process. Skilful barbers are introduced without delay, and the King proposes, that execution shall be first done upon himself and his ferocious spouse. This, however, is not very palatable, and the Queen drops her design. But, although she relinquishes her dire intent to erase the men's beards, she still preserves her hatred against the breasts of the women, and in a subsequent part of the play, orders the Lady Mayoress of London to be brought into the presence, and intimates her intention to bestow upon her the office either of nurse or laundress.-The Mayoress selects the former, whereupon, she is, without rhyme or reason, tied down in a chair, and an adder is placed on her breast, the Queen exclaiming, "Suck on, sweet babe." The serpent, in obedience to this sovereign command, is very assiduous in its application, until the poor Mayoress expires.

The following lines, addressed by Edward to this Spanish fury, are worth quoting. The two last lines might have been a couplet of Pope's.

"This Spanish pride 'grees not with England's Prince;
Milde is the mind where honor builds her bow're,

And yet is earthly honor but a flow're;

Fast to those looks are all my fancies tied,

Pleas'de with thy sweetnes, angry with thy pride."

In the course of the piece, Lluellen, Prince of Wales, assumes the character of Robin Hood of the great mountains, and his followers take corresponding titles. Friar David becomes Friar David ap Tuck. There is a good deal of humour in the contrivance of this jolly Friar, as described in the following

scene.

"Farmer. 'Tis an olde saide saying, I remember I redde it in Catoe's Pueriles, that Cantabit vacuus coram latrone viator. A man's purse pennilesse may sing before a thiefe, true as I have not one pennie, which makes me so peartly passe through these thickets, but, indeede, I receave a hundred marks, and al the care is how I shall passe againe; well, I am resolved either to ride twentie miles about, or else to be so well accompanied that I will not care for these ruffelers. Frier. Did ever man play with such uncircumcised handes, six ace to eleven and lose the chance.

Farmer. God speed, good fellow, why chafest thou so fast, ther's nobody will win thy money from thee.

Frier. Sounds, you offer me injury, sir, to speake in my caste. Farmer. The frier, undoubtedly, is lunaticke; I pray thee, good fellow, leave chaffing, and get some warme drinke to comfort thy braines.

Frier. Alasse, sir, I am not lunaticke, 'tis not so well, for I have lost my money, which is farre worse; I have lost five gold nobles to

St. Francis, and if I knew where to meete with his receaver I would paye him presently.

Farmer. Would'st thou speak with St. Francis' receaver?
Frier. O Lord, ay sir, full gladlie.

Farmer. Why man, I am St. Francis' receaver, if you would have anie thing with him.

Frier. Are you St. Francis' receaver, are you St. Francis' receaver and how does all?

Farmer. I am his receaver and am now going to him, abides St. Thomas a Waterings to breakfast this morning to a calfe's head and bacon.

Frier. Sir, I beseech you carrie him these five nobles, and tell him I deale honestlie with him as if he were here present.

Farmer. I will of my word and honestie, Frier, and so farewell.

Farmer. Alas, gentlemen, if you love yourselves, doe not venture through this mountaine, here's such a coile with Robin Hood and his rabbell, that everie crosse in my purse trembles for feare.

Longsh. Honest man, as I saide to thee before, conduct us through this wood, and if thou beest rob'de, or have anie violence offered thee, as I am a gentleman, I will repaire it againe.

David. How much money hast thou about thee?

Farmer. Faithe, sir, a hundred markes, I receaved it, even now, at Brecknocke, but out, alasse, we are undone, yonder is Robin Hood, and all the strong theeves in the mountain, I have no hope left but your honour's assurance.

Longsh. Feare not, I will be my word's maister.

Frier. Good maister, and if you love the frier, give aime a while I you desire: and as you like of my device, so love him that holds the dice.

Farmer. What frier, art thou still laboring so hard, will you have anie thing more to St. Francis?

Frier. Good Lord, are you here, sweet St. Francis' receaver, how doth his holines and all his good familie?

Farmer. In health faith, Frier, hast thou anie nobles for him? Frier. You knowe the dice are not partiall, an St. Francis were ten, sir, they wil favour him no more than they would the devil if he playe at dice; in verie truth, my friend, they have favored the Frier, and I have won a hundred marks of St. Francis; come, sir, I praye, sirra, draw it over, I knowe, sirra, he is a good man and never de

ceaves none.

Farmer. Draw it over, what meanest thou by that?

Frier. Why in numeratis pecuniis legem pone, paye me my winnings.

Farmer. What asse is this, should I paye thee thy winnings?
Frier. Why art thou not, sirra, St. Francis' receaver?
Farmer. Indeede, I doe receave for St. Francis.

Frier. Then I'le make you paye for St. Francis, that's flat.

[bustling on both sides.

Farmer. Helpe, helpe, I am rob'de, I am rob'de.

Longsh. Villain, you wrong the man, hands off.

Frier. Maisters, I beseech you leave this brawling and give me leave to speak; so it is, I went to dice with St. Francis and lost five nobles: by good fortune his cashier came by, receaved it of me in readie cash. I, being verie desirous to trie my fortune further, playde still, and as the dice, not beinge bound prentice to him or anie man, favored me, I drew a hand and won a hundred marks; now I refer it to your judgements whether the Frier is to seeke his winnings.

