And we will sit upon the rocks, And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies; A cap of flowers and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. His most beautiful poem, Hero and Leander, was somewhat inadequately completed by George Chapman, but Marlowe's part in it, the first three sections, is among the glories of poetry. Shakespeare in As You Like It quoted from it the line "Whoever loved that loved not at first sight." A Tragic Death In the spring of 1593 the plague was raging in London, and Marlowe went to stay at Deptford, then a small country village. Other Londoners followed his example, and one night the poet was killed in a tavern brawl by "a bawdy serving-man,” who was his rival for the favours of a worthless strumpet. A tragic ending to the life of one of England's greatest tragic poets! After Shakespeare, Marlowe was the chief ornament of the matchless group of poets who met at the "Mermaid," and after his death a younger poet declared that his plays moved such delight, That men would shun their sleep in still dark night $ 2 BEN JONSON Ben Jonson was eight years younger than Shakespeare and Marlowe. His father was a Protestant preacher, and he was educated at Westminster School. Jonson served some time as a soldier, but while he was still in the early twenties he had become mixed up in what was then the rather raffish society of London actors and playwrights, attaining notoriety by killing an actor in a duel. His first play, Every Man in his Humour, was produced by Shakespeare's company in 1598, Shakespeare himself probably being in the cast. The characters of the play are London citizens—all well-known theatrical types-one of them, Master Stephen, being an evident predecessor of Bob Acres. Every Man in his Humour was followed by Every Man out of his Humour, which was a failure. The dramatist, acting after the manner of his kind, quarrelled with the company and wrote satires on the various players, and on dramatists more successful than himself. Jonson lived until 1637. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, and an admirer caused to be engraved on the slab over his grave "O Rare Ben Jonson." Of his numerous plays The Silent Woman, The Alchemist, Bartholomew Fair, and The Tale of a Tub are perhaps the best known. He satirised the men and manners of his time as Aristophanes had satirised the people of Athens. He also wrote a treatise on Aristotle, and a volume of essays and maxims of no great value or interest. When James I succeeded Elizabeth, Jonson was employed to make masques for the Court ladies to act, Inigo Jones supplying the scenery and decorations; and quite naturally the dramatist quarrelled with the decorator. He held his place as Master of the Masques until 1632, and then three of his plays proving failures one after another, he declared in an ode that he left the loathed stage, And the still more loathsome age. Jonson is mainly remembered for his beautiful lyrics, that have an attraction that his plays nearly always lack, at least when they are read and not seen. One of the most delightful is the Hymn to Diana: Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Earth, let not thy envious shade Heaven to clear when day did close: Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever; Another is the song from "Underwoods" Oh, do not wanton with those eyes, Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Oh, be not angry with those fires, Nor look too kind on my desires, Oh, do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me; Nor spread them as distraught with fears; Mine own enough betray me. The "Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke" was long attributed to Jonson, and it may be quoted here as quite in his man ner, though it was written by William Browne (1591-1643), the author of Britannia's Pastorals: Underneath this sable hearse Time shall throw a dart at thee. And Jonson lives for us all with the immortal song “To Celia": Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I sent thee late a rosy wreath, But thou thereon didst only breathe And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee. Jonson's friendly relations with Shakespeare have been alluded to. In January, 1619, he visited William Drummond, the Scottish poet, in his home at Hawthornden, and in his conversations, which his host fortunately recorded, he remarked that "Shakespeare wanted Art,” and that "Shakespeare, in a play, brought in a number of men saying they had suffered shipwreck in Bohemia, where there is no sea near by some hundred miles." These casual remarks have been perhaps too often quoted; standing alone they would not represent Jonson's attitude toward the dramatist of whom in his own time he was the greatest rival. In his Discoveries (first published in 1641) occurs his far more adequate portrait of his friend: I remember the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, "Would he had blotted a thousand," which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told posterity this but for their ignorance who chose that circumstance to commend their friend by wherein he most faulted; and to justify mine own candour, for I loved the man, and do honour his memory on this side idolatry as much as any. He was indeed honest and of an open and free nature; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped. Jonson's most famous praise of Shakespeare, however, is the A little further, to make thee a room; And tell how far thou dost our Lyly outshine, And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, For names; but call forth thundering Æschylus, Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, And shake a stage, or when thy socks were on Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome VOL. II-5 |