ACT V., SCENE I.
Ludgate. Enter Old Foster, his Wife, and Keeper.
Keeper. Come, come, be merry, sir; do as mourners do at funerals, wear your hat in your eyes, and laugh in your heart.
O. Fos. I have no such fat legacy left me,
To teach me how to play the hypocrite.
Keeper. No? Why, look ye, sir, you shall want neither meat, drink, money, nor anything that the house affords; or if anything abroad like ye, sir, here's money, send for what you will, sir. Nay, you shall beg no more at the grate neither.
O. Fos. Ha! is not this Ludgate?
Keeper. Yes, sir.
O. Fos. A jail, a prison, a tomb of men lock'd up,
Alive and buried?
Keeper. 'Tis what you please to call it.
O. Fos. O, at what crevice, then, hath comfort,
Like a sunbeam, crept in? for all the doors
And windows are of iron, and barr'd to keep
Her out. I had a limb cut from my body
Dear to me as [my] life; I had a son
And brother, too. O grief!
They both would give me poison first in gold,
Before their hollow palms ten drops should hold
Of nature's drink, cold water, but to save
My life one minute: whence should pity come,
When my best friends do beat it from this room?
Keeper. No matter, sir; since you have good meat set before you, never ask who sent it. If heaven provide for you, and make the fowls of the air your caters, feed you fat, and be thankful; and so I leave you. [Exit.
Mrs Fos. The keeper is your friend, and pours true balm
Into your smarting wounds; therefore, dear husband,
Endure the dressing with patience.
O. Fos. O wife, my losses are as numberless
As the sea-sands that swallowed them! And shall I,
In reckoning them, my sad griefs multiply?
Mrs Fos. You may, sir;
But your dim eyes so thick with tears do run,
You cannot see from whence your comforts come:
Besides, your debts being truly counted
Cannot be great.
O. Fos. But all my wealth and state lies in the sea's bottom.
Mrs Fos. It again may rise.
O. Fos. O, never!
Mrs Fos. Good sir, so hope, for I from heaven espy
An arm to pluck you from this misery.
Enter Keeper.
Keeper. Sir, there's one without desires to speak with you.
O. Fos. Go, send him in. [Exit Keeper.] None comes to do me good,
My wealth is lost, now let them take my blood.
Enter Robert.
Ha! what art thou? Call for the keeper there,
And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up.
Mrs Fos. O, 'tis your son, sir!
O. Fos. I know him not: [Robert kneels.
I am no king, unless of scorn and woe;
Why kneel'st thou, then? Why dost thou mock me so?
Rob. O my dear father, hither am I come,
Not like a threat'ning storm t' increase your wrack,
For I would take all sorrows from your back,
To lay them all on my own.
O. Fos. Rise, mischief, rise! Away, and get thee gone!
Rob. O, if I be thus hateful to your eye,
I will depart, and wish I soon may die;
Yet let your blessing, sir, but fall on me.
O. Fos. My heart still hates thee.
Mrs Fos. Sweet husband!
O. Fos. Get you both gone!
That misery takes some rest that dwells alone;
Away, thou villain!
Rob. Heaven can tell,
Ache but your finger, I, to make it well,
Would cut my hand off.
O. Fos. Hang thee, hang thee!
Mrs Fos. Husband!
O. Fos. Destruction meet thee! Turn the key there, ho!
Rob. Good sir, I'm gone; I will not stay to grieve you.
O, knew you for your woes what pains I feel,
You would not scorn me so. See, sir, to cool
Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got
Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot
To lay it down with reverence at your feet;
No comfort in the world to me is sweet,
Whilst thus you live in moan.
O. Fos. Stay!
Rob. Good troth, sir, I'll have none on't back,
Could but one penny of it save my life.
Mrs Fos. Yet stay and hear him. O unnatural strife
In a hard father's bosom!
O. Fos. I see mine error now. O, can there grow
A rose upon a bramble? Did there e'er flow
Poison and health together in one tide?
I'm born a man: reason may step aside,
And lead a father's love out of the way:
Forgive me, my good boy, I went astray:
Look, on my knees I beg it—not for joy
Thou bring'st this golden rubbish, which I spurn;
But glad in this, the heavens mine eyeballs turn,
And fix them right to look upon that face,
Where love remains with pity, duty, grace.
O my dear wronged boy!
Rob. Gladness o'erwhelms my heart!
