The Black Knight uses great freedom of speech, and not obscurely indicates that he has wheedled and duped the White King for his own ends.

Middleton is great in single scenes, and is a versatile and ingenious writer, a keen observer and satirist of London life and London types. But he repeats the same character under different names, interests rather than charms or fascinates, and is sometimes distinctly tedious. Women beware Women is a tale of love and jealousy from the Italian. The 'rage and madness of women crossed,' 'hell - bred malice and strife,' constitute the principal material of a somewhat cynical representation; but the following sketch of married happiness is admirably realised:

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 conceal'd comforts of a man
Lock'd 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 blank verse is some of it very unrhythmical and irregular; it is difficult sometimes to know whether the lines are meant for verse or prose.

Yet Mr Bullen agrees with an anonymous critic that, in daring and happy concentration of imagery and a certain imperial confidence in the use of words, he of all the dramatists of that time is the disciple that comes nearest the master.' And he holds that the colloquy between Beatrice and De Flores in the Changeling 'testifies beyond dispute that in dealing with a situation of sheer passion none of Shakespeare's followers trod so closely in the master's steps.' 'Neither Webster nor Cyril Tourneur nor Ford has given us any scene so profoundly impressive, so absolutely ineffaceable, so Shakespearean,' though 'as an artistic whole the Changeling cannot challenge comparison with The Maid's Tragedy, The Broken Heart, or The Duchess of Malfi. But if the Changeling, Women beware Women, the Spanish Gipsy, and A Fair Quarrel do not justify Middleton's claims to be considered a great artist,' Mr Bullen knows not which of Shakespeare's followers is worthy of the title.' In the Changeling, Beatrice, daughter of Vermandero, is betrothed to Alonzo de Piracquo ere she sees and loves Alsemero, a new-comer to her father's castle. She regards Alonzo with loathing, and reveals her hatred to De Flores, a poor gentleman in her

father's service, who passionately loves her. Zealous to do her a service, De Flores assassinates Alonzo, and hopes not for gold or jewels, but for Beatrice's love.

From 'The Changeling.'

De Flores. My thoughts are at a banquet; for the deed, I feel no weight in 't; 'tis but light and cheap For the sweet recompense that I set down for 't. [Aside. Beatrice. De Flores!

De F. Lady?

Beat. Thy looks promise cheerfully.

De F. All things are answerable, time, circumstance, Your wishes, and my service.

Beat. Is it done, then?

De F. Piracquo is no more.

Beat. My joys start at mine eyes; our sweet'st delights Are evermore born weeping.

De F. I've a token for you.

Beat. For me?

De F. But it was sent somewhat unwillingly;

I could not get the ring without the finger.

[Holding out Alonzo's finger with the ring on it. Beat. Bless me, what hast thou done? De F. Why, is that more

Than killing the whole man? I cut his heart-strings: A greedy hand thrust in a dish at court,

In a mistake hath had as much as this.

Beat. 'Tis the first token my father made me send him.
De F. And I have made him send it back again

For his last token; I was loath to leave it,
And I'm sure dead men have no use of jewels;
He was as loath to part with 't, for it stuck

As if the flesh and it were both one substance.

Beat. At the stag's fall, the keeper has his fees;
'Tis soon applied, all dead men's fees are yours, sir :
I pray, bury the finger, but the stone

You may make use on shortly; the true value,
Take 't of my truth, is near three hundred ducats.

De F. Twill hardly buy a capcase for one's conscience
To keep it from the worm, as fine as 'tis : [though,
Well, being my fees, I'll take it;
Great men have taught me that, or else my merit
Would scorn the way on 't.

Beat.
It might justly, sir;
Why, thou mistak'st, De Flores, 'tis not given
In state of recompense.

De F.

No, I hope so, lady;
You should soon witness my contempt to 't then.
Beat. Prithee-thou look'st as if thou wert offended.
De F. That were strange, lady; 'tis not possible
My service should draw such a cause from you :
Offended! could you think so? that were much
For one of my performance, and so warm
Yet in my service.

