naught but alluring baits,
Pride, flattery [ ], and inconstant thoughts.
To shun the pricks of death I leave the world,
And vow to meditate on heavenly bliss,
To live in Framlingham a holy nun,
Holy and pure in conscience and in deed;
And for to wish all maids to learn of me
To seek heaven's joy before earth's vanity."

We do not know anything of Thomas Kyd's, except _The Spanish Tragedy_,
which is a second part of an extremely popular play (sometimes attributed
to Kyd himself, but probably earlier) called _Jeronimo_, and the
translation of _Cornelia_, though others are doubtfully attributed. The
well-known epithet of Jonson, "sporting" Kyd, seems to have been either a
mere play on the poet's name, or else _a lucus a non lucendo_; for both
_Jeronimo_ and its sequel are in the ghastliest and bloodiest vein of
tragedy, and _Cornelia_ is a model of stately dullness. The two "Jeronimo"
or "Hieronimo" plays were, as has been said, extremely popular, and it is
positively known that Jonson himself, and probably others, were employed
from time to time to freshen them up; with the consequence that the exact
authorship of particular passages is somewhat problematical. Both plays,
however, display, nearly in perfection, the rant, not always quite
ridiculous, but always extravagant, from which Shakespere rescued the
stage; though, as the following extract will show, this rant is by no means
always, or indeed often, smoke without fire:--

"O! forbear,
For other talk for us far fitter were.
But if you be importunate to know
The way to him, and where to find him out,
Then list to me, and I'll resolve your doubt.
There is a path upon your left hand side,
That leadeth from a guilty conscience
Unto a forest of distrust and fear--
A darksome place and dangerous to pass.
There shall you meet with melancholy thoughts
Whose baleful humours if you but uphold,
It will conduct you to despair and death.
Whose rocky cliffs when you have once beheld
Within a hugy dale of lasting night--
That, kindled with the world's iniquities,
Doth cast up filthy and detested fumes--
Not far from thence, where murderers have built
An habitation for their cursed souls,
There is a brazen cauldron fixed by Jove
In his fell wrath upon a sulp