No More Learning

In the year 1618, Jonson, then
in the full ripeness of his fame and character, walked to Scotland,
where he visited William Drummond of Hawthornden. In Drum-
mond's note-book, which survives, we have a remarkable record of
his conversation. Quotations from this will give a better idea of him
than can any paraphrase:-
Of His OWNE LYFE, EDUCATION, Birth, ACTIONS
His grandfather came from Carlisle, and, he thought, from Anandale to
it; he served King Henry 8, and was a gentleman. His Father losed all his
estate under Queen Marie, having been cast in prisson and forfaitted; at last
turn'd Minister: so he was a minister's son. He himself was posthumous
born, a moneth after his father's decease; brought up poorly, putt to school by
a friend (his master Cambden); after taken from it, and put to ane other
craft (I think was to be a wright or bricklayer), which he could not endure;
then went he to the Low Countries; but returning soone he betook himself to
his wonted studies. In his service in the Low Countries, he had, in the face
of both the campes, killed ane enemie and taken spolia opima from him; and
since his comming to England, being appealed to the fields, he had killed his
adversarie, which had hurt him in the arme, and whose sword was 10 inches
longer than his: for the which he was emprissoned, and almost at the gal-
lowes. Then took he his religion by trust, of a priest who visited him in
prisson. Thereafter he was 12 yeares a Papist.
He was Master of Arts in both the Universities, by their favour, not his
studie.
At that tyme the pest was in London; he being in the country
with old Cambden, he saw in a vision his eldest sone, then a child and at
London, appear unto him with the mark of a bloodie crosse on his forehead,
as if it had been cutted with a sword, at which amazed he prayed unto God,
and in the morning he came to Mr. Cambden's chamber to tell him; who
persuaded him it was but ane apprehension of his fantasie, at which he sould
not be disjected; in the mean tyme comes then letters from his wife of the
m


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83+2
BEN JONSON
death of that boy in the plague. He appeared to him (he said) of a manlie
shape, and of that grouth that he thinks he shall be at the resurrection.
He was dilated
. . to the King for writting something against the
Scots,
and voluntarly imprissoned himself with Chapman and Mar-
ston, who had written it amongst them. The report was, that they should
then had their ears cut and noses. After their delivery he banqueted all his
friends; . . at the midst of the feast his old Mother dranke to him,
and shew him a paper which she had (if the sentence had taken execution) to
have mixed in the prisson among his drinke, which was full of lustie strong
poison; and that she was no churle, she told: she minded first to have drunk
of it herself.
S. W. Raulighe sent him governour with his Son, anno 1613, to France.
This youth being knavishly inclined, among other pastimes
caused
him to be drunken, and dead drunk, so that he knew not wher he was; ther-
after laid him on a carr, which he made to be drawen by pioners through
the streets, at every corner showing his governour stretched out, and telling
them that was a more lively image of the Crucifix than any they had: at which
sport young Raughlie's mother delyghted much (saying, his father young was
so inclyned), though the Father abhorred it. .
After he was reconciled with the Church, and left of to be a recusant, at
his first communion, in token of true reconciliation, he drank out all the full
cup of wine.
He heth consumed a whole night in lying looking to his great toe, about
which he hath seen Tartars and Turks, Romans and Carthaginians, feight in
his imagination.
His CENSURE OF MY VERSES WAS: That they were all good, especiallie my
Epitaphe of the Prince, save that they smelled too much of the Schooles, and .
were not after the fancie of the tyme.
He dissuaded me from Poetrie, for that she had beggered him, when he
might have been a rich lawer, physitian, or marchant.
[He said] he was better versed, and knew more in Greek and Latin, than
all the Poets in England.
In his merry humor he was wont to name
himself The Poet.
He went from Lieth homeward the 25 of January, 1619, in a pair of shoes
which, he told, lasted him since he came from Darnton, which he minded to
take back that farr again.
If he died by the way, he promised to send me his papers of this Coun-
try, hewen as they were.
man.
Drummond of Hawthornden was a rather precise Scottish gentle-
When he made these memoranda, he was clearly stirred by
such emotions as declare themselves in any conservative and respect-
able man who has been startled at his own table by the outburst of
an unconventional Bohemian. His private opinion of his guest, there-
fore, was hardly favorable.
JANUARY 19, 1619. — He is a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner
and scorner of others; given rather to losse a friend than a jest; jealous
of every word and action of those about him (especiallie after drink, which is


