Chapter X: Part 10

Not content with making war on his own account almost, Beaumarchais also undertook the immense task of publishing a complete edition of Voltaire. He also prepared a sequel to the 'Barber,' in which Figaro should be even more important, and should serve as a mouthpiece for declamatory criticism of the social order. But his 'Marriage of Figaro' was so full of the revolutionary ferment that its performance was forbidden. Following the example of Molière under the similar interdiction of 'Tartuffe,' Beaumarchais was untiring in arousing interest in his unacted play, reading it himself in the houses of the great. Finally it was authorized, and when the first performance took place at the Théâtre Français in 1784, the crush to see it was so great that three persons were stifled to death. The new comedy was as amusing and as adroit as its predecessor, and the hits at the times were sharper and swifter and more frequent. How demoralized society was then may be gauged by the fact that this disintegrating satire was soon acted by the amateurs of the court, a chief character being impersonated by Marie Antoinette herself.

The career of Beaumarchais reached its climax with the production of the second of the Figaro plays. Afterward he wrote the libretto for an opera, 'Tarare,' produced with Salieri's music in 1787; the year before he had married for the third time. In a heavy play called 'The Guilty Mother,' acted with slight success in 1790, he brought in Figaro yet once more. During the Terror he emigrated to Holland, returning to Paris in 1796 to find his sumptuous mansion despoiled. May 18th, 1799, he died, leaving a fortune of $200,000, besides numerous claims against the French nation and the United States.

An interesting parallel could be drawn between 'The Rivals' and the 'School for Scandal' on the one side, and on the other 'The Barber of Seville' and 'The Marriage of Figaro'; and there are also piquant points of likeness between Sheridan and Beaumarchais. But Sheridan, with all his failings, was of sterner stuff than Beaumarchais. He had a loftier political morality, and he served the State more loyally. Yet the two comedies of Beaumarchais are like the two comedies of Sheridan in their incessant wit, in their dramaturgic effectiveness, and in the histrionic opportunities they afford. Indeed, the French comedies have had a wider audience than the English, thanks to an Italian and a German,--to Rossini who set 'The Barber of Seville' to music, and to Mozart who did a like service for 'The Marriage of Figaro.'

FROM 'THE BARBER OF SEVILLE'

OUTWITTING A GUARDIAN

[Rosina's lover, Count Almaviva, attempts to meet and converse with her by hoodwinking Dr. Bartolo, her zealous guardian. He comes in disguise to Bartolo's dwelling, in a room of which the scene is laid.]

[_Enter Count Almaviva, dressed as a student_.]

_Count [solemnly]_--May peace and joy abide here evermore!

_Bartolo [brusquely]_--Never, young sir, was wish more àpropos! What do you want?

_Count_--Sir, I am one Alonzo, a bachelor of arts--

_Bartolo_--Sir, I need no instructor.

_Count_---- ---- a pupil of Don Basilio, the organist of the convent, who teaches music to Madame your--

_Bartolo [suspiciously]_--Basilio! Organist! Yes, I know him. Well?

_Count [aside]_--What a man! _[Aloud.]_ He's confined to his bed with a sudden illness.

_Bartolo_--Confined to his bed! Basilio! He's very good to send word, for I've just seen him.

_Count [aside]_--Oh, the devil! [_Aloud._] When I say to his bed, sir, it's--I mean to his room.

_Bartolo_--Whatever's the matter with him, go, if you please.

_Count [embarrassed]_--Sir, I was asked--Can no one hear us?

_Bartolo [aside]_--It's some rogue! _[Aloud.]_ What's that? No, Monsieur Mysterious, no one can hear! Speak frankly--if you can.

_Count [aside]_--Plague take the old rascal! _[Aloud.]_ Don Basilio asked me to tell you--

_Bartolo_--Speak louder. I'm deaf in one ear.

_Count [raising his voice_]--Ah! quite right: he asks me to say to you that one Count Almaviva, who was lodging on the great square--

_Bartolo [frightened]_--Speak low, speak low.

_Count [louder]_----moved away from there this morning. As it was I who told him that this Count Almaviva--

_Bartolo_--Low, speak lower, I beg of you.

