly by day; I'm sure they'll be a company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have not mortality afeared, I'll be hanged, for they are able to putrefy it to infect a whole region. She spies me now. Hec. What! Firestone, our sweet son?

Fire. A little sweeter than some of you; or a dunghill were too good for one.

Hec. How much hast there?

Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones; besides six lizards and three serpentine eggs.

Hec. Dear and sweet boy! What herbs hast thou? Fire. I have some mar-martin and mandragon. Hec. Mar-maritin and mandragora thou wouldst say. Fire. Here's pannax too. I thank thee; my pan aches, I am sure, with kneeling down to cut 'em. Hec. And selago.

Hedge hyssop too! How near he goes my cuttings! Were they all cropt by moonlight?

Fire. Every blade of 'em, or I'm a mooncalf, mother. Hec. Hie thee home with 'em.

Look well to th' house to-night; I am for aloft. The salary given to the city poet is incidentally mentioned by Fire. Aloft, quoth you? I would you would break Jonson in a letter soliciting assistance from the Earl of Newcastle your neck once, that I might have all quickly. [Aside.] in 1631. Yesterday the barbarous Court of Aldermen have withdrawn their chandlery pension for verjuice and mustard-Hark, hark, mother! they are above the steeple £33, 6s. 8d.' already, flying over your head with a noise of musicians.

Hec. They are, indeed. Help me! help me! I'm too and so did I when I commended your beauty, late else.

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And Hoppo too, and Hellwain too: We lack but you, we lack but you. Come away, make up the count. Hec. I will but 'noint, and then I mount.

[A Spirit descends in the shape of a cat. [Above.] There's one come down to fetch his dues; A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood;

And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, I muse,
Since th' air's so sweet and good.

Hec. Oh, art thou come.

What news, what news?

Spirit. All goes still to our delight.

Either come, or else

Refuse, refuse.

Hec. Now, I am furnished for the flight.

Fire. Hark, hark! The cat sings a brave treble in her own language.

Hec. [Ascending with the Spirit.] Now I go, now I fly, Malkin, my sweet spirit, and I.

Oh, what dainty pleasure 'tis

To ride in the air,

When the moon shines fair,

And sing and dance, and toy and kiss!
Over woods, high rocks, and mountains,
Over seas, our mistress' fountains,
Over steep towers and turrets,

We fly by night, 'mongst troops of spirits.
No ring of bells to our ears sounds;
No howls of wolves, no yelp of hounds;
No, not the noise of waters' breach,
Or cannon's roar our height can reach.
[Above.] No ring of bells, &c.

JOHN MARSTON.

JOHN MARSTON, a rough and vigorous satirist and dramatic writer, of whom little is known, produced his Malcontent, a comedy, prior to 1600; his Antonio and Mellida, a tragedy, in 1602; the Insatiate Countess, What You Will, and other plays, written between the latter date and 1634, when he died. He was also connected with Jonson and Chapman in the composition. of the unfortunate comedy, Eastward Hoe. In his subsequent quarrel with Jonson, Marston was satirised by Ben in his Poetaster, under the name of Demetrius. Marston was author of two volumes of miscellaneous poetry, translations, and satires, one of which (Pigmalion's Image) was ordered to be burned for its licentiousness. Collier, who states that Marston seems to have attracted a good deal of attention in his own day, quotes from a contemporary diary the following anecdote: Nov. 21, 1602.-Jo. Marston, the last Christmas, when he danced with Alderman More's wife's daughter, a Spaniard born, fell into a strange commendation of her wit and beauty. When he had done, she thought to pay him home, and told him she thought he was a poet. ""Tis true," said he, "for poets feign and lie;

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Mr

for you are exceeding foul." This coarseness seems to have been characteristic of Marston: his comedies contain strong, biting satires; but he is far from being a moral writer. Hazlitt says his forte was not sympathy either with the stronger or softer emotions, but an impatient scorn and bitter indignation against the vices and follies of men, which vented itself either in comic irony or in lofty invective. The following humorous sketch of a scholar and his dog is worthy of Shakspeare:

