"Peace at the root must dwell."
But when I digg'd I saw a worm devour
What show'd so well.

At length I met a reverend good old man;
Whom when for peace

I did demand, he thus began:

"There was a prince of old

At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase Of flock and fold.

"He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save His life from foes,

But after death out of his grave

There sprang twelve stalks of wheat: Which many wond'ring at, got some of those To plant and set.

"It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse Through all the earth;

For they that taste it do rehearse,

That virtues lie therein;

A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth,

MATTENS.

I CANNOT ope mine eyes,

But thou art ready there to catch
My morning-soul and sacrifice:

Then we must needs for that day make a match.

My God, what is a heart? Silver, or gold, or precious stone,

Or star, or rainbow, or a part

Of all these things, or all of them in one?

My God, what is a heart?

That thou shouldst it so eye and woo,
Pouring upon it all thy art,

As if that thou hadst nothing else to do?

Indeed, man's whole estate
Amounts (and richly) to serve thee:
He did not heaven and earth create,
Yet studies them, not him by whom they be.

Teach me thy love to know;
That this new light, which now I see
May both the work and workman show:
Then by a sunbeam I will climb to thee.

THE COLLAR.

I STRUCK the board, and cried, "No more!
I will abroad.

What! shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free-free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store;

Shall I be still in suit?

Have I no harvest, but a thorn

To let my blood; and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?

Sure there was wine

Call in thy death's head there: tie up thy fears.

He that forbears

To suit and serve his need,

Deserves his load."

But as I raved, and grew more fierce and wild At every word,

Methought I heard one calling, "Child!"

And I replied, "My Lord!"

THIS writer was the antagonist of Jonson in the drama, and the rival of Bishop Hall in satire,* though confessedly inferior to them both in their respective walks of poetry. While none of his biographers seem to know any thing about him, Mr. Gifford (in his Memoirs of Ben Jonson) conceives that Wood has unconsciously noticed him as a gentleman of Coventry, who married Mary, the daughter of the Rev. W. Wilkes, chaplain to King James, and rector of St. Martin, in Wiltshire. According to this notice, our poet died at London, in 1634, and was buried in the church belonging to the Temple. These particulars agree with what Jonson said to Drummond respecting this dramatic opponent of his, in his conversation at Hawthornden, viz. that Marston wrote his father-in-law's preachings, and his father-inlaw Marston's comedies. Marston's comedies are somewhat dull; and it is not difficult to conceive a witty sermon of those days, when puns

FROM SOPHONISBA, A TRAGEDY.
ACT V. SCENE III.

SOPHONISBA, the daughter of Asdrubal, has been wooed by Syphax and Massinissa, rival kings of Africa, and both the allies of Carthage. She prefers Massinissa; and Syphax, indignant at her refusal, revolts to the Romans. Massinissa, on the night of his marriage, is summoned to the assistance of the Carthaginians, on the alarm of Scipio's invasion. The senate of Carthage, notwithstanding Massinissa's fidelity, decree that Syphax shall be tempted back to them by the offer of Sophonisba in marriage. Sophonisba is on the point of being sacrificed to the enforced nuptials, when Massinissa, who had been apprized of the treachery of Carthage, attacks the troops of Syphax, joins the Romans, and brings Syphax a captive to Scipio's feet. Syphax, in his justification to Scipio, pleads, that his love for Sophonisba alone had tempted him to revolt from Rome. Scipio therefore orders that the daughter of Asdrubal, when taken prisoner, shall belong to the Romans alone. Lelius and Massinissa march on to Cirta, and storm the palace of Syphax, where they find Sophonisba.

The cornets sounding a march, MASSINISSA enters with his beaver up.

Mass. MARCH to the palace!
Soph. Whate'er man thou art,

Of Lybia thy fair arms speak, give heart

To amazed weakness: hear her that for long time
Hath seen no wished light. Sophonisba,
A name for misery much known, 'tis she
Intreats of thy graced sword this only boon:
Let me not kneel to Rome; for though no cause
Of mine deserves their hate, though Massinissa
Be ours to heart, yet Roman generals
Make proud their triumphs with whatever captives.
O'tis a nation which from soul I fear,
As one well knowing the much-grounded hate
They bear to Asdrubal and Carthage blood!

