What an
example I set you, Susanna!
example I set you, Susanna!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v03 - Bag to Ber
Basilio brought it
to me. [He draws the commission from his pocket and hands it
to her. ]
Countess - Already! They haven't lost any time. [She opens
it. ] Oh, in their hurry they've forgotten to add the seal to it.
Susanna [returning with the oiled silk] — Seal what ?
Countess - His commission in the regiment.
Susanna – Already?
Countess - That's what I said.
Susanna - And the bandage ?
Countess -Oh, when you are getting my things, take a ribbon
from one of your caps. (Susanna goes out again. ]
Countess — This ribbon is of my favorite color. I must tell
you I was greatly displeased at your taking it.
Cherubino - That one would heal me quickest.
Countess - And- why so?
Cherubino - When a ribbon — has pressed the head, and —
touched the skin of one-
Countess [hastily]— Very strange — then it can cure wounds ?
I never heard that before. I shall certainly try it on the first
wound of any of - my maids-
Cherubino [sadly] – I must go away from here!
Countess – But not for always ? [Cherubino begins to weep. ]
And now you are crying! At that prediction of Figaro ?
Cherubino - I'm just where he said I'd be. [Some one knocks
on the door]
## p. 1669 (#467) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1669
Hide your
Countess - Who can be knocking like that?
The Count (outside] - Open the door!
Countess — Heavens! It's my husband. Where can you hide?
The Count (outside] - Open the door, I say.
Countess — There's no one here, you see.
The Count - But who are you talking to then ?
Countess — To you, I suppose. [To Cherubino. ]
self, quick — in the dressing-room!
Cherubino — Ah, after this morning, he'd kill me if he found
me here.
[He runs into the dressing-room on the right, which is also Susanna's
room ; the Countess, after locking him in and taking the key, admits the
Count. ]
Count – You don't usually lock yourself in, Madame.
Countess —1—1—was gossiping with Susanna.
[Pointing to her maid's room. ]
Count — And you seem very much agitated, Madame.
Countess - Not at all, I assure you! We were talking about
you. She's just gone-as I told you.
Count -I must say, Madame, you and I seem to be sur-
rounded by spiteful people. Just as I'm starting for a ride, I'm
handed a note which informs me that a certain person whom
I suppose far enough away is to visit you this evening.
Countess — The bold fellow, whoever he is, will have to come
here, then; for I don't intend to leave my room to-day.
She's gone.
(Something falls heavily in the dressing-room where Cherubino is. ]
Count – Ah, Madame, something dropped just then!
Countess — I didn't hear anything.
Count – You must be very absent-minded, then. Somebody
is in that room!
Countess — Who do you think could be there?
Count - Madame, that is what I'm asking you. I have just
come in.
Countess — Probably it's Susanna wandering about.
Count [pointing]— But you just told me that she went that
way.
Countess This way or that I don't know which.
Count — Very well, Madame, I must see her. — Come here,
Susanna.
## p. 1670 (#468) ###########################################
1670
BEAUMARCHAIS
Countess — She cannot. Pray wait! She's but half dressed.
She's trying on things that I've given her for her wedding
Count — Dressed or not, I wish to see her at once.
Countess—I can't prevent your doing so anywhere else, but
here
Count – You may say what you choose — I will see her.
Countess - I thoroughly believe you'd like to see her in that
state! but
Count - Very well, Madame. If Susanna can't come out, at
least she can talk, [Turning toward the dressing-room. ] Su-
sanna, are you there? Answer, I command you.
Countess (peremptorily] - Don't answer, Susanna! I forbid
you! Sir, how can you be such a petty tyrant? Fine suspicions,
indeed!
[Susanna slips by and hides behind the Countess's bed without being noticed
either by her or by the Count. |
Count - They are all the easier to dispel. I can see that it
would be useless to ask you for the key, but it's easy enough
to break in the door. Here, somebody!
Countess - Will you really make yourself the laughing-stock of
the chateau for such a silly suspicion ?
Count - You are quite right. I shall simply force the door
myself. I am going for tools.
Countess - Sir, if your conduct were prompted by love, I'd
forgive your jealousy for the sake of the motive.
But its cause
is only your vanity.
Count – Love or vanity, Madame, I mean to know who is in
that room! And to guard against any tricks, I am going to lock
the door to your maid's room. You, Madame, will kindly come
with me, and without any noise, if you please. [He leads her
away. ] As for the Susanna in the dressing-room, she will please
wait a few minutes.
Countess [ going out with him) - Sir, I assure you —
Susanna [coming out from behind the bed and running to the
dressing-room] - Cherubino! Open quick! It's Susanna. [Cheru-
bino hurries out of the dressing-room. ] Escape - you haven't a
minute to lose !
Cherubino — Where can I go?
## p. 1671 (#469) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1671
.
.
Susanna — I don't know, I don't know at all! but do go some-
where!
Cherubino [running to the window, then coming back] – The
window isn't so very high.
Susanna [ frightened and holding him back] — He'll kill himself!
Cherubino - Ah, Susie, I'd rather jump into a gulf than put the
Countess in danger. [He snatches a kiss, then runs to the win-
dow, hesitates, and finally jumps down into the garden. ]
Susanna — Ah! [She falls fainting into an arm-chair. Recov-
ering slowly, she rises, and seeing Cherubino running through the
garden she comes forward panting] He's far away already! .
Little scamp! as nimble as he is handsome! [She next runs to
the dressing-room. ] Now, Count Almaviva, knock as hard as you
like, break down the door. Plague take me if I answer you.
[Goes into the dressing-room and shuts the door. ]
[Count and Countess return. ]
Count – Now, Madame, consider well before you drive me to
extremes.
Countess -I-I beg of you -!
Count [preparing to burst open the door] - You can't cajole
me now.
Countess [throwing herself on her knees] - Then I will open
it! Here is the key.
Count So it is not Susanna ?
Countess — No, but it's no one who should offend you.
Count - If it's a man I kill him! Unworthy wife! You
wish to stay shut up in your room you shall stay in it long
enough, I promise you. Now I understand the note
my sus-
picions are justified !
Countess Will you listen to me one minute ?
Count Who is in that room ?
Countess - Your page.
Count Cherubino! The little scoundrel! — just let me catch
him! I don't wonder you were so agitated.
Countess 1-I assure you we were only planning an inno-
cent joke.
[The Count snatches the key, and goes to the dressing-room door; the
Countess throws herself at his feet. ]
Countess - Have mercy, Count! Spare this poor child; and
although the disorder in which you will find him –
## p. 1672 (#470) ###########################################
1672
BEAUMARCHAIS
Count — What, Madame? What do you mean? What disorder ?
Countess — He was just changing his coat - his neck and arms
are bare
[The Countess throws herself into a chair and turns away her head. ]
Count [running to the dressing-room] - Come out here, you
young villain!
Count [sccing Susanna come out of the dressing-room] - Eh!
Why, it is Susanna! [Aside. ) What, a lesson!
Susanna (mocking him]—“I will kill him! I will kill him! »
Well, then, why don't you kill this mischievous page ?
Count [to the Countess, who at the sight of Susanna shows the
greatest surprise] – So you also play astonishment, Madame ?
Countess - Why shouldn't I?
Count - But perhaps she wasn't alone in there. I'll find out.
[He goes into the dressing-room. ]
Countess - Susanna, I'm nearly dead.
Count [aside, as he returns] – No one there! So this time I
really am wrong. [To the Countess, coldly. ) You excel at com-
edy, Madame.
Susanna And what about me, sir ?
Count — And so do you.
Countess - Aren't you glad you found her instead of Cheru-
bino ? [Meaningly. ) You are generally pleased to come across her.
Susanna - Madame ought to have let you break in the doors,
call the servants
Count -- Yes, it's quite true -- I'm at fault -- I'm humiliated
enough! But why didn't you answer, you cruel girl, when I
called you?
Susanna I was dressing as well as I could — with the aid of
pins, and Madame knew why she forbade me to answer. She
had her lessons.
Count — Why don't you help me get pardon, instead of mak-
ing me out as bad as you can ?
Countess -- Did I marry you to be eternally subjected to jeal-
ousy and neglect? I mean to join the Ursulines, and -
Count - But, Rosina!
Countess — I am no longer the Rosina whom you loved so
well. I am only poor Countess Almaviva, deserted wife of a
madly jealous husband.
