PHINEAS FLETCHER. PHINEAS was the elder brother of Giles Fletcher, and, like him, was a clergyman. He possessed high poetic gifts, which were rendered nugatory by his preposterous choice of a subject. His Purple Island is a poetic treatise on anatomy, written in the form of allegory, and perversely adorned with much of poetic imagery out of place. HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE. Thrice, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state! Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns: No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread His certain life, that never can deceive him, Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease; Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please. His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place; His little son into his bosom creeps, The lively picture of his father's face: BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. Never his humble house nor state torment him; 63 And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb, content him. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. BEAUMONT and FLETCHER are names inseparably united by the dramatic works which they wrote in common. Francis Beaumont belonged to the ancient family of Beaumont; he was born, and, in his early life, lived at their seat, Grace Dieu, in Charnwood Forest; and was, so far as is known, a Catholic, his family having survived as such to a period long subsequent to that of the poet's death, which took place A.D. 1616. John Fletcher was the son of Dr. Fletcher, Bishop of London, and was born A.D. 1576. He died of the plague in 1625. Their mutual friendship constitutes the greater part of what is recorded of these two poets, who, as we are told, had "a single bench in the same house between them, and wore the same cloak." The Maid's Tragedy, and Philaster, two of their best plays, are attributed to Beaumont exclusively; and Fletcher composed many, likewise, unaided. Beaumont is supposed to have possessed most of scholarship, robustness, and taste; Fletcher the more luxuriant fancy. With Ben Jonson they take rank immediately after Shakespeare. Their genius could not but have made them, long since, far more generally known, had it not been for the immense mass of their works, in which what is first-rate is obscured by what is of inferior worth. A sadder defect is the indecency which defaces many of their plays. That these have not been expurgated long since is the more inexcusable, as it is well known that immoral passages were frequently introduced into plays by the actors for the amusement of a ribald audience, and without the knowledge of the authors. FROM THE MAID'S TRAGEDY. Aspatia, forsaken by her lover, finds her maid Antiphila working a picture of Ariadne. The expression of her sorrow to Antiphila and the other attendant thus concludes: Then, my good girls, be more than women wise, When the strong cordage cracks; rather the sun Oh that beast man! Come, let's be sad, my girls. Fie, you have miss'd it here, Antiphila. These colours are not dull and pale enough To show a soul so full of misery As this sad lady's was ;-do it by me; Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia, And you shall find all true but the wild island. Suppose I stand upon the sea-beach now, Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the wind, Wild as that desert; and let all about me Tell that I am forsaken. Do my face, If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow, Thus, thus, Antiphila: strive to make me look FROM THE TRAGEDY OF PHILASTER. Philaster's description of his Page to his mistress Arethusa. Arethusa. How shall we devise To hold intelligence, that our true loves, Philaster. I have a boy, Sent by the gods, I hope, to this intent, Which gave him roots, and of the crystal springs, Express'd his grief, and to my thoughts did read That could be wish'd, so that methought I could GEORGE HERBERT. GEORGE HERBERT, a descendant of the ancient family of that name, was born A.D. 1593. His manifold accomplishments rendered him a universal favourite, and qualified him for success in any walk of life. After much consideration he resolved to shun court favour and the public gaze; and he became a clergyman. His life F was passed in the exact discharge of his professional duties, and in the composition of poetry. For conscientiousness, simplicity of life, piety, scholarship, and intellectual refinement, he was alike admirable. His poetic genius was of a high order; and, in spite of quaintness and occasional conceits, his poems must ever be valued for their depth and vigour of thought, as well as for their condensation of diction. He died A.D. 1632. VIRTUE. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives, But when the whole world turns to coal, MATIN HYMN. I cannot ope mine eyes But thou art ready there to catch My morning soul and sacrifice, Then we must needs for that day make a match. My God, what is a heart? Silver, or gold, or precious stone, Or star, or rainbow, or a part Of all these things, or all of them in one? My God, what is a heart? That thou shouldst it so eye and woo, Pouring upon it all thy art, As if that thou hadst nothing else to do? Indeed, man's whole estate Amounts, and richly, to serve thee; He did not heaven and heart create, Yet studies them, not him by whom they be. |