The works of Shakespeare: the text carefully restored according to the first editions; with introductions, notes original and selected, and a life of the poet;

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INTRODUCTION.

ROWfi'8 ACCOUNT OF THE POET'S LIFE.

JBHAKESPEARE, by general suffrage, is the greatest name
in LiteratureTy There can be no extravagance in saying, that
to all who speak the English language his genius has made
the world better worth living in, and life a nobler and diviner
thing. And, throughout the civilized world, those who do not
"speak the tongue that Shakespeare spake" are growing
more and more to wish that his vernacular were theirs, and
even to study the English language, that they may be at
home with him. TSow he came to be what he was, and to
do what he did, are questions that can never cease to be in-
teresting, wherever his works are known, and men's powers
of thought in any fair measure developed. But Providence
nas left a veil, or rather cloud, about his history, so that these
questions can never be satisfactorily answered. And perhaps
it is better that the thing stands thus, lest we should trust
overmuch to historical transpirations for the understanding
of that which no such transpirations can adequately convey.
Nevertheless, these questions are certainly well worth all the
labour and pains that have been or are likely to be spent in
trying to answer them from the grounds of historyT/ We
have barely facts enough to stimulate and guide in the right
course of inquiry ; and where facts are so few, there is the
.ess danger of our relying too much on these for that knowl-
edge which, after all, must be chiefly sought for in a highet
sphere of thought.

XVIll THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

The first formal attempt at an account of Shakespeare 'a
life was made by Howe, and the result of his labours was
published in 1 709, ninety-three years after the Poet's death.
Howe's account was avowedly made up for the most part
from traditionary materials collected by Betterton the actor,
who made a journey to Stratford expressly for that purpose.1
Betterton was born in 1635, nineteen years after the death
of Shakespeare, became an actor before 1660, retired from
the stage about 1700, and died in 1710. At what time he
visited Stratford, is not known : Malone thinks it was late in
life ; Mr. Collier, that it was not later than 1670 or 1675,
" when he would naturally be more enthusiastic in a pursuit
of tliat kind, and when he had not been afflicted by that dis-
order from which he suffered so severely in his later years,
and to which, in fact, he owed his death." It is to be re-
gretted that Howe did not give Betterton's authorities for
the particulars gathered by him. It is certain, however, that
very good sources of information on the subject were acces-
sible in his tune : Judith Quiney, the Poet's second daugh-
ter, lived till 1662 ; Lady Barnard, his granddaughter, till
1670 ; and Sir William Davenant was manager of the thea-
tre in which Betterton acted.*

1 I cannot leave Hamlet, without taking notice of the advantage
with which we have seen this master-piece of Shakespeare dis-
tinguish itself upon the stage, by Mr. Betterton's fine performance
of that part. No man is better acquainted with Shakespeare's
manner of expression ; and indeed he has studied him so well,
and is so much a master of him, that whatever part of his he per-
forms, he does it as if it had been written on purpose for him, and
that the author had exactly conceived it as he plays it. I must
own a particular obligation to him for the most considerable part
of the passages relating to this Life, which I have here transmit-
ted to the public ; his veneration for the memory of Shakespeare
having engaged him to make a journey into Warwickshire, oa
purpose to gather up what remain* he could of a name for which
he had so great a veneration. — HOWE'S Account.

2 Downes was prompter at one of the theatres in 1662, and for
some time afterwards. In his Roscius Anglicanus, 1708, we have
the following in reference to Sir William Davenant's theatre, be-
iween 1662 aud 1665 : " The tragedy of Hamlet : Hamlet being

INTRODUCTION. XIX

After Howe's narrative, scarce any thing was added till
the time of Malone, who by a learned and most industrious
searching of public and private records brought to light a
considerable number of facts, some of them very important,
touching the Poet and his family. And in our own day, Mr.
Collier has followed up the same course of inquiry with al-
most incredible diligence, and with a degree of success that
gives earnest of still further discoveries yet to be made.
Lastly, Mr. Halliwell has brought his intelligent and inde-
fatigable labours to the same task, and made some valuable
additions to our stock of information. Collier's Life of the
Poet, published in 1844, is a work of very great interest and
worth, and will long stand a monument of the author's
learned and patient researcn ; but, besides being too lengthy
for our purpose, it needs in divers particulars to be corrected
or completed, from the results of later investigation. Halli-
well's Life was published in 1848. It is a work of small
pretence and large merit ; though its merit consists rather
in the fulness and accuracy of the original materials, than in
the shape and expression which the author has given them :
NO that the work, though highly valuable to the scholar, is
little suited to the purposes of the general reader.

The labours of Howe, Malone, Collier, and Halliwell are
all before us ; and whatsoever we can gather from them to-
wards making the reader acquainted with the man Shake-
speare, will be found embodied in the following pages. Of
course no means of adding to the stock of matter lie within

perform'd by Mr. Betterton, Sir William, having seen Mr. Taylor
of the Black-fryars company act it, who being instructed by the
author, Mr. Shakespear, taught Mr. Betterton in every particle
of it ; which, by his exact performance of it, gain'd him esteem
and reputation superlative to all other plays. . . . King Hen-
ry the 8lh. This play, by order of Sir William Davenant, was all
new cloath'd in proper habits. The part of the King was so right
and justly done by Mr. Betterton, he being instructed in it by Sii
William, who had it from old Mr. Loweti, that had his instructions
from Mr. Shakespear himself, that I dare and will aver none can
or Mill come near him in this age in the performance of that part."

IX THE LfFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

our reach, even if we had ever so much time and skill to
prosecute such researches ; so that the most we can hope foi
is, to put into a compact and readable shape what others
have collected. As Howe's narrative was the first essay of
the kind, and as it is, withal, very brief and well-written, it
may justly receive a place in tin's our introductory chapter :

SOME ACCOUNT
or THE

LIFE OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

It seems to be a kind of respect due to the memory ol
excellent men, especially those whom their wit and learning
have made famous, to deliver some account of themselves,
as well as then1 works, to posterity. For this reason, how
fond do we see some people of discovering any little per-
sonal story of the great men of antiquity ! their families, the
common accidents of then: lives, and even then- shape, make,
and features have been the subject of critical inquiries.
How trifling soever this curiosity may seem to be, it is cer-
tainly very natural ; and we are hardly satisfied with an ac-
count of any remarkable person, till we have heard him
described even to the very clothes he wears. As for what
relates to men of letters, the knowledge of an author may
sometimes conduce to the better understanding of his book ;
and though the works of Shakespeare may seem to many
not to want a comment, yet I fancy some little account of
the man himself may not be thought improper to go along
with them.

He was the son of Mr. John Shakespeare, and was born
at Stratford-upon-Avon, hi Warwickshire, in April, 1564.
His family, as appears by the register and public writings
relating to that town, were of good figure and fashion there,
and are mentioned as gentlemen. Hh father, who was a
considerable dealer in wool, had so large a family, ton dii)-

WAI!

r?

INTRODUCTION XXI

dren in all, that, though he was his eldest son, he could give
him no better education than his own employment. He had
bred him, it is true, for some time at a free-school, where it
is probable he acquired what Latin he was master of ; but
the narrowness of his circumstances, and the want of his
assistance at home forced his father to withdraw him froai
thence, and unhappily prevented his further proficiency in
that language. It is without controversy, that in his works
we scarce find any traces of any thing that looks like an
imitation of the ancients. The delicacy of his taste, and the
natural bent of his own great genius (equal, if not superior,
to some of the best of theirs) would certainly have led him
to read and study them with so much pleasure, that some
of their fine images would naturally have insinuated them-
selves into and been mixed with his own writings ; so that
his not copying at least something from them may be an ar-
gument of his never having read them. Whether his igno-
rance of the ancients were a disadvantage to him or no, may
admit of a dispute ; for, though the knowledge of them might
have made him more correct, yet it is not improbable but that
the regularity and deference for them, which would have air
tended that correctness, might have restrained some of that
fire, impetuosity, and even beautiful extravagance which we
admire in Shakespeare ; and I believe we are better pleased
with those thoughts, altogether new and uncommon, which
cis own imagination supplied him so abundantly with, than
if he had given us the most beautiful passages out of the
Greek and Latin poets, and that in the most agreeable man-
ner that it was possible for a master of the English language
to deliver them.

Upon his leaving school, he seems to have given entirely
into that way of living which his father proposed to him ;
and, in order to settle in the world after a family manner,
he thought fit to marry while he was yet very young. Hia
wife was the daughter of one Hathaway, said to have been
a substantial yeoman in the neighbourhood of Stratford. In
this kind of settlement he continued for some time, ti.l an

XX11 THE LIKE OF SHAKESPEARE.

extravagance that lie was guilty of forced him both out of
his country and that way of Hying which he had taken up ;
and, though it seemed at first to be a blemish upon his good
manners, and a misfortune to him, yet it afterwards happily
proved the occasion of exerting one of the greatest geniuses
that ever was known in dramatic poetry. He had, by a
misfortune common enough to young fellows, fallen into iii
company; and among them some, that made a frequent
practice of deer-stealing, engaged him with them more than
once in robbing a park that belonged to Sir Thomas Lucy,
of Charlecote, near Stratford. For this he was prosecuted
by that gentleman, as he thought, somewhat too severely ;
and, in order to revenge that ill usage, he made a ballad
upon him. And though this, probably the first essay of his
poetry, be lost, yet it is said to have been so very bitter,
that it redoubled the prosecution against him to that degree,
that he was obliged to leave his business and family in War-
wickshire for some time, and shelter himself in London.

It is at this time, and upon this accident, that he is said
to have made his first acquaintance in the play-house. He
was received into the company then in being, at first in a
very mean rank; but his admirable wit, and the natural
turn of it to the stage, soon distinguishedHm, if not as an
extraordinary actor, yet as an excellent wrl^i His name is
printed, as the custom was in those times, among those of
the other players, before some old plays, but without any
particular account of what sort of parts he used to play ;
and, though I have inquired, I could never meet with any
further account of him this way, than that the top of his
performance was the Ghost in his own Hamlet. I should
have been much more pleased to have learned from some
certain authority which was the first play he wrote : it would
be without doubt a pleasure to any man curious in things of
this kind, to see and know what was the first essay of a
fancy like Shakespeare's. Perhaps we are not to look for
his beginnings, like those of other authors, among his least

INTRODUCTION. XX1I1

perfect writings : art had so little, and nature so large a
share in what he did, that, for aught I know, the perform-
ances of his youth, as they were the most vigorous, and had
the most fire and strength of imagination in them, were the
besE^jI would not be thought by this to mean, that his
fancy was so loose and extravagant as to be independent on
the rule and government of judgment ; but that what he
thought was commonly so great, so justly and rightly con-
ceived in itself, that it wanted little or no correction, and
was immediately approved by an impartial judgment at the
first sight. But, though the order of time in which the
several pieces were written be generally uncertain, yet there
are passages in some few of them which seem to fix their
dates. So the Chorus, at the end of the fourth Act of Hen-
ry V., by a compliment very handsomely turned to the Eari
of Essex, shows the play to have been written when that
lord was general for the Queen in Ireland. And his eulogy
upon Queen Elizabeth and her successor King James, in
the latter end of his Henry VHL, is a proof of that play's
being written after the accession of the latter of those two
princes to the crown of England.

^"Whatever the particular times of his writing were, the
people of his age, who began to grow wonderfully fond of
diversions of this kind, could not but be highly pleased to
see a genius arise among them of so pleasurable, so rich a
vein, and so plentifully capable of furnishing their favourite
entertainments. Besides the advantages of his wit, he was
in himself a good-natured man, of great sweetness in his
manners, and a most agreeable companion ; so that it is no
wonder if with so many good qualities he made himself ac-
quainted with the best conversations of those times. _Queen
Elizabeth had several of his plays acted before KferJand
without doubt gave him many gracious marks of her favour •
it is that maiden princess plainly, whom he intends by, " a
fair vestal throned by the west." And that whole passage
is a compliment very properly brought in, and very hand'

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

«omely applied to her.s She was so •well pleased with that
admirable character of Falstaff, in the two Parts of Henry
IV., that she commanded him to continue it for one play
more, and to show him in love. This is said to be the occa-
sion of his writing The Merry Wives of Windsor. How
well she was obeyed, the play itself is an admirable proof.
Upon this occasion it may not be improper to observe, that
this part of Falstaff is said to have been written originally
under the name of Oldcastle : some of that family being
then remaining, the Queen was pleased to command him to
alter it ; upon which he made use of Falstaff. The present
offence was indeed avoided ; but I do not know whether the
author may not have been somewhat to blame in his second
choice, since it is certain that Sir John Falstaff, who was a
knight of the garter, and a lieutenant-general, was a name
of distinguished merit in the wars in France, in the times
of Henry V. and Henry VL4

8 It is hardly needful to inform the reader that the passage re
ferred to is in A Midsummer-Night's Dream, Act ii. sc. 1 :

" That very time I saw (but thou could'st not)
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd : a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west ;
And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts :
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon ,
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free."

• The blame, in this ease, if there be any, rather seems to rest
with Howe himself, who confounds Falitaff with Fastolfe, the let-
ter being the name of the distinguished soldier to whom he refers.
Sir John Fastolfe figures a little as one of the characters in th«
First Part of King Henry the Sixth. The change of name from
Oldcastle to Falstaff :s discussed in our Introduction to the First
Part of King Henry IV, In further illustration of the point, Mr.
Halliwell, in his Life of the Poet, prints from manuscript a dedi-
cation by Dr. Richard James to Sir Henry Bourchier, written
about the year 1625. We subjoin a part of this curious document,
from which it will be seen that Rowe was not the first to confound

INTRODUCTION. AAV

f What grace soever the Queen conferred upon him, it
was not to her only he owed the fortune which the reputa-
tion of his wit made. He had the honour to meet with
many and uncommon marks of favour and friendship from
the Earl of SouthamptonJ^amous in the histories of that
time for his friendship to the unfortunate Earl of Essex. It
was to that noble Lord that he dedicated his poem of Venus
and Adonis. There is one instance so singular in the mag-
nificence of this patron of Shakespeare's, that if I had not
been assured that the story was handed down by Sir Wil-
liam Davenant, who was probably very well acquainted with
his affairs, I should not have ventured to have inserted, that
my Lord Southampton at one time gave him a thousand
pounds, to enable him to go through with a purchase which
he had heard he had a mind to. A bounty very great, and
very rare at any time, and almost equal to that profuse gen-
erosity the present age has shown to French dancers and
Italian singers.

Falslaff and Fastolfe : " A young gentle ladie of your acquaint
ance, having read the works of Shakespeare, made me this ques-
tion : How Sir Jhon Falstaffe, or Fastolf, as it is written in the
statute book of Maudlin Colledge in Oxford, where everye daye
that societie were bound to make memorie of his soule, could be
dead iii Harrie the Fifts time, and againe live in the time of Harrie
the Sixt to be banisht forcowardize ? Whereto I made answeare,
•hat this was one of those humours and mistakes for which Plato
banisht all poets out of his commonwealth ; that Sir Jhon Falstaffe
was in those times a noble valiant souldier, as apeeres by a book
in the Heralds Office dedicated unto him by a herald whoe had
binne with him, if I well remember, for the space of 25 yeeres in
the French wars ; that he seemes allso to have binne a man of
learning, because, in a librarie of Oxford, I finde a book of ded-
icating churches sent from him for a present unto Bisshop Wain-
flete, and inscribed with his owne hand. That in Shakespearc'«
first shewe of Harrie the Fift, the person with which he undertook
to playe a buffone was not Falstaff, but Sir Jhon Oldcastle ; and
that, offence beinge worthily taken by personages descended from
bis title, as peradventure by manie others allso whoe ought to have
him in honourable memorie, the poet was putt to make an ignorant
shifle of abusing Sir Jhon Fastolphe, a man not inferior of vertue
tho igh not so famous in pietie as the other."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

What particular habitude or friendships he contracted
with private men, I have not been able to learn, more than
that every one who had any true taste of merit, and could
distinguish men, had generally a just value and esteem for
him. His exceeding candour and good-nature must cer-
tainly have inclined all the gentler part of the world to
love him, as the power of his wit obliged the men of the
most delicate knowledge and polite learning to admire

him.

— ...

His acquaintance with Ben Jonson began with a remark-
able piece of humanity and good-nature. Mr. Jonsou, who
was at that time altogether unknown to the world, had of-
ferred one of his plays to the players, in order to have it
acted ; and the persons into whose hands it was put, after
having turned it carelessly and superciliously over, were just
upon returning it to him with an ill-natured answer, that it
would be of no service to their company ; when Shakespeare
luckily cast his e}re upon it, and found something so well in
it as to engage him first to read it through, and afterwards
to recommend Mr. Jonson and his writings to the public.
Jonson was certainly a very good scholar, and in that had
the advantage of Shakespeare ; though at the same time I
believe it must be allowed, that what nature gave the latter
was more than a balance for what books had given the for-
mer ; and the judgment of a great man upon this occasion
was, I think, very just and proper. In a conversation be-
tween Sir John Suckling, Sir William Davenant, Endymion
Porter, Mr. Hales of Eton, and Ben Jonson, — Sir John
Suckling, who was a professed admirer of Shakespeare, had
undertaken his defence against Ben Jonson with some
warmth : Mr. Hales, who had sat still for some time, told
them that, if Shakespeare had not read the ancients, he had
likewise not stolen any thing from them ; and that, if he
would produce any one topic finely treated by any of them,
he would undertake to show something xipon the same sub-
ject at least as well written by Shakespeare.6

0 The same story is told with more minuteness by Gildon in an

INTRODUCTION. XXV11

~Tbs latter pai-t of his life was spent, as all men of good
sense will wish theirs may be, in ease, retirement, and the
conversation of his friends. He had the good fortune to
gather an estate equal to his occasions, and, in that, to his
wish ; and is said to have spent some years before his death
at his native Stratford. His pleasurable wit and good-nature
engaged him in the acquaintance, and entitled him to the

Essay addressed to Dryden in 1694. The writer, it may be seen
appeals to Dryden as his authority for the anecdote : " But, to give
the world some satisfaction that Shakespeare has had as great ven
eration paid his excellence by men of unquestioned parts as this I
now express for him, I shall give some account of what I have
heard from your own mouth, Sir, about the noble triumph he gained
over all the ancients, by the judgment of the ablest critics of that
time. The matter of fact, if my memory fail me not, was this :
Mr. Hales of Eton affirmed that he would show all the poets of
antiquity outdone by Shakespeare, in all the topics and common-
places made use of in poetry. The enemies of Shakespeare
would by no means yield him so much excellence; so that it came
to a resolution of a trial of skill upon that subject. The place
agreed on for the dispute was Mr. Hales' chamber at Eton. A
great many books were sent down by the enemies of this poet ;
and on the appointed day my Lord Falkland, Sir John Suckling,
and ail the persons of quality that had wit and learning, and in-
terested themselves in the quarrel, met there ; and, upon a thorough
disquisition of (he point, the judges chosen by agreement out of
this learned and ingenious assembly unanimously gave the pref-
erence to Shakespeare, and the Greek and Roman poets were ad-
judged to vail at least their glory in that to the English hero." —
It may be well to and that John Hales, canon of Windsor ard
Fellow of Eton, was tor his great learning called "the ever-mem-
crable," and "the walking library." Under the tyranny of the
Long Parliament, he was thrust from his preferment and stripped
of his revenues ; and when an ofier was made of restoring him the
fellowship he refused it, saying, that "as the Parliament had put
him out, he was resolved never to be put in again by them." He
died ii: 1656. Lord Clarendon says of him, " he had made a
greater and better collection of hooks, than were to be found in
any other private library that I have seen ; as he had sure read
more, and carried more about him in his excellent memory, than
any man I ever knew, my lord Falkland only excepted, who, I
think, sided him.'' And he adds, referring to his smallness of per-
son, " he was one of the least men in the kingdom ; and one of
the greatest scholars in Europe."

XXV11I THE LI**. OF SHAKESPEARE

friendship of the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. Among
them, it is a story almost still remembered in that country,
that he had a particular intimacy with Mr. Combe, an old
gentleman noted thereabouts for his wealth and usury. It
happened, that in a pleasant conversation among their com-
mon friends, Mr. Combe told Shakespeare, in a laughing
manner, that he fancied he intended to write his epitaph, if
he happened to outlive him ; and, since he could not know
what might be said of him when he was dead, he desired it
might be done immediately. Upon which Shakespeare gave
him these four lines of verse :

" Ten in the hundred lies here ingrav'd ;
'Tis a hundred to ten his soul is not sav'd:
If any man ask, who lies in this tomb ?
O, ho ! quoth the devil, 'tis my John-a-Combe."

But the sharpness of the satire is said to have stung the man
so severely, that he never forgave it.

He died in the fifty-third year of his age, and was buried
on the north side of the chancel, in the great church at Strat-
ford, where a monument is placed in the wall. On his grave-
stone underneath is, —

" Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear
To dig the dust inclosed here :
Blest be the man that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones."

He had three daughters, of which two lived to be mar-
ried ; Judith, the elder, to one Mr. Thomas Quiney, by whom
she had three sons, who all died without children ; and Su-
sannah, who was his favourite, to Dr. John Hall, a physician
of good reputation in that country. She left one child only,
a daughter, who was married first to Thomas Nash, Esq. ;
and afterwards to Sir John Bernard, of Abington, but died
likewise without issue.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

CHAPTER I.

THE RACE and lineage of WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE has not
been traced, on the paternal side, further back than to his
grandfather, nor is the process altogether certain even so far
as that. The name, which in its very composition smacks
of brave old knighthood and chivalry, was frequent in War-
wickshire from an early period. It occurs repeatedly in a
manuscript " Register of the brothers and sisters of the
Guild of St. Anne of Knolle," from the year 1407 to the
dissolution of the Guild in 1535. Among them are found
the Christian names John, Ralph, Richard, Thomas, Chris-
topher, and William; mention is also made of a "Lady
Jane Shakespeare," and of an " Isabella Shakespeare, for-
merly Prioress of Wroxhall." The sur-name is there va-
riously spelt.1 Several of these ^hakespeares are spoken
of as belonging to the town of Rowington, where the name
continues to be met with for a long time after ; a William
Shakespeare being mentioned as one of the jury in 1614,
and a Margaret Shakespeare as being married there in
1665. 2 And for more than a century later, the name is met

1 It may be well to give a few items from the Register in illus-
tration of this : About 1440, " Pro anima Eicardi Shakspere et
Alicise uxoris ejus, de "Woldiche;" — about 1464 " Radulphus
Sjhakespcre et Isabella uxor ejus, et pro anima Johannse uxoris
primae ; " — " Ricardus Schakespeire de Wrcxsale et Margeria uxor
ejus;" — "Johannes Shakespeyre ejusdem villse (Rowington) et
Alicia uxor ejus; " — 1476, "Thomas Chacsper et Christian, cons.
suss de Rowneton;" — 1486, "Pro anima Thom» Schakspere;"
— 1505, " Orate pro anima Isabella Shakspere quondam Priorissa
de Wraxale;" — 1512, " Ballishalle, Alicia Shakespere et pro
anima Thon.se Shakespere;" — " Meriden, Christophorus Shake-
epere et Isabella uxor ejus;" — 1527, "Domina Jane Shakspere;"
— " Willielmus Shakspere et Agnes uxor."

* Mr. Halliwell mentions a Thomas Shaekspear, of Rowing

XXX THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

with in the Rowington papers. It appears also that ther«
where Shakespeares living at Balsal, Woldiche, Ckverdon,
Hampton, and other places in Warwickshire : a John Shake-
speare was living at Warwick in 1578, and a Thomas Shake-
speare in 1585 ; and a William Shakespeare was drowned
in the Avon, near that town, in 1579 :8 a Thomas Shake-
speare, also, was chosen bailiff of Warwick in 1613, and
again in 1627.

There is no doubt that the father of our Poet was JOHN
SHAKESPEARE, who, as we shall presently see, was living at
Stratford -on- Avon in 1552. He was most likdy a native of
Snitterfield, a village three miles from Stratford. The
ground of this likelihood is, that we find a RICHARD SHAKE-
SPEARE living at Snitterfield in 1550, and occupying a house
and land owned by ROBERT ARDEN, the maternal grandfa
ther of our Poet. This appears from a deed executed July
17, 1550, in which Robert Arden conveyed certain lands and
tenements in Snitterfield, described as being "now in the
tenure of one Richard Shakespeare," to be held in trust for
three daughters, "after the death of Robert and Agnes Ar-
den."4 It has been also ascertained that there was a Henry

ton, as being assessed on goods of the value of £3 in the Subsidy
Roll of 1597; and a Thomas Shaxper, senior, of the same place,
assessed on land of the value of thirty shillings in a similar roll
of 1610. He adds the following : " Amongst some early undated
fragments of Records relating to Warwickshire, preserved in the
Carlton Ride, I find a mention of a John Shakeseper, of Rowing-
ton. If our Poet's family had been nearly connected with this
branch, it is most probable one of his brothers would have received
the Christian name of Thomas. A survey of crown lands in
Warwickshire, 1607, in the Land Revenue Office, notices a Thom-
as, George, Richard, and John Shakespeare, as holding property
ii Rowington."

s Mr. Halliwcll prints the following curious entry from the Par-
ish Register of St. Nicholas, Warwick: "1579, Junii: sexto die
hujus mensis sepultus fuet Gulielmus Sarxspere, qui demersus fuet
in rivulo aquae qui vel quas vocatur Avoiia ." The same register
also has the following : " 1598, Junii 21 : Solemnization matrimo-
nium inter Thomam Shaxeper et Elizabeth Letherberrow."

« Mr. Halliwell prints this deed in full. We subjoin enough of

THE MFE OF SHAKESPEARE. XXXI

Shasespeare living at Snitterfield in 1586 ; the Parish Regis-
ter of that village showing that on the 4th of September in
that year Henry Townsend was baptized, and Henry Shake-
speare one of the sponsors. From the same source we also
learn that a Henry Shakespeare died there in 1596.6 Both
Malone and Collier conjectured that this Henry was brother
to the John Shakespeare, who is found at Stratford in 1552.
There can be little doubt that such was the case; for in
1587 Nicholas Lane brought an action against John Shake-
speare for debt ; and from a declaration filed that year in the
Court of Record at Stratford, it appears that this was a debt
wherein John had become surety for his brother Henry ;
and that, the latter not paying, John was proceeded against
for the amount.6 Supposing the Richard Shakespeare, who

it to authenticate the statement of the text: "Sciant praesentes et
futuri quod ego Robertas Ardern, de Wylmecote in parochia de
Aston Cantlowe in com. Warr., husbandman, dedi, concessi, et
bac praesenti carta mea tripartiter indentat. confirmavi Ada? Pal-
mer de Aston Cantlowe prsedict., et Hugoni Porter de Snytter-
fylde in com. praedicato, totum illud mesuagium meum cum suis
pertinentiis in Snytterfylde praedict., quce mine sunt in tenura cu-
jusdam Ricardi Shakespere, ac omnia ilia mea lerr. prat, pascuas
et pastures, cum suis pertinentiis in Snytlerf'ylde predict, eidem
mesuagio spectant. et pertinent., quse nunc sunt in tenura praedicti
Ricardi Shakespere."

6 This no doubt is the same person as the one mentioned in
1586. The following are some of the entries relating to him :
"1586, 4 Sept. Baplysed Henry Townsend, the sonn of John
Fownsend and Darrity his wyff, William Meaydes, Henry Shax-
sper, Elizabeth Perkes, pleages." — " 1596. Henrey Shaxspere was
buryed th<5 xxix.th day of December." — '-'1597. Margret Sax-
spere widow, being times the wyff of Henry Shakspere, wag
buried ix. Feb." — The will of Christopher Smyth of Stratford,
made Nov. 2d, 1586, also has the following: "Item, Henry Shax-
spere of Snytterfild oweth me v.K. ix. *." — There was also an
Antony Shakespeare living at Snitterfield in 1569, and a Thomai
Shakespeare in 1582. These were most likely brothers of John,
and all three of them sons of Richard Shakespeare.

' The original of this declaration is preserved at Stratford, and
a copy of it is given in Halliwell's Life of the Poet. The rela-
tionship of John and Henry Shakespeare is shown by the follow-
big passage : " Quoddam colloquium Iraclalum el habituin fmt

XXX11 THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

was a tenant of Robert Arden in 1550, to be the father of
John and Henry, this will go far to explain the alliance
which afterwards took place between the Arden and Shake-
speare families.

At what time John Shakespeare took up his abode at
Stratford, has not been fully ascertained. Until quite lately,
the earliest trace of him there was in June, 1556, when a
suit was brought against him in the Bailiff's Court by Thomas
Siche for the sum of £8, and in the register of the Court he
is described as " John Shakespeare, of Stratford in the coun-
ty of Warwick, glover." A few years ago, however, the
Rev. Mr. Hunter discovered an entry in a Court Roll dated
April 29th, 1552, and preserved in the Record Office of
Carlton Ride ; from which it appears that John Shakespeare
and two other citizens were fined twelve pence each, for per-
mitting filth to accumulate in Henley-street contrary to the
order of the Court.7 This, it seems, was a common offence,
and was often visited in like manner by the Stratford au-
thorities. In 1558, the same John Shakespeare, and four
others, one of whom was Francis Burbage, then at the head
of the corporation, were fined 4d. each, " for not keeping
of their gutters clean." 8

inter praefatum Johannem Shakesper et dictum Nicholaum Lane,
de quoclatn debito viginti et duarum libr. legalis monetse Anglia?,
in quibus Henricus Shcucpere, frater dicti Johannis, debilo modo
indebitatus fuit praefalo Nicholao Lane, et super colloquium illud
aggreat. et concordat, fuit."

7 This curious entry is printed by Mr. Halliwell, thus: "Item,
[juratores] present, super sacramentum suum quod Humfridui
Reynoldes (xii.(/.) Adrianus Quirjey (xii.rf.) et Johannes Shaky
spere (xii. rf.) fecerunt sterquinarium in vico vocato Hendley sirete
contra ordinationem curiae. Ideo ipsi in miserecordia, ut patet."

8 Noted in the records of the Stratford Court thus : "Frane's
Berbage, master baly that now ys, Adreane Quiny, Mr. Hall, Mr.
Clopton, for the gutter alonge the chappell in Chappell Lane, John
Sbakspeyr, for not kepynge of their gutters clene, they stand
amerced." Halliwell prints a very curious set of orders made at
a Stratford Court in 1553. The following are a specimen:

"Item, that no ynhabytaunledwellynge within this lyberty from
heasfurthe receve nor have eny ynmak but only such persoiies a*

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPKARE. XX.V11I

There is ample proof that at this period John Shake-
speare's affairs were in a thriving condition. The action
brought against him by Siche, in June, 1556, seems to have
been without any good ground. Mr. Collier indeed says
" the issue of the suit is not known ; " but Halliwell prints a
large number of entries respecting him from the registry of
the Court of Record, one of which shows that in August
1556, the suit issued altogether in his favour, the plaintiff
not even appealing in Court.9 As for his being termed a
glover in 1556, this need not infer any thing more than that
such was his original branch of business at Stratford, or per-
haps at that time his leading branch. And on the 19th of
November, in the same year, he is found bringing an action
against Henry Field for unjustly detaining eighteen quarters

shalbe apwntyd and admytted by the hy bely, constabull, and other
thoffeceres and the xii. men, in peyne of every offender forfet and
losse for every offence xx. *., and ther bodyes to remayne in the
open stokes iii. day and iii. nyghtes ; and that no housholdar re-
ceve eny straunger, nor to lodge eny by nyght, without a specyall
lycence of the hye bely, in like peyne.

"Item, that no jurneyman prentes, nor eny maner servaunt, be
forthe of iher or his master hous by the nyght after the our of
nyne by the clok, in peyne of iii. days and iii. nyghtes ponyshe-
ment in the open stokes, and to forfet and pay xx. s. ; and that
no mane receve eny suche person so offendynge, in lyke pej'ne.

fc'Item, that every tenaunt in Chapell lane or Ded lane do scour
and kep cleane ther gutters ordyches in the same lane befor thas-
sencyon day, and so from thensfurthe from tyme to tyme to kepe
the same, in peyn of every offender to forfet for every deffalt iii.*.
iiii. d. ; and that every tenaunt do ryd the soyelles in the stretea
of logges and blokes ther lyenge and beynge to the noysaunce of
the kynges leage people, by the same day, in lyke peyne.

"Item, that the hye bely that now ys four tymez in the yere do
ryd and make cleane his mukhyll, and the same honestly be kept,
in peyn of xx. *. ; and that no other mukhylles be mayntayned,
kept, nor made within the towne, but only thos that be apwntyd,
in lyke peyne."

9 The entry reads as follows : "Aug. 12, 3 & 4 Phil, et Mar.
Ad hanc curiam venit Johannes Shakyspere per Thomam Marten
consil. ad barr., et petit judicium versus Thomam Siche, quia non
protulit aclionem quae habuit versus praedictum Johanuem Slraky
spere, el habet judicium cum expensis."

XXXIV THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

of barley.10 From which it seems not unlikely that he may
nave been at that time engaged more or less in agricultural
pursuits. It appears that at a later period agriculture wns
his main pursuit, if not his only one; for the records
of the corporation show that in 1564 he was paid three
shillings for a piece of timber ; and we find Mm described
in 1513 as a " yeoman." This may be as good a place as
any for noticing the tradition given by Howe, of his having
been " a considerable dealer in wooL" It is nowise improlv-
able that such may have been the case. The modern di-
visnns of labour and trade were then little known, and less
regarded : several kinds of business were often carried on
together, which are now kept quite distinct, and we have
special proof that gloves and wool were apt to be united as
articles of trade.11

We have further proof of John Shakespeare's thrift at the
period now in question. On the 2d of October, 1556, the
same year in which we find him spoken of as a glover, he
became the owner of two copy-hold estates in Stratford,
which were alienated to him by George Tumor and Edward
West. One of these was on Greenhill-street, consisting of
a house with a garden and croft attached to it ; the other on
Henley-street, consisting of a house and garden. For each
he was to pay the lord of the manor a yearly rent of six
pence.12 As we have found him in Henley-street in 1552, it

10 This item occurs in the registry quoted from in the preceding
note : " Nov. 19, 3 & 4 Phil, et Mar. Johannes Shakyspere que-
rilur versus Ilenr. Fyld in placito quod reddat ei xviii. quarteria
orde quae ei injuste detinet."

11 "The trwe inventory of the goodes of Joyce Hobday, late
of Stratford upon Avon, in the county of Warwycke, wydowe, cle-
ceassed, taken the 3 day of Apriell, 1602," has the following:
"Inp. George Shacleton oweth me for wol. xxiiii.s." — "Item,
Mr. Gutlredge oweth me for calves lether iiii.s. viii.d." — "John
Edwards of Allveston alias Allslon oweth me for two pere of
gloves viii.rf."

ls The original boroupb -records show the following under the
dale given in the text :

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. XXXV

is aot unlikely that he may have then rented and occupied
one of the houses which he now purchased. Probably
enough, also, this may be the same house in which tradition
makes the Poet to have been born. As both the estates in
question were estates of inheritance, the tenure was nearly
equal to freehold ; so that he must have been pretty well to
do in the world at the time. For several years after, his
circumstances continued to improve. Before 1558, he had
become the owner, by marriage, of a farm at Wilmecole
called Ashbyes, consisting of fifty-six acres, besides two
houses and two gardens : moreover, he held, in right of his
wife, a considerable share in a property at Snitterfield.

His thrift is further shown in that, before the close of
1570, he is found holding under William Clopton, at a year-
ly rent of £8, a farm of about fourteen acres, called Ingon
meadow, situate within two miles of Stratford. At what
time he first rented it, does not appear, the instrument
proving his tenancy being dated June llth, 1581, and only
stating that on the llth of December, 1570, the place was
in his occupation.13 We learn, however, from an indenture
made on the 30th of May, 1568, that he was not then hold-
ing the property. Eight pounds being a very large rent for
only so much land, Malone conjectured that there may have
been " a good dwelling-house and orchard " upon the place ;

"Item, praesentant quod Georgius Tumor alienavit Johanni
Shakespere et haeredibus suis unum tenementum cum gardin et
croft, cum pertinentiis, in Grenehyll stret. lent, de domino libere
per cartam pro redd, hide domino per annum v\.d. et sect. cur. et
idem Johannes prsedictus in curia fecit domino fidclitatem pro
eisdem.

" Item, quod Edwardus West alienavit praedicto Johanni Shake-
spere unum tenementum cum gardin adjacente, in Henley strete,
pro redd, inde domino per annum vi. d. et sect. cur. et idem Jo-
hannes pradictus in curia fecit fidelitatem."

13 The following are the words of the instrument: "And also
one other meadowe, with thappurtenaunces. called or knowen by
the name of Ingon alias Ington meadowe, conteynynge by esti-
mation fouretene acres, be it more or lesse, then or late in th*
tenure or occupacion of John Shaxpere or his assignes."

JLXXV1 THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

and Knight seems quite confident that John Shakespeare
must have used it as a place of residence. This latter, to
sa) the least, is rather unlikely ; for in September, 1568, he
became high bailiff of Stratford, which office he held a year
and in September, 1571, he was made chief alderman; be-
sides, as Collier observes, he had a child baptized at the
parish-church of Stratford on the 28th of September, 1571 ;
all which makes against the notion of his having then resid-
ed at the place in question.

Another large addition to his property was made in 1575.
This was a freehold estate on Henley-street, bought of Ed-
mund and Emma Hall for the sum of £40, and described,
in a fine levied on the occasion, and dated September 29th,
1575, as consisting of " two houses, two gardens, and two
orchards, with their appurtenances." One of these houses
is supposed to have been his residence from that time, and
the home of the Poet's youth. Probably the two houses
purchased nearly nine years before were still owned by him,
nothing having been found to show that he had ever parted
with them.

Several other particulars have been discovered, which go
to ascertain the wealth of John Shakespeare as compared
with that of other citizens of Stratford. In 1564, the year
of the Poet's birth, a malignant fever, called the plague, in-
vaded Stratford. Its hungriest period was from June 30th
to December 31st, during which time it swept off 238 per-
sons, out of a population of about 1400. None of John
Shakespeare's family are found among its victims ; and Mr.
Collier thinks they may have escaped its ravages by with-
drawing for the season to Snitterfield, which seems to have
been comparatively untouched by the destroyer. We have
seen that at this time he held property there in right of his
wife, and that his father formerly lived there as tenant of
Robert Arden. Large draughts were made upon the char-
ities of Stratford, on account of this frightful visitation,
On the 80th of August, a meeting of the citizens was held

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. XXXVH

In the open air, from fear of infection, and divers sums con-
tributed foi the relief of the poor. M The high bailiff gave
3s. 4d., and the head alderman 2s. 8d. John Shake-
ppeare, being then only a burgess, gave I2d. ; and in the
list of burgesses there are but two who gave more. Again,
on the 6th of September, he and four others gave Gd. each,
the bailiff and six aldermen giving each I2d. On the 27th,
another contribution was made, he giving Bd., and others
nearly the same as before. Finally, on the 20th of.October,
he appears as the donor of I8d. In the accounts of the
borough, also, for the same year, we find the corporation in
debt to him for the sum of £1 5*. 8d. ;15 and a similar
account for 1665, shows the sum of £3 2s. Id. paid him
in discharge of an " old debt," and also a further debt of
7s. 4rf., "to be paid unto him by the next chamberlains."
All which may be taken as proving him to have gained a
place among the more substantial citizens of the town.

We have already spoken of John Shakespeare as holding
important offices in the corporation of Stratford. This
seems a proper place for tracing his career in that respect.
His name is first found in connection with the public affairs
of the borough on the 30th of April, 1557, when he was
marked as one of twelve jurymen of a court-leet ; and he
was on a similar jury, September 30th, 1558 ; which shows

14 Noted in the Stratford records thus : "At the hall holldyn in
oure garden, the 30. daye of Auguste anno 1564, moneye paid to-
wardes the releef of the poure." Then follows a list of 26 names
of contributors.

16 As some of the minutes in this account are very curious, it
may be well to give a part of it: "Thaccompt of John Tayler
and John Shakspeyr, chamburlens, made the x.lh day of January
in the syxte yere of our sovreigne lady Elyzabethe, &c.

' Item, payd to Shakspeyr for a pec tymbur .... iii.».

•Item, payd the scollmaster xvi./i.

' Item, payd for defasying ymage in the chappell . . ii.«.

' Item, payd to Alen for lecbing the chylder .... iiii. K.

' Item, at a hall holdon the xxvi. day of January anno prsedicto,
Xhe chambur ys found in arrerage and ys in del unto John Shak
•pevre . .... xxv.s. vln.d.

XXXVlii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

that he was then a regular trading inhabitant of tie town,
In 1557, he was also chosen an ale-taster, the duty of which
office was, " to look to the assize and goodness of bread and
ale, or beer, within the precincts of that lordship." Sep-
tember 30th, 1558, he was chosen one of the four consta-
bles, the other three being Humphrey Plymley, Roger Sad-
ler, and John Taylor. On the 6th of October, 1559 he
was elected to the same office for another year, and was a so
made one of the four aifeerors, whose duty it was, to deter-
mine the fines for such offences as had no penalties pre-
scribed by statute. He held the latter office again in 1561,
and in September of that year was also chosen one of the
chamberlains of the borough, a very responsible office, which
he filled for two years. Advancing steadily in public rank
and confidence, he became an alderman on the 4th of July,
1565 ; and on the 29th of September, 1568, he was elected
bailiff, the highest honour that the corporation coidd bestow.
He held this office just a year. The series of local honours
conferred upon him ended with his being chosen head alder-
man on the 5th of September, 1571, in which office he con-
tinued till September 3d, 1572. The rule being " once an
alderman, always an alderman," unless positive action were
taken to the contrary, he retained that office till 1586, when,
for persevering non-attendance at the meetings, he was de-
prived of his gown.

After all these proofs of public consequence, the reader
may be surprised to learn that John Shakespeare, the father
of the greatest thinker and greatest poet the world has ever
seen, could not write his name ! Such was undoubtedly the
fact ; and we delight to publish it, as showing, what is too
apt to be forgotten in these bookish days, that men may
know several things, and beget witty children, without being
initiated in the mysteries of pen and ink. The earliest
Known instance of his appearing as a marksman is in a list
of names appended to the proceedings of a court -leet, dated
October 6th, 1559. And in the records of the borough,

THK LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. XXXI?

under the date of September 27th, 1565, is an order signed
by nineteen aldermen and burgesses, calling upon John
Wheler to undertake the office of bailiff. Of these nine-
teen signers thirteen are marksmen, and among them are
the names of George Whately, then bailiff, Roger Sadler,
nead alderman, and John Shakespeare. So that there was
nothing remarkable in bis not being able to wield a pen.
In this case, his mark is placed under his name to the right,
so as to look as if it might be meant for Thomas Dyxon,
whose name is written next after his. From the uncertainty
thence arising, Knight labours hard to make out that he was
not a marksman ; but there are too many proofs of the fact,
even if this one should faiL As bailiff of Stratford, John
Shakespeare was ex offitio a justice of the peace ; and two
warrants are extant, granted by him on the 3d and 9th of
December, 1568, for the arrest of John Ball and Richard
Walcar on account of debts ; both of them bearing witness
that " he had a mark to himself, like an honest plain-deal-
ing man." Several other cases in point are met with at later
periods. On the 15th of October, 1579, John and Mary
Shakespeare " put their hands and seals " to a deed and
bond for the transfer of their interest in certain property at
Snitterfield to Robert Webbe ; both of which are subscribed
with their several marks, and sealed with their respective
seals ; his seal showing the initials J. S., and hers a rudely-
engraved horse. His name with a mark affixed to it is also
found subscribed to an inventory of the goods of Henry
Field, dated August 21st, 1592. The last known instance
of lu's mark is in a deed, bearing date January 26, 1597,
conveying a small portion of his Henley-street property tc
George Badger. These several documents will be further
noticed hereafter, and are but mentioned now for the special
purpose in hand.

It may be worth noting, that before 1579 John Shake-
speare had adopted a new mark ; and this fact is supposed
to have some connection with his change of business. In

Xi TUB LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE

both the deed and the bond of October 15th, 1579, trans-
ferring the Snitterfield interest to Webbe, he is styled " John
Shakespeare, of Stratford-upon-Avon in the county of War-
wick, yeoman." At what time he ceased to be a glover and
became a yeoman, we have no means of knowing. His
earlier mark, that of 1559 and 1565, is a sort of cabalistic
figure, which Mr. Halliwell thinks to have been symbolical
of his pursuit ; resembling an instrument still in common
use for stretching or opening the fingers of new gloves. His
.ater mark, as found in the deed and bond just mentioned,
and in all the after-instances of his signature, was a simple
cross.

John Shakespeare's course of good fortune seems to have
reached its height about the time of the large Henley-street
purchase hi 1575. The first evidence of a decline of pros-
perity is met with in 1578. At a borough meeting, held on
the 29th of January that year, it was ordered that every
alderman should pay 6*. 8d., and every burgess 3*. 4d.,
" towards the furniture of three pikemen, two billmen, and
one archer." From this order seven persons, two aldermen
and five burgesses, were excepted. John Shakespeare was
one of the aldermen so excepted ; he was to pay 3s. 4d.,
and Humphrey Plymley, the other, 5*. Again, under the
date of November the same year, the records of the borough
have the following: "It is ordained that every alderman
shall pay weekly towards the relief of the poor 4d., saving
Mr. John Shakespeare and Mr. Robert Bratt, who shall not
be taxed to pay any thing." By the same order, Mr. Lewis
and Mr. Plymley are taxed 3d. each, and every burgess 2d.
Mr. Knight thinks that at the time of these assessments
John Shakespeare may have resided out of Stratford, prob-
ably at Ingon meadow ; and that this was the cause of his
being thus excepted. Had such been the case, he would
hardly have been legally designated in the deed and bond
of October, 1579, just referred to, as " John Shakespeare,
of Stratford-upon-Jlvon." Again, on the llth of March,

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. xli

1579, we have an account of money levied for the purchase
of armour and arms ; and " Mr. Shakespeare " is one of
ten names whose " sums are unpaid and unaccounted for."
Has share in this case is put down as 3s. 4d. Another in-
stance, to be mentioned here as showing him straitened for
means, is furnished by the will of Roger Sadler, a baker
dated November 14, 1578, and proved January 17, 1580.
Appended to this will is a list of " debts which are owing
unto me Roger Sadler," and among the items is one of Ed-
mund Lambert and a man named Cornish, " for the debt of
Mr. John Shakespeare, £5." 16

There is another class of facts bearing towards the same
conclusion. In the spring of 1579, John and Mary Shake-
speare are found mortgaging their estate of Ashbies to Ed-
mund Lambert for £40. The fine levied on this occasion is
printed in Halliwell's Life ; as is also another fine levied the
same year, which shows the same parties transferring to
Thomas Webbe and Humphrey Hooper some interest in an
estate, not elsewhere heard of, in Wilmecote, described as
consisting of " seventy acres of land, six acres of meadow,
ten of pasture, and the right of common, with the appur-
tenances." The same year, on the 15th of October, also
finds them parting with an interest in some property at Snit-
terfield to Robert Webbe for the sum of £4.17 The deed

16 Lest this should pass for more than it is worth, perhaps we
ought to mention that in the same list Mr. John Combe is put down
as owing £23 ; Mr. Lewis ap Williams, £3 ; " Richard Hathaway
alias Gardiner of Shottery," £6 8s. 4d. ; William Cox, £10 ; Mr.
Michael Gutheridge, £1 ; George Merrill, £6 12s. 4rf. ; Mr. Thom-
as Trussell, £1 4*. ; Richard Frost, £4 ; and Mr. Walter Roche,
£4.

17 This property was most likely a part of what Robert Arden
speaks of in his will, 1556, as his wife's "jointure in Snitterfield.1'
Agnes Arden had a life-interest in it. The deed of 1579 to Rol.
ert Webbe describes the property in question thus : "All that theire
moitye, parte and paries, be yt more or lesse, of and in twoo mes-
suages or tenements with thappurtenaunces, in Snitterfield afore
said, and all houses, barnes, stables, gardens, orchards, medowes
oastures, to the said twoo messuages belonginge or appertaining*
~T occupied with the same.*'

Till THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

«

of conveyance and also the bond for the performance of
covenants, with the names and marks of John and Mary
Shakespeare subscribed, are printed at length by Mr. Ilal-
liwell. It appears, further, from a fine dated in the spring
of 1580, and discovered by Mr. Halliwell in the Chapter
House, that Mary Shakespeare had a reversionary interest
of much- higher value in some other property at Snitterfield,
wliieK was then made over to the same Robert Webbe for
£40. This property was vested for term of life in Agnes
Arden ; and at her death, which occurred December 29th,
1580, a share in it would have reverted to Mary Shake-
speare as one of the heirs-at-law of Robert Arden, who had
died in 1556.18

These particulars show beyond question that John Shake-
speare must have been somewhat pressed for money. How
long the pressure continued is uncertain. The latter sale
was probably made for the purpose of enabling him to dis-
charge the mortgage held by Lambert ; for on the 29th of
September, 1580, the mortgage-money was tendered to
Lambert, and was refused on the ground that other debts
were owing to him by Shakespeare. Among the claims
thus urged, may have been that already mentioned from the
will of Sadler, for which Lambert had become surety ; and
the result proves, at all events, that either the claim was
thought unjust, or else the party was unable to meet it,
Fhe tender and refusal of the money are ascertained from a
replication made by John and Mary Shakespeare in a Chan
eery suit in 1597. On the death of Edmund Lambert, his
son John retained possession of the premises, and the suit

18 The following description of this property, and of the Shake-
speare interest in it, is given by Mr. Halliwell, from an entry in
certain records at Carlton Ride, dated Easter Term, 1580 : " Inter
Robertum Webbe quer. et Johannem Shackspere et Mariam uxo-
rem ejus deforc. de sexta parle duorum partium duorum mesua-
giorum, duorum garclinorum, duorum pomar., Ix. acrarum terrse
x. acrarum prati, ct xxx. acrarum jampnorum et brueruni, cure
pertinentiis, in tres paries dividend, in Snitterfylde."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPLARE.

in Chancery was instituted for the recovery of them. No
decree in the case has been found ; but as the matter was
at that time probably in the stronger hands of Shakespeare's
son William, there can be little doubt that it was carried
to a successful issue. Mr. Collier is of the opinion that
Lambert may have relinquished the estate on the payment
of the £40, and of the other sums claimed by his father in
1580.

Still we must not from these things infer too much as to
the shortness of John Shakespeare's means in 1580. He
was still in possession of the two copyhold estates alienated
to him by Tumor and West in 1556 : also the two freehold
estates in Henley-street, which he purchased in 1575, were
still owned by him, and on his death they remained as a part
of his son's inheritance. Another curious fact is given by
Mr. Halliwell as showing that his means could not have
been at a very low ebb. It appears from the parish regis-
ter, that a daughter of his was buried on the 4th of April
1579 ; and the Chamberlain's accounts for that year have
an entry of 8d. paid by him for the bell and pall at the
funeral; which is the largest fee in the list.19 So that his
distress could hardly have been so great at this time as hath
sometimes been supposed, and as the other facts noticed
might seem to infer.

Be this as it may, the pressure seems to have been still
harder upon him a few years later. It is not improbable
that his affairs may have got embarrassed from his having
" too many irons in the fire." The registry of the Court of
Record has a large number of entries respecting him, scat-
tered over the whole period from 1555 to 1595, with the
exception of fifteen years, from 1569 to 1584, during which
the registry is deficient. These entries show him to have

19 The following- are the entries relating to this point :

" Item, for the bell and pall for Mr. Shaxpers dawter, . viii. d
'•Item, for the bell for Mr. Trusseles child, .... \\\\.d
' Item, for the bell lor Mres. Combes, im.d.

Xliv THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

been engaged in a great variety of transactions, and to hare
Lad more litigation on his hands tnan would now be thought
either creditable or safe.

We have already seen that he was one of the aldermen
from 1570 to 1586. He was very seldom absent from the
councils of the borough before 1577 ; and from that time
till Ills removal he was rarely present. He is marked, how«
ever, as attending a meeting held October 4th, 1577 ; and
is found in regular attendance from that time till January
5th, 1578; after which date, the only instances of his being
present were September 51 h and November 4th, 1582. At
length, at a meeting held September 6th, 1586, he was re-
moved, and his non-attendance assigned as the reason of the
act.20 It is probable enough that his course in this matter
may have grown from a wish to be quit of the office. Mr.
Halliwell thinks his action is so far from arguing him to have
been in pecuniary distress, that " it implies, on the contrary,
the ability to pay the fines for non-attendance."21 This
seems to us nowise conclusive; for sacrifices of that kind
are often made by men struggling to keep up their credit,
and perhaps to retrieve or repair their fortune. Some per-
sonal antipathies growing out of his troubles may have ren-
dered him unwilling to meet with his fellow-aldermen in
public council. On the 25th of May, 1586, he was sum-
moned to the Court of Record as a juryman ; which proves
him to have been in Stratford that year, and able to attend
the meetings of the corporation.

Among the numerous entries concerning him in the regis-

20 The records show the following minute of the proceedings i
"At thys halle William Smythe and Richard Courte are chosen
to be aldermen in the places of John Wheler and John Shaxsperej
for that Mr. Wheler dothe desyre to be put owt of the companye,
and Mr. Shaxspere dothe not come to the halles when they be
warned, nor hatlie not done of longe tyme."

81 At a meeting held November 19ih, 1578, it was "ordered
that every alderman and burgese that hath made default, not com-
minge to this hall accordinge to the order, shall paye their met-
ciament.''

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Xlv

try of the Court of Record are several bearing upon the
point in hand. On the 16th of February, 1586, we find an
entry of a cap is issued against him for debt: this is fol-
lowed, on the 2d of March, by another capias issued in be-
half of the same party ; and the latter entry has a marginal
note which seems to imply that after all the debt was not
discharged. There is also an entry, on the 19th of January
in the same year, of a return to the effect, that he had no
woods on which distraint could be made. This is regarded
by Mr. Halliwell, himself a lawyer, as the most formidable
circumstance appearing against him : but he thinks that,
taking into view the ancient forms of process in actions of
debt, it " must be construed in a great measure by legal
formality, not necessarily as an actual fact;" and he adds,
" there can be little doubt that he was keeping himself out
of the way of the service of a process." Another entry,
dated March 29, 1587, mentions a writ of habeas corpus
produced by John Shakespeare ; which concludes with tol-
erable certainty either that he was in custody for debt, or
that he wished to remove a cause to a higher court. What
effect these things may have had on the Poet, will be con-
sidered hereafter. Mr. Halliwell winds up his notice of
them as follows : " When we compare these facts with the
probable date of Shakespeare's removal to London, it will,
I think, be found to raise a strong probability in favour of
the supposition that the circumstances of the family had
some relation with that important step in the Poet's life."

One more particular will conclude this part of the subject.
From a recent discovery in the State Paper Office, it ap-
pears that Sir Thomas Lucy, Sir Fulk Greville, and six
others, having been commissioned to make inquiries touch-
ing priests, Jesuits, recusants, and fugitives in Warwickshire,
sent to the Privy Council what they call their " second cer-
tificate," dated September 25th, 1592. That portion of the
certificate which relates to Stratford-on-Avon professes to
return " the names of all such recusants as have been here-

Xlvi THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

tofore presented for not coming monthly to the church, ac-
cording to her Majesty's laws ; and yet are thought to for-
bear the church for debt, or for fear of process, or for some
other worse faults, or for age, sickness, or impotency of body."
This introduction is followed by a list of names, and among
them are these nine: "Mr. John Wheler; John Wheler,
his son ; Mr. John Shakespeare ; Mr. Nicholas Barneshursl ;
Thomas James, alias Giles ; William Bainton ; Richard Har-
rington ; William Fluellen ; George Bardolph." These are
grouped by a bracket ; and against them are the words, —
" It is said that these last nine come not to church for fear
of process of debt." Then come six other names grouped
in like manner, and against them are the words, — " Were
all here presented for recusants, and do all so continue,
saving Mrs. Wheler, who is conformed, and Griffin ap Rob-
erts now dead."

What we are to conclude from this matter, stands in
much doubt. It is to be noted, that the return purports
to give "the names of all such recusants as have been here-
tofore presented ; " which would naturally infer that John
Shakespeare had been named in a former list of persons
suspected of recusancy ; but on this point we are without
any means of information, the most diligent search having
failed to discover the first certificate of the commissioners.
Perhaps all who did not go to church as often as once a
month were presumed to be .ecusants, until they should
show that they had other good causes for staying away. At
all events, it is not very likely th_.t John Shakespeare was
indeed a recusant : he had all his children, that we hear of,
regularly baptized at the parish church ; and we have seen
him holding several public offices which he could not have
entered but under such oaths as no honest Romanist could
think of taking. Still it is possible that, like many other
conscientious men, having first embraced the Reformation,
he afterwards had some misgivings, and would fain have re-
lurned to the faith »f his earlier years.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

We have now given all the information on this point tha*
lies within our reach, and must leave the reader to his own
judgment in the question. Touching the fear of process for
debt, Mr. Collier thinks nothing of the sort would have kept
him from church on Sunday, as no such process could be
served on that day. But we suspect he must be mistaken
bere, eke why should the return have alleged this as the
cause of his not coming to church? The commissioners
must have known what could and what could not be done
on Sunday ; and we cannot judge from the laws of our time
what may have been lawful then. But, whatever may have
been the cause in question, whether it were fear of arrest or
aversion to the reformed faith, or whether it were " age,
sickness, or impotency of body," it certainly did not prevent
his being called upon to make inventories of the goods of
persons deceased ; a task which, according to the old law-
books, should be performed by " four credible men or more."
Twice in the year 1592, on the 24th of July and the 21st of
August, we find him engaged in offices of that kind, Ralph
Shaw and Henry Field being the persons whose goods were
inventoried.82 At the end of the latter document, we have
the signature "John Shakespeare, senior," with his mark,
a simple cross, placed, as usual, a little below his name, to

24 This Henry Field was probably the same person against
•whom we found him bringing an action in 1556, for unjustly de-
lating a quantity of barley. — We subjoin the titles prefixed to
these two inventories :

" The true and perfect inventory of Raph Shawe, of Stratford
upon Avon in the county of Warwicke, woll-dryver, decessed ;
taken the xxiiii.th day of Julye, in the xxxiiii.th yeare of the
raygne of our soveraygne lady Elizabeth, by the grace of God
of England, France, and lerland, Queene, defender of the Feytb,
&c., by the discretion of Mr. John Shakspere, Mr. Willyam Wil-
son, and Valentyne Tant, with others.

" A trew and perfecte inventory of the goodes and cattells of
Henry Feelde, late of Stretford uppon Avon in the cownty of
Warwyke, tanner, now decessed, beyinge in Stretford aforesayd,
the xxi. daye of Auguste, anno Domini 1592, by Thomas Trus
sell, gentyhnau, Mr. John Shaksper, Richard Sponer, and others."

THE LIFE OK SHAKESPEARE.

the right ; and Mr. Halliwell says the signature is " un-
doubtedly in Trussell's handwriting." Collier thinks the
word senior was in this case affixed, in order to distinguish
him from a shoemaker of the same name, with whom he
was perhaps then liable to be confounded, as he has some-
times been since.

From this time forward, his affairs were doubtless taken
care of by one who, as we shall see hereafter, was much in-
terested not to let them suffer, and also well able to keep
them in good trim. In January, 1597, he is found selling a
small portion of his Henley-street property to George Bad-
ger for £2 ; and the deed of conveyance shows him at that
date still living in one of his Henley-street houses.*3 The
last notice that has been discovered of him before his death
is in a paper containing notes of an action for trespas*
brought by Sir Edward Greville against several burgesses
of Stratford in 1601 ; in which he, along with four others,
appears to have been called as a witness. He was buned
on the 8th of September, the same year ; so that, supposing
him to have reached his majority when first heard of in
1552, he must have passed the age of three-score and ten.

On the maternal side our Poet's lineage was of a higher
rank, and may be traced furthei back. His mother was
MARY ARDEN, a name redolent of old poetry and romance.
The family of Arden was among the most ancient in War-

83 This deed was lately found in the office of a solicitor at Bir
mingham. who permitted Mr. Halliwell to take a transcript of it.
The following is an abstract of it as given from the original by
Mr. Halliwell : " 26 Jan. 39 Eliz. Feoffment whereby John Shake-
speare, of Stratford upon Avon, yeoman, in consideration of £2 by
George Badger, did bargain, sale, give, deliver and confirm unJo
•said George Badger, his heirs and assigns, all that toft or parcel!
of land in Stratford in Henley street, the house of said Shake-
ipeare being on the East part thereof, and the house of said Georgfl
Badger on the West part thereof, to hold to said George Badger
his heirs and assigns. Executed by John Shakespeare, 1'very and
seizin indorsed."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. xlix

wickshire. Dugdale, under the head of Curdworth, says, —
" In this place I have made choice to speak historically of
that most ancient and worthy family, whose surname was
first assumed from their residence in this part of the coun-
try, then and yet called Arden, by reason of its woodiness,
the old Britons and Gauls using the word in that sense."
He also speaks of one Turchill de Arden who received fa-
vours at the hands of the Conqueror, held large possessions
in the shire, and occupied Warwick Castle as a military gov-
ernor ; for which cause he was called by the Normans Tur-
chill de Warwick. The history of the Ardens, as given by
Dugdale, spreads over six centuries. The earliest notice we
have of the branch from which our Mary Arden sprung, is
May, 1438, when land in Snitterfield was conveyed "to
Thomas Arden, of Wilmecote, and to Robert Arden, his
son." The pedigree of the family as traced by Dugdale
brings us no further down in the direct line of Mary Arden
than to Robert Arden, her great-grandfather. He was the
third son of Walter Arden. Sir John Arden, an elder son
af this Walter, was squire of the body to Henry VTL ; and
he had a nephew, the son of his younger brother Robert,
also named Robert, who was page of the bed-chamber to
the same monarch. These offices were at that time places
of considerable service and responsibility ; and both the un-
cle and the nephew were liberally rewarded by their royal
master. Sir John Arden died in 1526. By conveyances
dated December 14th and 21st, 1519, it appears that his
nephew Robert then became the owner of houses and land
in Snitterfield, purchased of Richard Rushby and his wife.
He also bought another house hi the same village, October
1st, 1529. To all this add the estate conveyed to Thom-
as and Robert Arden in 1438, which was most likely re-
tained by their descendants in the next century, and we shall
find Mary Arden's father the owner of a pretty large prop-
erty in Snitterfield. Among these possessions, no doubt,

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

were the house and land which we have seen occupied by
Richard Shakespeare in 1550.24

Mary Arden was the youngest of seven children, all of
them daughters, and appears to have been her father's fa-
Tourite. On the 7th of July, 1550, Robert Arden executed
a deed conveying certain lands and houses in Snitterfield to
Adam Palmer and Hugh Porter, to be held in trust for three
daughters, Jocose Arden, Alice Arden, and Margaret Webbe
The latter was the wife of Alexander Webbe, and probab.y
the mother of the Thomas and Robert Webbe, whom we
have found purchasing certain Shakespeare interests at
Wilmecote and Snitterfield in 1579 and 1580. Ten djfys
later, on the 17th of July, 1550, by a similar deed, already
noticed in connection with Richard Shakespeare, he con-
veyed certain other property in Snitterfield, reserving for
himself and wife a life-interest therein, to the same trus-
tees for three other daughters. These were Agnes Stringer,
Katherine Etkins, and Joan Lambert, wife of Edward Lam-
bert, a relative of the Edmund Lambert whom we have found
taking a mortgage of Ashbies in 1579. In both the deeds
here referred to, Robert Arden is styled " of Wilmecote, in
the parish of Aston Cantlow, in the county of Warwick,
hitsbandtnan." It is quite probable, though no instrument
to that effect has been found, that before his death he made
a similar provision for his youngest daughter, Mary ; for we
have seen that John Shakespeare held, in right of his wife,

M It continued in his tenure as late at least as 1560 ; for in an
indenture made by Agnes Arden on the 21st of May, that year,
she " demvseth, graunteth, &.C., unio Alexander Webbe and to his
assignes all those her two mesuages, with a cottage, with all and
singuler their appurtenances, in Snytterfield, and a yarde and a
halfe of ayrable land thereunto belongyng, with all lands, mead-
owes, pastures, commons, thereunto apperteynynge ; all which now
are in the occupation of Richarde Shakespere, John Henley, and
John Hargreve." This property, of course, or a part of it, is the
same, that we have already found Robert Arden conveying to be
held in -.rust for three daughters, " after the death of Robert and
Agnes Ardeo " S«»e note 4 of this chapter.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. II

some interest in Snitterfield, wlu'ch he alienated to Robert
Webbe for £4, in 1579. It was probably in this way, also,
that she acquired the considerable interest at Wilmecote,
which we have already noticed as being transferred, in 1579,
to Thomas Webbe and Humphrey Hooper.

Robert Arden's will was made November 24th, and proved
December 17th, 1556, he having died in the interval. We
subjoin the greater part of it :

" First, I bequeath my soul to Almighty God, and to our
blessed Lady St. Mary, and to all the holy company of
heaven ; and my body to be buried in the church-yard of 3t,
John the Baptist in Aston aforesaid.

"Also, I give and oequeath to my youngest daughter
Mary all my land in Wilmecote called Ashbies, and the
crop upon the ground, sown and tilled as it is ; and £6 13s.
4rf. of money, to be paid or ere my goods be divided. Also,
I give and bequeath to my daughter Alice the third part of
all my goods, moveable and unmoveable, in field and town,
after my debts and legacies be performed ; besides that good
she hath of her own at this time. Also, I give and bequeath
to Agnes my wife £6 13s. 4d., upon this condition, that she
shall suffer my daughter Alice quietly to enjoy half my copy-
hold in Wilmecote during the time of her widowhood ; and
if she will not suffer my daughter Alice quietly to occupy
hah" with her, then I will that my wife shall have but £3
6*. 8d., and her jointure in Snitterfield.

" Item, the residue of all my goods, moveable and un-
moveable, my funerals and my debts discharged, I give anil
bequeath to my other children, to be equally divided amongst
them by the discretion of Adam Palmer, Hugh Porter, cf
Snitterfield, and John Scarlett, whom I do ordain and make
my overseers of this my last will and testament; and they
to nave for their painstaking in this behalf 20s. a-piece. Also,
I ordain and constitute and make my full executors Alice
and Mary, my daughters, of this my last will and testament
Also, I give and bequeath to every house that hath no team
in the parish of Aston 4d."

1)1 THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

It appears that Agnes Arden had a former husband
named Hill ; that her maiden name was Webbe ; and that
she was not the mother of any of Robert Arden's children.
For in her will, which was proved March 31st, 1581, she
makes a bequest " to my brotner Alexander Webbe's chil-
dren ; " also one " to John Fuvwood, my son-in-law ; " and
the parish register of Aston Cantlow shows that John Ful-
wood and Mary Hill were married the 15th of November,
1561. Her will also makes bequests to divers other per-
sons named Fulwood and Hill, especially, to the children ol
John Fulwood and John Hill ; but has no reference what-
soever to any of her second husband's children ; from all
which it would seem that there must have been some es-
trangement or coldness between her and them.

" Her jointure in Snitterfield," mentioned in the will of
Robert Arden, was a portion that he settled upon her in
1550, as appears from an instrument signed and sealed by
her on the 5th of July, 1580.Z5 It was in this jointure, no
doubt, that John and Mary Shakespeare held the reversion-
ary interest which they sold out, as we have seen, to Robert
Webbe for £40, in the spring of 1580. It may need to be
observed, also, that the bequest of land in Wilmecote to
Mary Arden does not mean all the land which the testator
owned in Wilmecote, but merely all his estate there that

88 This instrument, after specifying1 "two mesuages, one cot
lage, and all lands and tenements, with thappurtenaunres belong-
inge to the same, lyinge and being in Snitterfield," continues thus :
"Of which sayd messuage and premisses estate was made to me
the sayd Agnes for terme of my lyffe by Roberte Arden my late
husband, in the fourth yeare of the raigne of the late King Ed-
ward the Sixt ; of which sayd estate for terme of my lyffe I am
yet seased." The description here made of the properly, as will
be seen, corresponds with that given in the preceding note. Prob-
ably Agnes Arden's jointure included the house and land occupied
by Richard Shakespeare in 1550 and 1560; but, as these had been
conveyed in trust for three other daughters, they clearly could not
be included in that part of the jointuru in which John and Marj
Shakespeare held the reversionary interest mentioned in the text

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. liii

was known by the name of Ashbies. The will afterwards
refers to other property which he owned in Wilraecote by
tenure of copyhold. On the whole, it is evident enough,
that Robert Arden, though styling himself " husbandman *
in 1550, was a man of good landed estate. Both he and
Richard Shakespeare appear to have been of that honest
and substantial old English yeomanry, from whose better-
than-royal stock and lineage the great Poet of nature might
most fitly fetch his life and being. Of "William Shake-
speare's grandmother on either side, we know nothing what-
soever. His father, so far as we may judge from the name,
was of Anglo-Saxon descent. Arden, on the other hand,
sounds like a Norman name ; its first original being, per-
haps, from that old forest in France, which breathes so
much of genial freshness and delectation into the scenes of
As You Like It. So that those two choice bloods were
probably mingled in the Poet's veins.

The exact time of Mary Arden's marriage is uncertain, no
registry of it having been found. Of course it must have
been after the date of her father's will. Joan, the first child
of John and Mary Shakespeare, was baptized in the parish
church of Stratford-on-Avon, September 15th, 1558. We
have seen that at this time John Shakespeare was well es-
tablished and thriving in business, and was making good
headway in the confidence of the Stratfordians, being one of
the constables of the borough. On the 2d of December,
1562, while he was chamberlain, his second child was chris
tened Margaret. She was buried, April 30th, 1563. On
the 26th of April, 1564, was baptized "WILLIAM, SON
OF JOHN SHAKESPEARE." The birth is commonly thought
to have taken place on the 23d, it being then the usual cus-
tom to present infants at the Font three days after their
hirth : but the custom was often departed from, and we have
no certain information whether it was observed or this au-
gust occasion. At this time the father was owner of twc
uopyhold bouses, and was probably living in one of them ;

IJV THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

and until recently a house in Henley «treet was pointed oul
by tradition as the Poet's place of birth. "We have seen
that throughout the following summer the destroyer was
busy in Stratford, making fearful spoil of her sons and
daughters; but it spared the babe on whose life .hung the
fate of English Literature. The year 1566 brought another
son into the family, who was christened Gilbert on the 13th
of October. We shall meet with him hereafter in connec-
tion with his brother William's affairs. In 1569, when the
father was high bailiff, a third daughter was born to him,
and was christened Joan on the 15th of April. From this
repetition of the name, it is presumed with good cause that
the first child had died, though no entry of her burial ap-
pears in the register. The second Joan lived to be a wife
and a mother, as will be seen hereafter. On the 28th of
September, 1571, twenty-three days after the father became
head alderman, the fourth daughter was baptized Anne.
Hitherto the register has known him only as John Shake-
speare : in this case it designates him as " Master Shake-
speare." Whether Master or Magister was a token of hon-
our not extended to any thing under an ex-bailiff, does not
appear ; but in all cases after this the name is written in the
register with that significant prefix. This Anne Shake-
speare was buried, April 4th, 1579, and the sum of 8d. paid
for the bell and pall at her funeral. " Richard, son to Mr.
John Shakespeare," was carried to the Font, March llth,
1574, and to the grave, February 4th, 1613. The giving
of this name yields some further evidence, if such be want-
ed, that the Richard Shakespeare mentioned before was the
Poet's grandfather. The list closes with the baptism, May
3d, 1580, of " Edmund, son to Mr. John Shakespeare."