He wrote the Scourge of Villany; three books of satires, 1599. He was also author of the Metamorphosis of Pigmalion's Image, and certain Satires, published 1598, which makes his date as satirist nearly coeval with that of Bishop Hall.

were scattered from the pulpit, to have been as lively as an indifferent comedy. Marston is the Crispinus of Jonson's Poetaster, where he is treated somewhat less contemptuously than his companion Demetrius, (Dekker;) an allusion is even made to the respectability of his birth. Both he and Dekker were afterwards reconciled to Jonson; but Marston's reconcilement, though he dedicated his Malcontent to his propitiated enemy, seems to have been subject to relapses. It is amusing to find Langbaine descanting on the chaste purity of Marston as a writer, and the author of the Biographia Dramatica transcribing the compliment immediately before the enumeration of his plays, which are stuffed with obscenity. To this disgraceful characteristic of Marston an allusion is made in "The Return from Parnassus," where it is said,

"Give him plain naked words stript from their shirts, That might beseem plain-dealing Aretine."

Therefore, with tears that wash thy feet, with hands
Unused to beg, I clasp thy manly knees.

O save me from their fetters and contempt,
Their proud insults, and more than insolence!
Or if it rest not in thy grace of breath
To grant such freedom, give me long-wish'd death;
For 'tis not much-loathed life that now we crave-
Only an unshamed death and silent grave,
We will now deign to bend for.

Mass. Rarity!

By thee and this right hand, thou shalt live free!
Soph. We cannot now be wretched.
Mass. Stay the sword!

Let slaughter cease! sounds, soft as Leda's breast, [Soft music.

Slide through all ears! this night be love's high feast. Soph. O'erwhelm me not with sweets; let me not drink

Till my breast burst! O Jove! thy nectar, think[She sinks into MASSINISSA's arms.

Mass. She is o'ercome with joy.
Soph. Help, help to bear

Some happiness, ye powers! I've joy to spare
Enough to make a god! O Massinissa!

Mass. Peace:

Mass. Sophonisba !

Lel. Sophonisba.

We are now in Rome's power. Lelius,
View Massinissa do a loathed act

Most sinking from that state his heart did keep.
Look, Lelius, look, see Massinissa weep!
Know I have made a vow more dear to me
Than my soul's endless being. She shall rest
Free from Rome's bondage!

Lel. But thou dost forget

Thy vow, yet fresh thus breathed. When I desist
To be commanded by thy virtue, Scipio,
Or fall from friend of Rome, revenging gods
Afflict me with your tortures!

Mass. Lelius, enough:

Salute the Roman-tell him we will act What shall amaze him.

Lel. Wilt thou yield her, then?

Mas. She shall arrive there straight.
Lel. Best fate of men

Enter Page with a bowl of wine.

Mass. Thou darest not die-some wine-thou darest not die!

Soph.....

[She takes a bowl, into which MASSINISSA puts poison.] Behold me, Massinissa, like thyself,

A king and soldier; and, I pray thee, keep
My last command.

Mass. Speak, sweet.

Soph. Dear! do not weep.

And now with undismay'd resolve behold,
To save you-you-(for honour and just faith
Are most true gods, which we should much adore)
With even disdainful vigour I give up [to me,

An abhorr'd life! (She drinks.) You have been good
And I do thank thee, Heaven. O my stars!

I bless your goodness, that, with breast unstain'd,
Faith pure, a virgin wife, tied to my glory,
I die, of female faith the long-lived story;
Secure from bondage and all servile harms,
But more, most happy in my husband's arms.

FROM ANTONIO AND MELLIDA.
ACT III. SCENE I.

Representing the affliction of fallen greatness in ANDRUGIO, Duke of Genoa, after he has been defeated by the Venetians, proscribed by his countrymen, and left with only two attendants in his flight.

Enter ANDRUGIO in armour, LUCIO with a shepherd's gown in his hand, and a Page.

And. Is not yon gleam the shuddering morn, that flakes

With silver tincture the east verge of heaven?

Luc. I think it is, so please your excellence. And. Away! I have no excellence to please. Prithee observe the custom of the world, That only flatters greatness, states exalts; And please my excellence! Oh, Lucio, Thou hast been ever held respected, dear, Even precious to Andrugio's inmost love. Good, flatter not. Nay, if thou givest not faith That I am wretched; oh, read that, read that.... My thoughts are fix'd in contemplation

Why this huge earth, this monstrous animal, That eats her children, should not have eyes and

ears.