Beat. 'Twere misery in me to give you cause, sir.
De F. I know so much, it were so ; misery
In her most sharp condition.

Beat.

'Tis resolv'd then;

Look you, sir, here's three thousand golden florens ;

I have not meanly thought upon thy merit.
De F. What! salary? now you move me.
Beat.

How, De Flores? De F. Do you place me in the rank of verminous fellows,

To destroy things for wages? offer gold
For the life-blood of man? is any thing

To double my vexation, that's the good you do.

Beat. Bless me, I'm now in worse plight than I was;

I know not what will please him. [Aside.]-For my fear's sake,

I prithee, make away with all speed possible;
And if thou be'st so modest not to name

The sum that will content thee, paper blushes not,
Send thy demand in writing, it shall follow thee;
But, prithee, take thy flight.

De F. You must fly too then.
Beat. I?

De F. I'll not stir a foot else.
Beat. What's your meaning?

De F. Why, are not you as guilty? in, I'm sure,
As deep as I; and we should stick together:
Come, your fears counsel you but ill; my absence
Would draw suspect upon you instantly,
There were no rescue for you.

The last is not yet paid for: O, this act

Has put me into spirit; I was as greedy on 't

As the parch'd earth of moisture, when the clouds weep:
Did you not mark, I wrought myself into 't,

Nay, sued and kneel'd for 't? why was all that pains took?
You see I've thrown contempt upon your gold;
Not that I want it not, for I do piteously,
In order I'll come unto 't, and make use on 't,
But 'twas not held so precious to begin with,
For I place wealth after the heels of pleasure;

And were I not resolv'd in my belief

That thy virginity were perfect in thee,

I should but take my recompense with grudging,
As if I had but half my hopes I agreed for.

Beat. Why, 'tis impossible thou canst be so wicked, Or shelter such a cunning cruelty,

To make his death the murderer of my honour!
Thy language is so bold and vicious,

I cannot see which way I can forgive it
With any modesty.

De F.

Push! you forget yourself;

A woman dipp'd in blood, and talk of modesty!
Beat. O misery of sin! would I'd been bound
Perpetually unto my living hate

In that Piracquo, than to hear these words!
Think but upon the distance that creation

Set 'twixt thy blood and mine, and keep thee there.
De F. Look but into your conscience, read me there;
'Tis a true book, you'll find me there your equal:
Push! fly not to your birth, but settle you

In what the act has made you, you 're no more now;
You must forget your parentage to me;

You are the deed's creature; by that name
You lost your first condition, and I challenge you,
As peace and innocency have turn'd you out,
And made you one with me.

Beat.
With thee, foul villain!
De F. Yes, my fair murderess; do you urge me?
Though thou writ'st maid, thou whore in thy affection!
'Twas chang'd from thy first love, and that's a kind
Of whoredom in the heart; and he 's chang'd now
To bring thy second on, thy Alsemero,
Whom, by all sweets that ever darkness tasted,
If I enjoy thee not, thou ne'er enjoyest!
I'll blast the hopes and joys of marriage,
I'll confess all; my life I rate at nothing.

The Witch, an ill-constructed play which raises he problems above referred to, has also an Italian lot, apparently from Machiavelli's 'Florentine listories' through the French. Middleton is more t home in describing criminals and ruffians than upernatural beings; and his witches are rather he vulgar hags of popular superstition than the nearthly beings that accost Macbeth on the lasted heath, as Lamb pointed out in an admirble paragraph. Shakespeare in Macbeth gives he stage direction, Music and a song: "Black pirits," &c.' The 'Charm-song' of the witches oing about the cauldron is thus given by Middleton:

Hecate. 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 ! First Witch. Here's the blood of a bat. Hec. Put in that, O, put in that! Second Witch. Here's libbard's-bane.

Hec. Put in again!

First Witch. The juice of toad, the oil of adder. Sec. Witch. Those will make the younker madder. Hec. Put in-there's all-and rid the stench. Firestone. Nay, here's three ounces of the red-hair'd wench.

All the Witches. Round, around, around, &c.

