_Men._ Appetitus, thou mistakest me; I tell thee three thousand years ago was Mendacio born in Greece, nursed in Crete, and ever since honoured every where: I’ll be sworn I held old Homer’s pen when he writ his Iliads and his Odysseys. _Appe._ Thou hadst need, for I hear say he was blind. _Men._ I helped Herodotus to pen some part of his Muses; lent Pliny ink to write his history; rounded Rabelais in the ear when he historified Pantagruel; as for Lucian, I was his genius; O, those two books _de Vera Historia_, however they go under his name, I’ll be sworn I writ them every tittle. _Appe._ Sure as I am hungry, thou’lt have it for lying. But hast thou rusted this latter time for want of exercise? _Men._ Nothing less. I must confess I would fain have jogged Stow and great Hollingshed on their elbows, when they were about their chronicles; and, as I remember, Sir John Mandevill’s travels, and a great part of the Decad’s, were of my doing: but for the Mirror of Knighthood, Bevis of Southampton, Palmerin of England, Amadis of Gaul, Huon de Bourdeaux, Sir Guy of Warwick, Martin Marprelate, Robin Hood, Garagantua, Gerilion, and a thousand such exquisite monuments as these, no doubt but they breathe in my breath up and down.’ The Merry Devil of Edmonton which has been sometimes attributed to Shakespear, is assuredly not unworthy of him. It is more likely, however, both from the style and subject-matter to have been Heywood’s than any other person’s. It is perhaps the first example of sentimental comedy we have—romantic, sweet, tender, it expresses the feelings of honour, of love, and friendship in their utmost delicacy, enthusiasm, and purity. The names alone, Raymond Mounchersey, Frank Jerningham, Clare, Millisent, ‘sound silver sweet like lovers’ tongues by night.’ It sets out with a sort of story of Doctor Faustus, but this is dropt as jarring on the tender chords of the rest of the piece. The wit of the Merry Devil of Edmonton is as genuine as the poetry. Mine Host of the George is as good a fellow as Boniface, and the deer-stealing scenes in the forest between him, Sir John the curate, Smug the smith, and Banks the miller, are ‘very honest knaveries,’ as Sir Hugh Evans has it. The air is delicate, and the deer, shot by their cross-bows, fall without a groan! Frank Jerningham says to Clare, ‘The way lies right: hark, the clock strikes at Enfield: what’s the hour? _Young Clare._ Ten, the bell says. _Jern._ It was but eight when we set out from Cheston: Sir John and his sexton are at their ale to-night, the clock runs at random. _Y. Clare._ Nay, as sure as thou livest, the villainous vicar is abroad in the chase. The priest steals more venison than half the country. _Jern._ Millisent, how dost thou? _Mil._ Sir, very well. I would to God we were at Brian’s lodge.’