Rowe, as may be seen in our Introduction, and some
others after him, make the Poet to have been of a family
of ten children, whereas our list numbers but eight. Tlr's
arose, no doubt, from there having been another John
Shakespeare in Stratford, who was a shoemaker. Rowe'»

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. lv

reckoning includes but one Joan, and adds three others,
Ursula, Humphrey, and Philip, thus making the number ten.
John Shakespeare the shoemaker is first met with in the
corporation books as a burgess present at a hall in March
1580. In September, 1585, he was elected one of the con-
stables, and in October following was sworn as one of the
ale-tasters. The chamberlain's accounts for 1586 have the
entry, — " Received of Shakespeare the shoemaker for hia
freedom, the 19th day of January, 30s." In 1587 he is
found availing himself of what was known as Oken's Char-
ity, a loan of £5, to be employed in his business; which
shows him to have been both poor and young, these being
conditions required by Oken's will.28 Divers other instances
of his name are found, but generally with " shoemaker "
added, and never with the handle Master attached to it.
Margery his wife, to whom he was married in November,
1584, was buried in October, 1587. It appears, however,
that he was not long in " taking to himself another mate,"
the following baptisms being noted in the parish-register:
March llth, 1589, "Ursula, daughter to John Shake-

" The Stratford records furnish the following : "At a hall there
holden the xvii.th daie of Fehuarie, anno xxix.th domina? reginae
Elizabeth, &c., Thomas Okeni money was delivered to the per-
sonnes whose names are underwritten, to be emploied accordinge
to the last will and testament of the saide Thomas." In the list
of names underwritten we have this : "John Shaxpere v.li., his
suerties Richard Sponer et Roberte Yonge." — From the Black
Book in the Corporation Archives, Warwick, it appears that
Thomas Oken, of Warwick, in his will dated Nov. 24th, 1570, gave
£40 to Stratford-on-Avon, " to bestow and deliver the said soinrne
of fonrtie poundes to divers yong occupiers of the same towne of
3tretford upon Avon in lone, in maner and forme following; That
is to say, unto eight such honest yong men dwelling within the
same towne, that be of some honest mistery or craft, and house-
holders within the same town, being also of good name, fame, and
conversacion with their neighbors in the same towne; That is to
say, to every such one of the said eight yong men the sotntne of
five poundes, by the wave of loane, to be occupied by him and
them in tbeir said craftes or mysteries during the space of foure
yeres."

Ivi THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

speare ; " May 24th, 1590, " Humphrey, son to John Shake-
speare;" September 21st, 1591, "Philip, son to John
Shakespeare." And so his name " is condemned to ever-
lasting redemption," the fault of his parents making it ne-
cessary thus to immortalize the worthy man.

Nothing further is heard of MRS. MARY SHAKESPEARE
till her death in 1608. On the 9th of September, that year,
the parish-register notes the burial of " Mary Shakespeare,
widow," her husband having died seven years before. That
she had in a special degree the confidence and affection of
her father, is apparent from the treatment she received in
his will. There are few chapters in human history, the loss
of which were more to be regretted, than that which should
have let us into the domestic life and character of the great
Poet's mother. Both the mother's nature and the mother's
discipline must, no doubt, have entered largely into his com-
position, and had a principal share in making him what he
was. Whatsoever of woman's beauty and sweetness and
wisdom were expressed in her life and manners, could not
but be caught and repeated in his most susceptive and most
fertile nature. At the time of her death, the Poet was in
his forty-fifth year, and had already produced those mighty
works that were to fill the world with his fame. For some
years, she must, in all likelihood, have been more or less
under his care and protection, as her age, at the time of her
death, could not well have been less than seventy. She
probably never realized that she had given birth to the great-
est of men : she must have been a remarkable woman in-
deed, to have understood at that time what a miracle of
wisdom and wit had issued from her. The world is under
great, very great obligation to her. There is little danger
of her being ever forgotten. All the kings and queens that
have lived are but dust in the balance, compared to the
MOTHER of WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

CHAPTER II.

FROM THE BIRTH OP SHAKESPEARE TILL HE
ENTERED THE THEATRE.

IN the preceding chapter we have dwelt somewhat mi-
nutely, perhaps too much so, on the history of John Shake-
speare, as gathered from legal documents and public records,
with the view of throwing whatsoever light were possible to
De thrown on the circumstances and opportunities of the
Peel's boyhood and youth. We have seen him springing
from what may be justly termed the best vein of old Eng-
lish life. At the time of his birth, his parents, considering
the purchases previously made by the father, and the for-
tune inherited by the mother, must have been tolerably well
to do in the world. The " land in Wilmecote called Ash-
bies " was an estate in fee, consisting of a messuage, fifty
acres of arable land, six acres of meadow and pasture, and
a right of common for all kinds of cattle. Malone, reckon-
ing only the bequests specified in her father's will, estimated
Mary Shakespeare's fortune to be not less than £110, which
Mr. Collier deems " an under calculation of its actual value."
Later researches, as we have seen, have brought to light
considerable sources of income that were unknown to Ma-
lone. Supposing her fortune to have been as good as £150
then, it would go nearly if not quite as far as $5000 in our
time. So that the Poet must have passed his boyhood in
just about that medium state between poverty and riches,
but, of the two, rather verging towards its upper limit,
which is accounted most favourable to health of body and
mind.

At the time of his father's becoming high bailiff of Stratr
ford. William was in his fifth year ; old enough, no doubt

Iviii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

to understand something of what would naturally he sari
and done in tho home and at the fireside of an English
magistrate, and to take more or less interest in the duties,
the hospitalities, and perhaps the gayeties, incident to the
headship of the borough. It would seem that the Poel
came honestly by his inclination towards the drama. Dur-
ing his term of office, John Shakespeare is found acting in
his public capacity as a patron of the stage. The chamber-
lain's accounts for that year show at one time 9s. " paid K-
tne Queen's players," and at another time 12d. " to the Earl
of Worcester's players ; " and these are the earliest notices
we have of theatrical performances in that ancient town.
What particular course the bailiff and the players took on
these occasions, is not known ; but R,. Willis, who was born
the same year as our Poet, gives, in his Mount Tabor, 1639,
the following curious reminiscence :

"UPON A STAGE-PLAY WHICH I SAW WHEN I WAS A
CHILD.

" In the city of Gloucester the manner is, (as I think it is
in other like corporations,} that when players of interludes
come to town, they first attend the Mayor, to inform him
what nobleman's servants they are, and so to get licence for
their public playing; and if the mayor like the actors, or
would show respect to their lord and master, he appoints
them to play their first play before himself and the alder-
men and common council of the city ; and that is called the
mayor's play, where every one that will comes without
money, the mayor giving the players a reward as he thinks
fit, to show respect unto them. At such a play my father
took me with him, and made me stand between his legs, as
he sat upon one of the benches, where we saw and heard
very well. The play was called The Cradle of Security,
wherein was personated a king or some great prince with
his courtiers of several kinds, amongst which three ladita
were in special grace with him ; and they, keeping him in

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. l\Z

delights and pleasures, drew him from his graver counsel-
lors, hearing of sermons, and listening to good counsel and
admonitions ; that in the end they got him to lie down in a
cradle upon the stage, where these three ladies, joining in a
sweet song, rocked him asleep, that he snorted again ; and
in the mean time closely conveyed under the clothes, where-
withal he was covered, a vizard like a swine's snout upon hia
face, with three wire chains fastened thereunto, the other
end whereof being holden severally by those three ladies,
who fell to singing again, and then discovered his face, that
the spectators might see how they had transformed him go-
ing on with their singing. . . . This sight took such
impression in me, that when I came towards man's estate it
was as fresh in my memory as if I had seen it newly acted."
Gloucester being not more than a day's ride from Strat-
ford, much the same custom which we here see in use at the
former place was probably used at the latter when the first
companies acted there. So that the bailiff and his son Wil-
liam were most likely present at those performances. From
this time forward all through the Poet's youth, probably no
year passed without similar exhibitions at Stratford, though
we hear of no more players there till 1573, when the ac-
count-books show an entry of 5s. 8d. " paid to Mr. Bailiff
for the Earl of Leicester's players." In 1576 we have notes
of similar donations to the companies of the Earls of War-
wick and Worcester ; and so on, continually, from that pe-
riod till some years after the time of the Poet's quitting
Stratford.1 Such were the opportunities our embryo Poet

1 We subjoin fiom the chamberlains' accounts a number of en-
tries, showing to what extent Stratford was favoured with players'

visits :

1577. " Paid to my lord of Leyster players .... xv. «

"Paid to my lord of Wosters players . . iii.«. im.d.

1579. "Paid at the commandment of Mr. BalifTe to the Coun-

tys of Essex plears xiiii. ». vi. d.

1680. "Paid to the Earle of Darbyes players at the commaund-

ment of Mr. Baliffe . . . viii. «. iiii. d.

IX THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

had fcr catching the first rudiments of that art in which he
afterwards displayed such learned mastery. The subjec*
will needs be recurred to when we come to discuss the prob-
able date and probable causes of the Poet's first connexion
with the theatre.

The same accounts show an entry, in 1564, of 2s. "paid
for defacing image in the chapel." Even then the excesses
generated out of the Reformation, and rendered fierce by
the scarce-extinct fires of Smithfield, were invading such
towns as Stratford, and inaugurating a " crusade against the
harmless monuments of the ancient belief, no exercise of
taste being suffered to interfere with what was considered a
religious duty." In those exhibitions of strolling players,
especially as in course of time abuses crept in, this spirit
found matter, no doubt, more deserving of its enmity. While
the Poet was yet a boy, a bitter war of books and pamphlets
had begun against plays and players ; and the Stratford rec-
ords inform us of divers early attempts to suppress them in
that town ; but the issue proves that the Stratfordians were
not easily beaten from this species of entertainment, in which
they evidently took great delight.8

1581. " Paid to' the Earle of Worcester his players iii. ». iiii. d
"Paid to the L. Barllett his players . . . iii. a. ii. d

1582. "Paid to Henry Russell for the Earle of Worcester

players v. *.

1583. "Payd to Mr. Alderman that he layd downe to the

Lord Bartlite his players, and to a preacher v. *.
"Payd to the Lord Shandowes players . iii. s. iiii. d.

1584. " Geven to my lord of Oxfordes pleers . iii. *. iiii. d.
" Geven to the Earle of Worceter pleers . iii. s. iiii. d .
" Geven to the Earle of Essex pleers . . iii. *. viii. d,

1686. "Paide to Mr. Tiler for the pleyers .... v.*.

15S7. "Paid for mendinge of a forme that was broken by the

Queues players xvi.d

" Gy ven to the Quenes players ..... xx. s.
" Gy ven to my Lo. of Essex players . . . . v. *
" Gyven to therle of Leycester his players . . . x. s
« Gyven to another company .... iii. *. iiii. d
"Gyven to my Lo. of Staffordes men . iii.*. iii: d."

• The year 1602 furnishes the following : " V December, 4fi

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Ixi

The account-books quoted above ftimish notices of va-
rious other events and customs which bore a part in the
Poet's early education. We have entries, in 1570, of sums
paid " to Humphrey Getley for mending of the stocks," and
" to the smith for iron-work of the same stocks ; " facts that
infer suitable precedents for what brave Kent is made to un-
dergo in King Lear. Entries also there are, showing that
the cucking-stool, that ancient engine for taming female
shrews and scolds, was kept in repair and ready for use.*
An entry, in 1577, of 4s., " paid when the muster was here
for a gallon and half of sack ; " and one, May 20th, 1584, of
" a church-ale granted to be kept by the church-warden ; "
refer us to other sources of delight and instruction for the
growing youth. Entries touching the bowling-alleys and the
butts inform us that these were among the favourite places
of amusement. What means were in use for appeasing the
anger or conciliating the favour of the rich and powerful, is
shown by an entry of I8d. " paid for wine, sugar, and cakes,
to make Sir Fulk Greville drink," and of 40*. " paid to Sir
Fulk Greville for nothing ; " also, of 3s. " for sack and claret
wine for Sir Thomas Lucy and my Lady and Mr. Sheriff at
the Swan;" of 6s. lOd. "for wine and sugar bestowed on
Sir Edward Greville at the Swan;" and of 2s. 2d. "for
wine and sugar when my Lady Greville came to see our
sport." How new friendships were used to be made, or
broken ones mended, appears from entries of 4s. " paid Mrs.

E!iz. At this hall yt is ordred, that there shall be no plays or in-
terludes played in the Chamber, the Guildhall, nor in any parteof
the howse or courte, from henstbrward, upon payne, that whoever
of the Baylif, Aldermen, or Burgesses of the Boroughe shall give
leave or license thereunto, shall forfeyt for everie offence — x. s."
Other orders still more stringent were passed from time to time ;
still we find, in 1617, an entry of 5s. paid by " Mr. BayliflTs ap
poyniinent to a company of players."

* 1576. " Paid for mendinge the docke stoole two elles xii. d,

" Paid for the stoll and thinges to mend it withal vi. d.

" Paid for a cocke for to sett on the stoole . viii. d.
1617. " For ii. trees for the cookstoole .... xi. «."

Ixij THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Quiney foi wine to the chamber in making Mr. Baker and
Mr. Smith friends," and of 3s. 4d. "paid at Mrs. Quiney "s
when Mr. Rogers and Mr. Wright were made friends."
Many other very curious and edifying entries are here found,
a considerable list of which is given by Halliwell.4

We have seen that both John and Mary Shakespeare, in-
stead of writing their name, were so far disciples of Jack
Cade as to use the more primitive way of making their
mark. It nowise follows from this that they could not read ;
neither, on the other hand, have we any certain evidence
that they could. Be that as it may, there was no reason
why their children should not be able to say, "I thank

4 The reader may he glad to find some of the more curious ones
in a note :

1578. " Item, to John Smith for a pottell of wine and a quar-
terne of sugar for Sir Thomas Lucy . . xvi. d.
1584. " Paid for a quart of secke, a pottell of claret wyne, a
quarterne of sugar, for Sir Thomas Lucy knight

ii. s. i d.
1586. " Paid for wine and sugar when Sir Thomas Lucie salt

in comission for tipplers xx. d.

1594. " Item, at the eaiinge of Mr. Grevilles bucke the kep-

ers fee and horse hire xxx. s. vi. d.

" Item, a bankett at the Beare for Mr. Grevill

xxxiii. «. \\.d.

1597. "Payd for a sugerlofe to send to Sur Foke Grivill the

20. of January, 11 li. 9 ounces, at xvi. d. a pound

xv. s. v.d.

1598. " To Jhon Whittcoott iiii. dayes worcke at 9 d. daye

iii. *.

"Bald Hughes for xi. dayes at 9 d. . . viii.*. iii.<f.
1604. " Item, we do present the greatest part of the inhabyi-
ants of this towne for wearing theyr repariell con-
trary to the stattut.
1606. " Item, to Spenser for joistes for the scolehouse and for

work about the same iiii.*. ix. d.

1608. " Paied Richard Stanell for tiling the fre skole xxv.«
1617. " For a quart of sack sent to Mr. Cooper, a preacher

i.«.

" Payde for a quarte of sacke and a quart of clareel
wyne beestowed of Mr. Harris for his sermon made
heire xx.d"

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Ixii.

God, I huve been so well brought up, that I can write my
name." A Free School had been founded at Stratford by
Thomas Jolyffe in the reign of Edward IV. In 1553, King
Edward the Sixth granted a charter, giving it a legal being,
with legal rights and duties, and ordering it to be called
" The King's New School of Stratford-upon-Avon." 6 What
particular course or method of instruction was used in this
school we have no certain knowledge ; but it was probably
much the same as that used in other like schools of that
period ; which included the elementary branches of English,
and also the rudiments of classical, learning. The master
of the school had a salary of £20 a year ; and, sometimes
at least, an assistant with £10 a year.6 Latin was taught
in all the free schools of any note in that period. Dr. Simon
Forman, the dealer in occult science quoted in our Introduc-
tions to The Winter's Tale and Cymbeline, says of an igno-
ran* minister, that "he could read English well, but he
could no Latin more than the single accidence ; and that
he learned of his two sons that went daily to a free school"
Here it was, no doubt, that Shakespeare acquired the

8 The following is part of the Charter : " We, by virtue of
these presents, erect, ordain, and establish a certain free grammar
school, in the said town of Stratford-upon-Avon, to consist of one
master or teacher, hereafter for ever to endure, and so we will and
command by these presents to be established and inviolably to be
observed for ever ; and that the said school shall for ever be^com-
monly styled The King's New School of Stratford-upon-Avon ;
and that in the^same school there shall be a master or pedagogue
to be named and appointed from time to time by the Lords of th«
Borough for the time being ; which master or pedagogue shall bo
called by the name of Master or Pedagogue of the Free School
of Stratford-upon-Avon."

6 Mr. Halliwell gives the following from a manuscript at Carl-
lon Ride : " Memorandum, there is a virare and a scolemaster
that have a stipend of xx. li. by the yere granted by the King to
eyther of them, and the bailief and burgesses of Stratford are to
pay the same yerelie stipendes out of the landes that were geven
them by the King." In 1685, Sir William Gilbert was assistant
master at £10 a year.

Ixiv THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

" small Latin and less Greek " which Ben Jonson accords
to him. What was " small " learning in the eye of so great
a scholar as Jonson, may yet have been something very
handsome in itself; and his remark would seem to imply
that the Poet had, at least, the regular free-school education
of the time. His father being a member of the corporation,
the tuition would cost him nothing. Honourably ambitious,
as he seems to have been, of being somebody, it is not un-
likely he may have prized learning the more for being him-
self without it. William was his oldest son ; when his tide
of fortune began to ebb, the Poet was in his fourteenth year ;
and from the native qualities of his mind, we cannot doubt
that, up to that time at least, " all the learnings that his toion
could make him the receiver of, he took, as we do ah-, fast
as 'twas minister'd, and in his spring became a harvest."
Of his professional teachers, supposing him to have attend-
ed the school, nothing is known except the names : between
1570 and 1578, the place of master was held successively by
Walter Roche, Thomas Hunt, and Thomas Jenkins.

The honest but credulous old gossip Aubrey, who died
about the year 1700, states, on the authority of one Mr.
Beeston, that Shakespeare " understood Latin pretty well,
for he had been in bis younger years a school-master in the
country ; " and Mr. Collier thinks it possible that, being a
young man of abilities, and quick to acquire knowledge, he
may have been employed by Jenkins to aid him in teaching
the younger boys. He adds the following in reference to
Aubrey's statement : " As persons of the name of Beestcn
were connected with the theatres before the death cf Shake-
speare, and long afterwards, we ought to treat the assertion
with the more respect. Simon Fonnan, according to his
Diary, was employed in this way in the free school where
he was educated, and was paid by the parents of the boys
for his assistance.7 The same might be the case with Shake-
speare."

' ~~ae following is from his Diary: "Simon, pereevinge his

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. xv

Possible this may indeed he, and that is perhaps the best
can be said of it. Much more likely, it seems to us, is the
account of Howe, though there is no incompatibility between
the two : " He had bred him, it is true, for some time at the
free school, where it is probable he acquired what Latin he
wa« master of; but the narrowness of his circumstances, and
the want of his assistance at home forced his father to with-
draw him from thence, and unhappily prevented his further
proficiency in that language." Howe, to be sure, wrote, as
we have seen, from tradition, and not till upwards of ninety
years after the Poet's death ; but he was evidently careful,
his sources appear to have been good, and what he says
is credible in itself, and accords perfectly with what later
researches have established respecting John Shakespeare's
course of fortune. He also tells us that the Poet's father
" could give him no better education than his own employ-
ment." It has been shown, that as early as 1579 his father
was legally designated as " John Shakespeare, of Stratford-
upon-Avon in the county of Warwick, yeoman." Nor are
we sure but the ancient functions of an English yeoman's
oldest son might be a better education for what the Poet
afterwards accomplished, than was to be had in any free
school or university in England. From his apt and frequent
use of legal terms and phrases, Malone and Collier are
strongly of the opinion that he must have spent some time
as clerk or apprentice to some one of the seven attorneys
then at Stratford. This, too, is doubtless possible enough :
t jt such evidence cannot pass for much ; for he shows an

mother wold doe nothiuge for him, was dryven to great extremity
and hunger, gave off to be a scoller any longer for lacke of main-
tenam'e, and, at the priorie of St. Jilles wher he himself \vas firste
a scoller, ther became he a scolmaster, and taught some thirty
boies, and their parents among them gave him moste parte of his
diet. And the money he gote he kept, to the some of som 40*.,
and after folowinge, when he had bin scolmaster som halfe yere,
and had 40*. in his purse, he wente to Oxford for to get more lern-
«nge, and soe left off fr.nn being scolmaster."

Ixvi THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

equal or nearly equal, familiarity with the technicalities of
various callings ; and it seems nowise unlikely that his skill
in the law may have grown from the large part his father
bad. either as magistrate or as litigant, in legal transactions.

Knight has speculated rather copiously and romantically
upon the idea of Shakespeare having been a spectator of the
»ncre-than-royal pomp and pagentry with which the Queen
was entertained by Leicester at Kenilworth in 1575. Strat-
ford was fourteen miles from Kenilworth, and the Poet was
then eleven years old. That his ears were assailed and his
imagination excited by the fame of that august and mag-
nificent display, cannot be doubted ; for all that part of the
country was laid under contribution to supply it, and was
resounding with the noise of it ; but his father was not of a
rank to be summoned or invited thither, nor was he of an
age to go thither without his father. Positive historical evi-
dence either way on the point there is none ; nor can we
discover any thing in his plays but what he might have
learned well enough without drinking in the splendour of
that occasion, however the fierce attractions thereof may
have haunted a mind so brimful of poetry and life. The
whole subject is an apt field for speculation, and for nothing
else.

The gleanings of tradition excepted, the first knowledge
that has reached us of the Poet, after his baptism, has ref-
erence to his marriage. Howe states that " he thought fit
to marry while he was yet very young," and that " his wife
was the daughter of one Hathaway, said to have been a sub-
stantial yeoman in the neighbourhood of Stratford ; " and
later disclosures prove that Howe must have had access to
good Gources of information. The marriage took place in
the fall of 1582, when the Poet was in his nineteenth yeat.
On the 28th of November, that year, Fulk Sandels and John
Kit hardson subscribed a bond whereby they became liable
in '.he sum of £40, to be forfeited to the Bishop , of Worces-
ter, in case there should be found any lawful impediment to

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

the marriage of William Shakespeare and ANNE HATH-
AWAY, of Stratford ; the object being, to procure such a dis-
pensation from the Bishop as would authorise the ceremony
after once publishing the banns. The original bond is pre-
served at Worcester, with the marks and seals of the two
bondsmen affixed, and also bearing a seal with the initials
R. H., as if to show that the bride's father, Richard Hath*
away, was present and consenting to the act.8 Mr. Collier
says, — " It is not to be concealed, or denied, that the whole
proceeding seems to indicate haste and secrecy ; " where-

8 We subjoin the document from Mr. Halliwell, who says the
copy was carefully made from the original :

" Noverint universi per praesentes nos Fulconem Sandells de
Stratford in comitalu Warwici, agricolam, et Johanuem Rychard-
son ibidem, agricolam. teneri et firmiter obligari Ricardo Cosin.
generoso, el Roberto Warmstry, notario publico, in quadraginta
libris bouse et legalis monelse Angliee solvendis eisdem Ricardo et
Roberto, hseredibus, executoribus, vel assignatis suis, ad quam
quidem solutionem bene et fideliter faciendam ohligamus nos, et
utrumque nostrum, per se pro toto et in solido, haeredes, executo-
res, et administrators nostros firmiler per praesentes, sigillis nos-
tris sigillatos. Datum 28 die Novembris, anno Regni Dominse
nostrse Eliz., &c., 25th.

" The condicion of this obligacion ys suche, that if herafter
there shall not appere any lawfull lelt or impediment, &c., but that
William Shagspere one thone partie, and Anne Hathwey, cf Strat-
ford in the dioces of Worcester, maiden, may lawfully solemnize
matrimony together, and in the same afterwardes remaine and
contiuew like man and wiffe, according unto the lawes in that be-
half provided ; and moreover, if there be not at this present time
any action, sute, quarrel!, or demaund, moved or depending before
any judge, ecclesiasticall or temporal!, for and concerning any suche
!a*'ihll lett or impediment ; and moreover, if the said William
Shagspere do not proceed to solemnizacion of mariadg with the
said Anne Hathwey without the consent of fair frindes ; and also,
if the said William do, upon his owne proper costes and expenses,
defend and save harmles the right reverend Father in God, Lord
John Bushopof Worcester, and his oflycers, for licencing them the
said William and Anne to be maried together with once asking of
the bannes of matrimony betweeue them, and for all other causes
which may ensue by reason or occasion thereof; that then the said
obligacion to be voyd and of none effect, or els to stand and abide
in full force and vertue."

Ixviii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE

upon Mr. Ilalliwcll, writing more advisedly, has the follow-
ing : " There is no peculiarity to be observed in it, nor can
I agree with Mr. Collier that ' the whole proceeding seems
to indicate haste and secrecy.' In fact, the bond is exactly
similar to those which were usually granted on such occa-
sions ; and several others of a like kind are to be seen in the
office of the Worcester registry. It is necessary in these
discussions to pay attention to the ordinary usages of the
period ; and the more minutely we examine them, the less
necessity will there be in this case for suggesting any insin-
uation against the character of the Poet."

The parish books all about Stratford and Worcester have
been ransacked, but no registry of the marriage has been
discovered. The probability seems to be, that the ceremony
took place in some one of the neighbouring parishes, perhaps
Weston or Billesley or Luddington, where the registers of
that period have not been preserved. Anne Hathaway was
of Shottery, a pleasant village situate within an easy walk of
Stratford, and belonging to the same parish. No registry
of her baptism has come to light ; but the baptismal regis-
ter of Stratford did not commence till 1558. She died or
the 6th of August, 1623, and the inscription on her monu-
ment informs us that she was sixty-seven years of age. Hei
birth, therefore, must have occurred in 1556, eight years be-
fore that of her husband.

It appears, from old subsidy rolls, that there were Hath-
aways living at Shottery before 1550. And among the
" debts which are owing unto me," specified in the will of
Roger Sadler, 1578, quoted in note 16 of the preceding
chapter, is one " of Richard Hathaway, alias Gardiner, of
Shottery," £6 8s. 4d. This Hathaway had several children
born after the beginning of the Stratford register, and their
baptisms are duly entered. But the best information we
have of him is from his will, which was lately discovered by
Mr. Halliwell, and is printed at length in his Life of the
Poet. It was made September 1st, 1581, and proved July

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. btis

9th, 1582, which shows that the testator died in the interval ;
and its contents folly bear out Howe's statement of his be-
ing " a substantial yeoman." He makes bequests to Joan
his wife, to Bartholomew his oldest son, also born before the
commencement of the Stratford register, and to six other
children, named Thomas, John, William, Agnes, Catharine,
and Margaret. He makes no mention of Anne, neither
does he of Joan, another daughter, born in 1566 ; probably
because he thought them well enough provided for in other
quarters. He appoints his wife sole executrix, desires his
" trusty friends and neighbours, Stephen Burman and Fulk
Sandels to be supervisors " of his will ; and among the wit-
nesses are the names of William Gilbert, curate of Stratford,
John Richardson and John Heminge. He had the advan-
tage of John Shakespeare in one respect, at least : he could
write his name.

One item of the will is, — "I owe unto Thomas Whitting-
ton, my shepherd, £4 65. 8d." Whittington died in 1601,
and in his will, also found by Mr. Halliwell, we have the
following : " I give and bequeathe, unto the poor people of
Stratford 40s. that is in the hand of Anne Shakespeare, wife
unto Mr. William Shakespeare, and is due debt unto me,
being paid to mine executor by the said William Shakespeare
or his assigns, according to the true meaning of this my will."
The good careful old shepherd had doubtless placed the 40s.
in Anne Shakespeare's hand for safe keeping, she being a
person in whom he had confidence.

At a later period, Bartholomew Hathaway is found in pos-
session of the Shottery estate ; and when he died, in 1624,
Dr. Hall, the Poet's son-in-law, was one of the overseers of
his wilL And Lady Barnard, the Poet's grand-daughter, in
her will, 1669, makes liberal bequests to Judith, Joan, Rose,
Elizabeth, and Susanna, daughters of her " kinsman Thom-
as Hathaway, late of Stratford," who was most likely a
nephew of Anne Shakespeare.

In respect of the Poet's marriage, Mr. Halliwell has the

llX THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

following remarks, which seem so just in themselves, and so
illustrative of the case, that we doubt not the reatier will
more than excuse us for adding them :

"The late Captain Saunders discovered two precepts in
the papers of the Court of Record at Stratford, dated in
1566, which appear to exhibit Richard Hathaway and John
Shakespeare on friendly terms. These precepts were issued
on the same day on which the brief abstracts are dated in
the registry of the court ; and while the plaintiffs are re-
spectively the same in the abstracts and precepts, the name
of John Shakespeare is substituted in each instance in the
latter for Richard Hathaway. Although I have not met
with any similar instances, yet the only method of expla-
nation is to conclude that Shakespeare became security for
Hathaway. It appears that the distringas in each case was
afterwards withdrawn.9

" This evidence is very important in the question that has
been raised respecting the father of Anne Hathaway. The
intimacy which probably existed between Richard Hathaway
and John Shakespeare at once explains, the means through
which the two families became connected. The bond suf-
ficiently proves that the marriage must have taken place

' The following are copies of them, superfluities omitted ;

" 11 Sept. 8 Eliz. Johannes Page queritur versus Ricardum
Hatheway de placito detencionis &c. ad valenc. octo librarum. —
Johanna Byddoll queritur versus Ricardum Hatheway de pj&cito
detencionis, &c. ad valenc. xi. li.

u Preceptum est servientibus ad clavem quod distr. seu units
vestrum distr. Jobannem Shakespere per omnia bona et cattala sua,
ita quod sit apud proximam curiam de recordo tent, ibidem ad
respondend. Johanni Page de placito debit!, <fcc. Datum sub si-
gillo meo xi. mo die Septembris, anno regni Dominae Elizabeths,
&c. octavo.

" Preceptum est servientibus ad clavem quod distr. seu unus
vestrum distr. Johannem Shakespere per omnia bona et cattala sna,
ita quod sit apud proximam curiam de recordo tent, ibidem ad
respondendum Johanni Byddele de placito debili, &.C. Datum
sub sigillo meo xi. mo die yeptembris, anno regni Dominae Eliza-
bethae, &c.. octavo."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. 1XX1

with the consent of the Hathaways ; and the bride's father
was most likely present when Sandels and Richardson ex-
ecuted the bond, for one of the seals has the initials R. H.
upon it There can be little doubt that the connexion also
met with the approval of Shakespeare's parents, for there
was no disparity of means or station to occasion their dis-
sent, and the difference between their ages was not sufficient
to raise it into any reasonable obstacle. Nothing can be
more erroneous than the conclusions generally drawn from
the marriage-bond. Anne Hathaway is there described as
of Stratford ; but so are the two bondsmen, who were re-
spectable neighbours of the Hathaways of Shottery. They
are mentioned together as being bail for a party, ;n the
registry of the Court of Record.10 Thus we find that the
entire transaction was conducted under the care of Anne
Hathaway's neighbours and friends. It has been said that
Sandels and Richardson were rude, unlettered husbandmen,
unfitted to attend a poet's bridal. They could not, it is true,
write their own names, but neither could Shakespeare's fa-
ther, nor many of the principal inhabitants of Stratford.
Richardson was a substantial farmer, as appears from an
inventory of his goods made in 1594, his friend Sandels be-
ing one of the persons engaged in its compilation. The
original is preserved at Stratford." n

10 The entry is as follows: "26 April, 29 Eliz. Elizabelhe
Smythe, vidua, attachiata fuit per servientes ad clavam ibidem ad
respondendum Roberto Parrett in placito debiti, Johannes Rich-
ardson de Shottrey et Fulcus Sandells de Shottrey praed. m. pro
praedicta Elizabethe, &.C., concord."

11 The Inventory is given in full by Halliwell, and fully bears
out the statement that " Richardson was a substantial fanner," the
turn total of his goods being set down as £87 3». 8rf. It is pref-
aced as follows: "The tru inventory of the goodes and chaitells
of John Richardsons, late of Shotlre in the perish of Stratford
upon Avon, in the countye of Warwycke, decessed ; taken the
iiii.th day of November. 1594, and in the xxxvi.th yeare of the
raygne of our soverayne Lady Elizabeth, &c., and by the dys-
cretyon of Mr. John Gibbs, Mr. John Burman, Fowcke Sandelh
and John Barber."

IXXI1 THE LfFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

The Poet's match was evidently a love-match : whethe?
the love were of that kind which forms the best pledge of
wedded happiness, is another question. It seems not un-
likely that the marriage may have been preceded by the
ancient ceremony of troth-plight, or handfast, as it was
sometimes called ; like that which all but takes place be
tween Florizell and Perdita in Act iv. sc. 3, of The Winter's
Tale, and quite takes place between Olivia and Sebastian b
Twelfth Night, Act iv. sc. 3 ; and which the Priest there
officiating describes thus :

" A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands,
Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strengthen'd by interchangement of your rings ;
And all the ceremony of this compact
Seal'd in my function, by my testimony." 1J

The custom of trotb-plight was much used in that age and
for a long time after. In some places it had the force and
effect of an actual marriage ; and if the parties were for-
mally united within a reasonable time their reputation stood
perfectly clear, whatever may have happened in the interim.
Evils, however, often grew out of it ; and the Church has
done wisely, no doubt, in uniting the troth-plight and the
marriage in one and the same ceremony.13 Whether such

14 The Poet has several other instances of the like solemn be
trothment, as in the cases of Claudio and Juliet, and of Angelc.
and Mariana, in Measure for Measure. See, also, The Two Gea
llttmcn of Verona, Act ii. sc. 2, note 1. What liberties it con-
ferred, may be judged from the language used by the jealous
Leoutes in The Winter's Tale, Act i. sc. 2 :

" My wife's a hobby-horse ; deserves a name
As rank as any flax-wench, that puts to
Be/on her troth-plight."

** Brand, in his Popular Antiquities, speaks thus of the cus-
tom : " There was a remarkable kind of marriage-contract among
the ancient Danes called hand-festing . Strong traces of this re-
main in our villages in many parts of the kingdom. I have
been more than once assured from credible authority on Portland
Island, that something very like it is still practised there very gen

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

solemn betrothment had or had not taken place between
William Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway, it is certain
from the parish register, that they had a daughter, Susanna,
baptized on the 26th of May, 1583, not quite six months
after the date of the marriage-bond.

Some of the Poet's later biographers and critics have
taken it upon them to suppose that he was not happy in his
marriage. Certain passages in his plays, especially the
charming dialogue between the Duke and the disguised
Viok in Act ii. sc. 4, of Twelfth Night, have been cited aa
involving some reference to the Poet's own case, or as sug-
gested by what himself had experienced of the evils re-
sulting from the wedlock of persons " misgraffed in respect
of years." There was never any thing but mere conjecture
for this notion. Howe mentions nothing of the kind, and
we may be sure that his candour would not have spared the
Poet, had tradition offered him any such matter. As for
the passages in his plays, we cannot discover the slightest
reason for supposing that the Poet had any other than a
purely dramatic purpose in them. That Shakespeare was
more or less separated from his wife for a number of years,
cannot indeed be questioned; but that he ever found or
sought any relief or comfort in such separation, is what we
have no warrant for believing. It was simply forced upon

erally, where the inhabitants seldom or never intermarry with any
on the mainland, ami where the young women, selecting' lovers of
the same place, account it no disgrace to allow them every favour,
and that, too, from the fullest confidence of being made wives the
moment such consequences of their stolen embraces begin to b*
too visible to be any longer concealed." And he adds the follow
ing from the Christian State of Matrimony, 1543 : " Yet in thys
thynge a'so must I warne everye reasonable and honest parson to
beware, that in coutractyng of maryage they dyssemble not, nor
set forthe any lye. Every man lykewyse must esteme the parson
to whom he is hand-fasted, none otherwyse than for his owne
spouse, though as yel it be not done in the church ner in the
streaie. After the hand-fastynge and makyng of the contracte,
the churchgoyng and weddyng shuld not be differred too longo,
leat the wyckedde sowe hys ungraciouf scde in the meanc season.''

IXX1V THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

him by the necessities of his condition. The darling object
of his London life evidently was, as will be seen hereafter,
that he might return to his native town with a handsome
competence, and dwell in the bosom of his family ; and the
yearly visits, which tradition reports him to have made to
Stratford, look like any thing but a wish to forget them or
be forgotten by them. From what is known of his sub-
sequent course, it is certain that he nad in large measure
that honourable ambition, so natural to an English gentle
man, of becoming the founder of a family ; and as soon a*
he had reached the hope of doing so, he retired to his old
home, and there set up his rest, as if his best sunshine of
life still waited on the presence of her from whose society
he is alleged to have fled away in disappointment and dis-
gust.

To Anne Hathaway, we have little doubt, were addressed,
in his early morn of love, the three Sonnets playing on the
author's name, numbered cxxxv., cxxxvi., and cxliii. as origi
nally printed. These have indeed very little merit; they
are framed with too much art, or else with too little, to ex-
press any real passion ; in short, both the matter and the
style of them are hardly good enough *o have been his at
any time, certainly none too good to have been the work of
his boyhood. And we have seen no conjecture on the point
that bears greater likelihoods of truth, than that another
three, far different in merit, the xcviL, xcviii., and xcix., were
addressed, much later in life, to the same "object. The pre-
vailing tone and imagery of them are such as he would
hardly have used but with a woman in his thoughts ; they
are full-fraught with deep personal feeling as distinguished
from mere exercises of fancy ; and they speak, with unsur-
passable tenderness, of frequent absences, such as, before
the Sonnets were first printed, the Poet had experienced
from the wife of his bosom. We feel morally certain thai
she was the inspirer of them. And we are scarcely less per-
suaded, that a third cluster, from the cix. to the cxvii., in

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

elusive, had the same source. These, too, are clearly con-
cerned with the deeper interests and regards of private life ;
they carry a homefelt energy and fulness of pathos, such aa
argue them to have had a far other origin than in trials of
art ; they speak of compelled absences from the object that
inspired them, and are charged with regrets and confessions,
such as could only have sprung from the Poet's own breast •
md when he says, —

' Accuse me thus : That I have scanted all
Wherein I should your great deserts repay ;
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day ;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchased right" —

it will take more than has yet appeared, to persuade us that
his thoughts were travelling anywhere but home to the bride
of his youth and mother of his children.

On the 2d of February, 1585, two more children, twins,
were christened in the parish church as " Hamnet and Ju-
dith, son and daughter to William Shakespeare." Malone
conjectured that Hamnet Sadler and Judith his wife, who
were neighbours and friends of the Poet, may have stood
sponsors to the infants, and hence the names. The conjec-
ture is not improbable. Tradition apart, this is the last we
hear of the Poet, till he is found a sharer in the Blackfriars
llieatre in London.

As might be expected, tradition has been busy with the
probable causes of his betaking himself to the stage. Sev-
eral reasons have been assigned for the act, such as, first, a
natural inclination to poetry and acting; second, a deer-
stealing frolic, which resulted in making Stratford too hot
for him ; third, the pecuniary embarrassments of his father.
It is not unlikely that all these causes, and perhaps others,
may have concurred in putting Jiim upon the step.

For the first, we have the clear and credible testimony of
fVubrey, whom Malone supposes to have be<yi in Stratford

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

about 1580. Aubrey was an arrant and inveterate hunter
after anecdotes, and seems to have caught up and noted
down, without sifting or scrutiny, whatever quaint or curious
matter came in his way. Of course, therefore, no great re-
liance can attach to what he says, unless it be sustained by
other strength than his authority. In this case, his words
Bound like truth, and are supported by all the likelihoods
that can grow from what we must presume to have been the
Poet's natural complexion of mind. " This William," says
he, " being inclined naturally to poetry and acting, came to
London, I guess about eighteen, and was an actor at one of
the play-houses, and did act exceedingly welL He began
early to make essays at dramatic poetry, which at that time
was very low, and his plays took well. He was a handsome,
well-shap'd man, very good company, and of a very ready
and pleasant smoothe wit The humour of the constable,
in Midsummer-Night's Dream, he happened to take at
Grendon in Bucks, which is the road from London to Strat-
ford ; and there was living that constable about 1642, when
I first came to Oxford. I think it was midsummer-night
that he happened to lie there. Mr. Jos. Howe is of that
parish, and knew him. Ben Jonson and he did gather hu-
mours of men daily, wherever they came." u

14 As to certain other parts of what Aubrey so gossipingly nar
rates, we make no account of them whatever. Such is the follow-
ing, which hears fable written on its face : " Mr. William Shake-
speare was home at Stratford upon Avon in the county of War-
wick : his father was a butcher; and I have been told heretofore
t>y some of the neighbours, that when he was a boy he exercised
his father's trade, but when he kill'd a calfe, he would doe it in a
high style, and make a speech. There was at that time another
butcher's son in this towne, lhat was held not at all inferior to him
for a natural] witt, his acquaintance and coetanean, but dyed
young." It is remarkable lhat Aubrey makes Michael Drayton,
also from Warwickshire, to have been likewise " a butcher's son,'1
which is known not to have been the case. However, perhaps we
ought to add another version of the story from a small treatise,
written in April, 1693, by one Dowdall. and addressed to Edward
Southwell. The writer is giving an account of a visit he made to

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. .XXVII

Tliis natural inclination, fed, as in all likelihood it was, b»
the frequent theatr'Tal performances which took place at
Stratford all througn the Poet's boyhood, would go far, if
not suffice of itself, to account for his subsequent course of
life. We have already seen that before 1577 four several
companies, the Queen's, the Earl of Worcester's, the Earl
of Leicester's, and the Earl of Warwick's, acted there under
the patronage of the corporation. And the chamberlain'i
accounts show that between 1569 and 1587 no less than tea
distinct companies exhibited under the same auspices, in-
cluding, besides those just named, the Earl of Derby's, the
Earl of Berkley's, the Lord Chandos', the Earl of Oxford's,
the Earl of Essex', and the Earl of Stafford's. In 1587,
five of these companies are found performing there; and
within the period mentioned the Earl of Leicester's men are
noted on three several occasions as receiving money from the
corporation, namely, in 1573, 1577, and 1587. In May,
1574, the Earl of Leicester obtained a patent under th»
great seal, enabling his players, James Burbage, John Perkyn
John Laneham, William Johnson, and Robert Wilson, to ex
ercise their art in any part of the kingdom except London
In 1587, this company became "The Lord Chamberlain'.
Servants; " and we shall find that in 1589 Shakespeare was
a member of it. James Burbage was the father of Richard
Burbage, the greatest actor of that age ; and we learn from
the Earl of Southampton, in a letter to be given hereafter,
that Richard Burbage and William Shakespeare were "both
of one county, and indeed almost of one town." In 1558,

the Stratford church: "The clarke that shew'd me this church is
above 80 years old ; he says that this Shakespear was formerly in
this towne bound apprentice to a butcher, but that he run from his
master to London, and there was received into the playhouse as a
geiviture, and by this meanes had an opportunity to be what he
afterwards prov'd.1' Probably Aubrey's and Dowdall's stories
grew both fro;n the same source, the matter being' varied from time
to time in the telling. Malone discovered that there was a butchei
»amed John Shakespeare living at Warwick in 1610. Hence
s^ the stories in question.

IxXY'iii THE LIFE OF SHAKF.SPEARE.

Francis Burbage was high bailiff of Stratford : he was prob-
ably a relative, perhaps a brother, of James. Another mem-
ber of the same company in 1589, was Thomas Greene, also
from Stratford ; and Malone supposes that he, being older
in the business than Shakespeare, may have introduced him
to the theatre.15 Among the players, also, with whom our
Poet was afterwards associated, are found the names of
John Heminge, William Slye, and Nicholas Tooley, all War-
wickshire men.

We have just seen that after 1577 the chamberlain's ac-
counts have no entry touching the Earl of Leicester's play-
ers, till 1587. Nevertheless, it is altogether likely that they
were there many times during that interval. For, armed as
they were with a patent under the great seal, they could
perform independently of the corporation ; which other com-
panies could not do, an act having been passed in 1572 for
restraining itinerant actors ; whereby they became liable to
be proceeded against as vagabonds, for performing without a
licence from the local authorities. It may, we think, be
safely presumed, that before 1586 Shakespeare was well ac-
quainted with some of the players with whom, only three
years after, he is found a joint sharer in a London theatre.
In their exhibitions, rude as these probably were, he could
not but have been a greedy spectator and an apt scholar

15 The Greenes appear to have been a numerous and respe ?t
able far-iily at Stratford. One of them was a solicitor in London
The parish register has an entry, March 6, 1589, of the burial of
" Thomas Greene, alias Shakspere ; " from which it has been
plausibly conjectured ll.at there was some relationship between liie
Shakespeares and Greenes. The Thomas Greene mentioned in
the text was a very popular comic actor, and became so famous
in the part of Bubble, one of the characters in The City Gallant,
who is continually repeating the phrase, Tu quoque, that the play
was afterwards named " Greene's Tu Quoque, or the City Gal-
ant." The play was printed in 1614, with an epistle by Thomas
Heywood prefixed, from which it appears that Greene was then
dead. We shall hereafter find another Thomas Greene speaking
of Shakespeare as " my cozen." He, also, was of Stratford.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Nor can there be any extravagance in supposing, that by
1.586 he may have taken some part, as actor or waiter, per-
haps both, in their performances. Greene, a fellow-towns-
man, perhaps a relative of his, was already one of their
number. All this, to be sure, might not be, probably was
r.ot, enough to draw him away from Stratford ; but it will
readily be granted, that when other reasons came, if others
there were, for his leaving Stratford, these circumstances
would hold out to him an easy and natural access and invi-
tation to the stage. There is, then, we think, very good
ground for believing that he became a player before quitting
Stratford, and that he quitted Stratford as a player.

What other inducements he had for embracing the op
portunity thus presented, comes next to be considered. A*
to the deer-stealing matter, Howe's account is as follows :
" He had, by a misfortune common enough to young fellows,
fallen into ill company ; and among them some, that made
a frequent practice of deer-stealing, engaged him more than
once in robbing a park that belonged to Sir Thomas Lucy,
of Charlecote, near Stratford. For this he was prosecuted
by that gentleman, as he thought, somewhat too severely ;
and, in order to revenge that ill-usage, he made a ballad
upon him. And though this, probably the first essay of his
poetry, be lost, yet it is said to have been so very bitter, that
it redoubled the prosecution against him to that degree, that
he was obliged to leave his business and family in Warwick-
shire for some time, and shelter himself in London." 18

16 The account given by Oldys is so like this as to argue that
he cither drew it from Rowe or else from the same source as
Howe's. It is as follows : " Our poet was the son of Mr. John
Shakespeare, woolstapler. 'Tis a tradition, descended from old
Bettcrton, that he was concerned with a parcel of deer-stealers in
robbing Sir Tho. Lucy's park at Charlecot, which drove him to
London among the players. The Queen had his plays often acted
before her, and shewed him some gracious marks of favour ; and
King James gave him and others a patent for a company in 1603
See it in Rymers Foedera. Thomas [Henry] Wriothesley, E. of
Southampton, ga -c him £1000 to complete a purchase."

1XXX THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Divers attempts have been made, to impeach this account
Whether, indeed, all its circumstances were true, may well
be doubted ; but the main substance of it stands approved
by too much strength of credible tradition to be overthrown.
The earliest confirmation of it comes in this wise : The Rev.
William Fulman died in 1688, leaving certain manuscripts
to his friend the Rev. Richard Davies, rector of Sapperton,
Gloucestershire. Davies made several additions to them ;
and on his death, in 1708, the whole were presented to the
library of Corpus Christi College, Oxford. On the subject
of Shakespeare, Fulman's notes are very few and unimpor-
tant ; but what was added by Davies very clearly confirms
the substance of the deer-stealing story.17 In 1779, Capell
gave another statement of the matter, which also bears
credibility in its countenance. It is as follows : " A Mr.
Jones, who lived <it Turbich in Worcestershire, about eigh-
teen miles from Stratford, and died in 1703 at the age of
ninety, remembered to have heard from several old people
at Stratford the story of Shakespeare's robbing Sir Thomas
Lucy's park ; and their account of it agreed with Rowe's,
with this addition, that the ballad written against Sir Thom-
as by Shakespeare was stuck upon his park-gate ; which ex-
asperated the knight to apply to a lawyer at Warwick to

IT « William Shakespeare was born at Stratford upon Avon ir
Warwickshire, about 1563-4. From an actor of playes he be
came a composer. He dyed Apr. 23, 1616, aetat. 53, probably al
Stratford, for there he is buryed, and hath a monument." This is
all that Fulman says on the subject. Davies adds the following
"Much given to all unlnckinesse in stealing venison and rabbits,
particularly from Sir Lucy, who had him oft whipt, and sometimes
imprisoned, and at last made him fly his native country to his great
advancement ; but his reveng was so great, that he is his Justice
Clodpate, and calls him a great man ; and that in allusion to his
name bore three louses rampant for his arms." Mr. Collier hag
made it necessary to remark that Clod-pate is here used, apparent-
ly, as a generic name for a blockhead. For an explanation of (he
" three louses lampant on his arms," see the first scene of The
Merry Wives ol Windsor, note 5.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. IxXXJ

proceed against him. Mr. Jones had put down in •writing
the first stanza of this ballad, which was all he remembered
of it ; and Mr. Thomas Wilkes, my grandfather, transmitted
it to my father by memory, who also took it in writing." A
few years later, Steevens printed the stanza from Oldys'
manuscripts, which are also referred to by Capell as con-
taining it. And, though the genuineness of the fragment
seems questionable enough, the whole thing may be taken
£S proving that the tradition was generally believed at Strat-
ford in the latter part of the seventeenth century.18

Mr. Halliwell has the following curious matter, which ap-
pears to throw some light on the question in hand : " The
Lucys possessed great power at Stratford, and were, besides,
not unfrequently engaged in disputes with the corporation of
that town. Records of one such dispute respecting common
of pasture in Henry VTIL's reign are still preserved in the
Chapter House ; and amongst the miscellaneous papers at
the Roll House, I met with an early paper bearing the attrac-
tive title of ' the names of them that made the riot upon
Master Thomas Lucy, Esquire.' This list contains the names

18 Collier mistakenly attributes Capell's account to Oldys, thus
making one authority out of two. At a later period, one Jordan
of Stratford palmed off upon his friends what he termed •' a com-
plete copy of the verses," professing to have found them in an old
chest in a cottage at Shotlery. The thing is a palpable forgery,
yet several have printed it as genuine. We subjoin the stanza
given by Steevens, though ourselves doubting very much, in the
first place, whether there ever were any such ballad, and still more,
in the second place, whether, if there were, this formed any part
of it:

" A parliamente member, a justice of peace,
At home a poore scare-crow, at London an asse ;
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it,
lien Lucy is lowsie, whatever befalle it ;
He thinkes himselfe grcate.
Yet an asse in his slate

We allowe l>y his enres but with asses to matA.
If Lucy ..•• iowsie, as some volke miscalle it,
Sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befalle it."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARF-.

of thirty-five inhabitants of Stratford, mostly tradespeople,
Imt none of the Shakespeares were amongst the number.
We may safely accept the deer-stealing story, not in all its
minute particulars, but in its outline, to be essentially true,
until more decisive evidence can be produced."

M alone fell upon this story, and thought he had finished
it, on the ground that Sir Thomas Lucy had no park and
that he never seems to have sent the corporation of Stratford
a buck, such compliments being usual from persons of rank
and wealth in the vicinity. This argument is disposed of by
Mr. Collier thus: "That the Sir Thomas Lucy who suc-
ceeded his father in 1600 made such gifts, though not per-
haps to the corporation of Stratford, is very certain. When
Lord Keeper Egerton entertained Queen Elizabeth at Hare-
field, in August, 1602, many of the nobility and gentry, in
nearly all parts of the kingdom, sent him an abundance of
presents, to be used or consumed in the entertainment ; and
on that occasion Sir Thomas Lucy contributed ' a buck,' for
which a reward of 6*. 8rf. was given to the bringer. This
«ingle circumstance shows that, if he had no park, he had
deer ; and it is most likely that he inherited them from his
father." 19

We will dismiss the subject with another passage from
rialliwelL " Mr. Knight," says he, " has attacked the deer
stealing anecdote with peculiar ingenuity, yet his refutation
is not supported by evidence of weight. Traditions general-
Ij do not improve in certainty with age, and so many little

19 Mr. Collier, in a note, quotes the following from the Editor
of the Egerton Papers, 1840: "Many of these presents deserve
notice, but especially one of the items, where it is stated that Sir
Thomas Lucy, against whom Shakespeare is said to have written
a ballad, sent a present of a ' buck.' Malone discredits the whole
story of the deer-stealing, because Sir Thomas Lucy had no park
at Charlecote : ' I conceive,' he says, « it will very readily be
granted that Sir Thomas Lucy could not lose that of which he
was never possessed.' We find, however, from what follows,
that he was possessed of deer, for he sent a present of a buck t«
Lord Ellesmere, in 1602."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEAUE.

improhable and inconsistent circumstances are added in
course of time, that to disprove these latter is often no dif-
ficult task. This has been the case in the present instance ;
and Mr. Knight is triumphant when he reaches the circum-
stantial statement of Ireland, who makes Fulbroke Park the
scene of the exploit, and goes so far as to give us a repre-
sentation of the keeper's lodge in which Shakespeare was
confined after his detection. According to Mr. Knight, FuV
broke Park did not come into the possession of the Lucy
family till the seventeenth century. This is, of course, a
final refutation of Ireland's account ; but it must be recol-
lected, no such testimony is produced against the fact that
Sir Thomas Lucy persecuted the Poet for stealing his deer.
Ill is is iii substance all that is here contended for ; and Mr.
Knight writes so evidently with a purpose, — for in no sin-
gle instance, on no strength of evidence, will he allow a
blemish in Shakespeare's moral character, even in venial
lapses which really do not lessen our respect for his memory-

— that it may perhaps be necessary to impress upon the
reader how biography loses nearly all its value, if we are not
permitted to exhibit social character as it actually existed,
and thus make it of a philosophical importance, by teaching
us in what substances ' finely touch'd ' spirits are suffered to
dwell."

We fully agree with this candid writer in not wishing to
make Shakespeare out any better than he was. Little as
we know about him, it is but too evident that he had many
frailties, and ran into divers faults, both as a poet and as a
man. And when we find him confessing, as in Sonnet ex.,

— " Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth askance and
strangely," — we may be sure that he was but too conscious
of things that needed to be forgiven, and that he was as far
as any one from wishing his faults to pass for virtues. Still
it should be borne in mind that deer-stealing was then a kind
of fashionable sport, and that, whatever might be its legal
character, it was not morally regarded as involving any

IXXXiv THE LIFE OK SHAKESPEARE.

criminality or disgrace. Proofs of this might easily he mul-
tiplied. Thus 1 )r. John Ilaynolds, who wrote hitterly against
plays in 1599, reckons deer-stealing in the same class of of-
fences with dancing about May-poles and robbing orchards.
And Fosbroke, in his History of Gloucestershire, gives an
anecdote, how several respectable persons of that county
attorneys and others, " all men of mettle, and good wood •
men, I mean old notorious deer-stealers, well-armed, came
in the night-time to Michaelwood, with deer-nets and dogs,
to steal deer."20 So that the whole thing may be justly
treated as nothing more than a youthful frolic, wherein there
might indeed be much indiscretion, and a deal of vexation
to the person robbed, but no stain on the party engage.:!
in it-
It is commonly supposed that the part of Justice Shallow
was framed more or less upon the model of Sir Thomas Lucy.
The passage from Danes, quoted in note 17 of this Chapter,
shows that such a notion was entertained as early as 1708.
The Sir Thomas Lucy of 1586 died in 1600. Granting him
to have been drawn upon somewhat for the features of the
portrait in question, still, perhaps, we are hardly wan-anted
in affirming that the part was intended as a particular satire
on Sir Thomas. Or at least, if this be not allowed, we must
in all fairness suppose The Merry Wives of Windsor to
have been written before 1600 ; it being altogether unlikely
that " my gentle Shakespeare," as he was proverbially called,

w Dr. Forman, in his Diary, already quoted, mentions a curous
instance of two Oxford students in 1573, — "The one of them was
Sir Thornbury, that after was bishope of Limerike, and he was of
Magdalen College, the other was Sir Pinckney his cossine of St.
Mary Halle ;" and then adds, — " Thes many tymes wold make
Simon to goo forth loo Loes. the keper of Shottofer, for his houndes
to goe on huntinge from morninge to nighte ; and they never
studied, nor gave themselves to their bockes. hut to goe to scolles
of defence, to the daunceing scolles, to stealle dear and connyet,
and to hunt the hare, and to woinge of wentches ; to goe to Doc-
tor Lawrence of Cowly, for he had two fair daughters, Hesse had
Martha/'

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. IxXXV

would have continued the satire after the object of it, had
undergone the consecrating touch of death. But the more
likely supposition appears to be, that he regarded Sir Thom-
as merely as one of a class, and then borrowed from him so
much as would serve the dramatic purpose of individualizing
that class. Such a course were more consonant to the laws
of art, as well as of charity, than to hold up a particular
person as a theme of ridicule to the play-going public. Old
Aubrey, as we have seen, tells us that " Ben Jonson and he
did gather humours of men daily, wherever they came."
Doubtless his quick and piercing observation caught up
many lines of humour and character from the actual men
and women that came under his eye : these were legitimate
material of his art ; and the working of them in, as they
would serve this end, should not be called personal satire.
Mr. Halliwell has shown that he sometimes adopted the
names of people within his knowledge. Bardolph, Fluellen,
Davy, Peto, Perkes, Partlett, Page, Ford, Herne, and Sly,
were all of them names of people living at Stratford in his
time.

The precise time of the Poet's leaving Stratford is not
known. From the position he held in 1589, Mr. Collier
thinks he must have joined the company before the end of
1 5 86. And certainly his pace must have been rapid indeed, to
have got on so far in a less space of time than this supposition
would give him. We have seen that his children, Hamnet
and Judith, were born in the early part of 1585. It was
made evident in our preceding Chapter, that from 1579 till
after 1586 his father was in pecuniary distress, and that this
distress kept growing upon him. At the latter date, he had
on his hands a family of five children. The prosecutions of
Sir Thomas Lucy, added to the increasing embarrassments
of Ids father, may very well have rendered him at this time
desirous of quitting Stratford ; and the meeting of inclina-
tion and opportunity, as we have traced them, in the ac-
quaintance of the players, may as well have determined him

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

where to go and what to do. There can be no doubt, that
the company which he joined were already in a course of
thrift ; the demand for their labours was constantly grow-
ing ; and nothing is more likely than that he may have
espied, in their connection, a hope of retrieving, as he soon
did retrieve, his father's fortune.

Of course, there can be little question that Shakespeare
held at first a subordinate rank in the company. DowdaJl,
writing in 1693, — the passage is quoted in note 14 of this
Chapter, — tells us he " was received into the play-house as
a servitor ; " which probably means no more than that he
started as an apprentice to some actor of standing in the
company, — a thing not unusual at the time.21 It will readily
be believed, that he could not long be in such a place, with-
out recommending himself to a higher one. As for the
well-known story cf his being reduced to the extremity of
" picking up a little money by taking care of the gentlemen's
horses, who came to the play," we cannot perceive the slight-
est likelihood of truth in it. The first that we hear of it is
in The Lives of the Poets, written by a Scotchman named
Shiels, and published under the name of Gibber, in 1753.
The story is there alleged to have passed through Rowe in
coming down to the writer's knowledge.82 If so, it would

41 Henslowe's manuscript register has a memorandum, how he
" hired as a covenauut servant Willyam Kendall for ii. years, afler
the statute of Winchester, with ii. single penc,and he to geve hym
for his sayd servis everi week of his playing in London x. *., and
in the countrie v. *. ; for the which he covenaunteth for the space
of those ii. yeares to be redye at all tymes to play in the howse
of the said Philip, and in no other, during the sayd terme."

w Shiels gives the following illustrious pedigree of the tale aa
it came to him : <•' I cannot forbear relating a story which Sir Wil-
liam Davenant told Mr. Betterton, who communicated it to Mr.
Rowe ; Rowe told it to Mr. Pope, and Mr. Pope told it to Dr.
Newton, the late editor of Milton, and from a gentleman who htard
it from him, 'tis here related. Concerning Shakespeare's first np-
pearauce in the play-house. When he came to London, he was
without money and friends, and, being a stranger, he knew not to

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. IxXXVll

appear that Howe must have discredited it, else, surely, he
would not have omitted so remarkable a passage. Be that
as it may, the station which the Poet's family had long held
in Stratford, the number and rank of his fellow-townsmen in
the company, and the place himself held in 1589, all bear
witness against it as an arrant fiction. Shiels served as an
amanuensis to Dr. Johnson, who gave an improved version
of the tale ; which version we subjoin :

" In the time of Elizabeth, coaches being yet uncommon
and hired coaches not at all in use, those who were too proud,
too tender, or too idle to walk, went on horseback to any
distant business or diversion. Many came on horseback to
the play ; and when Shakespeare fled to London from the
terror of a criminal prosecution, his first expedient was to
wait at the door of the play-house, and hold the horses of
those that had no servants, that they might be ready again
after the performance. In this office he became so conspic-
uous for his care and readiness, that hi a short time every man,
as he alighted, called for Will Shakespeare, and scarcely any
other waiter was trusted with a horse while Will Shakespeare
could be had. This was the first dawn of better fortune.
Shakespeare, finding more horses put into his hand than he
could hold, hired boys to wait under his inspection, who,
when Will Shakespeare was summoned, were immediately
to present themselves, — ' I am Shakespeare's boy, Sir.' In
time, Shakespeare found higher employment; but as long
as the practice of riding to the play-house continued, the
waiters that held the horses retained the appellation of
Shakespeare's boys."

whom to apply, nor by what means to support himself. At that
time, coaches not being in use, and as gentlemen were accustomed
to ride to the play-house, Shakespear, driven to the last necessity,
went to the play-house door, and pick'd up a little money by taking
care of the gentlemen's horses who came to the play."

IxXXVlli THE LIVE OF SHAKESPEARE

CHAPTER III.

FROM THE EARLIEST NOTICE OF SHAKESPEARE JJU
LONDON TILL HIS PURCHASE OP NEW PLACE.

THE first London play-house dates from 1576, in which
year James Burbage and his fellows opened the Blackfriars
theatre, so named from a monasteiy that had formerly stood
on or near the same ground. Hitherto the several bands
of players had made use of churches, halls, temporary erec-
tions in the streets or the inn-yards, stages being set up, and
the spectators standing below, or occupying galleries about
the open space. In 1577, two other play-houses were in
operation, called The Curtain and The Theatre. The next
year, a puritanical preacher named Stockwood published a
sermon, in which he alleged that there were " eight ordinary
places " in and near London for dramatic performances, the
united profits of which were not less than £2000 a year.
About the same time, another preacher named White, equal-
ly set against the stage, described the play-houses then in
operation as " sumptuous theatres." As to the number of
actors performing in and about the metropolis, a man call-
ing himself " a soldier " wrote to Walsingham in January,
1586, telling him that " every day in the week the players
bills are set up in sundry places of the city," and that not
leas than two hundred persons, thus retained and employed,
strutted in their silks about the streets.

The Blackfriars and some of the others were without the
limits of the corporation, in what were called " the liber-
ties." The Mayor and Aldermen of London were from the
first decidedly hostile to all such establishments, and did
their best to exclude them from the city and liberties ; but
the Court and many of the chief nobility favoured them.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. IxX.VIX

Many complaints were alleged against them, man) efforts
made to restrain and obstruct them ; for which, no doubt.,
the}' gave but too much occasion, by venting satire and buf-
foonery in " matters of state and religion : " and, from the
special part the Puritans had taken against them, it was nat-
ural that they should in turn give the Puritans special prov.
ocation.

We have seen that the company of Burbage and his fel-
lows, known as the Earl of Leicester's players, held at this
time the privileges of a patent under the great seal. In
1587, they took the title of " the Lord Chamberlain's Ser-
vants." It appears that in 1589 their interests were some-
how threatened, or they thought them threatened, on account
of offences done by other companies ; two others, those of
the Lord Admiral and the Lord Strange, having been sum-
moned before the Lord Mayor, and ordered to desist from
all performances. Accordingly, in November of that year,
they sent to the Privy Council a certificate of their good
conduct, in which sixteen persons by name, styling them-
selves " her Majesty's poor players," and " sharers in the
Blackfriars playhouse," allege that they " have never given
cause of displeasure, in that they have brought into their
plays matters of state and religion, unfit to be handled by
them, or to be presented before lewd spectators ; neither
hath any complaint in that kind ever been preferred against
them, or any of them." This remarkable document passed
bto the hands of Lord Ellesmere, then attorney-general,
and was lately discovered among his papers, by Mr. Ccllier.1

1 We subjoin the paper in full : " These are to certifie your
right Honorable Lordships, that her Majesties poore Playeres,
James Burbadge, Richard Burbadge, John Laneham, Thomaj
Greene. Robert Wilson, John Taylor, Anth. Wadeson, Thomas
Pope, George Peele, Augustine Phillipps, Nicholas Towley, Wil
liam Shakespeare, William Kempe, William Johnson, Baptiste
Goodale, and Robert Armyn, being all of them sharers in the
Blacke Fryers playehouse, have never given cause of displeasure,
in that they have brought into their playes maters of state and
Religion, uufitt to be handled by them, or to be presented before

XC THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

The Burbage establishment seems to have been conducted
on rather liberal, not to say democratic, principles ; all who
were of any note connected with it being admitted as joint
sharers in the profits. In this list of sixteen sharers, the
name of William Shakespeare stands the twelfth ; and
among them are four others, the two Burbages, Greene, and
Tooley, who were from the same county with him. It is
net to be supposed that this list includes all who belonged
in any way to the concern, but only such as held the rank cf
sharers : others, no doubt, who played inferior parts, were
retained as hired men or apprentices, such as Snakespeare
had probably been at his first entrance among them.

At the date of this certificate, the Poet was in his twenty-
sixth year, and had probably been in the theatre not far from
three years. Whether at this time he recommended him-
self to advancemen* more by his acting or his writing, is a
question about which we can only speculate. In tragic parts,
none of them could shine beside the younger Burbage ; while
Greene, and still more Kempe, another of the sharers, left
small chance of distinction in comic parts. Aubrey tells us
that Shakespeare " was a handsome, well-shap'd man ; "
which is no slight matter on the stage ; and adds, — " He
did act exceedingly well." Howe " could never meet with
any further account of him this way, than that the top of his
performnure was the Ghost in his own Hamlet." But this
part, to be fairly dealt with, requires an actor of no ordinary
powers ; and, as Burbage is known to have played the Prince,
we may presume that "the buried majesty of Denmark"
would not be cast upon very inferior hands. Campbell the
poet justly observes of the Ghost, that " though its move-

lewde spectators ; neither hath anie complaynte in that kinde evei
bene preferrde against them, or anie of them. Wherefore, they
trust most humhlie in your Lordships consideration of their form«
good behaviour, being at all tymes readie and willing to yeeide
obedience to any command whatsoever your Lordships in your
wisdome may thinke in such case meete, &c.
"Nov. 1589."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. XCI

merits a?e few, they must be awfully graceful ; and the spec-
tral voice, though subdued and half-monotonous, must be
solemn and full of feeling. It gives us an imposing idea of
Shakespeare's stature and mien, to conceive him in this part."
That he was master of the theory of acting, and could tell,
none better, how the thing ought to be done, is evident
enough from Hamlet's instructions to the players. But it
nowise follows, that he could perform liis own instructions.
Though it is travelling somewhat out of the calendar, we
may as well finish this subject here. There is strong reason
for believing that the Poet figured a good deal in images of
royalty. Davies, in his Scourge of Folly, 16 1 1, has the fol-
lowing :

"To OUR ENGLISH TERENCE, MR. WILL. SHAKESPEARE.

" Some say, good Will, which I in sport do sing,
Hadst thou not play'd some kingly parts in sport,
Thou hadst been a companion for a king,
And been a king among the meaner sort."

This is as good authority as need be asked, as to the line of
characters in which the Poet was known. And there is a
tradition, that Queen Elizabeth was in the theatre one even-
ing when he was playing the part of a king ; and in crossing
the stage she moved politely to him without the honour be-
ing duly recognised. With a view to ascertain whether the
omission were accidental, or whether he were resolved not to
lose for an instant the character he sustained, she then passed
the stage again near him, and dropped her glove, which he
Lmmsliately took up and added to a speech just then finished
these lines, " so aptly delivered, that they seemed to belong
to it," —

" And though now bent on this high embassy,
Yet stoop we to take up our cousin's glove."

He then retired from the stage, and presented the glore to
her Majesty, who was greatly pleased with his conduct, and
Complimented him upon it.

XCU THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

We do not hold the story to be worth much ; but it may
be taken with other things as indicating that the Poet was
somewhat celebrated in connection with the royalties of the
stage, at a time when something dignified and handsome, not
to say noble and majestic, was required in such parts by pub-
lic sentiment. Oldys relates another story which, if it may
be credited, infers him to have sustained the part of the
" good old man," Adam, in As You Like It.4 But his his-
trionic career, even had he been another Burbage, were bat
a trifle in comparison with what he did as a dramatist, and
is here dwelt upon merely because it seemed necessary to
say something about it.

Among his fellow-sharers in 1589 is found the name of
George Peele, who was considerably his senior in years, and
was already a practised and popular play-wright. Peele was

* Capell says, in 1779, that this "traditional story was current
some years ago about Stratford." Oldys gives it as follows .
"One of Shakespeare's younger brothers, who lived to a good old
age, even some years, as I compute, after the restoration of King
Charles II., would in his younger days come to London to visit
his brother Will, as he called him, and be a spectator of him as ail
actor in one of his own plays. This custom, as his brother's fame
enlarged, and his dramatick entertainments grew the .greatest sup-
port of our principal if not of all our theatres, he continued, it
seems, so long after his brother's death as even to the latter end
of his own life. The curiosity at this time of the most noted act-
ors to learn something from him of his brother, made them greedily
inquisitive into every little circumstance, more especially in Ills
dramatick character, which he could relate of him. But he, it
seems, was so stricken in years, and possibly his memory so
weakened by infirmities, that he could give them but little light
into their enquiries ; and all that could be recollected from him of
his brother Will in that station, was the faint, general, and almost
lost ideas he had of having once seen him act a part in one of his
own comedies ; wherein, being to personate a decrepit old man,
he wore a long beard, and appeared so weak and drooping, and
unable to walk, that he was forced to be supported and carried by
another person to a table, at which he was seated among some
company who were eating, and one of them sung a song." This
story, if there be any truth in it, must refer to the Poet's brother
Gilbert, his other two brothers, Richard and Edmund, having died
long before.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. XC1U

an university man and a Master of Arts, and had doubtless
won his position mainly as a writer. He seems to have with-
drawn from the company in 1590, as, after that date, he is
found no more among them, but is met with in other con-
nections. It is nowise unlikely that by this time another
hand may have lessened the value of his services, or that he
may have taken some disgust at the unlearned rivalry which
threatened his pre-eminence.

There can, we think, be no reasonable doubt, that before
the end of 1590 Shakespeare was well started in his dra-
matic career, and that the effect of his cunning labours war
beginning to be felt by his senior fellows in that line : that
such was the case soon afterwards, is certain, as we shall
presently see. It has been but too common to regard him
and speak of him as a miracle of spontaneous genius, who
did his best things without knowing how or why ; that his
strength did not grow with the ripening of judgment, and
with " years that bring the philosophic mind ; " and that,
consequently, he was nowise indebted to time and experience
for the wonderful reach and power which his writings display.
This is an " old fond paradox," which seems to have origi-
nated with those who could not conceive how, save by a mir-
acle of genius, any man could become learned without scho-
lastic advantages ; forgetting, apparently, that several things,
if not more, may be learned in the school of nature, pro-
vided one have an eye to read her " open secrets " without
" the spectacles of books."

This notion has vitiated a great deal of Shakespearian
criticism. Howe evidently had something of it. " Perhaps,"
says he, " we are not to look for his beginnings, like those
of other authors, among his least perfect writings : art had
so little, and nature so large a share in what he did, that, for
aught I know, the performances of his youth, as they were
the most vigorous, and had the most fire and strength of
imagination in them, were the best." We think most de-
cidedly otherwise ; and have grounds for doing so which

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Rowe had not, in what has since been done towards ascer-
taining the chronology of the Poet's plays. At all events,
several of them, by external and internal marks, were evi-
dently the work of his " prentice hand ; " and his course can,
we think, be traced with tolerable clearness and certainty, as
he grew from the apprentice into the master. The plays
^vhich we reckon to this his first period are Titus Andronicus,
the first draught of Pericles, The Comedy of Errors, The
Two Gentlemen of Verona, and Love's Labour's Lost in its
original form. Our reasons for so doing are given at length
in our several Introductions to those plays, and therefore
need not be dwelt upon here.