## p. 1673 (#471) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1673
Count – I assure you, Rosina, this man, this letter, had
excited me so
Countess I never gave my consent.
Count — What, you knew about it?
Countess - This rattlepate Figaro, without my sanction-
Count — He did it, eh! and Basilio pretended that a peasant
brought it. Crafty wag, ready to impose on everybody!
Countess -- You beg pardon, but you never grant pardon. If
I grant it, it shall only be on condition of a general amnesty.
Count - Well, then, so be it.
I agree.
But I don't under-
stand how your sex can adapt itself to circumstances so quickly
and so nicely. You were certainly much agitated; and for that
matter, you are yet.
Countess — Men aren't sharp enough to distinguish between
honest indignation at unjust suspicion, and the confusion of guilt.
Count - We men think we know something of politics, but
we are only children. Madame, the King ought to name you
his ambassador to London. — And now pray forget this unfor-
tunate business, so humiliating for me.
Countess - For us both.
Count -- Won't you tell me again that you forgive me?
Countess — Have I said that, Susanna?
Count Ah, say it now.
Countess - Do you deserve it, culprit ?
Count — Yes, honestly, for my repentance.
Countess [giving him her hand]-How weak I am!
What an
example I set you, Susanna! He'll never believe in a woman's
anger.
Susanna -- You are prisoner on parole; and you shall see we
are honorable.
## p. 1674 (#472) ###########################################
1674
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
(1584-1616)
(1579-1625)
HE
(
names of Beaumont and Fletcher,” says Lowell, in his
lectures on Old English Dramatists,' are as inseparably
linked together as those of Castor and Pollux. They are
the double star of our poetical firmament, and their beams are so
indissolubly mingled that it is vain to attempt any division of them
that shall assign to each his rightful share. ” Theirs was not that
dramatic collaboration all too common among the lesser Elizabethan
dramatists, at a time when managers, eager to satisfy a restless
public incessantly clamoring for novelty,
parceled out single acts or even scenes of
a play among two or three playwrights, to
put together a more or less congruous piece
of work. Beaumont and Fletcher joined
partnership, not from any outward neces-
sity, but inspired by a common love of
their art and true congeniality of mind.
Unlike many of their brother dramatists,
whom the necessities of a lowly origin
drove to seek a livelihood in writing for
the theatres, Beaumont and Fletcher were
Francis BEAUMONT
of gentle birth, and sprung from families
eminent at the bar and in the Church.
Beaumont was born at Grace-Dieu in Leicestershire, 1584, the son of
a chief justice. His name is first mentioned as a gentleman com-
moner at Broadgate Hall, now Pembroke College, Oxford. At sixteen
he was entered a member of the Inner Temple, but the dry facts of
the law did not appeal to his romantic imagination. Nowhere in his
work does he draw upon his barrister's experience to the extent that
makes the plays of Middleton, who also knew the Inner Temple at
first hand, a storehouse of information in things legal. His feet soon
strayed, therefore, into the more congenial fields of dramatic inven-
tion.
Fletcher was born in Rye, Sussex, the son of a minister who
later became Bishop of London. Giles Fletcher the Younger, and
Phineas Fletcher, both well-known poets in their day, were his cous-
ins. His early life is as little known as that of Beaumont, and indeed
as the lives of most of the other Elizabethan dramatists.
He was a
pensioner at Benet College, now Corpus Christi, Cambridge, in 1591,
## p. 1675 (#473) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1675
and in 1593 he was “Bible-clerk” there. Then we hear nothing
of him until (The Woman Hater) was brought out in 1607. The
play has been ascribed to Beaumont alone, to Fletcher alone, and
to the two jointly. Whoever may be the author, it is the firstling
of his dramatic muse, and worth merely a passing mention. How
or when their literary friendship began is not known; but since both
were friends of Jonson, both prefixing commendatory verses to the
great realist's play of “The Fox,' it is fair to assume that through
him they were brought together, and that both belonged to that
brilliant circle of wits, poets, and dramatists who made famous the
gatherings at the Mermaid Inn.
They lived in the closest intimacy on the Bankside, near the
Globe Theatre in Southwark, sharing everything in common, even the
bed, and some say their clothing, - which is likely enough, as it can
be paralleled without going back three centuries. It is certain that
the more affluent circumstances of Beaumont tided his less fortunate
friend over many a difficulty; and the astonishing dramatic pro-
ductivity of Fletcher's later period was probably due to Beaumont's
untimely death, making it necessary for Fletcher to rely on his pen
for support.
In 1613 Beaumont's marriage to a Kentish heiress put an end to
the communistic bachelor establishment. He died March 6th, 1616,
not quite six weeks before Shakespeare, and was buried in Westmin-
ster Abbey. Fletcher survived him nine years, dying of the plague
in 1625. He was buried, not by the side of the poet with whose
name his own is forever linked, but at St. Saviour's, Southwark.
«A student of physiognomy,” says Swinburne, «will not fail to mark the
points of likeness and of difference between the faces of the two friends; both
models of noble manhood.
Beaumont the statelier and serener of the
two, with clear, thoughtful eyes, full arched brows, and strong aquiline nose,
with a little cleft at the tip; a grave and beautiful mouth, with full and finely
curved lips; the form of face a very pure oval, and the imperial head, with
its (fair large front) and clustering hair, set firm and carried high with an
aspect of quiet command and knightly observation. Fletcher with more keen
and fervid face, sharper in outline every way, with an air of bright ardor and
glad, fiery impatience; sanguine and nervous, suiting the complexion and color
of hair; the expression of the eager eyes and lips almost rivaling that of a
noble hound in act to break the leash it strains at;- two heads as lordly of
feature and as expressive of aspect as any gallery of great men can show. ”
It may not be altogether fanciful to transfer this description of
their physical bearing to their mental equipment, and draw some
conclusions as to their several endowments and their respective share
in the work that goes under their common name. Of course it is
impossible to draw hard and fast lines of demarkation, and assign to
## p. 1676 (#474) ###########################################
1676
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1
each poet his own words. They, above all others, would probably
have resented so dogmatic a procedure, and affirmed the dramas to
be their joint offspring, - even as a child partakes of the nature of
both its parents.
Their plays are organic structures, with well worked-out plots and
for the most part well-sustained characters. They present a com-
plete fusion of the different elements contributed by each author;
never showing that agglomeration of incongruous matter so often
found among the work of the lesser playwrights, where each hand
can be singled out and held responsible for its share. Elaborate
attempts, based on verse tests, have been made to disentangle the
two threads of their poetic fabric. These attempts show much
patient analysis, and are interesting as evidences of ingenuity; but
they appeal more to the scholar than to the lover of poetry. Yet
a sympathetic reading and a comparison of the plays professedly
written by Fletcher alone, after Beaumont's death, with those jointly
produced by them in the early part of Fletcher's career, shows the
different qualities of mind that went to the making of the work, and
the individual characteristics of the men that wrote it. Here Swin-
burne's eloquence gives concreteness to the picture.
In the joint plays there is a surer touch, a deeper, more pathetic
note, a greater intensity of emotion; there is more tragic pathos and
passion, more strong genuine humor, nobler sentiments.
dominance of these graver, sweeter qualities may well be attributed
to Beaumont's influence. Although a disciple of Jonson in comedy,
he was a close follower of Shakespeare in tragedy, and a student
of the rhythms and metres of Shakespeare's second manner, - of
the period that saw Hamlet,' Macbeth,' and the plays clustering
around them. Too great a poet himself merely to imitate, Beau-
mont yet felt the influence of that still greater poet who swayed
every one of the later dramatists, with the single exception perhaps
of Jonson. But in pure comedy, mixed with farce and mock-heroic
parody, he belongs to the school of “rare Ben. ”
Fletcher, on the other hand, is more brilliant, more rapid and
supple, readier in his resources, of more startling invention. He
has an extraordinary swiftness and fluency of speech; and no other
dramatist, not even Shakespeare, equals him in the remarkable facil-
ity with which he reproduces in light, airy verse the bantering con-
versations of the young beaux and court-gentlemen of the time of
James I. His peculiar trick of the redundant syllable at the end of
many of his lines is largely responsible in producing this effect of
ordinary speech, that yet is verse without being prosy. There is a
flavor about Fletcher's work peculiarly its own. He created a
form of mixed comedy and dramatic romance, dealing with the
The pre-
new
## p. 1677 (#475) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1677
(
humors and mischances of men, yet possessing a romantic coloring.