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BEN JONSON
8343
one of the elements in which he liveth); a dissembler of ill parts which raigne
in him, a bragger of some good that he wanteth; thinketh nothing well but
what either he himself or some of his friends and countrymen hath said or
done; he is passionately kynde and angry; careless either to gaine or keep;
vindicative, but, if he be well answered, at himself.
For any religion, as being versed in both. Interpreteth best sayings and
deeds often to the worst. Oppressed with fantasie, which hath ever mastered
his reason, a generall disease in many Poets. His inventions are smooth and
easie; but above all he excelleth in a Translation.
With due allowance for the personal feeling which pervades these
memoranda, they give incomparably the most vivid portrait in exist-
ence of an Elizabethan man of letters. The man they deal with,
while not the greatest poet of his time, was distinctly the most con-
spicuous personal figure among those whose profession was literature.
An excellent scholar, according to the contemporary standard; a
playwright who never deigned to sacrifice his artistic conscience to
popular caprice; a lyric poet acceptable alike to the great folk who
patronized him, and to the literary followers who gathered about him
at his favorite taverns; laureate; chief writer of the masques which
were so characteristic a diversion of the court;— he went sturdily
through life with more renown than fortune. Born before the out-
burst of Elizabethan literature, he lived until the times of Charles I.
had begun to be troublous. He lies in the north aisle of Westmin-
ster Abbey, with the epitaph “O rare Ben Jonson” cut in the pave-
ment above his head.
In 1616, the year when Shakespeare died, Jonson published in
folio a collection of his plays and poems. To this he gave the char-
acteristic title of Works. There were current jokes, of course, about
(
the absurdity of so naming a volume of obvious plays; but the name
was well chosen. What Jonson achieved, he achieved by conscien-
tious labor. Drummond was right when he wrote, "Above all he
excelleth in a Translation. ” Jonson knew two things thoroughly: the
language and literature of classical Rome, and the language and life
of London under Elizabeth, James, and Charles. The former he pos-
sessed to a degree almost unique; the latter, of course, he shared to
the full with the human beings about him. As his two tragedies
show, as is shown by many passages in his comedies, and again
and again in his lyrics, the thing he could do supremely well was to
turn the lifelessness of the classics into terms of contemporary vitality.
In the best sense of the word, no better translator ever lived: he
never forgot that faithfulness to his original is only half the task of
the translator, who adds only to the dead weight of printed matter if
he fail to bear to living men, in living language, tidings that without
him were to them unmeaning.


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BEN JONSON
The very trait which made him a consummate translator, how-
ever, made him, in spite of his vigorous personality, a less effective
original writer than many of his less gifted contemporaries. Inevita-
bly, a man who becomes saturated with classical literature becomes
possessed of the chief ideal which pervades it, -- the ideal which
maintains that there is one definite way in which things ought to
be done, as distinguished from the innumerable other ways in which
they ought not to be done. The general trait of the Elizabethan
drama is untrammeled freedom of form. Jonson, as a dramatist, felt
conscientiously bound to keep in mind the laws of classical composi-
tion. In this respect, his work is more analogous to that which has
prevailed on the stage of France and of Italy than to that which has
characterized the stage of England. “Shakspeer,” he told Drum-
mond, “wanted art. ” No one ever admired Shakespeare more stur-
dily than did Ben Jonson. All the same, he could never forget that
Shakespeare broke every rule of dramatic art maintained by the
authorities of Greece and Rome. By the same token, Jonson's own
plays never achieved the full vitality of Elizabethan England.
This fact has been generally remarked. Another trait of his,
which greatly affected his dramatic writing, has hardly been recog-
nized. He told Drummond, we may remember, that he had seen his
dead child in a vision; and that he had lain awake watching strange
figures battling about his great toe. In modern terms, this means
that he was gifted with an exceptional visual imagination. The chief
imaginative trait of the Elizabethan drama is sympathetic insight:
whatever else the dramatists knew of their characters, they knew
how those characters must have felt; they were in full touch not with
their physical life, but with their emotional. In Jonson's case, all this
was reversed; one often doubts whether he were in deep emotional
sympathy with his characters, but one is sure that he knew precisely
how those characters looked and moved. When one has been read-
ing Shakespeare, or almost any of his other contemporaries, Jonson's
plays often seem obscure and puzzling: If in such case one turn for
an hour to Hogarth, the whole thing is explained. Jonson's imagina-
tion was primarily visual; though his vehicle was poetry, his concep-
tion was again and again that of painting. Ask yourself not what
Jonson's characters felt, but what they looked like, and they will
spring into life.
The analogy between Jonson and Hogarth, indeed, is very suggest-
ive. Not only were both gifted with singular fertility of visual
imagination, but both alike instinctively expressed themselves in such
exaggerated terms as in our time would be called caricature, and as
in Jonson's time were called humorous. Both seized upon some few
characteristic traits of the personages with whom they dealt, and so


