cording to the elegancy and disposition of those times wherein they wrote. I see not then, but we should enjoy the same license, or free power to illustrate and heighten our invention, as they did; and not be tied to those strict and regular forms which the niceness of a few, who are nothing but form, would thrust upon us. Mit. Well, we will not dispute of this now: but what's his scene? Cor. Marry, Insula Fortunata, sir. Mit. O, the Fortunate Island: mass, he has bound himself to a strict law there. Cor. Why so? Mit. He cannot lightly alter the scene, without crossing the seas. Cor. He needs not, having a whole island to run through, I think. Mit. No! how comes it then, that in some one play we see so many seas, countries, and kingdoms, passed over with such admirable dexterity? Cor. O, that but shews how well the authors can travel in their vocation, and outrun the apprehension of their auditory. But leaving this, I would they would begin once: this protraction is able to sour the bestsettled patience in the theatre. [The third sounding. Mit. They have answered your wish, sir; they sound. Cor. O, here comes the Prologue. Enter PROLOgue. Now, sir, if you had staid a little longer, I meant to have spoke your prologue for you, i'faith. + Mit. No! how comes it then, &c.] Against this passage, Theobald has written, in the margin of his copy, a flurt on Shakspeare. This jealousy of our great poet, commenced under such respectable auspices, has since become epidemical, and infected almost all his critics. The charge, in the present case, is too absurd for serious notice, or indeed for any notice at all. Prol. Marry, with all my heart, sir, you shall do it yet, and I thank you. Cor. Nay, nay, stay, stay; hear you? [Going. I Prol. You could not have studied to have done me a greater benefit at the instant; for I protest to you, am unperfect, and, had I spoke it, I must of necessity have been out. Cor. Why, but do you speak this seriously? Prol. Seriously! ay, wit's my help, do I; and esteem myself indebted to your kindness for it. Cor. For what? Prol. Why, for undertaking the prologue for me. Cor. How did I undertake it for you? Prol. Did you! I appeal to all these gentlemen, whether you did or no. Come, come, it pleases you to cast a strange look on't now; but 'twill not serve. Cor. 'Fore me, but it must serve; and therefore speak your prologue. Prol. An I do, let me die poisoned with some venomous hiss, and never live to look as high as the twopenny room again. 5 Mit. He has put you to it, sir. [Exit. Cor. 'Sdeath, what a humorous fellow is this! Gentlemen, good faith I can speak no prologue, howsoever his weak wit has had the fortune to make this strong use of me here before you; but I protest 5 and never live to look as high as the two-penny room again.] The cost of admission to the theatres (such of them, at least, as many of our early dramas were exhibited in) was at this time very moderate. The price of the "best rooms," or boxes, was a shilling; of the lowest places, two-pence; and, as Whalley says, in some play-houses, only a penny. The two-penny room mentioned above was the gallery. Thus Decker: "Pay your two-pence to a player, and you may sit in the gallery." Belman's Night Walk. And Middleton: "One of them is a nip; I took him once in the twopenny gallery, at the Fortune:" The place, however, seems to have been very discreditable, for it is commonly described as the resort of pickpockets and prostitutes. Enter CARLO BUFFONE, followed by a boy with wine. Car. Come, come, leave these fustian protestations; away, come, I cannot abide these gray-headed ceremonies. Boy, fetch me a glass quickly, I may bid these gentlemen welcome; give them a health here. [Exit Boy.] I mar'le whose wit it was to put a prologue in yond sackbut's mouth; they might well think he'd be out of tune, and yet you'd play upon him too. Cor. Hang him, dull block! Car. O, good words, good words; a well-timber'd fellow, he would have made a good column, an he had been thought on, when the house was a building Re-enter Boy, with glasses. O, art thou come? Well said; give me, boy; fill, so! Here's a cup of wine sparkles like a diamond. Gentlewomen (I am sworn to put them in first) and gentlemen, around, in place of a bad prologue, I drink this good draught to your health here, Canary, the very elixir and spirit of wine. [Drinks.] This is that our poet calls Castalian liquor, when he comes abroad now and then, once in a fortnight, and makes a good meal among players, where he has caninum appetitum ; marry, at home he keeps a good philosophical diet, beans and buttermilk; an honest pure rogue, he will take you off three, four, five of these, one after another, and look villainously when he has done, like a one-headed Cer This (Canary) is that our poet calls Castalian liquor, &c.] The poet, the critics say, here draws his own picture. Not so:-the picture is drawn by a licentious buffoon, against whom he takes all possible care to guard the reader. He describes him as "a scurrilous jester, that, more swiftly than Circe, will transform any person into deformity:" and in the speech which follows, he anxiously repeats his caution against giving any credit to his "adulterate" ribaldry. He could do no more; yet Aubrey and others perversely take it all for truth, and form their character of Jonson from what is expressly given as a malicious jest! berus.-He does not hear me, I hope-And then, when his belly is well ballaced, and his brain rigged a little, he sails away withal, as though he would work wonders when he comes home. He has made a play here, and he calls it, Every Man out of his Humour: but an he get me out of the humour he has put me in, I'll trust none of his tribe again while I live. Gentles, all I can say for him is, you are welcome. I could wish my bottle here amongst you; but there's an old rule, No pledging your own health. Marry, if any here be thirsty for it, their best way (that I know) is, sit still, seal up their lips, and drink so much of the play in at their ears. [Exit. Mit. What may this fellow be, Cordatus? Cor. Faith, if the time will suffer his description, I'll give it you. He is one, the author calls him Carlo Buffone, an impudent common jester, a violent railer, and an incomprehensible epicure; one whose company is desired of all men, but beloved of none; he will sooner lose his soul than a jest, and profane even the most holy things, to excite laughter: no honourable or reverend personage whatsoever can come within the reach of eye, but is turned into all manner of variety, by his adulterate similes. his Mit. You paint forth a monster. Cor. He will prefer all countries before his native, and thinks he can never sufficiently, or with admiration 7 Cor. Faith, if the time will suffer his description, I'll give it you. He is one, &c.] Jonson seems unwilling to part with Carlo Buffone: he had already described him with great strength of colouring, and he now delays the opening of the drama, already too long protracted, while he darkens his character with additional shades. Whalley says that he should almost incline to think, notwithstanding the poet's asseverations, that he had some particular person in view, especially as Decker, in his Satiromastix, makes Jonson forswear flinging epigrams about in taverns, under pain of being placed at the upper end of the table, at the left hand of Carlo Buffone." See A. v. 66 enough, deliver his affectionate conceit of foreign atheistical policies. But stay— Enter MACILENTE. Observe these: he'll appear himself anon. Mit. O, this is your envious man, Macilente, I think. Cor. The same, sir. ACT I. SCENE I. The Country. Enter MACILENTE, with a book. Macilente. IRI est, fortunæ cæcitatem facilè ferre. Doth that man breathe, that can so much command His blood and his affection? Well, Lsee I strive in vain to cure my wounded soul; For every cordial that my thoughts apply medicine |