for. [Courtesying] She that you addressed give up my fortune to secure my choice. as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gra-But I'm now recovered from the delusion, vity, and the bold, forward, agreeable Rattle and hope from your tenderness what is deof the ladies' club, ha! ha! ha! nied me from a nearer connexion. Mar. Zounds! there's no bearing this. Hard. Be it what it will. I'm glad they are Miss H. In which of your characters, sir, come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, will you give us leave to address you? As Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's the faltering gentleman, with looks on the hand whom I now offer you? ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or the loud, confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Mrs. Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning,

ha! ha! ha!

Mar. O, curse on my noisy head! I never attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone.

Hard. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man.

[They retire, she tormenting him,

to the back Scene.

Tony. What signifies my refusing? You know I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. Hard. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's desire to keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare you have been of age these three months. Tony. Of age! Am I of age, father? Hard. Above three months.

Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. [Taking Miss Neville's Hand] Witness all men by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of Blankplace, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constantia Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again.

Sir C. O brave squire!
Hast. My worthy friend!

Mrs. H. My undutiful offspring!

Mar. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour.

Hast. [To Miss Hardcastle] Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him.

Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE. Mrs. H. What, returned so soon, I begin not to like it. Aside. Hard. [Joining their Hands] And I say Hast. [To Hardcastle] For my late at- so too. And Mr. Marlow, if she makes as tempt to fly off with your niece, let my pre- good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't sent confusion be my punishment. We are believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now come back, to appeal from your justice now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather to your humanity. By her father's consent I all the poor of the parish about us, and the first paid her my addresses, and our passions mistakes of the night shall be crowned with were first founded in duty. a merry morning; so, boy, take her:⚫ and as Miss N. Since his death, I have been obliged you have been mistaken in the mistress, my to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. wish is, that you may never be mistaken in In an hour of levity, I was ready even to the wife.

BENJAMIN JONSON,

one of the most considerable dramatic poets of the seventeenth century, whether we consider the number or the merit of his productions, was born at Westminster June 11, 1574, and was educated at the public school there, under the great Camden. He was descended from a Scots family; and his father, who lost his estate under Queen Mary, dying before our poet was born, and his mother marrying a bricklayer for her second husband, Ben was taken from school to work at his father-in-laws trade. Not being captivated with this employment, he went into the Low Countries, and distinguished himself in a military capacity. On his return to England he entered himself at St. John's College, Cambridge; but how long he continued there we are not informed. On his quitting the university he applied to the stage for a maintenance, and became a member of an obscure company, which performed at the Curtain in Shoreditch. At the same time he turned his thoughts to composition; but is generally supposed to have been unsuccessful in his first attempts. His performances as an actor met with little more applause; and, to complete his misery, he had the misfortune in a duel to kill his opponent, for which he was committed to prison; but how long he remained there, or by what methods he obtained his liberty, we have no account. It was, however, while in custody for this offence that he was made a convert to the church of Rome, in whose communion he steadily persisted for twelve years. It is supposed, that about this time he became acquainted with Shakspeare; who, according to tradition, assisted him in some of his dramatic attempts, and considerably promoted his interest, though he could not by means of it secure himself from the virulence of our author's pen. For many years from this period Ben produced some piece annually, for the

most part with applause, and established his reputation with the public as one of the supports of the English stage. In 1613 he was in France; but the occasion of his going, and the stay he made, are alike uncertain. In 1619 he went to Oxford, resided some time at Christchurch College, and in July 1619 was created M. A. in a full house of convocation, On the death of Samuel Daniel, in October, the same year, he succeeded to the vacant laurel; the salary of which was then one hundred marks per annum; but on our author's application in 1630, it was augmented to the annual sum of one hundred pounds and a tierce of Spanish wine. As we do not find Jonson's economical virtues any where recorded, it is the less to be wondered at, that quickly after we learn that he was very poor and sick, lodged in an obscure alley; on which occasion it was, that king Charles, being prevailed on in his favour, sent him ten guineas; which Ben receiving. said, "His Majesty has sent me ten guincas, because I am poor, and live in an alley; go and tell him that his soul lives in an alley." In justice, however, to the memory of Charles, it should be observed, that this story was probably formied from the cynicallness of Ben Jonson's temper, rather than from any real fact; as it is certain that the king once bestowed a bounty of one hundred pounds on him, which is acknowledged in an epigram written on the occasion. He died of the palsy Aug. 16, 1637, aged 65 years, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. We shall here add a character of Ben Jonson as sketched by Dryden: "If we look upon him while he was himself (for his last plays were but his dolages), I think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theatre ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself as well as others. One cannot say he wanted wil, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit and language, and humour also in some measure, we had before him; but something of art was wanting to the drama, till he came. He managed his strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, or endeavouring to move the passions: his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such a height. Humour was his proper sphere, and in that he delighted most to represent mechanic people. He was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them: there is scarce a poet or historian among the Roman authors of those times whom he has not translated in Sejanus and Catiline. Eut he has done his robberies so openly, that oue may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch, and what would be theft in other poets, is only victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so represents old Rome to us in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If there was any fault in his Language, it was, that he weaved it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies especially: perhaps too, he did a little too much Romanize our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latin as he found them; wherein, though he learnedly followed their language, he did not enough comply with the idiom of ours, If I would compare him with Shakspeare, I must acknowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakspeare the greater wit. Shakspeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets; Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing; I admire him, but I love Shakspeare. To conclude of him, as he has given us the most correct plays, so in the precepts which he has laid down in his Discoveries, we have as many and profitable rules for perfecting the stage, as any wherewith the French can furnish us.”

EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR,

Comedy by Ben Jonson. Acted by the Lord Chamberlain's Servants 1598. This comedy is, perhaps, in point of the redundance of characters and power of language, not inferior to any of our author's works. From the character of Kitely it is pretty evident that Dr. Hoadly took the idea of his Strictland in The Suspicious Husband in which, however, he has fallen far short of the original. This play had lain dormant and unemployed for many years, from its revival after the Restoration, until the year 1725 ; when it was again restored to the stage, with alterations, at Lincoln's Inn Fields. From this time it was no more heard of, until Mr. Garrick, in the year 1751, brought it once more on the stage, with some few alterations, and an additional scene of his own in the fourth act; ever since which time it has continued to be a stock-play, and to he performed very frequently every season. Yet it may be doubted if in any future period this piece will ever appear to the advantage it did at that time; since, exclusive of Mr. Garrick's own abilities in Kitely, and those of Messrs. Woodward and Shuter, in the respective parts of Captain Bobadil and Master Stephen, there was scarcely any one character throughout the whole, that could be conceived by an audience in the strong light, that they were represented by each several performer: such is the prodigious advantage, with respect to an audience, of the conduct of a theatre being lodged in the hands of a man, who, being himself a perfect master in the profession, is able to distinguish the peculiar abilities of each individual under him, and to adapt them to those characters in which they are, either by nature or acquirement, the best qualified to make a figure. Mr. Whalley observes, that, in this play, as originally written, "the scene was at Florence, the persons represented were Italians, and the manners in great measure conformable to the genius of the place; but in this very play, the humours of the under characters are local, expressing not the manners of a Florentine, but the gulls and bullies of the times and country in which the poet lived. And as it was thus represented on the stage, it was published in the same manner in 1601. When it was printed again in the collection of his works, it had a more becoming and consistent aspect. The scene was transferred to London; the names of the persons were changed to English ones, and the dialogue, incidents, and manners, were suited to the place of action. And thus we now have it in the folio edition of 1616, and in the several editions that have been printed since.

ACT I.

House.

Could I, by any practice, wean the boy
From one vain course of study he affects.

SCENE I.-A Court-yard before KNO'WELL'S He is a scholar, if a man may trust

The liberal voice of fame in her report,
Of good account in both our universities;
Either of which have favour'd him with graces;
morning. Brainworm, But their indulgence must not spring in me

Enter KnowELL and BRAINWORM.

Kno. A goodly day toward, and a fresh

Call up young master. Bid him rise, sir. A fond opinion, that he cannot err.
Tell him I have some business to employ him.

Brain. I will, sir, presently.
Kno. But hear you, sirrah,

If he be at his book, disturb him not.
Brain. Well, sir.

Enter MASTER STEPHEN.

Kno. How happy, yet, should I esteem myself,

Kno. That's kindly done; you are wel

come, coz.

Step. Ay, I know that, sir, I would not ha' come else. How doth my cousin Edward, uncle?

Kno. Oh, well, coz, go in and see: I doubt he be scarce stirring yet.

Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me an' be have e'er a book of the sciences of hawking and hunting? I would fain borrow it.

Kno. Why, I hope you will not a hawking now, will you?

Step. No wosse, but I'll practise against the uext year, uncle. I have bought me a hawk, and a hood, and bells, and all; I lack nothing but a book to keep it by.

Step. Sir, an' I thought you had, I would talk with you, and that presently. Serv. Good master Stephen, so you may, sir, at your pleasure.

Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy companion, an' you were out o'my uncle's ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon my gentility neither in't.

Kno. Cousin! cousin! will this ne'er be left? Step. Whoreson, base fellow! A mechanical servingman! By this cudgel, and 'twere not for shame, I would

Kno. What would you do, you peremptory gull? If you cannot be quiet, get you hence. You see the honest man demeans himself Modestly towards you, giving no reply To your unseason'd, quarrelling, rude fashion: Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, And still you huff it, with a kind of carriage, uncle. Why, you know, an' a man have not As void of wit as of humanity.