He had great skill in combining his effects, and threw a fresh charm
and vividness over his fanciful world. The quality of his genius is
essentially bright and sunny, and therefore he is best in his comic
and romantic work. His tragedy, although it has great pathos and
passion, does not compel tears, nor does it subdue by its terror. It
lacks the note of inevitableness which is the final touchstone of
tragic greatness.
Their first joint play, Philaster, or Love Lies a-Bleeding,' acted
in 1608, is in its detached passages the most famous. Among the
others, “The Maid's Tragedy, produced about the same time, is their
finest play on its purely tragic side, although the plot is disagreeable.
(King and No King' attracts because of the tender character-drawing
of Panthea. (The Scornful Lady' is noteworthy as the best expo-
nent, outside his own work, of the school of Jonson on its grosser
side. "The Knight of the Burning Pestle) is at once a burlesque on
knight-errantry and a comedy of manners.
Among the tragedies presumably produced by Fletcher alone,
Bonduca' is one of the best, followed closely by "The False One,'
(Valentinian,' and Thierry and Theodoret. ' (The Chances) and
(The Wild Goose Chase) may be taken as examples of the whole
work on its comic side. «The Humorous Lieutenant' is the best
expression of the faults and merits of Fletcher, whose comedies
Swinburne has divided into three groups: pure comedies, heroic or
romantic dramas, and mixed comedy and romance. To the first
group belong (Rule a Wife and Have a Wife,' Fletcher's comic
masterpiece, (Wit without Money,' (The Wild Goose Chase,' (The
Chances,' (The Noble Gentleman. The second group includes (The
Knight of Malta, full of heroic passion and Catholic devotion,
(The Pilgrim,' (The Loyal Subject,' A Wife for a Month,' 'Love's
Pilgrimage, The Lover's Progress. The third group comprises
(The Spanish Curate,' Monsieur Thomas, (The Custom of the
Country,' The Elder Brother,' (The Little French Lawyer,' (The
Humorous Lieutenant,' Women Pleased,' Beggar's Bush,' (The Fair
Maid of the Inn. '
Fletcher had a part with Shakespeare in the 'Two Noble Kins-
men,' and he wrote also in conjunction with Massinger, Rowley, and
others; Shirley, too, is believed to have finished some of his plays.
Leaving aside Shakespeare, Beaumont and Fletcher's plays are the
best dramatic expression of the romantic spirit of Elizabethan Eng-
land. Their luxurious, playful fancy delighted in the highly colored,
spicy tales of the Southern imagination which the Renaissance was
then bringing into England. They drew especially upon Spanish
material, and their plays are rightly interpreted only when studied
## p. 1678 (#476) ###########################################
1678
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
in reference to this Spanish foundation. But they are at the same
time true Englishmen, and above all true Elizabethans; which is as
much as to say that, borne along by the eager, strenuous spirit of
their time, reaching out toward new sensations and impressions, new
countries and customs, and dazzled by the romanesque and fantastic,
they took up this exotic material and made it acceptable to the Eng-
lish mind. They satisfied the curiosity of their time, and expressed
its surface ideas and longings. This accounts for their great popular-
ity, which in their day eclipsed even Shakespeare's, as it accounts
also for their shortcomings. They skimmed over the surface of pas-
sion, they saw the pathos and the pity of it but not the terror; they
lacked Shakespeare's profound insight into the well-springs of human
action, and sacrificed truth of life to stage effect. They shared with
him one grave fault which is indeed the besetting sin of dramatists,
resulting in part from the necessarily curt and outline action of
the drama, in part from the love of audiences for strong emotional
effects; namely, the abrupt and unexplained moral revolutions of
their characters. Effects are too often produced without apparent
causes; a novelist has space to fill in the blanks. The sudden con-
trition of the usurper in As You Like It is a familiar instance;
Beaumont and Fletcher have plenty as bad. Probably there was
more of this in real life during the Middle Ages, when most people
still had much barbaric instability of feeling and were liable to sud-
den revulsions of purpose, than in our more equable society. On the
other hand, virtue often suffers needlessly and acquiescingly.
In their speech they indulged in much license, Fletcher especially;
he was prone to confuse right and wrong. The strenuousness of the
earlier Elizabethan age was passing away, and the relaxing morality
of Jacobean society was making its way into literature, culminating
in the entire disintegration of the time of Charles II. , which it is very
shallow to lay entirely to the Puritans. There would have been a
time of great laxity had Cromwell or the Puritan ascendancy never
existed. Beaumont and Fletcher, in their eagerness to please, took
no thought of the after-effects of their plays; morality did not enter
into their scheme of life. Yet they were not immoral, but merely
unmoral. They lacked the high seriousness that gives its permanent
value to Shakespeare's tragic work. They wrote not to embody the
everlasting truths of life, as he did; not because they were oppressed
with the weight of a new message striving for utterance; not because
they were aflame with the passion for the unattainable, as Marlowe;
not to lash with the stings of bitter mockery the follies and vices of
their fellow-men, as Ben Jonson; not primarily to make us shudder
at the terrible tragedies enacted by corrupted hearts, and the need-
less unending sufferings of persecuted virtue, as Webster; nor yet to
## p. 1679 (#477) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1679
give us a faithful picture of the different phases of life in Jacobean
London, as Dekker, Heywood, Middleton, and others. They wrote for
the very joy of writing, to give vent to their over-bubbling fancy and
their tender feeling.
They are lyrical and descriptive poets of the first order, with a
wonderful ease and grace of expression. The songs scattered through-
out their plays are second only to Shakespeare's. The volume and
variety of their work is astonishing. They left more than fifty-two
printed plays, and all of these show an extraordinary power of
invention; the most diverse passions, characters, and situations enter
into the work, their stories stimulate our curiosity, and their charac-
ters appeal to our sympathies.
our sympathies. Especially in half-farcical, half-
pathetic comedy they have no superior; their wit and spirit here
find freest play. Despite much coarseness, their work is full of
delicate sensibility, and suffused with a romantic grace of form and a
tenderness of expression that endears them to our hearts, and makes
them more lovable than any of their brother dramatists, with the
possible exception of genial Dekker. The spirit of chivalry breathes
through their work, and the gentleman and scholar is always pres-
ent. For in contradiction to most of their fellow-workers, they were
not on the stage; they never took part in its more practical affairs
either as actors or managers; they derived the technical knowledge
necessary to a successful playwright from their intimacy with stage
folk.
As poets, aside from their dramatic work, they occupy a secondary
place. Beaumont especially has left, beyond one or two exquisite
lyrics, little that is noteworthy, except some commendatory verses
addressed to Jonson. On the other hand, Fletcher's Faithful Shep-
herdess,' with Jonson's (Sad Shepherdand Milton's Comus, form
that delightful trilogy of the first pastoral poems in the English
language.
The popularity of Beaumont and Fletcher in the seventeenth cen-
tury, as compared to that of Shakespeare, has been over-emphasized;
for between 1623 and 1685 they have only two folio editions, those of
1647 and 1679, as against four of Shakespeare. Their position among
the Elizabethans is unique. They did not found a school either in
comedy or tragedy. Massinger, who had more in common with them
than any other of the leading dramatists, cannot be called their dis-
ciple; for though he worked in the same field, he is more sober and
severe, more careful in the construction of his plots, more of a
satirist and stern judge of society. With the succeeding playwrights
the decadence of the Elizabethan drama began.
## p. 1680 (#478) ###########################################
1680
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS
BY FLETCHER
(Clorin, a shepherdess, watching by the grave of her lover, is found by a
Satyr. ]
LORIN
C
Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace
The truest man that ever fed his flocks
By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly.
Thus I salute thy grave, thus do I pay
My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes,
To thy still loved ashes: thus I free
Myself from all ensuing heats and fires
Of love: all sports, delights, and jolly games,
That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off.
Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt
With youthful coronals, and lead the dance.
No more the company of fresh fair maids
And wanton shepherds be to me delightful:
Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes
Under some shady dell, when the cool wind
Plays on the leaves: all be far away,
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side
How often have I sat, crowned with fresh flowers
For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook,
And hanging script of finest cordevan!
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee,
And all are dead but thy dear memory;
That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring,
Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing.
And here will I, in honor of thy love,
Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys
That former times made precious to mine eyes,
Only remembering what my youth did gain
In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs.