Philosophy maintains that Nature's wise,
And forms no useless or imperfect thing.
Did nature make the earth, or the earth nature?
For earthly dirt makes all things, makes the man
Moulds me up honour; and, like a cunning Dutch-

man,

Paints me a puppet even with seeming breath,
And gives a sot appearance of a soul.
Go to, go to; thou liest, philosophy;
Nature forms things imperfect, useless, vain.
Why made she not the earth with eyes and ears?
That she might see desert, and hear men's plaints:
That when a soul is splitted, sunk with grief,
He might fall thus upon the breast of earth,
[He throws himself on the ground.
And in her ear, hallow his misery,
Exclaiming thus: Oh, thou all-bearing earth,
Which men do gape for, till thou cramm'st their
mouths,

And choak'st their throats with dust: open thy breast,

And let me sink into thee. Look who knocks; Andrugio calls. But, oh! she's deaf and blind. A wretch but lean relief on earth can find.

Luc. Sweet lord, abandon passion, and disarm. Since by the fortune of the tumbling sea, We are roll'd up upon the Venice marsh, Let's clip all fortune, lest more low'ring fateAnd. More low'ring fate? Oh, Lucio, choke

that breath.

Now I defy chance. Fortune's brow hath frown'd,
Even to the utmost wrinkle it can bend :
Her venom's spit. Alas, what country rests,
What son, what comfort that she can deprive?
Triumphs not Venice in my overthrow?
Gapes not my native country for my blood?
Lies not my son tomb'd in the swelling main?
And is more low'ring fate? There's nothing left
Unto Andrugio, but Andrugio:

And that nor mischief, force, distress, nor hell, can take.

Fortune my fortunes, not my mind shall shake. Luc. Spoke like yourself: but give me leave, my lord,

To wish your safety. If you are but seen, Your arms display you; therefore put them off, And take

And. Wouldst have me go unarm'd among my foes?

Being besieged by passion, entering lists,
To combat with despair and mighty grief;
My soul beleagur'd with the crushing strength
Of sharp impatience. Ah, Lucio, go unarm'd?
Come soul, resume the valour of thy birth;
Myself, myself, will dare all opposites:
I'll muster forces, an unvanquish'd power;
Cornets of horse shall press th' ungrateful earth,
This hollow wombed mass shall inly groan,
And murmur to sustain the weight of arms:
Ghastly amazement, with upstarted hair,
Shall hurry on before, and usher us,
Whilst trumpets clamour with a sound of death.
Luc. Peace, good my lord, your speech is all
too light.

Alas! survey your fortunes, look what's left
Of all your forces, and your utmost hopes,
A weak old man, a page, and your poor self.
And. Andrugio lives, and a fair cause of arms;
Why that's an army all invincible.

He, who hath that, hath a battalion royal,
Armour of proof, huge troops of barbed steeds,
Main squares of pikes, millions of arquebuse.
Oh, a fair cause stands firm and will abide;
Legions of angels fight upon her side.

Luc. Then, noble spirit, slide in strange disguise

Unto some gracious prince, and sojourn there, Till time and fortune give revenge firm means.

And. No, I'll not trust the honour of a man: Gold is grown great, and makes perfidiousness A common waiter in most princes' courts : He's in the check-roll: I'll not trust my blood: I know none breathing but will cog a dye For twenty thousand double pistolets. How goes the time?

Luc. I saw no sun to-day.

And. No sun will shine where poor Andrugio

breathes:

My soul grows heavy: boy, let's have a song; We'll sing yet, faith, even in despite of fate.

FROM THE SAME. ACT IV.

Andr. COME, Lucio, let's go eat-what hast thou got?

Roots, roots? Alas! they're seeded, new cut up.
O thou hast wronged nature, Lucio;

But boots not much, thou but pursu'st the world,
That cuts off virtue 'fore it comes to growth,
Lest it should seed, and so o'errun her son,
Dull, pore-blind error. Give me water, boy;
There is no poison in't, I hope they say
That lurks in massy plate; and yet the earth
Is so infected with a general plague,
That he's most wise that thinks there's no man fool,
Right prudent that esteems no creature just:
Great policy the least things to mistrust.
Give me assay. How we mock greatness now!
Luc. A strong conceit is rich, so most men deem;
If not to be, 'tis comfort yet to seem.