Kno. Oh, most ridiculous!

skill in the hawking and hunting languages Go get you in; 'fore heaven, I am asham'd now-a-days, I'll not give a rush for him. Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me. They are more studied than the Greek or the Latin. What, do you talk on it? Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company with none but citizens! A fine jest, i'faith! 'Slid, a gentleman mun show himself like a gentleUncle, I pray you be not angry. know what I have to do, I trow, I am no novice.

[Exit Stephen. Serv. I pray you, sir, is this master Kno'well's house?

nan.

Kno. You are a prodigal, absurd coxcomb!
go to!

Nay, never look at me, it's I that speak.
Take't as you will, sir, I'll not flatter you.
Ha' you not yet found means enow, to waste
That which your friends have left you, but
you must

Go cast away your money on a kite,
And know not how to keep it, when you've
done?

So, now you're told on it, you look another way.
Step. What would you ha' me do?
Kno. What would I have you do? I'll tell
you, kinsman;

Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive;
That would I have thee do; and not to spend
Your coin on every bauble that you fancy,
Or every foolish brain that humours you.
Who comes here?

Enter a Servant.

Serv. Save you, gentlemen.

Kno. Yes, marry, is't, sir.

Step. I should inquire for a gentleman here, one master Edward Kno'well. Do you know any such, sir, I pray you?

Kno. I should forget myself else, sir.

Serv. Are you the gentleman? Cry you mercy, sir, I was required by a gentleman i'the city, as I rode out at this end of the town, to deliver you this letter, sir.

Kno. To me, sir? [Reads] To his most selected friend, Master Edward Kno'well.— What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it?

Serv. One master Wellbred, sir.

Kno. Master Wellbred! A young gentleman, is he not?

Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister: the rich merchant i'the Old-jewry. Kno. You say very true. Brainworm!

Re-enter BTAIN WORM.

Brain. Sir.

Kno. Make this honest friend drink here.
Pray you go in.

[Exeunt Brainworm and Servant.
This letter is directed to my son:
Yet I am Edward Kno'well too, and may,

Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our With the safe conscience of good manners, use gentility, friend; yet, you are welcome; and The fellow's error to my satisfaction.

I assure you, mine uncle here is a man of a Well, I will break it ope, old men are curious. thousand a year, Middlesex land: he has but What's this? [Reads.

one son in all the world; I am his next heir Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forat the common law, master Stephen, as simple sworn all thy friends in the Old-jewry? or as I stand here; if my cousin die, as there's dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit hope he will. I have a pretty living o'my there? Leave thy vigilant father alone, to own too, beside, hard by here. number over his green apricots, evening Sere. In good time, sir. and morning, o'the north-west wall: an' 1 Step. In good time, sir! Why? And in had been his son, I had saved him the lavery good time, sir. You do not flout, friend, bour long since; if, taking in all the young do you? wenches that pass by, at the back door, Sero. Not I, sir. and coddling every kernel of the fruit for Step. Not you, sir! You were not best, 'em would ha' served. But, prythee, come sir; an' you should, here be them can per- over to me quickly this morning: I have ceive it, and that quickly too. Go to. And such a present for thee. One is a rhymer, they can give it again soundly too, an' need be. sir, o'your own batch, your own leaven; Sero. Why, sir, let this satisfy you: good but doth think himself poet-major o'the town; faith, I had no such intent. willing to be shown, and worthy to be seen.

The other-I will not venture his descrip-| Brain. Faith, he is not of that mind: he is tion with you till you come, hecause I would gone, master Stephen.

ha' you make hither with an appetite. If Step. Gone! which way? When went he? the worst of 'em be not worth your jour-How long since?

ney, draw your bill of charges as uncon- Step. He is rid hence. He took horse at scionable as any Guildhall verdict will give the street door. it you, and you shall be allow'd your viaticum. From the Windmill. From the Burdello, it might come as well! The Spital! Is this the man,

Kno. He spake not with the fellow, did he? Brainworm?
Brain. No, sir, he saw him not.

Young K. Here was a letter, indeed, to be intercepted by a man's father! He cannot but think most virtuously both of me and the sender, sure, that make the careful costerYoung K. That's bad. What countenance, monger of him in our familiar epistles. I pray thee, made he i'the reading of it? Was wish I knew the end of it, which now is he angry or pleas'd?

Young K. What then?

he lodge in such a base, obscure place as thy house! Tut, I know his disposition so well, he would not lie in thy bed, if thou'dst gi' it him.