Thus much, however, may be stated here : In these plays,
as might be expected from one who was modest and wished
to learn, we have much of imitation as distinguished from
character, though of imitation surpassing its models. Anl
it seems to us that no fair view can be had of his mind, no
justice done to his art, but by carefully discriminating in his
work what grew from imitation, and what from character.
For he evidently wrote very much like others of his time,
before he learned to write like himself; that is, it was some
time before he found, by practice and experience, his own
strength ; and, meanwhile, he naturally relied more or less
on the strength of custom and example. Nor was it till he
had surpassed others in their way, that he hit upon that more
excellent way in which none could walk but he. And this
was more the case in tragedy than comedy, forasmuch as
tragedy is a more artificial thing than comedy, and the ele-
ments of it lie more out of the walks of common life and
observation. For a further consideration of this subject, if
he care to take it, the reader may be referred to our Intro-
ductions to The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Titus Andronicus,
and the Venus and Adonis.

The discovery of the players' certificate to the Privy Coun-
cil hi 1589 goes far to remove any improbability as to Shake-
§peare's being the " pleasant Willy " of Sponsor's Tears of

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. XCT

the Muses ; this having been formerly doubted on the ground
that the Poet could not have earned such a notice so early
as 1591, in which year The Tears of the Muses was first
printed. In that poem, Spenser introduces Thalia, the Com-
ic Muse, lamenting the condition of the stage :

" Where be the sweet delights of learning's treasure,
That wont with comic sock to beautify
The painted theatres, and fill with pleasure
The listeners' eyes, and ears with melody ;
In which I late was wont to reign as Queen,
And mask in mirth with Graces well beseen?"

Then, after bemoaning the reign of " ugly Barbarism and
brutish Ignorance, ycrept of late out of dread darkness," she
continues thus :

" All places they with folly have possess'd,
And with vain toys the vulgar entertain ;
But me have banished, with all the rest
That whilom wont to wait upon my train,
Fine Counterfeisance and unhurt Ail Sport,
Delight and Laughter, deck'd in seemly sort.

" And he, the man whom Nature's self had made,
To mock herself, and Truth to imitate,
With kindly counter under mimic shade,
Our pleasant Willy, ah ! is dead of late ,
With whom all joy and jolly merriment
Is also deaded, and in dolour dreiit

" Instead thereof, scoffing scurrility,
And scornful Folly, with Contempt, is crept,
Rolling in rhymes of shameless ribaud/y,
Without regard or due decorum kept;
Each idle wit at will presumes to make,
And doth the Learued's task upon him take.

" But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen
Large streams of honey and sweet nectar Jloio,
Scorning the boldness of such base-born men,
Which dare their follies forth so rashly throw,
Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell,
Than so himself to mockery to sell."

The probability is, that this poem was written in 1590, or.
at the earliest, in 1589. At that period, the Martin Mar-

ICV1 THE MFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

prelate controversy was raging fiercely, and the town was all
agog with it. Walton, in his Life of Hooker, thus spe;xka
of it " There was not only one Martin Marprelate, but
other venomous Irooks daily printed and dispersed ; books
that were so absurd and scurrilous, that the graver divines
disdained them an answer. And yet these were grown into
high esteem with the common people, till Tom Nash ap-
peared against them all ; who was a man of a sharp wit, and
the master of a scoffing, satirical, merry pen." In 1589, the
dispute was brought upon several of the London stages, with
all the fierce ribaldries and buffooneries that such " scoffing,
satirical, merry pens " could dress it in, to the great delight
of the rude rabble, and to the disgust of men of taste and
sobriety. We have already seen that two companies were
that year interdicted from playing ; and it was the theatrical
use or abuse of th's dispute, that drew upon them that meas-
ure. The acting choir-boys of St. Paul's also fell under a
similar order that year, and for the same cause. Finally,
this prostitution of the stage to the ends of polemical ran-
cour and strife is what the Blackfriars company allude to,
when, in their remonstrance, — for such it really is, — they
allege that they " have never brought into their plays mat'
ters of state and religion."

With Tom Nash was associated, in this controversy, John
Lyly the Euphuist. One or both of them wrote the tract
called Pap with a Hatchet, a very remarkable specimen of
what was produced on the occasion. Lyly, writing, appar-
ently, soon after the above-mentioned interdict, and referring
to Martin Marprelate, says, — " Would those comedies might
be allowed to be play'd, that are penned, and then I am sure
he would be deciphered, and so perhaps discouraged." And
Gabriel Harvey, in a pamphlet dated November 5, 1589, has
the following : " I am threatened with a bauble, and Martin
menaced with a comedy ; a fit motion for a jester and a play-
er to try what may be done by employment of his faculty.
Baubles and comedies are parlous fellows to decipher and di»

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. XCV11

rjurage men (that is the point) with their witty flouts ana
learned jerks, enough to lash any man out of countenance.
Nay, if you shake the painted scabbard at me, I have done ;
and all you that tender the preservation of your good names
were best please Pap-Hatchet, and fee Euphues betimes, for
fear lest he be movid, or some one of his apes hired, to
make a play of you, and then is your credit quite undone
for ever and ever. Such is the public reputation of their
plays. He must needs be discouraged, whom they decipher.
Better anger an hundred other, than two such that have the
stage at commandment, and can furnish out Vices and Devils
at their pleasure."

Spenser was an intimate friend of Harvey ; and there can-
not be a doubt, that these invasions of the stage by coarse
vulgar lampoon and slang are alluded to in the " scoffing
Scurrility and scornful Folly," and the " ugly Barbarism and
brutish Ignorance," of which he makes Thalia complain ; and
when she speaks of these as having " crept of late out of
dread darkness," there needs no stronger argument for re-
ferring the poem to the date in question. It can scarce be
needful to remark, that the meaning of " is dead of late,"
in the stanzas quoted, is explained by what comes afterwards,
— " Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell." But men, a few
excepted, will always run away from poetry to hear personal
or party slang. This abuse of the stage was popular ; the
public were infatuated with it ; and the legitimate endeavours
of art could for a while stand no chance in competition with
it. It is not unlikely that the Blackfriars company, in spite
of their remonstrance, suffered some interruption of their
course, on account of the sins of others. At all events,
nothing was more natural than that Shakespeare, instead of
either running with the stream of popular infatuation or try-
ing to stem it, should choose rather to retire, and let the
madness take its course, waiting for a more auspicious day.

Malone was very tenacious, that the lines we have quoted
from Spenser referred to Lyly. Besides the gross improb-

XCVMl THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

ability of such a reference in itself, Lyly, as we have seen,
was concerned in that very prostitution of the stage which
Spenser deplores. On the other hand, Mr. Halliwell, fol-
lowing Mr. Todd, inclines to think that the poem was writ-
ten in 1580, and that the lines in question were meant fof
Sir Philip Sidney, who was sometimes called Willy. 13 it;
at that time, so far as is known, there had been no occasion
given for such complaints. And before Thalia had ai.y good
cause thus to lament, Sir Philip was really dead ; whereas
the lines clearly suppose that " our pleasant Willy " was not
really dead. But, indeed, Shakespeare was the only dram-
atist of that time, to whom such language as " the man whom
Nature's self had made, to mock herself, and Truth to imi-
tate " could with any show of fitness be applied. On the
other hand, there was no man of that age more likely than
Spenser to describe the Poet in terms than which none fitter
have ever been used about him. And he appears to have
had the " same gentle spirit " in his eye, when he wrote the
lines in " Colin Clout's Come Home again," 1594, the last
referring, of course, to Shakespeare's name :

' And there, though last not least, is yKtion ;
A gentler shepherd may nowhere he found,
Whose Muse, full of high thought's invention,
Doth, like himself, heroically sound."

But, whatever doubts may attach to Spenser's meaning,
there can be none as to that winch we shall next produce.
One of the most popular and most profligate dramatists of
the time, was Robert Greene. On the 3d of September,
1592, having been reduced to beggary, and forsaken by his
companions, he died miserably at the house of a poor shoe-
maker near Dowgate. Not long after, his " Groatsworth of
Wit bought with a Million of Repentance " was given to the
public by Henry Chettle. Near the close of this tract
Greene makes an address " to those Gentlemen his quon-
dam acquaintance, that spend then- wits in making plays,"
exhorting them to desist from such pursuits. The first of

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPF.ARE. KCIX

these 'gentlemen" was Marlowe, distinguished alike for
poetry, profligacy, and profanity ; the other two were Lodge
and Pecle. We subjoin so much of the address as is need-
ful for a full understanding of the point in hand :

" If woeful experience may move you, gentlemen, to be-
ware, or unheard-of wretchedness intreat you to take heed,
I doubt not but you will look back with sorrow on your time
past, and endeavour with repentance to spend that which a
to come. Wonder not, (for with thee will I first begin,) thou
famous gracer of tragedians, that Greene, who hath said with
thee like the fool in his heart, There is no God, should now
give glory unto His greatness ; for penetrating is His power,
His hand lies heavy upon me, He hath spoken unto me with
a voice of thunder, and I have felt He is a God that can pun-
ish enemies. Why should thy excellent wit, His gift, be so
blinded that thou shouldest give no glory to the Giver ? Is
it pestilent Machiavellian policy that thou hast studied ? O,
peevish folly ! What are his rules but mere confused mock-
eries, able to extirpate in small time the generation of man-
kind ? . . . Look unto me, by him persuaded to that
liberty, and thou shalt find it an infernal bondage. I know,
the least of my demerits merit this miserable death ; but
wilful striving against known truth exceedeth all the terrors
of my soul. Defer not, with me, till this last point of ex-
tremity ; for little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt
be visited.3

* That Greene's exhortation had no effect on Marlowe, is but
too certain. Greene had not been a year in the grave, when Mar-
lowe perished by a violent death in ihe very prime of manhood.
This catastrophe occurred at Deptford, where in the burial-register
of the parish-church of St. Nicholas may still be read the entry,
"Christopher Marlowe, slaine by Francis Archer, the 1 of June,
1593." — In Beard's Theatre of God's Judgments, 1597, we have
the following account : " Not inferior to any of the former in ath«-
isme acd impietie, and equal to al in maner of punishment, was
one of our own nation, of fresh and late memorie, called Mnrlow,
by profession a scholler, brought up from his youth in the Univer
silie of Cambridge, but by practise a play-maker ar,d a poet nl

C THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

" With thee I join young Juvenal, that biting satirist, thai
lately with me together -writ a comedy, bweet boy, might
I advise thee, be advised, and get not many enemies by bit-
ter words : inveigh against vain men, for thou canst do it, no
man better, no man so well; thou hast a liberty to reprove
all and name none ; for, one being spoken to, all are offend-
ed, — none being blamed, no man is injured.4 . . .

" And thou, no less deserving than the other two, in some
tnings rarer, in nothing inferior, driven, as myself, to extreme
shifts, a little have I to say to thee; and, were it not an
idolatrous oath, I would swear by sweet St. George, thou
art unworthy of better hap, sith thou dependest on so mean
a stay. Base-minded men, all three of you, if by my misery
ye be not warned : for unto none of you, like me, sought
those burrs to cleave ; those puppets, I mean, that speak
from our mouths, those antics garnish'd in our colours. Is
it not strange that I, to whom they all have been beholding,
is it not like that you, to whom they all have been behold-
ing, shall, were ye in that case that I am now, be both of
them at once forsaken ? Yes, trust them not ; for there is
an upstart crow beautified with our feathers, that, with his
tiger's heart wrapped in a player's hide, supposes he is as
well able to bombast out a blank-verse as the best of you ;
and, being an absolute Johannes Fac-totum, is in his own

scurrilitie, who by giving too large a swing to his owne wit, and
suffering his lust to have the full reins, fell (not without just desert)
to that outrage and extremitie, that hee denied God and his sonne
Christ, and not onely in word blasphemed the Trinitie. but also (as
it is credibly reported) wrote books against it, affirming our Sa-
viour to be but a deceiver, and Moses to be but a conjurer and
seducer of the people, and the holy Bible to bee but vaine and
idle stories, and all religion but a device of policie. But see what
a hooke the Lord put in the nostrils of this barking dogge.'' —
DTCE.

4 Lodge's talent as a satirist may be seen in his Fig for Mo-
mus, 1595. The "comedy" which he composed in conjunction
with Greece, is A Looking Glasse for London and England. — •
Dici.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. C1

wmccit the only Shake-scene in a country. O, that I might
intreat your rare wits to be employed in more profitable
courses, and let these apes imitate your past excellence, and
never more acquaint them with your admired inventions ! 1
know the best husband of you all will never prove an usurer,
and the kindest of them all will never prove a kind nurse :
yet, whilst you may, seek better masters ; for it is pity such
rare wits should be subject to the pleasure of such rud*
grooms.

" In this 1 might insert two more that both have writ
against these buckram gentlemen ; but let . their own work
serve to witness against their own wickedness, if they per-
severe to maintain any more such peasants. For other new-
comers, I leave them to the mercy of these painted monsters,
who, I doubt not, will drive the best-minded to despise
them : for the rest, it skills not, though they make a jest at
them."

Here we have pretty conclusive evidence as to the position
Shakespeare held in 1592. Though sneered at as a player,
it is plain that he was already throwing the other play-
makers of the time into the shade, and making their labours
cheap. Blank-verse was Marlowe's special forte ; he was
the first to introduce it on the public stage ; and his dramas
show great skill in the use of it : but here was an " upstart "
frnni the country, a " peasant," that was able to rival him
in his own line. Moreover, he was a Do-all, a " Johannes
Fac-totum," that could turn his hand to any thing ; and his
readiness to undertake what none others could do so well,
naturally drew upon him the charge of conceit from those
who envied his rising, and whose lustre was growing dim in
his light. As for the insinuation of being " beautified with
our feathers," the probable grounds of it are discussed suf-
ficiently in our Introductions to The Taming of the Shrew
and the First and Second Parts of King Henry VI., to which
the reader is referred. We have little doubt that these three
playH, as also the Tlurd Pail of King Henry VI., and the

Cl'l THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

original sketch of Romeo and Juliet, were written before
the death of Greene. Our reasons for this are also stated
in the Introductions to those plays.

It appears that both Shakespeare and Marlowe were of-
fended, as they had cause to be, at the liberties Greene had
taken with them ; for, not long after, Chettle published a
tract entitled Kind-Heart's Dream, in which he made a
handsome apology to Shakespeare, as follows :

"About three months since died Mr. Robert Greene,
leaving many papers in sundry booksellers' hands : among
others, his Groatsworth of Wit, in which a letter, written to
divers play-makers, is offensively by one or two of them
taken ; and, because on the dead they cannot be avenged,
they wilfully forge in their conceits a living author ; and, af-
ter tossing it to and fro, no remedy but it must light on me.
How I have, all the time of my conversing in printing, hin-
dered the bitter inveighing against scholars, it hath been
very well known ; and how in that I dealt, I can sufficiently
prove. With neither of them that take offence was I ac-
quainted ; and with one of them I care not if I never be :
the other, whom at that time I did not so much spare, as
Bince I wish I had, — for that, as I have moderated the heat
of living writers, and might have used my own discretion,
(especially in such a case,) the author being dead, — that I
did not, I am as sorry as if the original fault had been my
fault : because myself have seen his demeanour no less civil,
than he excellent in the quality he professes ; besides, divers
of worship have reported his uprightness of dealing, which
argues his honesty, and his facetious grace in writing, that
approves his art. For the first, whose learning I reverence,
and, at the perusing of Greene's book, struck out what then
in conscience I thought he in some displeasure writ, or, had
it been true, yet to publish it was intolerable, him I would
wish to use me no worse than I deserve. I had only in the
copy this share: It was ill written, as sometime Greene's
hand was none of the best : licenced it must be, ere it could

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Clll

Se printed ; which could never be, if it might not he read.
To be brief, I writ it over, and, as near as I could, followed
the copj ; only in that letter I put something out, but in the
whole book not a word in ; for I protest it was all Greene's,
not mine, nor Master Nash's, as some have unjustly af-
firmed."*

It is evident enough from this, that Shakespeare was al-
ready beginning to attract liberal notice from that circle of
brave and accomplished gentlemen which adorned the state
of Elizabeth. Among the " divers of worship " referred tc
by Chettle, first and foremost, doubtless, stood the high-
souled, the generous Southampton, then in his twentieth
year. Henry Wriothesley the third Earl of Southampton
was but eight years old when his father died : the South-
ampton estates were large ; during the young Earl's minori-
ty, his interests were in good hands, and the revenues accu-
mulated ; so that on coming of age he had means answer-
able to his dispositions. Moreover, he was a young man
of good parts, of studious habits, of cultivated tastes, and.

6 That it should have been attributed to Nash seems strange
enough : but we have his own testimony, in addition to Chettle's,
that such was the ease. " Other newes," he says, " I am adver
tised of, that a scald, trivial!, lying pamphlet, cald Greens
Groats-worth of Wit, is given out to be of my doing. God
never have care of my soule, but utterly renounce me, if the least
word or sillible in it proceeded from my pen, or if I were any way
privie to the writing or printing of it." — " Possibly," observes Mr.
Collier, " one of the ' lying' portions of it, in the opinion of Nash,
was that in which the attack was made on Shakespeare/' — a re-
mark which somewhat surprises me. Nothing can be plainer than
that Greene wrole the passage in question with a perfect knowl-
edge that those whom he addressed, viz., Marlowe, Lodge, and
Peele, were no less jealous of the "Shake-scene" than himself;
and that they would relish the sneering allusion to one who had
given evidence of possessing a dramatic power which in its full
development might reduce the whole band of earlier play-wrighla
to comparative insignificance. There is, therefore, no likelihood
that Nash, the companion of Greene, Marlowe, Lodge, and Peele,
— and he too a writer for the stage, — would have beheld the
bright dawn of Shakespeare's genius with feelings more liber i!
than theirs. — DTCE.

Civ THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

withal, of a highly chivalrous and romantic spirit; to all
which he added the still nobler title to honour, that he wai
the early and munificent patron of Shakespeare. In 1593,
the Poet published lu's Venus and Adonis, with a modest and
manly dedication to this nobleman, very different from the
usual high-flown style of literary adulation then in vogue ;
telling him, — "If your Honour seem but pleased, I account
myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle
hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour."
In the dedication, he calls the poem " the first heir of my
invention : " whether he dated its birth from the writing or
the publishing, does not appear : probably it had been writ-
ten some time ; possibly, before he left Stratford. This was
followed, the next year, by his Lucrece, dedicated to the
same nobleman in a strain of more open and assured friend-
ship : " The warrant I have of your honourable disposition,
not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of
acceptance. What I have done is yours, what I have to do
is yours." Of these poems enough is said in our Introduc-
tions to them ; so that their merits need not be canvassed
here.

It was probably about this time, perhaps in the interval
of these two publications, that Shakespeare had that expe-
rience of the Earl's bounty, which is recorded by Rowe :
" There is one instance so singular in the munificence of this
patron of Shakespeare's, that if I had not been assured that
the story was handed down by Sir William Davenant, who
was probably well acquainted with his affairs, I should not
have ventured to have inserted, that my Lord Southamp-
ton at one time gave him a thousand pounds, to enable him
to go through with a purchase which he heard he had a
mind to." Rowe might well scruple the story of so large a
gift ; but the fact of his scruples being overruled shows that
he had strong grounds for the statement. Possibly enough
the amount may have been exaggerated : but all that we
know of the Earl assures us that he could not but wish to

THE LIFE OF SHAKF.SPEARE Cf

make a handsome return for the Venus and Adonis, and that
whatsoever of the kind he did was bound to be " something
rich and rare ; " and it was but of a pioce with his nobleness
of character, that he should feel more the honour he was
receiving than that he was conferring by such an act of gen-
erosity. Might not this be what the Poet meant by " the
warrant I have of your honourable disposition ? " Mr. Col-
lier credits the whole amount. There needs no doubt on
the score either of the Earl's disposition or his ability : the
only question has reference to the Poet's occasions. These
Mr. Collier thinks he has found in what will now be related.

On the 22d of December, 1593, Richard Burbage, who,
his father having died or retired, was then the leader of the
Blackfriars company, signed a bond to a builder named Pe-
ter Street for the building of the Globe theatre. The work
was in progress, most likely, through the following year.
The Blackfriars was not large enough for the company's pur-
pose, but was entirely covered in, and furnished suitably for
winter use. The Globe, made larger, and designed for use
in summer, was a round wooden building, open to the sky,
with the stage protected by an overhanging roof. Consider-
ing, then, the warm interest Southampton is known to have
taken in all matters touching the stage, together with the
strong personal motives which he had in the case of Shake-
speare, it is by no means impossible that he may have be-
stowed even as large a sum as £1000, to enable him to fur-
nish his share of money towards building the new theatre.

The Globe was probably opened in the spring of 1595
though we have no notice of the fact. No sooner was this
enterprise carried through, than the company set on foot a
design of repairing and enlarging their old establishment.
Some of the people residing thereabouts not only opposed
them in this design, but undertook to oust them altogether
from that part of the town. To offset their remonstrance
in this behalf, the comi)any, early in 1596, sent in the fol-
lowing:

CV1 THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARK.

" To THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORDS OF JIKR MAJES-
TY'S MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL.

" The humble petition of Thomas Pope, Richard Burbage
John Heminge, Augustine Phillips, William Shakespeare,
William Kempe, William Slye, Nicholas Tooley, and othew,
servants to the Right Honourable the Lord Chamberlain to
her Majesty.

" Sheweth most humbly, that your petitioners are owners
and players of the private house, or theatre, in the precinct
and liberty of the Blackfriars, which hath been for many
years used and occupied for the playing of tragedies, comedies,
histories, interludes, and plays. That the same, by reason
of its having been so long built, hath fallen into great decay ;
and that, besides the reparation thereof, it has been found
necessary to make the same more convenient for the enter-
tainment of auditories coming thereunto. That to this end
your petitioners have all and each of them put down sums
of money, according to their shares in the said theatre, and
which they have justly and honestly gained by the exercise
of their quality of stage-players ; but that certain persons,
(some of them of honour,) inhabitants of the said precinct
and liberty of Blackfriars, have, as your petitioners are in-
formed, besought your honourable lordships not to permit
the said private house any longer to remain open, but here-
after to be shut up and closed, to the manifest and great in-
jury of your petitioners, who have no other means whereby
to maintain their wives and families, but by the exercise of
their quality, as they have heretofore done. Furthermore,
that « the summer season your petitioners are able to play
at their new-built house on the Bankside call'd the Globe,
but that in the winter they are compelled to come to the
Blackfriars ; and, if your honourable lordships give consent
unto that which is pray'd against your petitioners, they will
not only, while the winter endures, lose the means whereby
they now support themselves and their families, but he un-

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CVli

Able to practise themselves in any plays or interludes, when
call'd upon to perform for the recreation and solace of her
Majesty and her honourable Court, as they have been here-
tofore accustomed.

" The humble prayer of your petitioners therefore is, that
your honourable lordships will grant permission to finish
the reparations and alterations they have begun ; and, as
your petitioners have hitherto been well order'd in their be-
haviour, and just in their dealings, that your honourable
lordships will not inhibit them from acting at their above-
nam'd private house in the precinct and liberty of Black-
friars ; and your petitioners, as in duty most bounden, will
ever pray for the increasing honour and happiness of your
honourable lordships."

The issue of the thing is ascertained by a note written
from the Office of the Revels on the 3d of May, 1596, to
Henslowe, and found among his papers preserved at Dul-
wich College. It appears by this note, that the Master of
the Revels received from the Privy Council an order " that
the Lord Chamberlain's servants should not be disturbed at
the Blackfriars ; " and that " leave should be given unto
them to make good the decay of the said house, but not to
make the same larger than in former time hath been."

In 1589, we found Shakespeare the twelfth in a list of
sixteen sharers of the Blackfriars : now he is found the fifth
among eight persons, who style themselves "oumers and
players" of the same theatre, and allege that they "have
put down sums of money, according to their shares in the
said theatre." Owner and sharer were different, the one
having reference to the property, the other only to the prof-
its, of the establishment. The practical talent and rectitude
of the Poet are well shown by his having reached such a
business position in a period of not more than ten years.

We learn, also, from this petition that the company at
that date had been " accustomed to perform for the recrea-
tion and solace of her Majesty and her honourable Court.*

CVlii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

It would l>c curious to know at what time ami by what play
Shakespeare made his first conquest of Queen Elizabeth,
It is tolerably clear that before the spring of 1596 he had
written Richard ITT., King John, Richard IL, and A Mid-
summer-Night's Dream. There is also reason for thinking
that the original Hamlet and The Merchant of Venice were
then in being ; for it appears that in the summer of 1594
the companies of the Lord Chamberlain and the Lord Ad-
miral had joint possession of a theatre in Newington Butts ;
and among the plays acted there, are found notices of a
" Hamlet " and a " Venetian Comedy." These notices are
from Henslowe's Diary, who was often ludicrously inexact in
his entries of names. So that Malone might very well con-
jecture, as he did, that the Venetian Comedy was our Poet's
Merchant of Venice ; and it seems nowise unlikely that his
first form of Hamlet may have been written before that date
We have little doubt, also, that All's Well that Ends Well
as originally written, was in being by the time in question.
So that probably the first four of these plays at least, and
perhaps all the seven, had then been performed for " the
recreation and solace of her Majesty." At all events, there
can be no question that both her taste and her vanity were
at an early date touched and conciliated by the Poet. Al-
ready, no doubt, he was well started in those achievements
of royal favour, to which Ben Jonson alludes in his great
verses prefixed to the folio of 1623. And here we may apt-
ly quote another allusion of similar import. In 1603, soon
after the death of Elizabeth, Henry Chettle, whom we hav«
already met with, put forth a poem entitled England's
Mourning Garment, in which, after reproving divers poets
for not writing in honour of the Queen, he thus refers to
Shakespeare :

" Nor doth the silver-tongued Melicert
Drop from his honey'd Muse one sable tear
'Fo mourn her death that graced his desert,
And to his lays open'd her royal ear.
Shepherd, remember our Elizabeth.
And sing her Rape, done by thai Tar<iuin Death."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CIX

Hitherto we have met with no information as to where-
abouts in London Shakespeare had his residence. Edward
Alleyn, the player, and founder of Dulwich College, kept a
Bear-garden in Southwark. Henslowe was manager of one
of the London theatres, and Alleyn was son-in-law to his
wife. The Bear-garden became a source of annoyance to
the neighbourhood. Among the papers at Dulwich College,
Mr. Collier found a memorandum of certain " inhabitants
of Southwark," who in July, 1596, complained of this an-
noyance. " Mr. Shakespeare " was one of them. Which
establishes that he was then occupying a house in that quar-
ter ; and the probability is, that he had lately taken it for
the purpose of being near the Globe theatre. There is rea-
son to think he continued to reside there for some years ;
for Mr. Collier quotes from a letter written by Mrs. Alleyn,
October 20th, 1603, to her husband, then in the country;
ui which she speaks of having seen " Mr. Shakespeare, of
the Globe," in Southwark. We have indeed no evidence
that the Poet ever had his family with him in London,
neither have we any that he did not. We are not aware of
aiiy thing which should make it unlikely that they may have
been sometimes with him in the city ; and the fact of his
occupying a house there may well be thought to argue that
such was the case.

Before quitting this period, we must observe that on the
llth of August, 1596, Shakespeare buried his only son,
Hamnet, then in his twelfth year. This is the first severe
home-stroke that we hear of as lighting upon him. Hia
Sonnets, we think, infer him to have been a man of warm
and true domestic affections ; and from the strong desire he
evidently had of handing down his name with honour to po&-
terity, fathers can well conceive how he must have felt the
blow.

Aubrey tells us Shakespeare " was wont to go to his na-
tive country once a year." We now have better authority
than Aubrey lor believing that the Poet's heart was in " hit

CX THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

native country " all the while. No sooner is he well estab-
lished at London, and in receipt of funds to spare from the
necessary demands of business, than we find him making
liberal investments amidst the scenes of his youth. Mr.
Collier inferred with much strength, that his first purchase
at Stratford took place in 1597. For a full settlement of
the point we are indebted to Mr. Halliwell, who discovered
in the Chapter House, Westminster, the fine levied on that
occasion. This discovery ascertains that in the spring of
1597 Shakespeare bought of William Underbill, for the sum
of £60, the establishment called New Place, described as
consisting of " one messuage, two barns, and two gardens,
with their appurtenances." This was one of the best dwell-
ing-houses in Stratford, and was situate in Chapel-ward, one
of the best parts of the town. Early in the sixteenth cen-
tury it was owned by the Cloptons, and called " the great
house." It was in one of the gardens belonging to this house
that the Poet was believed to have planted a mulberry tree ;
and the tradition to that effect has some support in that King
James in 1609 made great efforts to introduce the mulberry
into England, £935 being paid that year out of the public
purse for the planting of trees " near the palace of West-
minster."

We have seen that in January, 1597, John Shakespeare
was still living in one of his Henley-street houses. There
are strong reasons for believing that, after the purchase of
New Place, the Poet's father and mother made their resi-
dence there, along with his wife and children. Those rea-
sons are as follows : About that time, England was visited
with a great dearth and scarceness. Stowe informs us that
in 1596, wheat was sold for six, seven, and eight shillings the
busheL The dearth increased through 1597, and in August
of that year wheat rose to thirteen shillings the bushel, then
fell to ten, then rose again to " the late greatest price."
What effects this produced at Stratford, as also what repute
the Poet was then held in among his old neighbours, appears

THE LIFE OF SHAKF.SPEARE. C3Q

rrom a letter dated January 24th, 1598, and written by Abra-
ham Sturley, an alderman of Stratford. The letter was to
Sturley's brother-in-law, Richard Quiney, who was then in
London ; and in it we have the following :

"I pray God send you comfortably home. This is one
special remembrance, from your father's motion. It seem-
eth by him, that our countryman, Mr. Shakespeare, is will-
ing to disburse some money upon some odd yard land or
other at Shottery, or near about us. He thinketh it a very
fit pattern to move him to deal in the matter of our tithes.
By the instructions you can give him thereof, and by the
friends he can make therefor, we think it a fair mark for
him to shoot at, and not unpossible to hit. It obtained
would advance him indeed, and do us much good.

" You shall understand, brother, that our neighbours are
grown, with the wants they feel through the dearness of com,
(which here is, beyond all other countries that I can hear of,
lear and over dear,) malcontent. They have assembled to-
gether in great number, and travelled to Sir Thomas Lucy
on Friday last, to complain of our maltsters ; on Sunday, to
Sir Fulk Greville and Sir John Conway. There is a meet-
ing here expected to-morrow. The Lord knoweth to what
end it will sort! Thomas West, returning from the two
knights of the woodland, came home so full, that he said to
Mr. Bailiff that night, he hoped within a week to lead off
them in a halter, meaning the maltsters ; and I hope, saith
John Grannams, if God send my Lord of Essex down short-
ly, to see them hanged on gibbets at their own doors."

Further light is thrown on this subject of the dearth by
a curious manuscript list, headed " Stratford Borough, War-
wick. The note of corn and malt, taken the 4th of Febru-
ary, 1598." The purpose of it evidently was, to ascertain
how much corn and malt there really was in tne town, under
a suspicion that the owners were withholding it from use in
order to raise its price. The names of the townsmen are all
given, with the several wards where they icsided, und also

CX11 THE LIKE OF SHAKESPEARE.

of the strangers, so far as known. In the statement of the
" townsmen's corn " in Chapel-street Ward, we have, among
others, "Wm. Shakespeare, 10 quarters;" and only two
persons in the ward are put down as having a larger quan-
tity. The name of John Shakespeare does not occur in the
list ; and from this fact Mr. Collier reasonably infers that he
was then living with his son William ; and that the Poet had
laid in this large store, in order to be sure of a competent
prorision for a larger family than his wife and two daughters.
New Place remained in the hands of Shakespeare and his
heirs till the Restoration, when it was repurchased by the
Clopton family. In the spring of 1742, Garrick, Macklin,
and Delane were entertained there by Sir Hugh Clopton,
under the Poet's mulberry-tree. About 1752, the place was
sold to the Rev. Francis Gastrell, who, falling out with the
Stratford authorities in some matter of rates, demolished the
house, and cut down the tree, for which his memory has
been visited with exemplary retribution.

CHAPTER IV.

?EOM THE EARLIEST PRINTED CRITICISM ON SHAKE-
SPEARE TILL HIS RETIREMENT FROM THE STAGE.

THE earliest printed copies of Shakespeare's plays, known
in modem times, were " The First Part of tne Contention
betwixt the two famous Houses of York and Lancaster," and
"The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York," severaLy
dated 1594 and 1595. They were doubtless written several
years before, and at the time of the printing had probably
been revised into the form they now bear as the Second and
Third Parts of King Henry VI. The matter is sufficiently

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CX1I1

discussed in our Introductions. It is highly probable that
Titus Andronicus was. printed in 1594, for a play •with that
title was entered at the Stationers' in February of that year,
and Langbaine, writing in 1691, speaks of an edition of that
date. If so, the edition has been lost, no copies of an earlier
date than 1600 being now known. In 1597, three of his
plays, Romeo and Juliet, Richard n., and Richard HI., were
published severally in quarto pamphlets. The Romeo amS
Juliet was evidently a fraudulent edition, and a garbled text.
Three years after, the play was reissued, " newly corrected,
augmented, and amended." In 1598, two more, The First
Part of King Henry IV. and Love's Labour's Lost, came
from the press, in the same form as the preceding. The
author's name was not given in any of these issues, except
the last-named, which was said to be " newly corrected and
augmented." Richard II. and Richard HI. were issued again
in 1598, and The First Part of Henry IV. in 1599 ; and in
all these cases the author's name was prin'.ed on the title-
page. The Second Part of Henry IV. was doubtless written
before the appearance of the First Part, in 1598, though we
hear of no edition of it till 1600. For full statements on
all these points, the reader must be again referred to our
several Introductions.

Francis Meres has the honour of being the first critic of
Shakespeare, that appeared in print. In 1598, he put forth a
book entitled " Palladia Tamia, Wit's Treasury, being the
Second Part of Wit's Commonwealth." One division of the
work is headed " A comparative Discourse of our English
Poets, with the Greek, Latin, and Italian Poets ; " and in it
we have, among divers other references to Shakespeare, the
following :

" As the soul of Euphorbus was thought to live in Py-
thagoras, so the sweet, witty soul of Ovid lives in mellifluous
and honey-tongued Shakespeare : witness his Venus and
Adonis, his I.ucrece, his sugared Sonnets among his private
friends, &c.

CXIV THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE

"As PJautus and Seneca are accounted the best for com-
edy and tragedy among the Latins ; so Shakespeare among
the English is the most excellent in both kinds for the stage.
For comedy, witness his Gentlemen of Verona, his Errors,
his Love's Labour's Lost, his Love's Labour's Won, his Mid-
Bummer-Night's Dream, and his Merchant of Venice ; for
tragedy, his Richard II., Richard HL, Henry IV., King John,
Titus Andronicus, and his Romeo and Juliet.

" As Epius Stolo said that the Muses would speak with
Plautus' tongue, if they would speak Latin ; so I say that the
Muses would speak with Shakespeare's fine-filed phrase, if
they would speak English."

The nature of this writer's purpose did not require him to
mention all the plays then known to be Shakespeare's : he
needed but to specify such and so many as would " witness "
his point. Since the time of Farmer, "Love's Labour's
Won" has commonly been supposed to be the original
name of All's Well that Ends Well. We have no doubt
that such was the case. The play yields strong internal
evidence of having been " written at two different and rather
distant periods of the Poet's life ; " and the title was prob-
ably changed at the revisal. Reckoning, then, the original
Pericles, the three Parts of Henry VI., The Taming of the
Shrew, and the two Parts of Henry IV., along with the others
mentioned by Meres, we have eighteen plays written by
1598, when the Poet was thirty-four years of age, and had
most likely been in the theatre not far from twelve years.
It is not improbable, as we have already seen, that the origi-
nal Hamlet should also be added to this list.

Shakespeare was now decidedly at the head of the Eng-
lish drama : he had little cause to fear rivalry ; he could well
afford to be generous ; and any play that had his approval
would be likely to pass. Ben Jonson, whose name has a
peculiar right to be coupled with his, was ten years his ju-
nior, and was working with that learned and sinewy diligence
which marked his character. We have it on the sound au

THE MFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXV

thority of Howe, that Shakespeare lent a helping hand to
honest Ben, and on an occasion that does equal credit to
them both. " His acquaintance," says he, " with Ben Jon-
son began with a remarkable piece of humanity and good-
nature. Mr. Jonson, who was at that time altogether un-
known to the world, had offered one of his plays to the
players, in order to have it acted; and the persons into
whose hands it was put, after having turned it carelessly and
superciliously over, were just upon returning it to him, with
an ill-natured answer that it would be of no service to their
company; when Shakespeare luckily cast his eye upon it,
and found something so well in it, as to engage him first to
read it through, and afterwards to recommend Mr. Jonson
and his writings to the public."

Gifford, to whom we owe a clear vindication of Jonson
from the reproach of malignity towards our Poet, undertook
to impugn Rowe's account in this particular. He found in
Henslowe's Diary that a piece there called " Umers " was
acted eleven times by the Lord Admiral's players at the Rose
in 1597 ; and he supposed this " Umers " to have been
Every Man in his Humour, which was Jonson's earliest play,
and was first performed by the Lord Chamberlain's company
in 1598, Shakespeare himself being one of the principal act-
ors in it. Mr. Collier, on the other hand, has fully justified
Rowe's statement from Gifford's attack. The argument may
be comprised in a nutshell. In 1616, Jonson put forth an
authorised edition of his works, and on the title-page states
that Every Man in his Humour was " acted in the year 1598
by the then Lord Chamberlain's servants ; " and at the end
of the play adds, — " This comedy was first acted in the year
1598." This is pretty good evidence as to when and by
whom the play was first acted. Moreover, Henslowe's ac-
counts show no pecuniary transactions with Jonson before
August, 1598. Now, Jonson was in very needy circum-
stances, and Henslowe was very exact in all entries relating
to money. If, then, the play had been used so much undei

CXV1 THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Henslowe's management in 1597, it is not at all likely, eithei
that Jonson would have waited so long for what he had
earned, or that any payments made to him would not have
appeared in the manager's books. Finally, in 1598, Jonson
had a quarrel with one of Henslowe's leading actors named
Gabriel Spencer : they met, fought, and Spencer was killed.
In a letter written by Henslowe to Alleyn, on the 26th of
September, that year, the event is thus spoken of: " Since
you were with me, I have lost one of my company, which
hurteth me greatly ; that is Gabriel, for he is slain in Hox-
ton Fields by the hands of Benjamin Jonson, Bricklayer."
Alleyn was the Burbage of that company; and if Jonson
had been as well known among them as, by Gilford's ac-
count, he must have been, it is scarce credible that Hens-
lowe would have spoken of him to Alleyn in that manner.1

1 Edward Alleyn appears to have outstripped all the other
players of his time in "putting money in his purse." In 1604,
he purchased the manor of Kenuinglon for £1065, and, the next
year, that of Lewisham and Dulwich for £5000, £2000 being paid
down, and the rest left upon mortgage. All this would be nearly
equal to $150,000 in our day ! Alleyn was the leading actor at
the Rose theatre on the Bankside, near the Globe, till 1600, in
which year the company removed to a new house called the For-
tune, in a different part of the cily. Collier conjectures that thi.«
removal was partly occasioned by their inability to stand the com-
petition of their rivals of the Globe. It seems to have been mainly
at the Fortune that Alleyn made his fortune. His repute as an
actor is indicated by some lines probably written about this time,
which we subjoin, merely adding that "Will's new play" war
doubtless Shakespeare's, and " Rosciu's Richard," Burbage :

" Sweele Nedde, nowe wynne an other wager
For thine old Frend and fellow-stager.
Tarlton himselfe thou doest excell,
And Bentley beate, and conquer Knell,
And now shall Kempe orecome as well.
The moneyes downe, the place the Hope;
Pbillippes shall hide his head, and Pope.
Fear not, the victorie is thine;
Thou still as macheles Ned shall shyne :
If Roscius Richard foames and fames,
The Globe shall have but emptie roomes,

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXVII

All wliich may be regarded, perhaps, as putting Howe's
statement out of danger. And his point has the further
support, which he probably did not know of, that Jonson's
earliest known play was, if Jonson's own testimony may be
taken in the matter, first acted in 1598, and by " the then
Lord Chamberlain's servants." How nobly the Poet's gen-
tle and judicious act of kindness was remembered, is shown
by Jonson's superb verses "To the Memory of my beloved,
the Author, Mr. William Shakespeare, and what he hath
left us," prefixed to the folio of 1623 ; enough of them-
selves to confer an immortality both on the writer and the
subject of them.

We shall hardly have a fitter place for introducing another
passage from Jonson, which must not be omitted. It is from
his Discoveries, written in 1640 : " I remember, the players
have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that
in his writing, whatsoever he penn'd, he never blotted out a
line. My answer hath been, Would he had blotted a thou-
sand ! which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not
told posterity this, but for their ignorance, who choose that
circumstance to commend their friend by, wherein he most
faulted ; and to justify mine own candour, for I loVd the
man, and do honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as
much as any. He was indeed honest, and of an open and
free nature ; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and
gentle expressions ; wherein he flow'd with that facility, that
sometime it was necessary he should be stopp'd : Siifflami-
nandus erat, as Augustus said of Haterius. His wit was in
Ids own power ; would the rule of it had been so too. Many
times he fell into those things, could not escape laughter ,

If thou doest act ; and Willes newe playe
Shall be rehearst some other daye.
Consent, then, Nedde ; do us this grace:
Thou canst not faile in anie case ;
For in the triall, come what maye,
411 sides shall brave Ned Allin saye."

CXVlll THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

as when he said in the person of Cffisar, one speaking to
him, ' Csesar, tliou dost me wrong ; ' he replied, ' Caesar did
never wrong but with just cause : ' and such like, which were
ridiculous.9 But he redeemed his vices with his virtues.
There was ever more in him to be praised than to be par-
doned."

We have already seen something of the .position which,
before 1598, Shakespeare had attained among the Strat/-
fordians, in respect of money matters. It seems that Rich-
ard Quiney, whose son Thomas afterwards married the Poet's
youngest daughter, was in London a good deal that year on
business, for himself and others. Mr. Halliwell prints, for
the first time, a letter directed thus : " To my loving son,
Richard Quiney, at the Bell in Carter-lane, deliver these, in
London." The following is a part of the contents : " If you
bargain with Wm. Sha., or receive money there, or bring
your money home, you may. I see how knit stockings be
sold ; there is great buying of them at Ayshone. Edward
Wheat and Harry, your brother's man, were both at Eves-
flam this day se'nnight, and, as I heard, bestowed £20 there
in knit hose : wherefore, I think, you may do good, if you
can have money." This letter is without any date, but it
evidently connects with another written to Shakespeare, as
follows :

" Loving countryman : I am bold of you, as of a friend,
craving your help with £30, upon Mr. Bushell's and my

* For an explanation of this matter, see Julius Caesar, Act iii.
sc. 1, note 5. — One of the main points in this extract is supported
by the editorial address of Heminge and Condell, prefixed to the
folio of 1623 : " The Author, as he was a happy imitator of Na-
ture, was a most gentle expresser of it. His mind and band went
together ; and what he thought, he uttered with that easiness, that
we have scarce received from him a blot in his papers." Jon son
might well regret that the Poet did not blot a good deal more.
Still we do not believe his writing was by any means so extempo-
laneous as many have supposed. Several of his plays are known
to have been rewritten ; and it is no. known how many of them

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXrX

security, or Mr. Mytten's with me. Mr. Roswell is not
come to London as yet, and I have especial cause. You
shall friend me much in helping me out of all the debts 1
owe in London, I thank God ; and much quiet my mind,
which would not be indebted. I am now towards the Court,
in hope of answer for the despatch of my business. You
shall neither lose credit nor money by me, the Lord willing :
and now but persuade yourself so, as I hope, and you shall
not need to fear, but, with all hearty thankfulness, I will
hold my time, and content your friend ; and, if we bargain
further, you stall be the pay-master yourself. My time bids
me hasten to an id, and so I commit this to your care, and
hope of your help. I fear I shall not be back this night
from the Court. Haste : The Lord be with you, and with
us all, Amen !

" From the Bell, in Carter-lane, the 25th October, 1598.
" Yours in all kindness,

"Ric. QUINSY."
' f o my loving good Friend and
Countryman, Mr. Wm. Shake-
speare, deliver these."

Not a single private letter written by Shakespeare nas
ever been found, and this is the only one written to him, that
has come to light. Quiney's application for money seems
to have met with a favourable response ; for on the same
day he wrote to Abraham Sturley, the Stratford alderman,
whom we have already heard of; and on the 4th of Novem-
ber Sturley wrote him a lengthy reply, with a direction run-
ning thus : " To my most loving brother, Mr. Richard Quiney,
at the Bell in Carter-lane, at London, give these." In this
reply we have the following : " Your letter of the 25th of Oc-
tot/er came to my hands the last of the same at night, per
Greenway ; which imported a stay of suits by Sir Edward
Greville's advice ; . . . and that our countryman, Mr.
Wm. Shak., would procure u» money, which I will like of,
as I shall hear when, and where, and how ; and I pray, If

CXX THE LIFE OF SHAKESVF.ARE.

not go that occasion, if it may sort to any indifferent con-
ditions."

The good people of Stratford, it seems, were at that time
unusually distressed, not only by reason of the dearth and
scarceness already mentioned, but also because of some re-
cent fires in the town. Besides these, there were yet other
troubles: Sturley in one of his letters to Quiney informs
him, " Our great bell is broken, and Wm. Wiatt is mend-
ing the pavement of the bridge." Quiney's business " to-
wards the Court " is explained in another part of the same
letter : " There might, by Sir Edward Greville, some means
be made to the Knights of Parliament for an ease and dis-
charge of such taxes and subsidies wherewith our town is
like to be charged, and, I assure you I am in great fear and
doubt, by no means able to pay. Sir Edward Greville is
gone to Bristol, and from thence to London, as I hear ;
who very well knoweth our estates, and will be willing to do
us any good." In their straits, they evidently thought it no
small advantage to have a thriving countryman in London,
whose recent doings were proof that he had not forgotten
Stratford.

These notices, slight as they are, enable us to form some
tolerable conjecture as to how the Poet was getting on at
the age of thirty-four. Such details of money transactions
may not seem very interesting in a Life of the greatest of
poets ; but we have clear evidence that he took a lively in-
terest in them, and was a good hand at managing them.
He hal learned by experience, no doubt, that " money is a
good soldier, and wiU on ; " and that, " if money go before,
all ways do lie open." And the thing carries this good, if
no other, that it tells us a man may be something of a poet
without being either above or below the common affairs of
life. Shakespeare was doubtless apt enough for any occa
sion whereby an honest penny might be turned : the cham-
berlain's accounts for this year show an entry of lOd. " paid
to Mr. Shakespeare for one load of stone ; " used, perhaps

THE L.1KE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXX1

by Mr. Wiatt in " mending the pavement of the bridge.
And he appears to have been driving his pecuniary interests
in other quarters h/therto not heard of. Mr. Hunter lately
discovered at Carlton Ride a subsidy roll of 1598, in which
the Poet was assessed on property of the value of £5 13s
4d., in the parish of St. Helen's, Bishopsgate. Mr. Hunter
infers from it that he then lived in that part of the metrop-
olis ; but his name has affid. written against it, which Mr.
Halliwell thinks may have been intended to mark him as
one who was required to produce a certificate or affidavit of
non-residence.

That we may not have to recur too often to the rather un-
poetical subject of money, it may be well now to follow out
the Poet's dealings in that line till some years later. On
the 1st of May, 1602, was executed a deed of conveyance,
whereby he became the owner of a hundred and seven acres
of arable land in the town of Old Stratford, bought of Wil-
liam and John Combe, for the sum of £320. Besides the
land itself, there was also a right of " common of pasture
for sheep, horse, kine, and other cattle, in the fields of Old
Stratford," attached to it. The Poet was not in Stratford
at the time, as appears by the lack of his signature, and by
the memorandum on the deed, — " Sealed and delivered to
Gilbert Shakespeare, to the use of the within-named William
Shakespeare, in the presence of" five witnesses, whose names
are subscribed. Which shows that the business was trans-
acted by Gilbert for his brother William. It also ieaas us
naturally to the presumption that the Poet's Stratford affairs
generally were left in the care of his brother, when himself
was in London. On the 28th of September, the same year,
ne became the owner of a copyhold house in Walker-street,
near New Place, surrendered to him by Walter Getley.
This property was held under the manor of Rowington : the
surrender took place at a court-baron of the manor ; and it
appears from the Court Roll, that the Poet was not present
at the time, there being a proviso that the property should

CXXli THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

remain in the hands of the Lady of the manor till the pur-
chaser had done suit and service in the court. In November
following, he made another purchase of Hercules Underbill
for £60. The original fine levied on the occasion is pre-
served in the Chapter House, Westminster, and describes
the property as consisting of " one messuage, two barns, two
gardens, and two orchards, with their appurtenances, in
Stratford-upon-Avon."

The next purchase by him, that has come to light, was
made three years later. It appears from the letter of Stur-
ey, quoted near the close of our preceding Chapter, that in
1598 it was thought " a very fit pattern to move him to deal
in the matter of our tithes." This was a matter wherein very
much depended on good management ; and, as the town had
a yearly rent from the tithes, it was for the public interest to
have them well managed ; and the moving of Shakespeare
to deal in the matter sprang most likely from confidence in
his practical judgment and skill. The great tithes of " corn,
grain, blade, and hay," and also the small tithes of " wool,
lamb, hemp, flax, and other small and privy tithes," in Stratr
ford, Old Stratford, Welcombe, and Bishopton, had been
leased as far back as 1544 for the term of ninety-two years :
consequently, in 1605, the lease had thirty-one years yet to
run. On the 24th of July, that year, this unexpired term
of the lease was bought in by Shakespeare for the sum of
£440. In the indenture of conveyance, he is styled " Wil-
liam Shakespeare, of Stratford-upon-Avon, gentleman." A
receipt contained in the deed shows that the purchase-money
was all paid before t\te deed was executed. The vendor was
Ralph Huband, Esquire, of Ippesley. Both the indenture
and the " bond from John Huband to William Shakespeare
for the due performance of contract " are printed at length
in Harwell's Life.

One more item will dispose of money matters for the
present. One Philip Rogers, it seems, had at several timei
boujfht malt of Shakespeare, to the amount of £1 15s. 10(1

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXXIII

In 1604, the Poet, not being able to get payment, filed in
the Stratford Court of Record a declaration of suit against
h im ; which probably had the desired effect, as nothing more
is heard of the matter. This item is of peculiar interest, as
it shows him engaged in other pursuits than those relating
to the stage.

We have purposely deferred till now any mention of tha
^rant of arms to John Shakespeare, because there can be no
Joubt that the whole thing originated with his son William,
The matter is involved in a good deal of perplexity and con-
fusion ? the claims of the son being confounded with those
of the father, in order, apparently, that out of the two to-
gether might be made a good or at least a plausible case.
Our Poet, the son of a glover, or of a yeoman, had evident-
ly set his heart on being heralded into a gentleman ; and, as
his profession of actor stood in the way of his purpose, the
application was made in his father's name. Nor can we
avoid suspecting that the statement of " plain speaking Har-
rison," written some years before the time we are now upon,
may be applied to this case : " Whosoever studieth the laws
of the realm, whoso abideth in the University giving his
mind to his book, or professeth physic and the liberal sci-
ences, or, besides his service in the room of a captain in the
wars, or good counsel given at home, whereby his common-
wealth is benefited, can live without manual labour, and
thereto is able and will bear tne port, charge, and counte-
nance of a gentleman He shall for money have a coat and
arms bestowed upon him by heralds, (who in the charter of
(he same do of custom pretend antiquity and service, and
many gay things,) and thereunto, being made so good cheap,
be called master, which is the title that men give to esquires
and gentlemen, and reputed for a gentleman ever after."

The Heralds' College shows a draft of arms granted and
c :>nfirmed to John Shakespeare by Sir William Dethick, in
1596. In this draft Sir William justifies the grant on the
ground of his having been " sc licited, and by credible report

CXXIV THK LIFE OF SH A.KKSPEAUK.

informed, that John Shakespeare's parents and late ante-
cessors were for their valiant and faithful service advanced
and rewarded by that most prudent prince, King Henry VTL,
since which time they have continued at those parts in good
reputation and credit ; and that the said John had married
Mary, daughter and one of the heirs of Robert Arden, of
Wilmecote, gentleman." Mary Arden's ancestors were in-
deed advanced and rewarded by Henry VTI, ; but the records
of that reign have been searched in vain for any traco of
advancement or reward to any person named Shakespeare.
There can be little question, therefore, that what was true
of the Poet through his mother, was here, by accident or
design, ascribed to his father. At the bottom of the draft
are written several memoranda, as follows : " This John hath
a pattern thereof under Clarencieux Cook's hand in paper,
twenty years past. — A justice of peace, and was bailiff,
officer, and chief of the town of Stratford-upon-Avon, fif-
teen or sixteen years past. — That he hath lands and tene-
ments of good wealth and substance, £500. — That he
married a daughter and heir of Arden, a gentleman of wor-
ship."

It appears that Dethick was afterwards called to account
for having made improper grants of arms, and Shakespeare
was one of the cases alleged against him ; and the prob-
ability is, that these memoranda were added at that time, for
the purpose of clearing up the case. At all events, his state-
ment s were good for that end, but they were not true. Rob-
ert Cooke, Clarencieux King at Arms, was in office from 1566
to 1592, and the records of that period contain no mention
of any such draft of arms. Moreover, John Shakespeare
wad not a justice of peace by commission, as Dethick implies,
but only so ex officio, as bailiff and head alderman of Strat-
ford. Nor was he worth £500, though his son probably
was.3

1 I have seen a long and curious statement of th» complaint]
made against Dethick for granting arms improperly " He com

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXX»

A confirmation of arms, it seems, was not final ; one more
step, called an exemplification of arms, was necessary before
the grantee became a full-blown gentleman. John Shake-
speare, as appears from a deed quoted in Chapter L, note
23, was described as " yeoman " in 1597. We subjoin th*-
greater part of an instrument whereby he fully graduateo
out of the yeomanry state :

"DRAFT OF A GRANT OF ARMS TO JOHN SHAKESPEARE,
1599.

" To all and singular noble and gentlemen of all estates
and degrees bearing arms, to whom these presents shall
come, William Dethick, Garter, Principal King of Arms of
England, and William Camden, alias Clarencieux King of
Anns for the south-east and west parts of this realm, send-
eth greetings.

" Know ye, that in all nations and kingdoms the record
and remembrances of the valiant facts and virtuous dispo-
sitions of worthy men have been made known and divulged
by certain shields of arms and tokens of chivalry ; the grant
and testimony whereof appertaineth unto us by virtue of our
offices from the Queen's most excellent Majesty, and her
Highness' most noble and victorious progenitors. Where-
fore, being solicited, and by credible report informed, that
John Shakespeare, now of Stratford-upon-Avon in the coun-
ty of Warwick, gent., whose parent, great grandfather, and
late antecessor, for his faithful and approved service to the

mitted very many and grosse abuses, as, namely, the giveing of
Brines, yea, and of some of the nobilitie, to base and ignoble per-
jons ; as Yorcke Heraulde hath at large sett downe in a hooko
delivered to the King's majesty. He falsefyed pedegrees alsoe,
as that of Harbourne being of xii. descents, wherein he made vi.
knights which God nor man never knewe ; nor the name himselfe,
when hee was called before the commissioners, could justify no
further then his grandfather, who was reputed to be an honest man,
but of mean fortune." — Ashm.olean MSS. It is quite apparent
from this that statements iir Delhick's grants arc not historical evi-
dence of any worth. — HAM i WELL.

CXXVI THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

late most prudent prince, King Henry VII., of famous mem-
ory, was advanced and rewarded with lands and tenements
given to him in those parts of Warwickshire, where they
have continued by some descents in good reputation and
credit ; and for that the said John Shakespeare having mar-
ried the daughter and one of the heirs of Robert Arden, of
Wilmecote in the said county, and also produced this his
ancient coat of arms, heretofore assigned to him whilst he
was her Majesty's officer, and bailiff of that town; in con
Bideration of the premises, and for the encouragement of his
posterity, unto whom such blazon of arms and achievements
of inheritance from their said mother, by the ancient custom
and laws of arms, may lawfully descend ; we the said Garter
and Clarencieux have assigned, granted, and confirmed, and
by these presents have exemplified unto the said John Shake-
speare and to his posterity, that shield and coat of arms, &c.
In witness and testimony whereof we have subscribed our
names, and fastened the seals of our offices. Given at the
Office of Arms, London, the day of in the forty-
second year of the reign of our most gracious sovereign Lady
Elizabeth, &c., 1599."

Shakespeare had now grown so strong in popular favour
as to have the offspring of other men's brains fathered upon
him. We refer to The Passionate Pilgrim, which was pub-
lished as his by W. Jaggard in 1599. It is evident enough
that the publisher, having got hold of a few of the Poet's
Sonnets, as these were floating about " among his private
friends," and having extracted two or three more from one
of his printed plays, bundled them up with some work of
other writers, and set the whole forth as Shakespeare's. In
1612, he issued a third edition of the same, adding two
pieces from a volume published by Thomas Heywood in
1609. In 1612, Heywood pubb'shed his Apology for Actors,
with an epistle to his publisher prefixed, in which, after re-
ferring to his former volume, he has the following : " Here,
likewise, I must necessarily insert a manifest injury done me

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXXVJi

in that work, by taking the two Epistles of Paris to Helen,
and Helen to Paris, and printing them in a less volume, un-
der the name of another ; which may put the world in opin-
ion I might steal them from him, and he, to do himself right,
hath since published them in his own name. But as I must
acknowledge my lines not worthy his patronage, under whom
he hath published them, so the author I know much offend-
«d with Mr. Jaggard that, altogether unknown to him, pre-
sumed to make so bold with bis name."

A similar trick was played upon the Poet in 1600, in an
edition of the Life of Sir John Oldcastle. But the publisher,
in this case, seems to have been overhauled in season, and
forced to cancel Shakespeare's name, as several copies of the
edition are known to be without it. The same year, 1600,
five more of his plays came from the press. These were A
Midsummer-Night's Dream, The Merchant of Venice, Much
Ado about Nothing, The Second Part of King Henry IV.,
and King Hemy V. It appears, also, that As You Like It
was then written ; for it was entered at the Stationers' for
publication, but locked up from the press under a " stay.';
It is probable that The Merry Wives of Windsor was also
then in being, though no edition of it came out till 1602.
This, as well as the edition of King Henry V., two years be-
fore, was very imperfect, and manifestly fraudulent, as may
be seen from our Introductions. The same is true of tin;
first edition of Hamlet, which appeared in 1603 ; but an-
other issue, made the next year, in which the play was given
u enlarged to almost as much again as it was," shows no
signs of being from a " stolen and surreptitious copy." Mr.
Collier thinks that all the issues we have thus far mentioned
were compassed by stealth and fraud. We can perceive no
Mifficient warrant for this ; but it seems pretty clear that at
least after 1600, with perhaps the single exception of Ham-
let, the company did their best to keep Shakespeare's plays
from getting into print.

A recent discovery has ascertained that Twelfth Night was

i-.XXVlil THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

played at the Readers' Feast in the Middle Temple, on the
2d of February, 1602. Among the spectators was one John
Manningham, a barrister, who left a Diary containing some
notes of the performance. The passage is given in our In-
troduction to the play, and so need not be quoted here. The
Diary was stowed away among other manuscripts in the Brit-
ish Museum, where Mr. Collier unearthed it in 1828. * To
the same indefatigable hand we owe the discovery that Othel-
lo was performed as a part of the entertainment given by
Lord Keeper Egerton to the Queen at Harefield in the sum-
mer of 1602. This appears by an entry of £10 paid "to
Burbage's players for Othello " on the 6th of August, that
year. Of course they were here styled Burbage's players,
because Burbage was regarded as the leading actor among
them ; and it is known from other sources that this great
stage-artist sustained the part of the Moor.4 Adding the

* The same Diary gives the following anecdote under the dnt«,
of March 13, 1602: " Upon a tyme, when Burbidge played Rici.
3, there was a citizen greue soe farr in liking with him, that before
sbee went from the play, shee appointed him to come that night
unto hir by the name of Rich. 3. Shakespeare, overhearing1 their
conclusion, went before, was intertained, and at his game ere Hnr-
bidge came. Then, message being brought that Rich, the 3d was
at the dore, Shakespeare caused returne to be made, that William
the Conqueror was before Rich, the 3d. Shakespeare's name
Willm. — Mr. Towse.1' It is very remarkable that, before the
finding of this Diary, the same anecdote was current as a tradition.
There is some question who was Manningham's authority for the
story. Mr. Collier says the name of Mr. Towse often occurs as
the writer's source of information ; but in this the name is blotted
so as to cause some uncertainty whether it be Towse or Tooly.
The point is of some consequence as regards the authenticity of
the anecdote, for Nicholas Tooley was an actor in the same com-
pany with Burbage. It was no uncommon thing for anecdotes of
other persohg to be applied to Shakespeare ; and it is not unlikely
that in this case the coincidence of names may have suggested
a similar application. The demands of historical candour must
b« our excuse for noticing the matter at all.

* A manuscript Epitaph on Burbage, who died in 1619, has
lately come to light, in which the leading parts acted by him ar«

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPE MIL. CXXLI

six jA.ays vhich we now hear of for the first time, or, inc.ud-
ing Hamlet, the seven, we have twenty-five, written before
the end of 1602, when the Poet was in his thirty-ninth yeai.
The great Queen died on the 24th of March, 1603. We
Jave abundant proof that she was, both by her presence and
her purse, a frequent and steady patron of the Drama, es-
pecially as its interests were represented in the Lord Cham-
berlain's Servants. Everybody, no doubt, has heard tl..?
tradition of her having been so taken with Falstaff in King
Henry IV., that she requested the Poet to continue the
character tlirough another plav, and to represent him in
love ; whereupon he wrote The Merry Wives of Windsor.

enumerated. The following extract will show in what vein of
Shakespeare he worked :

«' No more young Hamlet, though but scant of breath,
Shall cry, Revenge! for his dear father's death ;
Poor Romeo never more shall tears begei
For Juliet's love, and cruel Capulet :
Harry shall not be seen as King or Prince;

They died with thee, dear Dick,

Not to revive again. Jeronimo

Shall cease to mourn his son Horatio :

Edward shall lack a representative ;

And Crookback, as befits, shall cease to live :

Tyrant Macbeth, with unwasb'd bloody hand,

We vainly now may hope to understand :

Brutus and Marcius henceforth must be dumb ;

For ne'er thy like upon our stage shall come,

To charm the faculty of ears and eyes,

Unless we could command the dead to rise.

Heart-broke Philaster, and Amintas too,

Are lost forever, with the red-hair'd Jew

Which sought the bankrupt Merchant's pouiid of flesh,

By woman lawyer caught in his own mesh.

And his whole action he would change with ease

From ancient Lear to youthful Pericles.

But let me not forget one chiefest part

Wherein, beyond the rest, he mov'd the heart;

The grieved Moor, made jealous by a slave,

Who sent his wife to fill a timeless grave,

Then slew himself upon the bloody bed.

All these and many more, with him are dead."

CXXX THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Whatever embellishments may have been added, there is
nothing incredible in the substance of the tradition ; while
the approved taste and judgment of this female king, in
matters of literature and art, give, we think, strong warranty
for it. However, the subject is argued enough in our Intro-
duction to the plav ; and all that we could say upon it now
would be but a repetition of what is presented there.

Elizabeth knew how to unbend in the noble delectation*!
of art, without abating her dignity as queen, or forgetting
ner duty as the mother of her people. Her last act of pat-
ronage to the drama is shown by the following entry in the
accounts of the Treasurer of the Chamber : " To John Hem
inge and the rest of his company, servants to the Lord
Chamberlain, upon the Council's warrant, dated at Whitehall
the 20th of April, 1603, for their pains and expenses in pre-
senting before the late Queen's Majesty two plays, the one
upon St. Stephen's day at night, and the other upon Candle-
mas day at night, for each of which they were allowed, by
way of her Majesty's reward, ten pounds ; amounting in all
to £20." St. Stephen's day and Candlemas were the 26th
of December and the 2d of February. Before the latter
date, the Queen had taken Sir Robert Carey by the hand,
and said to him, "Robin, I am not well;" and she was
never well after that, till she died.

If the patronage of King James fell below hers in wisdom,
it was certainly not deficient in warmth. The Poet's friend
Southampton was among those who had been most favour-
able to his succession ; and one of his very first acts was: to
deliver that accomplished nobleman from the harsh durance
in which the Queen's rigour had left him. Even before he
left Edinburgh, James invited the Earl, then a prisoner in
the Tower, to meet his friend and sovereign at York, OE
the 7th of May, the King arrived in London, which was then
under a visitation of the plague. On the 17th, he ordered
out a warrant from the Privy Seal for the issuing of a patent
uuder the Great Seal, whereby the Lord Chamberlain's

THE LIFE OK SHAKESPEARE. CXXXI

players were taken into his immediate patronage u.ider the
title of "The King's Servants." The main part of the in-
strument is as follows :

"To all justices, mayors, sheriffs, constables, head-
boroughs, and other our officers and loving subjects, greet-
ing : Know ye, that we, of our special grace, certain know!
edge, and mere motion, have licenced and authorized, and
by these patents do licence and authorize, these our servants,
Laurence Fletcher, William Shakespeare, Richard Burbage,
Augustine Phillips, John Heminge, Henry Condell, William
Slye, Robert Armyn, Richard Cowley, and the rest of their
associates, freely to use and exercise the art and faculty of
playing comedies, tragedies, histories, &c., and such other
like, as they have already studied, or hereafter shall use or
study, as well for the recreation of our loving subjects, as for
our solace and pleasure, when we shall think good to see
them ; and the said comedies, tragedies, histories, &c., to
show and exercise publicly to their best commodity, when
the infection of the plague shall decrease, as well within
their now usual house called the Globe, as also within any
town-halls or other convenient places within the liberties and
freedom of any other city, university, town, or borough what-
soever within our realms and dominions. Willing and com-
manding you, and every of you, as you tender our pleasure,
not only to permit and suffer them herein, without any your
lets, hindrances, or molestations, but to be aiding and assist-
ing to them, if any wrong be to them offered ; and to allow
them such former courtesies as hath been given to men of
their place and quality: and also what further favour jou
shall show to these our servants for our sake, we fhall take
kindly at your hands."

In pursuance of tliis order a patent was issued under the
Great Seal two days after. By a similar instrument, the
Earl of Worcester's players, with Thomas Greene at their
head, and Thomas Heywood, the celebrated dramatist, among
them, became " servants unto our dearest wife Queen Anne/

CXXX1I THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Also, the Lord Admiral's company, at the head of whom wa>
Edward Alleyn. received a lik° favour, creating them servants
to the Pnnce of Wales.

It is of more consequence to observe, that here, for the
first time, we meet with Laurence Fletcher, and him at the
head of the company. And this brings us to a question that
has been a good deal mooted, pro and con, namely, whether
Shakespeare were ever in Scotland. It is pretty well estab-
lished that the tragedy of Macbeth evinces such an acquaint
ance with Scottish scenes and events, as can hardly be ac-
counted for, but on the supposal of the Poet's having been
actually there. And it is certain that James, having no
drama in his own country, began his patronage of English.
players some years before he succeeded to the English
crown. Spottiswood, in his History of the Church of Scot-
land, informs us taat in the end of the year 1599 there
" happened some new jars betwixt the King and the minis-
ters of Edinburgh, because of a company of English come-
dians, whom the King had licenced to play within the burgh."
The passage is given more at length, along with some other
ooints of the argument, in our Introduction to Macbeth. In
Scotland, the legal year at that time ended with December,
in which very month, as appears from the public records,
these " English comedians " experienced the royal bounty
to the extent of 333Z. 6s. 8d. But the players then in Ed-
inburgh could not have been Shakespeare's company nor am
part of it, because the accounts of the Treasurer of the Ch am-
ber show that the Lord Chamberlain's servants performed
before Queen Elizabeth on the 26th of December, 1599.

This munificence of the Scottish King would naturally in-
duce other English comedians to follow in the same track.
The Treasurer's books just referred to have an entry of pay-
ment " to John Heminge and Richard Cowley, servants to
the Lord Chamberlain, for three plays showed before her
Highness on St. Stephen's day at night, Twelfth day at night,
nnd Shrove -Teusday at Tiight." These were December 26th,

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXXX1U

1600. and January 6th and March 3d, 1601. From that
time nothing is heard of this company in London, till the
performance of Twelfth Night at the Headers' Feast in the
Middle Temple, on the 2d of February, 1602. During this
very period, an English company, with Laurence Fletcher
at their head, are found acting in Scotland. In December,

1601, the King's patronage to them reached the sum of 400J.
While there, they made an excursion to Aberdeen, where
the registers of the Town Council have the following en-
try, under the date of October 9th, 1601 : "The Provost,
Baillies, and Council ordain the sum of thirty-two marks to
be given to the King's servants now in this burgh, who play
comedies and stage-plays ; by reason they are recommended
by his Majesty's special letter, and have played some of their
comedies in this burgh." Thirteen days after, on the 22d,
a number of persons, described as " knights and gentlemen,"
received the highest honour the corporation of Aberdeen
could bestow : they were admitted burgesses of the Guild ;
and among them we find " Laurence Fletcher, comedian to
his Majesty."

All this, to.be sure, does not prove that Shakespeare him-
self or any members of his company were then in Scotland.
But it is somewhat remarkable, that in less than two years
after, this same Laurence Fletcher is named first in the com-
pany, whom the King's patent recognises as " our servants."
The presumption is certainly strong, that this company were
the " King's servants " who had been " recommended by his
Majesty's special letter" to the authorities of Aberdeen.
And Knight justly observes, that " the terms of this paten*
exhibit towards the players of the Globe a favour and coun-
tenance, almost an affectionate solicitude for their welfare,
which is scarcely reconcileable with a belief that they first
became the King's players by virtue of this instrument."
We will dismiss the subject with a short quotation from a
paper " On the Siie of Macbeth's Castle at Ir^crness," read
to the Scottish Society of Antiquaries by John Andersor,

CXXXI? THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Eaq., in 1828. "The extreme accuracy," says he, "with
which Shakespeare has followed the minutiae of Macbeth's
career has given rise to the opinion, that he himself visited
those scenes which are immortalized by his pen."

The event proved that the King's patent was not intended
as a mere barren honour. During the spring and summer
after his accession, playing was suspended in London, and
aiost of the players scattered off into the country, by reason
of the plague ; nor was it till the 9th of April following that
the city authorities received from the Court an order " to
permit and suffer the three companies of players to the King,
the Queen, and the Prince, publicly to exercise their plays
in their several usual houses for that purpose." It appeai-s,
however, that Shakespeare was in London in October, 1603 ;
for on the 20th of that month the wife of Edward Alleyn
wrote to her husbai.d, then in the country, of her having
seen him. The letter is in some places defaced, so that the
words cannot be made out ; but a part of it has been given
as follows : " About us the sickness doth cease, and likely
more and more, by God's help, to cease. All the companies
be come home, and well, for aught we know. . . . About
a week ago there came a youth, who said he was Mr. Fran-
cis Chaloner's man, who would have borrowed £10, to have
bought things for ... and said he was known unto you,
and Mr. Shakespeare of the Globe, who caine . . . said he
knew him not, only he heard of him that he was a rogue,
... so he was glad we did not lend him the money. . . .
Richard Jones went to seek and inquire after the fellow, and
said he had lent him a horse. I fear me he gulled him,
thaagh he gulled not us. The youth was a pretty youth,
and handsome in apparel : we know not what became of
him."

Meanwhile, the King did not forget his players. During
some part of the winter he kept his Court at Wilton, which
was the seat of William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke ; and
the accounts of the Treasurer of the Chamber show an entry

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXXSV

of £30 paid to John Heminge " for the pains and expenses
of himself and the rest of his company, in coming from
Mortlake in the county of Surrey unto the Court, and there
presenting before his Majesty one play on the 2d of De'iem
her, by way of his Majesty's reward." In the Christmas
season following, Shakespeare and his fellows presented six
plays before the King and Prince at Hampton Court, receiv-
ine twenty nobles for each play. And the accounts just
quoted from have an entry, February 8th, 1604, of £32 as
" his Majesty's free gift to Richard Burbage, for the main-
tenance and relief of himself and the rest of his company ; "
they not being allowed, from fear of the plague, to play pub-
licly in or near London, " till it should please God to settle
the city in a more perfect health." The next Christmas sea-
son, in 1604—5, it appears from the Accounts of the Revels
at Court, that no less than eleven plays, seven of them being
Shakespeare's, were performed by the same company, " in
the Banqueting-House at Whitehall." Of these seven, one
was Measure for Measure, which is here met with for the
fiist time; tin. other six were Othello, The Merry Wives of
Windsor, The Comedy of Errors, Love's Labour's Lost, King
Henry V., and The Merchant of Venice. On the 21st of
January, £60 were paid " to John Heminge, one of hia
Majesty's players, for the pains and expenses of himself and
the rest of his company, in presenting six plays before his
Majesty."

