MY PICTURE.—­LEFT IN SCOTLAND.

  I now think Love is rather deaf than blind,
  For else it could not be
      That she,
  Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
  And cast my suit behind;
  I’m sure my language to her was as sweet,
  And every close did meet
  In sentence of as subtle feet,
  As hath the youngest, he,
  That sits in shadow of Apollo’s tree. 
  Oh! but my conscious fears
  That fly my thoughts between
  Tell me that she hath seen
  My hundreds of gray hairs,
  Told seven and forty years,
  Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace
  My mountain belly, and my rocky face,
  And all these through her eyes have stopt her ears.

Although fond of indulging in strong language, Jonson is scarcely ever guilty of any really coarse allusion—­he expresses his aversion from anything of the kind, and this in the age in which he lived, argued great refinement of feeling.

In Fletcher we mark a progress in humour.  Ben Jonson was so personal that he made enemies, and was suspected of attacking Inigo Jones and others, but Fletcher was general in his references, and merely ridiculed the manners of the age.  The classic element disappears, and quibbling and playing with words—­so fashionable in Shakespeare’s time—­is not found in this author, whose humour has more point, and generally more sarcasm, but of a refined character.

The name of Fletcher is invariably connected with Beaumont.  The two young men lived together in the same house, and it is even said wore each other’s clothes.  But Beaumont only lived to be twenty-nine, and has left little in comparison with the voluminous works of Fletcher.  They were both born in a good position, and, mingling in the fashionable society of their day, filled their pages with love intrigues, in colours not then offensive.  Fletcher never married, and those who look for contrasts between fathers and children may learn that his father, who was Bishop of London, was suspended by Elizabeth for taking a second wife.  Our author is said to have been himself a comedy, and his death, if we can believe the story, was consistent with his gay life, for we are told that, through waiting in London for a new suit of clothes, he died of cholera, which was raging there at the time.

Here is a specimen of his sketches—­the character of a rich usurer—­

  Sanchio. Thou’art very brave.

  Cacafogo. I’ve reason; I have money.

  San. Is money reason?

  Cac. Yes, and rhyme too, captain. 
  If you’ve no money you’re an ass.

  San. I thank you.

  Cac. You’ve manners! ever thank him that has money.

  San. Wilt thou lend me any?

  Cac. Not a farthing, captain; captains are casual things.

  San. Why, so are all men: 
  Thou shalt have my bond.