_Count [in the same tone_]--Was in this city, and as I have discovered that Señorita Rosina has been writing to him--

_Bartolo_--Has been writing to him? My dear friend, I implore you, _do_ speak low! Come, let's sit down, let's have a friendly chat. You have discovered, you say, that Rosina--

_Count_ [_angrily_]--Certainly. Basilio, anxious about this correspondence on your account, asked me to show you her letter; but the way you take things--

_Bartolo_--Good Lord! I take them well enough. But can't you possibly speak a little lower?

_Count_--You told me you were deaf in one ear.

_Bartolo_--I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, if I've been surly and suspicious, Signor Alonzo: I'm surrounded with spies--and then your figure, your age, your whole air--I beg your pardon. Well? Have you the letter?

_Count_--I'm glad you're barely civil at last, sir. But are you quite sure no one can overhear us?

_Bartolo_--Not a soul. My servants are all tired out. Señorita Rosina has shut herself up in a rage! The very devil's to pay in this house. Still I'll go and make sure. [_He goes to peep into Rosina's room_.]

_Count_ [_aside_]--Well, I've caught myself now in my own trap. Now what shall I do about the letter? If I were to run off?--but then I might just as well not have come. Shall I show it to him? If I could only warn Rosina beforehand! To show it would be a master-stroke.

_Bartolo_ [_returning on tiptoe_]--She's sitting by the window with her back to the door, and re-reading a cousin's letter which I opened. Now, now--let me see hers.

_Count_ [_handing him Rosina's letter_]--Here it is. [_Aside._] She's re-reading _my_ letter.

_Bartolo_ [_reads quickly_]--"Since you have told me your name and estate--" Ah, the little traitress! Yes, it's her writing.

_Count_ [_frightened_]--Speak low yourself, won't you?

_Bartolo_--What for, if you please?

_Count_--When we've finished, you can do as you choose. But after all, Don Basilio's negotiation with a lawyer--

_Bartolo_--With a lawyer? About my marriage?

_Count_--Would I have stopped you for anything else? He told me to say that all can be ready to-morrow. Then, if she resists--

_Bartolo_--She will.

_Count_ [_wants to take back the letter; Bartolo clutches it_]--I'll tell you what we'll do. We will show her her letter; and then, if necessary, [_more mysteriously_] I'll even tell her that it was given to me by a woman--to whom the Count is sacrificing her. Shame and rage may bring her to terms on the spot.

_Bartolo_ [_laughing_]--Calumny, eh? My dear fellow, I see very well now that you come from Basilio. But lest we should seem to have planned this together, don't you think it would be better if she'd met you before?

_Count_ [_repressing a start of joy_]--Don Basilio thought so, I know. But how can we manage it? It is late already. There's not much time left.

_Bartolo_--I will tell her you've come in his place. Couldn't you give her a lesson?

_Count_--I'll do anything you like. But take care she doesn't suspect. All these dodges of pretended masters are rather old and theatrical.

_Bartolo_--She won't suspect if I introduce you. But how you do look! You've much more the air of a disguised lover than of a zealous student-friend.

_Count_--Really? Don't you think I can hoodwink her all the better for that?

_Bartolo_--She'll never guess. She's in a horrible temper this evening. But if she'll only see you--Her harpsichord is in this room. Amuse yourself while you're waiting. I'll do all I can to bring her here.

_Count_--Don't say a word about the letter.

_Bartolo_--Before the right moment? It would lose all effect if I did. It's not necessary to tell me things twice; it's not necessary to tell me things twice. [_He goes._]

_Count_ [_alone, soliloquizes_]--At last I've won! Ouf! What a difficult little old imp he is! Figaro understands him. I found myself lying, and that made me awkward; and he has eyes for everything! On my honor, if the letter hadn't inspired me he'd have thought me a fool!--Ah, how they are disputing in there!--What if she refuses to come? Listen--If she won't, my coming is all thrown away. There she is: I won't show myself at first.

[_Rosina enters_.]

_Rosina_ [_angrily_]--There's no use talking about it, sir. I've made up my mind. I don't want to hear anything more about music.

_Bartolo_--But, my child, do listen! It is Señor Alonzo, the friend and pupil of Don Basilio, whom he has chosen as one of our marriage witnesses. I'm sure that music will calm you.

_Rosina_--Oh! you needn't concern yourself about that; and as for singing this evening--Where is this master you're so afraid of dismissing? I'll settle him in a minute--and Señor Basilio too. [_She sees her lover and exclaims_:] Ah!