This seems a proper place for introducing a statement that
first appeared in Lintot's edition of Shakespeare's Poems,
1710: "That most learned Prince, and great patron of
learning, King James the First, was pleased with his own
hand to write an amicable letter to Mr. Shakespeare ; which
lettei, tnough now lost, remained long in the hands of Sir
William Davenant, as a credible person now living can testi-
fy." We " like not the security." Dr. Farmer conjectured
that the letter might have been written by way of return foi
the compliment paid to the Stuart family in Macbeth. Prob-

CXXXVI THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

ably the conjecture may as well be left, along with the lettet
tself, to the credulity or incredulity of the reader. Some-
what more of credit may be due to an epigram copied by
MA Collier from " a coeval manuscript " in his possession :

" SHAKKSPKARK ON THE KINO.

" Crowns have their compass, length of days their date
Triumphs their tomb, felicity her fate :
Of nought but earth can earth make us partaker,
But knowledge makes a king most like his Maker."

Mr. Collier adds, — " We have seen these lines hi more than
one other old manuscript ; and, as they were constantly at-
tributed to Shakespeare, and are in no respect unworthy of
his pen, we have little doubt of their authenticity."

On the 30th of January, 1604, Samuel JJaniel, one of the
smaller stars, but yet a star, in that constellation of poets
that shed such lustre on the age, was appointed Master of
the Queen's Revels. Soon after, he wrote to Lord Elles-
mere a letter thanking him for the appointment ; in which
we have the following : " I cannot but know that I am less
deserving than some that sued by other of the nobility unto
her Majesty for this room. If Mr. Drayton, my good friend,
had been chosen, I should not have murmured, for sure I am
he would have filled it most excellently ; but it seemeth to
mine humble judgment, that one who is the author of plays
now daily presented on the public stages of London, and the
possessor of no small gams, and moreover himself an actor
in the King's company of comedians, could not with reason
pretend to be the Master of the Queen's Majesty's Revels,
forasmuch as he would sometimes be asked to approve and
allow of his own writings. Therefore he, and more of like
quality, cannot justly be disappointed, because, through
your Honour's gracious interposition, the chance was haply
mine."

The allusion here is clearly to Shakespeare. And we thus
learn that he was at the time one of the King's company,
and that he, or others for him, had made some interest t«

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CXXXVII

gfit the place which fell to Daniel. The children, formerh
known as the choir-boys of the Chapel Royal, had lateh
been taken into the Queen's service as a set of juvenile play-
ers, and the duties of the office in question were, to super-
intend their performances, and appoint what thev should
perform. The place was probably sought by Shakespeare
in the purpose of retiring from the stage. As Master of
the Queen's Revels, he would of course have borne in cer-
tain matters the royal authority, and been brought into
frequent personal intercourse with Majesty. It was most
likely his position as an actor, and not as an author, that
worked against his wish in this particular ; and perhaps the
lines quoted from Davies' Scourge of Folly in our third
Chapter had reference to his failing of the appointment :

"Hadst thou not play'd some kingly parts in sport,
- Thou hadst been a companion for a king,
And been a king among the meaner sort."

In another poem entitled Humour's Heaven on Earth, 1609.
Davies alludes to certain " stage-players," and to Fortune's
treatment of them, thus :

" Some follow'd her by acting all men's parts j
These on a stage she rais'd (in scorn) to fall,
And made them mirrors by their acting arts.
Wherein men saw their faults, though ne'er so small ;
Yet some she guerdon'd not to their deserts."

In a marginal note he gives " W. S., R. B.'' as the initials
of those whom Fortune had not duly rewarded ; which ini-
tials clearly point to William Shakespeare and Richard Bur-
bage as the persons meant."

* The same writer, in his Microcosmus, 1603, has the following
lines, wherein allusion is made, apparently, to the Poet's cxi. th
Sonnet, though the latter had not then been printed ;

« Players, I love ye and your quality,
As ye are men that pastime not abus'd ;
And some 1 love for painting poesy,
And say fell Fortune cannot be excus'd,
That halh for better uses you retHM ;

iXXXViii THE LIFE OF SHAK.L.S1 EAKK.

At what time the Poet carried into effect his purpose of
retirement, ts not precisely known. Tint, his powers as an
actor were not equal to his ambition of excellence, is evident
enough from his Sonnet xxix. And the Sonnets ex. and
cxi. reveal in unmistakeable language how keenly he felt the
disrepute that adhered to his calling, and how earnestly he
longed to be clear of it. His name is found as one of the
actors in Ben Jonson's Sejanus, in 1603. Jonson's Volpone
was brought out at the Globe in 1605, and Shakespeare's
name does not occur among the actors. We have seen th i *
on the 9th of April, 1604, the city authorities received an
order from Court to permit the players to resume their per-
formances in London. A copy of this paper has been found
among the relics preserved at Dulwich College, and append-
ed to it is a list of the King's company at that date, in the
following order : " Bu/bage, Shakespeare, Fletcher, Phillips,
Condell, Heminge, Armyn, Slye, Cowley, Ostler, Day."
Augustine Phillips, who ranked well as a comic actor, died
in May, 1605 ; and in his will he bequeathed " a thirty-shil-
lings piece of gold " to Shakespeare as one of his " friends
and fellows ; " but this need not infer that the Poet still
kept up a fellowship with him on the stage. Heminge and
Condell, in their Dedication of the folio of 1623, say they
have collected the plays, " only to keep the memory of so
worthy a friend and fellow alive, as was our Shakespeare."

On the whole, there can be little question that the Poet
ceased to be an actor in the summer of 1604. In the fol-
lowing winter the company got into trouble by bringing im-

Wit, courage, good shape, good parts, and all goo ,
As long as all these goods are no worse us'd :
And though the stage doth stain pure gentle blood,
Yet generous ye are in mind and mood."

Here again, in a marginal note to the third line, he gives " W. S.,
R B." as the initials of the persons meant. Davies was a man
of pure character and conversation ; so that his testimony is ex
ceedingly valuable as regards the morals and manners of the great
Poet and great actor.

THE LIFE OV SHAKESPEARE. CXXX1X

proper and offensive matters upon the stage ; and their course
was such as strongly to infer that his sound discretion and
great influence had been withdrawn.

Up to this time, besides the plays already mentioned,
Measure for Measure is the only one that is certainly known
to have been written. Nevertheless, we have very little
doubt that Troilus and Oressida, Timon of Athens, and Julius
Caesar were then in being, though probably not all of them
in the shape they now bear. Reckoning these four, we have
twenty-nine of the plays written when the Poet was forty
years of age, and had been in the work but about eighteen
years ! Time, indeed, has left us few traces of the process,
but what a magnificent treasure of results ! If Shakespeare
had done no more, he would have stood the greatest intel-
lect of the world. How all alive must those eighteen years
have been with the most intense and varied exertion ! His
quick discernment, his masterly tact, his grace of manners,
and his fertility of expedients would needs make him the soul
of the establishment : doubtless the light of his eye and the
life of his hand were hi all its movements and plans. Be-
sides, the compass and accuracy of information displayed in
his writings prove him to have been, for that age, a profound
and voluminous student of books. Portions of classical and
of continental literature were accessible to him in transla-
tions. Nor are we without strong reasons for believing that,
in addition to his " small Latin and less Greek," he found
or made time, amidst all his other labours, to form a toler-
able reading acquaintance with Italian and French. Chau-
cer, too, " the day-star," and Spenser, " the sunrise," of
English poetry, were pouring then- beauty round his walks,
From all these, and from the growing richness and abun-
dance of contemporary literature, his all-gifted and all-grasp-
ing mind no doubt greedily took in and quickly digested
whatever was adapted to please bis taste, or enrich his in-
tellect, or assist his art.

Some question has been made, whether Shakespeare were

Cz THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE-

a member of the celebrated convivial club established by Sn
Walter Raleigh, and which held its sessions at the Mermaid-
tavern. And, sure enough, we have no fact or authority
that dii sctly certifies his membership of that choice institu-
tion ; though there are divers things inferring it so strongly
as to leave no reasonable doubt on the subject. His con-
vivialities certainly ran hi that circle of wits several of whon?
are directly known to have belonged to it ; and among them
all ihere was not one whose then acknowledged merits gave
him a better title to its privileges. Gifford, speaking of this
merry parliament of genius at the Mermaid, says, — " Here,
for many years, Ben Jonson repaired, with Shakespeare,
Beaumont, Fletcher, Selden, Cotton, Carew, Martin, Donne,
and many others, whose names, even at this distant period,
call up a mingled feeling of reverence and respect."

It does not, indeed, necessarily follow from Shakespeare's
facility and plenipotence of wit in writing, that he could shine
at those extempore " flashes of merriment that were wont
to set the table on a roar." But, besides the natural in-
ference that way, we have the statement of honest Aubrey,
that " he was very good company, and of a very ready and
pleasant smoothe wit." Francis Beaumont, who was a
prominent member of this jovial senate, and to whom Shir-
ley applies the fine hyperbolism that " he talked a comedy,"
was born in 1586, and died in 1615. We cannot doubt that
he had our Poet, among others, in his eye when he wrote
those celebrated lines to Ben Jonson, which are not so * el]
known but that they must be quoted here :

'• Methinks, the little wit 1 bad is lost
Since I saw you ; for wit is like a rest
Held up at tennis, which men do the best
With the best gamesters. What things have we sees
Done at (he Mermaid! heard words that have been
So nimble, and so full of subtile flame,
As if that every one from whence they came
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
And had resolv'd to live a fool the rest
Of his dull life ; then, when there hath been thrown
Wit able eD<ju<jh to justify the town

YHC LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. cxll

For three days past; wit, that might warrant be

For the whole city to talk foolishly

Till that were cancell'd : and, when that was gone,

We left an air behind us, which alone

Was able to make the two next companies

Right witty j though but downright fools, mere wise."

Thomas Fuller, though not bom till 1608, was afterwaida
acquainted with some of the old Mermaid wits, and wrote a
qood part of his Worthies of England before the murder cf
King Charles, in 1649. In his Worthies of Warwickshire,
we have the following, which is worth quoting more fully
than has commonly been done :

" William Shakespeare was born at Stratford-on-Avon in
this county ; in whom three eminent poets may seem in
some sort to be compounded. 1. Martial, in the warlike
sound of his surname, (whence some may conjecture him of
a military extraction,) Hasti-vibrans, or Shake-speare. 2
Ovid, the most natural and witty of all poets. 3. Plautus,
who was an exact comedian, yet never any scholar, as our
Shakespeare, if alive, would confess himself. Add to all
these, that, though his genius generally was jocular, and in-
clined him to festivity, yet he could, when so disposed, be
solemn and serious, as appears by his tragedies: so that
Heraclitus himself (1 mean if secret and unseen) might af-
ford to smile at his comedies, they were so merry ; and
Democritus scarce forbear to sigh at his tragedies, they were
so mournful.

" He was an eminent instance of the truth of that rule,
Poeta non fit, sed nascitur, (one is not made but born a
poet.) Indeed his learning was very little ; so that, as Cor-
nish diamonds are not polished by any lapidary, but are
pointed ir-d smoothed even as they are taken out of the
earth, so Nature itself was all the art which was used upon
him.

" Many were the wit-combats betwixt him and Ben Joa-
son ; which two I behold like a Spanish great galleon and
an SagUsh man-of-war. Master Jonson, like the formei

CXlll THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

was built far higher in learning ; solid, hut slow, in his per-
formances : Shakespeare, with the English man-of-war, lesser
in hulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack
about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of
his wit and invention."

Of these wit-combats, no relics worthy of much credit
have survived, though divers tilings have from time to time
been given out as specimens.7 Probably the reputation of
the parties for wit has caused many old jokes to be passed
off in their names. And indeed, in the best flashes of ex-
tempore wit, so much of the effect depends on the character
and manner of the speaker, that the matter will scarce bear
repeating. We will close the subject and the Chapter with
a part of Herrick's "Ode for Ben Jonson," published in
1648:

"Ah Ben!

Say how, or when.

Shall we tby guests

Meet at those lyric feasts,

Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the Triple Tun 7

Where we such clusters had,

As made us nobly wild, not mad ;

And yet each verse of thine
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine."

' We subjoin two or three of these "specimens," just for <*
taste. The point of the first is explained in that lattin was a me
tallic compound somewhat resembling tin. See The Merry Wives
of Windsor, Act i. sc. 1, note 19.

Shakespeare was God-father to one of Ben Jonson's children ;
and after the christening, being in a deep study, Jonson came to
cheer him up, and asked him why he was so melancholy. — "No
faith, Ben," says he, •• not I ; but I have been considering a great
while what should be the fittest gift for me to bestow upon my God-
child, and I have resolved at last." — "I pr'ythee, what ? " says
pe. " I' faith, Ben, I'll e'en give him a dozen Latin spoons, and
thou shall translate them."

Verses by Ben Jonson and Shakespeare occasioned by the mot
to to the Globe theatre — Totus mundus agit histrionem :

Jonson. If but stage-actors all the world displays,

Where shall we find spectators of their plays t

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARF

CHAPTER V.

SHAKESPEARE IN RETIREMENT. — HIS DEATH

HIS WILL.

THE Poet retained his interest in theatricals, and spent
much, perhaps the most, of his time in London, for several
years after ceasing to be an actor. The Rev. John Ward,
who became vicar of Stratford-on-Avon in 1662, tells us, in
a passage to be quoted more fully hereafter, that Shake-
speare " frequented the plays all his younger time, but in
his elder days lived at Stratford, and supplied the stage with
two plays every year." That the vicar's information was in
all points literally correct, is not at all likely ; but there can
be no doubt that Shakespeare continued to write for the
stage after his retirement from it ; and that, though for
some years spending a large part of his time in the metrop-
olis, he nevertheless " lived at Stratford."

Our previous reckonings have left eight of his plays to be
set down as the dramatic fruits of his retirement. Of these,
Macbeth was probably written in 1605 or 1606, though we
have no certain notice of it till April, 1610, when Forman
paw it performed at the Globe. An entry at the Stationers'
ascertains that King Lear was acted before the King at
Whitehall on the 26th of December, 1606. That mighty

Shakespeare. Little, or much of what we see, we do ;
We are both actors and spectators too.

Ben Jonson and Shakespeare were once at a tavern-club where
there were several lords from the Court, who came to hear their
wit and conversation. Shakespeare call'd upon Ben Jonson to
give a toast ; he nam'd that lord's wife, who sat near him : the
nobleman demanded why he nam'd her. '' Why not 1 " replied
the Poet ; " she has the qualifications of a toast, being both brown
and dry : " which answer made them all laugh, his lordship haT
ing been obliged to marry her against his inclinations.

CXllV THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

drama was then, most likely, fresh from the Poet's liand.
Three editions of it were made, evidently without the au-
thor's consent, in 1608 ; and the manner in which his name
was printed shows that his reputation was still on the in-
crease. The first probable information that we have of An-
tony and Cleopatra is by an entry at the Stationers' in May,
1608. The texture of the workmanship is such as to infer
that this wonderful play was then in its first transports of
success. We learn from Forman's Diary, that Cymbeline
was performed some time between April, 1610, and May,
1611, the precise date not being given. The same Diary
notes the performance of The Winter's Tale on the 15th of
May, 1611 ; while the accounts of the Master of the Revels
show that The Tempest and The Winter's Tale were acted
at Whitehall by " the King's players," on the 1st and 5th
of November, 1611. King Henry VlJI. is not heard of till
the burning of the Globe theatre, June 29th, 1613, when it
is spoken of as " a new play." The only remaining one is
Coriolanus, which is not heard of at all till after the Poet's
death : nor has the play itself any allusions whereon to ground
a probable inference or argument as to when it was written ;
though we have little doubt that it grew into being not far
from the same time as King Henry V11L ; whether before
or after, we cannot even conjecture.

Besides these eight plays written within the period in
question, it is highly probable that several of the others
were revised. Troilus and Cressida went through two edi-
tions in 1609, and in an address prefixed to the first of them
the publisher as good as acknowledges the copy to have been
stolen. He also calls it " a new play never stal'd with t he
stage ; " but as he pretty much owns himself a thief, or at
least a partaker in the fruits of theft ; and as a " Troilus and
Cressida, as it is acted by my Lord Chamberlain's men,"
was entered at the Stationers' in February, 1603 ; the prob-
ability is, that he either said what he knew to be false, or
pise that the play had then been newly rewritten. Pericles,

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. CX\V

also, was printed in 1609, having been entered at the Sta-
tioners' along with Antony and Cleopatra, in May, 1608.
That some parts of this play were rewritten at or about that
time, is hardly questionable. Nor can we easily believe that
the Poet could have put into Othello all the power it now
has, so early as 1602. The same year, also, the Sonnets,
for the first time, appeared in print. These, we have no
doubt, were written at widely different times, and without
any continuity of purpose or occasion ; some of them, in-
deed, as expressions of personal feeling, but most of them
merely as exercises of fancy or specimens of art. All these
points are but touched here, being dwelt upon at length in
our several Introductions.

It would seem, that after this time the Poet's reputation
did not mount any higher during his life. A new generation
of dramatists was then rising into favour, who, with some
excellences derived from him, united gross vices of their own,
which, however, were well adapted to captivate the popular
taste. Moreover, King James himself, notwithstanding his
liberality of patronage, was essentially a man of loose mor-
als and low tastes ; and it can scarce be doubted that his
taking so much to Shakespeare at first grew more from the
pxiblic voice than from bis own preference. Before the
Poet's death, we may trace the beginnings of that corruption
which, rather stimulated than discouraged by puritan bigot*
ry and fanaticism, reached its height some seventy years
later ; though its course was for a while arrested by the in-
fluence and example of that truly royal gentleman and
scholar, King Charles the First, who, whatever else may be
said of him, was unquestionably a man of as high and ele-
gant tastes in literature and art, as England could boast of
in his time. His mind had taken its first and deepest im-
pressions from that older school, and the good seed had been
sown in a pure and generous soil.

The next that we hear of Shakespeare as having a hand
in stage-affairs, is in connection with an attempt to dislodge

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

the Blackfriars theatre. The London authorities had alwayi
been hostile to that establishment, which was but a little over
the acknowledged line of their jurisdiction. It seems they
had applied to Sir Henry Montague, then Attorney-General,
who sustained their claim of jurisdiction in that precinct.
The question appears to have come in some shape before
Lord Chancellor Ellesmere, who required proofs of their
right ; but, such proof as they brought being deemed insuf-
ficient by the highest judicial authority, the case went against
them. Unable to oust the concern by legal means, the city
authorities, it appears, then undertook to buy it up. With
a view to this purchase, an estimate was drafted of the sev-
eral interests held in the establishment ; •which draft, or a
copy of it, has lately been found among the Ellesmere
papers.

From this document it appears that the whole property,
besides the freehold and furnishings, was divided into twenty
shares, each of which was alleged to yield an annual profit
of £33 6s. 8d. Reckoning these profits at seven years' pur-
chase, they made the value of each share £233 6s. 8d. Bur-
bage owned the freehold, which he rated at £ 1000, and four
shares; the whole amounting to £1933 6*. 8d. Shake-
speare held the wardrobe and furniture, which he rated at
£500, and four shares; £1433 6s. 8rf. : Fletcher, three
shares ; £700 : Heminge and Condell, two shares each ;
£933 6s. Sd. : Taylor and Lowin, each a share and a half;
£700 : four others, each half a share ; £466 13s. 4rf. : in
all, £6166 13s. 4d. The estimate concludes thus: "More-
over, the liired men of the company demand some recom-
pence for their great loss, and the widows and orphans of
players, who are paid by the sharers at divers rates and pro-
portions ; so as in the whole it will cost the Lord Mayor and
the citizens at least £7000."

In connection with this attempt, we have another most
interesting paper, likewise found not long since in the Elles-
mere collection. It purports to be a transcript of a lettet

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Cxlvii

written by the Earl of Southampton to some nobleman, in
behalf of the players interested in ihe Blackfriars, generally,
and of Shakespeare and Burbage in particular. Mr. Collier,
to whom we owe the discovery of it, remarks upon it as fol-
lows : " We may conclude that the original was not ad-
dressed to Lord Ellesmere, or it would have been found in
the depository of his papers, and not merely a transcript of
it ; but a copy may have been furnished to the Lord Chan-
cellor, in order to give him some information respecting the
characters of the parties upon whose cause he was called
upon to decide. That it was not sent to him by Lord South-
ampton, who probably was acquainted with him, may afford
a proof of the delicacy of the Earl's mind, who would not
seem directly to interpose while a question of the sort was
pending before a judge." The paper is without date, but
the contents preclude any doubt as to the occasion which
elicited it We subjoin it in full, merely adding that it has
Copia vera written at the bottom : '

" My very honoured Lord : The many good offices I have
received at your Lordships' hands, which ought to make me
backward in asking further favours, only imboldeneth me to
require more in the same kind. Your Lordship will be
warned how hereafter you grant any suit, seeing it draweth
on more and greater demands.

" This which now presseth is to request your Lordship, in
all you can, to be good to the poor players of the Black-
friars, who call themselves by authority the servants of his
Majesty, and ask for the protection of their most gracious
master and sovereign in this the time of their trouble. They

1 Mr. Knight seems to think it strange that a copia vera should
want date and signature, but there is nothing very remarkable in
such a circumstance. In the Library of the Society of Antiqua-
ries, No. 201, Art. 3, is preserved " a copye of the comyssion of
sewers in the countye of Kent," marked as vera copia, and, sin-
gularly enough, written apparently by the same hand that copied
the letter of H. S. — HALLIWELL.

C.vlviii THE LIFK OK SHAKRSPEARK.

are threatened by the Lord Mayor and Aldermen of Lon-
don, never friendly to their calling, with the destruction of
their means of livelihood, by the pulling down of their play
Louse, which ia t private theatre, and hath never given oc-
casion of anger by any disorders.

" These bearers are two of the chief of the company ; one
of them by name Richard Burbage, who humbly sueth for
your 1 .ordship's kind help ; for that he is a man famous as
o:ir English Roscius ; one who fitteth the action to the word,
and the word to the action, most admirably. By the exer-
cise of his quality, industry, and good behaviour, he hath
become possessed of the Blackfriars play-house, which hath
been employed for plays sit hence it was builded by his fa-
ther, now near fifty years agone.

" The other is a man no whit less deserving favour, and
my especial friend ; till of late an actor of good account in
the company, now a sharer in the same, and writer of some
of our best English plays, which, as your Lordship knoweth,
were most singularly liked of Queen Elizabeth, when the
company was called upon to perform before her Majesty at
Court, at Christmas and Shrovetide. His most gracious
Majesty King James, also, since his coming to the crown,
hath extended his royal favour to the company in divers
ways and at sundry times. This other hath to name AVil-
liarn Shakespeare ; and they are both of one county, and
indeed almost of one town : both are right famous in their
qualities, though it longeth not of your Lordship's graviu
and wisdom to resort unto the places where they are wont
to delight the public ear. Their trust and suit now is, not
to be molested in their way of life, whereby they maintain
themselves and their wives and families, (being both married
and of good reputation,) as well as the widows and orphans
of some of then- dead fellows.*

" Your Lordship's most bounden at command,
• Copia vera. H. S."

M Hunter bas laboured strenuously to impugn not on!)

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

We have seen that in the estimate of the Blackfriars
property each share was reckoned worth £33 6*. 8d. a year.
As Shakespeare had four shares, these would give him an
annual income of £133 6s. 8d. To this Mr. Collier adds
£50 a year for the use of the wardrobe and furniture ; mak-
ing £183 6s. 8d. It is altogether likely that the Poet held
at least an equal interest in the Globe ; for it appears by a
paper found at Dulwieh College, that in April, 1609, " Mr.
Shakespeare" was assessed six-pence a week towards the
relief of the poor in Southwark. This was the largest sum
paid by any on the list : Henslowe and Alleyn were rated at
the same ; while Lowin, another of the Globe players, was
rated at two-pence a week. It is not certain, indeed, but
this assessment of the Poet may have been for other prop-
erty in that quarter ; but there are very strong grounds for
thinking that it was for his interest in the Globe : for he was

this, but the other Shakespeare papers in the Ellesmere collec
tion. On the other hand, Mr. Halliwell, in his Life of the Poet,
vindicates them, gives a fac-simile of that part of the Southamp-
ton letter which relates to Shakespeare, and avows the belief that
it " will suffice to convince any one acquainted with such matters,
that it is a genuine manuscript of the period." He adds the fol-
lowing : " No forgery of so long a document could present so per-
fect a continuity of design ; yet it is right to state that grave doubts
have been thrown on its authenticity. It is of importance to decide
upon the character of this paper, for on the degree of credit we
may give to it depends the value of the other manuscripts reJating
to Shakespeare in the same collection ; and it would be satisfac.
tory were Mr. Collier to furnish the public with fac-simile copies of
all of them. At the same time, it must be admitted, in fairness to
Mr. Collier, that, when the doubt of their authenticity was raised,
he produced the letter of H. S., the one most severely attacked,
before a council of the Shakespeare Society, and several compe-
tent judges, including Mr. Wright, fully concurred in believing it
to be genuine. Mr. Hunter has systematically argued against the
authority of all the Shakespearian documents found by Mr. Collier
in Lord Ellesmere's collection ; but how much reliance is to be
placed on his conclusions, may be inferred from the fact, that the
paper of the spuriousness of which he is most positive is preserved,
not in that nobleman's library, but in the archives of the city of
London, enrolled in books unquestionably authentic. 1 refer to tfca
paper relating to Kemp and Armin."

Ci THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

unquestionably a leading sharer in that theatre ; moreover,
the register of the parish shows that in 1601 the church-
wardens were " to talk with the players " in regard to mak
ing contributions for that purpose ; and when the Fortune
was about to be built, in 1600, the inhabitants of Cripple-
gate petitioned the Privy Council in favour of the undertak-
ing, one of their reasons being, that " the erectors were con-
tented to give a very liberal portion of money weekly to-
wards the relief of the poor." To all which must be added
that, except the Globe, we do not elsewhere hear of any
other property owned by Shakespeare at that time in the
parish of St. Saviour.

Allowing the assessment to be on account of the theatre,
this would infer his interest in that concern to be prettj
large. So that we may set it down as certainly not less than
that in the Blackfriars, which would make his annual income
to be £366 13*. 4rf. Mr. Collier says, — "Taking every
known source of emolument into view, we consider £400 a
year the very lowest amount at which his income can be
reckoned in 1608." This would be, for all practical pur-
poses, nearly or quite as good as $10.000 in our tune.

The justness of this estimate is strongly approved by an-
other discovery lately made in the State-paper Office. On
the 19th of March, 1619, John Chamberlaine wrote to Sir
Dudley Carlton, then Ambassador at the Hague. In his
letter, after mentioning the death of Queen Anne, he adds
the following : " The funeral is put off to the 29th of the
next month, to the great hindrance of our players, which
are forbidden to play so long as her body is above ground :
one special man among them, Burbage, is lately dead, and
hath left, they say, better than £300 land." The funeral of
Burbage took place at St. Leonard's, Shoreditch, on the 16th
of March, 1619. In his will, made the 15th, he said noth-
ing about the amount of his wealth, but merely left his wife
Winifred lu's sole executrix. Mr. Collier thinks " there can
be no doubt that the correspondent o? Sir Dudley Carlton

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. cli

was correct in his information, and that Burbage died worth
'better than' £300 a year in land, besides his 'goods and
chattels ; ' and we have every reason to suppose that Shake-
speare was in quite as good if not better circumstances."

Further evidence of the point is furnished by a curious
passage from a tract entitled " Ratsey's Ghost, or the Sec-
ond Part of his mad Pranks and Robberies." The tract was
printed about 1606, and the allusion is clearly to Shakespeare
or Burbage, or, more likely, both. Ratsey was a noted high-
wayman, executed in 1605, who is here represented as pay-
ing some strolling players £2 for acting before him, then
overtaking them on the road, and robbing them of it ; where-
upon he gives them advice :

"And for you, sirrah, says he to the chiefest of them,
thou hast a good presence upon a stage ; methinks, thou
darkenest thy merit by playing in the country : get thee to
London, for, if one man were dead, they will have much
need of such as thou art. There would be none, in my
opinion, fitter than thyself to play his parts : my conceit is
such of thee, that I durst all the money in my purse on thy
head, to play Hamlet with him for a wager. There thou
ehalt learn to be frugal, (for players were never so thrifty as
they are now about London,) and to feed upon all men ; to
let none feed upon thee ; to make thy hand a stranger to
thy pocket, thy heart slow to perform thy tongue's promise ;
and, when thou feelest thy purse well lined, buy thee some
place of lordship in the country; that, growing weary of
playing, thy money may there bring thee to dignity and rep-
utation : then thou needest care for no man ; no, not for
them that before made thee proud with speaking their words
on the stage. — Sir, I thank you, quoth the player, for this
good counsel : I promise you, I will make use of it ; for I
have heard indeed of some that have gone to London very
meanly, and have come in time to be exceeding wealthy."

We have already seen that soon after the accession of
James the choir-boys of the Chapel became " the Children

Clii THE LIFE OF SHAKF.SPEARE.

of the Queen's Revels." It seems that for some years they
had been accustomed to act as a company of players at the
Blackfriars ; probably in the summer only, when the owners
of that theatre were acting at the Globe. The last notice
we have of our Poet as connected with theatrical matters, is
in a royal warrant appointing and authorising " Robert Da-
borne, William Shakespeare, Nathaniel Field, and Edward
Kirkham, from time to time to provide and bring up a con-
venient number of children, and them to instruct and exer-
cise in the quality of playing tragedies, comedies, &c., !>y
the name of the Children of the Revels to the Queen, with-
in the Blackfriars, in our city of London, or elsewhere with-
in our realm of England." This wan-ant is dated January
4tn, 1610, and at the foot of it is written " stayed ; " which
infers that it was not immediately carried into effect ; prob-
ably, at least as regards Shakespeare, it never was. Why
the appointment was designed to him, we have no knowl-
edge ; possibly he may have sought it, with a view to some
profitable employment when business or inclination detained
him in London.

A large and credible tradition assures that the Poet made,
for that time, frequent journeys between London and Strat-
ford, and that the Crown Inn at Oxford was his usual lodg-
mg-place. This tavern was then kept by John Davenant,
father of Sir William. Our oldest authority in the matter
is Anthony Wood, who, speaking of Sir William Davenant,
has the following : " His mother was a very beautiful woman,
of a good wit and conversation, in which she was imitated by
none of her children but this William. The father, who was
a very grave and discreet citizen, yet an admirer and lover
of plays and play-makers, especially Shakespeare, who fre-
quented his house in his journeys between Warwickshire and
London, was of a melancholic disposition, and was seldom
or never seen to laugh, in which he was imitated by none of
his children but by Robert his eldest son, afterwards fellow
of St. John's College, and a venerable doctor of divinity."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. cliii

Sii William Davenant was horn in 1600. Audrey repeats
tlie story just quoted, and, as might be expected, adds some
rather significant embellishments, to the effect that Shake-
Bpeare was believed to be the father of Sir William, and that
Sir William encouraged this belief, as preferring the credit
of such a descent to that of an humbler but honest pedigree.
Oldys gives the tale with yet other variations, thus : " !f
tradition may be trusted, Shakespeare 'often baited at the
Crown Inn or Tavern in Oxford, in his journeys to and from
London. The landlady was a woman of great beauty and
sprightly wit, and her husband, Mr. John Davenant, after-
wards mayor of that city, a grave melancholy man ; who, as
well as his wife, used much to delight in Shakespeare's
pleasant company. Their son, young Will Davenant, after-
wards Sir William, was then a little school-boy in the town,
of about seven or eight years old, and so fond also of Shake-
speare, that whenever he heard of his arrival he would fly
from school to see him. One day, an old townsman, ob-
serving the boy running homeward almost out of breath,
asked him whither he was posting in that heat and hurry.
He answered, to see his God-father, Shakespeare. There's
a good boy, said the other ; but have a care that you don't
take God's name in vain. This story Mr. Pope told me at
the Earl of Oxford's table, upon occasion of some discourse
which arose about Shakespeare's monument then newly
erected in Westminster Abbey ; and he quoted Mr. Better-
ton the player for his authority. I answered, that 1 thought
such a story might have enriched the variety of those choice
Emits of observations he has presented us in his preface to
the edition he had published of our Poet's works. He re-
plied, there might be in the garden of mankind such planta
as would seem to pride themselves more in a regular pro-
duction of their own native fruits, than in having the repute
of bearing a richer kind by grafting ; and this was the rea-
son he omitted it."

Warton, also, tells us " it was always a constant tradition

CllV THE LIFE O* SHAKESPEARt.

in Oxford, that Shakespeare was the father of Davenant the
poet." Nevertheless, we do not attach any credit to the
story. The anecdote is often met with, under different names,
in old jest-books ; and the probability is, that in this case
the beauty and sprightliness of the mother, the gravity and
discreetness of the father, and the pleasure they both took
in the Poet's conversation, caused them to be fixed upon for
giving the tale a " local habitation and a name." 3

Hitherto, ihr Poet has been overtaken in business trans-
actions rather oftener than in poeticaL His latter years fur-
nish about the usual proportion of similar notices. The
Stratford records show that in March, 1610, he instituted a
legal process against John Addenbrook for the recovery of
a small debt Return being made that Addenbrook was
not to be found within the borough, Shakespeare, in June
following, proceeded against Thomas Horneby, who had be-
come bail for him, and it is to be hoped he got his money.

We have seen that in May, 1602, Shakespeare purchased
of the Combes a hundred and seven acres of arable land in
Old Stratford. In the spring of 1611 a fine was levied on
this property, and it thereby appears that twenty acres of
pasture had been added to the original purchase. At what
time the addition was made, is nowhere stated. The fine
states the purchase money as £100, which Halliwell thinks
to be a mere legal fiction.

This seems a proper occasion for noticing an extempore
epitaph which the Poet is alleged to have made on John
Combe. Rowe states the occasion of these satirical verses,
and also gives a copy of them, as they had come down to him
by tradition. As the whole may be seen in our Introduction,

1 A boy, whose mother was noted to be one not overloden with
honesty, went to seeke his godfather, and. enquiring for him, quoth
one to him, who is thv godfather? The boy replied, his name is
goodman Dig-land the gardiner. Oh, said the man. if he be thy
godfather, he is at the next alehouse ; but I feare thou takest God's
name in vain. — Taylor's Workes. 1630.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARK. cb

it need :iot be repeated here. It seems but right, however,
to add Aubrey's version of the matter, which, as the reader
may see, differs a good deal from Howe's, and differs for the
worse: "One time, as Shakespeare was at the tavern at
Stratford, one Combes, an old rich usurer, was to be buried,
he makes there this extemporary epitaph :

•Ten in the hundred the devil allows,
But Combes will have twelve he swears and vows ;
If any one asks who lies in this tomb,
Ho! quoth the devil, 'tis my John a Combe1.'"

Here, again, it appears that an old poor conceit has been
fathered on the Poet ; Mr. Halliwell having shown that the
sorry stuff recorded by Aubrey and Rowe is often found,
under slightly-varied forms, in epigrammatical collections of
that time. Still the account given by Aubrey and Rowe is
probably so far right, that Shakespeare did make some verses
on Combe, though not those ascribed to him. For in 1634
three men, who describe themselves as " a captain, a lieu-
tenant, and an ancient, all three of the military company in
Norwich," took a journey through that part of England,
and made notes of what they saw : the manuscript is pre
served in the Lansdown collection ; and among the things
" worth observing " which they saw at Stratford, are men-
tioned " a neat monument of that famous English poet, Mr.
William Shakespeare, who was born here ; and one of an old
gentleman, a bachelor, Mr. Combe, upon whose name the
said Poet did merrily fan up some witty and facetious verses
which time would not give us leave to sack up." We have
cause to regret their lack of time ; though not so much that
the verses which Shakespeare did "fan up" might have
been rescued from loss, as that his name might have been
rescued from those which he did not. Mr. Hunter is prob-
ably right in supposing that the Poet's verses on the old
gentleman's "name" were "in the punning style of the
times, allusive to the double sense of the word Combe, a»
the name of a person, and also of a certain measure of

CM THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

corn," It is proper to add, that tradition has run divert
variations on the matter of the Combe epitaph, which are
too stupid to be worth copying, even if they were true. Ac-
cording to one of these variations, the Poet wrote a second
epitaph on John Combe, after his death, in which he tried to
make amends for the scurrility of the first. Another vari-
ation makes him to have written an epitaph also on Thomas
Combe, and this still more scurrilous than the former.

Thomas Combe was the nephew of John ; and it is worth
rioting that in both cases the satire is said to have stung the
men so severely that they never forgave it. So that the
whole scandal is sufficiently disposed of by the fact that
John Combe, at bis death, in 1614, left a legacy of £5 "to
Mr. William Shakespeare ; " and that when the latter died
he bequeathed to Mr. Thomas Combe his sword ; which
shows them to have died, as they had doubtless lived, on
friendly terms. As to the rest, John Combe appears by his
will, which is printed at length by Halliwell, to have been a
very upright and fair man : his wealth was indeed pretty
large ; but he left to the poor of Stratford £20, to those of
Warwick £5, and to those of Alcester £5 ; besides £100 to
be held in trust, and lent out on a small interest, which was
also for " the use of the alms folks," to " fifteen poor or
young tradesmen, occupiers, or handicraftsmen dwelling
within the borough of Stratford." He also made provision
for " a convenient tomb, of the value of three-score pounds."
The monument still remains, and on it are inscribed his ben-
efactions, which, though well-guarded, as they ought to be,
were decidedly handsome, not to say generous. His res-
idence was close by New Place, and there is no cause why
his name should be coupled with the Poet's but in terms of
respect.

About the time we are now upon, the Stratford people
seem to have been a good deal interested in " a bill in Par-
liament for the better repair of the highways, and amending
divers defects in the statutes already made : " funds wore

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. civil

14 collected towards the charge of prosecuting the bill ; " and
" Mr. William Shakespeare " is one of the names found in
a list of donations for that purpose, dated " Wednesday the
llth of September, 1611."

The probability is that after this time Shakespeare sa\»
hut little of the metropolis. Howe tells us " the latter part
of liis life was spent, as all men of sense will wish theirs may
be, in ease, retirement, and the conversation of his friends."
Still he was, like other men, not without his vexations. The
exact date does not appear, but about the end of 1612 he
was involved in a chancery suit respecting the tithes he had
bought in 1605. The plaintiffs in the case are described as
" Richard Lane, of Alveston, Esquire, Thomas Greene, of
Stratford-upon-Avon, Esquire, and William Shakespeare, of
Stratford-upon-Avon, gentleman." It seems that there was
a reserved rent on the lease of the tithes, and that, some of
the lessees refusing to pay their shares of this rent, a greater
proportion than was right fell upon Lane, Greene, and ShaKe-
speare ; who thereupon filed a bill before Lord Chancellor
Ellesmere, that the other lessees might be compelled to due
payment. The issue of the suit is not known ; but the draft
of the bill is valuable as showing the Poet's exact income
from the tithes : it was £60 a year.

The last pecuniary transaction of his that has come to
light was the purchase of a house with a small piece of
ground attached to it, in the neighbourhood of the Black-
friars theatre. The indenture of conveyance, preserved in
the archives of the London corporation, describes the prop-
erty as " abutting upon a street leading down to Puddle-
wharf on the east part, right against the King's Majesty's
Waidrobe," and the vendor as " Henry Walker, citizen and
minstrel, of London." It is dated March 10th, 1613, and
bears the Poet's signature, which shows that he was in Lon-
don at the time. The purchase-money was £ 14o, of which
£80 were paid down, and the premises mortgaged for the
remainder, the mortgage tc run till the 29th of Septembei

clviil THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

following. Why the purchase was made, does not appear ,
but, as John Heminge, William Johnson, and John Jackson
were parties to the transaction, Mr. Collier aptly conjectures
that the Poet advanced the £80 to them, expecting they
would refund it before the expiration of the mortgage ; but
as they did not do so, he paid the other £60, and the prop-
erty remained his.

On the 29th of June, the same year, the Globe theatre
was burnt down, and certain contemporary notices of the
event, which are quoted in our Introduction to the play, as-
certain that King Henry V1LL was in performance at the
time. As the conflagration was very rapid, giving the peo-
ple barely time to save themselves, it is likely that many of
the Poet's manuscripts perished, and perhaps some, of which
no copies were left. The theatre was soon rebuilt, and, as
Stowe informs us, " at the great charge of King James, and
many noblemen and others." The Poet is not traced aa
having any thing to do with the rebuilding of the establish-
ment ; but, if he suffered no loss himself, we may be sure
that he took a lively interest in the losses of his fellows, and
was forward to lend them a helping hand.

The summer following, he had a narrow escape from a
similar calamity at home. On the 9th of July, 1614, Strat-
ford was devastated by fire, to such an extent that the peo-
pie made an appeal to the nation ior relief. At the instance
of various gentlemen of the neighbourhood, the King issued
a brief in May, 1615, authorizing collections to be made in
the churches for the rebuilding of the town, and alleging
that fifty-four dwelling-houses had been destroyed, besides
much other property, amounting in all to upwards of £8000.
The result of the appeal is not known ; nor is it known whai
aifluence the Poet may have used towards procuring the
royal brief. With such friends as Southampton and Pem-
broke among the nobility, added to his own high position,
he could not want means of acting with effect on the Court,
and probably with the more effect, for being himself not
seen.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. cfix

The fall of 1614 finds Shakespeare in London using his
influence effectually in the cause of his fellow-citizens. It
seems that several persons had set on foot a project for in-
closing certain commons near Stratford, which the public
vere interested to keep open. The Pout had private rea-
sons, also, for bestirring himself in the matter, as the pro-
jected inclosure was likely to affect his interest in the leas«
of the tithes. A legal instrument, dated October 28th,
1614, is extant, whereby William Replingham binds him-
self to indemnify William Shakespeare and Thomas Greene
for any loss which they, in the judgment of certain referees,
may sustain in respect of the yearly value of the tithes they
jointly or severally hold, " by reason of any enclosure or de-
cay of tillage there meant or intended."

A few days after, Greene is found in London moving in
the business as clerk of the Stratford corporation. In some
notes of his made at the time, we have the following, dated
November 17th, 1614 : " My cousin Shakespeare coming yes-
terday to town, I went to see him, how he did. He told me
that they assured him they meant to inclose no further than
to Gospel-bush, and so up straight (leaving out part of the
dingles to the field) to the gate in Clopton hedge, and take
in Salisbury's piece ; and that they mean in April to survey
the land, and then to give satisfaction, and not before ; and
he and Mr. Hall say they think there will be nothing don?
at all."

Greene returned to Stratford soon after, and his notes,
which he continued to make, inform us that the corporation
had a meeting on the 23d of December, and sent letters to
Shakespeare and Mainwaring : " Letters written, one to Mr.
Mainwaring, another to Mr. Shakespeare, with almost all
the company's hands to either. I also writ myself to my
cousin Shakespeare the copies of all our acts, and then also
a note of the inconveniences that would happen by tne in-
closure." The letters to Shakespeare are lost : in that to
Mainwaring, which is preserved, the corporation urged ir

Clx THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

stiong terms the damage Stratford would suffer by tnu pro-
jected inclosure, and also the heavy loss the people had late-
ly sustained by fire. Mr. Arthur Mainwaring was a person
in the domestic service of Lord Chancellor Ellesmere, which
explains why he was written to in the matter. It is pretty
clear from these slight notices, that the corporation left the
care of their interests very much to Shakespeare, who had
approved himself a good hand at bringing things to pass in
actual life, as well as in ideal. The result was, an order
from Court not only forbidding the inclosure to proceed, but
peremptorily commanding that some steps already taken
should be forthwith retraced.

This Thomas Greene was an attorney of Stratford. The
origin and degree of his relationship to the Poet are not
known. The parish register of Stratford records the burial
of " Thomas Greene, alias Shakespeare," on the 6th of
March, 1590. Probably enough, the attorney of 1614 may
have been his son ; and the relationship between the two
families may furnish the true key to that remarkable ac-
quaintance which the Poet shows with the mysteries of the
Jaw.

Of this wonderful being, in whom all sorts of men botn
actual and possible seem to have been mysteriously wrapped
up, nothing further is known till his death. As evidence
how early began that profound homage to his genius, which
was to follow him as one who " was not of an age, but for
all time," we may worthily quote some verses of a poem
that first appeared in 1614, entitled The Ghost of Kicnard
the Third:

" To him that imp'd my fame with Clio's quill ;
Whose magic rais'd me from Oblivion's den ;
That writ my story on the Muses' hill,
And with my actions dignified his pen ;
He that from Helicon sends many a rill,
Whose neclar'd veins are drunk by thirsty men
Crown'd be his style with fame, his head with bayes,
And none detract, but gratulate his praise

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. cL»

" Ifct, if his scenes have not engross'd all grace
The much-fam'd action could extend on stage ;
If Time to Memory have left a place
For me to fill, t'inform this ignorant age ;
To that intent I show my horrid face,
Impress'd with fear and characters of rage:
Nor wits nor chronicles could e'er contain
The hell-deep reaches of my soundless brain."

The poem is divided into three parts, severally entitled Tbfc
Character, The Legend, and The Tragedy ; and these stan-
zas, wherein Richard is of course represented as telling hie
own story, are at the opening of the second part. The au-
thor gives only his initials, C. B., which are commonly
thought to stand for Charles Best ; though the poem is much
better than any thing else that came from Best. Be that as
it may, C. B. was certainly an author highly distinguished in
his time, as appears by the commendatory poems upon him
from such hands as Jonson, Chapman, Browne, and Wither.
Tradition makes the Poet to have been something of an
epitaph-writer in his latter years. Several specimens in thia
line are attributed to him, and one of them stands on such
testimony that we cannot well refuse it. This is an epitaph
on the tomb of Sir Thomas Stanley, in Tonge church, who
died in 1576. Dugdale, in his collection of monumental
inscriptions for the county of Salop, taken in 1663, gives a
copy of it, and states that " the following verses were made
by William Shakespeare, the late famous tragedian : "

'WRITTEN CPON THE EAST END OF THE TOMB.

' Ask who lies here, but do not weep ;
He is not dead, he doth but sleep :
This stony register is for his bones ;
His fame is more perpetual than these stones ;
And his own goodness, with himself being gone,
Shall live when earthly monument is none.'

"WRITTEN ON THE WEST END THEREOF

' Not monumental stone preserves our fame,
Nor sky-aspiring pyramids our name.

ftlxii THE LIFE Of SHAKESPEARE.

Tiie memory of him for whom this o-»nds
Shall outlive marble and defacers' hands .
When all to time's consumption shall he given,
Stanley, for whom this stands, shall stand in heaven ' "

We cannot say that we think these lines not unworthy of the
Poet : we would gladly have omitted them as spurious, but
that the authority seems too strong to be so dealt with. But
because Shakespeare could write Hamlet, it does not there-
fore follow that he could achieve any thing very superb when
his faculties were " cribb'd and cabin'd in " between the
terms of an epitaph. As for the others, they are still less
worthy of him, and, besides, have no such authority to force
their reception.

When, or to whom, the Poet parted with his theatrical
interests, we have no knowledge : that he did part with them,
may be probably, though not necessarily, concluded from his
not mentioning them in his will ; and, from the large pro-
ductiveness of such investments at that time, he would of
course have no difficulty in finding purchasers enough. We
have given Mr. Collier's estimate of his probable income af-
ter retiring from the stage : it appears certainly low enough.
This brings us to the passage promised some pages back
from Ward's Diary. A note at the end of the volume
informs us that " this book was begun February 14, 1661,
and finished April 25, 1663, at Mr. Brooks' house in Strat-
ford-upon-Avon." The passage in question is as follows :

"Shakespeare had but two daughters, one whereof Mr.
Hall, the physician, married, and by her had one daughter,
to wit, the Lady Barnard of Abingdon. — I have heard that
Mr. Shakespeare was a natural wit, without any art at all
He frequented the plays all his younger time, but in his
elder days hVd at Stratford, and supplied the stage with two
plays every year ; and for that had an allowance so large,
that he spent at the rate of £1000 a year, as I have heard.
— Shakespeare, Drayton, and Ben Jonson had a merry
meeting, and, it seems, drank too hard ; for Shakespeare

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

died of a fever there contracted. — Remember to peruse
Shakespeare's plays, and be versed in them, that I may not
be ignorant in that matter."

The only point in this, to be noticed now, is the Poet's
alleged expenditure. The honest and cautious vicar did
well, to add to his statement " as I have heard." That
Shakespeare kept up a liberal, not to say sumptuous, estab-
lishment, and was fond of entertaining his neighbours, and
still more his old associates, after a generous fashion, we can
well believe. But that he had £1000 a year to spend, or
would have spent it if he had, is not credible. Such a sum
at that time would have gone as far, practically, as the sal-
ary of our American President can go now !

A few particulars respecting the Poet's family will bring
us to the closing passage of bis life. We have already seen
that his father died in September, 1601, and his mother just
about seven years after. There seems little room for doubt,
that their latter years were passed under his roof. Joan, his
only surviving sister, born in April, 1569, was married to
William Hart, of Stratford, a hatter. The marriage prob-
ably took place out of Stratford, as there is no note of it in
the register. Their first child was christened William, Au-
gust 28th, 1600. Three other children, Mary, Thomas, and
Michael, were born to them, respectively, in 1603, 1605, and
1608. Mary Hart died in December, 1607, and her father
was buried April 17th, 16 16, a few days before the Poet. The
three surviving children were kindly remembered in their
uncle's will, as was also their mother.

V^e have seen that Gilbert lived at Stratford, and appears
to lif.ve taken some charge of the Poet's home affairs. It
is Lot known whether he were married ; but the Stratford
register enters the burial, February 3d, 1612, of "Gilbert
Shakespeare, adolescens ; " who may have been his son.
We have noticed elsewhere a tradition of one of the Poet's
brothers having lived to a great age. If the tradition be
true, it must, as will presently appear, refer lo Gilbert, who

ClxlV THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

was born in 1566. Richard, the iiext brother, born in 1574,
was hurled at Stratford February 4th, 1613. Nothing further
i» neard of him. It is tolerably certain that Edmund, the
youngest brother, born in 1580, became a player. The re-
gister of St. Saviour's parish, in which the Globe theatre
Btood, records the burial of " Edmund Shakespeare, a play-
er," on the 31st of December, 1607. In the low estate of
his father's affairs, he had most likely followed his brother's
fortune. Nothing more is known of him. — On the 16th
of October, 1608, a little more than a month after the death
of his mother, the Poet stood sponsor at the christening, in
Stratford, of a boy named William Walker, who is also re-
membered in his will.

On the 5th of June, 1607, the Poet's eldest daughter,
Susanna, then in her twenty-fifth year, was married to Mr.
John Hall, of Stratford, styled " gentleman " in the register,
but afterwards a practising physician of good standing. The
February following, Shakespeare became a grandfather ;
Elizabeth, the first and only child of John and Susanna Hall,
being baptized on the 17th of that month. It is supposed,
and apparently with good reason, that Dr. Hall and his wife
lived hi the same house with the Poet ; she was evidently
deep in her father's heart ; she is said to have had some-
tiling of his genius and temper ; the house was large enough
for them all ; nor are there wanting, as will be seen hereaf-
ter, signs of entire affection between Mrs. Hall and her
mother. Add to all this the Poet's manifest fondness for
children, and his gentle and affable disposition, and we have
tne elements of a happy family and a cheerful hon e "icL
as might well render a good-natured man impatient of the
stage. Of the moral and religious spirit and tenour of do-
mestic life at New Place, we are not allowed to know : at a
later period, the Shakespeares seem to have been not a lit
tie distinguished for works of piety and charity. The cham-
berlain's accounts show the curious entry, in 1614, of Is. 8cL
" for one quart of sack and one quart of claret wine, given

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. clxv

to a preacher at the New Place." The worshipful corpora-
tion of Stratford seem to have been at this time rather ad-
dicted to puritanism, as they could not endure plays within
their jurisdiction : 4 why they should thus have volunteered
a part towards entertaining the preacher, if he were not
minded like them, and why they should have suffered him
to put up at New Place, if he were, are matters about which
we can only speculate.

On the 10th of February, 1616, Shakespeare saw hit.
youngest daughter, Judith, mairied to Thomas Quiney, of
Stratford, a vintner and wine-merchant. He was a son of the
Richard Quiney who requested from the Poet a loan of £30
in 1598, and who died in May, 1602, being at that time
high bailiff of Stratford. From the way Shakespeare men-
tions his daughter's marriage-portion in his will, it is evident
that he gave his sanction to the match. Which may be
cited as arguing that he had not himself experienced any
such evils, as some have been fond of alleging, from the wo-
man being older than the man ; for his daughter had four
years the start of her husband ; she being at the time of her
marriage thirty-one, and he twenty-seven,

Shakespeare was now in the meridian of life. There was
no special cause that we know of, why he might not have
lived many years longer. It were vain to conjecture what
he might have done, had more years been given him : pos-
sibly, instead of augmenting his legacy to us, he might have

4 We have seen, in Chapter ii., note 2, that the corporation be-
gan tc bear down hard upon such naughtiness in 1602. In 1612,
they made a more stringent order, as follows : " The inconvenience
of plaies beinge verie seriouslie considered of, with the unlawful!-
nes, and how contrarie the sufferance of them is againste the or-
ders hearetofore made, and againste the examples of other well-
governed citties and burrowes, the companie heare are contented,
and theie conclude, that the penaltie of x. *., imposed in Mr. Ba-
kers yeare for breakinge the order, shall from henceforth be x. li.
upon the breakers of that order ; and this to hold untill the nexte
commen councell, and from thenceforth for ever, excepted that it
be then finalli revoked and made voide."

ClXVl THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

recalled and suppressed more or less of what he had already
written as our inheritance. For the last two or three years,
he seems to have left his pen unused ; as if, his own ends
once achieved, he set no value on that mighty sceptre with
which he since rules so large a portion of mankind. That
the motives and ambitions of authorship had little to do in
the. generation of his works, is evident from the serene care-
lessness with which he left them to shift for themselves)
tossing those wonderful treasures from him, as if he thought
them good for nothing but to serve the hour. Still, to UP
in our ignorance, his life cannot but seem too short. For
aught we know, Providence in its wisdom may have thought
best not to allow the example of a man so gifted living to
himself.

Be that as it may, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE departed this
life on the 23d of April, 1616.

Two days after, so much of him as could die was buried
beneath the chancel of Stratford church. His burial took
place on the day before the anniversary of his baptism ; and
it has been commonly believed that his death fell on the
anniversary of his birth. If so, he had just entered his
fifty-third year ; but there is no good authority for the be-
lief, save the then usual custom of baptizing three days after
the birth.

As to the immediate cause or occasion of the Poet's death,
we have no information beyond what has been quoted from
Ward. Stratford seems to have been rather noted in those
days for bad drainage. Garrick tells us that even in his
time it was " the most dirty, unseemly, ill-paved, wretched
looking town in all Britain." Epidemics were frequent there
in the Poet's time ; and not long after his death we hear,
from Dr. Hall, of " the new fever," which " invaded many r
of the Stratford people : he also mentions, though without
stating the time, his having cured Michael Drayton, " an
excellent poet," of a tertian ague. Perhaps Drayton was
on a visit to his friend Shakespeare at the time ; but, as he

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

also was a Warwickshire man, this cannot be inferred with
certainty. The Poet's will was first dated the 25th of Jan-
uary, 1616, but afterward March was substituted for Jan-
uary. It appears also that his will must have been drawn
up before the marriage of his daughter Judith, as he speak s
of her only by her maiden name. It seems not unlikely
that, being in January doubtfully ill, he may have prepared
the document ; then, finding himself getting better, he may
have over-indulged in some festivity with his friends, "which
brought on a fatal relapse. The Poet, it is true, begins his
will by stating that he makes it " in perfect health and mem-
ory : " this may have been mere matter of form, or such may
have been really the case at the time of writing. But it
would seem to have been far otherwise at the time of tne
execution ; for several good judges have remarked that the
Poet's signatures, of which there are three, in as many dif-
ferent places of the will, appear written with an infirm and
unsteady hand, as if his energies were shattered by disease

During his sickness, the Poet was most likely attended by
his son-in-law. Dr. Hall was evidently a man of consider-
able science and skill in his profession. This appears from
certain memoranda which he left, of cases that occurred in
his practice. The notes were written m Latin, but were
translated from his manuscript, and published by Jonas
Cooke in 1657, with the title of " Select Observations on
English Bodies." As Dr. Hall did not begin to make notes
of his practice till 1617, he furnishes no information touch-
ing the Poet.

A copy of the will, as it has been given with great care by
Mr. Halliwell from the original, may be found at the end of
this Chapter ; so that there is no need of presenting any
analysis of its contents here. One item, however, must not
pass unnoticed : " I give unto my wife the second best bed,
with the furniture." As this is the only mention made of
aer, the circumstance was for a long time regarded as be-
traying a strange indifference, or something worse, on the

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

testator's part towards his wife. And on this has hung the
main argument that the union was not a happy one. We
owe to Mr. Knight an explanation of the matter ; which i?
so simple and decisive, that we can only wonder it was not
hit upon before. Shakespeare's property was mostly free-
hold ; and in all this the widow had what is called right of
dower fully secured to her by the ordinary operation of Eng-
lish law. As for " the second best bed," it was doubtless
the very thing which a loving and beloved wife would be
sure to prize above any other article of furniture in the e*
tablishment.

In some verses by Leonard Digges, prefixed to the folio
of 1623, allusion is made to Shakespeare's " Stratford mon
ument ; " which shows that the monument had been placed
in the church before that date. It represents the Poet with
a cushion before him, a pen in his right hand, and his left
resting on a scroll. " The bust," says Wivell, " is fixed un-
der an arch, between tAvo Corinthian columns of black mar-
ble, with gilded bases and capitals, supporting the entabla
ture ; above which, and surmounted by a death's-head, are
carved his arms ; on each side is a small figure in a sitting
posture ; one holding in his left hand a spade, and the other,
whose eyes are closed, with an inverted torch in his left
hand, the right resting upon a skull, as symbols of mortality."
As originally coloured, the eyes were a light hazel, the hair
auburn, the dress a scarlet doublet, and a loose black gown
without sleeves thrown over it. In 1748, the colours were
carefully restored ; but in 1793, Malone, with strange taste,
had the whole painted white by a common house-painter.
Dugdale informs us that the monument was the work of
Gerard Johnson, an eminent sculptor of that period. It
was doubtless done at the instance and cost of Dr. Hal]
and his wife. A tablet below the bust has the following in
ecription :

"Judicio P3'lum. genio Socratem, arte Maronem,
Terra tegit, populus maeret, Olympus habet.

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Slay, Passenger, why goest thou by so fast ?
Read, if thou canst, whom envious Death hath plac'd
Within this monument : Shakespeare, with whom
Quick nature died ; whose name Holh deck this Tomb
Far more than cost ; sith all that he hath writ
Leaves living Art but page to serve his wit.

" Obiit Anno Domini 1616,
./Etatis 53, die 23 April."

As to the lines which tradition ascribes to the Poet as
written for his own tomb-stone, there is very little likelihood
that he had any thing to do with them. The earliest that we
hear of them is in the letter, quoted in Chapter ii., note 14,
written by Dowdall in 1693: "Near the wall where his
monument is erected lieth a plain freestone, underneath
which his body is buried, with this epitaph, made by himself
a little before his death :

' Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear
To dig the dust inclosed here :
Blest be the man that spares these stones,
And curs'd he he that moves my bones ! ' "

The writer adds, — " Not one, for fear of the curse aboye-
said, dare touch his grave-stone, though his wife and
daughters did earnestly desire to be laid in the same grave
with him." Such is indeed the inscription on a flat stone
covering the spot where the Poet's remains are supposed to
lie ; but there is no name, nor any thing whatever to iden-
tify the lines as written either by Shakespeare or for him.

The mortal remains of Anne Shakespeare were laid be-
side those of her husband, August 8th, 1623. A worthy
memorial covers the spot, whereon we trace the fitting lan-
guage of a daughter's love, paying a warm tribute to the
religious character of her who was gone, and clearly infer-
ring that she had " as much of virtue as could die." It ifi
a brass plate set in a stone and inscribed as follows :

" Here lieth interred the body of Anne, wife of William
Shakespeare, who departed this life the 6th day of August
1623, being of the age of 67 years.

C.ZX THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

"Ubera tu, mater, tu lac, vitamque dedis;;,
Vse mihi ! pro tanto munere saxa dabo.
Quam mallem amoveat lapidetn bonus angel' ore,
Exeat ut Christ! corpus imago tua :
Sed nil vota valent ; venias cito, Christe, resurget
Clausa licet tumnlo mater, el astra petit."

Another precious inscription in the chancel of Stratford
church was partly erased many years ago to make room for
one to Richard Watts, who died in 1707. Fortunately the
lines had been preserved by Dugdale. Through the taste
and liberality of the Rev. W. Harness, the original inscrip-
tion has been recently restored, thus :

"Here lieth the body of Susanna, Wife to John Hall,
Gent., the daughter of William Shakespeare, Gent. She
deceased the 1 1th of July, Anno 1649, aged 66.

' Witty abo/e her sex. but that's not all ;
Wise to salvation was good Mistress Hall :
Something of Shakespeare was in that, but this
Wholly of Him with whom she's now in bliss.

" Then, passenger, hast ne'er a tear
To weep with her that wept for all ?
That wept, yet set herself to cheer
Them up with comforts cordial.
Her love shall live, her mercy spread,
When thou hast ne'er a tear to shed." '

The first-born of Thomas and Judith Quiney was chris-
tened Shakespeare Quiney on the 23d of November, just

5 Close beside this inscription is one to her husband, as follows i
'< Meere lyeth the body of John Hall. Gent. He married Susanna
the daughter and coheire of Will. Shakespeare, Gent. He de-
ceased November 25, Anno 1635, aged 60.

" Hallius hie situs est, medica eeleberrimus arte,

Expectans regni gaudia laeta Dei.
Dignuserat meritis, qui Nestora vinceret annis,

In terris omnes. sed rapit sequa dies.
Ne tunuilo quid desit, adest fidessima conjux,

Et vitw comitem nunc quoque mortis habet."

The parish register has the following entry of burial : " 1635. NOT
26. Johannes Hall, medicus peritissimus."

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

sev(;n months after the death of his grandfather. He was
bun-id May 8th, 1617. He was followed by two other cliil-
dren : Richard, baptized February 9th, 1618, and buried
February 26th, 1639 j and Thomas, baptized January 23d,
1620, and buried January 28th, 1639. Their mother was
buried the 9th of February, 1662, having lived to the age
of 77 years. The time of her husband's death is not known.
The Poet's grand-daughter, Elizabeth Hall, was married
to Mr. Thomas Nash on the 26th of April, 1626, who died
April 4th, 1647.8 On the 5th of June, 1649, she was mar-
ried again to Mr. John Barnard, who was knighted after the
Restoration. Lady Barnard died childless in 1670, and was
buried at Abingdon with the family of Sir John. After her
decease, the nearest relatives of the Poet living were the
descendants of his sister, Joan Hart At the time of her
brother's death, Mrs. Hail was living ha one of his Stratford
houses, which, with the appurtenances, was by his will se-
cured to her use for life at a nominal rent of I2d, Her
descendants, bearing the name of Hart, have continued
down to our own time, but, it is said, " not in a position we
nan contemplate with satisfaction."

Much discussion has been had of late as to the right way
of spelling the Poet's name. The few autographs of his
that are extant do not enable us to decide precisely how he
wrote his name, or rather they show that he had no one con-
stant way of writing it. But the Venus and Adonis and The
Rape of Lucrece were unquestionably published by his au-
thority and under his superintendence, and in the dedications

6 The inscription to him, also in the Stratford churck, is a« fol-
lows : " Heere resteth the Body of Thomas Nashe, Esq. H« mar-
ried Elizabeth, the daughter and heire of John Halle, Gent. He
died Aprill 4, Anno 1647, aged 53.

" Fata manent omnes hunc non virtute careutem,

Ut neque divitiis abstulit atra dies ;
Abstulit. at referet lux ultima : siste, viator,
Si peritura paras, per male parta peris '

clxxii THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARP.

of both these poems the name is printed " Shakespeare."
The same is the case in all the quarto issues of his plays,
where the author's name is given, with the single exception
of Love's Labour's Lost, which has it " Shakespere ; " and
also in the original folio. And in much the greater number
of these instances the name is printed with a hyphen, thuSj
" Shake-speare," as if on purpose that there might be nc
mistaking it. All which, surely, is, or ought to be, decisive
as to how the Poet willed his name to be spelt in print.
And so we have uniformly printed it throughout this edition,
except where we made a point to quote with literal exact-
ness.

We have now presented all the matter there is at hand,
which seems to illustrate in any way the character and tern
per of Shakespeare as a man moving among his fellow-men
Scanty as are the materials, enough, we think, has been
given, to show that in all the common dealings of life he was
eminently gentle, candid, upright, and judicious ; open-heart-
ed, genial, and sweet in his social intercourses ; among his
companions and friends, full of playful wit and sprightly
grace ; kind to the faults of others, severe to his own ; quick
to discern and acknowledge merit in another, modest and
slow of finding it in himself: while, in the smooth and hap-
py marriage, which he seems to have realized, of the highest
poetry and art with systematic and successful prudence in
business affairs, we have an example of compact and well-
rounded practical manhood, such as may justly engage our
perpetual admiration.

This is not the place to enter into a formal review or crit-
icism of the Poet's works. The foregoing pages will show
that his marvellous gifts were not so little appreciated in his
own time as hath been commonly supposed. Kings, princes,
lords, gentlemen, and, what perhaps was still better, com-

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. Ct <CX11J

mon people, all united in paying homage to his transcei dent
genius. The noble tribute of Ben Jonson, — than w.iom
few men, perhaps none, ever knew better how to judge and
how to write on such a theme, — prefixed to the folio of
1623, indicates how he struck the scholarship of the age.
We know not how we can fitlier close this Life than by an-
other tribute from the same great hand. It is from hi*
Poetaster, where the following judgment is pronounced on
Virgil, who is commonly understood to represent Shake-
speare :

" I judge him of a rectified spirit,
By many revolutions of discourse
(In his bright reason's influence) refin'd
From all the tartarous moods of common men
Bearing the nature and similitude
Of a right heavenly body ; most severe
In fashion and collection of himself,
And then as clear and confident as Jove.
And yet so chaste and tender is his ear,
In suffering any syllable to pass,
That he thinks may become the honoured name
Of issue to his so examin'd self,
That all the lasting fruits of his full merit,
In his own poems, he doth still distaste ;
As if his mind's piece, which he strove to paint
Could not with fleshly pencils have her right.
But, to approve his works of sovereign worth,
This observation, meihinks, more than serves,
And is not vulgar : That which he hath writ
Is with such judgment labour'd, and distill'd
Through all the needful uses of our lives,
That, could a man remember but his lines,
He should not touch at any serious point,
But he might breathe his spirit out of him.
His learning savours not the school-like gloss,
That most consists in echoing words and terms,
And soonest wins a man an empty name ;
Nor any long or far-fetch'd circumstance
Wrapp'd in the curious generalities of arts ;
But a direct and analytic sum
Of all the worth and first effects of arts.
And for his poesy, 'tis so ramm'd with life,
That it shall gather strength of life with being
And live hereafter more admir'd than now."

C1XXIV THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

SHAKESPEARE'S WILL.1

Vlcesimo quinto die Martii, Anno Regni Domini nostri
Jacobi, nunc Regis Angli(R, fyc. decimo quarto, et Scotia
xlix0.; Annoque. Domini 1616.

T. Wmi. Shackspeare.

In the name of God, Amen ! I William Shackspeare, of
Stratford upon Avon, in the countie of Warr., gent., in pei
feet health and memorie, God be praysed ! doe make and
ordayne this my last will and testament in manner and
forme followeing ; that ys to saye, First, I comend my soule
into the handes of God my Creator, hoping and assuredlie
beleeving, through thonelie merites of Jesus Christe my Sa-
viour, to be made partaker of lyfe everlastinge, and my
bodye to the earth whereof yt ys made. Item, I gyve and
bequeath unto my daughter Judyth one hundred and fyftie
poundes of lawful English money, to be paied unto her in
manner and forme followeing, that ys to saye, one hundred
pounds in discharge of her marriage porcion within one
yeare after my deceas, with consideration after the rate of
twoe shillinges in the pound for soe long tyme as the same
shalbe unpaied unto her after my deceas, and the fyftie
poundes residewe thereof upon her surrendering of or gyv-
ing of such sufficient securitie as the overseers of this my
will shall like of to surrender or graunte all her estate and
right that shall discend or come unto her after my deceas,
or that shee nowe hath, of, in or to one copiehold tenements
with thappurtenaunces lyeing and being in Stratford upon

1 Shakespeare's will is here printed as given by Mr. Haliiwell
from the original in the office of the Prerogative Court, Lcndon
The will is written on three sheets of paper which are fastened
together at the top. The Poet's name is signed at the bottom of
the first and second sheets, and his final signature, " By me Wil
liain Shakspeare/' in the mid'lle of the third

THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

Avon aforesaied, in the saied countie of Warr., being parcell
or holden of the mannour of Ilowington, unto my daughter
Susanna Hall and her heires for ever. Item, I gyve and
bequeath unto my saied daughter Judith one hundred and
fyftie poundes more, if shee or anie issue of her bodie be
lyringe att thend of three yeares next ensueing the daie of
the dz>,e of this my will, during which tyme my executours
tie to paie her consideracion from my deceas according to
the rate aforesaid ; and if she dye within the saied tearms
witht ut issue of her bodye, then my will ys, and I doe gyve
and bequeath one hundred poundes thereof to my neece
Elizabeth Hall, and the fiftie poundes to be sett forth by my
executours during the lief of my sister Johane Harte, and
the use and proffitt thereof cominge shalbe payed to my
saied sister Jone, and after her deceas the saied l.u shall re-
maine amongst the children of my saied sister equallie to
be devided amongst them ; but if my saied daughter Judith
be lyving att thend of the saied three yeares, or anie yssue
of her bodye, then my will ys, and soe I devise and bequeath
the saied hundred and fyftie poundes to be sett out by my
executours and overseers for the best benefitt of her and her
issue, and the stock not to be paied unto her soe long as she
shalbe marryed and covert baron ; but my will ys, that she
shall have the consideracion yearelie paied unto her during
her lief, and, after her deceas, the saied stock and consider-
acion to be paied to her children, if she have anie, and if not,
to her executors or assignes, she lyving the saied terme after
my deceas : Provided that if such husbond, as she shall att
thend of the saied three yeares be marryed unto, or at anie
tyme after, doe sufficientlie assure unto her and thissue of
her bodie landes awnswereable to the porcion by this my will
gyven unto her, and to be adjudged soe by my executours
and overseers, then my will ys, that the saied cl.u shalbe
paied to such husbond as shall make such assurance to big
owne use. Item, I gyve and bequeath unto my saied sister
Jone xx.u and all my wearing apparell, to be paied and de-

dlXXVl THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

livered within one yeare after my deceas ; and I (loe will and
devise unto her the house with thappurtenaunces in Strat-
ford, wherein she dwelleth, for her naturall lief, under the
yearlie rent of xii. d. Item, I gyve and bequeath unto her
three sonnes, William Harte, Thomas Hart, and Michaell
Harte, fyve poundes apeece, to be paied within one yeare
after my deceas. Item, I gyve and bequeath uno the saicd
Elizabeth Hall all my plate, except my brod silver and gilt
bole, that I now have att the date of this my will. Item, I
gyve and bequeath unto the poore of Stratford aforesaied
term poundes ; to Mr. Thomas Combe my sword ; to Thom-
as Russell, esquier, fyve poundes, and to Frauncis Collins of
the borough of Warr. in the countie of Warr., gentleman,
thirteene poundes, sixe shillinges and eightpence, to be paied
within one yeare after my deceas. Item, I gyve and be-
queath to Hamlett Sadler xxvi. s. viii. d., to buy him a ringe ;
to William Raynolds, gent., xxvi. s. viii.rf., to buy him a
ringe ; to my godson William Walker xx. s. in gold ; to
Anthonye Nashe, gent., xxvi.*. viii. d. ; and to Mr. John
Nashe, xxvi. *. viii. d. ; and to my fellowes, John Hemynges,
Richard Burbage, and Henry Cundell, xxvi. s. viii. d. apeece,
to buy them ringes. Item, I gyve, will, bequeath and
devise, unto my daughter Susanna Hall, for better en-
abling of her to performe this my will, and towardes the
performans thereof, all that capitall messuage or tenemente,
with thappurtenaunces, in Stratford aforesaid, called the
Xew Place, wherein I nowe dwell, and two messuages or
tenementes, with thappurtenaunces, scituat, lyeing, and be-
ing in Henley-streete within the borough of Stratford afore-
saied ; and all my barnes, stables, orchardes, gardens,
landes, tenementes, and hereditamentes, whatsoever, scituat,
lyeing, and being, or to be had, receyved, perceyved, or
taken, within the townes, hamletes, villages, fields, and
groundes of Stratford upon Avon, Old Stratford, Bu-shopton
and Welcombe, or in anie of them, in the said countie of
Warr. And alsoe all that messuage or tenemente, with

THE MFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

thappurtenaunces, wherein one John Robinson dwelleth,
scituat, lyeing, and being in the Blackfriers in London nere
the Wardrobe; and all my other landes, tenementes, and
hereditamentes whatsoever : To have and to hold all and
singuler the saied premisses, with their appurtenaunces, unto
the saied Susanna Hall, for and during the terme of her
naturall lief; and after her deceas, to the first sonne of her
bodic lawfullie yssueinge, and to the heires males of the
bodie of the said first sonne lawfullie yssueing ; and for de-
falt of such issue, to the second sonne of her bodie lawfullie
iesueinge and to the heires males of the bodie of the saied
second sonne lawfullie yssueinge ; and for defalt of such
heires, to the third sonne of the bodie of the saied Susanna
lawfullie yssueing, and to the heires males of the bodie of
the saied third sonne lawfullie yssueing ; and for defalt of
such issue, the same soe to be and remaine to the fourth,
fyfth, sixte, and seaventh sonnes of her bodie lawfullie issue-
ing, one after another, and to the heires males of the bodies
of the saied fourth, fifth, sixte, and seaventh sonnes lawfullie
yssueing, in such manner as yt ys before lymitted to be and
remaine to the first, second, and third sonns of her bodie,
and to theire heires males ; and for defalt of such issue, the
said premisses to be and remaine to my saved neece Hall,
and the heires males of her bodie lawfullie yssueing ; and
for defalt of such issue, to my daughter Judith, and the
heires males of her bodie lawfullie issueinge ; and for defalt
of such issue, to the right heires of me the saied William
Shackspeare for ever. Item, I gyve unto my wief my second
best bed, with the furniture. Item, I gyve and bequeath to
my saied daughter Judith my broad silver gilt bole. AH
the rest of my goodes, chattel, leases, plate, jewels, and
lioushold stuffe whatsoever, after my dettes and legacies
pnied, and my funerall expences discharged, I give, dense,
and bequeath to my sonne-in-lawe, John Hall, gent., and
my daughter Susanna his wief, whom I ordaine and make
executours of this my last will and testament. And I doe

clxxvfli THE LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE.

intreat and ap])oint the saied Thomas Russell, esquier, and
Frauncis Collins, gent., to be overseers hereof, and doe re-
voke all former wills, and publishe this to be my last will
and testament. In witness whereof I have hereunto put mj
hand, the daie and yeare first above written.

