I CHANCED, my dear, to come upon a day AWAKE, my muse, and leave to dream of loves, Am purposed other's passions now t' unfold. JOHN WEBSTER. [Died about 1638.] LANGBAINE only informs us of this writer, that he was clerk of St. Andrew's parish, Holborn,* and esteemed by his contemporaries. He wrote, in conjunction with Rowley, Dekker, and Marston. Among the pieces, entirely his own, are The White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona, the tragedy of Appius and Virginia, the Devil's Law Case, and the Duchess of Malfi. From the advertisement prefixed to Vittoria Corombona, the piece seems not to have been successful in the representation. The author says, "that it wanted that which is the only grace and setting out of a tragedy, a full and understanding auditory." The auditory, VITTORIA, THE MISTRESS OF BRACHIANO, RELATING HER DREAM TO HIM. FROM VITTORIA COROMBONA, THE VENETIAN COURTESAN. Persons.-VITTORIA COROMBONA; DUKE OF BRACHIANO; COROMBONA, the mother, and FLAMINEO, the brother of VIT TORIA. Vittoria. To pass away the time, I'll tell your grace A dream I had last night. Brachiano. Most wishedly. Methought I walk'd, about the mid of night, Bra. That tree? Vit. This harmless yew. They told me my intent was to root up [ "Gildon, I believe, was the first who asserted that our author was clerk of St. Andrew's. I searched the registers of that church, but the name of Webster did not it may be suspected, were not quite so much struck with the beauty of Webster's horrors, as Mr. Lamb seems to have been in writing the notes to his Specimens of our old Dramatic Poetry. In the same preface Webster deprives himself of the only apology that could be offered for his absurdities as a dramatist, by acknowledging that he wrote slowly; a circumstance in which he modestly compares himself to Euripides. In his tragedy of the Duchess of Malfi, the duchess is married and delivered of several children in the course of the five acts. With shovel, like a fury, voided out The earth, and scatter'd bones: Lord, how methought I trembled, and yet for all this terror Fla. No, the devil was in your dream. Vit. When to my rescue there arose methought A whirlwind, which let fall a massy arm From that strong plant, And both were struck dead by that sacred yew, In that base shallow grave that was their due. Fla. Excellent devil! she hath taught him, in a dream, To make away his duchess, and her husband. Bra. Sweetly shall I interpret this your dream. You are lodged within his arms who shall protect you From all the fevers of a jealous husband, occur in them; and I examined the MSS. belonging to the Parish Clerks' Hall, in Wood Street, with as little success."-DYCE's Webster, vol. i. p. 1.-C.] FROM THE DUCHESS OF MALFI. The Duchess of Malfi having privately married Antonio, her own steward, is inhumanly persecuted by her brother Ferdinand, who confines her in a house of madmen, and in concert with his creature Bosola murders her and her attendant Cariola. SCENE.-A Mad-house. Persons.-DUCHESS OF MALFI; CARIOLA, her faithful attendant; FERDINAND, her cruel brother; BoSOLA, his creature and instrument of cruelty; Madmen, Executioners, Ser vant. Duch. WHAT hideous noise was that? Of madmen, lady, which your tyrant brother Duch. Indeed I thank him: nothing but noise and folly Can keep me in my right wits, whereas reason Cari. Oh, 'twill increase your melancholy. To hear of greater grief would lessen mine. Cari. Yes, but you shall live To shake this durance off. Duch. Thou art a fool: The robin-redbreast and the nightingale Cari. Pray dry your eyes. What think you of, madam? When I muse thus, I sleep. Cari. Like a madman, with your eyes open. Duch. Dost thou think we shall know one another In th' other world. Cari. Yes; out of question. Duch. O that it were possible we might But hold some two days' conference with the dead! From them I should learn somewhat, I am sure I never shall know here. I'll tell thee a miracle: I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. The heaven o'er my head seems made of molten brass, The earth of flaming sulphur; yet I am not mad. As the tann'd galley-slave is with his oar: Duch. Very proper; And fortune seems only to have her eye-sight To behold my tragedy. What noise is that? How now, Serv. I am come to tell you Your brother hath intended you some sport: With several sorts of mad-men, which wild object [The Mad-men enter, and whilst they dance to suitable music, the DUCHESS, perceiving BOSOLA among them, says, Duch. Is he mad too? Serv. Pray question him. I'll leave you. Thou speak'st as if I lay upon my death-bed sickness is insensible. Duch. Thou art not mad sure! Dost know me? Bos. Yes. Duch. Who am I? Bos. Thou art a box of worm-seed. . . . Duch. I am Duchess of Malfi still. Bos. That makes thy sleeps so broken: Glories, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright, But look'd to near, have neither heat nor light. Duch. Thou art very plain. Bos. My trade is to flatter the dead, not the I am a tomb-maker. [living: 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 on our death-bed? Do we affect fashion in the grave? Bos. Most ambitiously: princes' images on their A long war disturb'd your mind, Here your perfect peace is sign'd; Of what is't fools make such vain keeping? Their death a hideous storm of terror. "Tis now full tide 'tween night and day, Cari. Hence villains, tyrants, murderers! Alas! In my last will I have not much to give- Cari. I will die with her. Duch. I pray thee look thou givest 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. The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' th' lungs, Bos. Doth not death fright you? Duch. Who would be afraid on't, Knowing to meet such excellent company In th' other world? Bos. Yet, methinks, The manner of your death should much afflict you? This cord should terrify you. Duch. Not a whit: What would it pleasure me to have my throat cut With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls? So I were out of your whispering. Tell my brothers I would fain put off my last woman's fault : Exec. We are ready. Duch. Dispose my breath how please you; but | Bestow upon my women, will you? [my body Exec. Yes. Duch. Pull, and pull strongly; for your able Must pull down heaven upon me :— [strength Yet stay, heaven's gates are not so highly arch'd 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. Bos. Where's the waiting-woman? Fetch her some other strangle the children. Look you, there sleeps your mistress. died young. Bos. I think not so; her infelicity Seem'd to have years too many. Ferd. She and I were twins; And should I die this instant, I had lived Bos. It seems she was born first. You have bloodily approved the ancient truth, Ferd. Let me see her face again. An excellent honest man might'st thou have been, That not the fear of Him which binds the devils Can prescribe man obedience! Never look upon me more. Bos. Why, fare thee well: Your brother and yourself are worthy men: Ferd. Get thee into some unknown part o' th' That I may never see thee. [world, Bos. Let me know Wherefore I should be thus neglected? Sir, [Exit. Bos. He's much distracted. Off, my painted honour While with vain hopes our faculties we tire, To store them with fresh colour. Who's there? Oh, sacred innocence! that sweetly sleeps These tears, I am very certain, never grew Unto a wretch hath slain his father. Come, I'll bear thee hence, And execute thy last will; that's deliver Of some good women; that the cruel tyrant Till doomsday. But all things have their end: Echo. Like death that we have. Ant. It groan'd, methought, and gave Echo. Deadly accent. Del. I told you 'twas a pretty one. make it A huntsman, or a falconer, a musician, Or a thing of sorrow. Echo. A thing of sorrow. Ant. Ay, sure that suits it best. Echo. That suits it best. Ant. "Tis very like my wife's voice. Echo. Ay, wife's voice. Del. Come, let's walk farther from't: [men, You may Echo. Oh, fly your fate. Del. Hark: the dead stones seem to have pity And give you good counsel. Ant. Echo, I will not talk with thee, For thou art a dead thing. Echo. Thou art a dead thing. Ant. My duchess is asleep now, [on you, And her little ones, I hope sweetly: Oh, heaven! Shall I never see her more? Echo. Never see her more. Ant. I mark'd not one repetition of the Echo But that, and on the sudden a clear light Presented me a face folded in sorrow. Del. Your fancy, merely, Ant. Come, I'll be out of this ague; I will not henceforth save myself by halves, Del. Your own virtue save you. I'll fetch your eldest son, and second you, However, fare you well! Though in our miseries Fortune have a part, WILLIAM ROWLEY. [Born, 15. Died, 1640 ?] Or William Rowley nothing more is known than that he was a player by profession, and for several years at the head of the Prince's* company of comedians. Though his name is found in one instance affixed to a piece conjointly with Shakspeare's, he is generally classed only in the third rank of our dramatists. His Muse is evidently a plebeian nymph, and had not been educated in the school of the Graces. His most tolerable production is the "New Wonder, or SCENE FROM THE COMEDY OF "A NEW WONDER, OR A WOMAN NEVER VEXT." Persons.-The WIDOW and DOCTOR. Doct. You sent for me, gentlewoman? I can approve it good; guess at mine age. Prince Charles, afterwards Charles I. The play in which his name is printed conjointly with Shakspeare's is called The Birth of Merlin. a Woman never vext." Its drafts of citizen life and manners have an air of reality and honest truth-the situations and characters are forcible, and the sentiments earnest and unaffected. The author seems to move in the sphere of life which he imitates, with no false fears about its dignity, and is not ashamed to exhibit his broken merchant hanging out the bag for charity among the debtors of a prison-house. Wid. "Twas not much amiss; yet nearest to the How think you then, is not this a wonder? [last. That a woman lives full seven-and-thirty years Maid to a wife, and wife unto a widow, Now widow'd, and mine own, yet all this while From the extremest verge of my remembrance, Even from my weaning hour unto this minute, Did never taste what was calamity? I know not yet what grief is, yet have sought That even those things that I have meant a cross, |