_Bartolo_--Eh, eh, what is the matter?

_Rosina_ [_pressing her hands to her heart_]--Ah, sir! Ah, sir!

_Bartolo_--She is ill again! Señor Alonzo!

_Rosina_--No, I am not ill--but as I was turning--ah!

_Count_--Did you sprain your foot, Madame?

_Rosina_--Yes, yes, I sprained my foot! I--hurt myself dreadfully.

_Count_--So I perceived.

_Rosina_ [_looking at the Count_]--The pain really makes me feel faint.

_Bartolo_--A chair--a chair there! And not a single chair here! [_He goes to get one_.]

_Count_--Ah, Rosina!

_Rosina_--What imprudence!

_Count_--There are a hundred things I must say to you.

_Rosina_--He won't leave us alone.

_Count_--Figaro will help us.

_Bartolo_ [_bringing an arm-chair_]--Wait a minute, my child. Sit down here. She can't take a lesson this evening, Señor: you must postpone it. Good-by.

_Rosina_ [_to the Count_]--No, wait; my pain is better. [_To Bartolo_.] I feel that I've acted foolishly! I'll imitate you, and atone at once by taking my lesson.

_Bartolo_--Oh! Such a kind little woman at heart! But after so much excitement, my child, I can't let you make any exertion. So good-bye, Señor, good-bye.

_Rosina_ [_to the Count_]--Do wait a minute! [_To Bartolo_.] I shall think that you don't care to please me if you won't let me show my regret by taking my lesson.

_Count_ [_aside to Bartolo_]--I wouldn't oppose her, if I were you.

_Bartolo_--That settles it, my love: I am so anxious to please you that I shall stay here all the time you are practicing.

_Rosina_--No, don't. I know you don't care for music.

_Bartolo_--It _will_ charm me this evening, I'm sure.

_Rosina [aside to the Count_]--I'm tormented to death!

_Count [taking a sheet of music from the stand_]--Will you sing this, Madame?

_Rosina_--Yes, indeed--it's a very pretty thing out of the opera 'The Useless Precaution.'

_Bartolo_--Why do you _always_ sing from 'The Useless Precaution'?

_Count_--There is nothing newer! It's a picture of spring in a very bright style. So if Madame wants to try it--

_Rosina [looking at the Count_]--With pleasure. A picture of spring is delightful! It is the youth of nature. It seems as if the heart always feels more when winter's just over. It's like a slave who finds liberty all the more charming after a long confinement.

_Bartolo [to the Count_]--Always romantic ideas in her head!

_Count [in a low tone_]--Did you notice the application?

_Bartolo_--Zounds!

_[He sits down in the chair which Rosina has been occupying. Rosina sings, during which Bartolo goes to sleep. Under cover of the refrain the Count seizes Rosina's hand and covers it with kisses. In her emotion she sings brokenly, and finally breaks off altogether. The sudden silence awakens Bartolo. The Count starts up, and Rosina quickly resumes her song_.]

* * * * *

_[Don Basilio enters. Figaro in background_.]

_Rosina [startled, to herself_]--Don Basilio!

_Count [aside]_--Good Heaven!

_Figaro_--The devil!

_Bartolo [going to meet him_]--Ah! welcome, Basilio. So your accident was not very serious? Alonzo quite alarmed me about you. He will tell you that I was just going to see you, and if he had not detained me--

_Basilio [in astonishment_]--Señor Alonzo?

_Figaro [stamping his foot_]--Well, well! How long must I wait? Two hours wasted already over your beard--Miserable business!

_Basilio [looking at every one in amazement_]--But, gentlemen, will you please tell me--

_Figaro_--You can talk to him after I've gone.

_Basilio_--But still, would--

_Count_--You'd better be quiet, Basilio. Do you think you can inform him of anything new? I've told him that you sent me for the music lesson instead of coming himself.

_Basilio [still more astonished]_--The music lesson! Alonzo!

_Rosina [aside to Basilio]--Do_ hold your tongue, can't you?

_Basilio_--She, too!

_Count [to Bartolo]_--Let him know what you and I have agreed upon.

_Bartolo [aside to Basilio]_--Don't contradict, and say that he is not your pupil, or you will spoil everything.

_Basilio_--Ah! Ah!