That will I practice, and as freely give
All my endeavors, as I gained them free.
Of all green wounds I know the remedies
In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes,
Or charmed with powerful words of wicked art,
Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat
Grown wild, or lunatic; their eyes, or ears,
Thickened with misty film of dulling rheum:
## p. 1681 (#479) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1681
These I can cure, such secret virtue lies
In herbs applied by a virgin's hand.
My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,
Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks
The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit
Pulled from the fair head of the straight-grown pine.
On these I'll feed with free content and rest,
When night shall blind the world, by thy side blessed
[A Satyr enters. ]
Satyr --Through yon same bending plain
That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods have I run,
Whose bottom never kissed the sun.
Since the lusty spring began,
All to please my master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest
To get him fruit; for at a feast
He entertains this coming night
His paramour the Syrinx bright:
But behold a fairer sight!
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods, for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,
And live: therefore on this mold
Lowly do 1 bend my knee
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and — but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells —
Fairer by the famous wells
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better, nor more true.
Here be grapes, whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's good;
Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus: nuts more brown
01-106
## p. 1682 (#480) ###########################################
1682
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them;
Deign, O fairest fair, to take them.
For these, black-eyed Driope
Hath oftentimes commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb.
See how well the lusty time
Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread.
Here be berries for a queen;
Some be red, some be green;
These are of that luscious meat
The great god Pan himself doth eat:
All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain, or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long
Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;
Till when humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade.
I must go, I must run,
Swifter than the fiery sun.
Clorin — And all my fears go with thee.
What greatness, or what private hidden power,
Is there in me to draw submission
From this rude man and beast ? sure, I am mortal,
The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal,
And she that bore me mortal; prick my hand
And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and
The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink,
Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal:
Yet I have heard (my mother told it me)
And now I do believe it, if I keep
My virgin flower uncropped, pure, chaste, and fair,
No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,
Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves,
Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion
Draw me to wander after idle fires,
Or voices calling me in dead of night
To make me follow, and so tole me on
Through mire, and standing pools, to find my ruin.
Else why should this rough thing, who never knew
Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats
Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen,
## p. 1683 (#481) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1683
Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there's a power
In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites
That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity,
Be thou my strongest guard; for here I'll dwell
In opposition against fate and hell.
SONG
CAN
ARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall, like a cloud,
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, light,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!
SONG
G"
op Lyæus, ever young,
Ever honored, ever sung,
Stained with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine,
Let a river run with wine.
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear!
ASPATIA'S SONG
LY
AY a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow-branches bear;
Say I died true.
1
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth:
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
## p. 1684 (#482) ###########################################
1684
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
LEANDRO'S SONG
BY FLETCHER
D"
EAREST, do not you delay me,
Since thou know'st I must be gone;
Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me,
But 'tis wind that must be blown
From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odors far excel.
Oh then speak, thou fairest fair!
Kill not him that vows to serve thee;
But perfume this neighboring air,
Else dull silence, sure, will starve me:
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken,
Which being restrained, a heart is broken.
TRUE BEAUTY
M
AY I find a woman fair,
And her mind as clear as air:
If her beauty go alone,
'Tis to me as if 'twere none.
May I find a woman rich,
And not of too high a pitch:
If that pride should cause disdain,
Tell me, lover, where's thy gain?
May I find a woman wise,
And her falsehood not disguise :
Hath she wit as she hath will,
Double armed she is to ill.
May I find a woman kind,
And not wavering like the wind :
How should I call that love mine,
When 'tis his, and his, and thine ?
May I find a woman true,
There is beauty's fairest hue,
There is beauty, love, and wit:
Happy he can compass it!
## p. 1685 (#483) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1685
ODE TO MELANCHOLY
BY FLETCHER
HY
ENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON,
UPON HIS FOX'
BY BEAUMONT
I
f it might stand with justice to allow
The swift conversion of all follies, now
Such is my mercy, that I could admit
All sorts should equally approve the wit
Of this thy even work, whose growing fame
Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name;
And did not manners and my love command
Me to forbear to make those understand
Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom
Long since firmly resolved, shall never come
To know more than they do,-- I would have shown
To all the world the art which thou alone
Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place,
And other rites, delivered with the grace
## p. 1686 (#484) ###########################################
1686
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Of comic style, which only is far more
Than any English stage hath known before.
But since our subtle gallants think it good
To like of naught that may be understood,
Lest they should be disproved, or have, at best,
Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest
But what's obscene, or barks, let us desire
They may continue, simply to admire
Fine clothes and strange words, and may live, in age
To see themselves ill brought upon the stage,
And like it; whilst thy bold and knowing Muse
Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose.
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER
BY BEAUMONT
M
ORTALITY, behold, and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits, soiled with dust,
They preach, “In greatness is no trust. ”
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royal'st seed,
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried,
« Though gods they were, as men they died: »
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
## p. 1687 (#485) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1687
FROM PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING)
ARETHUSA'S DECLARATION
ADY
L
Here is my Lord Philaster.
Arethusa -
Oh, 'tis well.
Withdraw yourself.
[Exit Lady.
Philaster -
Madam, your messenger
Made me believe you wished to speak with me.
Arethusa — 'Tis true, Philaster, but the words are such
I have to say, and do so ill beseem
The mouth of woman, that I wish them said,
And yet am loath to speak them. Have you known
That I have aught detracted from your worth?
Have I in person wronged you? or have set
My baser instruments to throw disgrace
Upon your virtues ?
Philaster - Never, madam, you.
Arethusa — Why then should you, in such a public place,
Injure a princess, and a scandal lay
Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great,
Calling a great part of my dowry in question ?
Philaster – Madam, this truth which I shall speak will be
Foolish: but, for your fair and virtuous self,
I could afford myself to have no right
To any thing you wished.
Arethusa --
Philaster, know,
I must enjoy these kingdoms.
Philaster -
Madam, both ?
Arethusa -Both, or I die; by fate, I die, Philaster,
If I not calmly may enjoy them both.
Philaster -- I would do much to save that noble life,
Yet would be loath to have posterity
Find in our stories, that Philaster gave
His right unto a sceptre and a crown
To save a lady's longing.
Arethusa —
Nay, then, hear:
I inust and will have them, and more
Philaster
What more?
Arethusa Or lose that little life the gods prepared
To trouble this poor piece of earth withal.
Philaster Madam, what more ?
Arethusa -
Turn, then, away thy face.
## p. 1688 (#486) ###########################################
1688
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Philaster – No.
Arethusa - Do.
Philaster - I can endure it. Turn away my face!
I never yet saw enemy that looked
So dreadfully, but that I thought myself
As great a basilisk as he; or spake
So horribly, but that I thought my tongue
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his;
Nor beast that I could turn from: shall I then
Begin to fear sweet sounds ? a lady's voice,
Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life:
Why, I will give it you; for 'tis to me
A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask
Of so poor use, that I shall make no price:
If you entreat, I will unmovedly hear.
Arethusa Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks.
Philaster - I do.
Arethusa — Then know, I must have them and thee.
to me. [He draws the commission from his pocket and hands it
to her. ]
Countess - Already! They haven't lost any time. [She opens
it. ] Oh, in their hurry they've forgotten to add the seal to it.
Susanna [returning with the oiled silk] — Seal what ?
Countess - His commission in the regiment.
Susanna – Already?
Countess - That's what I said.
Susanna - And the bandage ?
Countess -Oh, when you are getting my things, take a ribbon
from one of your caps. (Susanna goes out again. ]
Countess — This ribbon is of my favorite color. I must tell
you I was greatly displeased at your taking it.
Cherubino - That one would heal me quickest.
Countess - And- why so?
Cherubino - When a ribbon — has pressed the head, and —
touched the skin of one-
Countess [hastily]— Very strange — then it can cure wounds ?
I never heard that before. I shall certainly try it on the first
wound of any of - my maids-
Cherubino [sadly] – I must go away from here!
Countess – But not for always ? [Cherubino begins to weep. ]
And now you are crying! At that prediction of Figaro ?
Cherubino - I'm just where he said I'd be. [Some one knocks
on the door]
## p. 1669 (#467) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1669
Hide your
Countess - Who can be knocking like that?
The Count (outside] - Open the door!
Countess — Heavens! It's my husband. Where can you hide?
The Count (outside] - Open the door, I say.
