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The apoplexy, catarrh, or cough o' the lungs,
Would do as much as they do.

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 diamonds, or to be smother'd

With cassia? or to be shot to death with pearls?
I know death hath ten thousand several doors

For men to take their exits: and 'tis found

They go on such strange geometrical hinges,

You may open them both ways: any way (for heav'n sake),
So I were out of your whispering: tell my brothers

That I perceive death (now I'm well awake)

Best gift is they can give or I can take.

I would fain put off my last woman's fault;

I'd not be tedious to you.

Pull, and pull strongly, for your able strength
Must pull down heaven upon me.

Yet stay, heaven 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.

Ferd. Is she dead?

[Ferdinand enters.]

Bos. She is what you would have her.

Fix your eyes here.

Ferd. Constantly.

Bos. Do you not weep?

Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out,

The element of water moistens the earth,

But blood flies upwards, and bedews the heavens.

[They strangle her, kneeling.]

Ferd. Cover her face: mine eyes dazzle: she 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
Her time to a minute.

THOMAS MIDDLETON, born about 1560, was, himself, the author of more than twenty plays, and was also frequently engaged with others in the production of dramas and court-pageants. In 1620, he stood so high in public favor, that he was made chronologer, or city poet, of London-an office which Ben Jonson was proud, afterward, to fill. Middleton died in July, 1627, at the age of about sixty-eight.

The dramas of Middleton have no strongly-marked character. Perhaps his best are Woman Beware of Women, The Witch, and A Game of Chess, The following sketch of married happiness, from the first of these plays, is delicate, and finely expressed :

HAPPINESS OF MARRIED LIFE.

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 Witch' of this author is supposed, by many critics, to have supplied the witchcraft scenery, and part of the lyrical incantations of Shakspeare's Macbeth; but the supernatural agents of Middleton are the old witches of legendary story, and not the dim mysterious unearthly beings that accost Macbeth on the blasted heath. The Charm Song is much the same in both plays:

[The witches going about the Cauldron.]

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.
Hecate. Put in that; oh put in that.

Sec. Witch. Here's libbard's bane.

Hecate. Put in again.

First Witch. The juice of toad, the oil of adder.

Sec. Witch. Those will make the younker madder.
All. Round, around, around, &c.

The flight of the witches by moonlight is described with a wild gusto and delight, that confer, upon the dramatist, the credit of true poetical imagination. We very much doubt whether the following scene is greatly surpassed by even Shakspeare:

[Enter Hecate, Stadlin, Hoppo, and other Witches.]

Hec. The moon 's a gallant; see how brisk she rides!
Stad. Here's a rich evening, Hecate.

Hec. Ay, is 't not, wenches,

To take a journey of five thousand miles?

Hop. Ours will be more to-night.

Hec. Oh, it will be precious. Heard you the owl yet?

Stad. Briefly in the copse

As we came through now.

Hec. 'Tis high time for us then.

Stad. There was a bat hung at my lips three times
As we came thro' the woods, and drank her fill:
Old Puckle saw her.

Hec. You are fortunate still.

The very screech-owl lights upon your shoulder,
And woos you like a pigeon. Are you furnished?
Have you your ointments?

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Fire. They are all going a-birding to-night. They talk of fowls i' th' air that fly by day; I'm sure they'll be a company of foul sluts there to-night. If we have not mortality affear'd, I'll be hang'd, for they are able to putrify it to infect a whole region. She spies me now.

Hec. What! Firestone, our sweet son?

Fire. A little sweeter than some of you; or a dunghill were too good for one. Hec. How much hast there?

Fire. Nineteen, and all brave plump ones; besides six lizards, and three serpentine eggs.

Hec. Dear and sweet boy! What herbs hast thou ?

Fire. I have some mar-martin and mandragon.

Hec. Mar-maritin and mandragora thou would'st say.

Fire. Here's pannax too. I thank thee; my pan akes I am sure, with kneeling down to cut 'em.

Hec. And selago.

Hedge Hissop too! How near he goes my cuttings!

Were they all cropt by moonlight?

Fire. Every blade of 'em, or I'm a mooncalf, mother.