The flight of the witches by moonlight is described with vigour and gusto; if the scene was written before Macbeth, Middleton deserves the credit of true poetical imagination :

Hecate. 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 mile?

Hoppo. Ours will be more to-night.
Hec.

Heard you

Stad.

O'twill be precious!

the owl yet?

Briefly in the copse,

As we came through now.

Fire. Every blade of 'em,

Or I'm a moon-calf, mother.

Hec. Hie thee home with 'em :

Look well to the house to-night; I'm for aloft.

Fire. Aloft, quoth you? I would you would break your neck once, that I might have all quickly! [Aside.] -Hark, hark, mother! they are above the steeple already, flying over your head with a noise of musicians. Hec. They're they indeed. Help, help me; I'm too late else.

Song above.

Come away, come away,
Hecate, Hecate, come away!
Hec. I come, I come, I come, I
come,
With all the speed I may,
With all the speed I may.

Where's Stadlin?
[Voice above.] Here.
Hec. Where's Puckle?
[Voice above.] Here;

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 like a cat descends. [Voice above.] There's one comes down to fetch his dues, A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood; hug

And why thou stay'st so long,

I muse, I muse,

Since the air 's so sweet and good.

Hec. O, art thou come?

What news, what news?

Spirit. All goes still to our delight:

Either come or else
Refuse, refuse.

Hec. Now, I'm furnish'd for the flight.

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

Hec. [going up.] Now I go, now I fly,

Malkin my sweet spirit and I.

O 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 yelps of hounds;
No, not the noise of water's breach,

Or cannon's throat our height can reach. [Voices above.] No ring of bells, &c.

Leopard's-bane, mandragora or mandrake, panax (ginseng), selago (lycopodium), and other herbs named have magical or medicinal properties; and serpents' eggs or snake-stones (often ammonites, supposed to be petrified snakes or in some mysterious way derived from serpents) were sovereign charms from the days of the Druids on.

Shakespeare in Macbeth gives merely the direction, 'Song within: "Come away, come away," &c.' Middleton's works were edited by Dyce (5 vols. 1840) and by Bullen (8 vols. 1885-36).

John Marston (1575?-1634), a rough and vigorous satirist and dramatic writer, seems to have been born at Coventry, and studied at Brasenose College, Oxford. He must have written all his plays between 1602 and 1607, when he gave up playwriting, took orders, and in 1616 accepted the living of Christchurch in Hampshire. The Metamorphosis of Pygmalion's Image (1598), a somewhat licentious poem, was condemned to the flames by Archbishop Whitgift. The Scourge of Villany is mainly uncouth and obscure satire. The gloomy and ill-constructed tragedies, Antonio and Mellida and Antonio's Revenge (1602), contain passages of striking power with much fustian. The Malcontent (1604), more skilfully constructed, was dedicated to Ben Jonson, between whom and Marston there were many quarrels and reconciliations. The Dutch Courtezan (1605) is full of life; Eastward Hoe (1605; written with Chapman and Jonson) is far more genial than any of Marston's own comedies. For uncomplimentary allusions to the Scots the authors were imprisoned (see page 402). Parasitaster, or the Fawn (1606), spite of occasional tediousness, is an attractive comedy; Sophonisba (1606) appals with its horrors. What You Will (1607) has many flings at Ben Jonson. The rich and graceful poetry scattered through The Insatiate Countesse (1613) is unlike anything in Marston's undoubted works, and was probably added by another hand.

Even in the least admirable passages one stumbles on pregnant thoughts pithily worded; thus in the Dutch Courtezan, on the difference between the lovely courtesan and a wife, an old knight says:

Hell and the prodegies of angrie Jove
Are not so fearefull to a thinking minde
As a man without affection. Why, frend,
Philosophie and nature are all one;

Love is the center in which all lines close
The common bonde of being.