With joy I cannot speak!
Mrs Fos. Crosses of this foolish world
Did never grieve my heart with torments more,
Than it is now grown light
With joy and comfort of this happy sight.
O. Fos. Yet, wife, I disinherited this boy.
Rob. Your blessing's all I crave.
O. Fos. And that enjoy
For ever: evermore my blessings fly
To pay thy virtues, love and charity.
Enter Stephen's Wife.
Mrs Fos. Here comes your brother's wife.
Welcome, dear sister.
Wife. I thank you. How fare you, brother?
O. Fos. Better than your husband's hate could wish me,
That laughs to see my back with sorrows bow:
But I am rid of half my ague now.
Wife. Had you an ague, then?
O. Fos. Yes, and my heart had every hour a fit;
But now't has left me well, and I left it.
Wife. O, 'tis well. Cousin, what make you here, I pray?
Rob. To support a weak house falling to decay.
Wife. 'Tis well if you can do't, and that the timber
You underprop it with be all your own.
Hark, coz, where's your uncle's money?
Rob. Faith, aunt, 'tis gone;
But not at dice nor drabbing.
Wife. Sir, I believe,
With your uncle's gold your father you relieve.
Rob. You are sav'd, believing so: your belief's true.
Wife. You cut large thongs of that's another's due,
And you will answer't ill. Now, in good troth,
I laugh at this jest: much good do them both:
My wager I had won, had I but laid. [Aside.
O. Fos. What has my poor boy done, that you have made
So much blood rise in's cheeks?
Wife. Nothing, dear brother;
Indeed all's well: the course that he has run
I like and love; let him hold on the same;
A son's love to a father none can blame:
I will not leave your brother's iron heart,
Till I have beat it soft with my entreats.
O. Fos. 'Twill ne'er be music, 'tis so full of frets.
Wife. Frets make best music: strings the higher rack'd
Sound sweetest.
O. Fos. And sound nothing when they are crack'd,
As is his love to me, and mine to him.
Wife. I hope you both in smoother streams shall swim.
He's now the Sheriff of London, and in council
Set at the Guildhall in his scarlet gown,
With mayor and aldermen, how to receive the king,
Who comes to see Master Brewen's hospital
To-morrow, consecrated by th' Cardinal,
And old St Mary's Spital, here by Shoreditch.
Mrs Fos. Ay, sister, he and you may set
'Bout what you will; heav'n, I am sure, prospers it;
But I am ever cross'd: you have been bound
For three great voyages, yet ne'er run aground—
Maid, wife, and widow, and wife again—have spread
Full and fair sails, no wrecks you e'er did dread,
Nor e'er felt any; but even close ashore,
I'm sunk, and 'midst of all my wealth made poor.
Wife. You must thank heaven.
Mrs Fos. I do, indeed, for all.
Wife. Sister, that hand can raise that gives the fall.
Enter Keeper.
Keeper. Master Foster, the new sheriff, your brother,
Is come to Ludgate, and I am come in haste
To know your pleasure, if you would see him.
O. Fos. I'll see a fury first; hence! clap to the door, I pray thee.
Wife. Why, 'tis your brother, sir.
Rob. Father, let's fly the thunder of his rage.
Wife. Stand valiantly,
And let me bear the storm: all hurts that are,
And ruins in your bosoms I'll repair.
Enter Stephen Foster.
Steph. Where's the keeper? Go, sir, take my officers
And see your prisoners presently convey'd
From Ludgate unto Newgate and the Counters.
Keeper. I shall, sir.
Steph. Let the constables of the wards
Assist you. Go, despatch! and take these with you.
[To Robert.] How now! what mak'st thou here, thou caitiff? Ha!
Com'st thou to stitch his wounds that seeks to cut
My throat? Darest thou in despite
Relieve this dotard?
O. Fos. Get thee from my sight,
Thou devil in red: com'st thou in scarlet pride
To tread on thy poor brother in a jail?
Is there but one small conduit-pipe that runs
Cold water to my comfort, and wouldst thou
Cut off that, thou cruel man?
Steph. Yes;
I'll stop that pipe that thou may'st pining sit;
When drops but fell on me, thou poison'd it:
Thou thrust'st a son's name from thy cruel breast
For clothing of his uncle; now that uncle
Shall thrust him naked forth for clothing thee;
Banish'd for ever from my wealth and me.
