THOMAS NASH.

THOMAS NASH, a lively satirist, who amused the town with his attacks on Gabriel Harvey and the Puritans, wrote a comedy called Summer's Last Will and Testament, which was exhibited before Queen Elizabeth in 1592. He was also concerned with Marlow in writing the tragedy of Dido, Queen of Carthage. He was imprisoned for being the author of a satirical play, never printed, called the Isle of Dogs. Another piece of Nash's, entitled the Supplication of Pierce Penniless to the Devil, was printed in 1592, which was followed next year by Christ's Tears over Jerusalem. Nash was a native of Leostoff, in Suffolk, and was born about the year 1564; he was of St John's college, Cambridge, He died about the year 1600, after a 'life spent,' he says, in fantastical satirism, in whose veins heretofore I mispent my spirit, and prodigally conspired against good hours.' He was the Churchill of his day, and was much famed for his satires. One of his contemporaries remarks of him, in a happy coupletHis style was witty, though he had some gall, Something he might have mended, so may all. Return from Parnassus.

The versification of Nash is hard and monotonous, The following is from his comedy of Summer's Last Will and Testament,' and is a favourable specimen of his blank verse: great part of the play is in prose :

I never lov'd ambitiously to climb,
Or thrust my hand too far into the fire.
To be in heaven sure is a blessed thing,
But, Atlas-like, to prop heaven on one's back
Cannot but be more labour than delight.
Such is the state of men in honour placed :
They are gold vessels made for servile uses;
High trees that keep the weather from low houses,
But cannot shield the tempest from themselves.
I love to dwell betwixt the hills and dales,
Neither to be so great as to be envied,
Nor yet so poor the world should pity me.

In his poem of Pierce Penniless, Nash draws a harrowing picture of the despair of a poor scholar

Ah, worthless wit! to train me to this woe:
Deceitful arts that nourish discontent :
Ill thrive the folly that bewitch'd me so !
Vain thoughts adieu! for now I will repent-
And yet my wants persuade me to proceed,
For none take pity of a scholar's need.
Forgive me, God, although I curse my birth,
And ban the air wherein I breathe a wretch,
Since misery hath daunted all my mirth,
And I am quite undone through promise breach ;
Ah, friends!-no friends that then ungentle frown
When changing fortune casts us headlong down.

ROBERT GREENE.

ROBERT GREENE, a more distinguished dramatist, is conjectured to have been a native of Norfolk, as he adds Norfolciensis' to his name, in one of his productions. He was educated at Clare-Hall, Cambridge, and in 1583 appeared as an author. He is supposed to have been in orders, and to have held the vicarage of Tollesbury, in Essex, as, in 1585, Robert Greene, the vicar, lost his preferment. The plays of Greene are the History of Orlando, Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, Alphonsus, King of Arragon, George-aGreen, the Pinner of Wakefield, James IV., and the Looking-glass for London and England: the latter was

written in conjunction with Lodge. Greene died in September 1592, owing, it is said, to a surfeit of red herrings and Rhenish wine! Besides his plays, he wrote a number of tracts, one of which, Pandosto, the Triumph of Time, 1588, was the source from which Shakspeare derived the plot of his Winter's Tale. Some lines contained in this tale are very beautiful:

Ah, were she pitiful as she is fair,
Or but as mild as she is seeming so,
Then were my hopes greater than my despair-
Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe.
Ah, were her heart relenting as her hand,
That seems to melt e'en with the mildest touch,
Then knew I where to seat me in a land
Under the wide heavens, but yet not such.
So as she shows, she seems the budding rose,
Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower;
Sovereign of beauty, like the spray she grows,
Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd flower;
Yet, were she willing to be pluck'd and worn,
She would be gather'd though she grew on thorn.
The blank verse of Greene approaches next to that
of Marlow, though less energetic. His imagination
was lively and discursive, fond of legendary lore, and
filled with classical images and illustrations. In his
Orlando, he thus apostrophises the evening star :-
Fair queen of love, thou mistress of delight,
Thou gladsome lamp that wait'st on Phoebe's train,
Spreading thy kindness through the jarring orbs,
That in their union praise thy lasting powers;
Thou that hast stay'd the fiery Phlegon's course,
And mad'st the coachman of the glorious wain
To droop in view of Daphne's excellence;
Fair pride of morn, sweet beauty of the even,
Look on Orlando languishing in love.
Sweet solitary groves, whereas the nymphs
With pleasance laugh to see the satyrs play,
Witness Orlando's faith unto his love.

Tread she these lawns ?-kind Flora, boast thy pride⚫
Seek she for shades ?-spread, cedars, for her sake.
Fair Flora, make her couch amidst thy flowers.
Sweet crystal springs,

Ah thought, my heaven! Ah heaven, that knows my
Wash ye with roses when she longs to drink.

thought!

