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[SHIRLEY was born in London about the year 1596, and lived through the Civil War and Commonwealth into the Restoration, dying in 1667. His copious dramatic activity began in 1625, in which year he produced the comedy entitled Love's Tricks. Before this, in 1613, he had published an imitation of Venus and Adonis under the title of Echo. His plays were produced in rapid succession up to 1641. In 1646 he published a volume of poems, chiefly erotic, and two small volumes of Masques, etc., in 1653 and 1659.}

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BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

1579-1625.

[JOHN FLETCHER was born in December, 1579, at Rye in Sussex, where his father, who ultimately became Bishop of London, was minister. He was admitted pensioner at Benet College, Cambridge, in 1591; and little is known of his life between this date and the period of his connec tion with Beaumont.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT was the son of Sir F. Beaumont, of Grace-Dieu in Leicestershire, and was born at that place, probably in 1585. He resided for a short time at Broadgates Hall (now Pembroke College), Oxford, and was entered of the Inner Temple in 1600.

Not many years after this we may suppose the friendship between the two poets to have begun. "They lived together on the Bank side,' in Southwark, "not far from the Play-house" (the Globe), and wrote for the theatre. The most celebrated of their joint productions were produced probably between 1608 and 1611. But the common life which has been described by Aubrey, and is itself almost a poem (if partly a comic one), must have been disturbed in 1513, when Beaumont married. In the spring of 1616 he died. So far as is known, Fletcher remained single till his death, which took place in August, 1625.]

FROM " THE MAID'S TRAGEDY."

[By Beaumont and Fletcher.]

LAY a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say, I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!

LINES ON THE TOMBS IN
WESTMINSTER.

[By Beaumont.]

MORTALITY, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones;
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their
hands;

Where from their pulpits seal'd with

dust

They preach, "In greatness is no trust."
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royall'st seed
That the earth did e'er suck in,

Since the first man died for sin:

Here the bones of birth have cried,
"Though gods they were, as men they

died":

Here are sands, ignoble things,

Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state,
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

FROM "THE FAITHFUL

SHEPHERDESS."
[By Fletcher.]

I.

THE SATYR.

HERE be grapes whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's good;
Sweeter yet did never crown

The head of Bacchus; nuts more brown
Than the squirrel's teeth that crack

them;

Deign, O fairest fair, to take them!

For these black-eyed Dryope

Hath oftentimes commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb:
See how well the lusty time
Hath deck'd their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread.
Here be berries for a queen,
Some be red, some be green;
These are of that luscious meat
The great god Pan himself doth eat:
All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long

Will bring you more, more sweet and

strong;

Till when, humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade.
I must go, I must run

Swifter than the fiery sun.

II.

THE RIVER GOD TO AMORET.

I AM this fountain's god.

My waters to a river grow,

Below

And 'twixt two banks with osiers set,
That only prosper in the wet,
Through the meadows do they glide,
Wheeling still on every side,
Sometime winding round about
To find the evenest channel out.
And if thou wilt go with me,
Leaving mortal company,

In the cool streams shalt thou lie,
Free from harm as well as I;
I will give thee for thy food
No fish that useth in the mud,
But trout and pike, that love to swim
Where the gravel from the brim
Through the pure streams may be seen;
Orient pearl fit for a queen
Will I give, thy love to win,
And a shell to keep them in;
Not a fish in all my brook
That shall disobey thy look,

But, when thou wilt, come gliding by
And from thy white hand take a fly:
And to make thee understand
How I can my waves command,
They shall bubble whilst I sing,
Sweeter than the silver string.

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III.

THE SATYR.

THOU divinest, fairest, brightest,
Thou most powerful maid and whitest,
Thou most virtuous and most blessed,
Eyes of stars, and golden tressed
Like Apollo! tell me, sweetest,
What new service now is meetest
For the Satyr? Shall I stray
In the middle air, and stay
The sailing rack, or nimbly take
Hold by the moon, and gently make
Suit to the pale queen of night
For a beam to give thee light?
Shall I dive into the sea

And bring thee coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
Like snowy fleeces? Dearest, shall
I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies
Whose woven wings the summer dyes
Of many colors? get thee fruit,
Or steal from heaven old Orpheus' lute?
All these I'll venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.

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FROM THE NICE VALOUR."
[By Fletcher.]

HENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's nought in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see't,
But only melancholy;

O sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a sound!
Fountain heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy
valley;

Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

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[WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE was born at Stratford on Avon, in April, 1564; there also he died, April 23d (old style), 1616. The following are the titles of his poems, with the dates of publication: Venus and Adonis, 1993: The Rape of Lucrece, 1594; The Passionate Pilgrim (a miscellany which includes only a few pieces by Shakespeare), 1599; The Phenix and the Turtle (printed with pieces on the same subject by other poets of the time, at the end of Robert Chester's Love's Martyr, or Rosalin's Complaint), 1601; Sonnets, 1609; A Lover's Complaint (in the same volume with the Sonnets), 1609.]

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Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, To be, or not to be, that is the ques

Bear it, that the opposer may beware of

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tion: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, end them? - To die,- -to sleep,

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To grunt and sweat under a weary life; But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, - puzzles the will; And makes us rather bear those ills we have,

Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;

And enterprises of great pith and moment,

With this regard, their currents turn a-wry, And lose the name of action.

HAMLET'S ADDRESS TO HIS

FATHER'S GHOST.

ANGELS and ministers of grace defend us!

Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,

Bring with thee airs from heaven, or

blasts from hell,

Be thy intents wicked or charitable,

Thou com'st in such a questionable shape,

That I will speak to thee; I'll call thee Hamlet,

King, father, royal Dane: O, answer

me:

Let me not burst in ignorance! but tell Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death,

Have burst their cerements! why the sepulchre,

Wherein we saw thee quietly inurn'd, Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws,

To cast thee up again! What may this

mean,

That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,

Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous; and we fools of nature,

So horribly to shake our disposition, With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls?

HAMLET'S ESTEEM FOR

HORATIO.

NAY, do not think I flatter: For what advancement may I hope from thee,

That no revenue hast but thy good spirits

To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flattered?

No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp;

And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee,

Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear?

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice,

And could of men distinguish her election,

She hath seal'd thee for herself; for . thou hast been

As one, in suffering all, that suffers no

thing;

A man that fortune's buffets and rewards

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