Countess — There's no one here, you see.
The Count - But who are you talking to then ?
Countess — To you, I suppose. [To Cherubino. ]
self, quick — in the dressing-room!
Cherubino — Ah, after this morning, he'd kill me if he found
me here.
[He runs into the dressing-room on the right, which is also Susanna's
room ; the Countess, after locking him in and taking the key, admits the
Count. ]
Count – You don't usually lock yourself in, Madame.
Countess —1—1—was gossiping with Susanna.
[Pointing to her maid's room. ]
Count — And you seem very much agitated, Madame.
Countess - Not at all, I assure you! We were talking about
you. She's just gone-as I told you.
Count -I must say, Madame, you and I seem to be sur-
rounded by spiteful people. Just as I'm starting for a ride, I'm
handed a note which informs me that a certain person whom
I suppose far enough away is to visit you this evening.
Countess — The bold fellow, whoever he is, will have to come
here, then; for I don't intend to leave my room to-day.
She's gone.
(Something falls heavily in the dressing-room where Cherubino is. ]
Count – Ah, Madame, something dropped just then!
Countess — I didn't hear anything.
Count – You must be very absent-minded, then. Somebody
is in that room!
Countess — Who do you think could be there?
Count - Madame, that is what I'm asking you. I have just
come in.
Countess — Probably it's Susanna wandering about.
Count [pointing]— But you just told me that she went that
way.
Countess This way or that I don't know which.
Count — Very well, Madame, I must see her. — Come here,
Susanna.
## p. 1670 (#468) ###########################################
1670
BEAUMARCHAIS
Countess — She cannot. Pray wait! She's but half dressed.
She's trying on things that I've given her for her wedding
Count — Dressed or not, I wish to see her at once.
Countess—I can't prevent your doing so anywhere else, but
here
Count – You may say what you choose — I will see her.
Countess - I thoroughly believe you'd like to see her in that
state! but
Count - Very well, Madame. If Susanna can't come out, at
least she can talk, [Turning toward the dressing-room. ] Su-
sanna, are you there? Answer, I command you.
Countess (peremptorily] - Don't answer, Susanna! I forbid
you! Sir, how can you be such a petty tyrant? Fine suspicions,
indeed!
[Susanna slips by and hides behind the Countess's bed without being noticed
either by her or by the Count. |
Count - They are all the easier to dispel. I can see that it
would be useless to ask you for the key, but it's easy enough
to break in the door. Here, somebody!
Countess - Will you really make yourself the laughing-stock of
the chateau for such a silly suspicion ?
Count - You are quite right. I shall simply force the door
myself. I am going for tools.
Countess - Sir, if your conduct were prompted by love, I'd
forgive your jealousy for the sake of the motive.
But its cause
is only your vanity.
Count – Love or vanity, Madame, I mean to know who is in
that room! And to guard against any tricks, I am going to lock
the door to your maid's room. You, Madame, will kindly come
with me, and without any noise, if you please. [He leads her
away. ] As for the Susanna in the dressing-room, she will please
wait a few minutes.
Countess [ going out with him) - Sir, I assure you —
Susanna [coming out from behind the bed and running to the
dressing-room] - Cherubino! Open quick! It's Susanna. [Cheru-
bino hurries out of the dressing-room. ] Escape - you haven't a
minute to lose !
Cherubino — Where can I go?
## p. 1671 (#469) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1671
.
.
Susanna — I don't know, I don't know at all! but do go some-
where!
Cherubino [running to the window, then coming back] – The
window isn't so very high.
Susanna [ frightened and holding him back] — He'll kill himself!
Cherubino - Ah, Susie, I'd rather jump into a gulf than put the
Countess in danger. [He snatches a kiss, then runs to the win-
dow, hesitates, and finally jumps down into the garden. ]
Susanna — Ah! [She falls fainting into an arm-chair. Recov-
ering slowly, she rises, and seeing Cherubino running through the
garden she comes forward panting] He's far away already! .
Little scamp! as nimble as he is handsome! [She next runs to
the dressing-room. ] Now, Count Almaviva, knock as hard as you
like, break down the door. Plague take me if I answer you.
[Goes into the dressing-room and shuts the door. ]
[Count and Countess return. ]
Count – Now, Madame, consider well before you drive me to
extremes.
Countess -I-I beg of you -!
Count [preparing to burst open the door] - You can't cajole
me now.
Countess [throwing herself on her knees] - Then I will open
it! Here is the key.
Count So it is not Susanna ?
Countess — No, but it's no one who should offend you.
Count - If it's a man I kill him! Unworthy wife! You
wish to stay shut up in your room you shall stay in it long
enough, I promise you. Now I understand the note
my sus-
picions are justified !
Countess Will you listen to me one minute ?
Count Who is in that room ?
Countess - Your page.
Count Cherubino! The little scoundrel! — just let me catch
him! I don't wonder you were so agitated.
Countess 1-I assure you we were only planning an inno-
cent joke.
[The Count snatches the key, and goes to the dressing-room door; the
Countess throws herself at his feet. ]
Countess - Have mercy, Count! Spare this poor child; and
although the disorder in which you will find him –
## p. 1672 (#470) ###########################################
1672
BEAUMARCHAIS
Count — What, Madame? What do you mean? What disorder ?
Countess — He was just changing his coat - his neck and arms
are bare
[The Countess throws herself into a chair and turns away her head. ]
Count [running to the dressing-room] - Come out here, you
young villain!
Count [sccing Susanna come out of the dressing-room] - Eh!
Why, it is Susanna! [Aside. ) What, a lesson!
Susanna (mocking him]—“I will kill him! I will kill him! »
Well, then, why don't you kill this mischievous page ?
Count [to the Countess, who at the sight of Susanna shows the
greatest surprise] – So you also play astonishment, Madame ?
Countess - Why shouldn't I?
Count - But perhaps she wasn't alone in there. I'll find out.
[He goes into the dressing-room. ]
Countess - Susanna, I'm nearly dead.
Count [aside, as he returns] – No one there! So this time I
really am wrong. [To the Countess, coldly. ) You excel at com-
edy, Madame.
Susanna And what about me, sir ?
Count — And so do you.
Countess - Aren't you glad you found her instead of Cheru-
bino ? [Meaningly. ) You are generally pleased to come across her.
Susanna - Madame ought to have let you break in the doors,
call the servants
Count -- Yes, it's quite true -- I'm at fault -- I'm humiliated
enough! But why didn't you answer, you cruel girl, when I
called you?
Susanna I was dressing as well as I could — with the aid of
pins, and Madame knew why she forbade me to answer. She
had her lessons.
Count — Why don't you help me get pardon, instead of mak-
ing me out as bad as you can ?
Countess -- Did I marry you to be eternally subjected to jeal-
ousy and neglect? I mean to join the Ursulines, and -
Count - But, Rosina!
Countess — I am no longer the Rosina whom you loved so
well. I am only poor Countess Almaviva, deserted wife of a
madly jealous husband.
## p. 1673 (#471) ###########################################
BEAUMARCHAIS
1673
Count – I assure you, Rosina, this man, this letter, had
excited me so
Countess I never gave my consent.
Count — What, you knew about it?
Countess - This rattlepate Figaro, without my sanction-
Count — He did it, eh! and Basilio pretended that a peasant
brought it. Crafty wag, ready to impose on everybody!
Countess -- You beg pardon, but you never grant pardon. If
I grant it, it shall only be on condition of a general amnesty.
Count - Well, then, so be it.
I agree.
But I don't under-
stand how your sex can adapt itself to circumstances so quickly
and so nicely. You were certainly much agitated; and for that
matter, you are yet.
Countess — Men aren't sharp enough to distinguish between
honest indignation at unjust suspicion, and the confusion of guilt.
Count - We men think we know something of politics, but
we are only children. Madame, the King ought to name you
his ambassador to London. — And now pray forget this unfor-
tunate business, so humiliating for me.
Countess - For us both.
Count -- Won't you tell me again that you forgive me?
Countess — Have I said that, Susanna?
Count Ah, say it now.
Countess - Do you deserve it, culprit ?
Count — Yes, honestly, for my repentance.
Countess [giving him her hand]-How weak I am!
What an
example I set you, Susanna! He'll never believe in a woman's
anger.
Susanna -- You are prisoner on parole; and you shall see we
are honorable.
