John Fletcher und Francis Beaumont.

Die Namen dieser beiden Dichter, Shakspeare's Zeitgenossen und talentvollsten Nachfolger, sind nicht wohl von einander zu trennen, da sie ihre bedeutendsten Leistungen, nach damaliger Sitte, gemeinschaftlich verfassten. Fletcher, der ältere der beiden Freunde, ward 1576 in Northamptonshire geboren, studirte zu Cambridge und schloss hier den innigen Bund mit Beaumont, den erst der Tod löste. Beaumont war der Sohn eines Richters in Leicestershire und soll 1585 geboren, aber bereits 1615 gestorben sein, während Fletcher erst zehn Jahre nach ihm, 1625, von der Erde abgerufen wurde. Weiteres über ihre Lebensverhältnisse ist nicht auf die Nachwelt gekommen. Ein und funfzig Dramen sollen sie gemeinschaftlich gedichtet haben; Fletcher schrieb später noch mehrere allein oder in Verbindung mit Anderen.

Phantasie, Witz und gute Characterzeichnung, sowie ein lebendiger, wahrer Dialog und Reichthum der Erfindung zeichnen ihre Werke aus und weisen diesen den nächsten Rang nach denen Shakespeares an, aber ihnen fehlt die tragische Grösse, das tiefe Gefühl und die komische Grazie des grossen Meisters.

Ihre Werke sind wiederholt, auch in der neuesten Zeit wieder aufgelegt worden, doch betrachtet man die von Theobald, Seward und Sympson, 1750 zu London in 10 Octavbänden besorgte Ausgabe als eine der besten. Eine hinsichtlich des Commentars nicht so reiche, aber nicht minder correcte ist folgende: The dramatic Works of Ben Jonson and Beaumont and Fletcher (by P. Whalley and G. Colman). London 1811; 4 Bde gr. 8.

Scenes from

Did signify; and how all order'd thus,
Exprest his grief: and to my thoughts did read

Philaster; or, Love lies a bleeding. The prettiest lecture of his country art
A Tragi-Comedy. By Francis Beau-
mont and John Fletcher.

Philaster tells the Princess Arethusa how he first found the boy Bellario.

I have a boy sent by the gods,

- Not yet seen in the court; hunting the buck,
I found him sitting by a fountain side,
Of which he borrow'd some to quench his thirst,
And paid the nymph again as much in tears,
A garland lay him by, made by himself,
Of many several flowers, bred in the bay,
Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness
Delighted me: but ever when he turn'd
His tender eyes upon them, he would weep,
As if he meant to make them grow again.
Seeing such pretty helpless innocence
Dwell in his face, I ask'd him all his story;
He told me that his parents gentle died,
Leaving him to the mercy of the fields,
Which gave him roots; and of the

crystal

springs, Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, Which still, he thank'd him, yielded him his

light.

Then took he up his garland and did shew,
What every flower, as country people hold,

That could be wish'd, so that, methought, I
could

Have studied it. I gladly entertain'd him,
Who was as glad to follow; and have got
The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy,
That ever master kept: him will I send
To wait on you, and bear our hidden love.

Philaster prefers Bellario to the Service of the Princess Arethusa.

Phi. And thou shalt find her honourable,

boy,
Full of regard unto thy tender youth,
For thine own modesty; and for my sake,
Apter to give, than thou wilt be to ask, aye, or

deserve.

Bell. Sir, you did take me up when I was

nothing,

And only yet am something by being yours;
You trusted me unknown; and that which you

are apt

To construe a simple innocence in me,

Perhaps might have been craft, the cunning of

a boy

But when thy judgment comes to rule those To do him service.

Philaster is jealous of Bellario with the Princess.

Bell. Health to you, my lord;

The princess doth commend her love, her life,
And this unto you.

Phi. O Bellario,

Now I perceive she loves me, she does shew it In loving thee, my boy, she has made thee brave.