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8345
emphasized these traits as to make them monstrous.
Both were
stirred by conscious moral purpose; both had crude but wholesome
sense of fun; both knew London to the core. In spite of the century
and more which separates them, they may well be studied together.
Whoever understands the one will understand the other.
For both alike were really artists. In the color and the texture
of Hogarth's paintings, one feels, for all their seeming ugliness of
purpose, a genuine sense of what is beautiful. In Jonson's verses,
from beginning to end, one feels, as surely as one feels the occasional
limitations of pedantry, that higher, purer spirit of classical culture,
which maintains that whatever a poet utters should be phrased as
beautifully as his power can phrase it. In some lyrics, and in certain
lines and passages of his plays, Jonson fairly excels. A scholar and
a Londoner, vigorous, sincere, untiring, he stands in our literature as
the great type of a sturdy British artist.
In the selections which follow, an attempt has been made to give
some slight evidence of his purposes and his achievement. The two
passages from his posthumous (Timber, or Discoveries) may suggest
at once his literary method and the temper in which he regarded his
chief contemporary. His well-known verses on Shakespeare repeat
in more studied form the latter views, and at the same time show
his mastery of English verse. The prologue to Every Man in His
Humour) states his dramatic creed. The passage from Sejanus'
shows his great, if superficial, mastery of Roman life and manners.
The passage from the (Silent Woman' shows at once his humorous »
manner, and his consummate power of translation; for the tirade
against women is taken straight from Juvenal. Finally, the neces-
sarily few fragments from his other plays, and selections from his
lyrics, may perhaps serve to indicate the manner of thing which his
conscientious art has added to permanent literature.
Burnett wendul
ON STYLE
From (Timber, or Discoveries Made upon Men and Matter)
E Stilo, ET OPTIMO SCRIBENDI GENERE. — For a man to write
well, there are required three necessaries, – to read the
best authors, observe the best speakers, and much exercise
of his own style. In style, to consider what ought to be written,
and after what manner, he must first think and excogitate his
matter, then choose his words, and examine the weight of either.


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BEN JONSON
Then take care, in placing and ranking both matter and words,
that the composition becomely; and to do this with diligence
and often. No matter how slow the style be at first, so it be
labored and accurate; seek the best, and be not glad of the
forward conceits or first words that offer themselves to us: but
judge of what we invent, and order what we approve. Repeat
often what we have formerly written; which beside that it helps
the consequence, and makes the juncture better, it quickens the
heat of imagination, that often cools in the time of setting down,
and gives it new strength, as if it grew lustier by the going
back. As we see in the contention of leaping, they jump farthest
that fetch their race largest; or as in throwing a dart or javelin,
we force back our arms to make our loose the stronger. Yet, if
we have a fair gale of wind, I forbid not the steering out of our
sail, so the favor of the gale deceive us not. For all that we
invent doth please us in the conception of birth, else we would
never set it down. But the safest is to return to our judgment,
and handle over again those things the easiness of which might
make them justly suspected. So did the best writers in their
beginnings: they imposed upon themselves care and industry;
they did nothing rashly; they obtained first to write well, and
then custom made it easy and a habit. By little and little their
matter showed itself to them more plentifully; their words an-
swered, their composition followed; and all, as in a well-ordered
family, presented itself in the place. So that the sum of all is,
ready writing makes not good writing, but good writing brings
on ready writing: Yet when we think we have got the faculty,
it is even then good to resist it, as to give a horse a check some-
times with a bit, which doth not so much stop his course as stir
his mettle. Again, whither a man's genius is best able to reach,
thither it should more and more contend, lift, and dilate itself;
as men of low stature raise themselves on their toes, and so oft-
times get even, if not eminent. Besides, as it is fit for grown
and able writers to stand of themselves, and work with their own
strength, to trust and endeavor by their own faculties; so it is
fit for the beginner and learner to study others and the best.
For the mind and memory are more sharply exercised in com-
prehending another man's things than our own; and such as
accustom themselves and are familiar with the best authors shall
ever and anon find somewhat of them in themselves: and in the
expression of their minds, even when they feel it not, be able to


