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The Lives of the Most Famous English Poets (1687) by William Winstanley

W >> William Winstanley >> The Lives of the Most Famous English Poets (1687)

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_If Art that oft the Learn'd hath stammer'd,
In one Iron Head-piece (yet no Hammer-Lead)
May (joyn'd with Nature) hit Fame on the Cocks-comb,
Then 'tis that Head-piece that is crown'd with_ Odcomb
_For he, hard_ Head (_and_ hard, _sith like a_ Whet-stone)
_It gives_ Wits _edge, and draws them too like_ Jet-stone)
_Is_ Caput Mundi _for a world of School-tricks,
And is not ignorant in the learned'st--tricks
H'hath seen much more than much, I assure ye,
And will see_ New-Troy, Bethlem, _and_ Old-Jury
_Meanwhile (to give a taste of his first travel,
With streams of Rhetorick that get golden Gravel)
He tells how he to_ Venice _once did wander;
From whence he came more witty than a Gander:
Whereby he makes relations of such wonders,
That_ Truth _therein doth lighten, while_ Art _thunders,
All Tongues fled to him that at_ Babel _swerved,
Left they for want of warm months might have starved,
Where they do revel in such passing measure,
(Especially the_ Greek, _wherein's his pleasure.)
That (jovially) so_ Greek _he takes the guard of,
That he's the merriest_ Greek _that ere was heard of;
For he as 'twere his Mothers twittle twattle,
(That's Mother-tongue) the_ Greek _can prittle prattle.
Nay, of that Tongue he so hath got the Body,
That he sports with it at_ Ruffe, Gleek _or_ Noddy, _&c._

He died at _London_ in the midst of the Reign of King _James_ I. and
lieth buried in St. _Giles_ in the Fields.

* * * * *




Doctor _JOHN DONNE_.


This pleasant Poet, painful Preacher, and pious Person, was born in
_London_, of wealthy Parents, who took such care of his Education, that
at nine years of Age he was sent to study at _Hart-Hall_ in _Oxford_,
having besides the _Latine_ and _Greek_, attained to a knowledge in the
_French_ Tongue. Here he fell into acquaintance with that great Master
of Language and Art, Sir _Henry Wootton_; betwixt whom was such
Friendship contracted, that nothing but Death could force the
separation.

From _Oxford_ he was transplanted to _Cambridge_, where he much
improved his Study, and from thence placed at _Lincolns Inn_, when his
Father dying, and leaving him three thousand pound in ready Money; he
having a youthful desire to travel, went over with the Earl of _Essex_
to _Cales_; where having seen the issue of this Expedition, he left
them and went into _Italy_, and from thence into _Spain_, where by his
industry he attained to a perfection in their Languages, and returned
home with many useful Observations of those Countries, and their Laws
and Government.

These his Abilities, upon his Return, preferred him to be Secretary to
the Lord _Elsmore_, Keeper of the Great Seal; in whose Service he fell
in Love with a young Gentlewoman who lived in that Family, Neece to the
Lady _Elsmore_, and Daughter to Sir _George Moor_, Chancellor of the
Garter, and Lieutenant of the Tower, who greatly opposed this Match;
yet notwithstanding they were privately married: which so exasperated
Sir _George Moor_, that he procured the Lord _Elsmore_ to discharge him
of his Secretariship, and never left prosecuting him till he had cast
him into Prison, as also his two Friends who had married him, and gave
him his Wife in Marriage.

