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 cannot back, But needs must on, although to danger's gate. Then, Arden, perish thou by that decree. (2) [_The last arrangements have been made for the murder and only_ ARDEN _is awaited._] _Will._ Give me the key: which is the counting house? _Alice._ Here would I stay and still encourage you, But that I know how resolute you are. _Shakbag._ Tush, you are too faint-hearted; we must do it. _Alice._ But Mosbie will be there, whose very looks Will add unwonted courage to my thought, And make me the first that shall adventure on him. _Will._ Tush, get you gone; 'tis we must do the deed. When this door opens next, look for his death. [_Exeunt_ WILL _and_ SHAKBAG.]