Thy boys, Ambition, Pride, and Scorn,
Force, Rapine, and thy babe last born
Smooth Treachery, call hither,
Arm Folly forth, and Ignorance,
And teach them all our Pyrrhic dance:
We may triumph together,

Upon this enemy so great,
Whom, if our forces can defeat,

And but this once bring under,
We are the masters of the skies,
Where all the wealth, height, power lies,
The sceptre, and the thunder.

Which of you would not in a war
Attempt the price of any scar,

To keep your own states even?
But here, which of you is that he,
Would not himself the weapon be,
To ruin Jove and heaven?

About it then, and let him feel
The Iron Age is turn'd to steel,

Since he begins to threat her:

And though the bodies here are less
Than were the giants; he'll confess

Our malice is far greater.

[The Evils enter for the Antimasque, and dance to two drums, trumpets, and a confusion of martial music. At the end of which Pallas re-appears, showing her shield. The Evils are turned to statues.]

Pal. So change, and perish, scarcely knowing how,

That 'gainst the gods do take so vain a vow,
And think to equal with your mortal dates,
Their lives that are obnoxious to no fates.
'Twas time to appear, and let their folly see
'Gainst whom they fought, and with what destiny.

Die all that can remain of you, but stone,

And that be seen a while, and then be none!

Now, now descend, you both belov'd of Jove,

And of the good on earth no less the love.

[The scene changes, and she calls Astræa and the Golden Age.]
Descend, you long, long wish'd and wanted pair,

And as your softer tunes divide the air,

So shake all clouds off with your golden hair;

For Spite is spent: the Iron Age is fled,

And, with her power on earth, her name is dead.

You far-famed spirits of this happy isle,

That, for your sacred songs have gain'd the style

Of Phoebus' sons, whose notes the air aspire

Of th' old Egyptian, or the Thracian lyre,
That Chaucer, Gower, Lydgate, Spenser, hight,

Put on your better flames, and larger light,

To wait upon the Age that shall your names now nourish,
Since Virtue press'd shall grow, and buried Arts shall flourish,

Chau. Gow. We come.

Lyd. Spen. We come.

Omnes. Our best of fire

Is that which Pallas doth inspire.

[They descend.

Pal. Then see you yonder souls, set far within the shade,
That in Elysian bowers the blessed seats do keep,
That for their living good, now semi-gods are made,
And went away from earth, as if but tam'd with sleep?,
These we must join to make; for these are of the strain,
That justice dare defend, and will the age sustain.

Cho. Awake, awake, for whom these times were kept.
O wake, wake, wake, as you had never slept!
Make haste and put on air, to be their guard,
Whom once but to defend, is still reward.

Pal. Thus Pallas throws a lightning from her shield.

[The scene of light discovered.]

Cho. To which let all that doubtful darkness yield.

Ast. Now Peace,

G. Age. And Love,

Ast. Faith,

G. Age. Joys,

Ast. G. Age. All, all increase. [A pause.]

Chau. And Strife,

Gow. And Hate,

Lyd. And Fear,

Spen. And Pain,

Omnes. All cease.

Pal. No tumour of an iron vein.

The causes shall not come again.

Cho. But, as of old, all now be gold.

Move, move then to the sounds;

And do not only walk your solemn rounds,
But give those light and airy bounds,
That fit the Genii of these gladder grounds.

[The first Dance.]

Pal. Already do not all things smile?

Ast. But when they have enjoy'd awhile
The Age's quickening power :

Age. That every thought a seed doth bring,
And every look a plant doth spring,
And every breath a flower:

Pal. The earth unplough'd shall yield her crop, Pure honey from the oak shall drop,

The fountain shall run milk:

The thistle shall the lily bear,
And every bramble roses wear,
And every worm make silk.

Cho. The very shrub shall balsam sweet,
And nectar melt the rock with heat,
Till earth have drank her fill:
That she no harmful weed may know,
Nor barren fern, nor mandrake low,
Nor mineral to kill.

[Here the main Dance. After which,] Pal. But here's not all: you must do more, Or else you do but half restore,

The Age's liberty.

Poe. The male and female us'd to join,
And into all delight did coin

That pure simplicity.

Then Feature did to Form advance,

And Youth call'd Beauty forth to dance,
And every Grace was by:

It was a time of no distrust,

So much of love had nought of lust;
None fear'd a jealous eye.

The language melted in the ear,
Yet all without a blush might hear;

They liv'd with open vow.

Cho. Each touch and kiss was so well plac'd,

They were as sweet as they were chaste,
And such must yours be now.