O. Fos. Thou canst not be to nature so uneven,
To punish that which has a pay from heaven:
Pity, I mean, and duty. [Stephen offers to strike Robert.] Wouldst thou strike?
Wound me, then, that will kill thee, if I can:
Steph. Thou ravest.
O. Fos. How can I choose? Thou makest me mad:
For shame thou shouldst not make these white hairs sad:
Churl, beat not my poor boy; let him not lose
Thy love for my sake; I had rather bruise
My soul with torments for a thousand years,
Could I but live them, rather than salt tears
Thy malice draw from him: see, here's thy gold;
Tell it: none's stole. My woes can ne'er be told!
Rob. O misery! is nature quite forgot?
O. Fos. Choke with thy dunghill-muck! and vex me not.
Steph. No, keep it; he perhaps that money stole
To give it thee; for which, to vex thy soul,
I'll turn him forth of doors: make him thy heir,
Of jails, miseries, curses, and despair,
For here I disinherit him of all.
O. Fos. No matter; lands to him in heaven will fall.
Wife. Good husband.
Mrs Fos. Gentle brother.
Rob. Dear uncle.
Steph. I am deaf.
O. Fos. And damn'd; the devil's thumbs stop thine ears!
Steph. I'll make thee wash those curses off with tears.
Keeper, away with him out of my sight;
And do, sir, as I charg'd you.
Keeper. Yes, sir, I will.
O. Fos. Poor tyranny! when lions weak lambs kill.
[Exeunt all but Stephen and his Wife.
Steph. How now, wife, art vex'd yet?
Wife. Never so well content, believe me, sir;
Your mildness wears this mask of cruelty well.
Steph. I am glad they're gone; mine eyes with rain did swell,
And much ado they had from pouring down.
The keeper knows my mind. Wife, I have paid
My brother's debts; and when he's out of door
To march to Newgate, he shall be set free.
Wife. O let me kiss thee for this charity.
But for your cousin, sir?
Steph. He's my life's best health.
The boy shall not miscarry for more wealth
Than London gates lock safe up every night.
My breath in black clouds flies: my thoughts are white.
Wife. Why from Ludgate do you remove [the] prisoners?
Steph. This is my meaning, wife:
I'll take the prison down, and build it new,
With leads to walk on, [and] rooms large and fair;
For when myself lay there, the noisome air
Chok'd up my spirits; and none better know
What prisoners feel than they that taste the woe.
The workmen are appointed for the business;
I will have't despatched, before 'tis thought on.
Wife. In good deeds I'll walk hand in hand with you;
There is a fair tenement adjoining
Close to the gate, that was my father's,
I'll give it freely; take it down, and add
So much ground to the work.
Steph.[103] 'Tis fairly given;
Thy soul on prisoners' prayers shall mount to heaven.
The plumbers and the workmen have survey'd
The ground from Paddington; whence I'll have laid
Pipes [all along] to London, to convey
Sweet water into Ludgate from fresh springs:
When charity tunes the pipe, the poor man sings.
Enter Keeper.
How now, keeper?
Keep. The prisoners are remov'd, sir.
Steph. What did you with my brother?
Keep. As you commanded, sir, I have discharged him.
Steph. How did he meet that unexpected kindness?
Keep. Troth, sir, as a man o'ercome 'twixt grief and gladness;
But, turning to his son, he fetch'd a sigh
So violent as if his heart would break,
And (silent) wept, having no power to speak.
Wife. Alas! good old man, some sweet bird must sing,
And give his sorrows present comforting.
Steph. Not yet, I'll wrack his sorrows to the height,
And of themselves they'll then sink softly down.
Keeper, go thou again after my brother,
Charge in my name him and his son to appear
Before the king; to whom I will make known
Their wrongs against me, showing just cause
To disinherit both by course of law. Begone!
Keep. I am gone, sir. [Exit.
Steph. Come, wife.
Wife. What's your meaning, sir?
Steph. Thou shalt know that anon.
The heavens oft scowl, clouds thicken, winds blow high,
Yet the brightest sun clears all, and so will I. [Exeunt.
Enter Henry III., attended by Montfort, Pembroke, and Arundel, Lord Mayor, Stephen Foster as Sheriff, Alderman Brewen, &c.