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BEN JONSON
8347
utter something like theirs, which hath an authority above their
own. Nay, sometimes it is the reward of a man's study, the
praise of quoting another man fitly; and though a man be more
prone and able for one kind of writing than another, yet he
must exercise all. For as in an instrument, so in style, there
must be a harmony and consent of parts.
ON SHAKESPEARE
From "Timber, or Discoveries Made upon Men and Matter)
D'
»
E SHAKESPEARE NOSTRAT[1]. — I remember the players have
often mentioned it as an honor to Shakespeare, that in his
writing, whatsoever he penned, he never blotted out a line.
My answer hath been, “Would he had blotted a thousand;
which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told pos-
terity this, but for their ignorance who chose that circumstance
to commend their friend by wherein he most faulted; and to
justify mine own candor, for I loved the man, and do honor his
memory on this side idolatry as much as any. He was indeed
honest, and of an open and free nature; had an excellent fancy,
brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with
that facility that sometime it was necessary he should be stopped.
“Sufflaminandus erat,” as Augustus said of Haterius. His wit
was in his own power: would the rule of it had been so too.
But he redeemed his vices with his virtues. There was ever
more in him to be praised than to be pardoned.
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE
Tº
NO DRAW no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise:
For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;


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BEN JONSON
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise.
These are, as some infamous bawd or whore
Should praise a matron: what could hurt her more?
But thou art proof against them, and indeed
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin: Soul of the age !
The applause! delight! the wonder of our stage!
My SHAKESPEARE rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb;
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,
I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses;
For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.
And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honor thee, I will not seek
For names: but call forth thundering Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordoua dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the Muses still were in their prime
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!
Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,
As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of nature's family.


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Yet must I not give nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and that he
Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,
(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat
Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same,
And himself with it, that he thinks to fame:
Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn;
For a good poet's made as well as born.
And such wert thou! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue: even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well turned and true filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza, and our James!
But stay: I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there!
Shine forth, thou Star of poets, and with rage
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage;
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like
night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.
FROM (SEJANUS)
Scene :
The Garden of Eudemus in Rome. Enter Sejanus, Livia, and
Eudemus.
EJANUS
Physician, thou art worthy of a province
For the great favors done unto our loves;
And but that greatest Livia bears a part
In the requital of thy services,
I should alone despair of aught like means
To give them worthy satisfaction.
Eudemus, I will see it, shall receive
A fit and full reward for his large merit.
But for this potion we intend to Drusus, –
No more our husband now,- whom shall we choose
Livia -


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BEN JONSON
As the most apt and abled instrument
To minister it to him ?
Eudemus-
I say, Lydgus.
Sejanus — Lydgus? what's he?
Livia –
An eunuch Drusus loves.
Eudemus - Ay, and his cup-bearer. .
Sejanus — Send him to me; I'll work him. - Royal lady,
Though I have loved you long, and with that height
Of zeal and duty, like the fire, which more
It mounts it trembles, thinking naught could add
Unto the fervor which your eye had kindled, -
Yet now I see your wisdom, judgment, strength,
Quickness and will to apprehend the means
To your own good and greatness, I protest
Myself through rarefied and turned all flame
In your affection: such a spirit as yours
Was not created for the idle second
To a poor flash, as Drusus; but to shine
Bright as the moon among the lesser lights,
And share the sovereignty of all the world.
Then Livia triumphs in her proper sphere,
When she and her Sejanus shall divide
The name of Cæsar, and Augusta's star
Be dimmed with glory of a brighter beam;
When Agrippina's fires are quite extinct,
And the scarce-seen Tiberius borrows all
His little light from us, whose folded arms
Shall make one perfect orb.
[Knocking within. ]
Who's that? Eudemus,
Look. 'Tis not Drusus, lady; do not fear.
[Exit Eudemus. ]
Livia Not I, my lord: my fear and love of him
Left me at once.
Sejanus
Illustrious lady, stay —
Eudemus within-
I'll tell his Lordship.
Re-enter Eudemus
Sejanus —
Who is it, Eudemus ?
Eudemus — One of your Lordship's servants brings you word
The Emperor hath sent for you.


