In some of these 'high tragical endeavours,' and notably in Damon's confession, we do indeed find a certain stiltedness, but even here there rings a true note of pathos in the farewell:

Amarillis, I goe to write my story of repentance With the same inke, wherewith thou wrotes before The legend of thy love. (IV. ix.)

These pa.s.sages will serve to give a fair and not unfavourable impression of the style, but I have reserved for separate consideration what I consider to be the most striking portions of the play. The first of these is the string of Latin songs in which the would-be elves comment on their nefarious proceedings in Jocastus' orchard. I quote certain stanzas only:

Nos beata Fauni Proles, Quibus non est magna moles, Quamvis Lunam incolamus, Hortos saepe frequentamus.

Furto cuncta magis bella, Furto dulcior Puella, Furto omnia decora, Furto poma dulciora.

c.u.m mortales lecto jacent, n.o.bis poma noctu placent; Illa tamen sunt ingrata, Nisi furto sint parata.

Oberon, descende citus, Ne cogaris hinc invitus; Canes audio latrantes, Et mortales vigilantes.

I domum, Oberon, ad illas Quae nos manent nunc ancillas, Quarum osculemur sinum, Inter poma, lac et vinum. (III. iv.)

To discuss verses such as these seriously is impossible. The dog-Latin of the fellow of Trinity is inimitable, while there is a peculiarly roguish delicacy about his humour. In the admirable ease with which the words are adapted to the sense, the songs are unsurpa.s.sed except by the very best of the _carmina vagorum_. Lastly, as undoubtedly the finest pa.s.sage of the play, and as one that must give us pause when we would deny to 'prince Randolph' the gifts requisite for the higher imaginative drama, I must quote the scene in which the distracted Amyntas fancies that in his endless search for the 'impossible dowry' he has arrived on the sh.o.r.es of Styx and boarded Charon's bark.

_Amyntas._ Row me to h.e.l.l!--no faster? I will have thee Chain'd unto Pluto's gallies!

_Urania._ Why to h.e.l.l, My deere Amyntas?

_Amyntas._ Why? to borrow mony!

_Amarillis._ Borrow there?

_Amy._ I, there! they say there be more Usurers there Then all the world besides.--See how the windes Rise! Puffe, puffe Boreas.--What a cloud comes yonder!

Take heed of that wave, Charon! ha? give mee The oares!--So, so: the boat is overthrown; Now Charons drown'd, but I will swim to sh.o.r.e....

My armes are weary;--now I sinke, I sinke!

Farewell Urania ... Styx, I thank thee! That curld wave Hath tos'd mee on the sh.o.r.e.--Come Sysiphus, I'll rowle thy stone a while: mee thinkes this labour Doth looke like Love! does it not so, Tysiphone?

_Ama._ Mine is that restlesse toile.

_Amy._ Is't so, Erynnis?

You are an idle huswife, goe and spin At poore Ixions wheele!

_Ura._ Amyntas!

_Amy._ Ha?

Am I known here?

_Ura._ Amyntas, deere Amyntas--

_Amy._ Who calls Amyntas? beauteous Proserpine?

'Tis shee.--Fair Empresse of th' Elysian shades, Ceres bright daughter intercede for mee, To thy incensed mother: prithee bid her Leave talking riddles, wilt thou?... Queene of darknesse, Thou supreme Lady of eternall night, Grant my pet.i.tions! wilt thou beg of Ceres That I may have Urania?

_Ura._ Tis my praier, And shall be ever, I will promise thee Shee shall have none but him.

_Amy._ Thankes Proserpine!

_Ura._ Come sweet Amyntas, rest thy troubled head Here in my lap.--Now here I hold at once My sorrow and my comfort.--Nay, ly still.

_Amy._ I will, but Proserpine--

_Ura._ Nay, good Amyntas--

_Amy._ Should Pluto chance to spy me, would not hee Be jealous of me?

_Ura._ No.

_Amy._ Tysiphone, Tell not Urania of it, least she feare I am in love with Proserpine: doe not Fury!

_Ama._ I will not.

_Ura._ Pray ly still!

_Amy._ You Proserpine, There is in Sicilie the fairest Virgin That ever blest the land, that ever breath'd Sweeter than Zephyrus! didst thou never heare Of one Urania?

_Ura._ Yes.

_Amy._ This poore Urania Loves an unfortunate sheapheard, one that's mad, Tysiphone, Canst thou believe it? Elegant Urania-- I cannot speak it without tears--still loves Amyntas, the distracted mad Amyntas.

Is't not a constant Nymph?--But I will goe And carry all Elysium on my back, And that shall be her joynture.

_Ura._ Good Amyntas, Rest here a while!

_Amy._ Why weepe you Proserpine?

_Ura._ Because Urania weepes to see Amyntas So restlesse and unquiet.

_Amy._ Does shee so?

Then will I ly as calme as doth the sea, When all the winds are lock'd in Aeolus jayle; I will not move a haire, not let a nerve Or Pulse to beat, least I disturbe her! Hush,-- Shee sleepes!

_Ura._ And so doe you.

_Amy._ You talk too loud, You'l waken my Urania.

_Ura._ If Amyntas, Her deere Amyntas would but take his rest, Urania could not want it.

_Amy._ Not so loud! (II. iv.)

It was no ordinary imagination that conceived this example of the grotesque in the service of the pathetic.

I have endeavoured in the above account to do a somewhat tardy justice to the considerable and rather remarkably sustained qualities of Randolph's play. I do not claim that as poetry it can be compared with the work of Ta.s.so, Fletcher, or Jonson, or that it even rivals that of Guarini or Daniel, though had Randolph lived he might easily have surpa.s.sed the latter. But I do claim that the _Amyntas_ is one of the most interesting and important of the experiments which English writers made in the pastoral drama, that it possesses dramatic qualities to which few of its kind can pretend, and that pervading and transforming the whole is the genial humour and the sparkling wit of its brilliant and short-lived author. His pastoral muse was a hearty buxom la.s.s, and kind withal, not overburdened with modesty, yet wholesome and cleanly, and if at times her laugh rings out where the subject pa.s.ses the natural enjoyment of kind, it is even then careless and merry, and there is often a ground of real fun in the jest. Her finest qualities are a sharp and ready wit and a wealth of imaginative pathos, alike pervaded by her bubbling humour; on the other hand there are moments, if rare, when in an ill-considered attempt to a.s.sume the buskin tread she reveals in her paste-board fustian somewhat of the unregeneracy of the plebian trull. The time may yet come when Randolph's reputation, based upon his other works--the _Jealous Lovers_, a Plautine comedy, clever, but preposterous in more ways than one, the _Muses' Looking Gla.s.s_, a perfectly undramatic morality of humours, and the poems, generally witty, occasionally graceful, and more than occasionally improper--will be enhanced by the recognition of the fact that he came nearer than any other writer to reconciling a kind of pastoral with the temper of the English stage. It was at least in part due to a const.i.tutional indifference on the part of the London public to the loves and sorrows of imaginary swains and nymphs, that Randolph's play failed to leave any appreciable mark upon our dramatic literature.[282]