Thy boys, Ambition, Pride, and Scorn, Upon this enemy so great, And but this once bring under, Which of you would not in a war To keep your own states even? About it then, and let him feel Since he begins to threat her: And though the bodies here are less Our malice is far greater. [The Evils enter for the Antimasque, and dance to two drums, trumpets, and a confusion of martial music. At the end of which Pallas re-appears, showing her shield. The Evils are turned to statues.] Pal. So change, and perish, scarcely knowing how, That 'gainst the gods do take so vain a vow, Die all that can remain of you, but stone, And that be seen a while, and then be none! Now, now descend, you both belov'd of Jove, And of the good on earth no less the love. [The scene changes, and she calls Astræa and the Golden Age.] And as your softer tunes divide the air, So shake all clouds off with your golden hair; For Spite is spent: the Iron Age is fled, And, with her power on earth, her name is dead. You far-famed spirits of this happy isle, That, for your sacred songs have gain'd the style Of Phoebus' sons, whose notes the air aspire Of th' old Egyptian, or the Thracian lyre, Put on your better flames, and larger light, To wait upon the Age that shall your names now nourish, Chau. Gow. We come. Lyd. Spen. We come. Omnes. Our best of fire Is that which Pallas doth inspire. [They descend. Pal. Then see you yonder souls, set far within the shade, Cho. Awake, awake, for whom these times were kept. Pal. Thus Pallas throws a lightning from her shield. [The scene of light discovered.] Cho. To which let all that doubtful darkness yield. Ast. Now Peace, G. Age. And Love, Ast. Faith, G. Age. Joys, Ast. G. Age. All, all increase. [A pause.] Chau. And Strife, Gow. And Hate, Lyd. And Fear, Spen. And Pain, Omnes. All cease. Pal. No tumour of an iron vein. The causes shall not come again. Cho. But, as of old, all now be gold. Move, move then to the sounds; And do not only walk your solemn rounds, [The first Dance.] Pal. Already do not all things smile? Ast. But when they have enjoy'd awhile Age. That every thought a seed doth bring, Pal. The earth unplough'd shall yield her crop, Pure honey from the oak shall drop, The fountain shall run milk: The thistle shall the lily bear, Cho. The very shrub shall balsam sweet, [Here the main Dance. After which,] Pal. But here's not all: you must do more, Or else you do but half restore, The Age's liberty. Poe. The male and female us'd to join, That pure simplicity. Then Feature did to Form advance, And Youth call'd Beauty forth to dance, It was a time of no distrust, So much of love had nought of lust; The language melted in the ear, They liv'd with open vow. Cho. Each touch and kiss was so well plac'd, They were as sweet as they were chaste, [Here they dance with the ladies.] Ast. What change is here? I had not more Than I have now to stay; My silver feet, like roots, are wreath'd Of all there seems a second birth; And Jove is present here. This, this, and only such as this, Where she would pray to live; [Here they dance the Galliards and Corantos. Pallas ascending, and 'Tis now enough; behold you here, What Jove hath built to be your sphere, You hither must retire. And as his bounty gives you cause, To show the world your fire. Like lights about Astræa's throne, That by your union she may grow, Who vows, against or heat or cold, To write your names in some new flower, Cho. To Jove, to Jove, be all the honours given. That thankful hearts can raise from earth to heaven. Beaumont and Fletcher, in the order of our dramatic investigations, next require our attention. The literary partnerships of the drama which we have had occasion, in the course of our remarks, to notice, were generally brief and incidental, being confined to a few scenes, or a single play. In Beaumont and Fletcher, however, we have the interesting spectacle of two young men of exalted genius, of good birth and connections, living together for ten years, and writing in union a series of dramas, passionate, romantic, and comic, thus blending together their genius and their fame in indissoluble connection. Shakspeare was, beyond a doubt, the inspirer of these kindred spirits. They appeared when his genius was in its meridian splendor, and they were completely subdued by its overpowering influence. They reflected its leading characteristics, not as slavish copyists, but as men of high powers and attainments, proud of borrowing inspiration from a source which they could so well appreciate, and which was at once ennobling and inexhaustible. FRANCIS BEAUMONT was descended from the ancient family of Beaumont of Grace-Dieu, in Leicestershire, and was born in 1586. His grandfather, John Beaumont, was master of the rolls, and his father, Francis, one of the judges of the common pleas. Having completed his collegiate studies at Cambridge, young Beaumont entered the Inner Temple, London, as a student of law; but his passion for the muses prevented him from making any great proficiency in his legal studies. He married the daughter and coheiress of Sir Henry Isley, of Kent, by whom he had two daughters. The tenor of his brief life was even and uninterrupted, and his death occurred on the sixth of March, 1615, before he had attained the thirtieth year of his age. He was buried on the ninth of the same month, at the entrance of St. Benedict's chapel, Westminster Abbey. Thus, in the beautiful language of Hazlitt, was youth, genius, aspiring hope and growing reputation, cut off like a flower in its summer pride, or like the 'lily in its stalk green,' which inclines us to repine at fortune, and almost at nature, that seem to set so little store by their greatest favorites. The life of poets is, or ought to be, if we judge of it from the light it lends to others, a golden drama, full of brightness and sweetness, rapt in Elysium; and it gives one a reluctant pang to see the splendid vision, by which they are attended in their path of glory, fade like a vapor, and their sacred heads laid low in ashes, before the sand of common mortals has half run out. JOHN FLETCHER was of equally distinguished parentage with Beaumont, being the son of Dr. Richard Fletcher, bishop of Bristol, and afterward of Worcester. He was born in Northamptonshire, in 1576, and educated at Bennet College, Cambridge. Though he was ten years older than Beaumont, ret comparatively nothing is known of him from the time at which he left he university, until the thirtieth year of his age, when he seems to have commenced his career of dramatic authorship, conjointly with his youthful and gifted associate. His life was as quiet and as unmarked by striking incidents, as was that of his partner in his early literary labors; and he died of the great playre in 1825, in the fiftieth year of his age. For some reason, not now known, his remains were not honored with a resting-place in Westminster Abbey, but were buried in St. Mary Overy's church, Southwark. The dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher were fifty-two in number; but as the greater part of them were no published till 1647, it is impossible to ascertain the dates at which they were respectively produced. Dryden remarks that Philaster was the first play that brought them into esteem with the public, though they had previously written two or three others. It is improbable in plot, but highly interestiny in character and situations. The |