But Mr._Donne_ had not been long there before he found means to get
out, as also enlargement for his two Friends, and soon after through
the mediation of some able persons, a reconciliation was made, and he
receiving a Portion with his Wife, and having help of divers friends,
they lived very comfortably together; And now was he frequently visited
by men of greatest learning and judgment in this Kingdom; his company
desired by the Nobility, and extreamly affected by the Gentry: His
friendship was sought for of most foreign Embassadors, and his
acquaintance entreated by many other strangers, whose learning or
employment occasioned their stay in this _Kingdom_. In which state of
life he composed his _more brisk_ and _youthful Poems_; in which
he was so happy, as if Nature with all her varieties had been made to
exercise his _great Wit_ and _Fancy_; Nor did he leave it off in his
_old age_, as is witnessed by many of his _divine Sonnets_, and other
_high, holy_ and _harmonious Composures_, under his _Effigies_ in these
following Verses to his Printed Poems, one most ingeniously expresses.

_This was for youth, strength, mirth, and wit, the time
Most count their golden age, but 'twas not thine:
Thine was thy later years, so much refin'd,
From youths dross, mirth, and wit, as thy pure mind,
Thought, like the Angels, nothing but the praise
Of thy Creator in those last best days.
Witness this Book, thy Emblem, which begins
With love, but ends with sighs and tears for sins_.

At last, by King _James's_ his command, or rather earnest persuasion,
setting himself to the study of _Theology_, and into _holy Orders_, he
was first made a Preacher of _Lincoln's-Inn_, afterwards advanc'd to be
Dean of _Pauls_, and as of an eminent Poet he became a much more
eminent Preacher, so he rather improved then relinquisht his Poetical
fancy, only con converting it from _humane and worldly_ to _divine and
heavenly Subjects_; witness this Hymn made in the time of his sickness.

_A Hymn to God the Father_.

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, tho' it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, tho' still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thrid, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thy self, that at my death thy son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And having done that, thou hast done,
I ask no more.

He died _March_ 31. _Anno_ 1631. and was buried in St. _Paul's_-Church,
attended by many persons of Nobility and Eminency. After his burial,
some mournful friends repaired, and as _Alexander_ the great did to the
Grave of the most famous _Achilles_, so they strewed his with curious
and costly flowers. Nor was this (tho' not usual) all the honour done
to his reverend ashes; for some person (unknown) to perpetuate his
memory, sent to his Executors, Dr. _King_, and Dr. _Momford_, an 100
_Marks_ towards the making of a _Monument_ for him; which they
faithfully performed, it being as lively a representation as in dead
Marble could be made of him, tho' since by that merciless Fire in 1666.
it be quite ruined.

I shall conclude all with these Verses, made to the Memory of this
reverend person.

He that would write an Epitaph for thee,
And do it well, must first begin to be
Such as thou wert; for none can truly know
Thy worth, thy life, but he that lived so.
He must have wit to spare, and to hurl down,
Enough to keep the Gallants of the Town.
He must have learning plenty, both the Laws
Civil and Common, to judge any Cause;
Divinity great store above the rest,
None of the worst Edition, but the best:
He must have Language, Travel, all the Arts;
Judgment to use, or else he wants thy parts:
He must have friends the highest, able to do,
Such as _Maecenas_ and _Augustus_ too;
He must have such a sickness, such a death,
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath:
He must unto all good men be a friend,
And (like to thee) must make a pious end.

* * * * *




Dr. _RICHARD CORBET_.


This reverend Doctor was born at _Ewel_ in _Surrey_; a witty Poet in
his youth, witness his _Iter Boreale_, and other _facetious Poems_,
which were the effects of his juvenal fancy; He was also one of those
celebrated Wits, which with Mr. _Benjamin Johnson_, Mr. _Whitaker_, Sir
_Joh. Harrington_, Dr. _Donne_, Mr. _Drayton_, Mr. _Davis_, whom I
mentioned before, and several others, wrote those mock commendatory
Verses on _Coriats Crudities_; which, because the Book is scarce, and
very few have seen it, I shall give you them as they are recited in the
Book.