Hec. Hie thee home with 'em.

Look well to th' house to-night; I am 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 are, indeed; help me! help me! I'm too late else.

SONG.

[In the air above.]

Come away, come away,
Hecate, Hecate, come away,

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[A Spirit descends in the shape of a cat.]

Above. There's one come down to fetch his dues;

A kiss, a coll, a sip of blood;

And why thou stay'st so long, I muse, I muse,
Since th' air's so sweet and good.

Hec. Oh, art thou come;

What news, what news?

Spirit. All goes still to our delight.
Either come, or else

Refuse, refuse.

Hec. Now I am furnished for the flight.

Fire. Hark, hark! The cat sings a brave treble

In her own language.

Hec. [Ascending with the Spirit.] Now I go, now I fly.
Malkin, my sweet spirit, and I.

Oh, 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 howl of wolves, no yelp of hounds;
No, not the noise of waters' breach,

Or cannon's roar our height can reach.
Above. No ring of bells, &c.

JOHN MARSTON was a rough and vigorous satirist, as well as a dramatic writer. He was, for some time, a student in Corpus Christi College, Oxford, but where he was born, or of what family descended, is not known. His principal dramas are The Malcontent, a comedy performed in 1600, Antonio and Mellida, a tragedy, in 1602, The Insatiate Countess, and What You Will. Besides these dramas, Marston wrote, in connection with Jonson and Chapman, the unfortunate comedy of 'Eastward Hoe.' He was the author of a volume of satires also, under the title of The Scourge of the Villainy. His death occurred in 1614, and the last literary labor of the great Shakspeare is represented to have been the editing of his plays.

Hazlitt remarks that 'Marston's forte was not sympathy either with the stronger or softer emotions, but an impatient scorn and bitter indignation

against the vices and follies of men, which vented itself either in comic irony, or lofty invectives.' The following humorous sketch of a scholar and his dog, is worthy of any poet, however exalted his genius or reputation:

I was a scholar; seven useful springs
Did I deflower in quotations

Of cross'd opinions 'bout the soul of man:

The more I learnt, the more I learnt to doubt.
Delight, my spaniel, slept, whilst I baus'd leaves,
Toss'd o'er the dunces, pored on the old print
Of titled words: and still my spaniel slept.
While I wasted lamp-oil, baited my flesh,
Shrunk up my veins and still my spaniel slept.
And still I held converse with Zabarell,
Aquinas, Scotus, the musty saw

Of Antick Donate: still my spaniel slept.
Still on went I; first, an sit anima;

Then, an it were mortal. O hold, hold; at that
They're at brain buffets, fell by the ears amain
Pell-mell together; still my spaniel 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 stagger'd, knew not which was firmer part,
But thought, quoted, read, observ'd, and pried,
Stufft noting-books: and still my spaniel slept.
At length he wak'd, and yawn'd; and by yon sky,
For ought I know, he knew as much as I.

PHILIP MASSINGER was born at Salisbury, in 1584. His father, as appears from the dedication of one of his plays, was in the service of the Earl of Pembroke; and as he was, on one occasion, intrusted with letters to Queen Elizabeth, his situation must have been a confidential one. In 1601, Massinger entered St. Alban's Hall, Oxford; but during the four years which he passed at the university, he applied his mind exclusively to romances and poetry, and, consequently, at the expiration of that time, left without his degree. On quitting Oxford, he repaired to London, there to improve his poetic fancy by intercourse with the men and manners of the metropolis. He soon after began to write for the stage, but for a number of years he had to struggle with poverty, and its usual attendant, distress. In 1814, he made a joint application with Field and Daborne, two brother dramatists, to the manager, Henslowe, for the loan of five pounds, stating that without it they could not be bailed. The sequel of Massinger's history is only an enumeration of his plays. He wrote a great many dramas, of which eighteen have been preserved, and his death was sudden and unexpected. On the evening of the eighteenth of March, 1639, he retired to rest in his own house at Bankside, Southwark, in his usual health, and the next morning was found dead in his bed. He was interred at St. Mary Overy's Church, Southwark, in the same grave which had previously received the remains of Fletcher;

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