But old Chapman professes to have found the clue to it, and winds his uncouth way through all the labyrinth of love. Its deepest recesses ‘hide nothing from his view.’ The close intrigues of court policy, the subtle workings of the human soul, move before him like a sea dark, deep, and glittering with wrinkles for the smile of beauty. Fulke Greville alone could go beyond him in gravity and mystery. The plays of the latter (Mustapha and Alaham) are abstruse as the mysteries of old, and his style inexplicable as the riddles of the Sphinx. As an instance of his love for the obscure, the marvellous, and impossible, he calls up ‘the ghost of one of the old kings of Ormus,’ as prologue to one of his tragedies; a very reverend and inscrutable personage, who, we may be sure, blabs no living secrets. Chapman, in his other pieces, where he lays aside the gravity of the philosopher and poet, discovers an unexpected comic vein, distinguished by equal truth of nature and lively good humour. I cannot say that this character pervades any one of his entire comedies; but the introductory sketch of Monsieur D’Olive is the undoubted prototype of that light, flippant, gay, and infinitely delightful class of character, of the professed men of wit and pleasure about town, which we have in such perfection in Wycherley and Congreve, such as Sparkish, Witwoud and Petulant, &c. both in the sentiments and in the style of writing. For example, take the last scene of the first act. ‘_Enter_ D’Olive. _Rhoderique._ What, Monsieur D’Olive, the only admirer of wit and good words. _D’Olive._ Morrow, wits: morrow, good wits: my little parcels of wit, I have rods in pickle for you. How dost, Jack; may I call thee, sir, Jack yet? _Mugeron._ You may, sir; sir’s as commendable an addition as Jack, for ought I know. _D’Ol._ I know it, Jack, and as common too. _Rhod._ Go to, you may cover; we have taken notice of your embroidered beaver. _D’Ol._ Look you: by heaven thou ‘rt one of the maddest bitter slaves in Europe: I do but wonder how I made shift to love thee all this while. _Rhod._ Go to, what might such a parcel-gilt cover be worth? _Mug._ Perhaps more than the whole piece beside. _D’Ol._ Good i’ faith, but bitter. Oh, you mad slaves, I think you had Satyrs to your sires, yet I must love you, I must take pleasure in you, and i’ faith tell me, how is’t? live I see you do, but how? but how, wits? _Rhod._ Faith, as you see, like poor younger brothers. _D’Ol._ By your wits? _Mug._ Nay, not turned poets neither.