I do not wonder, _Coriat_, that thou hast
Over the _Alps_, through _France_, and _Savoy_, past,
Parcht on thy skin, and founder'd in thy feet,
Faint, thirsty, lousie, and didst live to see't.
Tho' these are _Roman_ sufferings, and do show
What Creatures back thou hadst, could carry so;
All I admire is thy return, and how
Thy slender pasterns could thee bear, when now
Thy observations with thy brain ingendred,
Have stufft thy massy and volumnious head
With Mountains, Abbeys, Churches, Synagogues,
Preputial Offals, and _Dutch_ Dialogues:
A burthen far more grievous than the weight
Of Wine or Sleep, more vexing then the freight
Of Fruit and Oysters, which lade many a pate,
And send folks crying home from _Billings-gate_.
No more shall man with Mortar on his head
Set forward towards _Rome_: no, Thou art bred
A terror to all Footmen, and to Porters,
And all Lay-men that will turn _Jews_ Exhorters,
To fly their conquer'd trade: Proud _England_ then
Embrace this luggage, which the man of men
Hath landed here, and change thy Welladay
Into some home-spun welcome Roundelay.
Send of this stuff thy Territories thorough,
To _Ireland_, _Wales_, and _Scottish Edenborough_;
There let this Book be read and understood,
Where is no theme, nor writer half so good.

He from a Student in, became Dean of _Christchurch_, then Bishop of
_Oxford_, being of a courteous carriage, and no destructive nature to
any who offended him, counting himself plentifully repaired with a Jest
upon him. He afterwards was advanced Bishop of _Norwich_, where he died
_Anno_ 1635.

* * * * *




Mr. _BENJAMIN JOHNSON_.


This _renowned Poet_, whose Fame surmounts all the Elogies which the
most learned Pen can bestow upon him, was born in the City of
_Westminster_, his Mother living there in _Harts-horn-lane_, near
_Charing-cross_, where she married a _Bricklayer_ for her second
Husband. He was first bred in a private School in St.
_Martin's_-Church, then in _Westminster_-School, under the learned Mr.
_Cambden_, as he himself intimates in one of his Epigrams.

_Cambden_, most reverend head, to whom I owe
All that I am in Arts, all that I know.
How nothings that, to whom my Country owes,
The great _renown_ and _name_ wherewith she goes.

Under this _learned Schoolmaster_ he attained to a good degree of
learning, and was statutably admitted in St. _John's_-Colledge in
_Cambridge_, (as many years after incorporated a honorary Member of
_Christ-Church_ in _Oxford_) here he staid but some small time, for
want of maintainance; for if there be no Oyl in the Lamp, it will soon
be extinguish'd: And now, as if he had quite laid aside all thoughts of
the University, he betook himself to the Trade of his Father-in-law;
And let not any be offended herewith, since it is more commendable to
work in a lawful Calling, then having one not to use it. He was one who
helped in the building of the new Structure of _Lincolns-Inn_, where,
having a Trowel in his hand, he had a Book in his pocket, that as his
work went forward, so his study went not backward.

But such _rare Parts_ as he had could be no more hid, than the Sun in a
serene day, some Gentlemen pitying such rare Endowments should be
buried under the rubbish of so mean a Calling, did by their bounty
manumise him freely to follow his own ingenious inclinations. Indeed
his Parts were not so ready to run of themselves, as able to answer the
spur; so that it may be truly said of him, that he had an elaborate wit
wrought out by his own industry; yet were his Repartees for the most
part very quick and smart, and which favour'd much of ingenuity, of
which I shall give you two instances.

He having been drinking in an upper room, at the _Feathers_-Tavern in
_Cheap side_, as he was coming down stairs, his foot slipping, he
caught a fall, and tumbling against a door, beat it open into a room
where some Gentlemen were drinking _Canary_; recovering his feet, he
said, _Gentlemen, since I am so luckily fallen into your company, I will
drink with you before I go_.

He used very much to frequent the _Half-Moon_-Tavern in
_Aldersgate-street_, through which was a common _Thorough fare_; he
coming late that way, one night, was denied passage, whereupon going
through the _Sun_-Tavern a little after, he said,

_Since that the_ Moon _was so unkind to make me go about,
The_ Sun _hence forth shall take my Coin, the_ Moon _shall go without_.