King. O, welcome is all love; our people's shouts
In their heart's language makes our bienvenues
Most high and sovereign: we return all thanks
Unto our loving citizens; [To Brewen] chiefly to you, sir,
Whose pious work invites our majesty
To royalise this place with our best presence,
Accompanied with this reverend Cardinal:
Would [that] me might, after [so] many broils,
End our days [too] in these religious toils:
We would work most faithfully. But, bounteous sir,
How do you call your buildings?
Brew. Unless it please your majesty to change it,
I call it Domus Dei.
King. The house of God;
It is too good to change: pray you, proceed.
Brew. These are my ends: to all distressed Christians,
Whose travels this way bend, the hospital shall
Free succour be for three days and three nights
Sojourn: diet[104] and lodging, both sweet and satisfying:
And (if their need be such) as much in coin
As shall, for three days more, defray their further travel:
This unto heaven—be you testator, good my liege,
And witness with me, noble gentlemen—
Most free and faithfully I dedicate.
King. An honourable work, and deserves large memory.
Mont. 'Tis a good example, 'tis pity 'tis no better followed.
Arun. But say, sir: now in some future age,
Perhaps some two or three hundred year behind us,
This place, intended for a use so charitable,
Should be unhallow'd again by villanous inhabitants,
Say whores instead of Christians, and
Your hospital tenements turn'd into stews,
Would not this grieve you in your grave?[105]
Brew. If my grave were capable of grief, sure it would, sir.
King. Prythee, be a false prophet.
Arun. I will, if I can, my lord.
King. Let now our heralds in the streets proclaim
The title and [the] office of this hospital;
Make known to all distressed travellers,
That we'll accept his charitable house;
This Domus Dei shall be their free sojourn,
As is proposed.
Enter on the one side Stephen's Wife; on the other Old Foster, Mistress Foster, Jane, Robert, and Keeper. All kneel.
King. What are these petitioners?
Rob. Each hath a knee for duty, the other for petition.
King. Rise, your duty's done; your petitions
Shall need no knees, so your intents be honest:
Does none here know them?
Steph. Yes, my good lord,
There's now a wonder in your sight.
King. A wonder, Master Sheriff?
You mean for beauty?
Steph. No, my liege, I would not
So boast mine own wife; but it is a wonder
That excels beauty.
King. A wonder in a woman!
What is't, I prythee?
Steph. Patience, my liege;
This is a woman that was never vex'd.
King. You may boast it largely; 'tis a subject's happiness
Above a queen's. Have you suits to us?
Rob. I am the suppliant plaintiff, royal Henry;
From me their griefs take their original.
King. What art thou?
Rob. Even what your grace shall please to make of me:
I was the son to this distressed father,
Until he took his paternity off,
And threw me from his love; then I became
Son to mine uncle by adoption;
Who likewise that hath ta'en away again,
And thrown me back to poverty: never was son
So toss'd betwixt two fathers, yet knows not one;
For still the richest does despise his heir,
And I am back expuls'd into despair.
King. This may your vices cause.
Rob. For that I come
To your impartial censure for a doom.
King. We hear; speak on: we know the parties;
Each one relate his grief, and if it lie in us,
We'll yield relief: it is first requisite
That we know of you, sir, the cause
Of this your son his disinheritance.
O. Fos. Before I understood his virtuous mind,
Or weighed his disposition to be kind,
I did that froward work; this now great man
Was an unthrifty wretch, a prodigal then,
And I disdain'd to know his brotherhood,
Denied relief to him; this child, kind and good,
Against my contradiction, did him relieve,
As his distressed uncle; at this
I chid, forbad. Still he holds on his course,
He grows more kind, and he in wasting worse;
My rage continued, as it had begun,
And in that rage I threw away my son.
Steph. The like plead I, my lord: for when my state
Had rais'd itself by an uncertain fate,
I took this outcast child, made him my own,
As full and free as I myself had sown
The seed that brought him forth; for this my love
His oblig'd duty presently did prove
A traitor to my trust, against my will
Succouring that foe which I did love so ill
Only for hating him. My charity being thus
Abus'd, and quit with injury, what could I then
But, as his father erst, so I again
Might throw him from my love? for worse is love abus'd
Than new-born hate, and should be so refus'd:
I did a father's part, if it were bad,
Blame him for both, there I my pattern had.
King. You fall betwixt two pillars, sir; is't not so?
