"Of this we will sup free but moderately,
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men,
But at our parting we will be as when
We innocently met. No simple word
That shall be uttered at our mirthful board
Shall make us sad next morning, or affright
The liberty that we'll enjoy to-night."
It was to the middle aisle of the old cathedral of St. Paul's that Jonson and others like him resorted to obtain such wayward and grotesque characters as would take the attention of an audience. It was the favorite lounge at the time of coxcombs, bullies, adventurers, and cut-purses. Here a new man, wishing to be in the height of fashion, would bring his tailor, and set him to mark the garb of the foremost gallant in vogue. Country squires anxious for a varnishing of courtly polish, would be found there observing the dress and demeanor of the people of fashion, and afterward flinging away the produce of their good lands in entertainments shared with these envied darlings of the courtly goddess. Captain Bobadil, we may be certain, was met among the crowd at Paul's. Here it was that all those niceties of the mode which crop up through his plays were observed. In the "Midas" of Lily, quoted by Charles Knight in his "London," are found collected several of these distinctive marks of the courtier comme il faut:
"How will you be trimmed, sir? Will you have your beard like a spade [{844}] or a bodkin? A pent-house on your upper lip, or an alley on your chin? A low curl on your head like a bull, or dangling locks like a spaniel? Your mustachioes sharp at the end like shoemakers' awls, or hanging down to your mouth like goat's flakes? Your love-locks wreathed like a silken twist, or shaggy, to fall on your shoulder?"
Few dramatists in his or our days would venture to speak so fearlessly to his audience as honest Ben Jonson:
"If any here chance to behold himself,
Let him not dare to challenge me of wrong;
For if he shame to have his follies known,
First he should shame to act 'em. My strict hand
Was made to seize on vice, and with a gripe,
Squeeze out the humor of such spongy souls
As lick up every idle vanity."
Our bard was not left to struggle with the hardships of an ordinary theatrical career. He was employed to compose the plots and verses of the stately and splendid masques in which Elizabeth, and Anne of Denmark, and her "Royal Doggie" delighted. Had space permitted, we should gladly have quoted some of the verses and stage directions of these court shows. Among the rest is an Irish masque in which Dennish, Donnell, Dermott, and Patrick come in their long glibbs and shaggy mantles to present their compliments to King Yamish, and congratulate him on the marriage of some lord or other. Having been roughly received by the janitors, they sounded their grievance aloud:
"Don.—Ish it te fashion to beate te imbashaters here? and knock 'hem o' te head phit te phoite stick?"
"Der.—Ant make ter meshage run out a ter mouthsh before tey shpeake vit te king?"
They announce their intention to dance as well as that of their masters, who as yet stand outside:
"Don.—But tey musht eene come, and daunch i' teyr mantles, and show tee how teye can foot te fading and te fadow, and te phip a dunboyne I trow."