Master Goursey proposes to his Son a Wife.
Frank Goursey. Ne’er trust me, father, the shape of marriage.
Which I do see in others, seems so severe,
I dare not put my youngling liberty
Under the awe of that instruction;
And yet I grant, the limits of free youth
Going astray are often restrain’d by that.
But Mistress Wedlock, to my summer thoughts,
Will be too curst, I fear: O should she snip
My pleasure-aiming mind, I shall be sad;
And swear, when I did marry, I was mad.
Old Goursey. But, boy, let my experience teach thee this;
(Yet in good faith thou speak’st not much amiss);
When first thy mother’s fame to me did come,
Thy grandsire thus then came to me his son,
And ev’n my words to thee to me he said;
And, as thou say’st to me, to him I said,
But in a greater huff and hotter blood:
I tell ye, on youth’s tiptoes then I stood.
Says he (good faith, this was his very say),
When I was young, I was but Reason’s fool;
And went to wedding, as to Wisdom’s school:
It taught me much, and much I did forget;
But, beaten much by it, I got some wit:
Though I was shackled from an often-scout,
Yet I would wanton it, when I was out;
’Twas comfort old acquaintance then to meet,
Restrained liberty attain’d is sweet.
Thus said my father to thy father, son;
And thou may’st do this too, as I have done.
Wandering in the dark all night.
O when will this same Year of Night have end?
Long-look’d for Day’s Sun, when wilt thou ascend?
Let not this thief-friend misty veil of night
Encroach on day, and shadow thy fair light;
Whilst thou comest tardy from thy Thetis’ bed,
Blushing forth golden-hair and glorious red.
O stay not long, bright lanthern of the day,
To light my mist-way feet to my right way.
The pleasant Comedy, from which these Extracts are taken, is contemporary with some of the earliest of Shakspeare’s, and is no whit inferior to either the Comedy of Errors, or the Taming of the Shrew, for instance. It is full of business, humour, and merry malice. Its night-scenes are peculiarly sprightly and wakeful. The versification unencumbered, and rich with compound epithets. Why do we go on with ever new Editions of Ford, and Massinger, and the thrice reprinted Selections of Dodsley? what we want is as many volumes more, as these latter consist of, filled with plays (such as this), of which we know comparatively nothing. Not a third part of the Treasures of old English Dramatic literature has been exhausted. Are we afraid that the genius of Shakspeare would suffer in our estimate by the disclosure? He would indeed be somewhat lessened as a miracle and a prodigy. But he would lose no height by the confession. When a Giant is shown to us, does it detract from the curiosity to be told that he has at home a gigantic brood of brethren, less only than himself? Along with him, not from him, sprang up the race of mighty Dramatists who, compared with the Otways and Rowes that followed, were as Miltons to a Young or an Akenside. That he was their elder Brother, not their Parent, is evident from the fact of the very few direct imitations of him to be found in their writings. Webster, Decker, Heywood, and the rest of his great contemporaries went on their own ways, and followed their individual impulses, not blindly prescribing to themselves his tract. Marlowe, the true (though imperfect) Father of our tragedy, preceded him. The comedy of Fletcher is essentially unlike to that of his. ’Tis out of no detracting spirit that I speak thus, for the Plays of Shakspeare have been the strongest and the sweetest food of my mind from infancy; but I resent the comparative obscurity in which some of his most valuable co-operators remain, who were his dear intimates, his stage and his chamber-fellows while he lived, and to whom his gentle spirit doubtlessly then awarded the full portion of their genius, as from them toward himself appears to have been no grudging of his acknowledged excellence.
C. L.