_Bartolo [aloud]_--Indeed, Basilio, your pupil has a great deal of talent.

_Basilio [stupefied]_--My pupil! [_In a low tone_.] I came to tell you that the Count has moved.

_Bartolo [low]_--I know it. Hush.

_Basilio [low]_--Who told you?

_Bartolo [low]_--He did, of course.

_Count [low]_--It was I, naturally. Just listen, won't you?

_Rosina [low to Basilio]_--Is it so hard to keep still?

_Figaro [low to Basilio]_--Hum! The sharper! He is deaf!

_Basilio [aside]_--Who the devil are they trying to deceive here? Everybody seems to be in it!

_Bartolo [aloud]_--Well, Basilio--about your lawyer--?

_Figaro_--You have the whole evening to talk about the lawyer.

_Bartolo [to Basilio]_--One word; only tell me if you are satisfied with the lawyer.

_Basilio [startled]_--With the lawyer?

_Count [smiling]_--Haven't you seen the lawyer?

_Basilio [impatient]_--Eh? No, I haven't seen the lawyer.

_Count [aside to Bartolo]_--Do you want him to explain matters before her? Send him away.

_Bartolo [low to the Count]_--You are right. [_To Basilio_.] But what made you ill, all of a sudden?

_Basilio [angrily]_--I don't understand you.

_Count [secretly slipping a purse into his hands]_--Yes: he wants to know what you are doing here, when you are so far from well?

_Figaro_--He's as pale as a ghost!

_Basilio_--Ah! I understand.

_Count_--Go to bed, dear Basilio. You are not at all well, and you make us all anxious. Go to bed.

_Figaro_--He looks quite upset. Go to bed.

_Bartolo_--I'm sure he seems feverish. Go to bed.

_Rosina_--Why did you come out? They say that it's catching. Go to bed.

_Basilio [in the greatest amazement]_--I'm to go to bed!

_All the others together_--Yes, you must.

_Basilio [looking at them all]_--Indeed, I think I will have to withdraw. I don't feel quite as well as usual.

_Bartolo_--We'll look for you to-morrow, if you are better.

_Count_--I'll see you soon, Basilio.

_Basilio [aside]_--Devil take it if I understand all this! And if it weren't for this purse--

_All_--Good-night, Basilio, good-night.

_Basilio [going]_--Very well, then; good-night, _good-night_.

[_The others, all laughing, push him civilly out of the room_.]

FROM 'THE MARRIAGE OF FIGARO'

OUTWITTING A HUSBAND

[The scene is the boudoir of young Countess Almaviva, the Rosina of the previous selection. She is seated alone, when her clever maid Susanna ushers in the young page Cherubino, just banished from the house because obnoxious to the jealous Count.]

_Susanna_--Here's our young Captain, Madame.

_Cherubino [timidly]_--The title is a sad reminder that--that I must leave this delightful home and the godmother who has been so kind--

_Susanna--And_ so beautiful!

_Cherubino [sighing]_--Ah, yes!

_Susanna [mocking his sigh]_--Ah, yes! Just look at his hypocritical eyelids! Madame, make him sing his new song. [_She gives it to him_.] Come now, my beautiful bluebird, sing away.

_Countess_--Does the manuscript say who wrote this--song?

_Susanna_--The blushes of guilt betray him.

_Cherubino_--Madame, I--I--tremble so.

_Susanna_--Ta, ta, ta, ta--! Come, modest author--since you are so commanded. Madame, I'll accompany him.

_Countess [to Susanna]_--Take my guitar.

_[Cherubino sings his ballad to the air of 'Malbrouck.' The Countess reads the words of it from his manuscript, with an occasional glance at him; he sometimes looks at her and sometimes lowers his eyes as he sings. Susanna, accompanying him, watches them both, laughing.]_

_Countess [folding the song]_--Enough, my boy. Thank you. It is very good--full of feeling--

_Susanna_--Ah! as for feeling--this is a young man who--well!

_[Cherubino tries to stop her by catching hold of her dress. Susanna whispers to him]_--Ah, you good-for-nothing! I'm going to tell her. _[Aloud.]_ Well--Captain! We'll amuse ourselves by seeing how you look in one of my dresses!

_Countess_--Susanna, how _can_ you go on so?

_Susanna [going up to Cherubino and measuring herself with him]_--He's just the right height. Off with your coat. _[She draws it off.]_

_Countess_--But what if some one should come?