I was a scholar seven useful springs
Did I deflower in quotations

Of crossed opinions 'bout the soul of man;
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt.
Delight, my spaniel, slept whilst I baused leaves,
Tossed o'er the dunces, pored on the old print
Of titled words: and still my spaniel slept.
Whilst I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh,
Shrunk up my veins and still my spaniel slept.
And still I held converse with Zabarell,
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty saw

:

Of Antick Donate: still my spaniel slept.
Still on went I; first, an sit anima;

Then, an it were mortal. O hold, hold; at that
They're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain
Pell-mell together: still my spaniel slept.
Then, whether 'twere corporeal, local, fixt,
Ex traduce, but whether 't had free-will
Or no, hot philosophers

Stood banding factions, all so strongly propt;
I staggered, knew not which was firmer part,
But thought, quoted, read, observed, and pried,
Stufft noting-books and still my spaniel slept.
At length he waked, and yawned; and, by yon sky,
For aught I know, he knew as much as I.

From 'Antonio and Mellida.
The Prologue.*

The rawish dank of clumsy winter ramps
The fluent summer's vein; and drizzling sleet
Chilleth the wan, bleak cheek of the numbed earth,
While snarling gusts nibble the juiceless leaves
From the naked shudd'ring branch, and peels the skin
From off the soft and delicate aspects.

O now methinks a sullen tragic scene

Would suit the time with pleasing congruence.
May we be happy in our weak devoir,
And all part pleased in most wished content.
But sweat of Hercules can ne'er beget
So blest an issue. Therefore we proclaim,
If any spirit breathes within this round
Uncapable of weighty passion-

As from his birth being hugged in the arms,
And nuzzled 'twixt the breasts of Happiness-
Who winks and shuts his apprehension up
From common sense of what men were, and are ;
Who would not know what men must be: let such
Hurry amain from our black-visaged shows;
We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast,
Nailed to the earth with grief; if any heart,
Pierced through with anguish, pant within this ring;
If there be any blood, whose heat is choked
And stifled with true sense of misery:
If aught of these strains fill this consort up,
They arrive most welcome. O that our power

*This prologue, for its passionate earnestness, and for the tragic note of preparation which it sounds, might have preceded one of those old tales of Thebes, or Pelops' line, which Milton has so highly commended, as free from the common error of the poets in his days, "of intermixing comic stuff with tragic sadness and gravity, brought in without discretion corruptly to gratify the which he who saw th' Apocalypse heard cry."'-CHARLES Lamb. people."-It is as solemn a preparative as the "warning voice

Could lacquey or keep wing with our desires;
That with unused poize of stile and sense
We might weigh massy in judicious scale!
Yet here's the prop that doth support our hopes:
When our scenes faulter, or invention halts,
Your favour will give crutches to our faults.

ANTONIO, Son to ANDRUGIO, Duke of Genoa, whom PIERO, the Venetian prince, and father-in-law to ANTONIO, has cruelly murdered, kills PIERO'S little son, JULIO, as a sacrifice to the ghost of ANDRUGIO.-The scene, a Church-yard: the time, Midnight.

JULIO.-ANTONIO.

Julio. Brother Antonio, are you here i' faith? Why do you frown? Indeed my sister said, That I should call you brother, that she did, When you were married to her. Buss me: good truth, I love you better than my father, 'deed.

Antonio. Thy father? gracious, O bounteous heaven, I do adore thy justice. Venit in nostras manus Tandem vindicta, venit et tota quidem.

Jul. Truth, since my mother died, I loved you best.
Something hath angered you: pray you, look merrily.
Ant. I will laugh, and dimple my thin cheek
With capering joy; chuck, my heart doth leap
To grasp thy bosom. Time, place, and blood,
How fit you close together! heaven's tones
Strike not such music to immortal souls,

As your accordance sweets my breast withal.
Methinks I pace upon the front of Jove,
And kick corruption with a scornful heel,
Griping this flesh, disdain mortality.

O that I knew which joint, which side, which limb
Were father all, and had no mother in it;
That I might rip it vein by vein, and carve revenge
In bleeding traces: but since 'tis mixed together,
Have at adventure, pell-mell, no reverse.
Come hither, boy; this is Andrugio's hearse.