Rob. Unhappy fate, my lord; yet thus I plead:
For this my father's hate I might deserve,
I broke his precepts, and did unchildly swerve
From his commission; I to my uncle gave
What was my father's, striving thereby to save
His fall'n repute; he rag'd; I did it still,
Yet must confess, as it was well, 'twas ill;
Well in my love, methought, ill to my fate,
For I thereby ruin'd my own estate:
But that mine uncle throws me forth of door,
For the same cause he took me in before,
Beats sorest 'gainst my bosom. If 'twere good
To take from a father for an uncle's food
In laws of love and nature, how much rather
Might I abridge an uncle for a father?
Charity's a virtue generally stands,
And should dispersed be through all men's hands.
Then would you keep't alone? For when your heir
I first adopted was, charity was there:
How errs your judgment then? seeing, you see,
What was good in you, makes sin in me.
You'll say my father did it: O, throw away
That foul excuse; let not discretion stray
So far aside; if custom lawful make,
Then sin were lawful for example sake;
Nor were those wasted goods only your own,
Since part was mine having adoption;
Then do me right, my lord, yet do no wrong,
For where my duty fail'd, my love was strong.
King. With an impartial ear we have heard
Your loving story; 'tis both fair and honest.
Steph. O, let me now anticipate your grace,
And, casting off the shadow of a face,
Show my heart's true figure; how have I striv'd
To make this forced counterfeit long-liv'd,
And now it bursts. Come (both) into my heart,
I have two jewels here shall never part
From my love's eye-watch; too worthy to be fil'd
On time's best record, a woman and a child.
(To O. Fos). Now, sir, to you I come; we must be friends,
Though envy wills not so, yet love contends
'Gainst envy and her forces; my young years
Say I must offer first a peace in tears.
O. Fos. O, let my shame my bosom's centre break!
Love is so young, it coys, but cannot speak.
King. You bless mine eyes with objects that become
The theatre of kings to look upon.
Steph. The keeper is discharg'd, sir; your debts are paid,
And from the prison you're a free man made:
There's not a creditor can ask you ought.
As your son did for me, so have I bought
Your liberty with mine; and to increase it more,
Because I know bare liberty is poor
Without assistance: to raise your state again,
The thirds of mine are yours, [To Wife] say you
amen?
Wife. No, not to that, you are kind brothers now,
Divide by halves that love, and I'll allow.
Steph. Thou art only wise in virtue; as thou sett'st down,
So let it be. Half my estate's your own.
O. Fos. It whole redounds again, for I am yours;
Forget this minute my forgetful hours.
Steph. O, they are buried all, sir!
King. This union's good;
Such league should ever be in brotherhood.
Steph. Yet without boast, my liege, let me relate
One small thing more—remorse of my own state,
And my dear brother's worse succession:
For that we both have prisoners been in one
Selfsame place of woe, and felt those throes,
That Ludgate yields: my charity bestows
Some alms of comfort: keeper, you can speak it.
Keep. And many hundred more, sir: you have re-edified
And built it fair, adding more ground to it,
And by pipes of lead from Paddington, drawn
Water thither free for all prisoners: lodgings
Likewise free, and a hundred pounds yearly, to make
Them fires for better comfort: all this is almost finish'd.
King. A worthy work! the better being done
In the founder's eye, not left unto succession.
Steph. O my good lord, I ever kept in mind
An English sentence, which my tutor is,
And teaches me to act my charity
With mine own hands; so doubtful is performance,
When the benefactor's dead.
King. What is't, I prythee?
Steph. This, my good lord:
Women are forgetful, children unkind,
Executors covetous, and take what they find;
If any man ask, where the dead's goods became,
The executor swears he died a poor man.[106]
King. You have prevented well, so has this good alderman;
I wish you many scholars.
Wife. [To Steph.] You make some doubts of me in this, sir:
Did you not say that women are forgetful?
King. You have vex'd her now, sir: how do you answer that?
Steph. No, my lord, she's exempt from the proverb.
Wife. No, my lord, I'll help it better: I do confess
That women are forgetful, yet ne'ertheless
I am exempt: I know my fate, and find
My dear husband must not leave me behind,
But I must go before him;[107] and 'tis said,
The grave's good rest when women go first to bed.
Steph. Thanks for thy excuse, good wife, but not thy love
To fill my grave before me: I would not live to see that day.
Wife. Prythee, no more, I had rather be angry than flatter'd.
King. You have a wonder, master sheriff; a priceless jewel.