_Susanna_--What if they do? We're doing no wrong. But I'll lock the door, just the same. _[Locks it.]_ I want to see him in a woman's head-dress!

_Countess_--Well, you'll find my little cap in my dressing-room on the toilet table.

_[Susanna gets the cap, and then, sitting down on a stool, she makes Cherubino kneel before her and arranges it on his hair.]_

_Susanna_--Goodness, isn't he a pretty girl? I'm jealous. Cherubino, you're altogether _too_ pretty.

_Countess_--Undo his collar a little; that will give a more feminine air. [_Susanna loosens his collar so as to show his neck_.] Now push up his sleeves, so that the under ones show more. [_While Susanna rolls up Cherubino's sleeves, the Countess notices her lost ribbon around his wrist_.] What is that? My ribbon?

_Susanna_--Ah! I'm very glad you've seen it, for I told him I should tell. I should certainly have taken it away from him if the Count hadn't come just then; for I am almost as strong as he is.

_Countess [with surprise, unrolling the ribbon]_--There's blood on it!

_Cherubino_--Yes, I was tightening the curb of my horse this morning, he curvetted and gave me a push with his head, and the bridle stud grazed my arm.

_Countess_--I never saw a ribbon used as a bandage before.

_Susanna_--Especially a _stolen_ ribbon. What may all those things be--the curb, the curvetting, the bridle stud? [_Glances at his arms_.] What white arms he has! just like a woman's. Madame, they are whiter than mine.

_Countess_--Never mind that, but run and find me some oiled silk.

[_Susanna goes out, after humorously pushing Cherubino over so that he falls forward on his hands. He and the Countess look at each other for some time; then she breaks the silence_.]

_Countess_--I hope you are plucky enough. Don't show yourself before the Count again to-day. We'll tell him to hurry up your commission in his regiment.

_Cherubino_--I already have it, Madame. 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_].

_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._] Hide yourself, 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_--I--I--was gossiping with Susanna. She's gone. [_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 surrounded 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.

[_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.

_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._] Susanna, 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. [_Cherubino hurries out of the dressing-room._] Escape--you haven't a minute to lose!

_Cherubino_--Where can I go?

_Susanna_--I don't know, I don't know at all! but do go somewhere!

_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 window, hesitates, and finally jumps down into the garden._]

_Susanna_--Ah! [_She falls fainting into an arm-chair. Recovering 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 suspicions 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_--I--I assure you we were only planning an innocent 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--

_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_ [_seeing 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 comedy, Madame.

_Susanna_--And what about me, sir?

_Count_--And so do you.

_Countess_--Aren't you glad you found her instead of Cherubino? [_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 making me out as bad as you can?

_Countess_--Did I marry you to be eternally subjected to jealousy 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.

_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 understand 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 unfortunate 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.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT and JOHN FLETCHER

(1584-1616) (1579-1625)

"The 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 necessity, 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 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 commoner 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 invention.

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 cousins. 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, 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 productivity 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 Westminster 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 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 complete 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 Swinburne'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. The predominance 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, Beaumont 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 facility with which he reproduces in light, airy verse the bantering conversations 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 new form of mixed comedy and dramatic romance, dealing with the 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 exponent, 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 Kinsmen,' 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 England. 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 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 English mind. They satisfied the curiosity of their time, and expressed its surface ideas and longings. This accounts for their great popularity, which in their day eclipsed even Shakespeare's, as it accounts also for their shortcomings. They skimmed over the surface of passion, 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 contrition 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 sudden 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 needless unending sufferings of persecuted virtue, as Webster; nor yet to 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 throughout 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 characters appeal to 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 present. 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 Shepherdess,' with Jonson's 'Sad Shepherd' and 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 century, 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 disciple; 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.

THE FAITHFUL SHEPHERDESS

BY FLETCHER

[Clorin, a shepherdess, watching by the grave of her lover, is found by a Satyr.]

CLORIN--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:

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 I 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
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,
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

Care-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

God 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

Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow-branches bear;
Say I died true.

My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth:
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!

LEANDRO'S SONG

BY FLETCHER

Dearest, 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

May 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!

ODE TO MELANCHOLY

By Fletcher

Hence, 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 fixèd 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

If 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

Of comic style, which only is fat 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