## p. 1674 (#472) ###########################################
1674
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
(1584-1616)
(1579-1625)
HE
(
names of Beaumont and Fletcher,” says Lowell, in his
lectures on Old English Dramatists,' are as inseparably
linked together as those of Castor and Pollux. They are
the double star of our poetical firmament, and their beams are so
indissolubly mingled that it is vain to attempt any division of them
that shall assign to each his rightful share. ” Theirs was not that
dramatic collaboration all too common among the lesser Elizabethan
dramatists, at a time when managers, eager to satisfy a restless
public incessantly clamoring for novelty,
parceled out single acts or even scenes of
a play among two or three playwrights, to
put together a more or less congruous piece
of work. Beaumont and Fletcher joined
partnership, not from any outward neces-
sity, but inspired by a common love of
their art and true congeniality of mind.
Unlike many of their brother dramatists,
whom the necessities of a lowly origin
drove to seek a livelihood in writing for
the theatres, Beaumont and Fletcher were
Francis BEAUMONT
of gentle birth, and sprung from families
eminent at the bar and in the Church.
Beaumont was born at Grace-Dieu in Leicestershire, 1584, the son of
a chief justice. His name is first mentioned as a gentleman com-
moner at Broadgate Hall, now Pembroke College, Oxford. At sixteen
he was entered a member of the Inner Temple, but the dry facts of
the law did not appeal to his romantic imagination. Nowhere in his
work does he draw upon his barrister's experience to the extent that
makes the plays of Middleton, who also knew the Inner Temple at
first hand, a storehouse of information in things legal. His feet soon
strayed, therefore, into the more congenial fields of dramatic inven-
tion.
Fletcher was born in Rye, Sussex, the son of a minister who
later became Bishop of London. Giles Fletcher the Younger, and
Phineas Fletcher, both well-known poets in their day, were his cous-
ins. His early life is as little known as that of Beaumont, and indeed
as the lives of most of the other Elizabethan dramatists.
He was a
pensioner at Benet College, now Corpus Christi, Cambridge, in 1591,
## p. 1675 (#473) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1675
and in 1593 he was “Bible-clerk” there. Then we hear nothing
of him until (The Woman Hater) was brought out in 1607. The
play has been ascribed to Beaumont alone, to Fletcher alone, and
to the two jointly. Whoever may be the author, it is the firstling
of his dramatic muse, and worth merely a passing mention. How
or when their literary friendship began is not known; but since both
were friends of Jonson, both prefixing commendatory verses to the
great realist's play of “The Fox,' it is fair to assume that through
him they were brought together, and that both belonged to that
brilliant circle of wits, poets, and dramatists who made famous the
gatherings at the Mermaid Inn.
They lived in the closest intimacy on the Bankside, near the
Globe Theatre in Southwark, sharing everything in common, even the
bed, and some say their clothing, - which is likely enough, as it can
be paralleled without going back three centuries. It is certain that
the more affluent circumstances of Beaumont tided his less fortunate
friend over many a difficulty; and the astonishing dramatic pro-
ductivity of Fletcher's later period was probably due to Beaumont's
untimely death, making it necessary for Fletcher to rely on his pen
for support.
In 1613 Beaumont's marriage to a Kentish heiress put an end to
the communistic bachelor establishment. He died March 6th, 1616,
not quite six weeks before Shakespeare, and was buried in Westmin-
ster Abbey. Fletcher survived him nine years, dying of the plague
in 1625. He was buried, not by the side of the poet with whose
name his own is forever linked, but at St. Saviour's, Southwark.
«A student of physiognomy,” says Swinburne, «will not fail to mark the
points of likeness and of difference between the faces of the two friends; both
models of noble manhood.
Beaumont the statelier and serener of the
two, with clear, thoughtful eyes, full arched brows, and strong aquiline nose,
with a little cleft at the tip; a grave and beautiful mouth, with full and finely
curved lips; the form of face a very pure oval, and the imperial head, with
its (fair large front) and clustering hair, set firm and carried high with an
aspect of quiet command and knightly observation. Fletcher with more keen
and fervid face, sharper in outline every way, with an air of bright ardor and
glad, fiery impatience; sanguine and nervous, suiting the complexion and color
of hair; the expression of the eager eyes and lips almost rivaling that of a
noble hound in act to break the leash it strains at;- two heads as lordly of
feature and as expressive of aspect as any gallery of great men can show. ”
It may not be altogether fanciful to transfer this description of
their physical bearing to their mental equipment, and draw some
conclusions as to their several endowments and their respective share
in the work that goes under their common name. Of course it is
impossible to draw hard and fast lines of demarkation, and assign to
## p. 1676 (#474) ###########################################
1676
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1
each poet his own words. They, above all others, would probably
have resented so dogmatic a procedure, and affirmed the dramas to
be their joint offspring, - even as a child partakes of the nature of
both its parents.
Their plays are organic structures, with well worked-out plots and
for the most part well-sustained characters. They present a com-
plete fusion of the different elements contributed by each author;
never showing that agglomeration of incongruous matter so often
found among the work of the lesser playwrights, where each hand
can be singled out and held responsible for its share. Elaborate
attempts, based on verse tests, have been made to disentangle the
two threads of their poetic fabric. These attempts show much
patient analysis, and are interesting as evidences of ingenuity; but
they appeal more to the scholar than to the lover of poetry. Yet
a sympathetic reading and a comparison of the plays professedly
written by Fletcher alone, after Beaumont's death, with those jointly
produced by them in the early part of Fletcher's career, shows the
different qualities of mind that went to the making of the work, and
the individual characteristics of the men that wrote it. Here Swin-
burne's eloquence gives concreteness to the picture.
In the joint plays there is a surer touch, a deeper, more pathetic
note, a greater intensity of emotion; there is more tragic pathos and
passion, more strong genuine humor, nobler sentiments.
dominance of these graver, sweeter qualities may well be attributed
to Beaumont's influence. Although a disciple of Jonson in comedy,
he was a close follower of Shakespeare in tragedy, and a student
of the rhythms and metres of Shakespeare's second manner, - of
the period that saw Hamlet,' Macbeth,' and the plays clustering
around them. Too great a poet himself merely to imitate, Beau-
mont yet felt the influence of that still greater poet who swayed
every one of the later dramatists, with the single exception perhaps
of Jonson. But in pure comedy, mixed with farce and mock-heroic
parody, he belongs to the school of “rare Ben. ”
Fletcher, on the other hand, is more brilliant, more rapid and
supple, readier in his resources, of more startling invention. He
has an extraordinary swiftness and fluency of speech; and no other
dramatist, not even Shakespeare, equals him in the remarkable facil-
ity with which he reproduces in light, airy verse the bantering con-
versations of the young beaux and court-gentlemen of the time of
James I. His peculiar trick of the redundant syllable at the end of
many of his lines is largely responsible in producing this effect of
ordinary speech, that yet is verse without being prosy. There is a
flavor about Fletcher's work peculiarly its own. He created a
form of mixed comedy and dramatic romance, dealing with the
The pre-
new
## p. 1677 (#475) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1677
(
humors and mischances of men, yet possessing a romantic coloring.
He had great skill in combining his effects, and threw a fresh charm
and vividness over his fanciful world. The quality of his genius is
essentially bright and sunny, and therefore he is best in his comic
and romantic work. His tragedy, although it has great pathos and
passion, does not compel tears, nor does it subdue by its terror. It
lacks the note of inevitableness which is the final touchstone of
tragic greatness.
Their first joint play, Philaster, or Love Lies a-Bleeding,' acted
in 1608, is in its detached passages the most famous. Among the
others, “The Maid's Tragedy, produced about the same time, is their
finest play on its purely tragic side, although the plot is disagreeable.
(King and No King' attracts because of the tender character-drawing
of Panthea. (The Scornful Lady' is noteworthy as the best expo-
nent, outside his own work, of the school of Jonson on its grosser
side. "The Knight of the Burning Pestle) is at once a burlesque on
knight-errantry and a comedy of manners.