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Sejanus -
Oh, where is he?
With your fair leave, dear princess, I'll but ask
A question, and return.
(Exit.
Eudemus
Fortunate princess!
How are you blest in the fruition
Of this unequaled man, the soul of Rome,
The Empire's life, and voice of Cæsar's world!
Livia - So blessèd, my Eudemus, as to know
The bliss I have, with what I ought to owe
The means that wrought it. How do I look to-day?
Eudemus -- Excellent clear, believe it. This same fucus
Was well laid on.
Livia
Methinks 'tis here not white.
Eudemus Lend me your scarlet, lady. 'Tis the sun
Hath given some little taint unto the ceruse;
You should have used of the white oil I gave you.
Sejanus, for your love! his very name
Commandeth above Cupid or his shafts —
Livia —
Eudemus
Livia -
Eudemus
Livia -
Eudemus
[Paints her cheek. ]
Nay, now you've made it worse.
I'll help it straight-
And but pronounced, is a sufficient charm
Against all rumor; and of absolute power
To satisfy for any lady's honor.
What do you now, Eudemus?
Make a light fucus,
To touch you o'er withal. Honored Sejanus !
What act, though ne'er so strange and insolent,
But that addition will at least bear out,
If't do not expiate?
Here, good physician.
- I like this study to preserve the love
Of such a man, that comes not every hour
To greet the world. —'Tis now well, lady, you should
Use of this dentifrice I prescribed you too,
To clear your teeth; and the prepared pomatum,
To smooth the skin. A lady cannot be
Too curious of her form, that still would hold
The heart of such a person, made her captive,
As you have his; who, to endear him more
In your clear eye, hath put away his wife,
The trouble of his bed, and your delights,
Fair Apicata, and made spacious room
To your new pleasures.


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BEN JONSON
Liria
Eudemus
Have not we returned
That with our hate to Drusus, and discovery
Of all his counsels ?
Yes, and wisely, lady.
The ages that succeed, and stand far off
To gaze at your high prudence, shall admire,
And reckon it an act without your sex:
It hath that rare appearance.
Some will think
Your fortune could not yield a deeper sound
Than mixed with Drusus; but when they shall hear
That and the thunder of Sejanus meet, -
Sejanus, whose high name doth strike the stars,
And rings about the concave; great Sejanus,
Whose glories, style, and titles are himself,
The often iterating of Sejanus,-
They then will lose their thoughts, and be ashamed
To take acquaintance of them.
Re-enter Sejanus
Sejanus -
I must take
A rude departure, lady: Cæsar sends
With all his haste both of command and prayer.
Be resolute in our plot: you have my soul,
As certain yours as it is my body's.
And, wise physician, so prepare the poison,
As you may lay the subtle operation
Upon some natural disease of his;
Your eunuch send to me. I kiss your hands,
Glory of ladies, and commend my love
To your best faith and memory.
Livia
My lord,
I shall but change your words. Farewell. Yet this
Remember for your heed: he loves you not;
You know what I have told you; his designs
Are full of grudge and danger; we must use
More than a common speed.
Sejanus —
Excellent lady,
How you do fire my blood !
Livia
Well, you must go?
The thoughts be best, are least set forth to show.
[Exit Sejanus.
Eudemus. - When will you take some physic, lady?
Livia -
When
I shall, Eudemus: but let Drusus's drug
Be first prepared.


