The Poetical Works of Rogers, Campbell, J. Montgomery, Lamb, and Kirke White

You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend designated by the title of Works; but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their judgment could be no appeal.

It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any but yourself a volume containing the early pieces, which were first published among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be broken,who snapped the three-fold cord,-whether yourself (but I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your former companions, or whether (which is by much the more probable) some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation,-I cannot tell;-but wanting the support of your friendly elm (I speak for myself), my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and extinct.

Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years come upon us (except with some more healthy happy spirits), life itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we read in the great volume of nature; and, as the characters grow dim, we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no Christabels, nor Ancient Mariners, now.

Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general reader, may haply awaken in you remembrances, which I should be sorry should be ever totally extinct-the memory

Of summer days and of delightful years

even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ***** Inn,-when life was fresh, and topics exhaustless, —and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.—

What words have I heard
Spoke at the Mermaid!

The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time; but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the same, who stood before me three-and-twenty years ago-his hair a little confessing the hand of time, but still shrouding the same capacious brain,—his heart not altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds."

One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form, though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of the antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of the objection, without rewriting it entirely, I would make some sacrifices. But when I wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct deviation from common English. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists; Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a first love; and from what I was so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge? The very time, which I had chosen for my story, that which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to require, in an English play, that the English should be of rather an older cast, than that of the precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it had not some faults which I can less vindicate than the language. I remain, My dear Coleridge, Your's, with unabated esteem,

GRAY,

John Woodvil;

A TRAGEDY.

| SANDFORD, Sir Walter's old steward.

MARGARET, orphan ward of Sir Walter.

FOUR GENTLEMEN, John's riotous companions.
SERVANTS.

SCENE-for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in
DEVONSHIRE; at other times in the forest of
SHERWOOD. TIME-soon after the
RESTORATION.

pretended friends of John.

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I marvel more when thou wilt say anything to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When wast ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?

MARTIN.

Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.

DANIEL.

Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.

MARTIN.

Now I know I am going to be drunk.

DANIEL.

How canst tell, dry-bones?

MARTIN.

Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.

FRANCIS.

Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else. [MARTIN drops asleep. Times are greatly altered, since young master took

PETER.

Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of upon himself the government of this household.

me!

Greatly altered.

ALL.

FRANCIS.

quart!

But can any tell me the place of his concealment? With minds more slavish than your slave's estate,

PETER.

That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.

DANIEL.

Have you that noble bounty so forgot,

Which took you from the looms, and from the plows
Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye,

Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that And entertain'd ye in a worthy service, shall apprehend him.

Where your best wages was the world's repute,
That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live?
Have you forgot, too,

How often in old times

DANIEL

ALL

SANDFORD.

I hope there is none in this company would be And quickly too: ye had better, for I see mean enough to betray him. Young mistress Margaret coming this way. [Exeunt all but SANDFORD. [They drink to SIR WALTER's safety. Enter MARGARET, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman, who, seeing SANDFORD, retires muttering a

O Lord! surely not.

FRANCIS.

Good morrow to my fair mistress. "T was a chance
I saw you, lady, so intent was I

On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,
Who cannot break their fast at morning meals

"T is thought he is no great friend to the present without debauch and mistimed riotings. happy establishment.

O! monstrous!

ALL

PETER.

This house hath been a scene of nothing else
But atheist riot and profane excess,
Since my old master quitted all his rights here.

MARGARET.

Fellow-servants, a thought strikes me.-Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests, Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn act, by reason of our being privy to this man's concealment ?

All things seem changed, I think. I had a friend
(I can't but weep to think him alter'd too),
These things are best forgotten; but I knew
A man, a young man, young, and full of honor,
That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw,
And fought it out to the extremity,
E'en with the dearest friend he had alive,
On but a bare surmise, a possibility,
That Margaret had suffer'd an affront.

Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.

SANDFORD.

"T were best he should be told of these affronts.
MARGARET.

I am the daughter of his father's friend,
Sir Walter's orphan-ward.

I am not his servant-maid, that I should wait
The opportunity of a gracious hearing,
Inquire the times and seasons when to put
My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet,
And sue to him for slow redress, who was
Himself a suitor late to Margaret.

I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride.
I was his favorite once, his playfellow in infancy,
And joyful mistress of his youth.

None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret:
His conscience, his religion, Margaret was,
His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart,
And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.
As Margaret smiled or frown'd, John lived or died:
His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all
Being fashion'd to her liking.

His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,
His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.
The world esteem'd her happy, who had won
His heart, who won all hearts;

And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.

SANDFORD.

