ould be more perfectly done than the sublimation of
the contents of three plain verses (Chapter xi. 2-4) to the delicate
poetry of his famous opening scene. Unfortunately the method adopted is
that of the chronicle history-plays or of the nearly forgotten
Miracles, to which class of drama _David and Bethsabe_, as a late
survival, may be said to belong. It has other marks of retrogression to
methods already old-fashioned in the year 1598, such as the introduction
(twice) of a Chorus, and the absence of any division into acts,
notwithstanding Peele's effective adoption of them in his previous
tragedy. There is also, despite the occasional vigour shown in the
portrayal of David, Absalom and Joab, the familiar weakness in
concentration, the old lack of a dominant figure. We cannot help feeling
that the author lost a great opportunity in not recognizing more fully
the tragic potentialities of such a character as the rebel prince. And
yet the play holds, and will continue to hold, a worthy place in
Elizabethan drama on account of its poetry. The special qualities of
Peele's poetic gift have been discussed in our consideration of his work
as a whole. All that need be added here in praise is that had he written
nothing else but _David and Bethsabe_ and _The Arraignment of Paris_ he
might have challenged the right of precedence as a poet with Marlowe.
But between those two plays what an amount of inferior workmanship lies!

Having already quoted an example of his verse in tender mood, we offer a
favourable specimen of his more impassioned style:

_David._ What seems them best, then, that will David do.
But now, my lords and captains, hear his voice
That never yet pierc'd piteous heaven in vain;
Then let it not slip lightly through your ears;--
For my sake spare the young man, Absalon.
Joab, thyself didst once use friendly words
To reconcile my heart incens'd to him;
If, then, thy love be to thy kinsman sound,
And thou wilt prove a perfect Israelite,
Friend him with deeds, and touch no hair of him,--
Not that fair hair with which the wanton winds
Delight to play, and love to make it curl;
Wherein the nightingales would build their nests,
And make sweet bowers in every golden tress
To sing their lover every night asleep;--
O, spoil not, Joab, Jove's[62] fair ornaments,
Which he hath sent to solace David's soul!
The best, ye see, my lords, are swift to s