Longsh. Marrie, Frier, the Farmer must and shall paye thee honestlie ere he passe.

Farmer. Shall I, sir? why will you be content to paye halfe as you promist me.

Longsh. Ay, Farmer, if you had beene rob'de of it, but if you be a gamester I'le take no charge of you.”

Peele was also the author of a comedy, called The Old Wives' Tale; and a play never printed, as appears from his merry conceited jests, under the title of The Turkish Mahomet, and Hyren the faire Greeke; besides pageants, for his talent in which he was much celebrated *.

We shall now proceed to Greene's Orlando Furioso, taken from Ariosto, an irregular piece not divided into acts. It does not appear to us, to be worth while to give any account of this play, and we shall, therefore, merely observing that the madness of Orlando is nearly as sane as the rest of the scenes, make two or three extracts, to shew the style in which it is written. Amongst the several pretenders to the hand of Angelica, Orlando urges his claims.

"Orlando. Lords of the southe, and princes of esteeme, Viceroyes unto the state of Africa:

I am no king, yet I am princely borne,
Decended from the royall house of France,
And nephew to the mightie Charlemaine,
Surnam❜de Orlando, the Countie Palatine.

Swift fame that sounded to our western seas

The matchless beautie of Angelica,

Fairer than was the nymphe of Mercurie,

Who when bright Phœbus mounteth up his coach,
And tracks Aurora in her silver steps,

* In the play of the Puritan, in which he is conjectured, by Mr. Steevens, to be represented under the character of George Pieboard, he is described as "an excellent scholar, and especially for a mask." There can be no doubt, that the conjecture is correct;-one of the incidents in the play is taken with but a slight variation from Peele's jests.And a baker's pye-board is still called a peele.

Doth sprinkle from the folding of her lap,
White lilies, roses, and sweete violettes.
Yet thus believe me, princes of the south,
Although my countrie's love, dearer than pearle
Or mynes of gold, might well have kept me backe,
The seas by Neptune hoysed to the heavens,

Whose dangerous flawes might well have kept me backe;
The savage Mores and Anthropagei

Whose landes I past might well have kept me backe;

The doubt of entertainment in the court

When I arriv'de might well have kept me backe:

But so the fame of faire Angelica,

Stampt in my thoughts the figure of her love,
As neither country, king, or seas, or cannibals,
Could by dispairing keepe Orlando backe.
I list not boaste in notes of chivalrie,
(An humor never fitting with my minde)

But come there forth, the proudest champion
That hath suspicion in the Palatine,

And with my trustie sword Durandell

Single I'le register upon his helme,

What I dare doe for faire Angelica.

But leaving these, such glories as they bee;
I love, my Lord!

Angelica herselfe shall speake for me."

There is some animation in the soliloquy of Sacripant, a lover of Angelica, or rather of the crown.

66

Sacripant. Sweet are the thoughts that smother from conceit:
For when I come and sit me downe to reste,

My chaire presents a throne of majestie :
And when I set my bonnet on my head,
Methinks I fit my forehead for a crowne:
And when I take my truncheon in my fist,
A sceptre then comes tumbling in my thoughts.
My dreames are princely, all of diadems.
Honor: methinks the title is too base.

Mightie, glorious, and excellent :

Aye, these my glorious genius sounds within my mouth,
These please the eare, and with a sweete applause,

Make me in tearmes coequall with the gods.

Then these, Sacripant, and none but these."

The following is a favorable example of the manner in

which Greene lavishes gorgeous expressions on things, to which the application is extravagant.

Orlando. Thanks, my good lords; and now, my friends of France,
Frollicke, be merrye, we will hasten home,

So soone as King Marsilius will consent,
To let his daughter wend with us to France.
Meanwhile wee'le richly rigge up all our fleete,
More brave than was that gallant Grecian keele,
That brought away the Colchian fleece of gold.
Our sailes of sendal spread into the winde,
Our ropes and tacklings all of finest silke,
Fetcht from the native loomes of labouring wormes,
The pride of Barbarie and the glorious wealthe,
That is transported by the western bounds:
Our stems cut out of glassy ivorie,

Our planks and sides fram'de out of cypresse wood,
That bears the name of Cyparissus' change,
To burst the billows of the ocean sea,

Where Phoebus dips his amber-tresses oft,
And kisses Thetis in the daye's decline,

That Neptune proud shall call his Trytons forth,
To cover all the ocean with a calme."

How many plays Greene wrote it is impossible to ascertain; Nash says, "he was chief of the company, for he writ more than four others; (how well I will not say, but sat cito si bene sat)." There are, however, five plays which are known to have been written by him; the two of which we have already given an account in this and the preceding article; The comical historie of Alphonsus King of Arragon, and The Scottish Story of James the Fourth, both printed in 1599, seven years after his death; and The History of Jobe, which was never printed.

We have already intimated, that Greene could write in a purer and chaster spirit of poetry, than he thought it necessary or politic to do in his plays. It is reasonable, therefore, to assume, that the latter pieces were designedly written in an extravagant and braggart style to catch the fleeting admiration of a vulgar and unlettered audience. We shall make two extracts from his "Never too late," in illustration of the above remark, both of which are put into modern orthography.

The following ode of the penitent Palmer, allowing for a slight inaccuracy of metaphor, possesses beauty both of thought and versification.

"Whilom in the winter's rage,
A Palmer old and full of age,