By me WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
Witnes to the publishing hereof,

Fra. Collyns,
Julyus Shawe,
John Robinson,
Hamnet Sadler,
Robert Whattcott,

Probatum coram Magistro W\l-
lielmo Byrde, Legum Dodore Co-
miss, &fc. xxii.1'0 die mensis Junii,
Anno Domini 1616, juramento Jo-
hannis Hall, unius executorum, Sfc.,
cui de bene Sfc. juret. reservat. potes-
tate fyc. Susanna Hall, alteri execu-
torum fyc. cum venerit, Sfc. peiitia-
(Inv. ex.]

ENGLISH DRAMA BEFORE SHAKESPEARE.

CHAPTER I.

MIRACLE-PLAYS.

THB ENGLISH DRAMA, as we have it in Shakespeare,
was the slow growth of several centuries. Nor is it clearly
traceable to any foreign source : it appears to have been an
original and independent growth, the native and free product
of the soil ; not a mere revival, or reproduction, or contin-
uation of what had existed somewhere else. This position
will be found very material when we approach the subject
of structure and form ; for it evidently infers that the Drama
in question is not amenable to any ancient or foreign juris-
diction ; that it stands on independent ground, has a jfe and
spirit of its own, is to be viewed as a thing by itself, and
judged according to the peculiar laws under which it grew
and took its shape. That is, it had just as good a right to
differ from any other Drama, as any other had, from it.

The ancient Drama, that which grew to perfection, and,
so far as is known, had its origin, in Greece, is universally
styled the Classic Drama. By what term to distinguish the
modern Drama of Europe, writers are not fully agreed
Within a comparatively recent period, it has received from

HISTORY OP THE DRAMA.

high authorities the title of the Romantic Drama. A
much more appropriate title, as it seems to us, suggested
by its Gothic original, and used by earlier and perhaps
equally good authorities, is that of tLc Uothic Drama.
Such, accordingly, is the term by which we shall distin-
guish it in these pages. The fitness of the name, it is
thought, will be seen at once from the fact that the thing
was an indigenous and self-determined outgrowth from the
Gothic mind under Christian culture. Of course, the term
naturally carries the idea, that the Drama in question stands
on much the same ground relatively to the Classic Drama,
as is commonly recognised in the case of Gothic and Classic
architecture. We can thus the better realize that each
Drama forms a distinct species by itself, so that any argu-
ment or criticism urged from the rules of the ancient against
the modern is wholly impertinent.

The Gothic Drama, as it fashioned itself in different na
tions of modern Europe, especially in England and Spain,
where it grew up and reached perfection simultaneousl)
and independently, has certain not inconsiderable varieties.
Upon the reason and nature of the variations we cannot en-
large : suffice it to say, that they do not reach beyond mere
points of detail ; so that their effect is to approve all the
more forcibly the strength of the common principles which
underlie and support them. These principles cover the
whole ground of difference from the Classic Drama. The
several varieties, therefore, of the Gothic Drama may be
justly regarded as bearing concurrent testimony to a com-
mon right of freedom from the jurisdiction of ancient rules.

Of the origin and progress of the Drama in England our
limits will permit only a brief sketch, not more than enough,
perhaps not enough, to give a general idea on the subject.
Ample materials for the work are furnished to our hand in
Walton's History of English Poetry and Collier's Annals of
the Stage, so that the only merit or demerit we can claim
is in so selecting and condensing the matter as may heat
agree with our judgment and our space.

MIRACLE-PLATS.

111 England, as in the other Christian nations where it can
be regarded ss at all original, the Drama was of ecclesias-
tical origin, anl for a long time was used only as a means
of diffusing among the people a knowledge of the leading
facts and doctrines of Christianity as then understood and
received. Of course, therefore, it was in substance and char-
acter religious, or meant to be so, and had the Clergy for its
authors and founders. Nevertheless, we cannot admit the
justice of Coleridge's remark on the subject : " The Drama,"
says he, "recommenced in England, as it first began in
Greece, in religion. The people were unable to read, — the
Priesthood were unwilling that they should read ; and yet
their own interest compelled them not to leave the people
wholly ignorant of the great events of sacred history. They
did that, therefore, by scenic representations, which in after
ages it has been attempted to do in Roman Catholic coun-
tries by pictures."

Surely, it is of consequence to bear in mind that at that
tune " the people " had never been able to read : printing
had not been heard of in Europe ; books were with greaf,
difficulty multiplied, and could not be had but at great ex-
pense ; so that it was impossible " the people " should be
able to read ; and while there was a simple impossibility in
the way, it is not necessary to impute an unwillingness. Nor
does there seem to be any good reason for supposing that
the Priesthood, in their simplicity of faith, were then at all
apprehensive or aware of any danger in the people being
able to read. Probably they worked, as honest men, with
the best means they could devise : they endeavoured to
clothe the most needful of all instruction in such forms, to
mould it up with such arts of i^creation and pleasure, as
might render it interesting and attractive to the popular
mind. In all which they seem to have merited any thing
but an impeachment of their motives. However, what seems
best worth the noting here is, the large share which those
early dramatic repi osentations had in shaping the culture of

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

old England, and in giving to the national mind its character
and form. And perhaps later ages, and ourselves as the
children of a later age, are more indebted to those rude la-
bours of the Clergy in the cause of religion, than we are
aware, er might be willing to acknowledge.

In its course through several ages, the Drama took dif-
ferent forms from time to time, as culture advanced. The
earliest form was in what are commonly called Mysteries,
though the older and better term is, Plays of Miracles, or
Miracle-plays. These were founded, for the most part, on
the events of Scripture, though the apocryphal gospels aiid
legends of saints and martyrs were sometimes drawn upon
for subjects or for embellishments. In these performances
no regard was paid to the rules of natural probability ; for,
as the operation of the Divine power was assumed, this w?s
treated as a sufficient ground or principle of credibility in it-
self. Hence, indeed, the name Marvels, Miracles, or Mir-
acle-plays, by which they were commonly known.

The earliest instance that we can refer to of a Miracle-
play in England, was near the beginning of the twelfth cen-
tury. Matthew Paris, in his Lives of the Abbots, written
as early as 1240, informs us that Geoffrey, Abbot of St. Al-
Dans, while he was yet a secular person brought out the
Miracle-play of St. Katharine at Dunstaple ; and that for
the needed decorations he sought and obtained certain arti-
cles " from the Sacristy of St. Albans." Geoffrey, who was
from the University of Paris, was then teaching a school at
Dunstaple, and the play was performed by his scholars. On
the following night, his house was burnt, together with the
borrowed articles ; which he regarded as a judgment of
Heaven, and thereupon assumed a religious habit. Warton
thinks the performance to have been about 1110: but we
learn from Buteus that Geoffrey became Abbot of St. Al-
bans in 1119 ; and all that can with certainty be affirmed is,
that the play was performed before he took on him a re-
ligious character: it may have been somewhat earlier 01

MIRACLE-PLATS. ClXXXlH

*omewhat later than 1110. Bulteus also informs us that
the tiling was not then a novelty ; but that it was customary
for teachers and scholars to get up such exhibitions.

Our next piece of information on the subioct is from the
Life of Thomas a Becket, by William Fitzstephen, as quoted
in Stowe's Survey of London, 1599. Becket died in 1170,
and the Life was probably written about twelve years after
that event. Fitzstephen gives a description of London, and
after referring to the public amusements of ancient Rome,
he continues thus: "In lieu of such theatrical shows and
performances of the stage, London has plays of a more
sacred kind, representing the miracles which holy confessors
have wrought, or the sufferings whereby the firmness of
martyrs has been displayed."

It appears that about the middle of the next century
itinerant actors were well known ; for one of the regulations
found in the Burton Annals has the following, under the date
of 1258: "Actors may be entertained, not because they are
actors, but because of their poverty ; and let not their plays
be seen, nor heard, nor the performance of them allowed,
in the presence of the Abbot or the monks." There was
some difference of opinion among the Clergy as to the law-
fulness of such exhibitions ; and in an Anglo-French poem
written about this time they are censured with much sharp-
ness, and the using of them is restricted to certain places
and persons. An English version, or rather paraphrase, of
this poem was made by Robert Brunne in 1303. The wri-
ter sets forth, among other things, what pastimes are al-
lowed to " a clerk of order," declaring it lawful for liim to
perform Miracle-plays of the birth and resurrection of Christ
in churches, but a sin to witness them " on the highways or
greens." He also reproves the practice, then not uncom-
mon, of aiding the performance of Miracle-plays by lending
horses or harness from the monasteries, and especially de-
clares it sacrilege if a priest or clerk lend the hallowed vest'
ments for such a purpose.

C.XXX1V HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

The doctrine of transubstantiation seems to have been
especially fruitful in this kind of performances. The festival
of Corpus Christi, designed for the furthering of this doc-
trine, was instituted by Pope Urban IV. in 1264. Within a
few years from that date, Miracle-plays were annuaDy per-
formed at Chester during Whitsuntide : they were also in-
troduced at Coventry, York, Durham, Lancaster, Bristol,
Cambridge, and divers other towns ; so that the thing be-
came a sort of established usage throughout the kingdom.
A considerable variety of subjects, especially such as relate
to the incarnation, the passion, and the resurrection of the
Saviour, was embraced in the plan of these exhibitions ; the
purpose being, if we may credit Robert Brunne, to extend
an orthodox belief in those fundamental verities of our re-
ligion.

A very curious specimen of the plays that grew out of the
Corpus Christi festival has been lately discovered in the
library of Trinity College, Dublin, the manuscript being cer-
tainly as old, it is said, as the reign of Edward IV. For our
knowledge of it we are indebted to Mr. Collier, who says
"it is perhaps the only specimen of the kind in our lan-
guage." It is called The Play of the Blessed Sacrament,
and is founded on a miracle alleged to have been wrought
in the forest of Arragon, in 1461. The scene of action was
doubtless imaginary, and the legend much older than the
date assigned ; the time of the miracle being drawn down
near that of the representation, in order that the spectators
might be the more impressed with the reality of the events.
In form, it closely resembles the Miracle-plays founded on
Scripture ; our Saviour being, as was common in such plays,
one of the characters : the others are five Jews, a Bishop, a
Priest, a Christian merchant, a physician, and his servant.
The merchant, having the key of the church, steals away
the Host, and sells it to the Jews for £100, under a promise
that they will become Christians, in case they find its mirac-
ulous powers verified. They then put the Host to varioiu

MIRACLE-PLAYS.

tests. Being stabbed with their daggers, it bleeds, so that
one of the Jews goes mad at the sight. They next attempt
nailing it to a post, when one of them has his hand torn off
as he goes to driving the nails : whereupon the doctor and
his man come in to dress the wound, but, after a long comic
scene betwixt them, are driven out as quacks and impostors.
The Jews then proceed to boil the Host, but the water forth-
with turns blood-red. Finally, they cast it into a heated
oven, which presently bursts asunder, and an image of the
Saviour rises and addresses the Jews, who make good their
promise on the spot. They kneel to the Bishop ; the mer-
chant confesses his crime, declares his penitence, is admon-
ished, and forgiven under a strict charge never again to buy
or sell. The whole winds up with an epilogue from the
Bishop, enforcing the moral of the play, which of courso
turns on the doctrine of transubstantiation.

There are three sets or series of Miracle-plays extant,
severally known as the Towneley, the Coventry, and the
Chester collections. The first includes thirty plays, and the
manuscript is supposed to be as old as the time of Henry
VI. The second consists of forty-two plays, said to have
been performed at Coventry on the festival of Corpus Christi.
The manuscript of them appears to have been written as
early at least as the time of Henry VTL The third series,
called Chester Whitsun Plays, numbers twenty-four. These
are extant in three manuscripts, the oldest of which was
made by Edward Gregory, who at the end calls himself " a
scholar of Bunbury," and adds that the writing was finished
in 1591. The three sets have all been printed within a few
years under the patronage of the Shakespeare Society.

Mr. Markland makes out a strong probability that Mir-
acle-plays were first acted at Chester in 1268, only four yearc
after the establishment of the Corpus Christi festival From
that time, they were repeated yearly, with some interrup-
tions, till 1577. The Towneley series probably belonged to
Wldkirk Abbey : at what time they grew into use there and

ClXXXVl HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

at Coventry, is not certainly known. But we have abundant
evidence that such exhibitions formed a regular part of Eng-
lish life in the reign of Edward in., which began in 1327.
For Chaucer alludes to " plays of miracles " as things of
common occurrence, and in The Milleres Tale he makes it a
prominent feature of the parish clerk, " this Absolon, that
ioly was and gay," that he performed in them :

" Sometime, to shew his lightnesse and maistrie,
He plaieth Herode on a skaffolde hie."

And in 1378, which was the first year of Richard II., the
choristers of St. Paul's, London, petitioned the king to pro-
hibit some ignorant persons from acting plays founded on
Scripture, as conflicting with the interest of the Clergy, who
had incurred expense in getting up a set of plays on similar
subjects. And we learn from Stowe, that in 1391 the parish
clerks of London performed a play at Skinner's Well, near
Smithfield, which lasted three days, and was witnessed by
the king, the queen, and nobles of the realm. Stowe also
informs us, that in 1409 there was a great play at the same
place, " which lasted eight days, and was of matter from the
creation of the world."

We have already spoken somewhat of the part which was
taken by the Clergy in these old dramatic performances.
Something further on this point may well be added. It is
recorded of Lydgate, monk of Bury, that he wrote a series
of plays from the creation. And the register of the Guild
of Corpus Christi at York, which was a religious fraternity,
mentions, in 1408, books of plays, various banners and flags,
beards, vizards, crowns, diadems, and scaffolds, belonging to
the society ; which shows that its members were at that
time concerned in the representation of Miracle-plays. It
appears that a few years afterwards these performances, be-
cause of certain abuses attending them, were discontinued:
hut in 1426 William Melton, a friar, who is called " a pro-
fessor of holy pageantry," preached several sermons in f»

MIRACLE-PLAYS clxXXFU

rout of them ; and the result of his efforts was, that they
were then made annual, suitable measures being taken for
preventing the former disorders. But the best evidence as
to the share the Clergy had in these representations is fur-
nished by the account-book of Thetford Priory from 1461
to 1540 ; which contains numerous entries of payments to
players, and in divers cases expressly states that members
of the convent assisted in the performances. These were
commonly held two or three times a year: in 1531 there
were five repetitions of them ; after which time there are
but three entries of plays wherein the members participated
with the common actors ; the old custom being broken up
most likely by the progress of the Reformation. Further
information on the subject is supplied by Dean Colet, who
m 1511 delivered an oratio ad clerum at St. Paul's, in which
he complains that the Clergy lose themselves in banquetings
and vain discourse, in plays and sports, in hawking and hunt-
ing ; and he urges them to study the laws and holy rules of
the fathers, which forbid clergymen to be traders, usurers,
hunters, public players, or soldiers.

The custom in question, however, was by no means uni-
versal. We have already seen that in 1391 and 1409 plays
were acted by the parish clerks of London. In cities and
large towns, these performances were generally in the hands
of the trading companies. Our information touching the
Corpus Christi plays at Coventry extends from 1416 to
1591 ; during which period there is no sign of the Clergy
having any share in them. The records of Chester also show
that the whole business was there managed by laymen. And
in 1487 a Miracle-play on the descent of Christ into hell was
acted before Henry VTI. by the charity boys of Hyde Abbey
and St. Swithin's Priory. Long before this date, acting was
taken up as a distinct profession, and regular companies of
actors were formed ; but of these we shall have to speak
more hereafter.

That churches and chapels of monasteries were at first,

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

and for a long time after, used as theatres, is •very certain
The Anglo-French poem already referred to informs us thai
Miracle-plays were sometimes performed in churches and
cemeteries, the Clergy getting them up and acting in them.
And Burnet tells us that Bishop Bonner as late as 15 12
issued an order to his clergy, forbidding " all manner ot
common plays, games, or interludes to be played, set forth,
or declared within their churches and chapels." Nor wad
the custom wholly discontinued till some time after that ;
for in 1572 was printed a tract which has a passage inferring
that churches were still sometimes used for such purposes.
The author is remarking how the Clergy read the sendee :
" He again posteth it over as fast as he can gallop ; for either
he hath two places to serve, or else there are some games to
be played in the afternoon, as lying for the whetstone, hea-
thenish dancing for the ring, a bear or a bull to be baited, or
else jack-an-apes to ride on horseback, or an interlude to be
played ; and if no place else can be gotten, it must be done
in the church,"

When plays were performed in the open air, temporary
scaffolds or stages were commonly erected for the purpose ;
though in some cases the scaffold was set on wheels, so as to
be easily moved from one part of the town to another. From
an account of Chester, written in the time of Elizabeth, it
appears that the structure there used had two stages, one
above the other ; the lower being closed in, to serve as a
Iressing-room for the actors ; while the performance was on
the upper stage where it could be seen by all the spectators.
Sometimes the lower stage seems to have been used for hell,
the devils rising out of it, or sinking into it, as occasion re-
quired. It is pretty evident, however, that in some of the
plays more than one scaffold must have been used. And
Mr. Collier thinks there can be no doubt, from some of the
stage-directions in the Towneley and Coventry plays, that
two, three, and even four scaffolds were erected round a
centre, the actors going from one to another across " th«

MIRACI.E-PLAYS. clxxxix

luid place, " as the scene changed, or their several parts re-
quired.

As to the general character of the plays themselves, this
may best be shown by brief analyses of some of them. Our
specimens will be chiefly from the Towneley series, as these
are the most ancient. The first play of the set includes the
Creation, the revolt of Lucifer and his adherents, and their
expulsion from heaven. It opens with a short address from
the Deity, who then begins the creation, and, after a song by
the cherubim, descends from the throne, and retires ; Luci-
fer usurps it, and asks his fellows how he appears. The
good and bad angels have different opinions on the subject :
the Deity soon returns, and ends the dispute by casting the
rebels with their leader out of heaven. Adam and Eve are
then created, and Satan ends the piece with a speech vent-
ing his envy of their happiness in Eden.

The second play relates to the killing of AbeL It ia
opened by Cain's plough-boy with a sort of prologue, in
which he declares himself " a merry lad," and warns the
spectators to be silent, wishing, if any one make a noise,
•" the devil hang him up to dry." Cain then enters with a
plough and team, and quarrels with the boy for refusing to
drive the team. Presently Abel comes in, and wishes God
may speed Cain, who meets his kind word with a very un-
mentionable request. The killing then proceeds, and is fol-
lowed by the cursing of Cain ; after which, he calls the boy,
and beats him " but to use his hand ; " he owns the slaying
of his brother, and the boy counsels flight, lest the bailiffs
catch them. Next we have a course of buffoonery : Cain
makes a mock proclamation in the king's name ; the boy re-
peats it blunderingly after him, and is then sent off with the
team ; and the piece ends with a speech by Cain to the
spectators, bidding them farewell forever, before he goes to
the devil

No. 3d of the series is occupied with the Deluge. After
a lamentation from Noah on the sinfulness of the world,

CXC HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

God is introduced repenting that He has made man, telling
Noah how to build the Ark, and blessing him and his.
Noah's wife is an arrant shrew, and they fall at odds in the
outset, both of them swearing by the Virgin Mary : she
complains that he does nothing for the family. Noah be-
gins and finishes the Ark on the spot, " in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost ; " then tells
his wife what is coming, and invites her on board. His
description of the flood is rather poetical : part of it may be
rendered in modern English thus : " Behold the heavens !
All the cataracts are opened, both great and small ; the
seven planets have left their stations ; thunders and light-
ning strike down the strong halls, bowers, castles, and
towers." Her ladyship stoutly refuses to embark ; this
brings on another flare-up ; he befriends her with a whip ;
she resents that kindness, but comes off second best ; wishes
herself a widow, and the same to all the other wives in the
audience ; he exhorts all the husbands to break their wives
in, lest they get broken in by them : at length harmony is
restored by the intervention of the sons ; all go on board,
and pass three hundred and fifty days talking about the
weather : a raven is sent out, then a dove ; they all debark,
and there an end.

Two plays of the series are taken up with the adoration
of the shepherds. After a soliloquy by the first shepherd
on the uncertainty of human life, the second enters, and
picks a quarrel with him ; then the third arrives on horse-
back, parts them, and tells them he never saw any act so
but " the fools of Gotham : " thereupon they all become
friends again, eat supper together, drink ale, sing songs, and
go to sleep. While they are asleep, an angel announces tc
th ;:n the birth of Christ, and they, waking, see the star.
The third shepherd refers to Isaiah and other prophets, and
quotes Virgil, though not correctly : the second objects to
this display of learning ; and they hasten to Bethlehem, and
make their offerings.

MIRACLE-PLAYS. CXC1

The next play, No. 12th, is worthy of special notice, an
being not a religious play at all, but a piece of broad com
edy, approaching to downright farce, and having touches ot
rude wit and humour. The three shepherds, after talking
awhile about their shrewish wives, are on the point cf strik-
ing up a song, when an old acquaintance of theirs, named
Mak, whose character for honesty is none of the best, comes
amongst them. They suspect him of meditating some sly
trick ; so, on going to sleep, they take care to have him lie
between them, lest he should play the wolf among their
woolly subjects. While they are snoring, he steals out,
helps himself to a fat sheep, and makes off with it, as he
had often done before. His wife fears he may be snatched
up and hanged ; but her wit suggests a scheme, which is
presently agreed upon, that she shall make as if she had
just been adding a member to the family, and that the sheep
shall be snugly wrapped up in the cradle. This done, Mak
hastens back, and resumes his sleeping-posture, to avoid sus-
picion. In the morning, the shepherds wake much refreshed,
one of them saying that he feels " as light as leaf on a
tree ; " but Mak pretends to have a crick in the neck from
lying long in an uneasy position ; and as they walk to the
fold, he whips away home. They soon miss the sheep ; swear
by St. Thomas of Kent that they suspect Mak ; go to his
cottage ; knock : he lets them in, tells them what his wife
has been doing, and begs them not to disturb her : she joins
in the request ; and, as the least noise seems to go through
her head, they are at first taken in : they ask to see the child
before they go, and one of them offers to give it sixpence :
Mak tells them the child is asleep, and will cry badly if
waked : still they press on ; pull up the covering of the cra-
dle, see their sheep, know it by the ear-mark ; but the wife
assures them it is a child, and that evil spirits have trans-
formed i: into what they see : this will not go, they are not
to be gulled any further ; they beat Mak till they are tired
out : then lie down to rest ; the star in the east appears, and

CXC11 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

the angel sings the Gloria in excelsis : then they proceed to
Bethlehem, where they find the infant Saviour, and give Him
the first, " a bob of cherries," the second, a bird, the third,
a tennis ball.

No. 17th, which represents the baptism of Christ, deserves
mention, in that a passage relating to the seven sacraments
of the Romish Church is crossed out, and the number of the
sacraments erased ; thus proving that the play was in use
after the Reformation.

In the eighteenth play of the series, we have the betrayal.
Pilate with his burnished brand exacts silence, calling him-
self the grandsire of Mahound, and then goes to talking
with Annas and Caiaphas about the miracles of Christ.
Presently, Judas enters, offers to betray his Master, and ac-
cepts thirty pence in reward. Next, Christ is discovered
eating the Paschal lamb in the house of a man named Paier-
Familias : He foretells the betrayal ; and Trinitas, who is a
personification of the Trinity, comes in to tell Him that He
must descend into hell, to release Adam, Eve, the Prophets,
&c. This is followed by the apprehension, which is accom-
plished by Pilate, and some knights whom he describes as
" courteous Caesars of Cain's kindred." — In the nineteenth,
Christ is carried, by two Torturers, before Annas and Cai-
aphas, and the latter, em-aged at His silence, breaks forth in
divers insults, threatening to thrust out both His eyes, to put
Him in the stocks, and to hang Him. By the advice of
Annas, He is then sent before Pilate ; and the piece ends
with the Torturers and a man named Froward-taunt beating
Him. — No. 20th presents Christ on Pilate's scaffold, who
makes a speech, avowing himself " full of subtlety, false-
hood, guile, and treachery," and the friend of all that " use
backbitings and slanderings." He refuses to sentence Christ,
but secretly gives orders for the crucifixion while washing
his hands. St. John carries the news to the Virgin and the
other women ; and at the close Christ enters bearing the
cross, and foretelling the destruction of Jerusalem. Thia

MIRACLE-PLAYS. CXClU

brings us to No. 21st, in which, after a speech from Pilate,
reviling the audience, calling them " harlots, dastards, thieves,
and michers," and telling them to keep still, the hands of
Christ are bound, and the cross erected. The Torturers then
taunt and mock Him, speaking of Him as a king just going
to ride in a tournament. This is followed by the nailing of
Him to the cross ; after which the Torturers draw cuts far
His garment. At last, " a blind knight," Longius by name,
being led in, thrusts a spear into the Saviour's side, when
some blood flows upon his eyes, and their sight is immedi-
ately restored. — These four pieces, it would seem, were
meant to be performed together; Leing, in effect, much the
same as the several acts or scenes of a regular drama.

No. 23d sets forth the descent into hell. Adam sees the
" gleam " of Christ's coming, and speaks of it to Eve and
the Prophets, who sing for joy. Rybald, the porter of hell,
calls in terror on Beekebub to make ready for resistance ;
and divers fiends, together with " Sir Satan our sire," are
summoned, while " watches are set on the walls." Satan,
angry at being disturbed, threatens to knock out Beelzebub's
brains. The devils refusing to open the gates, Christ ex-
claims, Mollite portas, and they forthwith burst. Satan
from below orders the fiends to hurl Him down : being an-
swered " that is soon said," he then goes up from the pit
of hell ; Christ tells him He has come to fetch His own, and
the Father hath sent Him. Satan then argues with Him
on the injustice of releasing those already damned : his ar-
guments failing, he begs Christ to release him also. Carist
replies, that He will leave him the company of Cain, Judas,
Acliitophel, and some others ; and that such as obey His
laws shall never come thither : whereat Satan rejoices, that
hell will soon be more populous than ever, as he means to
walk east and west, seducing mankind into his service ; but,
Christ exclaiming, " Devil, I command thee to go down into
thy neat, where thou shall sit," he " sinks into hell-pit.

CXC1V HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

Adam, Eve, Moses, and the Prophets being then set free
conclude by singing Te Deum laudamas.

The Chester and Coventry plays, for the most part, closely
resemble the Towneley series, both in the subjects and the
manner of treating them ; so that little would be gained for
our purpose by dwelling much upon them. A portion, how-
ever, of the Coventry series, from the 8th to the 15th, in-
clusive, have Certain peculiarities that call fur special notice,
as they show the first beginnings or buddings of a higher
dramatic growth, which afterwards resulted in what are
called Moral-plays. This part of the set all form, in effect,
one piece, and, for our j resent purpose, may as well be so
regarded. They relate to matters connected with the Sa-
viour's birth, and are partly founded on an apocryphal gos-
pel. One of the persons is named Contemplation, who,
though having no part in the action, serves as speaker of
pro.ogues, and moralizes on the events. This, evidently, is
an allegorical personage, that is, an abstract idea personified,
such as afterwards grew into general use, and gave character
to the stage-performances. And we have other allegorical
personages, Verity, Justice, Mercy, and Peace.

The eighth play represents Joachim sorrowing that he has
no child, and praying that the cause of his sorrow may be
removed : Anna, his wife, heartily joins with him, taking all
the blame of their childlessness to herself. In answer to
their prayers, an angel descends, to announce to them the
birth of a daughter, who shall be called Mary. Next fol-
lows the presentation of Mary, which is done in dumb show,
Contemplation remarking on what passes. Mary is repr»-
aeiited " all in white, as a child of three years' age ; " and
after a long interview between her and the Bishop, Con-
templation informs the audience that fourteen years will
elapse before her next appearance, and promises that they
shall soon see " the Parliament of heaven." Next, we have
the ceremony of Mary's betrothment. The Bishop summons
the male* of David's house to appear in the temple, each

MIRACLE-PLAYS. CXCV

bringing a white rod ; being divinely assured that he whose
rod should bud and bloom was to be the husband of Mary.
Joseph comes as one of them : after a deal of urgjig, he
offers up his rod, and the miracle is at once apparent, " a
dead stock beareth flowers free." When asked if he will be
married to the maiden, he deprecates such an event with all
his might, and pleads his old age in bar of it ; nevertheless
the marriage proceeds. Then we have many words of ten-
der farewell between the Virgin and her parents, the mother
saying to her, among other things, —

" I pray thee, Mary, my sweet child,
Be lowly and buxom, meek and mild,
Sad and sober, and nothing wild."

While this is doing, Joseph goes out, but presently returns,
and informs the Virgin that he has " hired a pretty little
house " for her and her maids to live in, and that he will
" go labouring in far country " to maintain her. Then comes
the Parliament of heaven, the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
taking part in the deliberations. The Virtues plead for pitj
and grace to man ; the Father replies that the " time is
come of reconciliation ; " Verity objects, urging that there
can be no peace made between sin and the law ; this calls
forth an earnest prayer from Mercy in man's behalf; Justice
takes up the argument on the other side ; Peace answers,
that " if man's soul should abide in hell, between God and
man ever would be division," in which case she, Peace, could
not live ; which brings them all to accord, as " heaven and
earth is pleas'd with peace." The Son then raises the ques-
tion how the thing shall be done : after Verity, Justice, Mer-
cy, and Peace have tried their wit and found it unequal to
the cause, a council of the Trinity is held, when the ST.
offers to undertake the work by assuming the form of a man,
the Father consents, and the Holy Ghost agrees to co-oper-
ate. Gabrie is then sent on an errand of salutation to Mary :
he makes known to her the decree of the Incarnation ; aftei

CXCVi HISTUKV OF THE DRAMA.

which the Holy Ghost, the Son, and the Father descend to
her, each giving her three benedictions.

Joseph is absent some months. On returning, he dis-
covers the condition of Mary, is in great affliction, and re-
proaches her ; but, an angel coming to him and explaining
the matter, he makes amends. Then comes the visit of
Joseph and Mary to Elizabeth. After which, Ahizachar the
Bishop holds a court, and his officer summons to it a large
number of people, all having English names, the purpose
being, tc make sport for the audience, who are told to " ring
well in their purse " thus showing that money was collected
for the performance. Mary is brought before this court, to
be tried for infidelity, and Joseph also, for tamely submitting
to it. Two Detractors appear as their accusers. The inno-
cence of Joseph is proved by his drinking, without harm, a
liquid which, were he guilty, would cause spots on his face.
Mary also drinks of the same, unhurt ; whereupon one of
the accusers affirms that the Bishop has changed the draught ;
but is himself compelled to drink what there is left, which
cures him of his unbelief. No. loth relates to the Nativity.
It opens with a dialogue between Joseph and Mar)" : he, it
seems, is not fully satisfied of her innocence, but his doubts
are all removed in this manner : Mary, seeing a high tree
full of ripe cherries, asks him to gather some for her ; he
replies, that the father of her child may help her to them ;
and the tree forthwith bows down its top to her hand. Soon
after, the Saviour's birth takes place on the stage.

The necessities of the subject, or what seem such to us,
must be our excuse for stating some of these things ; which,
though doubtless full of solemnity to the simple minds who
witnessed them, are apt to strike us as highly ludicrous ; so
that they can hardly be mentioned without seeming irrev-
erence.

Besides these three sets of Miracle-plays, tnere are sev-
eral other specimens, some of which seem to require notice.
The first to be mentioned is a set of three, known as the

MIRACLE-PLATS. CXCV1I

Digby Miracle-plays, on the Conversion of St. Paui. These
are opened and closed by Poeta, in person. St. Paul first
enters on horseback, and after his conversion he puts on a
" disciple's weed." One of the persons is Belial, whose ap-
pearance and behaviour are indicated by the stage-direction,
— "Here to enter a Devil with thunder and fire." He
makes a soliloquy in self-glorification, and then complains
of the dearth of news ; after which we have the stage-direc-
tion,— "Here shall enter another Devil called Mercury,
with a firing, coming in haste, crying and roaring." He
tells Belial of St. Paul's conversion, and declares the belief
that " the devil's law " is done for ; whereat Belial also is in
dismay. They plot to stir up the Jewish Bishops in the
cause ; which done, they " vanish away with a fiery flame
and a tempest."

The play to be next considered relates to Mary Magdalen.
Fhis seems to have required four scaffolds for the exhibition,
as Tiberius, Herod, Pilate, and the Devil have each their
several stations ; and one of the directions is, — " Here shall
enter the prince of devils on a stage, and hell underneath
the stage." Mary lives in a castle inherited from her father,
who figures in the opening of the play as King Cyrus. A
ship owned by St. Peter is brought into the space between
the scaffolds, and Mary and some others make a long voy-
age in it The heroine's castle is besieged by the Devil with
the Seven Deadly Sins, and carried : Lechery then beguiles
her with a flattering speech ; Luxury takes her to a tavern :
there a gallant named Curiosity treats her to " sops pjid
wine," and seduces her. The raising of Lazarus, who also
had Cyrus for his father, takes place in the performance ;
and the process of Mary's repentance and amendment is
carried through in proper order. Tiberius makes a long
speech glorifying himself; a parasite named Serybil flatters
him oil his good looks, and he in return blesses Serybil's
face, which was probably carbuncled as badly as Bardolph's.
Herod makes his boast in similar stvle, and afterwards goea

CXCVI11 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

to bed, though merely in order, it seems, to make room foi
other actors. The devils, headed by Satan, perform a mock
pagan mass to Mahound. The three kings of the World,
the Flesh, and the Devil figure in the play, but not prom-
inently. A priest winds up the performance, requesting the
spectators not to charge the faults on the poet, but on his
want of skill or cunning.

Here, again, we see the gradual introduction of allegorical
characters, in the shape of virtues and mental qualities per-
sonified, as Lechery, Luxury, and Curiosity. This is carried
still further in another play, of a later date, called The Life
and Repentance of Mary Magdalen ; where we have divers
impersonations of abstract ideas, such as Law, Faith, Re-
pentance, Pride, Cupidity, Carnal-concupiscence, and Infi-
delity ; the latter very clearly foreshadowing the Vice or In-
iquity, who figured so largely in Moral-plays. Infidelity acts
as the heroine's paramour, and assumes many disguises, to
seduce her into all sorts of vice, wherein he is aided by Pride,
Cupidity, and Carnal-concupiscence. After she has reached
the climax of sin, he advises her " not to make two hells
instead of one," but to live merrily in this world, since she
is sure of perdition in the next ; and his advice succeeds for
a while. On the other hand, Law, Faith, Repentance, Jus-
tification, and Love strive to recover her, and the latter hah"
of the piece is taken up with this work of benevolence. At
ast, Christ expels the seven devils, who " roar terribly : "
whereupon Infidelity and his associates give her up. The
piece closes with a dialogue between Mary, Justification, and
Love, the latter two rejoicing in the salvation of a sinner.

This play was printed in 1567, and is described in the title-
page as " not only godly, learned, and fruitful, but also well
furnished with pleasant mirth and pastime, very delectable
for those which shall hear or read the same : made by the
learned clerk, Lewis Wager." It bears clear internal evi-
sence of having been written after the Reformation; and

MIRACLE-PLAYS. CXC1X

the prologue snows that it was acted by itinerant playejs,
and had been performed " at the university."

Four Miracle-plays have come down to us, which were
written by Bishop Bale, and printed somewhere on the Con-
tinent in 1538. The most notable point concerning them
is, their being the first known attempt to use the stage in
furtherance of the Reformation. One of them is entitled
Christ's Temptation. It opens with Christ in the wilderness,
faint through hunger ; and His first speech is meant to re-
fute the Romish doctrine touching the efficacy of fasting.
Satan joins Hun in the disguise of a hermit, and the whole
temptation proceeds according to Scripture. In one of his
arguments, Satan vents his spite against " false priests and
bishops," but plumes himself that " the Vicar of Rome "
will worship and befriend him. In the epilogue, the author
in his own person maintains the fitness of letting the peo-
ple have the Bible to read, and belabours the Romanists for
wishing to keep them in ignorance.

Another of Bale's Miracle-plays is called The Three Laws
of Nature, Moses, and Christ. In his Expostulation or
Complaint, he refers to this play, and says, — " Therein it is
largely declared, how that faithless Antichrist of Rome, with
his clergy, hath been a blemish, darkener, confounder, and
poisoner of all wholesome laws." Bale also wrote several
plays of another kind, of one of which some account is given
in our Introduction to King John.

The Miracle-play of King Darius, printed in 1565, is
founded on the Third Book of Esdras, which is excluded
even from the Apocrypha of our Bible. It is scarce worth
notice, except that Iniquity with his wooden dagger has a
leading part in the action. He, together with Importunity
and Partiality, has divers contests with Equity, Charity, and
Constancy : for a while he has the better of them, but at
last they catch him alone ; each in turn threatens him with
Bore visitings ; then follows the direction, — " Here some-
body must cast fire to Lii-juity ; " who probably had some

CC HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

fireworks about his person, to explode for the amusement
of the audience as lie went out,

The play of Abraham's Sacrifice, printed in 1575, is a
translation by Golding ; the original having been written by
the celebrated Beza, and performed at Lausanne about 1550.
It opens with a dialogue between Abraham and Sarah, who
unite in singing a hymn. Satan then enters " in the habit
of a monk," and makes a long speech to himself, exulting
in the wicked pranks he has played in that disguise. He
then slips aside ; a band of shepherds strike up a song, dur-
ing which Abraham receives the Divine command, and he
and Isaac take leave of Sarah. The fiend still trusts that
Abraham's resolution will break down, and watches narrow-
ly during the sacrifice, speaking asiue. At first Abraham's
resolution falters, he drops the knife, then resolves again,
and is about to strike, when the angel enters to stay his
hand, and tells him to sheathe his knife. In this pail, the
play is much inferior to the corresponding plays of the
Towneley, Chester, and Coventry sets ; which have some
jets of tender pathos, such as to make the lip quiver, and
put jewels in the eye.

Hitherto, we have met with scarce any thing that can be
regarded as portraiture of individual character, though some-
what of that sort may be alleged in the case of Mak in No.
12th of the Towneley series. The truth is, character and
action, in the proper sense of the terms, were hardly thought
of in the making of Miracle-plays ; the work aiming at noth-
ing higher than a literal or mechanical reflection of facts
and events ; sometimes relieved indeed with certain general-
ities of popular humour and satire, but without any context-
ure of individual traits. We now come to a piece which
deserves remark, as indicating how, under the pressure of
general dramatic improvement, Miracle-plays tried to rise
above their proper sphere, and still retain their proper form.
It is entitled " A new, merry, and witty Comedy or Inter-
kde, treating upon thn History of Jacob and Esau ; " was

MIRACLE-PLAYS. CCI

printed in 1568, but probably written as early as 1551. It
js of very regular construction, having five Acts, which are
duly subdivided into scenes. Besides the Scripture charac-
ters, are Ragau, Esau's servant ; Mido, a boy who leads
blind Isaac ; Hanon and Zethar, two of his neighbours ;
Abra, a girl who assists Rebecca ; and Debora, an old nurse.
It is opened by Ragau, who enters " with his horn at his
back and his hunting-staff in his hand, leading three grey-
hounds, or one, as may be gotten." His master, Esau, then
comes, and they set forth together on a hunt ; Rebecca
urges Jacob to secure his brother's birthright ; Esau returns
with a raging appetite, and Jacob demands his birthright as
the condition of relieving him with a mess of rice pottage ;
he consents, and Ragau laughs at his simplicity, while Jacob,
Rebecca, and Abra sing a psalm of thanksgiving. These
things occupy the first two Acts : in the third Esau and his
servant take another hunt. The blessing of Jacob occurs in
the fourth Act ; Rebecca tasking her cookery to the utmost
in dressing a kid, and succeeding in her scheme. In the
last, Esau comes back, and learns from his father what has
been done in his absence. The plot and incidents are man-
aged with due propriety and decorum ; the characters are
discriminated with considerable art ; the versification is re-
markably good for the time ; the comic portions show some
neatness and delicacy of wit and humour ; and, all together,
the play is far superior to any preceding attempt in the same
line.

In the interlude, as it is called, of Godly Queen Esther,
printed in 1561, we have a Miracle-play going still further
out of itself. One of the characters is named Hardy-dardy,
who, with some qualities of the Vice, foreshadows the Jester
or professional Fool of the later Drama ; wearing motley,
and pretending weakness or disorder of intellect, to the end
that his wit may run the more at large, and strike with the
more effect. Hardy-dardy offers himself as a servant to
Haman : after Haman has urged him with divers remark*

CCU HISTORY OF THE DKAMA.

in dispraise of fools, he sagely replies, that "some wise man
must be fain sometime to do on a fool's coat." Nor is he HO
ignorant but that he can quote Ovid and Valerius Maximus.
Besides the Scripture characters, the play has several alle-
gorical personages, as Pride, Ambition, and Adulation : these
three are represented as making their \vills, bequeathing all
their bad qualities to Haman, and thereby ruining him.
Three courtiers having discussed the merits of wealth, power,
virtue, wisdom, and noble blood, King Ahasuerus has all the
maiden beauties of his kingdom brought before him ; which
done, he makes choice of Esther for his wife. After her
elevation, Queen Esther has a chapel royal, well supplied
with music and singers for her delight, thus imitating her
royal sister, Elizabeth. One of the persons mentioning the
likelihood of a war with Scotland and France, Hardy-dardy
thereupon informs us that he gets his wine fiom the latter
country. And there are divers other allusions to things and
persons of England, though the scene lies in Assyria.

CHAPTER II.
MORAL-PLAYS.

THE purpose and idea of Miracle-plays was, to inculcate,
in a popular way, what may be termed the theological ver-
ities : at first, they took their substance and form solely with
a view to this end ; the securing of an orthodox faith being
then, from the recent prevalence of heathenism, naturally
looked upon as the one all-important concern. In course of
time, the thirst for novelty and variety drew them beyond
their original sphere, of revealed religion, into that of natural
ethics. By degrees, allegorical impersonations came, as we

MORAL-PLATS. cciu

Have seen, to be more or less mixed up with Scripture Char-
acters and events ; the aim being, to illustrate and enforce
the virtues that refer immediately to the practical conduct
of life. Doubtless, the instincts of duty, as, under Christian
culture, they emerged more and more into the clear light of
consciousness, had much to do in furthering this innovation.
The new-comers kept encroaching more and more upon the
ancient tenants : invited in as auxiliaries, they remained as
principals ; and at last quite superseded and replaced the
original occupants of the ground. Hence there grew into
use quite a different style or order of workmanship, a dis-
tinct class of symbolical or allegorical dramas ; that is,
dramas made up entirely of abstract ideas personified.
These are properly termed, from their structure and pur-
pose, Moral-plays. We shall see hereafter, that much the
same course and process of transition was repeated in the
gradual rising of genuine Comedy and Tragedy out of the
allegorical dramas.

Of course, representations of the Devil made a legitimate
part of the Miracle-plays. Nor was it without a profound
insight of nature, that in those representations he was en
dowed in large measure with a biting, caustic humour, and
with a coarse, scoffing, profane wit. To these was properly
joined an exaggerated grotesqueness of look and manner,
such as would awaken mixed emotions of fear, mirth, and
disgust. In these qualities of mind and person, together with
the essential malignity, of which they are the proper sur-
face and outside, we have, no doubt, the germs of both Com-
edy and Tragedy. For, in the nature of things, the horrible
and the ridiculous easily pass into each other, both being in-
deed but different phases of one and the same thing. Ac-
cordingly, the Devil, under one name or another, continued
to propagate himself on the stage some time after his origina.
co-actors had withdrawn.

It is plain, also, that from the nature and principle of the
thing an allegorical personage, called Iniquity, Vice, or some

CC1V HISTORY OK TIIK DRAMA.

such name, would be among the first dianic-tvrs to take
stand in Moral-plays, as a personification of the evil tenden-
cies in man. And the Vice, thus originating from the mora
\iew of things, would needs he, evidently, a sort of counter-
part to that more ancient impersonation of evil which took
its origin from the theological sphere. The Devil, being the
stronger principle, would naturally hare use for the Vice as
his agent or factor. Hence we may discover in these two
personages points of mutual sympathy and attraction ; and.
in fact, it was hi and through them that the two species of
drama first met and coalesced into one ; Miracle-plays bor-
rowing the Vice as a primitive up-shoot of Moral-plays, and
the latter retaining the Devil as the most vigorous and op-
erative element of the former. Nor is it anywise strange
that the Vice, while acting as the Devil's factor, should for
that very reason be fond of abusing and belabouring him :
on the contrary, this is his most natural means of stifling c,r
escaping from the sense whom he is serving, and that he is
to have nothing but pain and perdition in reward of his
service.

In Moral-plays the Devil and the Vice, or at least one of
them, almost always bore a leading part, though not always
under those names. Most commonly, for causes already
stated, the two were retained together ; though there are
some cases of each figuring apart from the other. We have
ample proof that there was no sparing of pains to give tne
Devil as hideous an aspect as possible. He was made an
out-and-out monster in appearance, all hairy and snaggy,
with a " bottle nose " and an " evil face," having horns,
hoofs, and a long tail ; so that the sight had been at once
loathsome and ludicrous, but for the great strength and
quickness of wit, and the fiendish, yet merry and waggish
malignity, which usually marked his conversation ; though
he was sometimes endowed with a most protean versatility
of mind and person, so that he could walk abroad as " plain
devil," scaring all he met, or steal into society as a prudent

MORVL-PL\YS. CC?

counsellor, a dasliing gallant, or whatsoever else would best
work his ends.

As for the Vice, he commonly acted the part of a broad,
rampant jester and buffoon, full of mad pranks and mischief-
making, liberally dashed with a sort of tumultuous, swagger-
ing fun. He was arrayed in a fantastic garb, with something
of drollery in its appearance, so as to aid the comic effect of
his action, and armed with a dagger of lath, perhaps as sym-
bolical that his use of weapons was but to the end of pro-
voking his own defeat, and that he was dangerous only as a
friend. He was hugely given to cracking ribald and saucy
jokes with and upon the Devil, and treating him in a style
of coarse familiarity and mockery ; and a part of his ordi-
nary function was, to bestride the Devil, and beat him till he
roared, and the audience roared with him ; the scene ending
with his being carried off to hell on the Devil's back. Much
of the old custom in these two personages is amusingly set
forth in Ben Jonson's Staple of News, where, at the end of
each Act, we have some imaginary spectators commenting
on the performance. At the end of Act L, one of them ex-
pressing a fear that the play has no Fool in it, as the Vice
was often called, Gossip Tattle delivers herself thus : " Mj
husband, Timothy Tattle. God rest his poor soul ! was wont
to say, there was no play without a Fool and a Devil in't j
he was for the Devil still, God bless him ! The Devil for his
money, he would say ; I would fain see the Devil. And why
would you so fain see the Devil ? would I say. Because he
has horns, wife, and may be a cuckold as well as a devil, he
would answer." It being asked, — " But was the Devil a
proper man ? " Gossip Mirth replies, — " As fine a gentle-
man of his inches as ever I saw trusted to the stage or any
where else ; and loved the commonwealth as well as ever a
patriot of them ail : he would carry away the Vice on his
back, quick to hell, wherever he came, and reform abuses."
Again, at the end of Act iL, the question being put, — " How
like you the Vice in the play ? " Widow Tattle complainn,

CCV1 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

— "But here is never a fiend to carry him away. Besides,
he has never a wooden dagger ! I would not give a rush for
a Vice that has not a wooden dagger, to snap at, every body
he meets." -Whereupon, Mirth observes, — " That was the
old way. gossip, when Iniquity came in like Hokos-Pokos,
in a juggler's jerkin, with false skirts, like the knave of clubs."
Some further light on the subject may be found in Twelfth
Night, Act iv. sc. 2, note 13 ; and in King Richard III., Act
iii. sc. 1, note 11.

The most ancient specimen of a Moral-play, known to
have survived, dates as far back as the reign of Henry VI.,
which closed in 1461. It is entitled The Castle of Perse-
verance, and evinces such a degree of perfection as would
naturally infer many earlier attempts in the same line. It
is opened by Mundus, Belial, and Caro, descanting on their
several gifts : Humanum Genus, who represents mankind,
then announces himself, just born, and naked ; while he is
speaking, a good and a bad angel appear on his right and
left, each claiming him as a follower. He prefers the bad
angel, who leads him straight to Mundus ; the latter orders
liis friends, Voluptas and Stultitia, to take him in hand.
Detractio, who calls himself Backbiter, is also made one of
his train, and procures him the acquaintance of Avaritia, by
whom he is introduced to the other Deadly Sins : not long
after, the youth meets with Luxuria, and has her for his
mistress. At all this, Bad Angel exults, but Good Ange
mourns, and sends Confessio to Humanum Genus, who at
first repels him as having come too soon. However, with the
help of Poenitentia, Confessio at last reclaims him ; and he
asks where he can live in safety, and is told, in the Castle of
Perseverance : so, thither he goes, being at that time, if Bad
Angel may be credited, "forty winters old." The Seven
Cardinal Virtues wait upon him in the Castle, with their re-
spective counsels. Belial, after having beaten the Seven
Deadly Sins for letting him escape, heads them in laying
siege to the Castle ; but he appeals to " the Duke that died

MORAL-PLATS. CCVll

on rood'' to defend him, and the assailants retire discom-
fited, being beaten "black and blue" by the roses which
Charity and Patience hurl against them. As Humanum
Genus is now grown " hoary and cold," and his " back gin-
neth to bow and bend," Avaritia worms in under the walls,
and with his persuasive eloquence induces him to quit the
Castle, and submit to the discipline of his new friend. No
sooner has he got well skilled in the new lore, than Garcio,
who stands for the rising generation, demands all his wealth,
alleging that Mundus has given it to him. Presently MOM
comes in for his turn, and makes a long speech extolling hi*
own power : Anima, also, hastens to the spot, and invokes
the aid of Misericordia ; notwithstanding, Bad Angel shoul-
ders the hero, and sets off with him for the infernal regions.
Then follows a discussion in heaven, Mercy and Peace plead-
ing for the hero, Verity and Justice against him : God sends
for his soul ; Peace takes it from Bad Angel, who is driven
off to hell ; Mercy presents it to heaven ; and " the Fathei
sitting in judgment" pronounces the sentence, which ot
course unfolds the moral of the performance.

From the foregoing analysis it will have been seen that
the piece partakes somewhat the character of a Miracle-
play. A list of the persons is given at the end, to the num-
ber of thirty-seven ; and also a rude sketch of the represen-
tation, showing a castle in the centre, with a bed under it
fo» the hero, and five scaffolds for Deus, Belial, Mundus,
Caro, and Avaritia. Bad Angel is the Devil of the perfonn-
ance: there is no personage answering to the Vice. The
authorship is unknown; but Mr. Collier thinks it was not
the work of a clergyman, because the hero remarks of In-
vidia, one of the characters, that " in abbeys he dwelleth
full oft."

The next piece to be noticed bears the title of Mind, Will,
and Understanding. It is opened by Wisdom, who repre-
sents the second Person of the Trinity, and is dressed in
rich purple, with a beard of gold, and an imperial crown on

CCVIH HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

his head set. with precious stones ; "in his left hand a bal!
of gold with a cross thereupon, and in his right hand a regal
sceptre." Anima soon joins him " as a maid, in white cloth
of gold gaily purfled with minever, a mantle of black there-
upon ; " and they converse upon heavenly love, the sevei.
sacraments, the five senses, and reason. Mind, Will, and
Understanding then describe their several qualities ; the Five
Wits, attired as Virgins, go out singing ; Lucifer enters " in
A Devil's array without, and within as proud as a gallant,"
that is, with a gallant's dress under his proper garb ; relates
die creation and fall of man, describing Mind, Will, and Un-
derstanding as the three properties of the soul, which he
means to assail and corrupt. He then goes out, and pres-
ently returns " as a goodly gallant," succeeds in his attempt,
and, his victims having withdrawn awhile, makes an exulting
speech, at the close of which " he taketh a shrewd boy with
him, and goeth his way crying ; " probably snatching up a
boy from amongst the spectators, — an incident designed to
" bring down the house." Lucifer having gone out, his three
victims return in gay apparel ; they dismiss Conscience ;
Will dedicates himself to lust, being " as merry as a bird
on bough ; " all join in a song, and then proceed to have a
dance. First, Mind calls in his followers : " Here enter six,
disguised in the suit of Mind, with red beards, and lions
rampant on their crests^and each a warder in his hand : "
these answer to the names, Indignation, Sturdiness, Malice,
Hastiness, Wreck, and Discord. Next, Understanding sum-
mons his adherents : " Here enter six jurors in a suite,
gowned, with hoods about their heads, hats of maintenance
thereupon, vizarded diversely : " their names are Wrong,
Slight, Doubleness, Falseness, Ravin, and Deceit Then
come the servants of Will : " Here enter six women, three
disguised as gallants, and three as matrons, with wonderftd
vizors correspondent : " these are called Recklessness, Idle
ness, Surfeit, Greediness, Spouse-breach, and Fornication,
The minstrels striking up a hornpipe, they all dance togeth-

MORAL-PLAYS. CCiX

er UAtil a quarrel breaks out between them, when the eigh-
teen servants are driven off, their masters remaining alone
on the stage. Just as these are about to withdraw for a
carouse, Wisdom enters: Anima also makes her appear •
ance, " in the most horrible wise, fouler than a fiend ; " and
presently gives birth to six of the Deadly Sins : " Here run
out from under the horrible mantle of the Soul six small
boys in the likeness of devils, and so return again." Anima
thereupon perceives what a transformation has overtaken
ner, and Mind, Will, and Understanding learn that they are
the cause of it : " Here they go out, and in the going the
Soid singeth in tha most lamentable wise, with drawling
notes, as it is sung in the Passion- Week." Wisdom then
opens his mouth in a long speech, after which, " here enter-
eth Anima, with the Five Wits going before, Mind on the
one side, and Understanding on the other side, and Will fol-
lowing, all in their first clothing, their chaplets and crests,
and all having on crowns, singing in their coming." The
three dupes of Lucifer renounce the evil of their ways, and
Anima is made happy in their reformation.

The two forecited pieces have come down to our time only
in manuscript. " A Goodly Interlude of Nature " is the
title of a Moral-play written by Henry Medwall, chaplain
to Archbishop Morton, which has descended to us in print.
It is in two parts, and at the end of the first part we learn
that it was played before Morton himself, who became Arch-
bishop of Canterbury in 1486, and died in 1500. Like the
I wo foregoing specimens, it was meant to illustrate the strife
of good and evil in man, but is much superior to either of
them both in construction and versification.

Mundus and Worldly-affection are represented sitting on
the stage, and Man enters attended by Nature, Reason, and
Innocence. Nature announces herself as God's minister on
earth to instruct His creatures, and appoints Reason to guide
Man in life ; but, through the arts of Mundus and Sensual-
ity, he is persuaded to dismiss Reason and Innocence to the

IJCX HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

devil, laughing at the latter for being as inut? as a Grey
friar. Pride then conies in, so wrapped up in self-love that
at first he does not notice Man, but afterwards engages Sen-
suality to insinuate him into his confidence. The result is,
Man agrees that Pride shall be his companion ; and. while
he is gone out with Sensuality to a tavern, Pride and World-
ly-affection arrange for him a fitting apparel, wherein the
fashions of the time are satirized. Man now quarrels with
Reason, and strikes her with his sword, for trying to keep
him from going with a couple of prostitutes ; after which, he
soon meets with the Seven Deadly Sins, who join themselves
to him under feigned names. But Man discovers ere long
that he has been duped, repents his treatment of Reason,
shakes off Worldly-affection, and courts Shamefastness ; is
reconciled to Reason, and promises to be guided by her ; but
his purpose is undermined by Sensuality, who tells him that
Margery, one of the prostitutes, has gone stark mad for love
of him, and has entered into " a religious place," meaning
a house of ill fame in Southwark. Away goes Man to seek
her : returning, he meets Sloth, and grows fearful that Rea-
son is going to take him by force : a contest ensues between
the parties : some of the Deadly Sins take side with him
against Reason ; but Gluttony declines fighting : Pride also
backs out of the scrape ; for which cause Man repudiates
him, and is again made friends with Reason by Age. Nev-
ertheless, he still clings to Covetise ; and, the question being
raised, where Covetise has dwelt so long, Sensuality remarks,
— " He dwelleth with a priest, as I heard say ; for he loveth
well men of the Church ; and lawyers eke will follow his
counsel." Man then holds a conference with Reason, and
makes many promises of amendment ; Meekness, the enemy
of Pride, enters and gives his lesson ; he is followed by
Charity, Patience, and other good counsellors : Abstinence
and Chastity take Man away on a visit to Repentance ; on
his return, Reason welcomes him, and promises him sal-
vation.

VOKAL-PLAYS.

fhere are several other printed pieces dating from about
the same period as the preceding, but so nearly like it, that
the dwelling upon them would make little for our purpose.
One of them is entitled The World and the Child, and rep-
resents man in the five stages of infancy, boyhood, youth,
maturity, and infirmity. It was printed in 1522, but doubt-
less written some years before. Another of them is called
I lick Scorner, and deserves mention chiefly as being perhaps
the earliest specimen of a Moral-play, in which some at-
tempt is made at individual character. The piece is some-
what remarkable, also, in having been such a popular fa-
vourite, that the phrase " Hick Scorner's jests " grew into
use as a proverb, to signify the profane scurrility with which
the Puritans treated the Scriptures in the reign of Elizabeth.

" The Necromancer, a Moral Interlude and a pithy, writ-
ten by Master Skelton, Laureate, and played before the King
and other estates at Woodstock on Palm-Sunday," came
from the press in 1504. The piece is now lost ; but a copy
of it belonging to Collins was seen by Warton, who gave an
account of it ; which, as it is very curious, we must add in
a condensed form. The persons are a Necromancer or Con-
jurer, the Devil, a Notaiy Public, Simony, and Avarice.
The plot is the trial of Simony and Avarice, the Devil being
the judge, and the Notary Public serving as assessor or
scribe : the Conjurer has little to do but open the subject in
a long prologue, evoke the Devil, and summon the court,
The prisoners are found guilty, and ordered off straight to
hell : the Devil kicks the Conjurer for waking him too early
in the morning : Avarice quotes Seneca and St. Augustine j
and Simony tries to bribe the Devil : he rejects her offer
with indignation, and swears by the Furies and the hoary
head of Charon, that she shall be well roasted in the sulphur
of Cocytus, along with Mahomet, Pilate, Judas, and Herod.
The last s^ene presents a view of Hell, >and a dance between
the Devil anJ the Conjurer ; at the close of which the Devil
trips up his partner's heels, and disappears in fire and smoke.

DCXll HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

A variety of measures, with shreds of Latin and French, is
used ; but the Devil speaks in the octave stanza. The piece
teems to have been intended partly as a satire on some
abuses in the Church ; which matter, however, is conduct-
ed with proper decorum and respect

Another piece of Skelton's, entitled Magnificence, and de-
signed to set forth the vanity of worldly grandeur, has sur-
vived in print, but the edition is undated. Magnificence, the
hero, being eaten out of substance by his friends and retain-
ers, falls into the hands of Poverty and Adversity : in this
state, he meets with Despair and Mischief; these furnish him
with a knife and halter ; he is about killing himself when
Good-hope steps in and stays his arm : Redress, Circumspec-
tion, and Perseverance then take him in hand, wean him
from the love of his former state, and make him content to
live in an humbler sphere. The most notable feature of the
thing is, that comic incident and dialogue are somewhat
made use of, to diversify and enliven the serious parts ; thus
showing the early disposition to weave tragedy and comedy
together in one dramatic web. On one occasion, Fancy and
Folly get to playing tricks on Crafty-conveyance : he is in-
duced to lay a wager that Folly will not be able to laugh
him out of his coat : the feat is accomplished in a manner
rather laughable, but too indelicate for quotation.

The Moral-play of Every-man was printed some time be-
fore 1531. Though closely resembling The Castle of Per-
severance, the allegory is managed with so much skill, as to
entitle it to some special notice. It opens with a soliloquy
by the Deity, lamenting that the people forsake Him for the
Seven Deadly Sins. He then summons Death, and sends
him after Every-man, the hero of the piece, who stands for
the whole human race. Death finds him, delivers the mes-
sage, and tells him to bring with him his account-book ; but
allows him to prove 'his friends. First, he tries Fellowship,
who, though ready to murder any one for his sake, declines
going with him on his long journey. ' Next, he tries Kin-

MOKAL-PLAYS. CCX1U

dred, who excuses himself as having " the cramp in his toe."
Then he applies to Riches, who also gives him the cold
shoulder. At last, he resorts to Good-deeds, and finds her
too weak to stand ; but she points out to him the blank in
his book of works. However, she introduces him to Knowl-
edge, who takes him to Confession : there he meets with
Strength, Discretion, Beauty, and Five Wits, who undertakf
to go with him. Arriving at the brink of the grave, he calls
on his friends to enter it with him. First, Beauty refuses,
then Strength, then Discretion, then Five "Wits ; even
Knowledge deserts him ; Good-deeds alone having the vir-
tue to stick by him.

Considering the religious origin of the English Drama, it
had been something wonderful if, when controversies arose,
different sides had not used it in furtherance of their views.
"We have seen that in the reign of Henry VHL Bishop Bale
wrote Miracle-plays for the avowed purpose of advancing
the Reformation ; and that his plays were printed abroad in
1538. The reason of which printing abroad was, no doubt,
that a royal proclamation had been set forth some years be-
fore, forbidding any plays to be performed, or any books
printed, in the English tongue, touching matters then in
controversy, unless the same had first been allowed by pub-
lic authority. The King, however, was not at all averse to
the stage being made use of against the Reformers ; the
purpose of that measure being, so far as regarded plays, to
prevent any using of them on the other side. For in the
fall of 1528 the French Ambassadors were entertained
with great splendour, first by Cardinal Wolsey at Hampton
Court, and afterwards by the King at Greenwich. Caven-
dish, in his Life of Wolsey, winds up an account of the lat-
ter entertainment as follows : " Aftez all this, there was the
most goodliest disguising or interlude, made in Latin and
French, whose apparel was of such exceeding richness, that
it passeth my capacity to expound." Mr. Collier publishes
a verj curious descriptor of the performance, from Richard

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA

Gibson, then an officer in the King's house}, old : rho wing
that this interlude was a Latin Moral-play wherein "the
heretic Luther" and his wife were brought on the stage.
It was acted by the children of St. Paul's under the care
of their master, John Rightwise, who probably wrote the
piece.

Another curious matter touching the point in hand has
turned up in the shape of a letter to Cromwell from a per-
son calling himself Thomas Willey, Vicar of Yoxford, in
Suffolk. The letter is undated, but the address shows it to
have been written between 1535 and 1540. The following
is the material part of it :

" The Lord make you the instrument of my help, Lord
Cromwell, that I may have free liberty to preach the truth.

" I dedicate and offer to your Lordship A Reverent Re-
ceiving of the Sacrament, as a Lenten matter, declared by
six children, representing Christ, the Word of God, Paul,
Austin, a Child, a Nun called Ignorancy ; as a secret thing
that shall have its end, once rehearsed afore your eye by the
said children. The most part of the priests of Suffolk will
not receive me into their churches to preach, but have dis-
dained me ever since I made a play against the Pope's coun-
sellors. I have made a play called A Rude Commonalty.
I am making of another called The Woman of the Rock, in
the fire of faith a fining, and a purging in the true purga-
.orv ; never to be seen but of your Lordship's eye."

In 1543, an Act of Parliament was passed for the re-
straining of dramatic performances. The preamble states
that divers persons, intending to subvert the true and per-
fect doctrine of Scripture, after their perverse fantasies, have
taken upon them not only to teach the same by sermons and
arguments, but also by printed books, plays, and songs ; and
the body of the statute enacts that no person shall play in
interludes, sing, or rhyme any matter contrary to the Church
of Rome ; the penalty being, a fine of £10 anil thret
months' imprisonment for the first offence for the second

MORAL-PLAYS. CCXT

forfeiture of ail goods ana perpetual imprisonment. A pro-
viso, however, is added in favour of songs, plays, and inter-
ludes having for their object " the rebuking and reproaching
of vices, and the setting forth of virtue ; so always the said
songs, plays, or interludes meddle not with the interpreta-
tions of Scripture."

The same year, one Edward Stalbridge printed abroad
* The Epistle Exhortatory of an English Christian to his
dearly-beloved Country," which has the following, addressed
to the Romanists, and evidently referring to the forecited
statute: "None leave ye unvexed and untroubled, — no,
not so much as the poor minstrels, and players of interludes,
but ye are doing with them. So long as they played lies,
and sang bawdy songs, blasphemed God, and corrupted men's
consciences, ye never blamed them, but were very well con-
tented. But since they persuaded the people to worship
their Lord God aright, according to His holy laws, and not
yours, and to acknowledge Jesus Christ for their only Re-
deemer and Saviour, without your lousy legerdemains, ye
never were pleased with them."

When Edward VI. came to the throne, in 1547, legisla-
tion took a new turn: the Act of 1543 was repealed. Hol-
inshed gives a fine account how the Christmas of 1551 was
passed at Court. " It was devised," says he, " that the feast
of Christ's nativity should be solemnly kept at Greenwich,
with open household and frank resort to Court, what time,
of old ordinary course, there is always one appointed to
make sport in the Court, called commonly Lord of Misrule ;
whose office is not unknown to such as have been brought
up in noblemen's houses, and among great housekeepers,
which use liberal feasting in that season. There was, there-
fore, by order of the Council, a wise gentleman and learned,
named George Ferrers, appointed to that office for this year j
who, being of better credit and estimation than commonly
his predecessors had been, received all his warrants by the
name of the Master of the King's Pastimes. Which gen-

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

tleman so well supplied his office, both in show of sundr)
sights, and in act of divers interludes, as not only satisfied
the common sort, but also were very well liked by the Coun-
cil, and others of skill in the like pastimes ; but best of all
by the young King himself, as appeared by his princely lib-
erality in rewarding that service." There arose, however, so
great an excess on the part of printers and players, that in
the spring of 1552 a strong proclamation was issued, forbid-
ding them to print or play any thing without a special li-
cence under the sign manual, or under the hands of six of
the Privy Council, the penalty being imprisonment without
bail or mainprise, and fine at the King's pleasure.

Soon after the accession of Mary, in 1553, was set forth
" a proclamation for reformation of busy meddlers in mat-
ters of religion, and for redress of preachers, printers, and
players." So much of it as relates to the subject in hand is
as follows : " Forasmuch as it is well known, that sedition
and false rumours have been nourished and maintained with-
in this realm, by playing of interludes and printing of false
fond books, ballads, and other lewd treatises in the English
tongue, concerning doctrine in matters now in question and
controversy; her Highness therefore straitly chargeth all
and every her subjects, that none of them presume from
henceforth to print any books, ballad, interlude or treatise,
nor to play any interlude, except they have her Grace's
special licence in writing for the same, upon pain to incur her
highness' indignation and displeasure."

The practical intent of this order of course was, to pre-
vent the printing or playing of any thing adapted to further
the Reformation. And for more than two years it seems to
have been effectual for that end ; after which, further meas-
ures were found necessary. In February, 1556, the Privy
Council directed Lord Rich to stop the performance of a
stage-play that was to take place at Hatfield-Bradock, in
Essex, and to ascertain who the players should be, and what
the effect of the play. Soon after, as the players wera

MORAL-PLATS. CCXVU

found to be "honest householders and quiet persons," he
was ordered to set them at liberty, but to have special care
for preventing the like occasions in future. In the spring
following, the Earl of Shrewsbury being President of the
North, the Council wrote to him, complaining that " certain
lewd persons, naming themselves to be servants unto Sir
Francis Leek, had wandered about those north parts, and
represented certain plays and interludes containing very
naughty and seditious matter touching the state of the
realm, and to the slander of Christ's true and catholic re-
ligion." For which cause, they required the Earl to search
for the players without delay, and to punish them as vag-
abonds, on a repetition of the offence. This was evidently
aimed for the suppression of all plays in the interest of the
Protestant cause. Still it seems not to have been enough,
for it was soon followed by an order from the Star Chamber
to the justices of the peace in every county, requiring that
all dramatic performances should be stopped.

All would not do ; the restraints kept giving way to the
pressure. In June, 1557, "certain naughty plays" broke
loose even in London : the Lord Mayor was called upon by
the Court to discover and arrest the players, and " to take
order that no play be made henceforth within the city, ex-
cept the same be first seen, and the players authorised." In
the same month, the Mayor of Canterbury arrested some
players within his jurisdiction, and was required by the Coun-
cil to detain them until further orders. Meanwhile, " their
lewd play-book " was taken in hand by the crown lawyers,
and in August a letter was written to the Mayor, ordering
him to proceed against the players forthwith, and to punish
them according to their offences. In 1557, the magistrates
of Essex, it seems, were not energetic and prompt enough
in this matter ; for which cause they were straitly admon-
ished by the Privy Council to carry into immediate execu-
tion the Star Chamber order of 1556.

