ON THE AUTHOR, WORKS, AND TRANSLATOR.
Prefixed to the Translation of "The Spanish Rogue"
by James Mabbe, 1623.

HO tracks this author's, or translator's, pen
Shall finde that either hath read bookes and

men:

To say but one were single: Then it chimes, When the old words doe strike on the new times, As in this Spanish Proteus; who, though writ But in one tongue, was form'd with the world's wit; And hath the noblest marke of a good booke, That an ill man dares not securely looke Upon it, but will loathe, or let it passe, As a deformed face doth a true glasse. Such bookes deserve translators of like coate, As was the genius wherewith they were wrote: And this hath met that one that may be stil'd More than the foster-father of this child. For though Spayne gave him his first

ayre and vogue, He would be call'd henceforth The English Rogue, But that he's too well suted, in a cloth Finer than was his Spanish, if my oath Will be receiv'd in Court; if not would I

Had cloath'd him so. Here's all I can supply

4 For a knowledge of the existence of these excellent lines, which are now for the first time included in an edition of Ben Jonson's works, I am indebted to Mr. Fitzedward Hall, the distinguished Sanscrit scholar, who under the title of "Modern English" has published a volume on our language, which is simply a perfect mine of instruction and entertainment, and deserves to be in everybody's hands.

James Mabbe learned his Spanish by accompanying Sir John Digby when he went as ambassador to Spain. He adopted the quaint name of Don Diego Puede-Ser (that is, Don James May-Be), and translated several other Spanish books. He was entered at Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1587, and died about 1642.

To your desert, who have done it, friend. And this
Faire emulation, and no envy, is,

When you behold me with my selfe the man
That would have done that which you only can.

BEN JONSON.

FROM "THE SPANISH TRAGEDY." 1602.5

[HORATIO, the son of HIERONIMO, is murdered while he is sitting with his mistress BELIMPERIA by night in an arbour in his father's garden: the murderers (BALTHAZAR, his rival, and LORENZO, the brother of BELIMPERIA) hang his body on a tree. HIERONIMO is awakened by the cries of BELIMPERIA, and coming out into his garden, discovers, by the light of a torch, that the murdered man is his son. Upon this he goes distracted. C. LAMB.]

Isabella.

me, Hieronimo, sweet husband, speak. Hier. He supp'd with us to night, frolic and merry,

And said he would go visit Balthazar

At the Duke's palace: there the prince doth lodge.
He had no custom to stay out so late,

He may be in his chamber; some go see-
Roderigo, ho!

Enter PEDRO and JAQUES.

Isab. Ay me, he raves! sweet Hieronimo!
Hier. True, all Spain takes note of it.

Besides, he is so generally belov'd.

His Majesty the other day did

grace him

• These passages appear for the first time in the edition of the Spanish Tragedy, which was published immediately after the payments to Jonson.

With waiting on his cup: these be favours,

Which do assure me that he cannot be short-liv'd. Isab. Sweet Hieronimo!

Hier. I wonder how this fellow got his clothes : Sirrah, sirrah, I'll know the truth of all:

Jaques, run to the duke of Castile's presently,
And bid my son Horatio to come home,

I and his mother have had strange dreams to-night;
Do you hear me, sir?

Jaques. Ay, sir.

Hier. Well, sir, be gone. Pedro, come hither; Know'st thou who this is?

Pedro. Too well, sir.

Hier. Too well! Who, who is it? Peace, Isabella.

Nay, blush not, man.

Pedro. It is my lord Horatio.

Hier. Ha, ha, St. James; but this doth make me laugh.

That there are more deluded than myself.

Pedro. Deluded?

Hier. Ay, I would have sworn myself within this hour,

That this had been my son Horatio,

His garments are so like: ha! are they not great persuasions?

Isab. O, would to God it were not so!

Hier. Were not, Isabella? dost thou dream it is? Can thy soft bosom entertain a thought

That such a black deed of mischief should be done
On one so pure and spotless as our son?
Away! I am ashamed.

Isab. Dear Hieronimo,

Cast a more serious eye upon thy grief,
Weak apprehension gives but weak belief.

Hier. It was a man sure that was hang'd up here, A youth, as I remember: I cut him down.

If it should prove my son, now, after all,
Say you, say you! light, lend me a taper ;
Let me look again.

O God! confusion, mischief, torment, death and hell,
Drop all your stings at once in
stings at once in my cold bosom,
That now is stiff with horror; kill me quickly :
Be gracious to me, thou infective night,
And drop this deed of murder down on me;
Gird in my waste of grief with thy large darkness,
And let me not survive to see the light,

May put me in the mind I had a son.

Isab. O sweet Horatio! O my dearest son! Hier. How strangely had I lost my way to grief!

[Enter two Portingals, and HIERONIMO meets them.]

Hier. 'Tis neither as you think, nor as you think, Nor as you think: you are wide all :

These slippers are not mine, they were my son Horatio's.

My son? And what's a son?

A thing begot within a pair of minutes-thereabout:
A lump bred up in darkness, and doth serve
To balance those light creatures we call women :
And, at nine months' end, creeps forth to light.
What is there yet in a son,

To make a father doat, rave, or run mad?
Being born it pouts, cries, raves, and breeds teeth.
What is there yet in a son?

He must be fed, be taught to go, and speak :

Ay, or yet: why might not a man love a calf as well? Or melt in passion o'er a striking kid, as for a son? Methinks, a young bacon,

Or a fine little smooth horse colt,

Should move a man as much as doth a son;

For one of these, in very little time,

Will grow to some good use; whereas a son,
The more he grows in stature and in years,
The more unsquared, unbevelled he appears,
Reckons his parents among the rank of fools,
Strikes care upon their heads with his mad riots :
Makes them look old before they meet with age.
This is a son; And what a loss were this considered
truly?

O, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those
Insatiate humours: he loved his loving parents;
He was my comfort and his mother's joy-
The very arm that did hold up our house:
Our hopes were stored up in him:

None but a damned murderer could hate him.
He had not seen the back of nineteen years,

When his strong arm unhorsed the proud Prince
Balthazar ;

And his great mind, too full of honour, took him to Mercy that valiant but ignoble Portingal.

Well, heaven is heaven still!

And there is Nemesis and Furies,

And things called whips;

And they sometimes do meet with murderers :
They do not always escape, that's some comfort.

Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and

steals,

Till violence leaps forth, like thunder, wrapped

In a ball of fire,

And so doth bring confusion to them all.