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the year 1600, and it was here that Ben Jonson's Bartholomew Fair was first acted in 1614. The building was demoli-hed in 1656 and houses were built upon its site. About a year previously seven of the bears belonging to the Bear Garden had been shot by order of Pride, then Sheriff of Surrey, by a company of soldiers. Paris Garden itself became a theatre in 1613. In Dekker's Untrussing of the Humorous Poet we find it thus alluded to :—

"Tucca. Thou hast been in Paris Garden, hast not?

Horace. Yes, captain, I ha' played Zulziman there."

The most famous of all the Bankside theatres was the Globe, built on the site occupied by Barclay's Brewery in Park Street. A view with a detailed notice of the Globe Theatre will be found in the volume of The Best Plays of Webster and Tourneur.

Many persons connected with the theatres lived on the Bankside -Beaumont and Fletcher, Henslowe, Alleyn, Kempe, Lowin." The Falcon Inn was the favourite resort of dramatists and players; and St. Saviour's, close by, is the burial-place of Gower, Fletcher, Massinger, Sir Edward Dyer, the poet, Shakespeare's younger brother, Edmund, and Henslowe, the manager.

THE LOVER'S MELANCHOLY.

Ford.

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IR HENRY HERBERT licensed this

play for the stage in 1628, and it was acted by the King's Servants at the Blackfriars and Globe Theatres. It was published in the following year, and was the first play that Ford printed, perhaps on account of its success on the stage. In one of the commendatory poems prefixed to the quarto we read:

"Nor seek I fame for thee, when thine own pen

Hath forced a praise long since from knowing men."

And although this appears to be Ford's earliest extant play, we know that plays of his had been acted during the previous fifteen years. For the material of the masque and the passage leading up to it, Ford was indebted to Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, published a year or two previously. The play was revived at Drury Lane in 1748 by Macklin, for his wife's benefit; apparently without

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To his worthy Friend the Author.

MASTER JOHN FORD.

I write not to thy play: I'll not begin
To throw a censure upon what hath been

By the best approved: it can nor fear nor want
The rage or liking of the ignorant.

Nor seek I fame for thee, when thine own pen

Hath forced a praise long since from knowing men.
I speak my thoughts, and wish unto the stage
A glory from thy studies; that the age
May be indebted to thee for reprieve

Of purer language, and that spite may grieve
To see itself outdone. When thou art read,
The theatre may hope arts are not dead,

Though long concealed; that poet-apes may fear
To vent their weakness, mend, or quite forbear.
This I dare promise; and keep this in store,
As thou hast done enough, thou canst do more.
WILLIAM SINGLETON.1

In a copy of verses prefixed to Massinger's Emperor of the East, Singleton calls himself "the friend and kinsman" of that poet.

To my Worthily Respected Friends, NATHANIEL FINCH, JOHN FORD, ESQUIRES, MASTER HENRY BLUNT, MASTER ROBERT ELLICE, and all the rest of the

NOBLE SOCIETY OF GRAY'S INN.

My Honoured Friends,

HE account of some leisurable hours is here summed up, and offered to examination. Importunity of others, or opinion of mine own, hath not urged on any confidence of running the hazard of a censure. A plurality hath reference to a multitude, so I care not to please many; but where there is a parity of

condition, there the freedom of construction makes the best music. This concord hath equally held between you the patrons and me the presenter. I am cleared of all scruple of disrespect on your parts; as I am of too slack a merit in myself. My presumption of coming in print in this kind1 hath hitherto been unreprovable, this piece being the first that ever courted reader; and it is very possible that the like compliment with me may soon grow out of fashion. A practice of which that I may avoid now, I commend to the continuance of your loves the memory of his, who, without the protestation of a service, is readily your friend.

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JOHN FORD.

1 He had previously printed "Fame's Memorial," and, probably, other poems, now lost.

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