Bell. My lord, she has attired me past my

wish,

Past my desert, more fit for her attendant,
Though far unfit for me who do attend.

Phi. Come, come, I know she does.
Bell. No, by my life.

Aye, now I see why my disturbed thoughts
Were so perplext when first I went to her;
My heart held augury. You are abus'd,
Some villain has abus'd you; I do see
Whereto you tend; fall rocks upon his head,
That put this to you; 'tis some subtil train
To bring that noble frame of yours to nought.
Phi. Thou think'st. I will be angry with
thee. Come.

Thou shalt know all my drift. I hate her more,
Than I love happiness, and plac'd thee there
To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds.

Phi. Thou art grown courtly, boy. O let all Hast thou discover'd? is she fal'n to lust,

women

That love black deeds learn to dissemble here.
Here by this paper she does write to me
As if her heart were mines of adamant
To all the world besides, but unto me
A maiden snow that melted with my looks.
Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess
thee?

As I would wish her? Speak some comfort to

me.

Bell. My lord, you did mistake the boy you

sent:

Had she a sin that way, hid from the world,
I would not aid

use Her base desires; but what I came to know
As servant to her, I would not reveal,
To make my life last ages.

For I shall guess her love to me by that.
Bell. Scarce like her servant, but as if I

were

Something allied to her; or had preserv'd
Her life three times by my fidelity;
As mothers fond do use their only sons;
As I 'd use one that's left unto my trust,
For whom my life should pay if he met harm,
So she does use me.

Phi. Why this is wond'rous well:

Phi. O my heart!

This is a salve worse than the main disease.
Tell me thy thoughts; for I will know the least
That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart
To know it; I will see thy thoughts as plain
As I do know thy face.

Bell. Why, so you do.

She is (for aught I know) by all the gods,
As chaste as ice; but were she foul as hell,
the breath of kings,
tortures, nor bulls of
brass,

But what kind language does she feed thee And I did know it, thus;
with?
The points of swords,

Bell. Why, she does tell me, she will trust
my youth

With all her loving secrets, and does call me
Her pretty servant, bids me weep no more
For leaving you; she 'll see my services
Regarded: and such words of that soft strain,
That I am nearer weeping when she ends
Than ere she spake.

Phi. This is much better still.

Bell. Are you ill, my lord?

Phi. Ill? No, Bellario.

Bell. Methinks your words

Fall not from off your tongue so evenly,
Nor is there in your looks that quietness,
That I was wont to see.

Why, who can but believe him? He does swear I thought (but it was you) enter our gates;

So earnestly, that if it were not true,
The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario, As I had puft it forth, and suck'd it in

Thy protestations are so deep, and thou

Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them,

My blood flew out, and back again as fast

Like breath; then was I call'd away in haste

To entertain you. Never was a man

That though I know them false, as were my Heav'd from a sheep-cot to a sceptre, rais'd

hopes,

I cannot urge thee further; but thou wert
To blame to injure me, for I must love
Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon
Thy tender youth: a love from me to thee
Is firm whate'er thou dost: it troubles me
That I have call'd the blood out of thy cheeks,
That did so well become thee: but, good boy,
Let me not see thee more; something is done
That will distract me, that will make me mad,
If I behold thee; if thou tender'st me,
Let me not see thee.

Bell. I will fly as far

As there is morning, ere I give distaste

So high in thoughts as I; you left a kiss
Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep
From you for ever; I did hear you talk
Far above singing; after you were gone
I grew acquainted with my heart, and search'd
What stirr'd it so. Alas! I found it love,
Yet far from lust, for could I have but liv'd
In presence of you, I had had my end.
For this I did delude my noble father
With a feign'd pilgrimage, and drest myself
In habit of a boy, and, for I knew
My birth no match for you, I was past hope
Of having you. And understanding well,
That when I made discovery of my sex,

To that most honour'd mind. But through these I could not stay with you, I made a vow

tears,

Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see
A world of treason practis'd upon you,
And her, and me. Farewell for ever more;
If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead,
And after find me loyal, let there be
A tear shed from you in my memory,
And I shall rest at peace.