He doth affect the courtier's life too much,

Whose art is to forget,

Portray without its terrors, painting lies
And representments of fallacious liberty-
You know not what it is to leave the roof that shel
ters you.

MARGARET.

I have thought on every possible event,

The dangers and discouragements you speak of,
Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them
And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare accidents.
Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think,
Of practicable schemes.

SANDFORD.

Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.

MARGARET.

I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford,
And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.

SANDFORD.

But what course have you thought on?

MARGARET.

To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood.
I have letters from young Simon,
Acquainting me with all the circumstances

Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,
And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts
Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house
In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners.
Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.-

All which I have perused with so attent
And child-like longings, that to my doting ears
Two sounds now seem like one,

One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty
And, gentle Mr. Sandford,

'Tis you that must provide now

The means of my departure, which for safety
Must be in boy's apparel.

SANDFORD.

Since you will have it so,

(My careful age trembles at all may happen), I will engage to furnish you:

And that has wrought this seeming change in him, I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you

That was by nature noble.

"T is these court-plagues, that swarm about our house,
Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy
With images of state, preferment, place,
Tainting his generous spirit with ambition.

MARGARET.

I know not how it is;

A cold protector is John grown to me.

The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil
Can never stoop so low to supplicate

A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,
Which he was bound first to prevent;
But which his own neglects have sanction'd rather,
Both sanction'd and provoked: a mark'd neglect,
And strangeness fast'ning bitter on his love,
His love which long has been upon the wane.
For me, I am determined what to do:

To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John,
And trust for food to the earth and Providence.

O lady, have a care

SANDFORD.

Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.
You know not half the dangers that attend
Upon a life of wandering, which your thoughts now,
Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,
To your abused fancy, as 't is likely,

WOODVIL.

To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopt short on this side idolatry.

LOVEL.

ed upon old esteem, it is no marvel if the world
begin to account that dependence, which hitherto has
been esteemed honorable shelter. The course I have
taken (in leaving this house, not easily wrought there-
unto), seemed to me best for the once-for-all releasing
of yourself (who in times past have deserved well
of me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured,
tribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance limits of warrantable love.
of affection.

MARGARET"

Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret!
And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves,
And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies,
And show red eyes at parting. Who bids "farewell"
In the same tone he cries "God speed you, Sir?"
Or tells of joyful victories at sea,

Where he hath ventures? does not rather muffle
His organs to emit a leaden sound,

To suit the melancholy dull "farewell,"
Which they in Heaven not use ?-
So peevish, Margaret?

But 't is the common error of your sex,
When our idolatry slackens, or grows less,
(As who of woman born can keep his faculty
Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty,
For ever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure
Make it renewable, as some appetites are,
As, namely, Hunger, Thirst?) this being the case,
They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold,
Coin plainings of the perfidy of men,

Which into maxims pass, and apophthegms

To be retail'd in ballads.

I know them all.

They are jealous, when our larger hearts receive
More guests than one (Love in a woman's heart
Being all in one). For me, I am sure I have room here
For more disturbers of my sleep than one.
Love shall have part, but Love shall not have all.
Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns,
Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking;
Yet Love not be excluded.-Foolish wench,
I could have loved her twenty years to come,
And still have kept my liking. But since 't is so,
Why fare thee well, old playfellow! I'll try
To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance sake.
I shall not grudge so much.-

WOODVIL

As all good Christians' should, I think.

WOODVIL.

I am sure, I could have loved her still within the

LOVEL.

A kind of brotherly affection, I take it

WOODVIL.

We should have made excellent man and wife in time.

LOVEL.

A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.

WOODVIL.

While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories oft repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the repetition.

LOVEL.

Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret s a bird that will come back to you without a iure.

WOODVIL.

Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinable in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an af front, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.

LOVEL.

What made you neglect her, then?

WOODVIL.

Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He, that slighted her, knew her value. and 't is odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor.

[A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing.

LOVEL.

Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humors.

(Enter one drunk.)

DRUNKEN MAN.

Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow.

WOODVIL.

And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?

DRUNKEN MAN.

I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question. Is it not his majesty's birth-day? the day of all days in the year, on which King Charles the second was graciously pleased to be born. (Sings) "Great pity 't is such days as those should come but once a year."

LOVEL.

Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!

DRUNKEN MAN.

And why not drunk in a morning? can'st tell, bully!

WOODVIL.

Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the

Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings

the wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.

LOVEL.

Then, you confess the charge?

DRUNKEN MAN.

I grant you, 't is in some sort the youth and tender nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage it. (Sings) "Ale that will make

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