His constant humour was to sit silent in learned Company, and suck in
(besides Wine) their several Humours into his observation; what was
_Ore_ in others, he was able to refine unto himself.

He was one, and the chief of them, in ushering forth the Book of
_Coriats Crudities_, writing not only a Character of the Author, an
explanation of his Frontispiece, but also an Acrostick upon his Name,
which for the sutableness of it, (tho' we have written something of
others mock Verses) we shall here insert it.

T_ry and trust_ Roger, _was the word, but now_
H_onest_ Tom Tell-troth _puts down_ Roger, How?
O_f travel he discourseth so at large_,
M_arry he sets it out at his own charge_;
A_nd therein (which is worth his valour, too)_
S_hews he dare more than_ Paul's _Church-yard durst do._

C_ome forth thou bonny bouncing Book then, daughter_
O_f_ Tom of Odcombe, _that odd jovial Author_,
R_ather his son I should have call'd thee, why_?
Y_es thou wert born out of his travelling thigh_
A_s well as from his brains, and claim'st thereby_
T_o be his_ Bacchus _as his_ Pallas: _he_
E_ver his Thighs_ Male _then and his Brains_ She.

He was paramount in the Dramatick part of Poetry, and taught the Stage
an exact conformity to the Laws of Comedians, being accounted the most
learned, judicious, and correct of them all, and the more to be admired
for being so, for that neither the height of natural parts, for he was
no _Shakespear_, nor the cost of extraordinary education, but his own
proper industry, and addiction to Books, advanced him to this
perfection. He wrote fifty Plays in all, whereof fifteen Comedies,
three Tragedies, the rest Masques and Entertainments. His Comedies
were, _The Alchimist_, _Bartholomew Fair_, _Cynthia's Revels_, _Caseis
alter'd_, _The Devil is an Ass_, _Every Man in his humour, every Man
out of his humour_, _The Fox_, _Magnetick Lady_, _New Inn_,
_Poetaster_, _Staple of News_, _Sad Shepherd, Silent Woman_, and _A
Tale of a Tub_. His Tragedies were, _Cateline's Conspiracy, Mortimer's
Fall_, and _Seianus_. His Masques and Entertainments, too long here to
write, were thirty and two, besides a Comedy of _East-ward, hoe_? in
which he was partner with _Chapman_.

These his Plays were above the vulgar capacity, (which are onely
tickled with down-right obscenity) and took not so well at the first
_stroke_, as at the _rebound_, when beheld the second time, yea, they
will endure reading, and that with due commendation, so long as either
ingenuity or learning are fashionable in our Nation. And although all
his Plays may endure the test, yet in three of his Comedies, namely,
_The Fox, Alchymist_, and _Silent Woman_, he may be compared in the
judgment of the learned men, for _decorum, language_ and
_well-humouring_ parts, as well with the chief of the ancient _Greek_
and _Latine_ Comedians, as the prime of modern _Italians_, who have
been judged the best of _Europe_ for a happy vein in Comedies; nor is
his _Bartholomew Fair_ much short of them. As for his other Comedies,
_Staple of News, Devil's an Ass_, and the rest, if they be not so
sprightful and vigorous as his first pieces, all that are old will, and
all that desire to be old, should excuse him therein; and therefore let
the Name of _Ben Johnson_ sheild them against whoever shall think fit
to be severe in censure against them. Truth is, his Tragedies, _Seianus
and Cateline_ seem to have in them more of an artificial and inflate,
than of a pathetical and naturally Tragick height; yet do they every
one of them far excel any of the _English_ ones that were writ before
him; so that he may be truly said to be the first reformer of the
_English_ Stage, as he himself more truly than modestly writes in his
commendatory Verses of his Servants _Richard Broom_'s Comedy of the
_Northern Lass_.