Among the tragedies presumably produced by Fletcher alone,
Bonduca' is one of the best, followed closely by "The False One,'
(Valentinian,' and Thierry and Theodoret. ' (The Chances) and
(The Wild Goose Chase) may be taken as examples of the whole
work on its comic side. «The Humorous Lieutenant' is the best
expression of the faults and merits of Fletcher, whose comedies
Swinburne has divided into three groups: pure comedies, heroic or
romantic dramas, and mixed comedy and romance. To the first
group belong (Rule a Wife and Have a Wife,' Fletcher's comic
masterpiece, (Wit without Money,' (The Wild Goose Chase,' (The
Chances,' (The Noble Gentleman. The second group includes (The
Knight of Malta, full of heroic passion and Catholic devotion,
(The Pilgrim,' (The Loyal Subject,' A Wife for a Month,' 'Love's
Pilgrimage, The Lover's Progress. The third group comprises
(The Spanish Curate,' Monsieur Thomas, (The Custom of the
Country,' The Elder Brother,' (The Little French Lawyer,' (The
Humorous Lieutenant,' Women Pleased,' Beggar's Bush,' (The Fair
Maid of the Inn. '
Fletcher had a part with Shakespeare in the 'Two Noble Kins-
men,' and he wrote also in conjunction with Massinger, Rowley, and
others; Shirley, too, is believed to have finished some of his plays.
Leaving aside Shakespeare, Beaumont and Fletcher's plays are the
best dramatic expression of the romantic spirit of Elizabethan Eng-
land. Their luxurious, playful fancy delighted in the highly colored,
spicy tales of the Southern imagination which the Renaissance was
then bringing into England. They drew especially upon Spanish
material, and their plays are rightly interpreted only when studied
## p. 1678 (#476) ###########################################
1678
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
in reference to this Spanish foundation. But they are at the same
time true Englishmen, and above all true Elizabethans; which is as
much as to say that, borne along by the eager, strenuous spirit of
their time, reaching out toward new sensations and impressions, new
countries and customs, and dazzled by the romanesque and fantastic,
they took up this exotic material and made it acceptable to the Eng-
lish mind. They satisfied the curiosity of their time, and expressed
its surface ideas and longings. This accounts for their great popular-
ity, which in their day eclipsed even Shakespeare's, as it accounts
also for their shortcomings. They skimmed over the surface of pas-
sion, they saw the pathos and the pity of it but not the terror; they
lacked Shakespeare's profound insight into the well-springs of human
action, and sacrificed truth of life to stage effect. They shared with
him one grave fault which is indeed the besetting sin of dramatists,
resulting in part from the necessarily curt and outline action of
the drama, in part from the love of audiences for strong emotional
effects; namely, the abrupt and unexplained moral revolutions of
their characters. Effects are too often produced without apparent
causes; a novelist has space to fill in the blanks. The sudden con-
trition of the usurper in As You Like It is a familiar instance;
Beaumont and Fletcher have plenty as bad. Probably there was
more of this in real life during the Middle Ages, when most people
still had much barbaric instability of feeling and were liable to sud-
den revulsions of purpose, than in our more equable society. On the
other hand, virtue often suffers needlessly and acquiescingly.
In their speech they indulged in much license, Fletcher especially;
he was prone to confuse right and wrong. The strenuousness of the
earlier Elizabethan age was passing away, and the relaxing morality
of Jacobean society was making its way into literature, culminating
in the entire disintegration of the time of Charles II. , which it is very
shallow to lay entirely to the Puritans. There would have been a
time of great laxity had Cromwell or the Puritan ascendancy never
existed. Beaumont and Fletcher, in their eagerness to please, took
no thought of the after-effects of their plays; morality did not enter
into their scheme of life. Yet they were not immoral, but merely
unmoral. They lacked the high seriousness that gives its permanent
value to Shakespeare's tragic work. They wrote not to embody the
everlasting truths of life, as he did; not because they were oppressed
with the weight of a new message striving for utterance; not because
they were aflame with the passion for the unattainable, as Marlowe;
not to lash with the stings of bitter mockery the follies and vices of
their fellow-men, as Ben Jonson; not primarily to make us shudder
at the terrible tragedies enacted by corrupted hearts, and the need-
less unending sufferings of persecuted virtue, as Webster; nor yet to
## p. 1679 (#477) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1679
give us a faithful picture of the different phases of life in Jacobean
London, as Dekker, Heywood, Middleton, and others. They wrote for
the very joy of writing, to give vent to their over-bubbling fancy and
their tender feeling.
They are lyrical and descriptive poets of the first order, with a
wonderful ease and grace of expression. The songs scattered through-
out their plays are second only to Shakespeare's. The volume and
variety of their work is astonishing. They left more than fifty-two
printed plays, and all of these show an extraordinary power of
invention; the most diverse passions, characters, and situations enter
into the work, their stories stimulate our curiosity, and their charac-
ters appeal to our sympathies.
our sympathies. Especially in half-farcical, half-
pathetic comedy they have no superior; their wit and spirit here
find freest play. Despite much coarseness, their work is full of
delicate sensibility, and suffused with a romantic grace of form and a
tenderness of expression that endears them to our hearts, and makes
them more lovable than any of their brother dramatists, with the
possible exception of genial Dekker. The spirit of chivalry breathes
through their work, and the gentleman and scholar is always pres-
ent. For in contradiction to most of their fellow-workers, they were
not on the stage; they never took part in its more practical affairs
either as actors or managers; they derived the technical knowledge
necessary to a successful playwright from their intimacy with stage
folk.
As poets, aside from their dramatic work, they occupy a secondary
place. Beaumont especially has left, beyond one or two exquisite
lyrics, little that is noteworthy, except some commendatory verses
addressed to Jonson. On the other hand, Fletcher's Faithful Shep-
herdess,' with Jonson's (Sad Shepherdand Milton's Comus, form
that delightful trilogy of the first pastoral poems in the English
language.
The popularity of Beaumont and Fletcher in the seventeenth cen-
tury, as compared to that of Shakespeare, has been over-emphasized;
for between 1623 and 1685 they have only two folio editions, those of
1647 and 1679, as against four of Shakespeare. Their position among
the Elizabethans is unique. They did not found a school either in
comedy or tragedy. Massinger, who had more in common with them
than any other of the leading dramatists, cannot be called their dis-
ciple; for though he worked in the same field, he is more sober and
severe, more careful in the construction of his plots, more of a
satirist and stern judge of society. With the succeeding playwrights
the decadence of the Elizabethan drama began.
## p. 1680 (#478) ###########################################
1680
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS
BY FLETCHER
(Clorin, a shepherdess, watching by the grave of her lover, is found by a
Satyr. ]
LORIN
C
Hail, holy earth, whose cold arms do embrace
The truest man that ever fed his flocks
By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly.
Thus I salute thy grave, thus do I pay
My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes,
To thy still loved ashes: thus I free
Myself from all ensuing heats and fires
Of love: all sports, delights, and jolly games,
That shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off.
Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt
With youthful coronals, and lead the dance.
No more the company of fresh fair maids
And wanton shepherds be to me delightful:
Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes
Under some shady dell, when the cool wind
Plays on the leaves: all be far away,
Since thou art far away, by whose dear side
How often have I sat, crowned with fresh flowers
For summer's queen, whilst every shepherd's boy
Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook,
And hanging script of finest cordevan!
But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee,
And all are dead but thy dear memory;
That shall outlive thee, and shall ever spring,
Whilst there are pipes, or jolly shepherds sing.
And here will I, in honor of thy love,
Dwell by thy grave, forgetting all those joys
That former times made precious to mine eyes,
Only remembering what my youth did gain
In the dark hidden virtuous use of herbs.
That will I practice, and as freely give
All my endeavors, as I gained them free.
Of all green wounds I know the remedies
In men or cattle, be they stung with snakes,
Or charmed with powerful words of wicked art,
Or be they love-sick, or through too much heat
Grown wild, or lunatic; their eyes, or ears,
Thickened with misty film of dulling rheum:
## p. 1681 (#479) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1681
These I can cure, such secret virtue lies
In herbs applied by a virgin's hand.
My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,
Berries and chestnuts, plantains, on whose cheeks
The sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit
Pulled from the fair head of the straight-grown pine.
On these I'll feed with free content and rest,
When night shall blind the world, by thy side blessed
[A Satyr enters. ]
Satyr --Through yon same bending plain
That flings his arms down to the main,
And through these thick woods have I run,
Whose bottom never kissed the sun.
Since the lusty spring began,
All to please my master Pan,
Have I trotted without rest
To get him fruit; for at a feast
He entertains this coming night
His paramour the Syrinx bright:
But behold a fairer sight!
