st as perfect. It is when
we compare _Arden of Feversham_ with _Macbeth_ that we realize how the
meanness of the action and the comparative absence of morality outweigh
any accuracy of detail, degrading the dramatist to the level of a mere
purveyor of excitement. The truth is, even the interest palls, for there
is no skill displayed in the evolution of the plot. The story is merely
unrolled in a series of murderous attempts which agitate us less and
less as they are repeated, until, at the end, we are in danger of not
caring whether Arden is killed or not.

Among the eccentricities of this anonymous author's misdirected ability
is the disregard of appropriateness in the allocation of speeches to the
various characters. He is a poet; we can hardly believe that his work
would otherwise have survived the acting of it. Yet, as has been
frequently pointed out, one of the most delicate passages in the play is
spoken by the detestable ruffian, Shakbag, while Mosbie and even Michael
soliloquize in language of poetic imagery. In his handling of blank
verse he has not travelled beyond the limits of end-stopt lines, and too
often he gives it the false balance of unrhymed couplets; nevertheless
much that is vigorous and impressive forces the rhythm into a firm and
brisk response. The art of conversation in verse has advanced to
complete mastery. These features will be seen in the following extracts.

(1)

[MOSBIE _regretfully compares his past and present states._]

Disturbed thoughts drives me from company
And dries my marrow with their watchfulness;
Continual trouble of my moody brain
Feebles my body by excess of drink,
And nips me as the bitter North-east wind
Doth check the tender blossoms in the spring.
Well fares the man, howe'er his cates do taste,
That tables not with foul suspicion;
And he but pines amongst his delicates,
Whose troubled mind is stuffed with discontent.
My golden time was when I had no gold;
Though then I wanted, yet I slept secure;
My daily toil begat me night's repose,
My night's repose made daylight fresh to me.
But since I climbed the top bough of the tree
And sought to build my nest among the clouds,
Each gentle starry gale doth shake my bed,
And makes me dread my downfall to the earth.
But whither doth contemplation carry me?
The way I seek to find, where pleasure dwells,
Is hedged behind me that I