Nevertheless, Queen Mary was far from discouraging

CCJCV111 HISTORY OF THE DliAMA.

plays and players : on the contrary, she kept up tiie theat-
rical and musical establishment of her father, at a cost, in
salaries only, of between £2000 and £3000 a year, besides
board, liveries, and incidental expenses. The old Miracle-
plays, being generally of the right Roman Catholic stamp,
v 3re revived under the fostering patronage of the Court.
In 1556, the play of Christ's Passion was presented at the
Greyfriars in London, before the Lord Mayor, the Privy
Council, and many great estates of the realm. The next
year, it was repeated at the same place ; and also, on the
feast of St. Olave, the miraculous life of that Saint was per-
formed as a stage-play in the church dedicated to him.

Elizabeth succeeded to the crown, November 17th, 1558 ;
and in May following she set forth a proclamation forbid-
ding any plays or interludes to be performed in the kingdom
without special licence from the local magistrates ; and also
ordering that none should be so licenced, wherein either
matters of religion or of state were handled. This waa
probably deemed necessary in consequence of the strong
measures which had lately been used for putting down all
plays that smacked anyway of the Reformation. A good
comment on the action of the crown in this particular is fur-
nished by a letter from Sir Robert Dudley, afterwards Earl
of Leicester, to Shrewsbury, then Lord President of the
North. Sir Robert had at that time a company of players
acting under his name ; the letter was written in their be-
half, and dated from Westminster, June, 1559 :

" My good Lord : Whereas my servants, bringers hereof
unto you, be such as are players of interludes ; and for the
dame have the licence of divers of my Lords here, under
their seals and hands, to play in divers shires within the
realm under their authorities, as may amply appear unto
your Lordship by the same licence ; I have thought, among
the rest, by my letters to beseech your good Lordship, that
they may have your hand and seal to their licence, for the
like liberty in Yorkshire ; being honest men. and such as

MORAL-PLAYS. CCTU

shall play none other matters, I trust, but tolerable and CO~JP
venient, whereof some have been heard here already before
divers of my Lords. For whom I shall have good cause to
thank your Lordship, and to remain your Lordship's to the
best that shall lie in my little power. And thus I take my
leave of your good Lordship."

All which may suffice to indicate how matters stood in
regard of what is now to be noticed.

The Moral-play of Lusty Juventus, written in the reign
of Edward VI., and printed sometime after 1551, is full of
shots at what are called the superstitions of Rome. It«
arguments and positions are exceedingly scriptural, chapter
and verse being quoted or referred to with all the exactness
of a sermon or a theological discourse. And the tenets of
the new " gospellers " are as openly maintained, as those oi
Rome are impugned. Juventus, the hero, is decidedly bent
on " going it while he is young," and starts out in quest of
his companions, to have a merry dance : Good Counsel
meets him, warns him of the evils of his ways, and engages
him on the spot in a prayer for grace to aid him in his pur-
pose of amendment. Just at this moment Knowledge
comes up, and, chiefly by expounding to him the doctrine
of justification by faith, prevails on him to spend his time
mostly in hearing sermons and reading the Scriptures. This
puts the Devil in great alarm ; he has a soliloquy on the
subject ; then calls in his son Hypocrisy, and engages his
services in the cause. While Juventus is on his way to
" hear a preaching," Hypocrisy encounters him, argues with
liim against forsaking the traditions of his fathers, and, by
promising him Abominable-living for a mistress, diverts liim
from his purpose. Some while after, Good Counsel finds
him in the lowest state of debauchery, and reclaims him ;
and God's Merciful Promises undertakes to procure his
pardon.

The Interlude of Youth, written and printed in the time
of Mary, strikes as decidedly the other way, and with mud

CCXX HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

more skill of execution. It begins with a speech hy Charity
in praise of the virtue he represents. Just then Youth en-
ters in a very youthful state of mind ; Charity tries to sobei
him, but presently retires ; and Riot comes in, having es-
caped from the gallows by breaking the rope : Riot intro-
duces Youth to Pride ; Pride recommends his sister Lechery
to him for a mistress ; they are about going to the tavern,
when Charity returns, and tries to restrain them, but they
b.nd him with a chain : Humility comes to his rescue ; and
there they all have a long debate together, Charity and Hu-
mility urging Youth to virtue, Riot and Pride instigating him
to all kinds of vice. Charity explains to him how Christ
hath bought all mankind "on the rood," and the theme
works so strongly that Riot and Pride strive in vain to coun-
terwork it. A mutual repudiation follows between them and
Youth ; the latter is perfectly reclaimed, and is assured by
Charity that he shall be " an heritor of bliss."

" The longer thou livest the more Fool thou art," is the
title of a very amusing piece, by W. Wager, which was
probably written early in Elizabeth's reign, though the exact
date cannot be fixed, either of the writing or the printing.
Its moral turns on the education of children. Moros, the
hero, is represented in the outset as an ignorant and vicious
fool, thinking of nothing but ballads and songs, and con-
stantly singing scraps of them : Discipline finds him venting
this humour, and reproves his lightness ; Piety and Exer-
citation add their efforts, to reform him, but discover that he
has as much knave as fool about him. The two latter hold
him, while Discipline lays on the whip, till he affects contri-
tion ; but he is soon wheedled into a relapse by Idleness,
Incontinence, and Wrath, who, however, profess to hold him
in contempt ; Wrath calling him " as stark an idiot as ever
bore bauble," but giving him the Vice's sword and dagger ;
while all promise him the society of Nell, Nan, Meg, and
Bess. Being left alone, at the sight of Discipline Moros
drops his sword and hides himself. Fortune then endows

MORAL-PLAYS, CCXXl

mm with wealth; he takes Impiety, Ciuelty, and Ignorance
into his service, and " disguises himself gaily in a foolish
beard ; " Impiety stirs him up against " these new fellows,"
meaning the Protestants, and he vows to " hang, burn, head
and kill " them without remorse ; Discipline returns, and he
flees, not having courage enough to use his sword and dag-
ger. When they are gone, People enters, and complains of
the hero's cruelty and oppression, but runs off in a fright, on
his returning " furiously with a greybeard." God's Judg-
ment then comes " with a terrible vizard," and strikes him
down; Confusion follows ; they strip off his "goodly gear,"
and put on him a fool's coat. Being threatened by Confu-
sion with eternal fire, and required to go with him, he rt»
plies, —

"Go with thee, ill-favour'd knave?
I had liefer thou wen hang'd by the neck :
If it please the Devil me to have,
Let him carry me away on his back."

We are left to infer that Confusion, who is the Devil of the
piece, takes him at his word.

The Conflict of Conscience-, by Nathaniel Woods, Minis-
ter of Norwich, was written about the same time as the
foregoing, though not printed till 1581. A brief analysis
will show its pertinency to the great question of the time •
besides, it is worthy of notice as being one of the earliest,
germinations of the Historical Drama. The hero, though
called Philologus, is avowedly meant for Francis Speira, an
Italian lawyer who, it is said, " forsook the truth of God's
Gospel for fear of the loss of life and worldly goods." He
committed suicide in 1548, and his fate soon became notori-
ous in England. The characters of the piece are partly
real, partly allegorical : among the former, are Speira, his
two sons, and Cardinal Eusebius ; among the latter, Con-
science, Hypocrisy, Tyranny, Spirit, Avarice, Horror, and
Sensual-suggestion. Philologus is represented as a rich and
jealous patron of the Reformation : Tyranny has ciders

CC.VX11 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

from Rome to search for heretics, Hypocrisy and Avance to
aid him in the search ; Caconos, a Romish priest, directs
them to the hero's house ; he is summoned before the Car-
dinal, and holds his ground till threatened with prison and
torture, when, urged by Sensual-suggestion, he returns to
popery. He then has an interview with his sons, during
which Spirit, Conscience, and Horror assail him, and the
Cardinal comes with Theologus to console him : he refuses
to hear them, and rushes out : a Nuntius then informs the
audience, that after thirty weeks of suffering and despair he
had hanged himself.

The Marriage of Wit and Science deserves mention, both
for reasons that will presently appear, and also as the first
known instance of a Moral-play regularly distributed into
five Acts, and these again into scenes. Master Wit, the son
of Nature, is deeply smitten with Lady Science, daughter
of Reason and Experience ; he wishes to take her to his
bosom in maniage forthwith, but is told by his mother Na-
ture that she is only to be won by labour and perseverance ;
however, she bids him try his fortune, and lets him have
Will as a servant. Will is in much alarm at the thought
of his young master's being married, and warns him to break
his wife in betimes, whoever she may he. The lady is re-
tiring and shy, like Milton's Eve, " that would be woo'd, and
not unsought be won ; " nevertheless, in obedience to her
parents, she accepts a portrait of Wit, and consents to listen
his suit. Wit conies ; Reason introduces him to Instruc-
tion ; the latter has two servants, Study and Diligence, who
are also of the party ; and Science engages to become the
bride of Wit, when he shall have spent three or four years
under their tuition ; though she requires him, as her knight,
first to slay Tediousness, a huge giant that has vowed him-
self her deadly foe. Wit encounters him with too little cir-
cumspection, and gets a blow that lays him in a trance
however, Recreation comes to his aid, recovers him, and
diets him with music till he fairly dances with life. When

MORAL-PLAYS. CCXXlil

he is something wearied with this exercise, Idleness and
Ignorance take him in hand, and the former invites him into
her lap, and " sings a song that pleases him, and on bin
eye-lids crowns the god of sleep ; " a part of it being aa
follows :

• Come, come, and ease thee in my lap,
And, if it please thee, take a nap;
A nap that shall delight thee so,
That fancies all will thee forgo.
By musing still, what canst thou find
But wants of will and restless mind?
A mind that mars and mangles all,
And breedeth jars to work thy fall.
Come, gentle Wit, I thee require,
And thou shall hit thy chief desire,
Thy chief desire and hoped prey ;
First ease thee here, and then away."

While he is asleep, the sirens put on him a fool's dress, so
that Reason and Science on seeing him cut his acquaintance.
Vfl\ is not aware of his disguise till he sees himself in a
locking- glass which Reason had given him : Shame then
takes him in hand, and applies the scourge till Science in-
terposes ; he repents, is restored to favour ; aided by In-
struction, Study, and Diligence, he again encounters the
giant in the eye of his lady-love ; has some hard fighting,
but at last whips me off his head, and presents it to Science.
The piece concludes with the marriage of the lovers, Rea-
son, Experience, Instruction, Study, and Diligence rejoicing
at the match, and even Will taking a sort of sneaking pleas-
ure in it.

The play, as may be gathered from this analysis, conveys
an excellent moral : the allegory, too, is managed with con-
siderable skill ; and there is something of humour in the
execution, and of melody in the versification. The old copy
is undated, but the piece was licenced between July, 1369,
and July, 1570.

The play of " Like will to Like, quoth the Devil to the
Collier, *ery godly, and full of pleasant mirth," was written

CCXXIV HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

by Ul])ian Fulwell, and printed in 1568. Here, again, we
meet with some rude approaches to individual character;
which is our chief reason for mentioning the piece. Nichol
Newfangle, though in fact the hero, enacts the Vice, and is
armed with the wooden dagger : among his friends are
Ralph Royster, Tom Tosspot, Philip Fleming, Pierce Pick-
purse, and Cuthbert Cutpurse, who have some lines of intli-
vHual peculiarity. To these are added several allegorical
personages, as Good Fame, Severity, Virtuous Life, God's
Promise, and Honour. Lucifer also figures in the piece,
with " his name written on his back and breast ; " and XPW-
fangle claims him for his God-father, adding that he has
served an apprenticeship under him, and thus learnt all the
sciences that minister to pride. The Collier comes in with
empty sacks, owning that he has sold three pecks for a
bushel ; Newfangle introduces him to the Devil ; and the
three have a dance to the tune of " Tom Collier of Croydon
hath sold his coal." Royster and Tosspot get drunk, and
wade in debauchery, but finally repent ; Pickpurse and Cut-
purse are betrayed by Newfangle, and taken away with
halters about their necks ; Virtuous Life is crowned by Hon-
our ; Newfangle is carried off by the Devil ; so that justice
is done all round.

If The Conflict of Conscience deserves mention as an ap-
proach towards Tragedy, Tom Tiler and his Wife is equally
entitled to notice as an early sprout of Comedy. It con-
tains a mixture of allegorical and individual persons, the
latter, however, taking the chief part of the action. The
opening is made by " a sage person " called Destiny, and
the Vice, named Desire ; from their talk it appears that
Destiny has married Tom Tiler to a lady named Strife, with
whom he leads a very wretched life, she being not only a
scold, but hugely given to drinking with Sturdy and Tipple.
Filer meets his friend Tom Tailor, an artificer of shreds and
patches, and relates his sufferings ; Tailor proposes to change
clothes with him ; in this disguise, goes to Strife as her bus

510RAL-PLAYS. CCXXV

band, and gives her such a drubbing, that she submits, and
betakes herself to the bed. Tiler then gets lois own clothes
again, goes home, and pities his wife : she, ignorant of the
trick, vows she can never love him again : to regain her fa-
vour, he unwarily tells her the truth ; whereupon she snatches
a stick, and belabours him till he cries out for his life, and
she declares that Tom Tailor had better have eaten her than
beaten her. Tiler flies to his friend Tailor, relates what has
happened, and the cause of it ; for which Tailor insults and
strikes him right before Destiny. Strife, coming up just
then, plays her batteries against them both, until Patience
arrives and composes all differences, taking the discontent
out of Tiler, and the fury out of Strife.

" A new Interlude for Children to play, named Jack Jug-
gler, both witty and very pleasant," is somewhat remarkable,
not only in that it carries still higher the effort at individual
character, but as being one of the oldest pieces founded on
a classic original ; the author claiming, in his prologue, to
have taken " Plautus' first comedy " as his model. Master
Bongrace sends his lackey, Jenkin Careaway, to Dame Coy,
his lady-love ; but Jenkin loiters to play at dice and steal
apples. Jack Juggler, who enacts the Vice, from mere love
of mischief watches him, gets on some clothes just like his,
and undertakes to persuade him " that he is not himself, but
another man." The task proves too much for him, till at
length he brings fist-arguments to bear ; when Jenkin frank-
ly gives up the point, and makes a comical address to the
audience, alleging certain reasons for believing that he is not
himself. The humour of the piece — and there is consider-
able in it — turns mainly on this doubt of his identity. His
blunders get him into disgrace with Dame Coy, who even
goes so far as to bestow " a cudgel-blessing " on him ; so
that he is reasoned out of his mispersuasion by much the
same arguments as brought him into it. Besides the lines
of character, the piece has considerable liveliness of dialogue,
and Alice Trij)-and-go, a smart maid-servant of Dame Coy,

CCXXV1 HISTORY OF THE DKAMA.

IK described by Jack Juggler In a very natural and
manner.

There are many other pieces of the same class, but it
would be overworking our point, to dwell upon them. We
will dismiss this branch of the subject with a very curiora
Recount, by Stephen Gosson, of a Moral-play that seems to
hrre perished. In 1579, Gosson published a book entitled
" The School of Abuse, containing a Pleasant Invective
against Poets, Pipers, Players, Jesters, and such-like Cater-
pillars of the Commonwealth." To offset this attack, it
st;ems, a piece called The Play of Plays was soon after writ-
ten and performed. Two or three years later, Gosson put
forth a tract with the title of Plays Confuted in Five Actions,
in which occurs the following :

" The author of The Play of Plays, spreading out his bat-
tle to hem me in, is driven to take so large a compass, that
his array is the thinner, and therefore the easier to be broken.
He tieth Life and Delight so fast together, that if Delight
be restrained Life presently perisheth : there Zeal, perceiv-
ing Delight to be embraced of Life, puts a snaffle in his
mouth to keep him under : Delight being bridled, Zeal lead-
eth Life through a wilderness of loathsomeness, where Glut
scareth them all, chasing both Zeal and Delight from Life,
and with the club of amazedness strikes such a peg into the
nead of Life, that he falls down for dead upon the stage.

" Life being thus faint and overtravelled, destitute of his
guide, robbed of Delight, is ready to give up the ghost in
the same place : then entereth Recreation, which with music
and singing rocks Life asleep, to recover his strength. By
this means Tediousness is driven from Life, and the taint is
drawn out of his head, which the club of amazedness left
behind.

" At last Recreation setteth up the gentleman upon his
feet, Delight is restored to him again, and such kind of
sports, for cullises, are brought in to nourish him, as none
but Delight must apply to his stomach. Then, time being

THEATRICAL COMPANIES. CCXXVU

made for the benefit of Life, and Life being allowed to fol-
low his appetite amongst all manner of pastimes, Life choos*
eth comedies fo>* his delight ; partly because comedies are
neither chargeable to the beholder's purse, nor painful to his
body ; partly because he may sit out of the rain to view the
game, when many other pastimes are hindered by weather.
Zeal is no more admitted to Life before he be somewhat
pinched in the waist, to avoid extremity, and being not in
the end simply called Zeal, but Moderate Zeal : a few con-
ditions are prescribed to comedies ; that the matter be
purged, deformities blazed, sin rebuked, honest mirth inter-
mingled, and fit time for the hearing of the same ap jointed.
Moderate Zeal is contented to suffer them, who joineth with
Delight to direct Life again, after which he triumphs over
Death, and is crowned with eternity."

CHAPTER III.
THEATRICAL COMPANIES.

WE have seen that the English Drama took its origin in
the Church. Doubtless it was for a long time mainly in the
hands of the Clergy, themselves acting in the performances,
or at least superintending them. At what time play-acting
began to be followed as a distinct profession, is not known.
Companies of travelling actors, it seems, were not uncom-
mon as far back as the time of Henry VL ; the Castle of
Perseverance being represented by persons of that sort, who,
on reaching a populous district, sent forward messengers t»
give notice when and where the performance would take
place. Early in the next reign, 1464, an Act of Parliament
was paused, regulating the apparel of different orders, but
making a special exception in favour of certain claase*

CCXXV111 BISTORT OF THE DRAMA.

among whom " players of interludes " are mentioned. This
is said to be the first statute of the realm, in winch any such
notice occurs. During the same reign, the private account-
book of Lord John Howard, afterwards Duke of Norfolk,
mentions several companies of players, as those of Cocksale,
Chelmsford, and Lavenham, who were probably sets of act-
ors hailing from those places, but sometimes going abroad
in the exercise of their mystery. From the same source we
learn that the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard HL,
had a company of players in his patronage, and acting un-
der his name.

It is pretty certain that in the reign of Henry VII., which
began in 1485, dramatic exhibitions were common in all
parts of the kingdom. The Exchequer accounts of the reign
show in one place an annuity of £13 6s. 8d. "to Richard
Gibson and other the King's players." And when the King's
eldest daughter, Margaret, was sent into Scotland on her
marriage with James IV., a company of players. John Eng-
lish being one of them, formed a part of her retinue. Prince
Arthur was born in 1486 ; and some time after, another
company entitled " the Prince's players," were required to
do their share towards the amusement of the Court. In
addition to these, the Gentlemen of the Chapel acted before
the King and Court during the festivities of Christmas, and
had rewards as " the players of the Chapel." It appears,
also, from the accounts of the Queen, that, besides the three
sets of actors belonging to the royal household, the players
of the Duke of Buckingham, and of the Earls of Oxford,
Essex, and Northumberland, performed at Court, and were
various .7 rewarded. And we learn from the same authority,
that there were companies of players attached to London,
Coventry, Wycomb, Mile-end, Wymborn, and Kingston.
And another book of the Queen's expenses shows that she
sometimes made separate rewards to players when they
gave her unusual satisfaction. In short, before the end of
this reign, in 1509, acting had become an ordinary vocarioi '

THEATRICAL COMPANIES. CCXXIX

still, notwithstanding the patronage of the King and (he
nobility, it seems not to have been considered a reputable
pursuit.

For some few years, Henry VHL merely kept up the
theatrical establishment of his father; but in 1514 a new
company was taken into his service, and in the entries of
payments after that time we have the distinction of " the
King's players " and " the King's old players." The Gen-
tlemen of the Chapel continued to perform, their pay being
ircreased from £6 13s. 4d. to £10. The children of the
Chapel also performed from time to time as a band of come-
dians, receiving a gratuity of £6 13s. 4d. John Heywood,
then called " the singer," but whom we shah1 meet with
hereafter in a different capacity, had a quarterly allowance
of £5. From a curious paper printed by Mr. Collier, it
appears that during the Christmas of 1514-15 two inter-
ludes were played before the Court at Richmond, one by the
children of the Chapel under the care of William Cornish,
the other by the King's players, with John English at their
head. We subjoin the account of them :

"The interlude was called The Triumph of Love and
Beauty, and it was written and presented by Master Cornish
and others of the Chapel of our sovereign lord the King,
and the children of the said ChapeL In the same, Venus
and Beauty did triumph over all their enemies, and tamed
a savage man and a lion ; that was made very rare and nat-
ural, so as the King was greatly pleased therewith, and gra-
ciously gave Master Cornish a rich reward out of his own
hand, to be divided with the rest of his fellows. Venus did
sing a song with Beauty, which was greatly liked of all that
heard it. — English and the others of the King's players
after played an interlude which was written by Master Med-
wali ; but it was so long, it was not liked : it was of the
finding of Truth, who was carried away by Ignorance and
Hypocrisy. The Fool's part was the best, but the King de-
parted before the end to his chamber."

CCXXX HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

In 1520, four French hostages having been left in Eng-
land for the performance of a treaty touching the surrender
of Tournay, the King had his great chamber at Greenwich
staged for their entertainment ; and Holinshed tells us that,
among other things, " there was a goodly comedy of Plau-
tus played." This is one of the earliest signs of any thing
like a classical taste in such matters. The play, being meant
for foreigners, was probably acted hi the original Latin, as
there is no trace of any English version from Plautus of so
early a date. In the Christmas of 1527, a play was acted
at Gray's Inn ; which is the first known instance of such a
performance by that society ; but as the play was written by
one of the members some twenty years before, acting was
probably not then a new thing with them. We learn from
Hall that Cardinal Wolsey was present on the occasion ;
and that " this play was so set forth, with rich and costly
apparel, that it was highly praised of all men, saving the
Cardinal, which imagined the play had been devised of him."
The consequence was, Wolsey had the author and " one of
the young gentlemen that played " sent to the Fleet : how-
ever, they were soon released, it being found that the play
had been misunderstood, and that it was written before Wol-
sey became Cardinal.

Of players acting under the special patronage of individ-
uals in this reign, besides those already mentioned, we hear
of companies attached to the Queen, the Duke of Suffolk,
the Lord Warden, the Earls of Wiltshire and Derby, Car-
dinal Wolsey, Lord Fitzwater, and others. Notices also
occur of companies belonging to Chester and Suffolk. And
it appears that all the companies, from the King's down-
wards, were used to travel about the country, holding exhi-
bitions wherever they could make profits. We learn from
the book of regulations used in the Northumberland family,
and drawn up by the Earl in 1512, that the rewards given
to noblemen's players varied with the rank of their patrons
those of an Earl receiving 20s., while those of a Baron had
but half that sum.

THEATRICAL COMPANIES. CCXXXI

We have already shown enough of what was done by roy-
al proclamation and parliamentary enactment during this
reign, for the ordering and restraining of theatrical perform
ances. But it seems proper to add, that from a very early
date the Corporation of London was decidedly hostile to the
stage. Regulations had been adapted for suppressing it
within the City limits ; but in 1543 some players acting un-
der the Lord Warden's patronage broke through those or-
ders, and, on complaint to the Privy Council, were sent to
the Counter.

Hitherto the person having charge of the King's theatri-
cals was called " the Abbot of Misrule," or " the Lord of
Misrule," but in 1546 a patent was granted to Sir Thomas
Cawarden, who had long been a gentleman of the privy
chamber, creating him Master of the Revels for life. The
office, however, both name and thing, had for some time
been established in the Northumberland family. The King's
Master of the Revels had at first a salary of £10 ; and there
was, under him, a Yeoman of the Revels with a salary of
£9 2s. M.

The reigns of Edward VI. and Queen Mary offer nothing
of particular consequence touching the growth of theatrical
companies. The royal establishment of revels seems to have
continued in all material respects much the same as in the
preceding reign. How important and operative an institu-
tion the Drama was getting to be, is manifest enough from
the forecited acts of public authority during this period in
regard to it.

We have already seen that in 1559, the first year of Eliza-
beth, Sir Robert Dudley had a set of players under his pat-
ronage ; and that he took care that his name should not be
to them an empty honour. This is the first that we hear of
the company which afterwards, as will in due time appear,
outshone all others.

The Cottonian manuscripts note a remarkable circum«
stance among the events of Christmas, 1559: "The sam*

CCXXXU HISTORY OF THE DHAJTA.

day at night, at the Queen's Court, there was a nlay aloro
her Grace, in which the players played such matter that thr\
were commanded to leave oft'." But it seems the disturb
ance did not last long ; for the same authority informs ut
that on Twelfth-day following a scaffold for the play was set
up in the hall, and that the play was succeeded by " a good-
ly masque, and, after, a great banquet that lasted till mid-
night,"

Two years later, the Christmas season appears to have
been kept with unusual splendour. On the 18th of January,
the manuscripts just quoted mention " a play in the Queen's
hall at Westminster by the gentlemen of the Temple ; after,
a great masque, for there was a great scaffold in the hall, with
great triumph as has been seen ; and the morrow the scaf-
fold was taken down." This play was the tragedy of Gor-
boduc, which we shall see more of hereafter ; and the title-
page of the old edition states that it was " showed before
the Queen's most excellent Majesty, in her Highness' Court
of Whitehall, the 18th of January, 1562, by the gentlemen
of the Inner Temple." The 1st of February following, an-
other play was acted, called Julius Csesar, which is the
earliest known instance of an English play founded on Ro-
man history.

It appears that under Elizabeth the Revels establishment
was at first conducted on a much more economical scale
than in the time of her father and sister. Nevertheless, we
learn from the Lansdowne papers that the whole cost of the
establishment during the fourth year of her reign was up-
wards of £1230 ; of which £30 were for eight " players of
interludes."

In 1563, the nation was ravaged by a malignant infectious
fever, called the plague, brought over by the English troops
from Holland ; and Cam den states that no less than 21,530
persons died of it in London : it was the same, no doubt,
tnat in 1564 was so fearfully busy around the cradle of the
infant Shakespeare. Archbishop Grindal made this scourge

THEATRICAL COMPANIES. CCXXXlli

an occasion for trying to put down the stage : his action in
thus recorded by Strype : " The players lie called an idle
sort of people, which had been infamous in all good common-
wealths. These men did then daily, but especially on holi-
days, set up their bills inviting to plays, and the youth re-
sorted excessively to them, and there took infection. He
complained to the Secretary that God's word was profaned
by their impure mouths, and turned into scoffs. And, by
search, he perceived there was no one thing of late more
like to have renewed the infection, there being such vast re-
sort thither. And therefore he advised, for the remedy
hereof, that Cecil would be the means of a proclamation to
inhibit all plays for one whole year ; and if it were forever,
added he, it were not amiss : that is, within the City or three
miles compass, upon pains, as well to the player, as to the
owners of houses where they played their lewd interludes."
We do not hear of any action being taken in pursuance of
this advice, but it is quite probable that some temporary re-
straint was imposed. At all events, the matter is pertinent
as showing the growing importance of the stage.

From " a brief estimate of all the charges against Christ-
mas and Candlemas for three plays at Windsor," in the
Christmas season of 1563-64, and also for plays at the
Christmas and Shrovetide following, it appears that the cost
of the whole was a little over £444. This includes, how-
ever, the " repairing and making of three masques, with their
whole furniture and divers devices, and a castle for ladiea,
and a harbour for lords," shown before the Queen and the
French Ambassadors at Richmond in the summer of 1564 ;
but it was only a small part of the expenses incurred on
those occasions. From the same paper we learn that Rich-
ard Edwards was the author of a play acted before the
Queen at Christmas, 1564, by the children of the Chapel,
Edwards being at that time their master. During the fes-
tivities of the following Twelfthtide, the boys belonging to
the grammar-school of Westminster, and the children of

HISTORY OF THE DRAM*.

Paul's performed at Court. In the summer of 1564, the
Queen, being then on a progress, visited Cambridge Univer-
sity, and was entertained at King's College with a play
" called Ezechias in English : " it was made by Nicholas
Udall, of whom more hereafter, and of course was a sacred
drama, founded on the Second Book of Kings.

On the 3d of September, 1566, a play was witnessed by
Elizabeth at Oxford, when she gave eight guineas to one of the
young performers. Anthony "Wood furnishes the following
account of it : " At night the Queen heard the first part of
an English play named Palamon and Arcite, made by Mr.
Richard Edwards, a gentleman of her Chapel, acted with
very great applause in Christ Church Hall ; at the beginning
of which play there was, by part of the stage which fell,
three persons slain, besides five that were hurt. Afterwards,
the actors performed their parts so well, that the Queen
laughed heartily thereat, and gave the author of the play
great thanks for his pains." Two days later, a Latin play
called Progne, by Dr. James Calf hill, was acted ; but, ac-
cording to Wood, " it did not take half so well as the much-
admired play of Palamon and Arcite." During the next
Christmas season, the Revels were held at Gray's Inn, whero
Gascoigne's Supposes, translated from Ariosto, and his Jo-
casta, from Euripides, were performed. The former was a
prose comedy, traces of which are found in Shakespeare's
Taming of the Shrew ; the latter, a tragedy in blank verse.

Mr. Collier found among the Harleian manuscripts a mi-
nute account of the Court theatricals in 1568 : it shows the
payment of £634 9s. od. for expenses incurred between July.
1567, and March following ; during which time eight plays
were acted before the Queen ; the titles of which are given
as follows : As Plain as can be ; The Painful Pilgrimage
Jack and Gill ; Six Fools ; Wit and Will ; Prodigality ; Ores-
tes ; The King of Scots ; none of which appear to have s-ir-
vived. The same paper shows the sum of £453 5s. 5d,
spent for Court theatricals in 1569 ; but only states, gen-

THEATRICAL COMPANIES. CCXXXT

erally, that " plays, tragedies, and masques " were performed
at Christmas and Shrovetide. From another paper, found
by Malone in the Office of the Auditors of the Imprest, we
tearn that the cost of the Revels for the year ending on
Shrove-Tuesday, 1571, was upwards of £1558; mainly ex-
pended on six plays, as follows : Lady Barbary, and Clori-
don and Radiamanta, by Sir Robert Lane's men ; Iphigenia,
by the children of Paul's ; Ajax and Ulysses, by the children
of Windsor ; Narcissus, by the children of the Chapel ; Paris
and Vienna, by the children of Westminster. The account
states that these six plays " were chosen out of many, and
found to be the best that were then to be had." Of course
this choice was made by the Master of the Revels, whose
duty it was to hear the plays rehearsed, before they were
presented at Court. Besides the plays, there were six
masques, and among the furnishings for both, are mentioned
horse-tails, hobby-horses, branches of silk, and other garni-
ture for pageants, sceptres, dishes for devil's eyes, devices foi
hell and hell-mouth, bows, bills, swords, spears, and fire-
works. In the play of Narcissus, a fox was let loose, and
pursued by dogs ; for which a charge was made of 20s. 8d. ,-
also, counterfeit thunder and lightning, at a cost of 22s.
Twenty-one vizards, with long beards, and six Turks' vizards
are also some of the articles specified.

How common the profession of actor had now become, is
well shown in that strolling players calling themselves the
retainers of noblemen were so numerous, that in 1572 a
statute was found necessary for their regulation. The Act
made to that end provides that "all fencers, bear-wards,
common-players in interludes and minstrels, not belonging
to any Baron of this realm, or any other honourable person-
age of greater degree, all jugglers, pedlars, tinkers, and
petty chapmen, which shall wander abroad, and not have
jcence of two justices of the peace at least," shall be deemed
and dealt with as rogues and vagabonds. The evil sought
to be remedied was, that many companies were perambu*

CCX.VXVl HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

luting the kingdom without any authority, but pretending
to have it.

Still the thirst for dramatic exhibitions kept increasing.
The expense for Court theatricals between Shrovetide, 157 1:
and June, 1572, was no less than £3905 ! No particulars of
the outlay are given, farther than that it was for " new making,
setting forth, and furnishing divers masques and plays shown
before her Majesty." From this time till 1575, the particulars
are too numerous either for our space or the reader's patience :
suffice it to say, that between the Christmas of 1572 and
March, 1574, there were three performances at Court by a
company of boys under Richard Mulcaster, then Master of
the Merchant Tailors' School ; four by the Earl of Leices-
ter's men ; two by the children of Windsor ; two by the
children of Westminster ; one by the children of Paul's ;
one by Lord Clinton's servants ; and one by the Earl of War-
wick's players under Dutton.

Which brings us to an important event — briefly noticed
in our Life of the Poet — in the history of the stage. On
the 7th of May, 1574, the Queen ordered out a patent un-
der the Great Seal, licencing and authorizing " our loving
subjects, James Burbage, John Perkyn, John Laneham, Wil-
liam Johnson, and Robert Wilson, servants to our trusty
and well-beloved cousin and counsellor, the Earl of Leicester,
to use, exercise, and occupy the art and faculty of playing
comedies, tragedies, interludes, stage-plays, and such other
like as they have already used and studied, or shall hereaf-
ter use and study, as well for the recreation of our loving
subjects, as for our solace and pleasure, when we shall think
good to see them." This patent, which was doubtless pro-
cured through Leicester's influence with Elizabeth, made it
the special privilege of the company to perform, during the
Queen's pleasure, both in the City and Liberties of London,
and in any cities, towns, and boroughs throughout the king-
dom ; the only proviso being, " that the said comedies,
tragedies, interludes, and stage-plays be by the Master of

THEATRICAL, COMPANIES. CCXXXVU

our Revels, for the time being, before seen and allowed, and
that the same be not published or shown in the time of com-
mon prayer, or in the time of great and common plague in
our said City of London."

This privilege was strenuously opposed by the London
Corporation ; and in July following a letter was written by
the Privy Council to the Lord Mayor, requiring that the
players be admitted within the City, and " be otherwise fa-
vourably used." In the next year, the Common Council
made some orders touching plays, which, if enforced, would
have entirely excluded them the City ; enacting, under pain
of fine and imprisonment, that no play should be there per-
formed, which had not first been read and allowed by such
persons as the Mayor and Aldermen might appoint ; that
the Mayor's licence be necessary before every public exhi-
bition ; and that half the money taken should be given to
charitable purposes. How far the City prevailed in this
contest with the Court, is not fully known ; but soon after
the date of the forecited measure a set of orders was print-
ed, one of which looks as though they had succeeded in ex-
cluding plays from the limits of the Corporation, but not
from the suburbs or Liberties. As the matter is rather edi-
fying, we subjoin it :

" Forasmuch as the playing of interludes and the resort
to the same are very dangerous for the infection of the plague,
whereby infinite burdens and losses to the City may increase ;
and are very hurtful in corruption of youth with incontinence
and lewdness ; and also great wasting both of the time and
thrift of many poor people ; and great provoking of the wrath
of God, the ground of all plagues ; great withdrawing of the
people from public prayer, and from the service of God ; and
daily cried out against by the preachers of the word of God ;
therefore it is ordered, that all such interludes in public
places, and the resort to the same, shall wholly be prohibited
as ungodly, and humble suit made to the Lords, that like
prohibition be in places near unto the Citv."

CCXXXV1U HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

This was followed by an earnest petition from "the
Queen's poor players " to the Privy Council, requesting " all
your Lordships' favourable letters unto the Lord Mayor of
London, to permit us to exercise within the City ; and also
that the said letters may contain some order to the Justices
of Middlesex ; whereby we shall cease the continual trou-
bling of your Lordships with often letters in the premises."
It seems, that a copy of this petition, with, perhaps, certain
orders suited to the case, must have been sent by the Privy
Council to the City authorities ; for they set forth a lengthy
reply to it, from which we can give but the following:
"Whereas they require only that her Majesty's servants be
permitted to play ; it is less evil than to grant more. But
herein, if your Lordships will so allow them, it may please
you to know, that the last year, when such toleration was of
the Queen's players only, all the places of playing were
filled with men calling themselves the Queen's players.
Your Lordships may do well, in your letters or warrants for
their toleration, to express the number of the Queen's play-
ers, and particularly all their names."

Hitherto, instead of houses or buildings set apart, ar-
ranged, and furnished for dramatic representations, resort
was commonly had, for that purpose, to halls, churches,
chapels, or temporary erections in streets and other open
grounds. The proceedings of the London authorities led to
consequences which they had not foreseen. Excluded from
the City proper, Burbage and his fellows soon pitched upon
a place beyond the Mayor's jurisdiction, but yet as near its
limits as possible. This was the precinct of the ancient
Blackfriars monastery, where they bought certain rooms
with the new of converting them into a play-house. While
the necessary alterations were making, divers inhabitants of
the neighbourhood sent a petition to the Privy Council,
praying that Burbage might not be allowed to go on with
his undertaking. In this petition, after assigning certain
reasons for their course, they proceed as follows : " In tender

THEATRICAL, COMPANIES. CCXXX1X

consideration whereof, as also for there hath not at any time
heretofore been used any common play-house within the same
precinct ; but that now, all players being banished by the
Lord Mayor from playing within the City, by reason of the
great inconvenience and ill rule that folio weth them, they
think to plant themselves in the Liberties ; that therefore it
would please your Honours to take order, that the same
rooms may be converted to some other use, and that no
play-house may be used or kept there."

Notwithstanding, the enterprise went ahead, and in 1576
the Blackfriars theatre was made ready for use. And by
this time, though the precise date of their erection is not
'ascertained, there were two other play-houses in regulai
operation, called The Theatre and The Curtain : these were
in Shoreditch, likewise beyond the Lord Mayor's jursdio-
tion.

Between the Christmas of 1574 and Shrove-Tuesday,
1582, a great number of plays were acted at Court by va-
rious companies ; a summary statement of which will further
illustrate the growth of the profession, and is all our space
can afford. Eight pieces are noted as performed by Leices-
ter's men, and one by " Lord Leicester's boys," as if he had
two companies, a senior and a junior, under his patronage ;
nine, by the Lord Chamberlain's men ; seven, by the Earl of
Warwick's men ; two, by Lord Howard's men ; three, by the
Earl of Derby's men ; one, by Lord Hunsdon's men ; one,
by Lord Clinton's men ; two, by the Earl of Sussex' men 5
eight, by the children of Windsor and of the Chapel ; HUL,
by the children of Paul's ; and one, by Mulcaster's children.

Meanwhile, the tussle between the Court and City seems
to have been renewed ; as, in December, 1581, a letter was
written to the Lord Mayor, ordering him to permit certain
companies of players " to use and exercise their trade of
playing in and about the City, as they have heretofore ac-
customed, upon the week-days only, being holidays or other
days ; so as they do forbear wholly to play on the Sabbath-

CCX\ HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

day, either in the forenoon or afternoon ; which to do, the}
are by their Lordships' order expressly denied and forbidden."
And in April following the Privy Council sent another letter
to the Mayor, urging the reasonableness of allowing the
players to perform for honest recreation's sake, and in order
that they might attain to more perfection and dexterity,
against their being called upon to act before the Queen.
They also " pray his Lordship to revoke his late inhibition
against their playing on holidays ; but that he do suffer them,
as well within the City as without, to use their exercise of
playing on the said holidays after evening prayer, only for-
bearing the Sabbath-day, according to their Lordships' order ;
and when he shall find that the continuance of the same their '
exercise, by the increase of sickness or infection, shall be
dangerous, to certify their Lordships, and they will presently
take order accordingly."

Paris Garden having for a long time been used for bear-
baiting, the galleries, being of wood, had become much de-
cayed ; and on Sunday, January 13th, 1582, one of them
fell, during the exhibition, killing some persons, and hurting
others. The next day, the Lord Mayor wrote to Lord
Treasurer Burghley, and, after referring to the event, re-
marked, very justly, — " It giveth great occasion to acknowl-
edge the hand of God for such abuse of the Sabbath-day,
and moveth me in conscience to beseech your Lordship to
give order for the redress of such contempt of God's <*r-
vice." The result was, that the forecited order of the Privy
Council against playing on Sunday, which applied only to tile
City, was now made general ; so that the catastrophe had,
at least in some measure, the good effect of breaking up
plays on Sunday.

Some two months later, the Queen, at the request of Sec-
retary Walsingham, chose, out of some noblemen's compa-
nies that were used to act before her, twelve players for a
company of her own. One of these was Robert Wilson, of
•a quick, delicate, refined extemporal witj" another ww

THEATRICAL COMPANIES. CCXll

Richard Tarlton, who was reckoned the best actor of the
time in comic parts. Howes tells us, in his additions to
Stowe, that "they were sworn the Queen's servants, and
were allowed wages and liveries as grooms of the Chamber."
The Christmas following, five pieces were played at Court
by " her Majesty's servants," who of course were the new
company thus formed.

Nor did the Queen's action towards supplying her court
with pastimes stop here. In April, 1586, she issued a war-
rant under her sign manual, authorizing Thomas Gyles, Mas-
ter of the Children of St. Paul's, " to take up such apt and
meet children" as might be found in any Cathedrals and
Coilegiate churches in the kingdom, to be taught and trained
for her special service. For the next two years, most of U_e
plays at Court were performed by the Queen's new players
and the company of boys thus established. Howbeit, in
February, 1588, a tragedy called The Misfortunes of Arthur
was acted before the Queen at Greenwich, by " the Gentle-
men of Gray's Inn," who were very busy in theatricals during
that winter. The play was written by Thomas Hughes, all
but the Introduction, which was the work of Nicholas Trotte ;
and deserves special mention forasmuch as no less a man
than " Mr. Francis Bacon " assisted in preparing the dumb-
shows.

Secretary Walsingham, it seems, was accustomed to have
certain hired intelligencers or spies prowling about London,
to fish up news for him. One of these, calling himself a
Soldier, wrote to his patron, on the 25th of January, 1586,
a letter which, though doubtless having more or less of *•*>
aggeration, shows the prodigious activity of the Drama at
that time. He makes a sort of episode on the stage, as
follows :

" The daily abuse of stage-plays is such an offence to the
godly, and so great a hindrance to the Gospel, as the Papists
do exceedingly rejoice at the blemish thereof, and not with-
out cause : for every day in the week the players' bills are

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

net up in sundry places of the City, some in the name of hex
Majesty's men, some, the Earl of Leicester, some, the Earl
of Oxford, the Lord Admiral, and divers others ; so that
when the bells toll to the lecturer, the trumpets sound to
the stages ; whereat the wicked faction of Rome laugheth
for joy, while the godly weep for sorrow. Woe is me ! the
play-houses are pestered, when churches are naked : at the
one it is not possible to get a place, at the other void seat*
are plenty. The profamng of the Sabbath is redressed, but
as bad a custom entertained, and yet still our long-suffering
God forbeareth to punish. Yet it is a woeful sight, to see
two hundred proud players jet in then- silks, where five hun-
dred poor people starve in the streets. But if needs this
mischief must be tolerated, whereat, no doubt, the Highest
frowneth, yet for God's sake, Sir, let every stage in London
pay a weekly pension to the poor, that ex hoc malo proveni-Tt
aliquod bonum : but it were rather to be wished that players
might be used, as Apollo did his laughing, semel in anno.
Now, methinks, I see your Honour smile, and say to your-
self, these things are fitter for the pulpit than a soldier's
pen ; but God, who searcheth the heart and reins, knoweth
that I write not hypocritically, but from the very sorrow of
my soul."

It was not long before the abuses of the stage called forth
some decisive action, which resulted in the silencing of two
companies. In 1589, Edmund Tylney, then Master of the
Revels, and a part of whose duty was to watch over the
stage, made, it seems, some complaint to Burghley against
the actors in the City. Burghley thereupon wrote to the
Mayor to put a stop to all plays within his jurisdiction. Thi
iLain part of the Mayor's answer is as follows : " According
to your Lordship's good pleasure, I presently sent for such
players as I could hear of, so as there appeared yesterday
before me the Lord Admiral's and the Lord Strange's play-
ers ; to whom I specially gave in charge, and required them
in f.er Majesty's name, to forbear playing until further order

THEATRICAL COMPANIES. OCxliii

/night be given for their allowance in that respect. Where-
upon the Lord Admiral's players very dutifully obeyed ; but
the others, in very contemptuous manner departing from me,
went to the Cross Keys, and played that afternoon, to the
great offence of the better sort, that knew they were pro-
hibited by order from your Lordship. Which as I might
not suffer, so I sent for the said contemptuous persons, who
having no reasons to allege for their contempt, I could do
no less but this evening commit two of them to one of the
Counters ; and do mean, according to your Lordship's direc-
tion, to prohibit all playing until your Lordship's pleasure
therein be further known."

This letter was dated the 6th of November, 1589. Six
days after, the Privy Council wrote letters to the Archbishop
of Canterbury, the Mayor of London, and the Master of the
Revels, requiring the first twe to choose each a suitable per-
son, and the last to join with the persons so chosen in in-
specting and licensing all plays to be acted in and about
the City.

The cause of these proceedings was this : About that time
the Marprelate controversy was at its height, and Martin
Marprelate had been brought upon the public stage. This
is evident from a tract by Nash, printed that year, where,
referring to Martin, the writer proceeds, — " Methought
Vetus ComcRclia began to prick him at London in the right
vein, when she brought forth Divinity with a scratch'd face,
holding of her heart as if she were sick because Martin
would have forced her ; but, missing of his purpose, he left
the print of his nails upon her cheeks, and poisoned her with
a vomit, which he ministered unto her to make her cast up
her dignities and promotions."

Of course the Old Comedy and Divinity here spoken of
were stage personifications, and Martin one of the dramatis
persona in the same piece with them. Not long after, John
Lyly, who wrote some of the Marprelate tracts, published a
pamphlet wherein he cbarly infers that some plays on the

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

subject had been stayed. Alluding to Martin, he says, —
" Would those comedies might bt alloiotd to be plcnfd thai
are penned, and then I am sure he would be deciphered, and
so, perhaps, discouraged. He shall not be brought in, as
whilome he was, and yet very well, with a cock's comb, an
ape's face, a wolf's belly, cat's claws, &c., but in a capp'd
cloak, and all the best apparel he wore the highest day in
the year. A stage-player, though he be but a cobbler by
occupation, yet his chance may be to play the king's part.
Martin, of what calling soever he be, can play nothing but
the knave's part. Would it not be a fine tragedy, when
Mardocheus shall play a Bishop in a play, and Martin, Ha-
man ; and that he that seeks co pull down those that are set
in high authority above him, should be hoisted upon a tree
above all other ? " Here the allusion is plainly to some
play of Martin marring the Prelates ; and the writer adds
in a note, — " If he be showed at Paul's, it will cost you
four-pence ; at the Theatre, two-pence ; at St. Thomas-a-
Watrings, nothing." From which it would seem that the
matter in question had been brought upon the stage by the
children of St. Paul's, and by the actors of the Theatre
play-house. St. Thomas-a-Watrings was a place of execu-
tion, where of course a tragical sight might be seen for
nothing.

It appears that about the same time, and probably for the
same cause, a stop was put to the acting of the children of
St. Paul's ; for in Lyly's Endymion, published in 1591, the
writer says, — " Since the Plays in Paul's were dissolved,
there are certain comedies come to my hands." As the mat-
ter is further treated in our third chapter of the Poet's Life,
we will dismiss it by simply adding, that the Mayor's total
prohibition of playing was but temporary.

There was a singular passage between some players ami
the University of Cambridge, which perhaps ought not to be
omitted. As far back as 1575, the Privy Council had sent
letters to the Vice-Chancellor of Cambridge, in which, aftei

THEATRICAL COMPANIES. CCXlv

•tating the necessity of keeping pure the fountains whence
learning flowed to all parts of the kingdom, they forbade
common players to perform either at the University or with-
in five miles round it. In the summer of 1592, a company
of players, with Button at their head, repaired to Cam
bridge, intending to perform there. On the 1st of Septem
ber, the Vice-Chancellor and certain justices of peace issued
a warrant to the constable for preventing such design. Nev-
ertheless, the players did perform at Chesterton, which was
within the prescribed limits. On the 8th, Dr. Some, the
V^ice-Chancellor, wrote to the Privy Council, reciting the
orders of 1575, complaining of the late offence, and re-
questing that the offending parties might be punished. Not
getting any answer, Dr. Some, and several heads of colleges
with him, ten days after, wrote again, repeating the com-
plaint, with further particulars against Lord North and Dut-
ton who had treated their authority with contempt After
referring to the forementioned warrant, they proceed thus :

" How slightly that warrant was regarded, as well by the
constables and the inhabitants of Chesterton, as by the play-
ers themselves, appeared by their bills set up upon our col-
lege-gates, and by their playing at Chesterton, notwithstand-
ing our said warrant to the contrary. One of the constables
told us, that he heard the players say that they were licenced
by the Lord North to play in Chesterton. We cannot
charge his Lordship otherwise in that particular ; but we are
able to justify, that the Lord North, upon a like occasion
heretofore, being made acquainted with the said letters of
the Lords of the Council, returned answer in writing, that
those letters were no perpetuity."

After going on somewhile further in the same strain, they
close by asking a renewal of the orders of 1575, that Lord
North and the players might not be able to take shelter un-
der the plea of their having expired. Thus the matter rest-
ed till July, 1593, when the Vice-Chancellor reminded Lord
Burghley on the subject, and prayed that the University

CCxlvi HISTORY OF THE DRABl »

might be freed from players. A few days after, the orders
were accordingly renewed, and a copy of the same sent to
the authorities of Oxford.

Meanwhile, however, in December, 1592, Dr. John Still,
then at the head of Cambridge University, received an order
from Court, that an English comedy should be got up there
for the Queen's recreation, as, because of the plague, her
own actors could not play before her at Christmas. This
looks very like an intended reproof of the University. Be
that as it may, Dr. Still, though himself the author of Gam-
mer Gurton's Needle, an English comedy, which was acted
before the Queen at Christ College in 1566^ wrote the fol-
lowing in answer, six others joining with him :

" Upon Saturday last, being the 2d of December, we re-
ceived letters from Mr. Vice-Chamberlain, wherein, by reason
that her Majesty's own servants in this time of infection may
not disport her Highness with their wonted pastimes, his
Honour hath moved our University to prepare a comedy in
English, to be acted before her Highness by some of our
students in this time of Christmas. How ready we are to
do any thing that may tend to her Majesty's pleasure, we
are very desirous by all means to testify ; but how fit we
shall be for this, having no practice in this English vein, and
being, as we think, nothing beseeming our students, we much
doubt. English comedies, for that we never used any, we
presently have none : to make or translate one in such short-
ness of time, we shall not be able ; and therefore, if we must
needs undertake the business, and that with conveniency it
may be granted, these two things we would gladly desire,—
gome further time for due preparation, and liberty to play in
Latin. How fit these are to be requested or granted, your
Lordship, who well knoweth her Majesty's disposition and
our manner, is best able to judge : ourselves only do move
them, referring both them and the whole cause unto your
Lordship's consideration."

This remonstrance appears to have been effectual : but

THEATRICAL COMPANIES. CCXlVll

the next year Dr. Thomas Legge, who wrote a Latin tragedy
of Richard III., was Vice-Chancellor ; and in a letter to Lord
Burghley he spoke of some offence given to the Queen, and
stated that the University had sent some of its body to Ox-
ford to see the entertainment given her Majesty there, in
order to be better prepared for obeying her directions in fu-
ture. The difference seems to have been arranged before
the Christmas of 1594, since the University then acted cer-
tain comedies and a tragedy, and requested a loan of the
royal robes in the Tower for that purpose.

We have now brought down the account of theatricals as
far as our plan requires. From the great impetus already
noted, it may well be presumed that there was a still further
growth in after-years ; which was indeed the case. Before
the end of the sixteenth century, there were divers other
play-houses in the City and suburbs of London, besides the
three already mentioned ; as the Whitefriars, the Newington
Butts, the Rose, the Hope, the Paris Garden, the Globe, the
Swan, and the Fortune. On the whole, it is pretty evident,
that in Shakespeare's tune the Drama was decidedly a great
Institution ; it was a sort of fourth Estate in the realm,
nearly as much so, perhaps, as the newspaper Press is in our
day : practically, the Government of the commonwealth was
vested in King, Lords, Commons, and Dramatists, including
in the latter both writers and actors ; so that the Poet had
far more reason than now exists, for making Hamlet say to
the old statesman, — "After your death you were bettei
have a bad epitaph, than their ill report while you live "

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

CHAPTER IV.
COMEDY AND TRAGEDY.

"WE have seen how the old Miracle-plays gradually gave
way to Moral-plays ; first borrowing some of their materials,
then thrown into the back-ground, and finally quite displaced,
by what they had borrowed. Yet both these forms of the
Drama were radically different from Comedy and Tragedy,
in the proper sense of these terms : there was very little of
character or of human blood in them ; and even that little was
not there by any natural right ; being forced in by external
causes, and not a free or native outgrowth from the genius
or principle of the thing. The first, in their proper idea and
original plan, were but a mechanical collocation of the events
of Scripture and old legend, carried on by a sort of personal
representatives ; the historical forms being every thing, in-
dividual traits nothing, in the exhibition : the second, a mere
procession of abstract ideas rudely and inartificially person-
ified, with something of fantastical drapery thrown around
them. So that both alike stood apart from the vitalities of
nature and the abiding interests of thought, being indeed
quite innocent of the knowledge of them : both were the
legitimate product of a people among whom the principles
of a most generous culture had been planted, but had not
yet fructified ; who had the powers of the highest art rather
lying on the surface of their mind than rooted in its sub*
stance ; a treasure of grace and truth adopted, but not in-
corporated.

Of course it was impossible that such things, themselves
the offspring of darkness, should stand the light. None but
children in mind — in the dim twilight "how easy is a bush
supposed a bear " — could mistake them for truth, or keep
up any real sympathy with such unvital motions. Precluded

COMEDY AND TRAGEDY.

from the endltss variety of individual nature and character-
istic specii../ity, they could not but run into great sameness
and monotony : it was at the best little more than a repeti-
tion of one fundamental air under certain arbitrary varia-
tions. As the matter shown was always much the same, the
interest had to depend chiefly on the manner of showing it :
so that the natural result was, either a cumbrous and clumsy
excess of manner, or else a stupifying tediousness of effect j
unless, indeed, it drew beyond itself; and in doing this it
could not but create a taste that would sooner or later force
».ts entire withdrawal from the scene.

Accordingly, Moral-plays, at a comparatively early period
in their course, began, as we have seen, to deviate into veins
of matter foreign to their original design ; points of native
humour and wit, lines of personal interest were taken in to
diversify and relieve the allegorical sameness ; these grew
more and more into the main texture of the workmanship :
so that the older occupant may, in some sort, be said to have
begotten the new species by which itself was in due time su-
perseded. As the new elements gained strength and grew
firm, much of the old treasure proved to be mere refuse and
dross ; as such it was discarded : nevertheless, whatsoever
of sterling wealth had been accumulated, was sucked in, re-
tained, and carried up into the supervening growth.

So that the allegorical drama had great influence, no
doubt, in determining the scope and quality of the proper
drama of comedy and tragedy ; since, by its long discipline
of the popular mind in abstract ideas, it did much, very
much, towards forming that public taste which required the
drama to rise above a mere geography of facts into the
empyrean of truth ; and under the instruction of whicn
Shakespeare learned to make his persons embodiments of
general nature as well as of individual character. For the
excellences of the Shakespearian drama were probably
owing as much to the mental preparation of the time as to
the powers of the individual man : he was in demand before

fid HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

he came, and it was that pre-existing demand that taujrht
and enabled him to do -what he did. In short, z° it was the
strength of his genius that lifted him to the top of the heap,
so it was the greatness of the heap that enabled him to
reach and maintain that elevation. For it is a great mis-
take to regard Shakespeare as standing alone, and working
only in the powers of his individual mind. In fact, there
was never any growth of literature or art that stood upon a
wider basis of collective experience, or that drew its form
and substance from n larger or more varied stock of histor-
ical preparation.

The beginnings, then, of English comedy and tragedy
were made long before these appeared in distinct formation.
Of course, by comedy and tragedy, we mean the drama of
individual character and action as distinguished from sym-
bolical representations. And the first known hand that
drew off the elements of comedy and moulded them into a
structure by themselves, was John Heywood, who belonged
to the Revels establishment of Henry VUL, and in 1514
had a salary of £20 a year as " the singer," and also, in
1538, a quarterly allowance of £2 10*. as " player on the
virginals." His pieces, however, have not the form of com-
edies. He called them Interludes, a name in use many
years before, and perhaps adopted by him as indicating the
purpose to which he designed them, of filling up the gaps
or intervals of banquets and other entertainments. They
are short, not taking much more time than a single Act in
an ordinary comedy. Yet they have the substance of com-
edy, in that they give pictures of real life and manners, con-
taining much sprightliness of dialogue, and not a little of
humour and character, and varied with amusing incident
and allusion drawn fresh from the writer's observation, with
the dews of nature upon them. This will readily appear
upon a brief analysis of some of them.

Heywood's oldest piece, written as early as 1521, though
not printed till 1533, is entitled "A merry Play between

COMEDY AND TRACED? CC&

vl:e Pardoner and the Friar, the Curate and neighbour Pratt.
A Pardoner and a Friar have each got leave of the Curate
to use his church, the one to exhibit his relics, the other to
preach a sermon, the object of both being, simply, to make
money. The Friar comes first, and is about to begin his
preachment, when the other enters and disturbs him : each
wants to be heard first, and, after a long fierce trial which
has the stronger pair of lungs, they fall into a regular per-
formance of mutual kicking and cuffing. The Curate,
aroused to the spot by the clamour, endeavours to part
them ; failing of this, he calls in neighbour Pratt, and then
seizes the Friar, leaving Pratt to manage the other, their
purpose being, to set them in the stocks. But they get the
worst of it altogether ; in fact, they are treated to a sound
drubbing ; whereupon they gladly come to terms, allowing
the Pardoner and Friar quietly to depart. As a specimen
of the incidents, we may mention that the Friar, wlu'le his
whole sermon is against covetousness, harps much on the
voluntary poverty of his order, and then gives out his pur-
pose of taking up a collection. In a like spirit of satirical
humour, the Pardoner is made to exhibit some very laugh-
able relics, such as " the great toe of the Holy Trinity," the
bongrace and French hood of the Virgin Mary, articles of
dress worn at that time, and the " blessed jaw-bone " of al]
the saints in the Calendar ;

" Which relic, without any fail,

Against poison chiefly doth prevail.'

Another of Heywood's pieces, also printed in 1533, is
called " A merry Play between John the husband, Tib the
wife, and Sir John the priest." Tib the wife being absent
from home, John, who is a hen-pecked husband, brags of his
domestic ascendency, and threatens to give her a lusty
trouncing on her return. Just then she enters, having over-
heard him, and demands whom he is going to beat : he
dodges off, that "it was Stockfish hi Thames-street." Sh&
complain? of sickness, and he attributes it to her drinking

CClii HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

with Sir John the priest, which, it seems, was a common
pastime with her. She then produces a pie, which she has
Drought home with her ; tells him it was made by herself,
her gossip Margery, and Sir John ; sends him off to invite
Sir John to supper ; and he dare not refuse to go, though
mighty suspicious that she has been playing him false. Sir
John having come, she sends her husband out for water to
wash their hands with before eating : while he is gone, she
and Sir John make merry together at the tricks she has
practised upon him : John finds the pail too leaky for use ;
returns ; is furnished with wax, to stop the leaks ; while he
is busy putting it on, she and Sir John despatch the pie, not
heeding his remonstrances, and he not daring to enforce a
share of it from them. At last his patience gives way ; he
throws down the pail in high dudgeon ; whereupon Tib and
Sir John pitch into him till they make the blood " run about
his ears," and then put off together : he fancies they have
fled from his superior prowess ; but, suddenly bethinking
himself that they have withdrawn for another purpose,
makes after them, " to see if they do him any villainy ; "
which concludes the performance.

Another of his pieces, also full of broad fun, and equally
smacking of real life, is entitled The Four Ps ; while a
fourth, called The Play of the Weather, has something the
character of a Moral-play, the Vice figuring in it under the
name of Merry Report. What we have given may suffice
to indicate the decided steps taken by Heywood in the direo-
tion of genuine comedy.

An anonymous interlude called Thersites, and written in
1537, deserves mention as the oldest dramatic piece in Eng-
lish, with characters borrowed from secular history. The
object of the piece as stated in the title-page is, to " declare
how that the greatest boasters are not the greatest doers."
Thersites, the hero, enters fresh from the siege of Troy :
aaving lost his armour, he applies to Mulciber to forge him
a new suit. Among other things, he wants " a sallet made

COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. ccllll

of steel," meaning a helmet ; Vulcan takes him to mean a
sulad •, and he has much ado to beat into the artizan's head
precisely what it is that he wants. Being at length fur-
nished with a sword that will pare iron, the hero exclaims,
— " Now have at the lions on Cotswold," a proverbial ex-
pression for sheep. He then dares King Arthur and his
knights of the round table, and divers other English heroes,
to fight, and avows his determination to walk through Lon-
don, let come what wilL His mother, thinking his wordy
rage may import danger to somebody, tries in vain to ap-
pease his wrath : in reply he alludes to Robinhood and Lit-
tle John, calling them " Robin John and Littlehood," and
vows to "teach such outlaws" how hereafter "they take
away Abbots' purses." This is followed by a mighty battle
with a snail, mixed up with references to Friar Tuck : after
due deliberation, Thersites makes at the beast with club and
sword, and finally compels him to haul in his horns. " A
poor soldier come of late from Calais " then enters, and the
hero runs off in a fright. Next, a child named Telemachus
comes to the hero's mother with a letter from Ulysses, re-
questing her to doctor the bringer, who is troubled with
worms : she undertakes his cure, and gives him a charm for
that purpose. This done, the soldier enters again, and the
hero again makes off with all his legs, leaving his club and
sword behind him ; which concludes the piece. From al]
which it will be seen that the interlude has nothing of his-
torical matter but the names : it is merely a piece of broad
comedy in the vein of English life and manners.

Another piece of a much more serious character, ap-
proaching to tragedy, was printed about 1530, with a title
as follows : " A new comedy in English, in manner of an in-
terlude, right elegant, and full of craft and rhetoric ; wherein
is showed and described as well the beauty and good prop-
erties of women, as their vices and evil conditions, with a
moral conclusion and exhortation to virtue." The story ia
Ttsry simple and soon told. Calisto, a young gallant, ia in

CO.liv HISTORY OF THE DRAMA

love with Mclibea, who dislikes him. By the advice of
Sempronio, a parasite, he bribes old Cdestina, a common
bawd, into his sendee. She tries to persuade the heroine to
meet Calisto at her house : failing of this, she pretends that
he is dying of the tooth-ache, and that nothing will relieve
him but the use of Melibea's hallowed girdle, aided by her
prayers. The maiden, thus appealed to, consents to lend
him the girdle, which is employed as symbolical of a far
dearer favour. No sooner has she yielded it, than she is
smitten with grief and remorse ; she confesses the fault to
Danio her father, and prays to Heaven for pardon and help
Dam'o then follows with a discourse of warning to old and
young, and the piece ends. The play is exceedingly short,
and has nothing either of the supernatural or the allegorical
in its structure : as to its merits in other respects, there is
little to be said ; and it is noticed merely as illustrating the
gradual working up of the Drama into a new species.

We now come to the oldest known specimen of a regular
English comedy. Ralph Roister Bolster was written as
early at least as 1551, though not licensed for the press till
1566. It was the work of Nicholas Udall, a name distin-
guished in the early literature of the Reformation. Udal)
was born in 1505 or 1506 ; admitted a scholar of Corpus
Christi College, Oxford, in 1520 ; took his Bachelor's degree
in 1524 ; and proceeded Master of Arts in 1534, being hin-
dered till that time on account of his attachment to the Ref-
ormation. The same year, 1534, he was appointed Head-
Master of Eton, then famous for teaching the classics ;
became a Prebendary of Windsor in 1551, and in 1553
. Rector of Calborne in the Isle of Wight ; was afterwards
made Head-Master of Westminster school, and died in
1556. In our preceding Chapter, we met with him as the
author of " an English play called Ezechias," which was
performed before the Queen at King's College, Cambridge,
in 1564.

In his prologue to Ralph Roister Doister the author refers

COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. Cclv

to Plrmtus and Terence as his models. The play is in five
Acts, which are duly subdivided into scenes ; the scene is in
London, the persons and manners all English ; the number
of characters thirteen, four of whom are women. The hero
and heroine are Ralph Roister Doister and Dame Christian
Custance a widow : in the train of the former are Matthew
Merrygreek, Dobinet Doughty, and Harpax ; of the latter,
Truepenny her man, Madge Mumblecrust her nurse, Tibet
Talkapace, and Annot Alyface. The play is opened by Mat
thew, who enters singing, and expounds his mind in a solil-
oquy, dilating on his patron's qualities and his own. Pres-
ently Ralph comes in talking to himself; declares he is
weary of life, anfl regrets that God has made him " such a
goodly person ; " calls on his friend Matthew for counsel and
help, as he is dying for love of a lady whose name he does
not at first remember, and who, he hears, is engaged to a
merchant named Gawin Goodluck. Matthew consoles him
with the assurance that his figure is such as no woman can
resist, and that the people go into raptures over him as he
passes in the street, comparing him to divers ancient Wor-
thies and heroes of romance ; all which he swallows greedily,
and promises the speaker a new coat. Next we have a
scene of Madge spinning, Tibet sewing, and Annot knitting :
after some talk in praise of the good fare allowed them by
their mistress, they fall into a merry passage of rallying and
joking each other, enlivened from time to time with snatches
of song. Ralph overhears them, and takes joy to think of
the merry life he shall lead with a wife who keeps such ser-
Tants ; wants to strike up an acquaintance with them, but
knows not what to say ; at length, Annot having gone out,
he salutes the old nurse with a KISS, and proposes to kiss
Tibet too, but she puts him off with sundry jests, till she is
called away to her mistress ; wnen, being left alone with
Madge, he reveals to her his state of mind. While he is
telling " a great long tale in her ear," Matthew returns with
Uobinet and Harpax, and they pretend to mistake Madge

HISTORY OF THE DKAMA.

for Dame distance herself; whereat Ralph gets full of wrath,
but forgives them on a suitable apology, and they have a song
together on matrimony. After they have gone, Madge de-
livers a letter which Ralph has left with her for Dame CUB-
tance.

The next day, Dobinet conies with a ring and token, which
Madge refuses to deliver, she having been scolded for taking
the letter. Truepenny, Tibet, and Annot then enter, and he
tells them he is a messenger from their lady's intended hus-
band, but takes care not to mention that husband's name.
They are delighted at the prospect of such a change in the
family, and almost get into a quarrel which shall carry the
ring and token to their mistress. In the»next scene, they
all get sharply reproved by Dame distance i'or taking rings
and tokens without knowing from whom they come ; which
closes the second Act.

In Act iii., Matthew is sent, to see how the land lies. Be-
[ng brought before the lady, he learns that her hand is al-
ready engaged, that there is no chance for Ralph, and that
she has not even read his letter. He returns to his master,
and tells him she will have nothing to do with him, and how
she abuses him with opprobrious epithets. Ralph now de-
clares that he shall die on the spot : Matthew, to carry on
the joke, pretends to think him really dying, and calls in the
parish clerk and others to sing a mock requiem over him.
As Ralph soon revives, Matthew counsels him to put on a
bold face, and go to the lady himself, and claim her hand,
after treating her to a serenade. He agrees to this plan ;
and while they are singing the lady enters : he declares his
passion ; she rejects him with scorn, and returns his letter
unread : Matthew thereupon reads it in her hearing, but
so varies the pointing as to turn the sense all up side down ;
and Ralph denies it to be his. Here she leaves them ; and
Matthew again goes to refreshing Ralph with extravagant
praise of his person ; wishes himself a woman for his sake ;
advises him to refrain from distance awhile, which will soon

COMEDY AND TRAGEDY.

6nng her creeping to him on her knees : he consents, swear-
ing revenge, meanwhile, against the Scrivener, who spoilt
the meaning of his letter. The Scrivener, being sent for,
reads the letter as himself had pointed it ; whereupon Ralph
is forced to confess that nothing better for his purpose could
nave been written.

In the fourth Act, Sim Suresby comes from Goodluck, to
salute the lady on his master's return from a voyage : while
they are talking, Ralph arrives with Matthew ; gives loud
directions for arms to be ready in case he should need them ;
addresses the lady as his wife and spouse : whereupon Sim,
thinking them to be married, goes to inform his master what
seems to have happened in his absence. The Dame, full of
grief and anger at this staining of her good name, calls on
her man and maids to drive out Ralph and Matthew, who
quickly rotreat, but threaten to return. She then sends for
her friend Tristram Trusty, to counsel her ; and Matthew
enters, to tell her that he has only joined with Ralph to
make fun of him, and that Ralph is about to renew the as-
sault, " with a sheep's look full grim ; " and she proceeds to
" pitch a field with her maids " for his reception. This is
followed by the return of Ralph, armed with kitchen utensils
and a pop-gun, attended by Matthew, Dobinet, and Harpax,
and threatening to destroy all with fire and sword. The
issue of the scrape is, that the lady and her maids drive off
the assailants with mop and broom ; Matthew managing to
have all his blows light on Ralph, though pretending to fight
on his side.

Act v. opens with the arrival of Goodluck and his man
Sim, both persuaded of the lady's infidelity. She proceeds
to welcome her betrothed with much affection, but he draws
back, and calls for explanation : she protests her innocence,
and refers him to Trusty. So away go he and Sim to seek
for Trusty, who presently gives them entire satisfaction in
the matter ; so that Goodluck soon comes back, and receives
his lady-love with joy. Matthew then comes from Ralpb

Cclviil HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

entreating pardon for what is past, and they consent to take
him into favour : Matthew hastens back to Ralph with the
news, and assures him they are heartily glad to be recon-
ciled, from terror of his arms and prowess. Ralph is in-
vited to the wedding-supper, and then comes the epilogue.

Considering the date of this piece, it is certainly one of
extraordinary merit : it has considerable wit and humour, in
which there is nothing coarse or vulgar ; the dialogue
abounds in variety anU spirit ; the characters are well dis-
criminated and life-like. The idea of Merrygreek was evi-
dently caught from the old Vice ; but his love of sport and
mischief is without malignity, and the interest of his part
turns on the character, not on the trimmings. Like its pred-
ecessors generally, the play is written in lines of unequal
length, and with nothing to distinguish them as verse but
the rhymes.

In this respect, we meet with something of improvement
in another piece which has lately come to light, and which
appears from internal evidence to have been written about
1560. It is called Misogonus, from the hero's name. The
scene is laid in Italy, but the manners and allusions are Eng-
lish, while the persons have Greek and Roman names, sig-
nificant of their tempers or positions. The play opens with
a scene between Philogonus and Eupelas, wherein the for-
mer relates his marriage, the birth of a son, and the death of
his wife ; also, how the son's education had been neglected,
till he had become hardened in evil past recovery. Eupelas
tries to persuade him that Misogonus will in time reform ;
promises to reason with the youth touching his misconduct ;
but is warned to take, care how he engages in such a hope-
less task. While they are talking Cacurgus enters, and calls
Ids master to supper. The old men leave liim on the stage :
after a song, in which he laughs at them, he makes a speed)
to the audience, descanting on the vices of his young master,
and winds up by giving away the points of his dress among
the spectators. The hero then enters blustering ; threaten?

COMKDY AND TRAGEDT. CCllX

to kill Cacurgus ; soon gets into familiar chat with him ; tells
him he is " as full of knavery as an egg is full of meat : "
Cacurgus informs him that he has heard his father speaking
of him to Eupelas as " a parlous unthrifty lad," and that
Eupelas is going to take him in hand ; whereat Misogonus
falls into a storm of rage. Cacurgus then engages to go
and send Eupelas out, while the hero collects his servants
and makes ready to fall upon him. Misogonus calls in his
man Orgalus ; they stand aside, and, when Eupelas comes,
rush out upon him, but he makes good his retreat. The
hero then goes to abusing Orgalus for letting the old man
escape : Oenophilus, another servant, explains that he could
not come in time to help, because he had been drinking with
a fellow who picked his pocket and ran away : Misogonus
goes to beating him ; Cacurgus enters, begs him to desist in
the Queen's name, but gets a blow in reply. The servant
owns that he had got no more than he deserved ; declares
that his master exceeds " the nine Worthies ; " promises to
take him on a hunt for " two-legged venison," and is cor-
dially forgiven.