Smile, joy in her that my content hath wrought. Passages like this prove that Greene succeeds well, as Hallam remarks, in that florid and gay style, a little redundant in images, which Shakspeare frequently gives to his princes and courtiers, and which renders some unimpassioned scenes in the historic plays effective and brilliant.' Professor Tieck gives him the high praise of possessing a happy talent, a clear spirit, and a lively imagination.' His comedies have a good deal of boisterous merriment and farcical humour. George-a-Green is a shrewd Yorkshireman, who meets with the kings of Scotland and England, Robin Hood, Maid Marian, &c., and who, after various tricks, receives the pardon of King Edward

George-a-Green, give me thy hand: there is
None in England that shall do thee wrong.
Even from my court I came to see thyself,
And now I see that fame speaks nought but truth.
and practical jokes in the play: it is in a scene be-
The following is a specimen of the simple humour
tween George and his servant:-

Jenkin. This fellow comes to me,
And takes me by the bosom : you slave,
Said he, hold my horse, and look
He takes no cold in his feet.

A whittle with a silver chape; Cloak was russet, and the cape Served for a bonnet oft,

To shroud him from the wet aloft:
A leather scrip of colour red,
With a button on the head;
A bottle full of country whig,
By the shepherd's side did lig;
And in a little bush hard by,
There the shepherd's dog did lie,
Who, while his master 'gan to sleep,
Well could watch both kids and sheep.
The shepherd was a frolic swain,
For, though his 'parel was but plain,
Yet doon the authors soothly say,
His colour was both fresh and gay;
And in their writs plain discuss,
Fairer was not Tityrus,

Nor Menalcas, whom they call
The alderleefest swain of all!
Seeming him was his wife,
Both in line and in life.
Fair she was, as fair might be,
Like the roses on the tree;
Buxom, blithe, and young, I ween,
Beauteous, like a summer's queen;
For her cheeks were ruddy hued,
As if lilies were imbrued

With drops of blood, to make the white
Please the eye with more delight.
Love did lie within her eyes,

In ambush for some wanton prize;
A leefer lass than this had been,
Coridon had never scen.

Nor was Phillis, that fair may,
Half so gaudy or so gay.

She wore a chaplet on her head;
Her cassock was of scarlet red,

Long and large, as straight as bent;
Her middle was both small and gent.
A neck as white as whales' bone,
Compast with a lace of stone;
Fine she was, and fair she was,
Brighter than the brightest glass;
Such a shepherd's wife as she,
Was not more in Thessaly.

[Philador, secing this couple sitting thus lovingly, noted the concord of country amity, and began to conjecture with himself, what a sweet kind of life those men use, who were by their birth too low for dignity, and by their fortunes too simple for envy. well, he thought to fall in prattle with them, had not the shepherd taken his pipe in hand, and began to play, and his wife to sing out, this roundelay :-]

Ah! what is love! It is a pretty thing,
As sweet unto a shepherd as a king,

And sweeter too:

For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,
And cares can make the sweetest cares to frown:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
His flocks are folded; he comes home at night
As merry as a king in his delight,

And merrier too:

For kings bethink them what the state require,
Where shepherds, careless, carol by the fire:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?
He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat
His cream and curd, as doth the king his meat,
And blither too :

1 Do.

For kings have often fears when they sup,
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain !
Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound
As doth the king upon his beds of down,
More sounder too:

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?
Thus with his wife he spends the year as blithe
As doth the king at every tide or syth,
And blither too :

For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,
When shepherds laugh, and love upon the land:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

THOMAS LODGE.

THOMAS LODGE was an actor in London in 1584. He had previously been a servitor of Trinity college, Oxford (1573), and had accompanied Captain Clarke in his voyage to the Canary Islands. He first studied law at Lincoln's Inn, but afterwards practised medicine. He took the degree of M.D. at Avignon. In 1590, he published a novel called Rosalind, Euphues' Golden Legacy, in which he recommends the fantastic style of Lyly. From part of this work (the story of Rosalind) Shakspeare constructed his As You Like It. If we suppose that Shakspeare wrote first sketches of the 'Winter's Tale' and A's You Like It,' before 1592 (as he did of 'Romeo and Juliet,' Hamlet,' &c.), we may account for Greene's charge of plagiarism, by assuming that the words beautified with our feathers,' referred to the tales of Pandosto' and Rosalind.' In 1594, Lodge wrote a historical play, the Wounds of Civil War, Lively set forth in the True Tragedies of Marius and Sylla; this play is heavy and uninteresting, but Lodge had the good taste to follow Marlow's Tamburlaine, in the adoption of blank verse. For example

Ay, but the milder passions show the man; For, as the leaf doth beautify the tree, The pleasant flowers bedeck the painted spring, Even so in men of greatest reach and power, A mild and piteous thought augments renown. The play, A Looking-Glass for London and England, written by Lodge and Greene, is directed to the defence of the stage. It applies the scriptural story of Nineveh to the city of London, and amidst drunken buffoonery, and clownish mirth, contains some powerful satirical writing. Lodge also wrote a volume of satires and other poems, translated Josephus, and penned a serious prose defence of the drama. He was living in 1600, as is proved by his obtaining that year a pass from the privy council, permitting himself and his friend, 'Henry Savell, gent.,' to travel into the archduke's country, taking with them two servants, for the purpose of recovering some debts due them there. The actor and dramatist had now merged in the prosperous and wealthy physician: Lodge had profited by Greene's example and warning. According to Wood, Lodge died of the plague in September 1625.