Some of the phrasing is wonderfully modern, in spite of antique environment: thus the fatt's in the fire' alongside of pre-Elizabethan archaism; 'Mr Mulligrub' does not sound Elizabethan; and the courtesan's broken English is not unlike Pennsyl

This individual Gordian grasp of hands, In sight of God soe fairly intermixt, Never be severed, as Heaven smiles at it, By all the darts shot by infernall Jove! Coarseness was rather characteristic of Marston: his comedies contain strong, biting satire; Hazlitt thought his forte was impatient scorn and bitter indignation against the vices and follies of men, vented either in comic irony or in lofty invective. In What You Will Quadratus introduces a lyrical exposition of his hyper-epicurean philosophy of life: My fashions knowne: out rime: take't as you list: A fico for the sower brow'd Zoilist:

Musicke, tobacco, sack, and sleepe
The tide of sorrow backward keepe.
If thou art sad at others fate,
Rivo, drinke deepe, give care the mate.
On us the end of time is come,
Fond feare of that we cannot shun;
While quickest sence doth freshly last
Clip time aboute, hug pleasure fast.
The sisters revell out our twine,

checkmate

He that knows little's most devine. Rivo, a drinking challenge of doubtful origin, is also used by Shakespeare's Prince Hal.

The following humorous autobiographical sketch of a scholar and his dog, also from What You Will, in points suggests Goethe's Faust and Browning as well as Shakespeare :

I was a scholler: seaven usefull springs
Did I defloure in quotations

Of cross'd oppinions boute the soule of man;
The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt.
Knowledge and wit, faithes foes, turne fayth about. . . .
Delight, my spaniell, slept whilst I bausd leaves,
Tossed ore the dunces, por'd on the old print
Of titled wordes: and stil my spaniell slept.
Whilst I wasted lamp-oile, bated my flesh,
Shrunk up my veins and still my spaniel slept.
And still I held converse with Zabarell,
Aquinas, Scotus, and the musty sawe
Of antick Donate: still my spaniell slept.
Still on went I; first, an sit anima;
Then, an it were mortall. O hold, hold!
At that they're at brain buffets, fell by the eares
A maine pell-mell together-still my spaniell 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 staggerd, knew not which was firmer part,
But thought, quoted, reade, observ'd, and pried,
Stufft noting-books: and still my spaniell slept.
At length he wakt, and yawned; and, by yon sky,
For aught I know, he knew as much as I.

1 Bause is a rare and doubtful word, probably meaning to kiss (from Low Latin basiare). 2 Zabarella was a (now forgotten) sixteenth-century Italian philosopher; Thomas Aquinas and Duns Scotus were the heads of the two great schools of Catholic theology Donatus was a fourth-century grammarian. 3 Whether there is a soul. 4 Creationism' taught that the soul was created for each human body, Traducianism' that it was derived ex tra duce from the parents.

I

2

3

[Of the prologue to Antonio's Revenge, the second of the two plays forming The Historie of Antonio and Mellida, Charles Lamb says: 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 in poets his days, "of intermixing comic stuff with tragic sadness and gravity, brought in without discretion corruptly to gratify the people "it is as solemn a preparative as the "warning voice which he who saw th' Apocalypse heard cry."']

The rawish danke of clumzie winter ramps
The fluent summers vaine; and drizling sleete
Chilleth the wan bleak cheek of the numd earth,
Whilst snarling gusts nibble the juyceles leaves,

From the nak't shuddring branch; and pils the skinne
From off the soft and delicate aspectes.

O now, me thinks, a sullen tragick sceane
Would suite the time, with pleasing congruence.
May we be happie in our weake devoyer,
And all parte pleased in most wisht content;
But sweate of Hercules can nere beget
So blest an issue. Therefore, we proclaime,
If any spirit breathes within this round,
Uncapable of waightie passion

(As from his birth, being hugged in the armes,
And nuzzled twixt the breastes of happinesse),
Who winkes, and shuts his apprehension up
From common sense of what men were, and are,
Who would not knowe what men must be-let such
Hurrie amaine from our black visag'd showes:
We shall affright their eyes. But if a breast
Nail'd to the earth with griefe, if any heart
Pierc't through with anguish pant within this ring,
If there be any blood whose heate is choakt
And stifled with true sense of misery,

If ought of these straines fill this consort up-
Th' arrive most welcome. O that our power
Could lackie or keepe wing with our desires,
That with unused paize of stile and sense,
We might waigh massy in judicious scale.