After several less important matters, we find the hero dis-
porting himself with Melissa, a deer that he has been hunt-
ing. Having refreshed herself with muscadine, the lady
proposes " a cast at the bones ; " but, as no dice are at hand.
Oenophilus is sent for Sir John the Vicar, who, it is said,
" has not a drop of priest's blood in him," and is sure to be
well furnished with cards and dice. Meanwhile, Cacurgus
joins the party, and is surprised so see the hero with such
" a fair maid Marian," who is " as good as brown Bessy."
The servant soon returns with Sir John, whom he found at
an ale-house. The Vicar first stakes his gown on a trick of
legerdemain at cards ; loses it ; but succeeds so well with
the bones, that he is suspected of using " some dice of van-
tage ; " luck again deserts him ; while he is hard at play, the
parish clerk comes to fetch him to his church : he tells the
clerk to read the service himself, omitting certain parts of it )

CCbt HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

but, on learning that Susan Sweetlips is waiting for nim. is
for performing his own duty ; whereupon Cactirgus swears
to knock out his brains if he stirs. The gambling at length
winds up with a dancing-spree ; and while the rest are at
this Cacurgus steals out and brings in Eupelas, Philogonus,
and an honest old servant of the latter named Liturgus, to
see the sport. Then comes an abusing-match on all sides,
Liturgus declaring " there's no mischief, but a priori at one
end ; " at last the hero and his set withdraw, leaving the
others on the stage, when Eupelas and Liturgus endeavour
to console the unhappy father.

In the third Act, Ouster Codrus, a country tenant of Phi-
logonus, comes to town with a pair of capons for his land-
lord, and complains of having lost a sow. Cacurgus cheats
him out of the capons, substituting two hens for them, but
brings him to speak with Philogonus. Codrus finds the old
man in great grief on account of his son ; informs him that
he has another son alive, his wife having borne twins ; offers
to prove the fact by his wife Alison, who was present at the
birth ; whereat the spirit of Philogonus revives. Alison,
being brought in, goes to talking of her bead-roll and other
things, which show her to be a Roman Catholic ; so that
Codrus has to remind her that their " master is of the new
learning," that is, a Protestant : Philogonus hears from Ali-
son that his wife had borne twins, and by the advice of cer-
tain learned men had sent one of them away secretly into
Apolonia, to be brought up by an uncle and aunt. Liturgus
is forthwith despatched in quest of the older son. The hero
being informed of these things, calls on Cacurgus for aid and
advice, and the latter proposes to steal the deeds of the old
man's estates.

Isbel Busby and Madge Caro, who had also been present
at the birth, next make their appearance. As Madge stam-
mers and has the tooth-ache, Cacurgus takes them in hand
he pretends to be a great Egyptian, able to cure all sorts of
maladies ; makes a long speech to them on his own merits,

COMEDY AND TUAGEDY.

to which they listen with wonder ; gives Madge a mock pre-
scription, containing a drachm of " Venus-hair infidelity " and
" an ounce of popery ; " intrigues with them to deny that
Misogonus had an elder brother, and tries to persuade them
that a fairy had changed the child in the cradle. Presently,
Eugonus, the lost son, arrives, and is recognised by the threw
women. By the help of a person named Crito, they put
circumstances together, and, on ripping open the hose of
Eugonus, find he has a sixth toe on one of his feet ; which
is proof positive that he is the elder twin who was sent into
Apolonia. Eugonus is then brought to his father, asks his
blessing, and gets it, with all the old man's heart. Soon
after, the hero and his two men enter with weapons ; a scene
of abuse and confusion follows, when the servants, being left
alone with their master, find how the case stands with him,
and desert him ; which sets Misogonus upon a course of re-
pentance and amendment.

Next, we have a queer scene betwixt Cacurgus and the
audience. It seems that Cacurgus, who belonged to the
family of Philogonus, has been dismissed for his malprac-
tices. After stating this fact to the audience, he appeals to
them to " take pity on a stray fool," and asks if there be
any crier among them : no answer being given, he then
makes a long amusing proclamation of his want of service,
and his qualifications as a fooL Finding no one to hire him,
he remarks, " fools now may go a-begging, everybody's be-
come so witty."

The fifth Act of the play is wanting ; but in the last re-
maining scene of the fourth the hero, urged by Liturgua,
becomes heartily repentant, and is reconciled to his father.
As the action seems already complete, it is not easy to con«
ceive what the fifth Act was made of.

The great merits of this piece, as an early specimen of
comedy, are somewhat apparent, we hope, from our analysis.
The characterisation is certainly diversified and sustained
•with no little skill ; while many of the incidents and situations

CClxii HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

are highly diverting. The events of the play obviously ex-
tend over a considerable space of time ; yet the unity of
action is so well maintained that the diversities of time do
not press upon the mind. On the whole, it is clear that
even at that early date the principles of the Gothic Drama
were vigorously at work, in preparation for that magnificent
fruitage of art which came to full harvest, ere she who then
sat on the English throne was taken to her rest It may
be needful to remark, that Sir John the Vicar was meant aa
a satire on the Roman Catholic priesthood. In one place it
is said of him, —

" A Bible, nay, soft you ! he'll yet be more wise ;
I tell you, he's none of this new start-up rabble.''

But perhaps the most note-worthy feature of the play is
Cacurgus, who, as may be gathered from the foregoing ac-
count, is a specimen of the professional domestic fool that
succeeded to the old Vice. And he is one of the most re-
markable instances of his class, that have survived ; there
being no other play of so early a date, wherein the part is
used with any thing like equal skill. Before his master,
Cacurgus commonly affects the mere simpleton, but at other
times is full of versatile shrewdness and waggish mischief.
He is usually called, both by himself and others, Will Sum-
mer ; as though he were understood to model his action af-
ter the celebrated court fool of Henry VLLL

Hitherto we have no instance of regular tragedy, which
in England was of later growth than comedy ; though we
have in several cases seen that some beginnings of tragedy
were made in the older species of drama. The story of
Romeo and Juliet, as may be seen from our Introduction to
that play, was brought on the stage before 1562 ; in what
specific form, we are without the means of deciding ; though
of course, from the nature of the subject, it must have been
tragical The Tragedy of Gorboduc, or, as it is sometimes
called, of Ferrex and Porrex, is on several accounts deserv

COMEDY AND TRAGEDY.

mg of special attention. It is regularly arranged in Acts
and sccoies, and is the oldest extant specimen of English
tragedy so arranged. As we have already seen, it was acted
before the Queen at Whitehall, by the gentlemen of the In-
ner Temple, on the 18th of January, 1562: it was also
printed three times, in 1565, 1571, and 1590 ; which shows
that it stood high in public repute. The title-page of 1565
informs us that three Acts were written by Thomas Norton,
and the last two by Thomas Sackville. Norton, according
to Wood, was " a forward and busy Calvinist, and a noted
zealot : " be that as it may, he made and published a trans-
lation of Calvin's Institutes, which went through five editions
during his lifetime. Sackville was afterwards Earl of Dor-
set: he succeeded Burghley as Lord Treasurer in 1599,
which office he held till his death, in 1608 ; and was eulo-
gized by divers pens, Lord Bacon's being one, for his elo-
quence, his learning, his charity, and integrity.

We probably cannot do better than to quote Warton's
abstract of the play, which is brief and accurate, as follows :
" Gorboduc, a king of Britain about 600 years before Christ,
made in his lifetime a division of his kingdom to his sons
Ferrex and Porrex. The two young Princes within five
years quarrelled for universal sovereignty. A civil war en-
sued, and Porrex slew his elder brother Ferrex. Their
mother, Videna, who loved Ferrex best, revenged his death
by entering Porrex's chamber in the night, and murdering
him in his sleep. The people, exasperated at the cruelty
and treachery of this murder, rose in rebellion, and killed
both Videna and Gorboduc. The nobility then assembled,
collected an army, and destroyed the rebels. An intestine
war commenced between the chief lords : the succession of
the crown became uncertain and arbitrary, for want of a
lineal royal issue ; and the country, destitute of a king, and
wasted by domestic slaughter, w>is reduced to a state of the
most miserable desolation."

Each Act of the tragedy is preceded by a dumb-show,

CC?X1F HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

significant of what is forthcoming ; and all, except the last
are followed by choruses, in imitation of the GreeK Drama,
moralizing on the events. The quality of the clumb-showa
may be judged from that to the first Act : " First the music
of violins began to play, during which, come upon the stage
six wild men clothed in leaves. Of whom the first bare
in his neck a fagot of small sticks, which they all, both sev-
erally and together, assayed with all their strengths to break ;
but it could not be broken by them. At the length, one of
them plucked out one of the sticks, and brake it ; and the
rest, plucking out all the other sticks one after another, did
easily break the same, being severed, which, being conjoined,
they had before attempted in vain. After they had this
done, they departed the stage, and the music ceased. Here-
by was signified, that a state knit in unity doth continue
strong against all force, but, being divided, is easily de-
stroyed."

But the most notable feature of the piece is, that all ex-
cept the choruses is in blank-verse ; in which respect it was
without precedent, a great and noble innovation ; what was
then known on the stage being mostly written in alternate
or consecutive rhyme. And the versification runs abundant-
ly smooth on the ear ; beyond which, little can be said in
its favour; though that was indeed much for the time.
With considerable force of thought and language, the
speeches are excessively formal, stately, and didactic ; the
dialogue is but a series of studied declamation, without any
gusliings of life, or any relish of individual traits : in a word,
all is mere state rhetoric speaking in the same vein, now
from one mouth, now from another. From the subject-
matter, the unities of time and place are necessarily disre-
garded, while there is no continuity of action or character
to oft it above the circumscriptions of sense. The several
Acts and scenes stand apart, each by itself, and follow on"
another without any principle of inherent succession : there
is indeed nothing like an organic composition of the part*

COMEDY AND TRAGEDY. OCiXV

flo weaving of them together into a vital whole, by the laws
of dramatic coherence or development. Still the piece is a
very great advance on all that is known to have gone before
it. In the single article of blank-verse, though having all
the monotony of structure that the most regular rhyming
versifier could give it, it did more for dramatic improvement,
than, perhaps, could have been done by a century of labour
without that step being taken.

From this time till we come to Shakespeare's immediate
predecessors, there is a considerable number and variety of
dramas, most of which we shall have to despatch rather
summarily. Richard Edwards was esteemed more highly
in his time than we can discover any good reason for ; which
was probably owing in part to the strong praise of Elizabeth,
whose taste or fancy he happened to hit in the right spot.
Meres, in his Wit's Commonwealth, 1598, sets him down as
one of " the best for comedy amongst us." Damon and
Pythias is the only play of his extant ;' though, as was seen
in the preceding Chapter, we hear of another piece by him,
called Palamon and Arcite, which was acted before the
Queen at Oxford in 1556, about two months before the au-
thor's death. Damon and Pythias is a sort of tragi-comedy,
and is in rhyme. How little account the writer made of
dramatic propriety, may be judged from the fact of his tak-
ing Grim the Collier of Croydon to the court of Dionysius,
where he plays at verbal buffoonery with two lackeys named
Jack and Will.

We have before mentioned The Supposes, translated from
the Italian of Ariosto by George Gascoigne, and acted al
Gray's Inn in 1566. It is chiefly remarkable as being the
oldest extant play in English prose. Jocasta, also acted at
Gray's Inn the same year, demands notice as the second
known play in blank-verse. It was avowedly taken from the
PhtRnisstf. of Euripides, but can hardly be called a transla
tion, since, as Warton observes, it makes " many omissions,
n-tronchments, and transpositions ; " though the main sub-

CClXVi HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

stance of the original is retained. The second, third, and
fifth Acts were by Gascoigne ; the first and fourth by Fran-
cis Kinwelmarsh ; and, as in Gorboduc, each Act is preceded
by a dumb-show. The versification presents notriing worthy
of remark in comparison with that of Norton and Sackville :
it is fully equal to theirs, though much less has been said
about it. It is the earliest known attempt to domesticate
the Greek Drama on the English stage.

The example of making English dramas out of Italian
novels appears to have been first set, unless we should ex-
cept the lost play of Romeo and Juliet, in 1568, when The
Tragedy of Tancred and Gismund was performed before
Elizabeth at the Inner Temple. It was the work of five
persons, who were probably members of that Inn ; each of
them contributing an Act, and one of them being Christo-
pher Hatton, afterwards known as Elizabeth's " dancing
Chancellor." Except in the article of blank-verse, the wri-
ters seem to have taken Gorboduc as their model ; each Act
beginning with a dumb-show, and ending viith a chorus.
The play was founded on one of Boccaccio's tales, an Eng-
lish version of which had recently appeared in Paynter's
Palace of Pleasure.

To the same period we are to reckon ten dramas trans-
lated from the Latin of Seneca, which no doubt had some
influence in forming the public taste. Three of these trans-
lations, Troas, Tktjestes, and Hercules Furens, severally
published in 1559, 1560, and 1561, were by Jasper Hey-
wood, son of the celebrated John Heywood. Four of them
were by John Studley, Medea and Jlgamemnon, printed in
1 566, and Hippoh/tus and Hercules OetfKus. (Edipus, by
Alexander Neville, came out in 1563. The other two were
Octavia., by Thomas Nuce, entered at the Stationers' in
1566 ; and Thebais, by Thomas Newton. The whole set
were printed together in quarto, in 1581. Nine of them
are in Alexandrines of fourteen syllables, and all are in
rhyme. Heywood and Studley take rank above mere trane«

COMEDY AND TRAOKOT. CClxvii

ktois, ir that they did not tie themselves to the originals,
but made changes and added whole scenes, as they thought
fit ; which is remarked by Warton as showing that dramatic
writers " now began to think for themselves, and that they
were not always implicitly enslaved to the prescribed letter
of their models." The pieces do not seem to require further
notice.

In the years 1568 and 1580, inclusive, the accounts of the
Revels furnish the titles of fifty-two dramas performed at
Court, none of which have survived, save as some of them
may have served as the basis of plays written afterwards,
and bearing other names. Of these fifty-two pieces, so far
as we may judge from the titles, a few of which were given
hi the preceding Chapter, eighteen appear to have been on
classical subjects ; twenty-one, on subjects from modern his-
tory, romance, and other tales ; while seven may be classed
as comedies, and six as Moral-plays. It is also to be noted,
that at this time the Master of the Revels was wont to call
different sets of players before him, hear their pieces re-
hearsed, and then choose such of them as he judged fit for
royal ears ; which infers that the Court rather followed than
led the popular taste, since most of the plays so used were
doubtless already known on the public stage.

This may probably be taken as a fair indication how far
the older species of drama still kept its place on the stage.
Moral-plays lingered in occasional use till long after this
period ; and we even hear of Miracles performed now and
then till after the death of Elizabeth. And this was much
more the case, no doubt, in the country towns and villages
than in the metropolis, as the growing life of thought could
not but beat lustiest at the heart ; and of course all the rest
of the nation could not bridle Innovation, spurred as she was
by the fierce competition of wit in London. Certain parts,
however, of the Morals had vigour enough, it appears, to
propagate themselves into the drama of comedy and tragedy
after the main body of them had been withdrawn.

Cclxviii HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

An apt instance of this is furnished in A Knack to Know
a Knave, entered at the Stationers' in 1593, but written sev-
eral years before. It was printed in 1594, and the title-page
states that it had been acted " sundry times by Edward Al-
leyn and his company," and that it contained "Kempe's
applauded merriments of the men of Gotham." Alleyn, the
founder of Dulwich College, was the leading actor of the
Lord Admiral's company ; and after the death of Richard
Tarlton, in 1588, William Kempe, who at a later period was
of the same company with Shakespeare, bore the palm as
an actor of comic parts. The play is made up partly of
allegorical personages, and partly of historical ; the chief of
the latter being, King Edgar, St. Dunstan, Ethenwald, Osrick,
and his daughter Alfrida. From reports of Alfrida's beauty,
Edgar gets so enamoured of her, that he sends Ethenwald,
Earl of Cornwall, to court her for him. The Earl, being al-
ready in love with the lady, is distressed that he cannot court
her for his own bride : he arrives, is introduced by her father ;
his passion gets the better of his commission ; he wooes and
wins her for himself, and has her father's full consent. He
returns to Edgar ; tells him she will do very well for an earl,
but not for a king: Edgar distrusts his report, and goes
to see for himself, when Ethenwald tries to pass off the
kitchen-maid upon him as Alfrida: the trick is detected ',
Dunstan counsels forgiveness ; whereupon the King gen-
erously renounces his claim. There is but one scene of
"Kempe's applauded merriments" in the play, and this
consists merely of a blundering dispute, whether a mock
petition touching the consumption of ale shall be presented
to the King by a cobbler or a smith.

As to the allegorical persons, it is worthy notice that sev-
eral of these have individual designations, as if the author,
whoever he might be, had some .vague ideas of representa-
tive character, — that is, persons standing for classes, yet
clothed with individuality, — but lacked the skill to work
them out. Such is the Bailiff r.r Hexham, who represents

COMEDY AND TRAGEDY.

the iniquities of local magistrates. He has four sons, —
Walter, representing the frauds of farmers ; Priest, the sins
of the clergy ; Coneycatcher, the tricks of cheats ; and Pe-
rin, the vices of courtiers. Besides these, we have Honesty,
whose business it is to expose crimes and vices. The Bailiff,
on his death-bed, calls his sous around him, and makes a
speech to them :

" Here have I been a bailiff threescore years,
And us'd exaction on the dwe!lers-by ;
For, if a man were brought before my face
For cozenage, theft, or living on his wit,
For counterfeiting any hand or seal,
The matter heard, the witness brought to me,
I took a bribe and set the prisoners free.
So by such dealings I have got ,my wealth."

The Devil makes his appearance several times, and, when
the old Bailiff dies, carries him oft At last, Honesty ex-
poses the crimes of all classes to the King, who has justice
done on their representatives. This part of the play seems
intended as a satire on the vices of Court and country.

The piece is in blank-verse, and in respect of versification
makes considerable improvement on the specimens hitherto
noticed. A short passage, which is all we have room for,
will show that the writer was not wholly a stranger to right
ideas of character and poetry. It is where Ethenwald, on
being introduced by Lord Osrick to his innocent daughter,
complains of a " painful rheum " in his eyes, so that he can-
cot look up :

" Otrick. I am sorry that my nouse should cause your grief.- -«
Daughter, if you have any skill at all,
I pray you use your cunning with the earl,
And see if you can ease him of his pain.

' A.frida. Father, such skill as I receiv'd of late
By reading many pretty-penn'd receipts,
Both for the ache of head and pain of eye*
1 will, if so it please the earl to accept it,
Eudeivour what I may to eom'm him.—

RClXX HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

My lord, I have waters of approved worth,
And such as are not common to be found ;
Aiiy of which, if please your Honour use them,
I am in hope will help you to your sight "

CHAPTER V.

SHAKESPEARE'S IMMEDIATE PREDECESSORS.

TOUCHING the general state of the Drama a few years
before Shakespeare took hold of it, we have some contem-
porary notices which must now be produced. In 1578,
George Whetstone published his History of Promos and
Cassandra, a drama in two parts, upon which the Poet
founded his Measure for Measure, as may be seen at length
in our Introduction to that play. In the Dedication of his
work, Whetstone has the following passage, where he evi-
dently has in view some particular plays which he had seen
performed :

" The Englishman, in this quality, is most vain, indiscreet,
and out of order. He first grounds his work on impossi
bilities ; then in three hours runs he through, the world,
marries, gets children, makes children men, men to conquei
kingdoms, murder monsters, and bringeth gods from heaven,
and fetcheth devils from hell. And, that which is worst,
their ground is not so unperfect, as their working indiscreet ;
not weighing, so the people laugh, though they laugh them,
for then- follies, to scorn : many times, to make mirth, they
make a clown companion with a king ; in their grave coun-
cils they allow the advice of fools ; yea, they use one order
of speech for all persons, — a gross indecorum ; for a crow
will ill counterfeit the nightingale's sweet voice : even so
affected speech doth misbecome a clown. For, to work a

SHAft-ESPEARE S PREDECESSORS.

romedy kindly, grave old men should instruct, young mec
should show the imperfections of youth, strumpet.s should
be lascivious, boys unhappy, and clowns should speak dis-
orderly ; intermingling all these actions in such sort as the
grave mattei may instruct, and the pleasant delight ; for
without this change the attention would be small, and the
liking less."

Some further points of information are supplied by Ste-
phen Gosson, whose School of Abuse, which was a general
invective against the stage, came out in 1579. Only two
years before. Gosson himself had written two plays, one
called The Comedy of Captain Mario, the other a Moral-
play entitled Praise at Parting. He also avows himself the
author of an historical play called Catiline's Conspiracies, of
which he speaks as follows : " The whole mark I shot at in
that work was, to show the reward of traitors in Catiline,
and the necessary government of learned men in the person
of Cicero, which foresees every danger that is likely to hap-
pen, and forestalls it continually ere it take effect." And
he mentions several other dramas ; one called The Black-
smith's Daughter, setting forth " the treachery of Turks,
the honourable bounty of a noble mind, and the shining of
virtue in distress ; " also, one called The Jew and Ptolemy,
having for its subject " the greediness of worldly choosers,
and the bloody mind of usurers." Besides these, he speaks
of " two prose books played at the Bell Savage," describing
" how seditious estates with their own devices, false friends
with their own swords, and rebellious commons with their
>wn snares, are overthrown." From all these he admits
that good moral lessons might be draAvn, and so marks them
out for exception from his attack. From his specifying two
of them as "prose books." it is to be presumed that all the
others were in verse.

The School of Abuse was taken in hand by Thomas
Lodge, and in 1581 Gosson made a rejoinder in his Plays
Confuted in Five Actions, where we have the following

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

" Sometimes you shall see notliing but the adventures of SSL
amorous knight, passing from country to country for the love
of his lady, encountering many a terrible monster made of
brown paper ; and at his return is so wonderfully changed,
that he cannot be known but by some posy in his tablet, or
by a broken ring, or a handkerchief, or a piece of a cockle-
shelL" Again, he refers to the mode of treating historical
subjects, thus : " If a true history be taken in hand, it is
made like our shadows, longest at the rising and falling of
the sun, shortest of all at high noon. For the poets drive
it most commonly unto such points as may best show the
majesty of their pen in tragical speeches, or set the hearers
agog with discourses of love, or paint a few antics to fit their
own humours with scoffs and taunts, or bring in a show to
furnish the stage when it is bare : when the matter of itself
comes short of this, they follow the practice of the cobbler
and set their teeth to the leather to pull it out."

In another part of the same tract, he gives the following
account of the sources whence dramatic writers commonly
derived then- plots and stories : " I may boldly say it, be-
cause I have seen it, that The Palace of Pleasure, The Gold-
en Ass. the Ethiopian History, Amadis of France, and The
Round Table, bawdy comedies in Latin, French, Italian, and
Spanish, have been thoroughly ransacked, to furnish the
play-houses in London." This shows very clearly what di-
rection the public taste was then taking ; that the matter
and method of the old dramas, and all " such musty foj>-
peries of antiquity," would no longer go ; and that there was
an eager and pressing demand, not knowing exactly what to
seek, nor how to come by it, for something wherein mt-n
might find, or at least fancy, themselves touched by the re:;!
vital currents of nature. And, as prescription was thus set
aside, and art still ungrown, the materials of history and
romance, foreign tales and plays, any thing that could fur-
nish incidents and a plot, were blindly and ignorantly pressed
into the service.

SHAKESPEARE'S PREDECESSORS, cclxxin

In the case of Gosson, some allowance may be due for
ne exaggerations of puritanical invective. But no such
Drawback can attach to the statements of Sir Plu'lip Sidney,
whose Apology for Poetry, though not printed till 1595,
must have been written before 1586, in which year the au-
thor died. On the subject of dramatic poetry, he has the
following :

" Our tragedies and comedies are not without cause cried
out against, observing neither rules of honest civility nor
skilful poetry, excepting Gorboduc, (again I say, of those
that I have seen,) which notwithstanding it is full of stately
speeches and well-sounding phrases, climbing to the height
of Seneca's style, and as full of notable morality, which it
doth most delightfully teach, and so obtain the very end of
poesy ; yet, in truth, it is very defectious in the circum-
stances ; which grieves me, because it might not remain as
an exact model of all tragedies: for it is faulty both in
place and time, the two necessary companions of all corpo-
ral actions. . . .

" But, if it be so in Gorboduc, how much more in all the
rest, where you shall have Asia of the one side, and Afric of
the other, and so many other under kingdoms, that the player,
when he comes in, must ever begin with telling where he is,
or else the tale will not be conceived. Now you shall have
three ladies walk to gather flowers, and then we must be-
lieve the stage to be a garden : by and by we hear news of
shipwreck in the same place ; then we are to blame if we
accept it not for a rock. Upon the back of that, comes out
a hideous monster with fire and smoke, and then the mis-
erable beholders are bound to take it for a cave ; while in
the mean time two armies fly in, represented with four swords
and bucklers, and then what hard heart will not receive it
for a pitched field ? Now, of time they are much more lib-
eral : for ordinary it is, that two young princes fall in love ,
after many traverses she is got with child, delivered of a fail
boy ; he is lost, groweth a man, falleth in love, and is ready

CClXXlV HISTORY OF THE DHAMA.

to get another child, and all this in two hours' space : which
how absurd it is in sense, even sense may imaging and art
hath taught, and all examples justified. . . .

" But, besides these gross absurdities, how all their plays
be neither right tragedies nor right comedies, mingling kings
and clowns, not because the matter so carrieth it, but thrust
in the clown by head and sLrulders to play a part in majes-
tical matters with neither decency nor discretion ; so as
neither admiration and commiseration nor right spoitfulnesb
is by their mongrel tragi-comedy obtained."

From all these extracts it is evident enough that very lit-
tle if any heed was then paid to the rules of dramatic pro-
priety and decorum. It was not merely that the unities of
time and place were set at nought, but that events and per-
sons were thrown together without any order or law, bun-
dled up as it were at random ; unconnected with each other
save to the senses, while at the same time according to sense
they stood far asunder. It is also manifest that the princi-
ples of the Gothic Drama in respect of general structure
and composition, in disregard of the minor unities, and in
the free blending and interchange of the comic and tragic
elements where " the matter so carrieth it," were thorough-
ly established ; though as yet those principles were not
moulded up with sufficient art to shield them from the just
censure and ridicule of sober judgment and good taste.
Here was a great triumph to be achieved ; greater, perhaps,
than any art then known was sufficient for. Without thi* ,
any thing like an original or national Drama was impossible :
all was bound to be mere mechanical repetition of what,
elsewhere and in its day, had been a living thing. Sir Philip
saw the chaos about him ; but he did not see, and none
could foresee, the creation that was to issue from it. He
would have spoken very differently, no doubt, had he lived
to see the intrinsic relations of character and passion, the
vital sequence of mental and moral development, set forth
•'n such clearness and strength, the whole fabric resting ou

SHAKESPEARE'S PREDECESSORS. cclxxv

such solid grounds of philosophy, and charged with such
cunning efficacies of poetry, that breaches of local or tem-
poral succession either pass without notice, or are noticed only
for the gain of truth and nature that is made through them.
For the laws of sense hold only as the thoughts are ab-
sorbed in what is sensuous and definite ; and the very point
was, to lift the mind above this by working on its imagina-
tive forces, and penetrating it with the light of relations more
Inward and essential.

At all events, it was by going ahead, and not by backing
out, that modern thought was to find its proper dramatic
expression. The foundation of principles was settled, and
stood ready to be built upon whenever the right workman
should come. Moreover, public taste was eager for some-
thing warm with life, so much so indeed as to keep running
hither and thither after the shabbiest semblances of it, though
still unable to set up its rest with them. The national mind,
in discarding, or rather outgrowing the old species of drama,
had worked itself into contact with nature, and found its way
to the right sort of materials. But to reproduce nature in
mental forms, requires great power of art, much greater,
perhaps, than minds educated amidst works of art can well
conceive. This art was the thing still wanting.

Which brings us to the subject of Shakespeare's imme-
diate predecessors. For here, again, the process was a grad-
ual one, and various hands were required to its completion.
Neither may we affirm that nothing had yet been done to-
wards organising the collected materials ; far from it : but
the methods and faculties of art were scattered here and
there ; different parts of the thing had been hit upon sev-
erally, and worked out one by one ; so that it yet remained
to draw them all up and carry them on together. It is dif-
ficult, perhaps impossible, to determine exactly by whom the
first steps were taken in this operation. But all of much
jonsequence, that was effected before we come to Shake-
speare, may be found in connection with the three names
of George Peele, Robert Greene, and Christopher Marlowe.

HISTORY OF THE DRA'MA.

The time and place of Peele's birth have not been fully
ascertained. But it appears from the matriculation-books
of the University that he was a member of Pembroke Col-
lege, Oxford, in 1564 ; so that his birth could not well have
been later than 1552 or 1553. He took his first degree in
1577, and became Master of Arts in 1579. Anthony Wood
tells us that " he was esteemed a most noted poet in the
University." Soon after taking his master's degree, he is
supposed to have gone to London as a literary adventurer.
Dissipation and debauchery were especially rife at that time
among the authors by profession, who hung in large num-
bers upon the metropolis, and haunted its taverns and ordi-
naries ; and it is but too certain, that Peele plunged deeply
ipto the vices of his class. That he tried himself more or
less on the stage, is probable, though Mr. Dyce is very con-
fident that he was never engaged as a regular actor. The
date of his death is unknown, but Meres, in his Palladia
Tamia, 1598, tells us that " as Anacreon died by the pot,
so George Peele by the pox."

Peele's Arraignment of Paris was printed in 1584, the
title-page informing us that it had been " presented before
the Queen's Majesty by the children of her ChapeL" That
it was his first dramatic piece we learn from Thomas Nash,
who, in an epistle prefixed to Greene's Menaphon, 1587,
after referring to Peele adds the following : " I dare com-
mend him unto all that know him, as the chief supporter of
pleasance now living, the Atlas of poetry, and primus vcr-
borum arlifex ; whose first increase, the Arraignment of
Paiis, might plead in your opinions his pregnant dexterity
of wit and manifold variety of invention, wherein, mejudice,
he goeth a step beyond all that write." The piece is indeed
vastly superior to any thing that preceded it. It is avowedly
a pastoral drama, and sets forth a whole troop of gods and
goddesses : there is nothing in it that can properly be called
delineation of character ; but it displays large powers of
poetry; it abounds in n-Jtural and well-proportioned senti

GEORGE PEELE. CclxXVli

ment ; thoughts and images seem to rise up fresh from the
writer's own observation, and not merely gathered at second-
hand : a considerable portion of it is in blank-verse, but the
author uses various measures, in all of which his versifica-
tion is graceful and flowing. A single short specimen wilJ
show something of this : it is a speech made by Flora to
the country gods :

" Not Iris, in her pride and bravery,
Adorns her arch with such variety ;
Nor doth the milk-white way, in frosty night,
Appear so fair and beautiful in sight,
As do these fields and groves ai d sweetest bowers,
Bestrew'd and deck'd with parti colour'd flowers.
Along the bubbling brooks, and silver, glide,
That at the bottom do in silence slide :
The watery flowers and lil'cs on the banks,
Like blazing comets, burgeon all in ranks:
Under the hawthorn and the poplar tree,
Where sacred Phoebe may delight to be,
The primrose, and the purple hyacinth,
The dainty violet, and the wholesome minth,
The double daisy, and the cowslip, queen
Of summer flowers, do overpeer the green ;
And round about the valley as ye pass,
Ye may ne see for peeping flowers the grass;
That well the mighty Juno, and the rest,
May boldly think to be a welcome guest
On Ida hills, when, to approve the thing,
The queen of flowers prepares a second spring."

The plot of the piece is simply this : Juno, Pallas, and
Venus get at strife who shall have the apple of discord which
Ate has thrown amongst them, with a direction that it be
given to the fairest. As each thinks herself the fairest, they
agree to refer the question to Paris, the Trojan shepherd ;
and he, after mature deliberation, awards the golden ball to
Venus. An appeal is taken from his judgment : he is ap
raigned before Jupiter in a synod of the gods for having
•endered a partial and unjust sentence ; but he defends him-
self so well that their godships are at loss what to do. At
laal, by Apollo's advice, the matter is referred to Diana, who

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

as she wanta no lovers, cares little for her own
Diana sets aside all their claims, and awards the apple to
Queen Elizabeth ; which verdict gives perfect satisfaction al]
round. A part of Diana's speech must suffice to show the
author's hand at blank-verse :

" There wons within these pleasant shady woods,
Where neither' storm nor sun's distemperature
Have power to hurt by cruel heat or cold ;
Under the climate of the milder heaven.
Where seldom lights Jove's angry thunderbolt,
For favour of that sovereign earthly peer ;
Where whistling winds make music 'mong the trees,
Far from disturbance of our country gods ;
Amidst the cypress springs a gracious nymph,
That honours Dian for her chastity,
And likes the labours well of Phoebe's groves i
The place Elizium hight, and of the place
Her name that governs there Eliza is ;
A kingdom that may well compare with mine.
An ancient seat of kings, a second Troy,
Ycompass'd round with a commodious sea.
She giveth laws of justice and of peace ;
And on her head, as fits her fortune best,
She wears a wreath of laurel, gold, and palm;
Her robes of purple and of scarlet dye ;
Her veil of white, as best befits a maid :
Her ancestors live in the house of fame :
She giveth arms of happy victory,
And flowers to deck her lions, crown'd with gold."

Another drama commonly ascribed to Peele was printed
La 1594, a part of the title-page reading thus : " The Battle
of Alcazar, fought in Barbary, between Sebastian king of
Portugal and Abdilmelec king of Morocco ; with the death
of Captain Stukeley : As it was sundry times played by the
Lord High Admiral's servants." The piece was written,
however, as early as 1589 ; for in that year Peele published
a farewell to " Sir John Norris and Sir Francis Drake,
knights, and all their brave and resolute followers," at their
Betting out on the disastrous expedition against Portugal ,•
and among other things he clearly alludes to the play :

GEORGE PEELE.

" Bid theatres and proud tragedians,
Bid Mahomet and mighty Tamburlnine,
King Charlemagne, Tom Stukeley, and the rest,
Adieu. To arms, to arms, to glorious arms ! "

Or the other hand, the play alludes to the wreck of the
Spanish Armada, in 1588, which ascertains the writing to
have been after that event It is a strange performance, and
nearly as worthless as strange ; being full of tearing rant and
fustian ; while the action, if such it may be called, goes it
with prodigious licence, jumping to and fro between Portu-
gal and Africa without remorse. The evidence is strong for
ascribing it to Peele, still we have some difficulty in believ-
ing it to be his : certainly it is not written in his native vein,
nor, as to that matter, in any body's else ; for it betrays at
every step an ambitious imitation of Marlowe, wherein, as
usually happens, the faults of the model are exaggerated,
and its excellences not reached. Feele could not have been
cast into such an ecstasy of rant and disorder but from a
wild attempt to rival the author of Tamburlaine, which is
several times referred to in the piece.

Stukeley is the right hero of the play. He was a crazy
adventurer, who perished at the battle of Alcazar in 1578.
Fuller calls him a " babble of emptiness and meteor of os-
tentation." At the time of the play the story was doubtless
well remembered, and was probably chosen, because likely
to be popular, and because it gave an opportunity to abuse
the Romanists, to compliment the Queen, and to fill the
stage with noisy incidents and persons. The play is all in
blank-verse, with occasional couplets interspersed. The fol-
lowing, besides being one of the best passages in itself, is
probably the most characteristic of the person : it is from
>ne of the hero's speeches :

" There shall no action pass my hand or sword,
That cannot make a step to gain a crown;
No word shall pass the office of my tongue,
That sounds not of affection to a crown ;
No thought h? ve being in my lordlv breast,

CClXXX HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

Thai works not every way to win a crown :

Deeds, words, and thoughts shall all he as a kings;

My chiefest company shall be with kings.

And my deserts shall counterpoise a king's ;

Why should I not, then, look to be a king?

King of a molehill had I rather be,

Than the richest subject of a monarchy :

Huff it, brave mind ! and never cease t'aspire,

Before thou reign sole king of thy desire."

The Famous Chronicle of King Edward the First caroe
from the press in 1593. This was probably written later
than the preceding, and is much superior to it every way,
though less Peele-like than The Arraignment of Paris. Still
its chief claim to notice is as an early attempt in the His-
torical Drama which Shakespeare brought to such perfec-
tion. The character of Edward is portrayed with consid-
erable spirit and truth to history, and is perhaps Peele's best
effort in that line. On the other hand, Queen Elinor of
Castile is shockingly disfigured, and this, not only in con-
tempt of history, which might be borne with If it really en-
riched the scene, but to the total disorganising of the part
itself : the purpose of which disfigurement was, no doubt, to
gratify the bitter national antipathy to the Spaniards. Peele
seems to have been incapable of the proper grace and delec-
tation of comedy : nevertheless, the part of Prince Lluellen,
of Wales, and his adherents, who figure pretty largely, and
sometimes in the disguise of Robin Hood and his merry
men, shows something of comic talent, and adds not a little
to the entertainment of the performance. The other comic
portions have nothing to recommend them. The serious
parts are all in blank-verse ; the others mostly in prose.

Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes is included among Peele'g
works by Mr. Dyce, though, we confess, on what seems to
us rathei slender evidence. The oldest known copies of it
are dated 1599, but Mr. Collier thinks it was written before
1590. It goes on seven-feet rhyming Alexandrines, and
consists mainly of the loves and adventures of knights-er-
rant, the story being taken, no doubt, from the fields of old

GEORGE PEELE.

romance. Therewithal, it has some features proper to 9
Moral-play, one of the persons being named Subtle-shift,
who answers to the old Vice : besides, there are personifi
rations of Rumour, who carries news to the different parties,
and of God's Providence, who rescues one of the heroinei
from death. We have, also, a cowardly enchanter, Bryar
Sansfoy, who keeps a horrible dragon in the Forest of Mar-
vels ; the head of which dragon has to be cut off by one of
the knights for a present to his lady-love. Sir Clamydes
having slain the beast, Sansfoy forthwith casts him into a
sleep, steals his armour, hastens to the Court of Denmark,
and palms himself off upon Juliana as her true knight.
The hero clips it after him, but on arriving is not recognized
by his mistress, till a tournament is appointed, when Sans-
foy, rather than fight, confesses his fraud. The best part of
the piece relates to Neronis, a princess who follows Sir Cly-
onion, and endures sundry hardships, in the disguise of a
page. Alexander the Great is one of the characters. The
play does not deserve further notice : we can scarce believe
that Peele wrote it.

The Old Wives' Tale, printed in 1595, is little worth men-
tion save as having probably contributed somewhat to one
of the noblest and sweetest poems ever written. Two
brothers are represented as wandering in quest of their sis-
ter, whom an enchanter named Sacrapant has imprisoned ;
they call her name, and Echo replies. Seeing what they
are at, Sacrapant gives her a potion that suspends her rea-
son, and induces self-oblivion. His magical powers depend
on a wreath which encircles his head, and on a light en-
closed in glass which he keeps hidden under the turf. The
brothers afterwards meet with an old man, also skilled in
magic, who enables them to recover their sister. A Spirit
in the likeness of a beautiful young page comes to Sacra-
pant, tears off his wreath, and kills him. Still the sister
remains enchanted, and cannot be released till the glass is
broken and the light extinguished, which can only be done

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

by a Lady who is neither maid, wife, nor widow. The Spirit
blows a magical horn, and the Lady appears, breaks the
glass, and puts out the light. A curtain being then with-
drawn discovers the sister asleep : she is disenchanted by
being spoken to thrice ; joins her brothers, and returns
home with them ; and the Spirit vanishes into the earth.

The resemblances to Milton's Comus need not be specified.
The difference of the two pieces in all points of execution
is literally immense. Mr. Dyce has the following just re
marks on the subject : " Milton, it is well known, read with
attention the writings of his predecessors, and not unire-
quently adopted their conceptions, which, after passing
through his mighty mind, came forth purified from all dross,
and glowing with new beauties. That, for the composition
of his enchanting Masque, a portion of The Old Wives'
Tale was submitted to this intellectual process, there is, 1
think, great reason to believe : Sacrapant, Delia, her Broth-
ers, and Jack, when divested of their meanness and vulgarity,
and arrayed in all the poetic loveliness that the highest
genius could pour around them, assumed the forms of Co-
mus, the Lady, her Brothers, and the Attendant Spirit,"

The Love of King David and Fair Bethsabe is generally
regarded as Peele's masterpiece. Here, again, we breathe
the genuine air of nature and simplicity. The piece is all
in blank-verse, which, though wanting in variety of move-
ment, is replete with melody. There is, perhaps, a some-
•what too literal adherence to the Scripture narrative, and
veiy little art used in the ordering and disposing of the ma-
terials, for Peele was neither strong nor happy in the gift
of invention ; but the characters generally are seized in
their most peculiar traits, and presented with a good degree
of vigour and discrimination ; while at the same time the
more prominent features are not worked into disproportion
with the other parts. Nathan's artful reproof of David is a
favourable specimen of the author's style. The Prophet u
made to speak as follows •

GEORGE PEELE.

"Thus Nathnn saith unto his lord the King1:
There were two men, both dwellers in one town $
The one was mighty, and exceeding rich
In oxen, sheep, and cattle of the field ;
The other poor, having nor ox, nor calf,
Nor other cattle, save one little lamb.
Which be had bought and nourish' d by the hand ;
And it grew up, and fed with him and his,
And ate and drank, as he and his were wont,
And in his bosom slept, and was to live
As was his daughter or his dearest child.
There came a stranger to this wealthy man ;
And he refus'd and spar'd to lake his own,
Or of his store to dress or make him meat,
But took the poor man's sheep," &.c.

Oil the whole, Campbell's elegant criticism of the piece,
(hough perhaps slightly overcharged, may fitly go in com-
pany with the subject : " We may justly cherish the memory
of Peele as the oldest genuine dramatic poet in our lan-
guage. His David and Bethsabe is the earliest fountain of
pathos and harmony that can be traced in our dramatic
poetry. His fancy is rich, and his feeling tender ; and liis
conceptions of dramatic character have no inconsiderable
mixture of solid veracity and ideal beauty. There is no such
sweetness of versification and imagery to be found in our
blank-verse anterior to Shakespeare."

Still it is not to be denied that Peele's contributions to-
wards the Drama were mainly in the single article of po-
etry : in the development of character, and in the high art
of dramatic composition and organisation, he added but
very little : his genius was far unedual to this great task,
and his judgment still more so. And his literary efforts
were doubtless rendered fitful and unsteady by his habits of
profligacy ; which may explain why it was that he who could
do so well, sometimes did so meanly. Often, no doubt,
when reduced to extreme shifts he patched up his matter
loosely and trundled it off in haste, to replenish his wasted
means and start him on a fresh course of riot and debauch-
ery Mr. Dyce is strongly of the opinion that not more

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

than half of his dramatic wnrks "has survived the ravages
of time." We hear of a play by him, entitled the Turkish
Mahomet and Hiren the Fair Greek, hut nothing more is
known of it. Some fragments, also, of a pastoral drama,
called The Hunting of Cupid, are preserved among the man-
uscript selections of Drummond of Hawthornden. It was
licenced for the press in 1591, but no copy has come to light.

Robert Greene, though inferior to Peele as a whole, sur-
passed him in fertility and aptness of invention, in quickness
and luxuriance of fancy, and in the right seizing and placing
of character, especially for comic effect. In his day he was
vastly notorious both as a writer and a man : tiiis cheap
counterfeit of fame he achieved with remarkable ease, and
seems not to have coveted any thing better. He was born
at Norwich, in what year, is not known ; took his first de-
gree at St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1578, proceeded
Master of Arts at Clare-hall in 1583, and was incorporated
at Oxford in 1588 ; after which he was rather fond of styl-
ing himself " Master of Arts in both Universities." It is
highly probable that he was for some time in holy orders ;
for a person of his name held the vicarage of Tollesbury in
1584 ; and in that year he published a moral discourse en-
titled The Mirror of Modesty, on the story of Susanna and
the Elders. He also translated a funeral sermon by Pope
Gregory XHL, and published it in 1585 ; by which time his
nnfitness for the Ministry of the Church had probably be-
come so apparent as to cause his ejection from office ; for in
the title-page of his Planetomachia, also printed that year,
he calls himself " Student in Physic." Soon after this time,
if not before, he betook himself to London, where he speed-
ily sank into the worst typp of a literary adventurer. Hence-
forth his life seems to have been one continual spasm, plun-
ging hither and thither in transports of wild debauchery and
as wild repentance.

Between the taking of his first and second degrees, in

ROBKRT fiKEENE. CCl.XXXV

1578 ar.d 1583, Greene travelled into Spain, Ftaly, and otner
parts of the Continent, where, according to liis own state-
ment, he "saw and practised such villainy as is abominable
to declare." This is quoted from a tract entitled " The Re-
pentance of Robert Greene, wherein by himself is laid opt n
his loose life." He continues his self-anatomy as follows :
" After I had by degrees proceeded Master of Arts, 1 k ft
the University, and away to London, where I became an
author of plays and a penner of love-pamphlets, so that 1
soon grew famous in that quality, that who for that trade
grown so ordinary about London as Robin Greene ? Young
yet in years, though old in wickedness, I began to resolve
that there was nothing bad that was profitable : whereupon
I grew so rooted in all mischief, that I had as great delight
in wickedness as sundry hath in godliness ; and as much fe-
licity I took in villainy as others had in honesty." From
this, and much more in the like strain, it would seem that in
his repentant moods the wretched man took a morbid pleas-
ure in hanging over and displaying his moral blotches and
sores. He died in 1592, eaten up with diseases purchased
by sin. The immediate cause of his death is thus stated by
Meres in his Palladis Tamia, 1598 : " Robert Greene died
of a surfeit taken at pickled herring and Rhenish wine, as
witnesseth Thomas Nash, who was at the fatal banquet."
Mr. Dyce, in his memoir of Greene, speaKs of the event
with real pathos: "There have been," says he, "too many
of the Muses' sons whose vices have conducted them to
shame and sorrow ; but none, perhaps, who have sunk to
deeper degradation and misery than the subject of this
memoir."

Much, if not most, of Greene's notoriety during his life-
time grew from his prose writings, which, in the form of
tracts, were rapidly thrown off one after another, and were
well adapted both in matter and style to catch a loud but
transient popularity. One of them had the high honour of
being laid under contribution by Shakespeare for The Win-

CclxXXvi HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

ter's Tale, and some account of it may be seen in our Intro-
duction to that charming play. In these pieces, generally,
the most striking features are a constant affecting of the
euphuistic style which John Lyly had rendered popular, and
a certain redundancy or incontinence of words and metaphors
and classical allusions, the issue of a full and ready memory
unrestrained in its discharges by taste or judgment : the
writer gallops on from page to page with unflagging vol-
ubility, himself evidently captivated with the rolling sound
of his own sentences. Still his descriptions are often charged
with a warmth and height of colouring that could not fail to
take prodigiously in an age when severity or delicacy of taste
was none of the commonest. And sometimes, when he is
thoroughly in earnest, as in the address printed along with
his Groatsworth of Wit, and quoted in our third Chapter of
the Poet's Life, his style fairly degenerates into eloquence,
or something bordering upon it. Several of his prose pieces
are liberally interspersed with passages of poetry, in many
of which his fluent and teeming fancy is seen to great ad-
vantage. He uses in these a variety of measures, and most
of them with an easy and natural skill, while his cast of
imagery and course of thought show him by no means a
stranger to the true springs of poetic sweetness and grace,
though he never rises to any thing like grandeur or pathos.
At what time Greene began to write for the stage, is not
certainly known. Up to the time of his going to London,
we have met with but three dramas composed, wholly or
partly, in blank-verse. These are Gorboduc, Jocasta, and
The Arraignment of Paris, neither of which was written ex-
pressly for the public stage, but only for use in private or
at Court ; though, as all three of them were in print, they
may have been used more or less by some of the theatrical
companies. The point now is, when blank-verse first came
to be used in plays designed for public representation ?
Gosson, in his Plays Confuted, 1581, tells us that "poets
Bend their verses to the stage upon such feet as continually

ROBERT GREENE.

are rolled up in rhyme." It is nearly certain that Greene's
earliest plays were in rhyme, though none such of his writ-
ing have survived, and that they did not succeed. For in
1587 was published his Menaphon, prefixed to which were
the following lines by Thomas Brabine in praise of the au-
thor:

" Come forth, you wii« that vaunt the pomp of speech,
And strive to thunder from a stageman's throat !
View Menaphon, a note beyond your reach,
Whose sight will make your drumming descant dote.
Players, avaunt! you know not to delight : —
Welcome, sweet shepherd, worth a scholar's sight/'

The words drumming descant, as will more fully appear
hereafter, were most likely meant as a fling at blank-verse,
which had lately been tried with great success on the public
stage, but which the writer and his friends regarded as a
naughty innovation.

In the same work of Greene's we have an edifying epistle
by Thomas Nash, addressed "to the Gentlemen Students
of both Universities." Nash was an intimate friend of
Greene's, so far as two such rascals could be friends : he was
entered at St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1585, but had
to leave in 1587 without his degree ; whereupon he joined
his old companion in London, who had already become fa-
mous for his pamphleteering fertility. In the forementioned
epistle we have the following : " Give me the man whose
extemporal vein in any humour will excel our greatest art-
masters' deliberate thoughts ; whose inventions, quicker than
his eye, will challenge the proudest rhetorician to the con-
tention of the like perfection with the like expedition."
From which it is plain enough that Nash sided rather hotly
with Greene in the question at issue, and affected to sneer
at some who had got the start of him in the drama, that if
he could not keep up with them on the stage, it was because
lie was too bright and quick for the place ; and that they
were stupid cocks to be crowing over him in that, since he
altogether overcrowed them in something far better. As

HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

Nash's developments of genius had probably been such as
to convince his teachers that the University could add noth-
ing to him, it was but natural that he should think himself
too smart to need their foolish degrees ; and in his art-mas-
ters we may detect a fleer of envy at those who had been
BO slow-witted as to require the usual academic passports.

Be this as it may, the same epistle has another passage
which leaves no doubt that there was a fiery feud, and that
the marked success of somebody's blank-verse was the par-
ticular fuel of it. " I am not ignorant," says Nash, " how
eloquent our gowned age has grown of late, so that every
mechanical mate abhorreth the English he was bom to, and
plucks, with \ solemn periphrasis, his ut vales from the iitk-
horn : which I impute not so much to the perfection of arts,
as to the servile imitation of vainglorious tragedians, who
contend not so seriously to excel in action, as to embowel
the clouds in a speech of comparison ; thinking themselves
more than initiated in poets' immortality, if they but once
get Boreas by the beard, and the heavenly Bull by the dew-
lap. But herein I cannot so fully bequeath them to folly, as
their idiot art-masters that intrude themselves to our ears as
the alchymists of eloquence, who, mounted on the stage of
arrogance, think to outbrave better pens with the swelling
bombast of bragging blank-verse. Indeed, it may be, the
engrafted overflow of some kill-cow conceit, that ovtacloyeth
their imagination with a more-tban-drunken resolution, be-
ing not extemporal in the invention of any other means ta
vent their manhood, commits the digestion of their choleric
incumbrances to the spacious volubility of a drumming de
casyllabon. Amongst this kind of men that repose eternity
in the mouth of a player, I can but engross some deep- read
school-men or grammarians, who, having no more leaining
in their skull than will serve to take up a commodity, nor
art in their brain than was nourished in a serving-man's idle-
ness, will take upon them to be the ironical censors of all,
when God and poetry doth know they are the simplest of all

ROBERT GRKENE. CClxXXlX

The plain English of this muddy splenetic eruption prob-
ably is, that Greene had written some dramas in rhyme,
which were not well liked by the players ; therefore the
players were to be sneered at by disappointed rivalry as
" vainglorious tragedians," who bethumped the stage with
tempestuous verbiage : that some dramas from another hand,
in blank-verse, had met with great success ; therefore they
were to be stigmatized as " swelling bombast " stilted on
" a drumming decasyllabon," or rhymeless ten-syllable verse,
that had no strength but what came from the lungs of those
who mouthed it to the public : and that the author of these
dramas, though a Master of Arts, showed no more of learn-
ing or art in his writing, than might be picked up in the odd
hours of a common hand-workman.

Further light is thrown on the subject by an address " to
the Gentlemen Readers" prefixed to Greene's Perimedes
the Blacksmith, which came out in 1588 ; where the writer,
after referring to the usual motto of his tracts, omne tulit
punctum qui miscuit utile duld, adds the following : " Late-
ly two gentlemen poets had it (the motto) in derision, foi
that / could not make my verses jet upon the stage in tragi-
cal buskins, every word filling the mouth like the fa-burden
of Bow-Bell, daring God out of heaven with that atheist
Tamburlaine, or blaspheming with the mad priest of the
sun. But let me rather openly pocket up the ass at Dioge-
nes' hand, than wantonly set out such impious instances of
intolerable poetry, such mad and scoffing poets, that have
prophetical spirits, as bred of Merlin's race. If there be any
hi England that set the end of scholarism in an English
blank-vtrse, I think either it is the humour of a novice, that
1 ickles them with self-love, or too much frequenting the hot-
house hath sweat out all the greatest part of their wits."

It would seem from this that Greene and Nash, in return
for their attack on blank-verse, had been twitted of not be-
ing able to write it. The " atheist Tamburlaine " of course
refers to Marlowe's tragedy with that title. " The mad

CCXC HISTORY OF THE. DRAMA.

priest of the sun " was probably a leading character in some
drama that has not survived : Mr. Collier conjectures it to
have been by Marlowe also. Be that as it may, it is pretty
certain that Greene secretly admired Marlowe's dramatic
blank-verse, while he publicly flouted it ; for his earlies*
dramas that are known to us were evidently written in im-
itation of it

The History of Orlando Furioso, though not printed till
1594, was acted by Lord Strange's men as early as 1591,
and was probably not then a new play. The plot of the
piece was partly founded on Ariosto's romance, partly in-
vented by Greene himself. The action, if such it may be
called, is conducted with the wildest licence, and shows no
sense or idea of dramatic truth, but only a prodigious tug-
ging and straining after stage effect ; the writer merely try-
ing, apparently, how many men of different nations, Euro-
Dean, African, and Asiatic, he could huddle in together, and
ftow much love, rivalry, and fighting he could put them
Jhrough in the compass of five Acts. As for the fury of
Orlando, it is as far from the method of madness, as from
the logic of reason ; being indeed none other than the inco-
herent jargon of one endeavouring to talk and act stark
nonsense. An analysis of the plot would not pay for the
space given to it.

The Comical History of Alphonsus, King of Arragon, be-
longs, by internal marks, to about the same time as the
preceding, though it was not printed, that we know of, tiD
1597. An outline of the story is soon told. The piece
begins with a scene betwixt Carinus, King of Arragon, and
his son Alphonsus, in exile ; they having been driven from
their rightful possessions by the usurper Flaminius. Beli-
nus, King of Naples, being engaged in defending his territory
against Flaminius, the Prince enters his army as a common
soldier, under a pledge that he shall have whatsoever his
sword conquers. In his first battle, he kills the usurper
and thereupon claims and receives the kingdom of Arragor

ROBERT GREENE. CCXCI

us his conquest He then demands the submission of Be-
linus as his vassal : this being refused, Belinus and his ally,
the Duke of Milan, are forthwith warred upon, subdued, and
their possessions given to two of the victor followers. Be-
linus having fled to Amurack, the Sultan of Turkey, Alphon-
sus bestows his kingdom of Arragon upon another of hia
followers, and knocks up a war against Amurack, deter-
mined to seat himself on the throne of the Turkish eirpire.
He succeeds in this, and finally marries Iphigena, the Sul-
tan's daughter, though not till he has first had a personal
fight with her for refusing his hand. Even Amurack, the
citadel of his heart being stormed by a long tornado of
6erce verbiage, at length yields the throne to his Christian
son-in-law.

From first to last, the play is crammed brimful of tumult
and battle ; the scene changing to and fro between Italy and
Turkey with most admirable lawlessness ; Christians of di-
vers nations, Turks, and a band of Amazonian warriors, be-
striding the stage with their monstrous din. Each Act if
opened by Mrs. Venus in the quality of Chorus. Medea,
also, is employed, to work enchantments : Fausta, the Sul-
taness, makes her raise Homer's Galenas, who comes forth
clad " in a white surplice and a cardinal's mitre," and fore
tells the issue of the contest between Alphonsus and Amu-
rack.

Both these pieces are mainly in blank-verse, with a fr«-
quent interspersing of couplets. In the latter, allusion is
made to "the mighty Tamburlaine," thus indicating the
height which Greene was striving to reach, if not surpass.
Fn fact, both have plenty of Marlowe's thunder, but none of
his lightning. Even the blank-verse reads like that of one
who was accustomed to rhyme, so that he could not extri-
cate his current of expression out of its wonted rut. And
the versification runs, throughout, in a stilted monotony, the
style being bloated big with gas, and made turgid and thick
with high-sounding epithets ; while, at all times, we have a

CCXC11 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

perfect flux of classical allusion and learned impertinence.
As for truth, nature, character, poetiy, we look for them in
vain ; though there is much, in the stage noise and parade,
that might keep the multitude from perceiving the want of
them.

The Scottish History of James the Fourth is much supe-
rior to both the preceding in almost every respect. It was
printed in 1598, and probably written some time after the
two already reviewed, as the author seems to have got con-
vinced that imitation of Marlowe was not his line, and that
he could do best by working in his own native vein : accord-
ingly, considerable portions of it are in prose and rhyme ;
while the style throughout appears disciplined into a toler-
able degree of sobriety and simplicity. Though purporting
to be a history, and though framed upon an historical plan,
it has, however, scarce any thing of historical matter except
in some of the names.

The piece opens with a comic scene betwixt Oberon, King
of Fairies, and Bohan, an old Scottish lord, who, disgusted
with the vices of court, city, and country, has withdrawn
from the world with his two sons, Slipper and Nano, turned
Stoic, lives in a tomb, and talks broad Scotch. King Obe-
ron has nothing in common with the fairy king of A Mid-
summer-Night's Dream, except the name. He comes at
first with an Antic and dances about Bohan's dwelling-place,
for the old man's entertainment, promises the smiles of For-
tune to his two sons, and between the several Acts makes
i.ome fantastical shows with his fairy subjects, which, however,
x-lish as little of the genuine Fairy Land as of common
'reality. The main body of the drama is a play which Do-
hac. causes to be acted before his fairy entertainers. Bohan
intioduces it with the following : " Now, King, if thou be a
king, I will show thee why I hate the world by demonstra-
tion. In the year 1520, was in Scotland a king, overruled
with parasites, misled by lust, and many circumstances too
long to trattle on now, much like our court of Scotland tliis

ROBERT GREENE. CCXCltl

day. Iliat story have I set down. Gang with me to the
pallery, and I'll show thee the same in action, by guid fel-
lows of our countrymen ; and then, when thou seest that,
judge if any wise man would not leave the world, if he
could."

The main piot of the drama is as follows : King James
marries Dorothea, the daughter of Arius, king of England.
Before the wedding is fairly over, he falls in love with Ida,
the Countess of Arran's daughter, makes suit to her, and is
rejected with pious horror. He then sets himself to work
to get rid of his Queen, turns aAvay from his old counsellors,
Douglas, Morton, Ross, and the Bishop of St. Andrews, and
gives up his ear to an unscrupulous parasite named Ateukin.
Under the secret patronage of Oberon, Bohan's two sons,
Nano the dwarf and Slipper the loggerhead, soon get em-
ployment and promotion with Ateukin ; and, while in his
service, they, together with Andrew, another servant of his,
carry on some comic proceedings, that are not destitute of
merit. Through the parasite's influence and machination,
King James forms a scheme for assassinating his Queen :
but Sir Bartram detects a cheat which Ateukin is practising
on him, and engages Slipper to steal from his master's pock-
et the instrument of fraud ; along with this, Slipper brings
to him the King's wan-ant for murdering the Queen ; she is
quickly informed of the plot, disguises herself in male at-
tire, and escapes, with Nano hi her company. The parasite's
agent overtakes her, finds out who she is, fights with her,
and leaves her for dead. During the fight, Nano runs for
help, and soon returns with Sir Cuthbert Anderson, who
takes her to his house, and puts her under the nursing care
of his wife, where her wounds are healed, and her health
restored ; both Sir Cuthbert and Lady Anderson all the
wliile supposing her to be a man.

Meanwhile, Ida gives herself in marriage to Lord Eus-
tace, with whom she has suddenly fallen in love upon hit
asking her hand. The scene of their first interview has some

CCXC1V HISTORY OF THE DRAMA

very clever poetry : Eustace finds her with a piece of em
broidered needle-work in her hand, upon which he has the
following :

" Meihinks, in this I see true love in act i
The woodbines with their leaves do sweetly spread,
The roses, blushing, prank them in their red ;
No flower but boasts the beauties of the spring;
This bird hath life indeed, if it could sing.
What means, fair mistress, had you in this work?"

The King, being thus balked of his guilty purpose, and de-
serted by his estates, begins to be devoured by compunctions
on account of the Queen, whom he believes to be dead.
The King of England, also, gets intelligence how his daugh-
ter has been treated, and thereupon makes war on her hus-
band. When they are on the eve of a decisive battle,
Dorothea makes her appearance in the camp, to the aston-
ishment of all parties : she pleads tenderly for her repentant
husband ; at her tears and entreaties, the strife is composed,
and a general reconciliation takes place ; Ateukin and his
abettors being delivered over to their deserts.

On the whole, the play has considerable discrimination
of character, though, to be sure, the characters are drawn
from the surface inwards, not from the heart outwards. The
parts of Ida and the Queen are by no means without delicacy
and pathos, showing that the author was not far from some
right ideas what genuine womanhood is. Ateukin's part,
too, is very well conceived and sustained, though the qualities
of a parasite are made rather too naked and bald, as would
naturally result from the writer's desire of effect being too
strong for his love of nature and truth. The comic portions,
also, are much beyond any thing we have hitherto met with
in that line, since Ralph Roister Doister and Misogonus.
The versification, though of course wanting in variety, is
tolerably free from smoke and flam, and the style, in many
parts, may be pronounced rather tight and sinewy.

The next piece of Greene's that we are to notice is Thf

ROBERT GREENE. CCXCV

Honourable History of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay, first
printed in 1594, but, acted as early as 1591. The hero is
Edward, Prince of Wales, afterwards King Edward I. ; the
heroine, Margaret, a keeper's daughter, distinguished as " the
fair maid of Fressingfield." The Prince is out in disguise
on a merry hunting excursion, with Lacy and Warren, Earls
of Lincoln and Sussex, Ermsby, a gentleman, and Hal] h
Simnel, the King's Fool : he meets with Margaret, ~vho hag
no suspicion who he is, and his fancy is at once smitten with
her, so that he grows moping and malcontent. From thia
state of mind results the following bit of dialogue, which ifl
a very favourable specimen of Greene's knack at poetry :

' Edward. Tell me, Ned Lacy, didst thon mark the maid
How lively in her country weeds she look'd ?
A bonnier wench all Suffolk cannot yield : —
All Suffolk ! nay, all England holds none such.
I tell thee, Lacy, that her sparkling1 eyes
Do lighten forth sweet love's alluring fire;
And in her tresses she doth fold the looks
Of such as gaze upon her golden hair :
Her bashful white, mix'd with the morning's red,
Luna doth boast upon her lovely cheeks ;
Her front is beauty's table, where she paints
The glories of her gorgeous excellence ;
Her teeth are shelves of precious margarites,
Richly enclos'd with ruddy coral cliffs.
Tush, Lacy ! she is beauty's overmatch,
If tbou survey's! her curious imagery.

Lacy. I grant, my lord, the damsel is as fair

As simple Suffolk's homely towns can yield;
But in the court be quainter dames than she,
Whose faces are enrich'd with honour's tint,
Whose beauties stand upon the stage of fame,
And vaunt their trophies in the courts of love.

Edttard. Ah, Ned ! but hadst thou watch'd her as myself,
And seen the secret beauties of the maid,
Their courtly coyness were but foolery.

Ermsby. Why, how watch'd you her, my lord ?

Edicard. Whenas she swept like Venus through the house,
And in her shape fast folded up my thoughts ;
Into the milk-house went I with the maid,
And there amongst the cream-bowls she did shine,
As Pallas, 'mongst her princely housewifery i

ZCXCVI HISTORY OF THE DRAMA

She aim d her smock over her lily arms,

And div'cl them into milk, to run her cheese ;

Hut whiter than the milk her crystal skin,

Checked with lines of azure, made her blush,

That art or nature durst bring for compare.

If thou hadst seen, as I did note it well,

How beauty play'd the housewife, how this girl

Like Lucrece laid her fingers to the work,

Thou would'st with Tarquin hazard Rome and all,

To win the lovely maid of Fressingfield."

At Ralph's suggestion, the Prince sets out on a visit to
Friar Bacon at Oxford, to learn from the conjurer how his
affair is going to issue, and sends Lacy in the disguise of a
farmer's son, to court Margaret for him, instructing him for
the task as follows :

" Lacy, thou know'st next Friday is St. James',
And then the country flocks to Harleston fair:
Then will the keeper's daughter frolic there,
And overshine the troop of all the maids,
That come to see, and to be seen that day.
Haunt thee, disguis'd, among the country swains ;
Feign thou'rt a farmer's son, not far from thence ;
Espy her loves, and whom she liketh best ;
Cote him, and court her to control the clown ;
Say that the courtier 'tired all in green,
That help'd her handsomely to run her cheese,
And fill'd her father's lodge with venison,
Commends him, and sends fairings for herself.
Buy something worthy of her parentage.
Not worth her beauty ; for, Lacy, then the fair
Affords no jewel fitting for the maid :
And, when thou talk'st of me, note, if she blush,
O, then she loves ! but if her cheeks wax pale,
Disdain it is. Lacy, send how she fares,
And spare no time nor cost to win her loves."

Lacy believes that the Prince's wooing is not to wed tht
girl, but to entrap and beguile her ; besides, his own heart
is already interested ; so he goes to courting her in good
earnest for himself. Meanwhile, the Prince changes dress
and place with Ralph, and arrives with his company, all dis-
guised, at Friar Bacon's : the mighty conjurer knows at onc€

ROBERT GREENE. CCXCV11

who they all are, tells the Prince what he has been doing,
and what he proposes to do ; informs him, also, what Lacy
& going about ; and hands him a magic glass, through which
he sees and hears Lacy wooing the maid, witnesses their
mutual vowing, while Friar Bungay is waiting upon them,
ready to tie ihem up in wedlock. At the Prince's request,
Bacon strikes Bungay dumb, just as he is going to say the
service ; and presently one of Bacon's devils comes among
the wedding party, and carries off the weaker conjurer to
Oxford ; which causes the marriage to be deferred awhile.
Soon after, the Prince comes upon Lacy, poniard in hand,
to call him to account for his treachery, and meaning to kiL
him on the spot, right in the presence of Margaret. She
intercedes for her lover, and lays all the blame of his action
on the efforts she had made to bewitch him with her looks :
the Prince then lays tough siege to her in person, but she
vows she will rather die with Lacy, than divorce her heart
from his, and finally reminds him of his own princely fame
and honour ; whereupon he frankly resigns her to his rival's
hand.

Not long after, two country gentlemen, named Lambert
and Serlsby, appear as suitors to Margaret ; but she asks
time to consider which of them she prefers ; and chty forth-
with engage in a duel, and kill each other. Each of them
has a son at Oxford : the sons, being linked in close friend-
ship, go together to Bacon's cell, and request the use of hia
glass, to see how their fathers fare ; their looking happens
just in time to see the fatal duel ; whereupon the sons forth-
with pitch into each other, and both are killed : which puts
the conjurer in such distress, that he smashes up the magio
glass.

While these things are going on, Lacy sends a messenger
to Margaret, with a large purse of gold, and a letter, that
his love for her has all died out, his heart turned to another
lady, and there is an end of their engagement: she rejects
nis money with the utmost disdain and sorrow, and deter-

CCXCVUI HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

mines to seclude herself for life in a nunnery; but it turns
out that Lacy's purpose was merely to prove her strength
of affection ; so, in the end, they are married.

Among other entertainments of the scene, we have a trial
of national skill betwixt Bacon and Bungay on one side,
and Vandermast, a noted conjurer from Germany, on the
other. The trial takes place in the presence of Henry EEL,
the Emperor of Germany, the King of Castile, and his
daughter Elinor, the latter three being on a visit to the
English King. First, Bungay tries his art, and is thorough-
ly baflled by the German; then Bacon takes him in hand,
and outconjures him all to nothing, calling in one of his
Spirits, who transports him straight to his study in Haps-
burg. Bacon has a servant named Miles, who, for his igno-
rant blundering in a very weighty matter, is at last carried
off to hell by one of his master's devils. The last scene is
concerned with the marriage of Prince Edward and Elinor
of Castile, and is closed by Bacon with a grand prophecy
touching Elizabeth.

Here, again, we have some well-discriminated and well-
sustained characterisation, especially in the Prince, Lacy,
Margaret, and Ralph. The maid of Fressingfield is Greene's
masterpiece in female character ; she exhibits much strength,
spirit, and sweetness of composition ; in fact, she is not
equalled by any dramatic woman of the English stage til]
we come to Shakespeare, whom no one else has ever ap-
proached in that line. — Taken all together, the style of the
piece is not quite equal to that of James IV.

" A pleasant-conceited comedy of George a Greene, the
Pinner of Wakefield," printed in 1599, is ascribed to Greene,
mainly on the testimony of Juby, a contemporary actor ; a
note to that effect being found in one of the old copies, ind
pronounced by Mr. Collier to be in the hand-writing of the
time. Another manuscript note in the same copy states
that it was written by a minister, and refers to Shakespeare
as a witness of the fact. Still it is difficult to believe that

ROBERT GREENE. CCXCIX

Greene was the author of it : certainly the style and versi-
fication are much better than in any other of his plays ; nor
does it show any thing of that incontinence of learning which
Greene seems to have been unable to restrain.

The story of the piece is quite entertaining in itself, and
is told with a good deal of vivacity and spirit. Among the
characters, are King Edward of England, King James of
Scotland, the Earl of Kendall, and other lords, and Robin
Hood. George a Greene is the hero ; who, what with his
wit, and what with his strength, gets the better of all the
other persons in turn. Withal, "he is full of high and solid
manhood, and his character is drawn with more vigour and
life than any we have hitherto noticed. Our space cannot
afford any lengthened analysis : one passage, however, must
not be passed over. The piece opens with the Earl of Ken-
dall and his adherents in rebellion against the state. The
Earl sends Sir Nicholas Mannering to Wakefield, to demand
provision for his camp. Sir Nicholas enters the town, and
shows his commission : the magistrates are in a perplexity
wnat to do, till the hero enters amongst them, outfaces the
messenger, tears up his commission, makes him eat the seals,
and sends him back with an answer of defiance. The Earl
afterwards gives his adherents the following account of tliP
matter :

u Why, the justices stand on their terms.
Nick, as you know, is haughty in his words :
He laid the law unto the justices
With threatening braves, that one look'd on another,
Ready to stoop ; but that a churl came in,
One George a Greene, the Pinner of the town,
And, with his dagger drawn, laid bands on Nick,
And oy no beggars swore that we were traitors,
Rent our commission, and upon a brave
Made Nick to eat the seals, or brook the stab :
Poor Mannering, afraid, came posting hither straight."

Here we have a taste of blank-verse — and there is much
more of the same — which is far unlike Greene's any where

CCC HISTORY OF THE DRAM\.

else. The incident, however, is very curious in lhat Greene
himself once performed a similar feat : so at least Nash tells
us in his Strange News, where he has the following addressed
to Gabriel Harvey, Greene's bitter enemy : " Had he lived,
Gabriel, and thou libelled against him, as thou hast done,
he would have driven thee to eat thy own book buttered, as
I saw him make an apparitor once in a tavern eat his cita-
tion, wax and all, very handsomely served 'twixt two dishes."
This, no doubt, would strongly infer Greene's authorship of
the play, but that in the old prose history of George a Greene,
on which the play is founde'd, the valiant Pinner puts Man-
nering through the same operation.

Greene was concerned, along with Thomas Lodge, in
writing another extant play, entitled A Looking-Glass for
London and England. The piece is little better than a
piece of stage trash, being a mixture of comedy, tragedy,
and Miracle-play. It sets forth the crimes and vices of Nin-
eveh, from the king downwards, the landing of Jonah from
the whale's belly, his preaching against the city, and the re-
pentance of the people in sackcloth and ashes ; an Angel, a
Devil, and the Prophet Hosea taking part in the action : all
which was of course meant as a warning to England in gen-
eral, and London in particular. The verse parts are in
Greene's puffiest style, and the prose parts in his filthiest.