By that heavenly form of thine,
Brightest fair, thou art divine,
Sprung from great immortal race
Of the gods, for in thy face
Shines more awful majesty
Than dull weak mortality
Dare with misty eyes behold,
And live: therefore on this mold
Lowly do 1 bend my knee
In worship of thy deity.
Deign it, goddess, from my hand
To receive whate'er this land
From her fertile womb doth send
Of her choice fruits; and — but lend
Belief to that the Satyr tells —
Fairer by the famous wells
To this present day ne'er grew,
Never better, nor more true.
Here be grapes, whose lusty blood
Is the learned poet's good;
Sweeter yet did never crown
The head of Bacchus: nuts more brown
01-106
## p. 1682 (#480) ###########################################
1682
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them;
Deign, O fairest fair, to take them.
For these, black-eyed Driope
Hath oftentimes commanded me
With my clasped knee to climb.
See how well the lusty time
Hath decked their rising cheeks in red,
Such as on your lips is spread.
Here be berries for a queen;
Some be red, some be green;
These are of that luscious meat
The great god Pan himself doth eat:
All these, and what the woods can yield,
The hanging mountain, or the field,
I freely offer, and ere long
Will bring you more, more sweet and strong;
Till when humbly leave I take,
Lest the great Pan do awake,
That sleeping lies in a deep glade,
Under a broad beech's shade.
I must go, I must run,
Swifter than the fiery sun.
Clorin — And all my fears go with thee.
What greatness, or what private hidden power,
Is there in me to draw submission
From this rude man and beast ? sure, I am mortal,
The daughter of a shepherd; he was mortal,
And she that bore me mortal; prick my hand
And it will bleed; a fever shakes me, and
The self-same wind that makes the young lambs shrink,
Makes me a-cold: my fear says I am mortal:
Yet I have heard (my mother told it me)
And now I do believe it, if I keep
My virgin flower uncropped, pure, chaste, and fair,
No goblin, wood-god, fairy, elf, or fiend,
Satyr, or other power that haunts the groves,
Shall hurt my body, or by vain illusion
Draw me to wander after idle fires,
Or voices calling me in dead of night
To make me follow, and so tole me on
Through mire, and standing pools, to find my ruin.
Else why should this rough thing, who never knew
Manners nor smooth humanity, whose heats
Are rougher than himself, and more misshapen,
## p. 1683 (#481) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1683
Thus mildly kneel to me? Sure there's a power
In that great name of Virgin, that binds fast
All rude uncivil bloods, all appetites
That break their confines. Then, strong Chastity,
Be thou my strongest guard; for here I'll dwell
In opposition against fate and hell.
SONG
CAN
ARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer of all woes,
Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose
On this afflicted prince; fall, like a cloud,
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, light,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,
Like hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumbers like a bride!
SONG
G"
op Lyæus, ever young,
Ever honored, ever sung,
Stained with blood of lusty grapes,
In a thousand lusty shapes,
Dance upon the mazer's brim,
In the crimson liquor swim;
From thy plenteous hand divine,
Let a river run with wine.
God of youth, let this day here
Enter neither care nor fear!
ASPATIA'S SONG
LY
AY a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow-branches bear;
Say I died true.
1
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth:
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
## p. 1684 (#482) ###########################################
1684
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
LEANDRO'S SONG
BY FLETCHER
D"
EAREST, do not you delay me,
Since thou know'st I must be gone;
Wind and tide, 'tis thought, doth stay me,
But 'tis wind that must be blown
From that breath, whose native smell
Indian odors far excel.
Oh then speak, thou fairest fair!
Kill not him that vows to serve thee;
But perfume this neighboring air,
Else dull silence, sure, will starve me:
'Tis a word that's quickly spoken,
Which being restrained, a heart is broken.
TRUE BEAUTY
M
AY I find a woman fair,
And her mind as clear as air:
If her beauty go alone,
'Tis to me as if 'twere none.
May I find a woman rich,
And not of too high a pitch:
If that pride should cause disdain,
Tell me, lover, where's thy gain?
May I find a woman wise,
And her falsehood not disguise :
Hath she wit as she hath will,
Double armed she is to ill.
May I find a woman kind,
And not wavering like the wind :
How should I call that love mine,
When 'tis his, and his, and thine ?
May I find a woman true,
There is beauty's fairest hue,
There is beauty, love, and wit:
Happy he can compass it!
## p. 1685 (#483) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1685
ODE TO MELANCHOLY
BY FLETCHER
HY
ENCE, all you vain delights,
As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy;
Oh, sweetest melancholy!
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks when all the fowls
Are warmly housed, save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan!
These are the sounds we feed upon;
Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.
TO MY DEAR FRIEND, MASTER BENJAMIN JONSON,
UPON HIS FOX'
BY BEAUMONT
I
f it might stand with justice to allow
The swift conversion of all follies, now
Such is my mercy, that I could admit
All sorts should equally approve the wit
Of this thy even work, whose growing fame
Shall raise thee high, and thou it, with thy name;
And did not manners and my love command
Me to forbear to make those understand
Whom thou, perhaps, hast in thy wiser doom
Long since firmly resolved, shall never come
To know more than they do,-- I would have shown
To all the world the art which thou alone
Hast taught our tongue, the rules of time, of place,
And other rites, delivered with the grace
## p. 1686 (#484) ###########################################
1686
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Of comic style, which only is far more
Than any English stage hath known before.
But since our subtle gallants think it good
To like of naught that may be understood,
Lest they should be disproved, or have, at best,
Stomachs so raw, that nothing can digest
But what's obscene, or barks, let us desire
They may continue, simply to admire
Fine clothes and strange words, and may live, in age
To see themselves ill brought upon the stage,
And like it; whilst thy bold and knowing Muse
Contemns all praise, but such as thou wouldst choose.
ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER
BY BEAUMONT
M
ORTALITY, behold, and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within this heap of stones:
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits, soiled with dust,
They preach, “In greatness is no trust. ”
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest, royal'st seed,
That the earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried,
« Though gods they were, as men they died: »
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
## p. 1687 (#485) ###########################################
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
1687
FROM PHILASTER, OR LOVE LIES A-BLEEDING)
ARETHUSA'S DECLARATION
ADY
L
Here is my Lord Philaster.
Arethusa -
Oh, 'tis well.
Withdraw yourself.
[Exit Lady.
Philaster -
Madam, your messenger
Made me believe you wished to speak with me.
Arethusa — 'Tis true, Philaster, but the words are such
I have to say, and do so ill beseem
The mouth of woman, that I wish them said,
And yet am loath to speak them. Have you known
That I have aught detracted from your worth?
Have I in person wronged you? or have set
My baser instruments to throw disgrace
Upon your virtues ?
Philaster - Never, madam, you.
Arethusa — Why then should you, in such a public place,
Injure a princess, and a scandal lay
Upon my fortunes, famed to be so great,
Calling a great part of my dowry in question ?
Philaster – Madam, this truth which I shall speak will be
Foolish: but, for your fair and virtuous self,
I could afford myself to have no right
To any thing you wished.
Arethusa --
Philaster, know,
I must enjoy these kingdoms.
Philaster -
Madam, both ?
Arethusa -Both, or I die; by fate, I die, Philaster,
If I not calmly may enjoy them both.
Philaster -- I would do much to save that noble life,
Yet would be loath to have posterity
Find in our stories, that Philaster gave
His right unto a sceptre and a crown
To save a lady's longing.
Arethusa —
Nay, then, hear:
I inust and will have them, and more
Philaster
What more?
Arethusa Or lose that little life the gods prepared
To trouble this poor piece of earth withal.
Philaster Madam, what more ?
Arethusa -
Turn, then, away thy face.
## p. 1688 (#486) ###########################################
1688
FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER
Philaster – No.
Arethusa - Do.
Philaster - I can endure it. Turn away my face!
I never yet saw enemy that looked
So dreadfully, but that I thought myself
As great a basilisk as he; or spake
So horribly, but that I thought my tongue
Bore thunder underneath, as much as his;
Nor beast that I could turn from: shall I then
Begin to fear sweet sounds ? a lady's voice,
Whom I do love? Say, you would have my life:
Why, I will give it you; for 'tis to me
A thing so loathed, and unto you that ask
Of so poor use, that I shall make no price:
If you entreat, I will unmovedly hear.
Arethusa Yet, for my sake, a little bend thy looks.
Philaster - I do.
Arethusa — Then know, I must have them and thee.