Steph. Many jewels, my good lord; a brother, wife, and child,
For this I would have strove even with a father:
Howe'er rough storms did in my brows appear,
Within my bosom it was always clear.
O. Fos. I give him to you now, sir.
Steph. I take him, and to him back do give
All that myself behind in 'state shall leave.
O. Fos. And all that you gave me, I do bestow;
So in one hour become full heir to two.
Brew. I claim a third by this bond's virtue; [Pointing to Jane.
See, as a father thou art heir to those.
Jane. I will not go to him, father, on any of these conditions.
Rob. You shall have love to boot too, sweet Jane.
Jane. Nay, an' you play booty, I dare not trust you.
Rob. What shall I say? Accept my hand and heart,[108]
Tied in a true love's knot, never to part.
Jane. Ay, marry, sir, these are better conditions than the inheritance of three fathers. Let me have love in esse; let lands follow in posse. Now I'll have thee as fast as the priest can despatch us, let him read as fast as he can.
King. The liveliest harmony that e'er I heard!
All instruments compar'd to these sweet tunes
Are dull and harsh: I joy to see so good a child,
A woman wonder; brothers reconciled.
[To Brewen.] You, worthy sir, did invite us to a feast,
We'll not forget it, but will be your guest;
Because we'll view these wonders o'er again,
Whose records do deserve a brazen pen;
But this above the rest in golden text
Shall be insculp'd, A woman never vex'd.
FOOTNOTES:
[103] This speech is not appropriated in the original, although divided from the wife's: neither are the words between brackets altogether an insertion of my own. The speech appears thus in the original:—
'Tis fairely given.
Thy soule on prisoners prayers shall mount to heaven:
The Plummers and the Workemen have survey'd the ground
From Paddington; from whence I'l have laid pipes
Long to London to convey sweet water into Ludgate;
From fresh Springs: when charity tunes the pipe, the
Poore man sings. Enter Keeper.
How now, Keeper.
As I had occasion to give a note here, I thought one sample of the original might gratify the reader's curiosity, and he has a miniature of the whole work. The poet, who is here very minute in the description of Stephen's charity, is justified by the inscription on the wall quoted by Stow. On this subject, however, Strype observes, "The water I find not to be altogether his gift; for that I perused lately a book, wherein I found a memorandum, that Sir Robert Knowles [Lord Mayor in 1400] gave maintenance for the supply of the prisoners of Ludgate and Newgate for ever" ("Appendix," p. 26). There can be little doubt, however, that this excellent man did something for the benefit of the prisoners, in regard to the supplying them with water.—Dilke.
[104] [Old copy, for diet.]
[105] I suspect Arundel to have been of Cranmer's school, and to have prophesied of what had actually happened. The following extract from a pamphlet of that time called, "Thieves falling out, true Men come by their Goods," [1615,] justifies the supposition: "And Shoreditch will complain to Dame Ann a Clear, if we of the sisterhood, should not uphold her jollity." It is not through the inattention of the editor that this, and the preceding speech of Brewen's, halt so lamentably; he has, in fact, exercised his utmost skill; but, as with many other passages in this drama, his success has not equalled his exertion. [The pamphlet cited by Dilke is a re-issue, under a changed title, of Robert Greene's "Disputation between a He-Coneycatcher and a She-Coneycatcher," 1592.]
[106] [This is a somewhat corrupt form of a saying to be found in Stowe. See Hazlitt's "Proverbs," 1869, p. 480.]
[107] This lady proved a false prophetess.
[108] The 4o reads, "What shall I say, except my hand and heart;" and Stephen may mean, What shall I offer except, &c.; but it seems a forced construction.
[THE ORDINARY]
EDITION.
The Ordinary, a Comedy, Written by William Cartwright, M.A. Ch. Ch. Oxon. London, Printed for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be sold at his shop at the Sign of The Princes Armes in St Paul's Churchyard. 1651. 8o.[109]
FOOTNOTES:
[109] [This forms part of a somewhat thick volume, containing the author's poems and plays, with his portrait by Lombart, and an extraordinarily long series of introductory verses.] Among them are verses by a number of men of little note; but this can hardly be said of the contributions of Jasper Mayne, James Howell, Sir R. Stapylton, H. Vaughan (Silurist), Alexander Brome, and Izaak Walton. M. Lluellin has also added an ode to the collection; and another poem on Cartwright is to be found in his, "Men, Miracles, and other Poems," 1646.—Collier.