Which you have justly gained from the Stage,
By observation of those Comick Laws,
Which I, your Master, first did teach the Age.

In the rest of his Poetry, (for he is not wholly Dramatick) as his
_Underwoods_, _Epigrams_, &c. he is sometimes bold and strenuous,
sometimes Magisterial, sometimes lepid and full enough of conceit, and
sometimes a man as other men are.

It seems the issue of his brain was more lively and lasting than the
issue of his body, having several Children, yet none living to survive
him; This he bestowed as part of an Epitaph on his eldest Son, dying an
Infant.

Rest in soft peace, and ask'd, say, Here doth lye
_Ben Johnson_ his best piece of Poetry.

But tho' the immortal Memory still lives of him in his learned Works,
yet his Body, subject to mortality, left this life, _Anno_ 1638. and
was buried about the Belfrey in the Abbey-Church at _Westminster_,
having only upon a Pavement over his Grave, this written:

_O Rare_ Ben Johnson.

Yet were not the Poets then so dull and dry, but that many expressed
their affection to his Memory in Elegies and Epitaphs; amongst which
this following may not be esteemed the worst.

The Muses fairest Light in no dark time,
The Wonder of a learned Age; the line
That none can pass: the most proportion'd Wit
To Nature; the best Judge of what was fit:
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest Pen:
The Voyce most eccho'd by consenting men;
The Soul which answer'd best to all well said
By others; and which most requital made:
Tun'd to the highest Key of ancient _Rome_;
Returning all her Musick with her own;
In whom with Nature, Study claim'd a part,
And yet who to himself ow'd all his Art;
Here lies _Ben Johnson_, every Age will look
With sorrow here, with Wonder on his Book.

* * * * *




_FRANCIS BEAUMONT_ and _JOHN FLETCHER_.


These two joyned together, made one of the happy _Triumvirate_ (the
other two being _Johnson_ and _Shakespear_) of the chief Dramatick
Poets of our Nation, in the last foregoing Age; among whom there might
be said to be a symmetry of perfection, while each excelled in his
peculiar way: _Ben Johnson_ in his elaborate pains and knowledge of
Authors, _Shakespear_ in his pure vein of wit, and natural Poetick
height; _Fletcher_ in a Courtly Elegance and Gentile Familiarity of
Style, and withal a Wit and Invention so overflowing, that the
luxuriant Branches thereof were frequently thought convenient to be
lopt off by Mr. _Beaumont_; which two joyned together, like _Castor_
and _Pollux_, (most happy when in conjunction) raised the _English_ to
equal the _Athenian_ and _Roman_ Theaters; _Beaumont_ bringing the
Ballast of Judgment, _Fletcher_ the Sail of Phantasie, both compounding
a Poet to admiration.

These two admirable Wits wrote in all two and fifty Plays, whereof
three and forty were Comedies; namely, _Beggars Bush_, _Custom of the
Country_, _Captain Coxcomb_, _Chances_, _Cupid's Revenge_, _Double
Marriage_, _Elder Brother_, _Four Plays in one_, _Fair Maid of the
Inn_, _Honest man's Fortune_, _Humorous Lieutenant_, _Island Princess_,
_King and no King_, _Knight of the burning Pestle_, _Knight of_ Malta,
_Little_ French _Lawyer_, _Loyal Subject_, _Laws of_ Candy, _Lovers
Progress_, _Loves Cure_, _Loves Pilgrimage_, _Mad Lover_, _Maid in the
Mill_, _Monsieur_ Thomas, _Nice Valour_, _Night-Walker_, _Prophetess_,
_Pilgrim_, _Philaster, Queen of_ Corinth, _Rule a Wife and have a
Wife_, Spanish _Curate_, _Sea-Voyage_, _Scornful Lady_, _Womans Prize_,
_Women pleased_, _Wife for a Month_, _Wit at several weapons_, and a
_Winters Tale_. Also six Tragedies; _Bonduca_, the _Bloody Brother_,
_False One_, the _Maids Tragedy_, _Thiery and Theodoret_,
_Valentinian_, and _Two Noble Kinsmen_, a Tragi-Comedy, _Fair
Shepherdess_, a Pastoral; and a _Masque of_ Grays-Inn _Gentlemen_.