Jul. O God, you'll hurt me. For my sister's sake, Pray, you don't hurt me. And you kill me, 'deed I'll tell my father.

Ant. Oh, for thy sister's sake, I flag revenge. [ANDRUGIO'S ghost cries 'Revenge.' Ant. Stay, stay, dear father, fright mine eyes no

more.

Revenge as swift as lightning, bursteth forth
And clears his heart. Come, pretty, tender child,
It is not thee I hate, or thee I kill.

Thy father's blood that flows within thy veins,

Is it I loathe; is that, revenge must suck.

I love thy soul: and were thy heart lapt up

In any flesh but in Piero's blood,

I would thus kiss it: but, being his, thus, thus,
And thus I'll punch it. Abandon fears:

Whilst thy wounds bleed, my brows shall gush out

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moon;

Now lions' half-clamed entrails roar for food;
Now croaks the toad, and night-crows screech aloud,
Fluttering 'bout casements of departing souls!
Now gape the graves, and through their yawns let loose
Imprisoned spirits to revisit earth :

And now, swart Night, to swell thy hour out,
Behold I spurt warm blood in thy black eyes.
[From under the earth a groan.
Howl not, thou putry mould; groan not, ye graves;
Be dumb, all breath. Here stands Andrugio's son,
Worthy his father. So; I feel no breath;
His jaws are fallen, his dislodged soul is fled.
And now there's nothing but Piero left.

He is all Piero, father all. This blood,

This breast, this heart, Piero all:
Whom thus I mangle, sprite of Julio,

Forget this was thy trunk. I live thy friend.

Mayst thou be twined with the soft'st embrace
Of clear eternity: but thy father's blood
I thus make incense of to Vengeance.

Day Breaking.

See, the dapple gray coursers of the morn
Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs,
And chase it through the sky.

One who Died, Slandered. Look on those lips,

Those now lawn pillows, on whose tender softness
Chaste modest Speech, stealing from out his breast,
Had wont to rest itself, as loath to post

From out so fair an inn: look, look, they seem
To stir,

And breathe defiance to black obloquy.

Wherein Fools are Happy.

Even in that, note a fool's beatitude ;
He is not capable of passion;
Wanting the power of distinction,

He bears an unturned sail with every wind:
Blow east, blow west, he steers his course alike.
I never saw a fool lean: the chub-faced fop
Shines sleek with full-crammed fat of happiness :
Whilst studious contemplation sucks the juice
From wizard's cheeks, who, making curious search
For nature's secrets, the First Innating Cause
Laughs them to scorn, as man doth busy apes
When they will zany men.

ROBERT TAYLOR-WILLIAM ROWLEY-CYRIL

TOURNEUR.

Among the other dramatists at this time may be mentioned ROBERT TAYLOR, author of the Hog hath Lost his Pearl; WILLIAM ROWLEY, an actor and joint-writer with Middleton and Dekker, who produced several plays; CYRIL TOURNEUR, author of two good dramas, the Atheist's Tragedy and the Revenger's Tragedy. A tragi-comedy, the Witch of Edmonton, is remarkable as having been the work of at least three authors-Rowley, Dekker, and Ford. It embodies, in a striking form, the vulgar superstitions respecting witchcraft, which so long debased the popular mind in England:

Scene from the Witch of Edmonton.

MOTHER SAWYER alone.

Sawyer. And why on me? why should the envious

world

Throw all their scandalous malice upon me?
'Cause I am poor, deformed, and ignorant,
And like a bow buckled and bent together
By some more strong in mischiefs than myself;
Must I for that be made a common sink
For all the filth and rubbish of men's tongues
To fall and run into? Some call me witch,
And being ignorant of myself, they go
About to teach me how to be one : urging
That my bad tongue-by their bad usage made so—
Forespeaks their cattle, doth bewitch their corn,
Themselves, their servants, and their babes at nurse :
This they enforce upon me; and in part
Make me to credit it.

BANKS, a Farmer, enters.

Banks. Out, out upon thee, witch!

Saw. Dost call me witch?

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