Step. I am satisfied; it is sufficient. Cob. I will not give it him, though, sir. Young K. Why, be so, gentle coz. And I Mass, I thought somewhat was in't, we could you, let me entreat a courtesy of you, not get him to bed all night! Well, sir, though I'am sent for this morning, by a friend 'the he lie not o'my bed, he lies o'my bench. An't Old-jewry, to come to him; it's but crossing please you to go up, sir, you shall find him over the fields to Moorgate: will you bear with two cushions under his head, and his me company? I protest it is not to draw you cloak wrapped about him, as though he had into bond, or any plot against the state, coz. neither won nor lost; and yet, I warrant, he Step. Sir, that's all one, an 'twere; you ne'er cast better in his life, than he has done shall command me twice so far as Moorgate to-night. to do you good in such a matter. Do you think I would leave you? I protest

Young K. No, no, you shall not protest, coz. Step. By my fackins, but I will, by your leave; I'll protest more to my friend than I'll speak of at this time.

Young K. Your speak very well, coz.

Step. Nay, not so, neither; you shall pardon me but I speak to serve my turn.

Mat. Why, was he drunk?

Cob. Drunk, sir! you hear not me say so. Perhaps he swallowed a tavern-token, or some such device, sir; I have nothing to do withal. I deal with water, and not with wine. Gi' me my bucket there, hoa. God b'wi'you, sir, it's six o'clock; I should ha' carried two turns by this. What, hoa! my stopple! come. Mat. Lie in a water-bearer's house! A

Enter TIB.

[Aside.

Young K You turn, coz! Do you know gentleman of his havings! well, I'll tell him what you say? A gentleman of your sort, my mind. parts, carriage, and estimation, to talk o'your turn i'this company, and to me alone, like a water-bearer at a conduit! Come, come, wrong Cob. What, Tib, show this gentleman up not the quality of your desert with looking to the captain. [Tib shows Master Matthew downward, coz; but hold up your head so; into the House] You should ha' some now, and let the idea of what you are be pourtray'd would take this Mr. Matthew to be a gentlei'your face, that men may read i'your physiog- man at the least. His father is an honest nomy, here, within this place, is to be seen, man, a worshipful fishmonger, and so forth; the true and accomplished monster, or miracle and now does he creep, and wriggle into ac◄ of nature, which is all one. What think you quaintance with all the brave gallants about of this, coz? the town, such as my guest is. O, my guest Step. Why, I do think of it; and I will be is a fine man! he does swear the legiblest of more proud, and melancholy, and gentleman- any man christened: by saint George-the foot like, than I have been, I'll assure you. of Pharaoh-the body of me as I am a gentleYoung K. Why, that's resolute, master man and a soldier-such dainty oaths! And Stephen! Now, if I can but hold him up to withal, he does take this same filthy roguish his height, as it is happily begun, it will do tobacco, the finest and cleauliest! it would do well for a suburb humour: we may hap have a man good to see the fume come forth out a match with the city, and play him for forty pounds. [Aside] Come, coz. Step. I'll follow you.

at's tonnels! Well, he owes me forty shillings, my wife lent him out of her purse by sixpence a time, besides his lodging; I would Young K. Follow me! you must go before. I had it. I shall ha' it, he says, the next acStep. Nay, an' I must, I will. Pray you, tion. Helter-skelter, hang sorrow, care'll kill show me, good cousin. [Exeunt. a cat, uptails all, and a louse for the hang

SCENE III.-The Street before CoB's House.

Enter MASTER MATTHEW,

Mat. I think this be the house. What, hoa!

Enter COB, from the House. Cob. Who's there? O, master Matthew! gi' your worship_good morrow.

Mat. What, Cob! How dost thou, good Cob? Dost thou inhabit here, Cob.

Cob. Ay, sir; I and my lineage ha' kept a poor house here in our days.

Mat. Cob, canst thou show me of a gentleman, one captain Bobadil, where his lodging is?

Cob. O, my guest, sir, you mean!
Mat. Thy guest! alas! ha, ha!
Cob. Why do you laugh, sir? do you not
mean captain Bobadil?

Mat. Cob, pray thee, advice thyself well; do not wrong the gentleman and thyself too. I dare be sworn he scorns thy house. He!

man.

[Exit.
SCENE IV.-A Room in COB's House.
CAPTAIN BOBADIL discovered upon a Bench.
Enter TIB.

Capt. B. Hostess, hostess!
Tib. What say you, sir?

Capt. B. A cup o'thy small beer, sweet hostess.

Tib. Sir, there's a gentleman below would speak with you.

Capt. B. A gentleman! 'Ods so. I am not within.

Tib. My husband told him you were, sir.
Capt. B. What a plague-what meant he?
Mat. [Within] Captain Bobadil!

Capt. B. Who's there?-Take away the bason, good hostess. Come up, sir.

Tib. He would desire you to come up, sir.
You come into a cleanly house here. [Exit.

Enter MASTer Matthew.
Mat. Save you, sir; save you, captain.