It is reported of them, that meeting once in a Tavern, to contrive the
rude Draught of a Tragedy, _Fletcher_ undertook to _kill the King_
therein, whose Words being over-heard by a Listner (though his Loyalty
not to be blamed herein) he was accused of High Treason, till the
Mistake soon appearing, that the Plot was only against a Dramatick and
Scenical King, all wound off in Merriment.

Yet were not these two Poets so conjoyned, but that each of them did
several Pieces by themselves, Mr. _Beaumont_, besides other Works,
wrote a Poem, entituled, _Salmacis_ and _Hermaphroditus_, a Fable taken
out of _Ovid's Metamorphosis_; and Mr. _Fletcher_ surviving Mr.
_Beamont_, wrote good Comedies of himself; so that it could not be laid
to his Charge what _Ajax_ doth to _Ulysses_;

_Nihil hic_ Diomede _remoto_,

When _Diomedes_ was gone,
He could do nought alone.

Though some think them inferior to the former, and no wonder if a
single thread was not so strong as a twisted one, Mr. _Fletcher_ (as it
is said) died in _London_ of the Plague, in the first year of King
_Charles_ the First, 1625.

* * * * *




_WILLIAM SHAKESPEAR_.


This eminent Poet, the Glory of the _English_ Stage (and so much the
more eminent, that he gained great applause and commendation, when able
Wits were his Contemporaries) was born at _Stratford_ upon _Avon_ in
_Warwickshire_, and is the highest honour that Town can boast of. He
was one of the _Triumvirate_, who from Actors, became Makers of
Comedies and Tragedies, _viz. Christopher Marlow_ before him, and Mr.
_John Lacy_, since his time, and one in whom three eminent Poets may
seem in some sort to be compounded, 1. _Martial_, in the warlike sound
of his Sirname, _Hastivibrans_, or _Shakespear_; whence some have
supposed him of military extraction. 2. _Ovid_, the most natural and
witty of all Poets; and hence it was that Queen _Elizabeth_ coming into
a Grammar-School, made this extemporary Verse.

_Persius_ a Crab-staff, Bawdy _Martial_, _Ovid_ a fine Wag.

3. _Plautus_, a most exact Comedian, and yet never any Scholar, as our
_Shakespear_ (if alive) would confess himself; but by keeping company
with Learned persons, and conversing with jocular Wits, whereto he was
naturally inclin'd, he became so famously witty, or wittily famous,
that by his own industry, without the help of Learning, he attained to
an extraordinary height in all strains of Dramatick Poetry, especially
in the Comick part, wherein we may say he outwent himself; yet was he
not so much given to Festivity, but that he could (when so disposed) be
solemn and serious; so that _Heraclitus_ himself might afford to smile
at his Comedies, they were so merry, and _Democritus_ scarce forbear to
sigh at his Tragedies, they were so mournful.

Nor were his Studies altogether confined to the Stage, but had
excursions into other kinds of Poetry, witness his Poem of the _Rape of
Lucrece_, and that of _Venus and Adonis_; wherein, to give you a taste
of the loftiness of his Style, we shall insert some few Lines of the
beginning of the latter.