Yet heere's the prop that doth support our hopes,
When our sceanes falter, or invention halts,
Your favour will give crutches to our faults.

[Antonio, son to Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, whom Piero, Venetian prince and father-in-law of Antonio, has murdered, slays Piero's little son, Julio, as a sacrifice to the spirit of Andrugio.The scene is in a Churchyard and the time is Midnight.]

Julio. Brother Antonio, are you here, i' faith? Why doe you frowne? Indeed my sister said That I should call you brother; that she did,

When you were married to her. Busse me good truth, I love you better then my father, 'deede.

Antonio. Thy father? Gratious, O bounteous Heaven! I doe adore thy justice: Venit in nostras manus Tandem vindicta, venit et tota quidem.

O that I knewe which joynt, which side, which lim,
Were father all, and had no mother in 't,

That I might rip it vaine by vaine, and carve revenge
In bleeding races; but since 'tis mixt together,
Have at adventure, pel mell, no reverse.
Come hither, boy. This is Andrugio's hearse.
Jul. O God, youle hurt me. For my sisters sake,
Pray you doe not hurt me. An you
kill me, 'deede,
Ile tell my father.

Ant. O, for thy sisters sake, I flagge revenge.

Andrugio's Ghost. Revenge!

Ant. Stay, stay, deare father, fright mine eyes no more. Revenge as swift as lightning bursteth forth,

And cleares his heart. Come, prettie tender childe,

It is not thee I hate, not thee I kill.

Thy fathers blood that flowes within thy veines

Is it I loath; is that revenge must sucke.

I love thy soule and were thy heart lapt up

In any flesh but in Piero's bloode,

I would thus kisse it; but being his, thus, thus,
And thus Ile punch it. Abandon feares.

Whil'st thy wounds bleede, my browes shall gush out

teares.

Jul. So you will love me, doe even what you will.

Ant. Now barkes the wolfe against the fulle cheek!

moon;

Now lyons half-clamd entrals roare for food ;
Now croakes the toad, and night crowes screech aloud,
Fluttering 'bout casements of departed soules;
Now gapes the graves, and through their yawnes let loose
Imprison'd spirits to revisit earth;

And now swarte night, to swell thy hower out,
Behold I spurt warme bloode in thy blacke eyes.

:

[Stabs Julio. From under the stage a groane.
Howle not, thou putry mould; groan not, ye graves.
Be dumbe, all breath. Here stands Andrugio's sonne,
Worthie his father. So I feele no breath.
His jawes are falne, his dislodg'd soule is fled :
And now there's nothing but Piero left.
He is all Piero, father all. This blood,
This breast, this heart, Piero all:
Whome thus I mangle. Spirit of Julio,
Forget this was thy trunke. I live thy friend.
Mayst thou be twined with the softst imbrace
Of clere eternitie: but thy fathers blood

I thus make incense of, to vengeance.
Ghost of my poysoned sire, sucke this fume,
To sweet revenge perfume thy circling ayre
With smoake of bloode. I sprinkle round his goare,
And dewe thy hearse with these fresh reeking drops.
Loe thus I heave my blood-died handes to heaven,
Even like insatiate hell, still crying More!
My heart hath thirsting dropsies after goare.
Sound peace
and rest to church, night ghosts, and graves;
Blood cries for bloode, and murder murder craves.
(From Part II. Act II.)
Antonio's Latin quotation is an adaptation of two lines from
Seneca's Thyestes; flagge is 'let drop;' half-clam'd is 'half-
clemmed,' 'half-starved;' for 'cleares his heart' Mr Bullen reads
'cleaves;' putry (in the old editions, pury) is 'putrid.'

Night is thus prayed for :

And now, yee sootie coursers of the night,
Hurrie your chariot into hels black wombe.

Nightfall is described :

The gloomie wing of Night begins to stretch
His lasie pinion over all the ayre.