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SOLILOQUY OF SEJANUS
D
ULL, heavy Cæsar!
Wouldst thou tell me thy favors were made crimes,
And that my fortunes were esteemed thy faults,
That thou for me wert hated, and not think
I would with winged haste prevent that change
When thou mightest win all to thyself again
By forfeiture of me? Did those fond words
Fly swifter from thy lips, than this my brain,
This sparkling forge, created me an armor
T'encounter chance and thee? Well, read my charms,
And may they lay that hold upon thy senses,
As thou hadst snuffed up hemlock, or ta'en down
The juice of poppy and of mandrakes. Sleep,
Voluptuous Cæsar, and security
Seize on thy stupid powers, and leave them dead
To public cares.
FROM THE SILENT WOMAN)
Enter Morose, with a tube in his
Scene: A Room in Morose's House.
hand, followed by Mute.
-
M
Let me
OROSE — Cannot I yet find out a more compendious method
than by this trunk, to save my servants the labor of
speech, and mine ears the discords of sounds ?
see: all discourses but my own afflict me; they seem harsh,
impertinent, and irksome. Is it not possible that thou shouldst
answer me by signs, and I apprehend thee, fellow? Speak not,
though I question you. You have taken the ring off from the
street door, as I bade you? Answer me not by speech, but by
silence; unless it be otherwise. [Mute makes a leg. ] Very good.
And you have fastened on a thick quilt or flock bed on the out-
side of the door: that if they knock with their daggers or with
brickbats, they can make no noise ? - But with your leg, your
answer, unless it be otherwise. [Mute makes a leg. ] Very good.
This is not only fit modesty in a servant, but good state and
discretion in a master. And you have been with Cutbeard the
barber, to have him come to me? [Mute makes a leg:] Good.
.
And he will come presently? Answer me not but with your
leg, unless it be otherwise: if it be otherwise, shake your head
XIV-523


## p. 8354 (#566) ###########################################

8354
BEN JONSON
or shrug. [Mute makes a leg: ] So! Your Italian and Spaniard
are wise in these: and it is a frugal and comely gravity. How
long will it be ere Cutbeard come ? Stay: if an hour, hold up
your whole hand; if half an hour, two fingers; if a quarter, one.
[Mute holds up a finger bent. ]
finger bent. ] Good: half a quarter ? 'Tis well.
And have you given him a key, to come in without knocking?
[Mute makes a leg:) Good. And is the lock oiled, and the
hinges, to-day? [1/ute makes a leg. ] Good.
[Mute makes a leg. ] Good. And the quilting
of the stairs nowhere worn out and bare ? [Mute makes a leg:]
Very good. I see, by much doctrine and impulsion it may be
effected; stand by. The Turk, in this divine discipline, is admir-
able, exceeding all the potentates of the earth: still waited on
by mutes; and all his commands so executed; yea, even in the
war, as I have heard, and in his marches, most of his charges
and directions given by signs, and with silence: an exquisite art!
and I am heartily ashamed, and angry oftentimes, that the princes
of Christendom should suffer a barbarian to transcend them in
so high a point of felicity. I will practice it hereafter. [A horn
winded within. ] How now ? oh! oh! what villain, what prodigy
of mankind is that? Look — [Exit Mute. Horn again. ) Oh!
cut his throat, cut his throat! what murderer, hell-hound, devil
can this be ?
Re-enter Mute
Mute — It is a post from the court -
Morose — Out, rogue! and must thou blow thy horn too?
Mute — Alas, it is a post from the court, sir, that says he
must speak with you, pain of death -
Morose~ Pain of thy life, be silent!
Enter Truewit with a post-horn, and a halter in his hand
Truewit — By your leave, sir, - I am
am a stranger here,- is
your name Master Morose ?
is your name Master Morose ?
Fishes! Pythagoreans all! This is strange. What say you, sir ?
Nothing ? Has Hypocrates been here with his club, among you?
Well, sir, I will believe you to be the man at this time; I will
venture upon you, sir. Your friends at court commend them to
you, sir
Morose - Oh men! Oh manners! was there ever such an
impudence ?
Truewit - And are extremely solicitous for you, sir.