It is impossible to separate the labours of Greene and Lodge in their joint play, but the former was certainly the most dramatic in his talents. In Lodge's 'Rosalind,' there is a delightful spirit of romantic fancy

and a love of nature that marks the true poet. We subjoin some of his minor pieces :

[Beauty.]

Like to the clear in highest sphere,
Where all imperial glory shines,
Of self-same colour is her hair,

Whether unfolded or in twines:
Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,
Refining heaven by every wink;
The gods do fear, when as they glow,
And I do tremble when I think.
Her cheeks are like the blushing cloud,
That beautifies Aurora's face;

Or like the silver crimson shroud,

That Phoebus' smiling looks doth grace. Her lips are like two budded roses,

Whom ranks of lilies neighbour nigh; Within which bounds she balm encloses, Apt to entice a deity.

Her neck like to a stately tower,
Where Love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances, every hour,

From her divine and sacred eyes.
With orient pearl, with ruby red,
With marble white, with sapphire blue,
Her body everywhere is fed,

Yet soft in touch, and sweet in view.

Nature herself her shape admires,

The gods are wounded in her sight; And Love forsakes his heavenly fires, And at her eyes his brand doth light.

Love in my boscm, like a bee,
Doth suck his sweet;

Now with his wings he plays with me,
Now with his feet.

Within mine eyes he makes his nest,
His bed amidst my tender breast;
My kisses are his daily feast,
And yet he robs me of my rest:

Ah, wanton, will ye?

And if I sleep, then percheth he
With pretty flight,

And makes his pillow of my knee,
The live-long night.

Strike I my lute, he tunes the string;
He music plays if so I sing;
He lends me every lovely thing,
Yet cruel he my heart doth sting:
Whist, wanton, still ye?
Else I with roses every day
Will whip you hence,

And bind you, when you long to play,
For your offence;

I'll shut mine eyes to keep you in,
I'll make you fast it for your sin,

I'll count your power not worth a pin ;
Alas! what hereby shall I win,

If he gainsay me?

What if I beat the wanton boy
With many a rod ?

He will repay me with annoy,
Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my knee,
And let thy bower my bosom be;
Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee,
O, Cupid! so thou pity me,

Spare not, but play thee.

[Love.]

Turn I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes;
If so I gaze upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found;
Search I the shade to fly my pain,
Love meets me in the shade again;
Want I to walk in secret grove,
F'en there I meet with sacred love;
If so I bathe me in the spring,
E'en on the brink I hear him sing;
If so I meditate alone,

He will be partner of my moan;
If so I mourn he weeps with me,
And where I am there will he be !

CHRISTOPHER MARLOW.

The greatest of Shakspeare's precursors in the drama was CHRISTOPHER MARLOW-a fiery imaginative spirit, who first imparted consistent character and energy to the stage, in connexion with a finely modulated and varied blank verse. Marlow is supposed to have been born about the year 1562, and is said to have been the son of a shoemaker at Canterbury. He had a learned education, and took the degree of M.A. at Bennet college, Cambridge, in 1587. Previous to this, he had written his tragedy of Tamburlaine the Great, which was successfully brought out on the stage, and long continued a favourite. Shakspeare makes ancient Pistol quote, in ridicule, part of this play

Holla, ye pamper'd jades of Asia, &c. But, amidst the rant and fustian of Tamburlaine,' there are passages of great beauty and wild grandeur, and the versification justifies the compliment afterwards paid by Ben Jonson, in the words, Marlow's mighty line.' His high-sounding blank verse is one of his most characteristic features. Marlow now commenced the profession of an actor; but if we are to credit a contemporary ballad, he was soon incapacitated for the stage by breaking his leg in one lewd scene.' His second play, the Life and Death of Dr Faustus, exhibits a far wider range of dramatic power than his first tragedy. The hero studies necromancy, and makes a solemn disposal of his soul to Lucifer, on condition of having a familiar spirit at his command, and unlimited enjoyment for twentyfour years; during which period Faustus visits different countries, calls up spirits from the vasty deep,' and revels in luxury and splendour. At length the time expires, the bond becomes due, and a party of evil spirits enter, amidst thunder and lightning, to claim his forfeited life and person. Such a plot afforded scope for deep passion and variety of adventure, and Marlow has constructed from it a powerful though irregular play. Scenes and passages of terrific grandeur, and the most thrilling agony, are intermixed with low humour and preternatural machinery, often ludicrous and grotesque. The ambition of Faustus is a sensual, not a lofty ambition. A feeling of curiosity and wonder is excited by his necromancy and his strange compact with Lucifer; but we do not fairly sympathise with him till all his disguises are stripped off, and his meretricious splendour is succeeded by horror and despair. Then, when he stands on the brink of everlasting ruin, waiting for the fatal moment, imploring, yet distrusting repentance, a scene of enchaining interest, fervid passion, and overwhelming pathos, carries captive the sternest heart, and proclaims the full triumph of the tragic poet.