[Here they dance with the ladies.]

Ast. What change is here? I had not more
Desire to leave the earth before,

Than I have now to stay;

My silver feet, like roots, are wreath'd
Into the ground, my wings are sheath'd,
And I can not away.

Of all there seems a second birth;
It is become a heaven on earth,

And Jove is present here.
I feel the godhead; nor will doubt
But he can fill the place throughout,
Whose power is everywhere.

This, this, and only such as this,
The bright Astræa's region is,

Where she would pray to live;
And in the midst of so much gold,
Unbought with grace, or fear unsold,
The law to mortals give.

[Here they dance the Galliards and Corantos. Pallas ascending, and
calling the Poets.]

'Tis now enough; behold you here,

What Jove hath built to be your sphere,

You hither must retire.

And as his bounty gives you cause,
Be ready still without your pause,

To show the world your fire.

Like lights about Astræa's throne,
You here must shine, and all be one,
In fervour and in flame;

That by your union she may grow,
And, you sustaining her, may know
The Age still by her name.

Who vows, against or heat or cold,
To spin your garments of her gold,
That want may touch you never;
And making garlands ev'ry hour,

To write your names in some new flower,
That you may live forever.

Cho. To Jove, to Jove, be all the honours given.

That thankful hearts can raise from earth to heaven.

Beaumont and Fletcher, in the order of our dramatic investigations, next require our attention. The literary partnerships of the drama which we have had occasion, in the course of our remarks, to notice, were generally brief and incidental, being confined to a few scenes, or a single play. In Beaumont and Fletcher, however, we have the interesting spectacle of two young men of exalted genius, of good birth and connections, living together for ten years, and writing in union a series of dramas, passionate, romantic, and comic, thus blending together their genius and their fame in indissoluble connection. Shakspeare was, beyond a doubt, the inspirer of these kindred spirits. They appeared when his genius was in its meridian splendor, and they were completely subdued by its overpowering influence. They reflected its leading characteristics, not as slavish

copyists, but as men of high powers and attainments, proud of borrowing inspiration from a source which they could so well appreciate, and which was at once ennobling and inexhaustible.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT was descended from the ancient family of Beaumont of Grace-Dieu, in Leicestershire, and was born in 1586. His grandfather, John Beaumont, was master of the rolls, and his father, Francis, one of the judges of the common pleas. Having completed his collegiate studies at Cambridge, young Beaumont entered the Inner Temple, London, as a student of law; but his passion for the muses prevented him from making any great proficiency in his legal studies. He married the daughter and coheiress of Sir Henry Isley, of Kent, by whom he had two daughters. The tenor of his brief life was even and uninterrupted, and his death occurred on the sixth of March, 1615, before he had attained the thirtieth year of his age. He was buried on the ninth of the same month, at the entrance of St. Benedict's chapel, Westminster Abbey. Thus, in the beautiful language of Hazlitt, was youth, genius, aspiring hope and growing reputation, cut off like a flower in its summer pride, or like the 'lily in its stalk green,' which inclines us to repine at fortune, and almost at nature, that seem to set so little store by their greatest favorites. The life of poets is, or ought to be, if we judge of it from the light it lends to others, a golden drama, full of brightness and sweetness, rapt in Elysium; and it gives one a reluctant pang to see the splendid vision, by which they are attended in their path of glory, fade like a vapor, and their sacred heads laid low in ashes, before the sand of common mortals has half run out.

JOHN FLETCHER was of equally distinguished parentage with Beaumont, being the son of Dr. Richard Fletcher, bishop of Bristol, and afterward of Worcester. He was born in Northamptonshire, in 1576, and educated at Bennet College, Cambridge. Though he was ten years older than Beaumont, ret comparatively nothing is known of him from the time at which he left he university, until the thirtieth year of his age, when he seems to have commenced his career of dramatic authorship, conjointly with his youthful and gifted associate. His life was as quiet and as unmarked by striking incidents, as was that of his partner in his early literary labors; and he died of the great playre in 1825, in the fiftieth year of his age. For some reason, not now known, his remains were not honored with a resting-place in Westminster Abbey, but were buried in St. Mary Overy's church, Southwark.

The dramas of Beaumont and Fletcher were fifty-two in number; but as the greater part of them were no published till 1647, it is impossible to ascertain the dates at which they were respectively produced. Dryden remarks that Philaster was the first play that brought them into esteem with the public, though they had previously written two or three others. It is improbable in plot, but highly interestiny in character and situations. The