By all the most religious things a maid
Could call together, never to be known,
Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's

eyes,

For other than I seem'd; that I might ever
Abide with you: then sate I by the fount
Where first you took me up.

George Chapman.

Dieser Dichter ward 1557 geboren, studirte auf einer englischen Universität und wandte sich dann nach London wo er 1634 starb. Er war ein Freund Spensers und Shakspeare's, zeichnete sich vorzüglich als Uebersetzer des Homer, Musaeus und Hesiod aus und schrieb ausserdem sechzehn Bühnenstücke in welchen sich manches sehr Gelungene findet; besonders athmet sein Trauerspiel Bussy d'Ambois, aus dem wir hier eine Scene mittheilen, einen wahrhaft ritterlichen Geist,

Scene from

Offer'd remission and contrition too:

Bussy d'Ambois, a Tragedy: By George Or else that he and D'Ambois might conclude The others' dangers. D'Ambois lik'd the last: But Barrisor's friends, (being equally engag'd

Chapman.

A Nuntius (or Messenger) in the presence of King In the main quarrel) never would expose
Henry the Third of France and his court tells the His life alone to that they all deserv'd.
manner of a combat, to which he was witness, of
three to 'three; in which D'Ambois remained sole And (for the other offer of remission)
survivor: begun upon an affront passed upon D'Ambois (that like a laurel put in fire

D'Ambois by some courtiers.

Henry, Guise, Beaupre, Nuntius etc. Nuntius. I saw fierce D'Ambois and his two brave friends Enter the field, and at their heels their foes, Which were the famous soldiers, Barrisor, L'Anou, and Pyrrhot, great in deeds of arms: All which arriv'd at the evenest piece of earth The field afforded, the three shallengers

Turn'd head, drew all their rapiers, and stood That the ne'er-shutting wounds, they needs must

When face to face the three defendants met them, Might as they open'd shut, and never kill.
Alike prepar'd and resolute alike.

Like bonfires of contributory wood

But D'Ambois' sword (that lightned as it flew)

Shot like a pointed comet at the face

Thrice pluck'd he at it, and thrice drew on thrusts

Every man's look shew'd, fed with other's Of manly Barrisor; and there it stuck:

spirit;

As one had been a mirror to another,

Like forms of life and death each took from From him, that of himself was free as fire;

other:

And so were life and death mix'd at their heights,
That you could see no fear of death (for life)
Nor love of life (for death): but in their brows
Pyrrho's opinion in great letters shone;
That 'life and death in all respects are one."
Henry. Past there no sort of words at their
encounter?

Who thrust still, as he pluck'd, yet (past belief)
He with his subtil eye, hand, body, 'scap'd';
At last the deadly bitten point tugg'd off,
On fell his yet undaunted foe so fiercely
That (only made more horrid with his wound)
Great D'Ambois shrunk, and gave a little ground
But soon return'd, redoubled in his danger,
And at the heart of Barrisor seal'd his anger.

Nuntius. As Hector 'twixt the hosts of Then, as in Arden I have seen an oak

Greece and Troy, When Paris and the Spartan king should end The nine years war, held up his brazen lance For signal that both hosts should cease from

arms,

And hear him speak: so Barrisor (advis'd)
Advanc'd his naked rapier 'twixt both sides,
Ript up the quarrel, and compar'd six lives
Then laid in balance with six idle words;

Long shook with tempests, and his lofty top
Bent to his root, which being at length made

loose

(Even groaning with his weight) he 'gan to nod
This way and that, as loth his curled brows
(Which he had oft wrapt in the sky with storms)
Should stoop; and yet, his radical fibres burst,
Storm-like he fell, and hid the fear-cold earth:
So fell stout Barrisor, that had stood the shocks