## p. 8355 (#567) ###########################################

BEN JONSON
8355
.
Morose - Whose knave are you?
Truewit - Mine own knave, and your compeer, sir.
Morose Fetch me my sword —
Truewit - You shall taste the one-half of my dagger if you
do, groom; and you the other if you stir, sir. Be patient, I
charge you, in the King's name, and hear me without insurrec-
tion. They say you are to marry; to marry! do you mark, sir?
Morose – How then, rude companion ?
Truewit - Marry, your friends do wonder, sir, the Thames
being so near, wherein you may drown so handsomely; or Lon-
don bridge at a low fall, with a fine leap, to hurry you down the
stream; or such a delicate steeple in the town as Bow, to vault
from; or a braver height, as Paul's; or if you affected to do it
nearer home, and a shorter way, an excellent garret window into
the street; or a beam in the said garret, with this halter [shows
him the halter] which they have sent,- and desire that you would
sooner commit your grave head to this knot than to the wedlock
noose; or take a little sublimate, and go out of the world like a
rat; or a fly, as one said, with a straw in your body: any way,
rather than follow this goblin Matrimony.
Morose — Good sir, have I ever cozened any friends of yours
of their lands? bought their possessions ? taken forfeit of their
mortgage ? begged a reversion from them?
What have
I done that may deserve this?
Truewit - Alas, sir, I am but a messenger: I but tell you
what you must hear. It seems your friends are careful after your
soul's health, sir, and would have you know the danger. (But
you may do your pleasure for all them; I persuade not, sir. ) If,
after you are married, your wife do run away with a vaulter, or
the Frenchman that walks upon ropes, or him that dances a jig,
why, it is not their fault; they have discharged their con-
sciences, when you know what may happen. Nay, suffer valiantly,
sir, for I must tell you all the perils that you are obnoxious to.
If she be fair, young, and vegetous, no sweetmeats ever drew
more flies; all the yellow doublets and great roses in the town
will be there. If foul and crooked, she'll be with them.
If rich, and that you marry her dowry, not her, she'll reign in
your house as imperious as a widow. If noble, all her kindred will
be your tyrants.
If learned, there was never such a
parrot; all your patrimony will be too little for the guests that
must be invited to hear her speak Latin and Greek.
If


## p. 8356 (#568) ###########################################

8356
BEN JONSON
9
precise, you must feast all the silenced brethren once in three
days; salute the sisters; entertain the whole family or wood of
them; and hear long-winded exercises, singings, and catechizings,
which you are not given to, and yet must give for, to please the
zealous matron your wife, who for the holy cause will cozen you
over and above. You begin to sweat, sir! but this is not half,
i' faith; you may do your pleasure, notwithstanding, as I said
before: I come not to persuade you. —[Mute is stealing away. ]
Upon my faith, master serving-man, if you do stir, I will beat
you.
Morose – Oh, what is my sin! what is my sin!
Truewit — Then, if you love your wife, or rather dote on her,
sir, -oh, how she'll torture you, and take pleasure in your tor-
ments!
That friend must not visit you without her
license; and him she loves most, she will seem to hate eagerliest,
to decline your jealousy;
she must have that rich gown
for such a great day; a new one for the next; a richer for the
third; be served in silver; have the chamber filled with a succes-
sion of grooms, footmen, ushers, and other messengers; besides
embroiderers, jewelers, tire-women, sempsters, feathermen, per-
fumers; whilst she feels not how the land drops away, nor the
acres melt; nor foresees the change, when the mercer has your
woods for her velvets: never weighs what her pride costs, sir,
so she may
be a stateswoman, know all the news, what
was done at Salisbury, what at the Bath, what at court, what
in progress; or so she may censure poets, and authors, and styles,
and compare them, - Daniel with Spenser, Jonson with the t'other
youth, and so forth; or be thought cunning in controversies or
the very knots of divinity; and have often in her mouth the
state of the question; and then skip to the mathematics and
demonstration: and answer in religion to one, in state to another,
in folly to a third.
Morose -Oh, oh!
Truewit — All this is very true, sir. And then her going in
disguise to that conjurer and this cunning woman: where the
first question is, How soon you shall die?
dence she shall have by her next match ? And sets down the
answers, and believes them above the Scriptures. Nay, perhaps
she'll study the art.
Morose -- Gentle sir, have you done ? have you had your pleas-
ure of me? I'll think of these things.
.
What prece-


## p. 8357 (#569) ###########################################

BEN JONSON
8357
Truewit — Yes, sir; and then comes reeking home of vapor
and sweat, with going afoot, and lies in a month of a new face,
all oil and birdlime; and rises in asses' milk, and is cleansed
with a new fucus: God be wi' you, sir. One thing more, which
I had almost forgot:
I'll be bold to leave this rope with
you, sir, for a remembrance. — Farewell, Mute!
[Exit.
Morose — Come, have me to my chamber; but first shut the
door. [Truewit winds the horn without. ] Oh, shut the door,
shut the door! Is he come again?
PROLOGUE FROM (EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR)
T
HOUGH need make many poets, and some such
As art and nature have not bettered much;
Yet ours, for want, hath not so loved the stage
As he dare serve the ill customs of the age,
Or purchase your delight at such a rate
As, for it, he himself must justly hate.
To make a child, now swaddled, to proceed
Man, and then shoot up in one beard and weed
Past threescore years; or with three rusty swords,
And help of some few foot-and-half-foot words,
Fight over York and Lancaster's long jars,
And in the tyring-house bring wounds to scars.
He rather prays, you will be pleased to see
One such to-day, as other plays should be:
Where neither chorus wafts you o'er the seas;
Nor creaking throne comes down, the boys to please;
Nor nimble squib is seen, to make afeard
The gentlewomen; nor rolled bullet heard
To say, it thunders; nor tempestuous drum
Rumbles, to tell you when the storm doth come:
But deeds and language such as men do use;
And persons such as comedy would choose,
When she would show an image of the times,
And sport with human follies, not with crimes.


