irst half of this question is that they were neither and both.
In Lyly's day drama had not yet been differentiated from masque, and his
plays, therefore, partook of the nature of both. Produced as they were
for the Court, it was natural that they should possess something of that
atmosphere of pageantry, music, and pantomime which we now associate
with the word masque. But Elizabeth was economical and preferred plain
drama to the expensive masque displays, though she was ready to enjoy
the latter, if they were provided for her by Leicester or some other
favourite. Lyly's work therefore never advanced very far in the
direction of the masque, though in its complimentary allegories it had
much in common with it. The question as to whether it should be
described as classical rather than as romantic is not one which need
detain us long. It is interesting however as it again brings out the
peculiarity of Lyly's position. It may indeed be claimed for him that
all sections of Elizabethan drama, except perhaps tragedy, are to be
found in embryo in his plays. I have said that he was the first of the
romanticists, but he was no less the first important writer of classical
drama. _Gorbuduc_ and its like had been tedious and clumsy imitations,
and, moreover, they had imitated Seneca, who was a late classic. Lyly,
though the Greek dramatists were unknown to him, had probably studied
Aristotle's _Poetics_, and was certainly acquainted with Horace's _Ars
Poetica_, and with the comedies of Terence and Plautus. He was,
therefore, an authority on matters dramatic, and could boast of a
learning on the subject of technique which few of his contemporaries or
his successors could lay claim to, and which they were only too ready to
glean second-hand. And yet, though he was wise enough to appreciate all
that the classics could teach him, he was a romanticist at heart, or
perhaps it would be better to say that he threw the beautiful and
loosely fitting garment of romanticism over the classical frame of his
dramas. And even in the matter of this frame he was not always orthodox.
He bowed to the tradition of the unities: but he frequently broke with
it; in _The Woman_ alone does he confine the action to one day; and,
though he is more careful to observe unity of place, imaginary transfers
occurring in the middle of scenes indicate his rebellion against this
restriction. Nevertheless, when all is said, he remains, with the
exception of Jonson, the mos