others, nothing is known but the names, which are registered by the Master of the Revels. In 1635, it does not appear that he brought any thing forward; but in 1636 he wrote the Bashful Lover, and printed the Great Duke of Florence, which had now been many years on the stage, with a dedication to sir Robert Wiseman of Thorrells Hall, in Essex. In this, which is merely expressive of his gratitude for a long continuation of kindness, he acknowledges, "and with a zealous thankfulness, that, for many years, he had but faintly subsisted, if he had not often tasted of his bounty." In this precarious state of dependance passed the life of a man who is charged with no want of industry, suspected of no extravagance, and whose works were, at that very period, the boast and delight of the stage!

The Bashful Lover is the latest play of Massinger's writing which we possess, but there were three others posterior to it, of which the last, the Anchoress of Pausilippo, was acted Jan. 26, 1640, about six weeks before his death. Previous to this, he sent to the press one of his early plays, the Unnatural Combat, which he inscribed to Anthony

says,

Sentleger, (whose father, sir Wareham, had been his particular admirer,) being, as he ambitious to publish his many favours to the world. It is pleasant to find the Author, at the close of his blameless life, avowing, as he here does, with an amiable modesty, that the noble and eminent persons to whom his former works were dedicated, did not think themselves disparaged by being "celebrated as the patrons of his humble studies, in the first file of which," he continues, "I am confident you shall have no cause to blush, to

find your name written.”

Massinger died on the 17th of March, 1640. He went to bed in good health, says Langbaine, and was found dead in the morning in his own house on the Bankside. He was buried in the churchyard of St. Saviour's, and the comedians paid the last sad duty to his name, by attending him to the grave. It does not appear, from the strictest search, that a stone, or inscription of any kind, marked the place where his dust was deposited even the memorial of his mortality is given with a pathetick brevity, which accords but too well with the obscure and humble passages of his life: "March 20, 1639-40,

buried Philip Massinger, A STRANGER"! No flowers were flung into his grave, no elegies "soothed his hovering spirit," and of all the admirers of his talents and his worth, none but sir Aston Cockayne dedicated a line to his memory. It would be an abuse of language to honour any composition of sir Aston with the name of poetry, but the steadiness of his regard for Massinger may be justly praised. In that collection of doggrel rhymes, which I have already mentioned, (p. xiii.) there is" an epitaph on Mr. John Fletcher, and Mr. Philip Massinger, who lie both buried in one grave in St. Mary Overy's church, in Southwark :

"In the same grave was Fletcher buried, here
"Lies the stage poet, Philip Massinger;

"Plays they did write, together, were great friends,
"And now one grave includes them in their ends.
"To whom on earth nothing could part, beneath
"Here in their fame they lie, in spight of death."

It is surely somewhat singular that of a man of such eminence nothing should be known. What I have presumed to give is merely the history of the successive appearance of his works; and I am aware of no source from whence any additional

information can be derived: no anecdotes are recorded of him by his contemporaries, few casual mentions of his name occur in the writings of the time, and he had not the good fortune which attended many of less eminence, to attract attention at the revival of dramatick literature from the deathlike torpor of the Interregnum.' But though we are ignorant of every circumstance respecting Massinger, but that he lived and died,' we may yet form to ourselves some idea of his personal character from the incidental hints scattered through his works. In what light he was regarded may be collected from the recommendatory poems prefixed to his several plays, in which the language of his panegyrists, though warm, expresses an attachment apparently derived not so much

9 One exception we shall hereafter mention. Even in this the Poet's ill fate pursued him, and he was flung back into obscurity, that his spoils might be worn without detection.

It is seriously to be, lamented that sir Aston Cockayne, instead of wasting his leisure in measuring out dull prose which cannot be read, had not employed a part of it in furnishing some notices of the dramatick poets, with whom he was so well acquainted, and whom he professes so much to admirę.

from his talents as his virtues: he is, as Davies has observed, their beloved, muchesteemed, dear, worthy, deserving, honoured, long-known, and long-loved friend, &c. &c. All the writers of his life unite in representing him as a man of singular modesty, gentleness, candour, and affability; nor does it appear that he ever made or found an enemy. He speaks indeed of opponents on the stage, but the contention of rival candidates for popular favour must not be confounded with personal hostility. With all this, however, he appears to have maintained a constant struggle with adversity; since not only the stage, from which, perhaps, his natural reserve prevented him from deriving the usual advantages, but even the bounty of his particular friends, on which he chiefly relied, left him in a state of absolute dependance. Jonson, Fletcher, Shirley, and others, not superiour to him in abilities, had their periods of good fortune, their bright as well as their stormy hours; but Massinger seems to have enjoyed no gleam of sunshine; his life was all one wintry day, and "shadows, clouds, and darkness," rested upon it.