Andr. Why, man, I never was a prince till now!
"Tis not the bared pate, the bended knees,
Gilt tipstaves, Tyrian purple, chairs of state,
Troops of pied butterflies, that flutter still
In greatness' summer, that confirm a prince;
"Tis not th' unsavoury breath of multitudes,
Shouting and clapping with confused din,
That makes a prince. No, Lucio, he's a king,
A true right king, that dares do ought save wrong,
Fears nothing mortal but to be unjust;
Who is not blown up with the flattering puffs
Of spungy sycophants; who stands unmoved,
Despite the justling of opinion;

Who can enjoy himself, maugre the throng
That strive to press his quiet out of him;
Who sits upon Jove's footstool, as I do,
Adoring, not affecting majesty ;

Whose brow is wreathed with the silver crown
Of clear content: this, Lucio, is a king,
And of this empire every man's possess'd
That's worth his soul.-

GEORGE CHAPMAN was born at Hitching-hill,* in the county of Hertford, and studied at Oxford. From thence he repaired to London, and became the friend of Shakspeare, Spenser, Daniel, Marlowe, and other contemporary men of genius. He was patronized by Prince Henry, and Carr Earl of Somerset. The death of the one, and the disgrace of the other, must have injured his prospects; but he is supposed to have had some place at court, either under King James or his consort Anne. He lived to an advanced age; and, according to Wood, was a person of reverend aspect, religious, and temperate. Inigo Jones, with whom he lived on terms of intimate friendship, planned and erected a monument to his memory over his burial-place, on the south side of St. Giles's church in the fields: but it was unfortunately destroyed with the ancient church.

FROM THE COMEDY OF ALL FOOLS. A SON APPEASING HIS FATHER BY SUBMISSION, AFTER A STOLEN MARRIAGE.

Persons-GOSTANZO, the father; VALERIO, the son; MARCANTONIO and RYNALDO, friends: and GRATIANA, the bride of VALERIO.

Ryn. COME on, I say;

Your father with submission will be calm'd! down on your knees.

Come on,

Gost. Villain, durst thou

Presume to gull thy father? dost thou not
Tremble to see my bent and cloudy brows
Ready to thunder on thy graceless head,
And with the bolt of my displeasure cut
The thread of all my living from thy life,
For taking thus a beggar to thy wife?

Val. Father, if that part I have in your blood,
If tears, which so abundantly distil
Out of my inward eyes; and for a need

Can drown these outward (lend me thy handkerchief,)

And being indeed as many drops of blood,
Issuing from the creator of my heart,
Be able to beget so much compassion,
Not on my life, but on this lovely dame,
Whom I hold dearer-

Gost. Out upon thee, villain.

Marc. Ant. Nay, good Gostanzo, think you are

a father.

Gost. I will not hear a word; out, out upon thee: Wed without my advice, my love, my knowledge, Ay, and a beggar too, a trull, a blowze?

* William Browne, the pastoral poet, calls him "the learned Shepherd of fair Hitching-hill."

[ "Chapman, who assisted Ben Jonson and some others in comedy, deserves no great praise for his Bussy D'Ambois. The style in this, and in all his tragedies, is extravagantly hyperbolical; he is not very dramatic, nor has any power of exciting emotion except in those who sympathize with a tumid pride and self-confidence. Yet he has more

Chapman seems to have been a favourite of his own times; and in a subsequent age, his version of Homer excited the raptures of Waller, and was diligently consulted by Pope. The latter speaks of its daring fire, though he owns that it is clouded by fustian. Webster, his fellow dramatist, praises his "full and heightened style," a character which he does not deserve in any favourable sense; for his diction is chiefly marked by barbarous ruggedness, false elevation, and extravagant metaphor. The drama owes him very little; his Bussy D'Ambois is a piece of frigid atrocity, and in the Widow's Tears, where his heroine Cynthia falls in love with a sentinel guarding the corps of her husband, whom she was bitterly lamenting, he has dramatized one of the most puerile and disgusting legends ever fabricated for the disparagement of female constancy.†

her to thee,

Live with her still, I know thou count'st thyself
Happy in soul, only in winning her:

Be happy still, here, take her hand, enjoy her.
Would not a son hazard his father's wrath,
His reputation in the world, his birthright,
To have but such a mess of broth as this?
Marc. Ant. Be not so violent, I pray you, good
Gostanzo,

Take truce with passion, license your sad son,
To speak in his excuse?

Gost. What? what excuse?

Can any orator in this case excuse him?
What can he say? what can be said of any?

thinking than many of the old dramatists. His tragicomedies All Fools and The Gentleman-Usher, are perhaps superior to his tragedies."-HALLAM, Lit. Hist., vol. iii. p. 621.

"Chapman would have made a great Epic Poet, if indeed he has not abundantly shown himself to be one; for his Homer is not so properly a Translation as the stories of Achilles and Ulysses re-written."-LAMB.-C.]