## p. 8358 (#570) ###########################################

8358
BEN JONSON
SONG TO CELIA
D
RINK to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change from thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me:
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.
SONG – THAT WOMEN ARE BUT MEN’S SHADOWS
F
OLLOW a shadow, it still Alies you,
Seem to fly it, it will pursue:
So court a mistress, she denies you;
Let her alone, she will court you.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
At morn and even shades are longest;
At noon they are or short or none:
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
But grant us perfect, they're not known.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men ?
SONG FROM (VOLPONE)
CO
OME, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours forever,
He at length our good will sever:
Spend not then his gifts in vain;
Suns that set may rise again;


## p. 8359 (#571) ###########################################

BEN JONSON
8359
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night. .
'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;
But the sweet thefts to reveal,-
To be taken, to be seen,-
These have crimes accounted been.
AN EPITAPH ON SALATHIEL PAVY
WP
EEP with me, all you that read
This little story;
And know, for whom a tear you shed
Death's self is sorry.
'Twas a child that so did thrive
In grace and feature,
As heaven and nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.
Years he numbered scarce thirteen
When fates turned cruel,
Yet three filled zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel;
And did act, what now we moan,
Old men so duly,
As sooth the Parcæ thought him one,
He played so truly.
So, by error, to his fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since, alas, too late!
They have repented;
And have sought, to give new birth,
In baths to steep him:
But being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him
ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER
H
ERE lies, to each her parents ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth;
Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due,
It makes the father less to rue.
At six months' end she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;


## p. 8360 (#572) ###########################################

8360
BEN JONSON
Whose soul heaven's Queen, whose name she bears,
In comfort of her mother's tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin train:
Where while that, severed, doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshy birth;
Which cover lightly, gentle earth!
FROM (CYNTHIA'S REVELS)
Enter Hesperus, Cynthia, Arete, Timè, Phronesis, and Thauma.
Music accompanied. Hesperus sings
Q
UEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
THE NOBLE NATURE
I"
T is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be;
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night:
It was the plant and flower of Light.
In small proportions we just beauties see;
And in short measures life may perfect be.


## p. 8361 (#573) ###########################################

8361
JOSEPHUS
(37–100 A. D. )
BY EDWIN KNOX MITCHELL
OSEPHUS the Jewish historian was born at Jerusalem of Jew-
ish parentage in 37 A. D. He belonged to a distinguished
priestly family, and was himself early put in training for
the priesthood. At the age of fourteen his knowledge of the law
was so minute and profound as to attract the attention of the high
priests and chief rabbis of the city. But dissatisfied with such attain-
ments, he began at the age of sixteen a pilgrimage of the various
schools of the Pharisees, Sadducees, and Essenes. Failing to quench
his thirst for knowledge, he withdrew into the wilderness and sought
the guidance of the hermit Banus, with whom he lived for three
years. Returning thereupon to Jerusalem, he openly espoused the
cause of the Pharisees and rose rapidly in their favor. In 63 A. D. ,
being then twenty-six years of age, he went to Rome to secure the
release of certain priests, who were near relatives of his and who
had been imprisoned upon some trifling charges. The Jewish actor
Alityrus introduced him to the Empress Poppæa, who obtained the
release of the prisoners and loaded Josephus with rich presents for
the journey home.
Soon after his return, in 66 A. D. , the Jewish revolt against the
Roman rule began; and after the first decisive battle, Josephus joined
the revolutionary party and became one of its leaders.
He was
intrusted with the chief command in Galilee, where the conflict had
originated, and he set himself at once to fortify certain towns and
to organize and discipline his army. He has left us in his "Wars of
the Jews' a minute account of his leadership, down to the time of his
capture a year later upon the fall of the fortress of Jotapata.