Even as the Sun with purple-colour'd face
Had tane his last leave of the weeping Morn,
Rose-cheek'd _Adonis_ hy'd him to the Chase,
Hunting he lov'd, but Love he laught to scorn.
Sick thoughted _Venus_ makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac'd Suiter 'gins to woo him.
Thrive fairer than my self (thus she begins)
The fields chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all Nymphs, more lovely than a man;
More white and red than Doves or Roses are:
Nature that made thee with herself at strife,
Says that the world hath ending with thy life, &c

He was an eminent instance of the truth of that Rule, _Poeta non fit,
sed nascitur_; one is not made, but born a Poet; so that as _Cornish
Diamonds_ are not polished by any Lapidary, but are pointed and
smoothed even as they are taken out of the Earth, so Nature itself was
all the Art which was used on him.

He was so great a Benefactor to the Stage, that he wrote of himself
eight and forty Plays; whereof 18 Comedies, _viz._ _As you like it_,
_All's well that ends well_, _A Comedy of Errors_, _Gentleman of_
Verona, _Loves Labour lost_, London _Prodigal_, _Merry Wives of_
Windsor, _Measure for measure_, _Much ado about Nothing_, _Midsummer
Nights Dream_, _Merchant of_ Venice, _Merry Devil of_ Edmonton,
_Mucedorus, the Puritan Widow_, _the Tempest_, _Twelf-Night_, or _what
you will_, _the taming of the Shrew_, and _a winters Tale_. Fourteen
Tragedies, _viz._ _Anthony and Cleopatra_, _Coriolanus_, _Cymbeline_,
_Hamlet_, _Julius Caesar_, _Lorrino_, _Leir and his three Daughters_,
_Mackbeth_, _Othello the Moor of_ Venice, _Romeo and Juliet_, _Troylus
and Cressida_, _Tymon of_ Athens, _Titus Andronicus_, and _the
Yorkshire Tragedy_. Also fifteen Histories, _viz._ Cromwel's _History_,
_Henry_ 4. in two parts, _Henry_ 5. _Henry_ 6. in three parts, _Henry_
8. _John King of_ England, in three parts, _Pericles Prince of_ Tyre,
_Richard_ 2. _Richard_ 3. and _Oldrastes Life and Death_. Also _the
Arraignment of Paris_, a Pastoral.

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We do not know the women's names, but their voices are quite distinct. All are pregnant. But while the first woman awaits the birth of her baby with a moon-like serenity, the other two are not so lucky. One, whose previous pregnancies have failed to go to term, is experiencing a heartbreaking late miscarriage; the other is a young student whose accidental pregnancy will end in her child being put up for adoption.

Sylvia Plath's only play was never intended for the stage, being broadcast instead on BBC radio in August 1962. Less than six months later, Plath killed herself, but not before the burst of astonishing creative energy that produced her extraordinary, terrifying Ariel poems.

Anyone who knows Plath's poetry will see the connection between Three Women and Plath's subsequent poems, particularly in the way she talks about the agony of childbirth, the rush of love for this tiny alien being, and both the wonder and wounded rawness of motherhood. It is a beautiful piece, full of startling imagery that draws you in through the sheer intensity of its femaleness, and because it so precisely articulates the emotions that are often thought but seldom voiced by women - certainly not in the early 1960s - about men, motherhood and our relationship to our bodies.

It's been 20 years since there has been an attempt at a professional stage version and - in a theatre world that happily accepts the poetic offerings of Sarah Kane and Debbie Tucker Green, or the staged possibilities of The Waves, one of Plath's own inspirations for the piece, I see no reason why it shouldn't be brought to life. Sadly, it doesn't breathe here, in a production by Robert Shaw that is clearly a labour of love, but which never finds a way to give the internal a physical reality. Plath's poetry, like most babies, is more robust than it appears - and won't break if treated with a little less reverence and considerably more grit.

Instead, what we are offered is tinkling piano music, mournful mood lighting, an innocuous pale setting, as well as three perfectly good but indisputably ladylike performances that capture none of the wounded redness of Plath's poetry, and do her the disservice of making her sound bleached and somewhat prissy. It's a pity. What might have been a wonder ends up a mere curiosity.

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