Greene probably wrote divers other plays, but none others
have survived, that are known to have been his. Neverthe-
less, we make very little doubt that he was the author of the
old play on which Shakespeare founded The Taming of the
Shrew : but, as the question is discussed enough in our In-
troduction to that play, it need not be dwelt upon here.

We now come to by far the greatest of Shakespeare's
predecessors. Christopher Marlowe, the son of a shoema-
ker, was born at Canterbury, and baptized in the church of
St. George the Martyr, on the 26th of February, 1 564, just
two months before the baptism of Shakespeare. His earlier

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. CCC1

education was in the King's School at Canterbury, founded
oy Henry VIII. : he was entered a Pensioner of Bunet Col-
lege, Cambridge, in March, 1581, took his first degree in
1583, and became Master of Aits in 1587. He was educat-
ed, no doubt, with a view to one of the learned professions :
Mr. Dyce thinks he was " most probably intended for the
Church." It is not unlikely that he may have adopted the
atheist's faith before leaving the University, and it is pretty
certain that he led the rest of his life according to that be-
ginning ; as in his later years he was specially notorious for
liis blasphemous opinions and profligate behaviour. Per-
haps it was an early leaning to atheism that broke up his
purpose of taking holy orders ; at all events, he was soon
embarked among the worst literary adventurers of London,
living by his wits, and rioting on the quick profits of his pen.
We have already seen that his Tamburlaine was written,
certainly before 1588, probably before 1587 ; for a young
man of twenty-four, a most astonishing production ! There
is little doubt that he strutted awhile on the stage ; for in a
ballad written upon him not long after his death, and en-
titled The Atheist's Tragedy, we are told, —

"He had also a player been upon the Curtain-stage,
But brake his leg in one lewd scene, when in his early age.;;

Marlowe's career was of brief duration, but very fruitfiil in
more senses than one. He was slain by one Francis Archer
in a brawl, on the 1st of June, 1593. Meres, in his Palla-
dia Tamia, 1598, makes the following note of the event :
"Christopher Marlowe was stabbed to death by a bawdy
serving-man, a rival of his in his lewd love." In Beard's
Theatre of God's Judgments, 1597, the process of his death
is stated thus : " So it fell out, that, as he purposed to stab
one whom he owed a grudge unto, with his dagger, the
other party, perceiving, so avoided the stroke, that, withal
catching hold of his wrist, he stabbed his own dagger into
his own head, in such sort that, notwithstanding all the

OCC11 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

means of surgery that could be wrought, he shortly after
died thereof." Some further particulars respecting him may
be found in Chapter iii. of the Poet's Life.

Marlowe's first dramatic labours came from the press in
1590, the title-page reading thus : " Tamburlaine the Great :
Who, from a Scythian shepherd, by his rare and wonderful
conquests became a most puissant and mighty Monarch ;
and, for his tyranny, and terror in war, was termed The
Scourge of God. Divided into two tragical Discourses, as
they were sundry times showed upon stages hi the City of
London, by the Right Honourable the Lord Admiral his
servants." In these two pieces, what Ben Jonson describes
as "Marlowe's mighty line" is out in all its mightiness.
The lines, to be sure, have a vast amount of strut and swell
in them, as if they would fain knock the planets out of their
stations ; but then they have, also, a great deal of real en-
ergy and vigour. Not the least of his merits consists, as we
have already seen, in the delivering of the public stage from
the shackles of rhyme, and endowing the national dramatic
poetry with at least the beginnings of genuine freedom, and
inexhaustible variety of structure and movement. This is
audaciously announced in his Prologue to the play in hand,
as follows :

" From jigging veins of rhyming mother-wits,
And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay,
We'll lead you to the stalely tent of war,
Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine
Threatening the world with high astounding terras,
And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword."

Perhaps nothing less than his dare-devil audacity was need-
ed, to set at defiance the general prescription of the time in
this particular ; a work less likely to be acliieved alone by
the far greater mind of Shakespeare, since, from his very
greatness, especially in the moral elements, he would needs
be more eager and apt to learn, and therefore more reverent
of the past, and more docile to the collective experience of
nis age and nation.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. CCClll

Be this as it may, the innovation appears tc have been
hugely successful from the first : Tamburlaine had a sudden,
a great, and long-continued popularity. And its success was
partly owing, no doubt, to its very faults, forasmuch as the
public ear, long used to rhyme, required some compensation
in the way of grandiloquent stuffing, which was here sup-
plied in abundance. It was, in short, just the thing to break
the thick ice of custom for a new and better dramatic styh>-

The scene of these two dramas — and they are two orilj
because too long to be one — takes in the whole period of
time from the hero's first conquest till his death ; so that the
action of course ranges, ad libitum, over divers kingdoms
and empires. Except the hero, there is little really deserv-
ing the name of characterisation ; this being a point of art
which Marlowe had not yet begun to reach, and which he
never attained but in a moderate degree, taking Shake-
speare as the standard. But the hero is drawn with grand
and striking proportions ; and perhaps seems the larger, thai
the bones of his individuality are exaggerated into undue
prominence ; the author lacking that balance and reciprocity
of powers which is required, to maintain the roundness and
symmetry met with in all nature's greater productions of
life. The following is a description of him, given by one at
the other characters :

"Of stature tall, and straightly fashioned,
Like his desire, lift upwards and divine ;
So large of limbs, his joints so strongly knit,
Such breadth of shoulders, as might mainly bear
Old Atlas' burden : 'twixt his manly pitch,
A pearl more worth than all the world is plac'd,
Wherein, by curious sovereignty of art.
Are fix'd his piercing instruments of sight ;
Whose fiery circles bear encompassed
A heaven of heavenly bodies in their spheres,
That guides his steps and actions to the throne
Where honour sits invested royally :
Pale of complexion, wrought in him with passion,
Thirsting with sovereignty and love of arms ;
His lofty brows in folds do figure death,

CC«1T HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

Add in their smoothness amity and life ;

About them hangs a knot of amber hair

Wrapped in curls, as fierce Achilles' was,

On which the breath of heaven delights to play,

Making it dance with wanton majesty :

His arms and fingers long and sinewy,

Betokening valour and excess of strength; —

In every part proportion'd like the man

Should make the world subdued to Tamhurlaine."

In respect of poetry at least, this is one of the best pas.
sages, perhaps the best, in the whole performance ; •which,
however, will readily be allowed to leave room for much ex-
cellence in others. We must add another spoken by the
hero himself to Cosroe, one of his many captive kings :

" The thirst of reign and sweetness of a crown,
That caus'd the eldest son of heavenly Ops
To thrust his doting father from his chair.
And place himself in the empyreal heaven,
Mov'd me to manage arms against thy slate.
What better precedent than mighty Jove 1
Nature, that fram'd us of four elements
Warring within our breasts for regiment,
Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds :
Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the world,
And measure every wandering planet's course,
Still climbing after knowledge infinite,
And always moving as the restless spheres,
Will us to wear ourselves, and never rest,
Until we reap the ripest fruit of all,
That perfect bliss and sole felicity,
The sweet fruition of an earthly crown."

And Tamburlaine is represented in action as a most mag-
nanimous prodigy ; amidst his haughtiest strides of conquest,
we have traits of great gentleness interwoven with his iron
sternness : everywhere, indeed, he appears lifted high with
heroic passions and impulses ; if he regards not others, he
is equally ready to sacrifice himself, his ease, pleasure, and
even life, in his prodigious lust of glory : in which respect
his temper is shown by the following from one of his speeches
to his three sons :

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. CCCV

But now, my boys, leave off. and list to me,
That mean to teach you rudiments of war.
I'll have you learn to sleep upon the ground,
March in your armour thorough watery fens,
Sustain the scorching heat and freezing cold,
Hunger and thirst, right adjuncts of the war }
And, afler this, to scale a castle-wall,
Besiege a fort, to undermine a town,
And make whole cities caper in the air."

One c ther passage we must notice, partly for contributing
towards Pistol's vocabulary of fustian, in 2 Henry IV., Act
li. sc. 4. The hero is represented travelling in a chariot
drawn by captive kings, and whipping them with his tongue,
thus:

" Holla, ye pamper'd jades of Asia !
What! can ye draw but twenty miles a day,
And have so proud a chariot at your heels,
And such a coachman as great Tamburlaine ?
The horse that guide the golden eye of heaven,
And blow the morning from their nostrils,
Making their fiery gait above the clouds,
Are not so honour'd in their governor,
As you, ye slaves, in might}' Tamburlaine.
The headstrong jades of Thrace Alcides tam'd,
That King jEgeus fed with human flesh,
And made so wanton that they knew their strengths,
Were not subdued with valour more divine
Than you by this unconquer'd arm of mine.
To make you fierce, and fit my appetite,
You shall be fed with flesh as raw as blood,
And drink in pails the strongest muscadel :
If you can live with it, then live, and draw
My chariot swifter than the racking clouds ;
If not, then die like beasts, and fit for nought
But perches for the black and fatal ravens."

It is to be noted, though, that the incident was not original
with Marlowe : one of the dumb-shows in Gascoigne's Jo-
casta, spoken of in the preceding Chapter, has the following :
"There came in upon the stage a King with an imperial
crown upon his head, a sceptre in his right hand, sitting in
a chario* very richly furnished, drawn in by four kings in
their doutilets and hose, with crowns also upon their heads;

CCCV1 HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

representing unto us Ambition by the history of Sesostrw
king of Egypt, who did in like manner cause those kinga
whom h° had overcome to draw in his chariot like beasts
and oxen."

As to the rest, the drama in hand consists rather of a
ong series of speeches than any genuine dialogue. The
persons all use the style of premeditating speech-makers :
of co'irse therefore their speeches all run in much the same
vein ; and the hero talks just like the others, only a good
deal more so ; as if the author knew not how to discriminate
characters but by different degrees of the same thing.
Moreover, the several parts of the work are not moulded
up into any thing like artistic wholeness ; the materials
rather seem tumbled in for stage effect, instead of being
selected and assorted on any principle of coherence or con-
gruity. And the piece affects us throughout as a high-
pitched monotone of superlatives in thought and diction:
everywhere we have nearly the same rampant, boisterous
extravagance of tragical storm and stress ; with no changes
of rise and fall, no perspective of objects, that so we may
take distinct impressions. We will dismiss the subject with
Mr. Dyce's judicious remarks : " With very little discrim-
ination of character, with much extravagance of incident,
with no pathos where pathos was to be expected, and with
a profusion of inflated language, Tamburlaine is nevertheless
a very impressive drama, and undoubtedly superior to all
tl e English tragedies which preceded it ; — superior to them
in the effectiveness with which the events are brought out,
in the poetic feeling which animates the whole, and in the
nerve and variety of the versification."

The Jew of Malta shows very considerable advance to-
wards a chaste and sober diction, but not much either in
development of character, or in composition of the parts.
Barabas, the Jew, is a horrible monster of wickedness and
cunning, yet not without some strong lines of individuality.
The author evidently sought to compass the effect of tragedy

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWK. CCCV1I

by mere accumulation of murders and hellish deeds ; which
shows that he had no steady idea wherein lies the true secret
of tragic terror : he here works on the principle of reaching
it by exaggerated impressions of the senses, whereas its
proper method stands in the joint working of the moral and
imaginative powers ; which are rather stifled than kindled
by causing the senses to " sup full of horrors." The ver-
sification is far more varied, compact, and light-flashing, than
in Tamburlaine : the piece abounds in quick and caustic
wit ; in some parts, there is a good share of genuine dia-
logue as distinguished from speech-making ; now and then
the movement becomes almost intensely dramatic, the speak-
ers striking fire out of each other by their sharp collisions
of thought, so that then* words relish of the individuality of
both the person speaking and the person spoken to. Still,
as a whole, the piece shows but little that can properly be
called dramatic power, as distinguished from the general
powers of rhetoric and wit.

Mr. Dyce, after remarking that the interest of the play
depends entirely on the character of Barabas, and that this
part is a good deal overcharged, adds the following : " But
I suspect that, in this instance at least, Marlowe violated the
truth of nature, not so much from his love of exaggeration,
as in consequence of having borrowed all the atrocities of
the play from some now-unknown novel, whose author was
willing to flatter the prejudices of his readers by attributing
almost impossible wickedness to a son of Israel. — That
Shakespeare was well acquainted with this tragedy, cannot
be doubted ; but that he caught from it more than a few
trifling hints for The Merchant of Venice, will be allowed by
ao one who has carefully compared the character of Barabas
with that of Shylock."

Remains but to add that the drama has an allusion which
ascertains it to have been written after 1588 ; that it was not
printed till 1633 ; and that Thomas Heywood, who then
edited it, informs us that the hero's part was originally svu*
v Edward Alleyn

CCCVIH HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus, written, most
likely, as early as 1588, though not printed till 16u4, exliib
its Marlowe in a higher vein of workmanship. CoDier speaks
of it as follows : " Here the poet, wishing to astonkh, and to
delight by astonishing, has called in the aid of magic and
supernatural agency, and has wrought from his materials
a drama full of power, novelty, interest, and variety. All
the serious scenes of Faustus eminently excite both pity and
terror." This, it seems to us, is going it rather too strong
still it must be acknowledged that the author here wields
the right elements and processes of tragic effect with no or-
dinary subtlety and power. The hero is a mighty necro-
mancer, who has studied himself into a direct communion
with preternatural beings, and beside whom Friar Bacon
sinks into a tame forger of bugbears. A Good Angel and a
Bad Angel figure in the piece, each trying to win Faustus
to his several way : Lucifer is ambitious of possessing the
hero's " glorious soul," and the hero craves Lucifer's aid, that
he may work wonders in the earth. Mephistophilis comes
at his summons, and the following scene passes betwir*
them:

" Meph. Now. Faustus, what would'st thou have me do *
Faust. I charge thee, wait upon me whilst I live,

To do whatever Faustus shall command ;

Be it to make the moon drop from her sphere

Or the ocean to overwhelm the world.
Meph. I am a servant to great Lucifer,

And may not follow thee without his leave:

No more than he commands must we perform.
Faust. Did not he charge thee to appear to me?
Meph. No ; I came hither of mine own accord.
Faust. Did not my conjuring speeches raise thee? speak
Meph. That was the cause, but yet per accident ;

For, when we hear one rack the name of God,

Abjure the Scriptures and his Saviour Christ,

We fly, in hope to get his glorious soul ;

Nor will we come, unless he use such means,

Whereby he is in danger to be damn'd.

Fatut. So Faustus hath already done ; and holds this prinoi
ciple :

There is no chief but only Beelzebub ;

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. CCCU

To whom Faustus doth dedicate himself.

This word damnation terrifies not him.

For he confounds hell in Elysium :

His ghost be with the old philosophers !

But, leaving1 these vain trifles of men's souls,

Tell me, what is that Lucifer thy lord 7
Steph. Arch-regent and commander of all spirits.
Faust. Was not that Lucifer an angel once ?
Meph. Yes, Faustus, and most dearly lov'd of God.
Faust. How comes it, then, that he is prince of devils f
Meph. O. by aspiring pride and insolence!

For which God threw him from the face of heaven.
Faust. And what are you that live with Lucifer?
Meph. Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer,

And are forever damn'd with Lucifer.
Faust. Where are you damn'd ?
Meph. In hell.

Faust. How comes it, then, that thou art out of hell T
Meph. Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it :

Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God,

And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells,

In being depriv'd of everlasting bliss ?

O, Faustus ! leave these frivolous demands,
Which strike, a terror to my fainting soul.
Fxust. What ! is great Mephistophilis so passionate

For being deprived of the joys of heaven?

Learn thou of Faustus manly fortitude,

And scorn those joys thou never shall possess.

Go bear these tidings to great Lucifer :

Seeing Faustus hath incurr'd eternal death,

Say, he surrenders up to him his soul,

So he will spare him four-and-twenty years,

Letting him live in all voluptuousness ;

Having thee ever to attend on me,

To give me whatsoever I shall a»K,

To tell me whatsoever I demand,

To slay mine enemies, and aid my friends,

And always be obedient to my will.

Go, and return to mighty Lucifer,

And meet me in my study at midnight,

And then resolve me of thy master's mind."

In this imperturbable, hell-confronting coolness of Fau»-
tus, and his serene calmness in asking questions which the
head shudders to consider, we have a strain of sublimity
hardly surpassed by Milton's Satan. At the return of

CCCX HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

Mephistophilis, he makes a compact with Lucifer, draws
blood from his own arm, and with it writes out » deed of
gift, assuring his soul and body to the fiend at the end of
twenty-four years. Thenceforth he spends his time in ex-
ercising the mighty spells and incantations thus purchased ;
he has the power of making himself invisible, and entering
whatsoever houses he lists ; he passes from kingdom to king-
dom with the speed of thought ; wields the elements at will,
*uid has the energies of nature at his command ; summons
the Grecian Helen to his side for a paramour ; and holds the
world in wonder at his acts. Meanwhile, the knowledge
which hell has given him of heaven seems to haunt his mind ;
he cannot shake off the thought of the awful compact of
death which hangs over him ; repentance carries on a des-
perate struggle in him with the necromantic fascination, and
at one time fairly outwrestles it ; but he soon recovers his
purpose, and renews his pledge to Lucifer. In one of thesa
terrible struggles, he soliloquises thus :

" My heart's so harden'd, I cannot repent:
Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or heaven,
But fearful echoes thunder in mine ears,
' Faustus, thou art damn'd ! ' then swords and knives.
Poison, ^uns, halters, aud envenom'd steel
Are laid before me to despatch myself;
And long ere this I should have slain myself,
Had not sweet pleasure conquer'd deep despair.
Have not I made blind Homer sing to me
Of Alexander's love and CEnon's death ?
And hath not he that built the walls of Thebe§
With ravishing sound of his melodious harp,
Made music with my Mephistophilis 7
Why should I die, then, or basely despair?
I am resolv'd ; Faustus shall ne'er repent."

Anful is the still solemnity of the scene where, as 1 is
lease of life is about to expire, he communes with himself)
and counts the minutes of his last hour :

"Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven.
That time may cease, aud midnight never come

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. CCCX1

Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make

Perpetual day ; or let this hour be hut

A year, a month, a week, a natural day,

That Faustus may repent, and save his soul ! —

The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,

The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd.

O, I'll leap up to God ! — Who pulls me down ? —

See. where Christ's blood streams in the firmament !

One drop would save my soul, half a drop : ah, my Cnrist : —

Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ !

Yet will I call on Him : O, spare me, Lucifer ! —

Where is it now ? 'tis gone : and see, where God

Stretcheth out His arm, and bends His ireful brows! —

Mountains and bills, come, come, and fall on me,

And hide me from the heavy wrath of God ! "

In all these passages, but especially the last two, we see
a far higher and richer style of versification, than in the
quotations from Tamburlaine. The author's diction has
grown more pliant and facile to his thought ; consequently,
it is highly varied in pause, inflection, and movement ; show-
ing that in his hand the noble instrument of dramatic blank-
verse was fast growing into tune, for a hand far mightier
than his to discourse its harmonies upon. We must add,
that considerable portions both of this play and the preced-
ing are meant to be comical. But the result only proves
that Marlowe was incapable of comedy : no sooner does he
attempt the comic vein, than his whole style collapses into
mere buffoonery and balderdash. In fact, though plentifully
gifted with wit, there was not a particle of real humour in
him ; none of that subtle and perfusive essence out of which
the true comic is spun ; for these choice powers can scarce
e~xist but in the society of certain moral elements that seem
to have been left out of his composition.

The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable Death of Ed-
ward the Second, printed in 1598, though inferior to Faus-
tus in tragic terror, as a whole is certainly much the best, as
it was probably the last-written, of Marlowe's dramas. Here,
for the first time, we meet with a genuine specimen of the
English Historical Drama. The scene covers a period of

CCCXll HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

twenty years ; the incidents pass with great rapidity, and,
though sometimes crushed into indistinctness, are for the
most part well used both for historic truth and dramatic ef-
fect ; the dialogue, generally, is nervous, animated, and clear ;
and Ihe versification, throughout, moves with a freedom and
varsity, such as may almost stand a comparison with Shake-
speare. In the article of character, too, Edward the Sec-
ond has very considerable merit : the King's insane dotage
of his favourites, the upstart vanity and insolence of Gaves-
ton, the artful practice and doubtful virtue of Queen Isabella,
the factious turbulence of the nobles, irascible, arrogant, re-
gardless of others' liberty, jealous of their own, sudden of
quarrel, eager in revenge, are all depicted with a goodly mix-
ture of energy and temperance. It is not unlikely that by
this time the former relation between Marlowe and Shake-
speare of teacher and pupil had become reversed ; for in
our Life of the Poet we have seen good evidence, that be-
fore the death of Marlowe Shakespeare had far surpassed
all of that age who had ever been competent to teach him
in any point of dramatic workmanship.

Our chief 'concern with Marlowe is as the inauguratcr of
blank-verse on the national stage, and thereby a great im-
prover of dramatic poetry in all that relates to diction and
metrical style. It is for this reason that we have quoted so
largely from his preceding dramas ; and the same reason
calls for some specimens from the piece now in hand. The
following, as it is nearly good enough in this respect, is also
among the best : it is part of a scene betwixt Edward, Mor-
timer, and Lancaster :

"' Morti. Nay. now you are here alone, I'll speak my mind

Lancas. And so will I ; and then, my lord, farewell.

Morti. The idle triumphs, masques, lascivious shows,
And prodigal gifts beslow'd on Gaveston,
Have drawn thy treasury dry, and made thee weak }
The murmuring commons, overstretched, break.

Lancas. Look for rebellion, look to be depos'd i
Thy garrisons are beaten out of France,
And, lame and poor, lie groaning at the gates •

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. CCCXih

The wild O'Neil, with swarms of Irish kerns,

Lives uncontroll'd wilhin tlie English pale ;

Unto the walls of York the Scots make road,

And. unresisted, drive away rich spoils.
Morti. The haughty Dane commands the narrow seas,

While in the harbour ride thy ships unrigg'd.
Lancas. What foreign prince sends thee ambassador* T
Morti. Who loves thee, but a sort of flatterers?
Lancas. Thy gentle queen, sole sister to Valois,

Complains that thou hast left her all forlorn.
Morti. Thy court is naked, being bereft of those

That make a king seem glorious to the world,

I mean the peers, whom thou should'st dearly love ,

Libels are cast against thee in the street ;

Ballads and rhymes made of thy overthrow.
Lancas. The northern borderers, seeing tlieir houses burnt,

Their wives and children slain, run up and down,

Cursing the name of thee and Gaveston.
Morti. When wert thou in the field with banner spread ?

But once ; and then thy soldiers march'd like players.

With garish robes, not armour ; and thyself,

Bedaub'd with gold, rode laughing at the rest,

Nodding and shaking of thy spangled crest,

Where women's favours hung like labels down. •

Still better is the following from a later scene, Mr! ere
Arundel relates to Edward and Spenser the seizure and
death of Gaveston :

" Edw. Wliat! Lord Arundel, dost thou come alone f

Arun. Yea, my good lord, for Gaveston is dead.

Edw. Ah, traitors ! have they put my friend to death ?
Tell me, Arundel, died he ere thou cam'st,
Or didst thou see my friend to take his death ?

Arun. Neither, my lord ; for, as be was surpris'd,
Begirt with weapons and with enemies round,
I did your Highness7 message to them all,
Demanding him of them, entreating rather,
And said, upon the honour of my name,
That I would undertake to carry him
Unto your Highness, and to bring him back.

Edw. And, tell me, would the rebels deny me that?

Spen. Proud recreants '

Edw. Yea, Spenser, traitors all !

4.run. 1 found them at the first inexorable :

The Earl of Warwick would not bide the hearing.
Mortimer hardly ; Pembroke and Lancaster

CCCXIV HISTORY OB THE DRAMA.

Spake least ; and when they flatly had denied,
Refusing to receive me pledge for him,
The Earl of Pembroke mildly thus bespake :
' My lords, because our sovereign sends for him,
And promiseth he shall be sate return'd,
I will this undertake, to have him hence,
And see him re-deliver'd to your hands.'

Edw. Well, and how fortunes it that he came not?

Spen. Some treason or some villainy was cause.

Arun. The Earl of Warwick seiz'd him on his way;
Fort being deliver'd unto Pembroke's men,
Their lord rode home, thinking his prisoner saft
But, ere he came, Warwick in ambush lay,
And bare him to his death ; and in a trench
Strake off his head, and march'd unto the camp.

Spsn. A bloody part, flatly 'gainst law of arms!

Edw. O! shall I speak, or shall I sigh, and die?

Spen. My lord, refer your vengeance to the sword
Upon these barons ; hearten up your men ;
Let them not unreveng'd murder your friends ;
Advance your standard, Edward, in the field,
And march to fire them from their starting-hole*

Edw. By earth, the common mother of us all,
By heaven, and all the moving orbs thereof,
By this right hand, and by my father's sword,
And all the honours 'longing to my crown,
I will have heads and lives for him as many
As I have manors, castles, towns, and towers ! —
Treacherous Warwick ! traitorous Mortimer '
If I be England's king, in lakes of gore
Your headless trunks, your bodies will I trail,
That you may drink your fill, and quaff in blood,
And stain my royal standard with the same ;
That so my bloody colours may suggest
Remembrance of revenge immortally
On your accursed traitorous progeny,
You villains that have slain my Gaveston ! —
And in this place of honour and of trust,
Spenser, sweet Spenser, I adopt thee here ;
And merely of our love we do create thee
Earl of Glocester, and Lord Chamberlain.
Despite of times, despite of enemies.

Sptn. My lord, here is a messenger from the baron*,
Desires access unto your Majesty.

Edw. Admit him near.

Herald. Long live King Edward, England's lawful loid

Edw. So wish not they, I wis, that sent thee hittier:
Thou com'st from Mortimer and his 'complices."

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. CCCSV

Here we have the rhymeless ten-syllable iambic verse as
Jhe basis ; but this is continually diversified, so as to relieve
the ear and keep it awake, by occasional spondees and ana-
pests, and the frequent use of trochees in all parts of the
verse, but especially at the beginning and end, and by a
skilful shifting of the pause to any point of the line. It thus
combines the natural ease and variety of prost with the gen-
eral effect of metrical harmony, so that the hearing nevei
tires nor falls asleep. As to the general poetic style of the
performance, the kindling energy of thought and language
that often beats and flashes along the sentences, there is
much both in this and Faustus to justify the fine enthusiasm
of Michael Drayton :

" Next, Marlowe, bathed in the Thespian springs,
Had in him those brave translunary things
That the first poets had : his raptures were
All air and fire, which made his verses clear ;
For that fine madness still he did retain.
Which rightly should possess a poet's brain."

Before leaving the subject, we must notice a remark by
Charles Lamb. " The reluctant pangs," says he, " of abdi-
cating royalty in Edward furnished hints which Shakespeare
has scarce improved in his Richard the Second ; and the
death-scene of Marlowe's king moves pity and terror beyond
any scene, ancient or modem, with which I am acquainted."
Both the scenes in question have indeed great merit, still
this praise seems to us far beyond the mark. In the first
place, it is highly probable, if not more, that Shakespeare's
play was written before Marlowe's. Then, there is, unques-
tionably, more of genuine, pity-moving pathos in a single
speech of Richard the Second, Act v. sc. 2, beginning, —
"As in a theatre the eyes of men," — than in all Marlowe's
writings put together. And as to the moving of terror,
there is, to our mind, nothing in Edward the Second that
comes up to Faustus ; and there are at least a dozen scenes
in Macbeth, either of which has far more of the terrific, than

CCCXn HISTORY OF THE ORAMA.

the whole body of Faustus. And, in the death-scene of
Edward, it can hardly be denied that the senses are some-
what overcrammed with images of physical suffering, so as
to give the effect rather of the horrible than the terrible.

Others, again, have advanced the notion that Marlowe, if
he had lived, would have made some good approach to
Shakespeare in tragic power. Doubtless, a few more years
would have lifted him to very noble things, if, that is, his
powers could have been kept from the eatings and cripplings
of debauchery j still, any approach to that great divinity of
the drama was out of the question for him. For, judging
from his life and works, the moral part of genius was, con-
stitutionally, wanting in him ; and, without this, the intel-
lectual part can never be truly itself: it must needs be com-
paratively weak in those points of our being which it touches,
because it does not touch them all ; for the whole must be
moved at once, else there can be no great moving of any
part. No, no ! there was not, there could not have been in
Marlowe, great as he was, the half of Shakespeare, for
tragedy, nor any thing else. To go no further, he was, as
we have seen, destitute of humour ; the powers of comedy
had, evidently, no place in him ; and these powers, unques-
tionably, are indispensable to the production of high tragedy ;
a position affirmed as long ago as the days of Plato ; sound
in the reason of the thing, and, above all, made good in the
example of Shakespeare ; who was Shakespeare, mainly be-
cause he had all the powers of the human mind in harmo-
nious order and action, and used them all, explicitly or im-
plicitly, in every thing he wrote.

We shall omit to do more than barely mention The Mas-
sacre at Paris, and The Tragedy of Dido, Queen of Carthage,
because they add nothing either to the extent or the variety
of Marlowe's powers. The latter was written by him in
conjunction with Thomas Nash. We leave him, with the
following just and elegant passage from Mr. Dyce's Ac-
rount of Peele and his Writings : " When we regard Peela

JOUN LYLY. CCCXVli

as a dramatist, it is difficult to separate him from Marlowe
and Greene, with whom he divided the admiration of his
contemporaries. These three gifted men, though they often
present to us pictures that in design and colouring outrage
the truth of nature, are the earliest of our tragic writers
who exhibit any just delineation of the workings of passion :
t heir language, though now swelling into bombast, and now
sinking into meanness, is generally rich with poetry ; while
their versification, though somewhat monotonous, is almost
always flowing and harmonious. They as much excel their
immediate predecessors, as they are themselves excelled by
Shakespeare, — by ' him, O, wondrous him ! ' — whose gen-
ius was beginning to blaze upon the world about the close
of their career."

Shakespeare had several other senior contemporaries, of
whom it seems necessary to say a few words, though it is
not likely that they contributed much, if any thing, in the
way of preparation for him. First of these, in the order of
time, is John Lyly, bom in 1554, and M. A. in 1576. He
had considerable wit, some poetry, but nothing that can be
properly termed dramatic power. He has a certain crisp,
curt monotony of diction and style, which caused him to be
spoken of as " eloquent and witty." His persons all speak
in precisely the same vein, being indeed but so many empty
figures or puppets, reflecting the several motions of the au-
thor himself. His dramatic pieces, of which we have nine,
seven in prose, one in rhyme, and one in blank-verse, seem
to have been originally designed for Court entertainments,
but were used more or less on the public stage, chiefly by
the juvenile companies. Two of them, Alexander and Cam-
paspe, which is reckoned his best, and Sapho and Phao were
printed in 1584; Endymion, in 1591 ; Galathea, and Midas,
in 1592 ; Mother Bombie, in 1594 ; Woman in the Moon,
in 1597 ; The Maid's Metamorphosis, in 1600 ; and Love's
Metamorphosis, in 1601. Except Mother Bombie, they are

CCCXVlll HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

on classical subjects ; and all are replete with that labcmred
affectation of fine writing which was distinguished at the
time as Euphuism. One of his main peculiarities stands
in using, for images and illustrations, certain imaginary prod-
ucts of a sort of artificial nature, which he got up especially
for that purpose ; as if he could invent better material for
poetic imagery than ancient Nature had furnished ! Still it
is not unlikely that we owe to him somewhat of the polish
and flexibility of the Shakespearian dramatic diction : that
he could have helped the Poet in any thing beyond mere
diction, it were absurd to suppose.

Thomas Lodge has before been spoken of as joint author
with Greene of A Looking-Glass for London and England.
We have but one other play by him, entitled The Wounds
of Civil War, and having for its subject " the true tragedies
of Marius and Sylla ; " written, probably, between 1587 and
1590, but not printed till 1594. It is in blank-verse ; which,
however, in this case differs from the most regular rhyming
ten-syllable verse in nothing but the lack of consonant end
ings. The following judicious account of it is given by Mr.
Collier : " The characters of old Marius and of his younger
rival are drawn with great force, spirit, and distinctness, —
a task the more difficult, because they so strongly resemble:!
each other in the great leading features of ambition and
cruelty. Marius possesses, however, far more generosity
and sterner courage than Sylla, who is impetuously tyran-
nical and wantonly severe ; and the old Roman until his
death, after his seventh consulship, absorbs the interest of
the reader. Young Marius is also introduced, and is dis-
tinguished by his fortitude, his constancy, and his affection
for his father. Antony is another prominent personage, and
is represented gifted with irresistible eloquence, of which
many not unfavourable specimens are inserted. There are
two females, Cornelia and Fulvia, the wife and daughter of
Sylla ; the one remarkable for her matronly firmness, and
the otter for her youthful delicacy and tenderness, which,

THOMAS HUGHES. CCCX1X

turnover, do not prevent her conducting hei-self with the
resolution becoming a Roman maid. A Clown and various
coarsely-comic characters are employed in two scenes, in or-
der to enliven and vary the performance. The plot of the
piece is founded chiefly upon the Lives of Marius and Sylla,
in Plutarch, and the scene is changed, just as the necessities
of the poet required, from Rome to Pontus, Minturnum,
and Numidia."

Lodge is chiefly memorable, in that one of his prose
pieces was drawn upon for Shakespeare's As You Like It ; a
sufficient account of which is given in our Introduction to
that play.

Some mention has already been made of The Misfortunes
of Arthur, an historical drama written by Thomas Hughes,
of Gray's Inn, and acted before the Court at Greenwich in
1587. The piece is on several accounts deserving of notice.
It was evidently framed in part on the plan of Gorboduc ;
bnt the classic form, with the unities of time and place, is
carefully followed ; and as the scope of a history must needs
L-e too wide for these conditions, narrative is in a large
measure substituted for representation, dialogue and de-
scription, for action. The plot is as follows : King Arthur
having gone into Gaul with an army to resist the claim of
tribute by Rome, Mordred, his son, usurps the throne, makes
love to Queen Guenevora, his stepmother, and commits ni-
cest with her. To maintain his usurpation, he engages the
Irish, Picts, Saxons, and Normans on his side ; on the land-
ing of his father at Dover, fights with him, is defeated and
driven into Cornwall, where another battle takes place,
which ends in the father killing the son and the son the
father. It is therefore a piece of high-pressure tragedy, re-
dundant of incest, slaughter, and blood, so that nothing
could well be more horrible and revolting. Nevertheless,
it is written with great boldness and vigour ; the character
of Mordred is powerfully drawn, while his ambition, youth-
fill confidence, and fiery recklessness are well contrasted

CCCXX HISTORY OF THE DRAMA.

with the milder, more cautious, but not less courageous sp xit
of Arthur. The blank-verse, too, in which nearly all the
piece is written, is superior in force and variety to that of
any other dramatic writer before Marlowe.

In respect of versification, the next place after Marlowe
among Shakespeare's senior contemporaries probably be-
longs to Thomas Kyd. Nor is he without very considerable
merit in other respects. Mr. Collier has the following judg-
ment of him : " His thoughts are often both new and nat-
ural ; and if in his plays he dealt largely in blood and death,
he only partook of the habit of the time, in which good sense
and discretion were often outraged for the purpose of grat-
ifying the crowd. In taste he is inferior to Peele, but in
force and character he is his superior ; and if Kyd's blank-
verse be not quite so smooth it has decidedly more spirit,
vigour, and variety."

According to Ben Jonson, Kyd's Hieronimo was first act-
ed in 1588 ; and his Spanish Tragedy, which is really out a
second part of the former, was most probably brought out
not long after. The first is about equally divided between
rhyme and blank-verse. The main features of the story are
the love of Andrea and Belimperia, and the death of the
former. The characters of Andrea and his rival Balthezar
are forcibly drawn ; while the frank and unsuspecting gen-
erosity of the former makes an effective contrast with the
subtle intricacies of Lorenzo, the nephew and heir-apparent
of the Spanish King. The Spanish Tragedy is a far higher
performance. After the death of Andrea, his young and
faithful friend Horatio, son to the hero of the play, succeeds
to his place in the affections of Belimperia. It is upon this
that the action turns. Early in the second Act, Horatio is
hanged in his father's garden by his rival the Prince of Por-
tugal, and Lorenzo, the lady's brother. During the rest of
the play, Hieronimo is in distraction, always meditating re-
venge, and always postponing the act, till at last his longing
!- ;ated at the representation of a play before the King and

THOMAS KYD. CCCXX1

Court of Spain : so that the piece has some points of re-
semblance to Hamlet. After the murder of Horatio, Lo-
renzo confines his sister in a tower. In Act iv., Hieronimo
comes before the King and Court to demand justice upon
the murderers of his son, but is put aside, almost without a
struggle, by Lorenzo : soon after, at the casual mention of
Horatio's name, the old man starts from his melancholy ab-
straction, and his mind wanders off in some very pathetic
exclamations of anguish for his bereavement, and of impa-
tience for justice on the authors of it. " He sees nothing,"
says Collier, " but Horatio in every face he looks upon, and
all objects take their colour and appearance from his sorrows.
His grief is not as sublime, but it is as intense as that of
Lear; an', he dwells upon the image of his lost Horatio
with not ess doting agony than Constance."

We have now finished our account of the English Drama,
omitting nothing, we believe, that materially contributed to
its growth and formation, down to the time when Shake-
speare's hand had learnt its cunning, so far, at least, as any
previous examples were capable of teaching it. Perhaps we
ought to add, as illustrating the prodigious rush of life and
thought towards the drama in that age, that, besides the au-
thors already mentioned, Henslowe's Diary shows the names
of thirty other dramatists, most of whom have propagated
some part of their workmanship down to our time. In
the same document, during the twelve years beginning in
February, 1591, we have the titles recorded of no less than
two hundred a:id seventy pieces, either as original compo-
sitions, or as revivals of older plays. As all these entries
have reference only to Henslowe's management ; and as,
during that period, save for some short intervals, he was con-
cerned with the affairs of but a single company, the Lord
Admiral's ; we may from thence form some tolerable judg-
ment of the vast fertility of the age in dramatic Droduction,

CCCXX11 SHAKESPEARE.

CHAPTER VI.

GENERAL CRITICISM.

IT is evident enough, we trust, from the foregoing chap-
ters, that the Historical Drama grew up simultaneously with
Comedy and Tragedy, and established itself as a co-ordinate
species of the Gothic Drama in England. This course was
dictated and demanded by public taste, and by the intense
nationality of the English people, which was, as indeed it
always must be, inextricably bound up with traditions of
the past, and with the ancient currents of the national life.
Perhaps, however, its origin lay, primarily, in the fact of an
Historical Religion, impressing its genius and efficacy on the
mind and character of the nation. For we may be assured
that such as is the religion of a people, such will be their
drama : if the one rest upon fable, the other will needs be
fabulous ; if the former stand on an historical basis, the lat-
ter will needs draw more or less into history. And, where
an historical religion prevails, the Drama, even when it does
not work specifically with the persons and events of history ;
when it fetches its incidents and characters from the realms
of imagination ; will still be historical in its spirit and meth-
od : the work will proceed according to the laws, even while
departing from the matter, of history ; so that pure creations
will be formed upon the principles, and in the order and
manner of histories. And if, O, if ! there arise a workman
having the creative powers of a Shakespeare, what he creates
will be, in effect, historical, and what he borrows will come
from him with all the life and freshness of original creation ;
because he will assimilate and reproduce the dead matter
of fact in the forms of living art.

So that the early and continued use of historical materials
on the stage had, unquestionably, great influence in moulding

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXX1U

and determining the form and structure of the English na-
tional Drama in all its parts and branches. Now, a dra-
matic representation, in any proper sense of the term, of the
events and persons of history is clearly incompatible with
the rules of the classic stage : the work requires a larger
scope, a broader platform, a more varied and expansive
scene : it cannot possibly live and move under the " cold
obstruction " of what may be termed the minor unities ; and
if it undertake to do so, narrative and description will needs,
in great part, take the place of representation. In a word,
the spirit of Gothic Christian Art could no more be em-
bodied in the forms of the Classic Drama, than the soul of
an eagle could organize itself into the body of a fish, or than
an acorn could be developed into a violet.

Here, then, was required a principle of compensation.
As the mind was taken away from the laws of time and
place, it must be delivered over to the higher laws of rea-
son. So that the work lay under the necessity of proceed-
ing in such a way as to make the spectator live in his im-
agination, not in his senses ; and even his senses must, for
the time being, be rationalized, and, as it were, made im-
aginative. That is, instead of the formal or numerical
unities of time and place, we must have the unities of intel-
lectual time and intellectual space : the further the artist
departed from the local and chronological succession of
things, the more strict and manifest must be his observance
of their logical and productive succession. Incidents and
characters were to be represented, not in the order of sen-
sible juxtaposition or procession, but in that of cause and
effect, of principle and consequence. Whether, therefore,
they stood ten minutes or ten years, ten feet or ten miles
asunder, mattered not, provided they were really and evi-
dently related in this way ; that is, provided the unities of
action and interest were made strong enough and clear
enough to overcome the diversities of time and place. For,
here, it is not where and when a given thing happened, but

CCCXXiv SHAKESPEARE.

how it was produced and why, whence it came and whither
it tended, what caused it to be that it was, and to do that it
did, that we are mainly concerned with.

Hence the well-known nakedness of the Elizabethan stage
in respect of scenic furniture and accompaniment. The
weakness, if such it were, was the source of vast strength.
It is to this poverty of the old stage that we owe, in great
part, the immense riches of the Shakespearian drama, foras-
much as it was thereby laid under a necessity of making up
the defect of sensuous impression by working on the rational,
moral, and imaginative forces of the audience. And, un-
doubtedly, the modern way of glutting the senses with a
profusion of showy and varied dress and scenery has struck,
and always must strike, a dead palsy on the legitimate pro-
cesses of Gothic art. The decline of the Drama began with
its beginning, and has kept pace with its progress. So that
here we have a forcible illustration of what is often found
true, that men cannot get along because there is nothing to
hinder them. For, in respect of the moral and imaginative
powers, it may justly be affirmed, that we are often assisted
most when not assisted, and that the right way of helping us to
walk is by leaving us to walk unhelped. That the soul may
find and use her wings, it is better that she be left where
there is little for her feet to get hold of and rest upon.
How emphatically these positions infer the profound Chris-
tian but anti-Romish spirit of the Shakespearian drama, is
indeed a great subject, but cannot here be followed out.

The foregoing chapters have also shown, it is hoped, that
the Gothic Drama in England was, in the largest sense, a
national growth, and not the work of any individual Neither
was it a sudden growth, as indeed nothing truly national ever
can be ; but, like the British Constitution itself, it was the
slow, gradual, silent production of centuries, the result of the
thoughts of many minds, in many ages. The whole plat-
form, and all that relates to the formal construction of the
work, was fixed before Shakespeare put his hand to it ; so

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXXV

that what remained for him to do, and what he was gifted
for doing, was, to rear a grand and beautiful fabric on the
basis and according to the principles already settled. And
where we like best to contemplate the Poet is, not in the
Isolation of those excellences which distinguish him above
(ill others, but as having the mind of the nation, with its
great past and greater present, to back him up. Nor make
we any question that his greatness very much consisted in
that, as he had the power, so he gave himself freely to the
high task, of mirrouring forth for all time the beatings of old
England's mighty heart. He therefore did not go, nor
needed he, to books, to learn what others had done : on the
contrary, he sucked in without stint, and to the full measure
of his angelic capacity, the wisdom and the poetry that lived
on the lips, and in the thoughts, feelings, sentiments, and
manners of the people. What he thus sucked in, he purged
from its drossy mixtures, replenished with fresh vitality, and
then gave it back clothed in the grace and strength of hia
own clear spirit. He told the nation, better, O, how much
better ! than any others could do, just what it wanted to
hear, — the very things which its breast was swelling with,
only it found not elsewhere a tongue to voice them, nor an
imagination to body them forth.

But, on this point, the Rev. Richard C. Trench, in his
lately-published essay on the Genius of Calderon, has some
remarks so admirable in themselves, and so fitting to the
subject, that the reader, we doubt not, will thank us for
quoting them. And we do this the rather because, as the
matter in discussion was the joint product of many minds,
BO it is only by the collective judgment of divers thoughtful
observers that sound conclusions respecting it are likely to
be reached. For, assuredly, to adopt the language of Burke
on another theme, the Shakespearian Drama " takes in too
many views, it makes too many combinations, to be so much
as comprehended by shallow and superficial understandings.
Profound thinkers will know it in its reason and spirit

CCCXXV1 SHAKESPEARE.

The less inquiring will recognise it in their feelings and ex-
perience." So that the work in question can no more be
properly criticised by any one man alone, than Shakespeare
could have produced it alone.

" They convey," says Trench, " altogether a wrong im-
pression of Calderon, who, willing to exalt and glorify him
tne more, isolate him wholly from his age, presenting hiff
to us not as one, the brightest indeed, in a galaxy of lights,
but as the sole particular star in the firmament of Spanish
dramatic art. Those who derive their impression from the
Schlegels, especially from Augustus, would conclude him to
stand thus alone, — to stand, if one might venture to em
ploy the allusion, a poetical Melchisedec, without spiritual
father, without spiritual mother, with nothing round him to
explain or account for the circumstances of his greatness.
But there are no such appearances in literature : great art-
ists, poets, or painters, or others, always cluster ; the con-
ditions which produce one, produce many. They are not
strown, at nearly equable distances, through the life of a
nation, but there are periods of great productiveness, with
long intervals of comparative barrenness between ; or it may
be as indeed was the case with Spain, the aloe-tree of a na-
tion's literature blossoms but once.

" And if this is true in other regions of art, above all will
it be trup in respect of the drama. In this, when it deserves
the name, a nation is uttering itself, what is nearest to ita
heart, what it has conceived there of life and life's mystery
and of a possible reconciliation between the world which now
is and that ideal world after which it yearns ; and the condi-
tions of a people, which make a great outburst of the drama
possible, make it also inevitable that this will utter itself, not
by a single voice, but by many. Even Shakespeare himself,
towering as he does immeasurably above all his compeers, is
not a single, isolated peak, rising abruptly from a level plain,
but one of a chain and cluster of mountain-summits ; and
bis altitude, so far from being dwarfed and diminished, cao

GENERAL CRITICISM CCCXXVM

or Jy be rightly estimated when it is regarded in relation with
theirs."

In another part of the same book we have the following
just and appropriate passage : " Greece, England, and Spain
are the only three countries, in the western world at least,
which boast an independent drama, one going its own way,
growing out of its own roots ; not timidly asking what others
have done before, but boldly doing that which its own native
impulses urged it to do ; the utterance of the national heart
and will, accepting no laws from without, but only those
which it has imposed on itself, as laws of its true liberty, and
not of bondage. The Roman drama and the French are
avowedly imitations ; nor can all the vigour and even origi-
nality in detail, which the former displays, vindicate for it an
independent position : much less can the latter, which, at
least in the nobler region of tragedy, is altogether an arti-
ficial production, claim this ; indeed it does not seek to do
so, finding its glory in the renunciation of any such claim.
Germany has some fine plays, but no national dramatic lit-
erature ; the same must be said of Italy ; and the period
has long since passed for both when it would have been pos-
sible that this want should be supplied."

After so much said respecting what Shakespeare had in
common with others, and what was furnished to his hand in
the way of prescription and accumulation, it is now time to
speak more particularly of what was original and peculiar to
himself.

First and foremost, then, of the things wherein he is spe-
cially distinguished from all who went before him, stands, in
our view, what we know not better how to designate than as
Dramatic Composition. Among his predecessors and senior
contemporaries, there was, properly speaking, no dramatic
artist. What had been done was not truly art, but a prep-
aration of materials, and a settlement of the preliminaries
of art. Up to his time, there was little more than the ele-
ments of the work lying scattered here and there, some IP

CCCXXviii SHAKESPEARE.

greater, some in less perfection, and still requiring to he
gathered up and combined in right proportions, and undei
the proper laws of dramatic life. Take any English drama
written before his, and you will find that the several parts
and particulars do not stand or draw together in any thing
like organic consistency and wholeness : the work is not truly
a concrescence of persons and events, but only, at the best,
a mere succession or aggregation of them ; so that, for tbe
most part, each would both be and appear just as it does, if
detached from the others, and viewed by itself. Instead,
therefore, of a vital unity, like that of a tree, the work has
but a sort of aggregative unity, like a heap of sand.

Which may, in some fair measure, suggest what we mean
by dramatic composition. For a drama, regarded as a work
of art, should be, in the strictest sense of the term, a society ;
that is, not merely a numerical collocation or juxtaposition,
but a living contexture of persons and events. For men's
natures do not, neither can they, unfold themselves severally
and individually ; their development proceeds from, through,
and by each other ; so that many must grow up together, in
order for any one to grow. And, besides their individual
circulations, they have a public, common circulation : their
characters interpenetrate, more or less, one with another,
and stand all together in mutual dependence and support.
Nor does this vital coherence and reciprocity hold between
the several characters merely, but also between these, taken
collectively, and the various conditions, objects, circumstances,
influences, amidst which they have grown. So that the whole
is like a large, full-grown tree, which is in truth made up of
a multitude of little trees, all growing from a common root,
nourished by a common sap, and bound together in a com-
mon lifa.

Now, in Shakespeare's dramas — we do not say in all of
them, for some were but the work of Shakespeare the ap-
prentice, but in most of them — the several parts, charac-
ters and incidents, are knit together in this sort of organic

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXX1X

intertexture, so as to be all truly members one cf another.
Each needs all the others ; each helps all the others ; each
is made what it is by the presence of all the others. Noth-
ing stands alone ; nothing exists merely for itself. The per-
sons not only have each their several development, but also,
besides this, and running into this, a development in com-
mon. And as each lives and moves and has his being, BO
each is to be understood and interpreted, with reference, ex-
plicit or implicit, to all the others. And there is not only
this coherence of the characters represented, one with an-
other, but also of them all with the events and circum-
stances of the representation. It is from this mutual mem-
bership, this participation of each in all, and of all in each,
this co-efficient action of all the parts to a common end ; it
is from this that the work derives its specific character and
effect.

So that a drama may be fitly spoken of as an organic
structure. And such it must be, to answer the conditions
of a work of art. Here we have a highly complex thing ;
a thing made up of divers parts and elements, with a course
or circulation of mutual inference and affinity pervading
them all, and binding them up together, so as to give to the
whole the character of a multitudinous unit ; just as in the
illustration, before used, of a large tree made up of innu-
merable little trees. And it seems plain enough, that the
larger the number and variety of parts embraced in the
work ; that the more diversified it is in matter and nr.ive-
ment; the greater the strength of art required for keeping
every thing within the terms of organic unity ; while, pro-
vided this be done, the richer and grander also is the im-
pression produced.

Now, this is precisely the behest and hardest part of
dramatic creation: in the whole domain of literary work-
manship, there is no one thing so rarely attained, none that
BO few have been found capable of attaining, as this. And
yet in this Shakespeare was absolutely — we speak advisedly

CCCXXX SHAKESPEARE.

— without any teacher or predecessor whatsoever j — not «j
say, what probably might be said without the least hazard,
that it is a thing which no man or number of men could
impart ; for it seems to be a matter of original gift or en-
dowment, so that no force of instruction or example were
adequate to its production. And, in our view of the subject,
the most distinguishing feature of the Poet's genius lay in
this power of broad and varied combination : his highest
and most peculiar gift, we take it, was the deep intuitive—
perception which thus enabled him to put a multitude of
things together, so that each should exactly fit and finish the
others. In some of bia'v^Sks, as Pericles, Titus Andronicus.
and the Three Partsw King Henry VL, though we have,
especially in the latter, very considerable skill at individual
character, — far more indeed than in any English plays pre-
ceding them, — theri^Jisj certainly little, perhaps_noihing,
that cftn be properly called dramatic composition. In sev-
eral, again, as The Two Gentlemen of 'Verona, Love's La-
bour's Lost, and King John, we have but the beginnings and
first stages of it But in divers others, as The Tempest, the
First Part of King Henry IV., Antony and Cleopatra, Ham-
let, Maskgjii, Othello, and King Lear, it is found, if not in
entire perfection, at least so nearly perfect, that there has
yet been no criticism competent to point out the defect.

We have said that, as regards the matter in hand, Shake-
speare was without any instruction or example. For th/1
Classic Drama, had he been ever so well acquainted with it,
couid not have helped him here at all, if indeed it would not
have proved a hindrance to him ; and this, because of its
essential difference from the Drama in which he was called
to work. Which naturally leads us to start a few points of
comparison between the two ; for we can but start them.

Now, the Classic Drama, like the Classic Architecture, ib
all light, graceful, airy, in its forms ; whereas the Gothic s
in nature and design profound, solemn, majestic. Beauty \B
the life of the one ; sublimity, of the other The genius of

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXXX1

that runs to a simple expressiveness ; of this, to a manifold
suggestiveness. There the mind is drawn more to objects ;
here, more to relations. As a natural consequence, the
Classic detaches things as much as possible, and sets each
out by itself in the utmost clearness and definiteness of view ;
while the Gotliic associates and combines them in the largest
possible variety consistent with unity of interest and impres-
sion, so as to produce the effect of indefiniteness and mys-
tery. Thus the latter is like a vast cathedral, which, by its
complexity of structure, while catching the eye would fain
lift the thoughts to something greater and better than the
world, making the spectator feel his littleness, and even its
own littleness, in comparison of that which its suggests.
For, in this broad and manifold diversity struggling up into
unity, we may recognise the awe-inspiring grandeur and
sublimity of the Gothic architecture, as distinguished from
the airy, cheerful beauty of the Classic. Such was the dif-
ference between the spirit of Classic art and the spirit of
Gothic art. The two were of distinct and incommunicable
natures ; so that no examples of the one could yield any
<urthexance to the creation of the other.

The peculiarity of Shakespeare, next to be noticed, in
respect of those who preceded him, has reference to his
mode of conceiving and working out character. We have
already seen, that with several writers who went before him
characters were discriminated and sustained with consider-
able judgment and skill. Still we feel a want of reality
about them : they are not. men and women themselves, but
only the outsides and appearances of men and women ;
often, it is true, having a good measure of coherence and
distinctness, but yet mere appearances ; with nothing be-
neath or behind them, to give them real substance and so-
lidity. Of course, therefore, the parts that are actually
represented are all that they have ; they stand for no more
than simply what is shown ; there is nothing in them or of
them but what meets the spectator's sense ; so that, however

CCCXXXll SHAKESPEARE.

good to look at, they will not bear looking into ; because the
outside, that which is directly seen or heard, really exhausts
their whole meaning and significance.

The authors, then, as already intimated, instead of begin-
ning at the heart of a character, and worki' g outwards, be-
gan at the surface, and worked the other way ; and so were
precluded from getting beyond the surface by their mode of
procedure. It is as if the shell of an egg should be fully
formed and finished, before the contents were prepared ; in
which case the contents, of course, could not be got into it.
It would have to remain a shell, and nothing more : as such,
it might do well enough for a show ; just as well indeed as
if it were full of meat ; but it would not stand the weighing ;
so that none but the poor innocent hens themselves would
long be taken in by it.

With Shakespeare, all this is just precisely reversed. His
egg is a real egg, brimful of meat, and not an empty shell ;
and this, because the formation began at the centre, and the
shell was formed last. He gives us not the mere imitations
or appearances of things, but the very things themselves.
His characters have more or less of surface, but they are
solids : what is actually and directly shown, is often the least
part of them, never the whole : the rest is left to be in-
ferred ; and the showing is so managed, withal, that the in-
ferential process is naturally started and propagated in the
spectator's mind.

All which clearly implies that Shakespeare conceived his
persons, not from their outside, but in their rudiments and
first principles. He begins at the heart of a character, and
unfolds it outwards, forming and compacting all the internal
parts and organs as he unfolds it ; and the development,
even because it is a real and true development, proceeds at
every step, not by mere addition or aggregation of partic-
ulars, but by digestion and vital assimilation of all the mat-
ter that enters into the structure ; there being sent, in virtue
of the life that pervades the thing, iust such elements, and

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXXX111

just so much of them, to every organ, ,as is necessary to its
formation. The result of this wonderful process is, that the
characters stand for vastly more than is or can be directly
seen : there is food for endless thought and reflection in
them : beneath and behind the surface, there is all the sub-
stance that the surface promises or is able to contain, — an
inexhaustible stock of meaning and significance beyond what
appears ; so that the further they are looked into, the more
of truth they are found to contain.

Thus the Poet's genius seems to have dwelt " at Nature's
inner shrine, where she works most when we perceive her
least." There is, therefore, no extravagance in the justly-
celebrated criticism of Pope. " The poetry of Shakespeare,"
says he, " was inspiration indeed : he is not so much an im-
•tator as an instrument of Nature ; and it is not so just to
say that he speaks from her, as that she speaks through
nim. His characters are so much Nature herself, that it is
a sort of injury to call them by so distant a name as copies
of her."

On this point, we find, in an essay by Mr. Maurice Mor-
gan on the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaff, some
remarks so exceedingly apt and striking, that we cannot
make up our mind to withhold them :

" The reader must be sensible of something in the com-
position of Shakespeare's characters, which renders them
essentially different from those drawn by other writers. The
characters of every drama must indeed be grouped ; but in
the groups of other poets the parts which are not seen do
not in fact exist. But there is a certain roundness and in-
tegrity in the forms of Shakespeare, which give them an
independence as well as a relation, hisomuch that we often
meet with passages which, though perfectly felt, cannot be
gufficiently explained in words without unfolding the whole
character of the speaker.

"Bodies of all kinds, whether metais, plants, or animals,
are supposed to possess certain first principles of bring, ar.d

.'CCXXX1V SHAKESPEARE.

to have an existence independent, of the accidents which
form their magnitude or growth. These accidents are sup-
posed to be drawn in from the surrounding elements, bat
not indiscriminately ; each plant and each animal imbibes
those things only which are proper to its own distinct na-
ture, and which have, besides, such a secret relation to each
other, as to be capable of forming a perfect union and coa-
lescence : but so variously are the surrounding elements
mingled and disposed, that each particular body, even of
those under the same species, has yet some peculiar of its
own. Shakespeare appears to have considered the being
and growth of the human mind as analogous to this sys-
tem. . . .

" The reader will not now be surprised if I affirm that
those characters in Shakespeare, which are seen only in part,
are yet capable of being unfolded and understood in the
whole ; every part being in fact relative, and inferring all the
rest. It is true that the point of action or sentiment, which
we are most concerned in, is always held out for our special
notice. But who does not perceive that there is a peculiar-
ity about it, which conveys a relish of the whole ? And
very frequently, when no particular point presses, he boldly
makes a character act and speak from those parts of the
composition which are inferred only, and not distinctly
shown. This produces a wonderful effect ; it seems to carry
us beyond the Poet to nature itself, and gives an integrity
and truth to facts and character, which they could not other-
wise obtain. And this is in reality that art in Shakespeare,
which, being withdrawn from our notice, we more emphat-
ically call nature. A felt propriety and truth from causes
unseen, I take to be the highest point of poetic composition.
If the characters of Shakespeare are thus whole, and, as it
were, original, while those of almost all other writers are
mere imitation, it may be fit to consider them rather as his-
toric than dramatic beings ; and, when occasion requires, to
account for their conduct from the whole, of character, from

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXXXT

general principles, from latent motives, and from policies not
avowed."

It is also to be noted, that Shakespeare's characters, gen-
erally, are not exhibited in any one fixed state or cast of
formation. There is a certain vital limberness and ductility
in them, so that upon their essential identity more or less of
mutation is ever supervening. They grow on and unfold
themselves under our eye : we see them in their course of
development, in the act and process of becoming ; under-
going divers changes, passing through divers stages, ani-
mated by mixed and various motives and impulses, passion
alternating with passion, purpose with purpose, train of
thought with train of thought ; so that they often end great-
ly modified from what they were at the beginning ; the same,
and yet another. Thus they have, to our minds, a past and
future, as well as a present ; and even in what we see of
them at any given moment there is involved something both
of history and of prophecy.

All this, indeed, is but a part of that complexity which
belongs to the spirit of Gothic art in all its forms. So that
here we have still further reason, in the nature of the tiling,
why the Gothic Drama was bound to override and ignore
the minor unities. For, as it is unnatural that a man should
continue altogether the same character, or subject to the
same passion, or absorbed in the same purpose, through a
period of ten years ; so it is equally against nature, that he
should undergo much change of character, or be occupied
by various passions, or get engrossed in many purposes, the
same day. If, therefore, a character is to be represented
under divers phases and fluctuations, the nature of the work
evidently requires much length of time, a great variety of ob-
jects and influences, and, consequently, a wide range of place.
On the other hand, the clearness and simplicity of design
and structure, which belong to Classic art, necessarily pre-
clude, in the Drama, any great diversity of time and place j
since, as the genius of the work requires character to b«

CCCXXXV1 SHAKESPEARE.

represented only under a single and uniform aspect, the time
and place of the representation must needs be limited. So
that the same principle which, in the Classic Drama, made
it necessary to observe the minor unities, made it equally
necessary to disregard them in the Gothic Drama ; the com-
plexity of the latter, with its implied vicissitudes of charao-
ter, being naturally incompatible with them.

Again : The organic fitness and correspondence of part with
part, which we have found in Shakespeare's dramatic com-
position, is equally maintained in his individual characterisa-
tion. Now, it is quite notorious, that in his works, far more
than in almost any others, every thing appears to come, not
from him, but from the characters ; and from the characters,
too, speaking, not as authors, but simply as men. The rea-
son of which must be, that the word is most admirably
suited to the character, the character to the word ; every
thing exactly fitting into and filling its place. Doubtless
there are many things which, considered by themselves,
might be bettered ; but it is not for themselves that he uses
them, but as being characteristic of the persons from whom
they proceed ; and the fact of their seeming to proceed from
the persons, not from him, is the best possible proof of his
good judgment in using them. Hence it is, that in reading
his works we think not of him, but only of what he is de-
scribing : we can scarce realize his existence, his individuality
is so lost in the objects and characters he brings before us.
That he should have known so perfectly how to avoid giving
too much or too little ; that he should have let out and
drawn in the reins at the precise time and place where the
subject required; — this, as it evinces an almost inconceiv-
able delicacy of mind, is also one of the points wherein there
was the least to be learned from his predecessors.

And not only does he so select and apportion the several
elements of a character that they coalesce into perfect or-
ganic wholeness, but also so orders and moves the several
characters of a play, as that they may best draw out one

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXXXV'll

another by mutual influences, and set off each other by mu-
tual contrasts. And not the least wonderful thing in his
works is the exquisite congruity of what comes from the
persons with all the circumstances and influences under
which they are represented as acting ; their transpirations
of character being, withal, so disposed that the principle of
them shines out freely and Clearly on the mind. It is true,
his persons, like those in real life, act so, chiefly because
they are so ; but so perfectly does he seize and impart the
germ of a character, along with the proper conditions of its
development, that the results seem to follow all of their own
accord. Thus in his delineations every thing is fitted to
every other thing ; so that each requires and infers the
others, and all hang together in most natural coherence and
congruity.

To exemplify this point a little more in detail, let us take
his treatment of passion. How many forms, degrees, vari-
eties of passion he has portrayed! yet we are not aware
that any instance of unfitness or disproportion has ever been
successfully pointed out in his works. With but two or
three exceptions at the most, so perfect is the correspond-
ence between the passion and the character, and so freely
and fitly does the former grow out of the circumstances in
which the latter is placed, that we have no difficulty in jus-
tifying and accounting for the passion. So that the passion
is thoroughly characteristic, and pervaded with the individ-
uality of its subject. And this holds true not only of dif-
ferent passions, but of different modifications of the same
passion ; the forms of love, for instance, being just as various
and distinct as the characters in which it is shown. More-
over, he unfolds a passion in its rise and progress, its turns
and vicissitudes, its ebbings and Sowings, so that we go
along with n freely and naturally from first to last. Even
when, as in case of Ferdinand and Miranda, or of Romeo
and Juliet, he ushers in the passion at its full height, he so
contrives to throw the mind back or around upon varioui

eccxxxvm SHAKESPEARE.

predisposing causes and circumstances, as to carry our sym-
pathies through without any revulsion. Now, in this intui-
tive perception of the exact kind and degree of passion and
character that are suited to each other ; in this quick, sure
insight of the internal workings of a given mind, and the
why, when, and how far, it should be moved ; and in this
accurate letting out and curbing in of a passion, precisely
as the law of its individuality requires ; he shows himself
far beyond the instructions of all who preceded him.

Nor is this the only direction in which he maintains the
fitness of things : he keeps the matter right towards us, as
well as towards his characters. It is true, he often lays on
us burdens of passion that would not be borne in any other
writer. But, whether he wrings the heart with pity, or
freezes the blood with terror, or fires the soul with indigna-
tion, the genial reader still rises from his pages refreshed.
The reason of which is, instruction keeps pace with excite-
ment : he strengthens the mind in proportion as he loads it.
He has been called the great master of passion : doubtless
he is so ; yet he makes us think as intensely as he requires
us to feel ; while opening the deepest fountains of the heart,
he at the same time unfolds the highest energies of the head.
Nay, with such consummate art does he manage the fiercest
tempests of our being, that in a healthy mind the witness-
ing of them is always attended with an overbalance of
pleasure. With the very whirlwinds of passion he so blends
the softening and alleviating influences of poetry, that they
relish of nothing but sweetness and health. For while, as
a philosopher, he surpassed all other philosophers in power
to discern the passions of men ; as an artist, he also excelled
all other artists in skill " so to temper passion, that our ears
take pleasure in their pain, and eyes in tears both weep and
smile."

Another point which ought not to be passed by in silence
is the perfect evenhandedness of Shakespeare's representa-
tions. For among all his characters we cannot discover

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXXXIX

from the delineation itself that he preferred any one to an-
other ; though of course we cannot imagine it possible for
any man to regard Edmund and Edgar, for example, or
lago and Desdemona, with the same feelings. It is as if the
scenes of his drama were forced on his observation against
his will, himself being under a solemn oath to report the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He thus
uniformly leaves the characters to make their own impres-
sion on us : he is their mouthpiece, not they his ; and be-
cause he would not serve as the advocate of any, therefore
he was able to stand as the representative of alL With the
honour or shame, the right or wrong, of their actions, he has
nothing to do : that they are so, and act so, is their concern,
not his ; and his business is, not to reform nor deprave, not
to censure nor approve them, but simply to tell the truth
about them, whithersoever it may lead him. Accordingly,
he is not wont to exhibit either utterly worthless or utterly
faultless monsters ; persons too good or too bad to exist ;
too high to be loved, or too low to be pitied : even his worst
characters (unless we should except Goneril and Regan, and
even their blood is red like ours) have some slight fragrance
of humanity about them, some indefinable touches, which
redeem them from utter hatred and execration, and keep
them within the pale of human sympathy, or at least of hu-
man pity.

Nor does he bring in any characters as the mere shadows,
or instruments, or appendages of others. All the persons,
high and low, contain within themselves the reason why -.hey
are there and not elsewhere, why they are so and not other-
wise. None are forced in upon the scene merely to supply
the place of others, and so to be trifled with till the others
are ready to return ; but each is treated in his turn as though
he were the main character of the piece. So true is this,
that even if one character comes in as the satellite of an-
other, he does so by a right and an impulse of his o TO ; he
is all the while but obeying, or rather executing the lav of

CCCX1 SHAKESPEARE.

his individuality, and has just as much claim on the otner
for a primary, as the other has on him for a satellite. The
consequence is, that all the characters are developed, not
indeed at equal length, but with equal perfectness as far as
they go ; for, to make the dwarf fill the same space as the
giant, were to dilute, not develope, the dwarf.

Passing allusion has already been made once or twice to
Shakespeare's humour. This is so large and so operative aii
element of his genius, that something further ought to be
said of it. And perhaps there is nothing in his composition
of which it is more difficult to give a satisfactory account.
For it is nowise a distinct or separable thing with him, act-
ing alone or occasionally, and so to be viewed by itself, but
a perfusive and permeating ingredient of bis make-up : it
acts as a sort of common solvent, in which different and
even opposite lines of thought, states of mind, and forms of
life are melted into happy reconcilement and co-operation.
Through this, as a kind of pervading and essential sap, is
carried on a free intercourse and circulation between the
moral and intellectual parts of bis being ; and hence, per-
haps, in part, that wonderful catholicity of mind which gen-
erally marks his representations.

It naturally follows from this that the Poet's humour is
widely diversified in its exhibitions. There is indeed no part
of him that acts with greater versatility. It imparts a cer-
tain wholesome earnestness to his most sportive moods,
making them like the honest and whole-hearted play of
childhood, than which human life has nothing that proceeds
more in earnest. For who has not found it a property of
childhood, to be serious in its fun, innocent in its mischief
ingenuous in its guile ? Moreover, it is easy to remark that
in Shakespeare's greatest dunces and simpletons and poten-
tates of nonsense there is something that prevents contempt.
A fellow-feeling springs up between us and them : our pleas-
ure in them is mainly from what they have in common with
as 5 it is through our sympathetic, not our selfish emotions

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXli

l&at they interest us : we are far more inclined to laugh
with them than at them, and even when we laugh at them
we love them the more for that which is laughable in them.
So that our delight in them still rests upon a basis of fra-
ternal sentiment, and our intercourse with them proceeds
under the great law of kindness and charity. Try this with
any of the Poet's illustrious groups of comic personages, and
it will be found, we apprehend, thoroughly true. What
distinguishes us from them, or sets us above them in our own
esteem, is never appealed to as a source or element of del-
ectation. So that the pleasure we have of them is alto-
gether social in its nature, and humanizing in its effect, ever
knitting more widely the bonds of sympathy.

Here we have what may be called a foreground of comedy,
but the Poet's humour keeps up a living circulation between
this and the serious elements of our being that stand behind
it. It is true, we are not always, nor perhaps often, con-
scious of any stirring in these latter : what is laughable oc-
cupies the surface, and is therefore all that we directly see.
But still there are deep undercurrents of earnest sentiment
moving not the less really that their movement is noiseless.
In the disguise of sport and mirth there is a secret discipline
of humanity going on ; and the effect is all the better that
it steals into us unseen and unsuspected : we know that we
laugh, but we do something better than laugh without know-
ing it, and so we are made the better by our laughter ; for
in that which makes us better without our knowledge, we
are doubly benefited.

Not indeed but that Shakespeare has characters, as, for
example, the Steward in King Lear, which are thoroughly
contemptible, and which we follow with contempt. But it
is to be observed that there is nothing laughable in Oswald,
nothing that we can either laugh with or laugh at : he is but
a sort of h iman reptile, such as life sometimes produces,
whom we regard with moral loathing and disgust, but in
whose company neither mirth nor pity can find any foothold

CCCxlil SHAKESPEARF.

The feelings moved by a Bottom, a Dogberry, an Ague-
cheek, or a Slender are indeed very different from those
which wait upon a Cordelia, an Ophelia, or a Desdemona,
but there is no essential oppugnance between them : in both
these cases the heart moves by the laws of sympathy
which is exactly reversed in the case of such an object as
Oswald : the former all touch us through what we have in
common with them ; the latter touches only through OUT
antipathies. There is therefore nothing of either comic or
tragic in the part of Oswald viewed by itself; on the contra-
ry, it moves in entire oppugnance to the proper sentiments
of both comedy and tragedy.

Much of what we have said touching Shakespeare's scenes
of mirth holds true, conversely, of liis tragic scenes. For
it is a great mistake to suppose that his humour has its sole
exercise in comic representations. It carries the power of
tears as well as of smiles : in his deepest strains of tragedy
there is often a subtle infusion of it, and that in such a way
as to heighten the tragic effect ; we may feel it playing del-
icately beneath his most pathetic scenes, and deepening their
pathos. For in his hands tragedy and comedy are not made
up of different elements, but of the same elements standing
in different places and relations : what is background in the
one becomes foreground in the other ; what is an undercur-
rent in the one becomes an uppercurrent in the other ; the
effect of the whole depending almost, perhaps altogether, as
much on what is not directly seen, as on what is. So that
with nim the pitiful and the ludicrous, the sublime and the
droll, are like the greatness and littleness of human life ; for
these qualities not only coexist in our being, but, which is
much more, they coexist under a mysterious law of inter-
dependence and reciprocity ; insomuch that our life may in
some sense be said to be great because little, and little be-
cause great.

And as Shakespeare's transports of humour draw down
more or Jess into the depths of serious thought, and make

GENERAL, CRITICISM. CCCxlill

r>u/ laughter the more refreshing and exhilarating because
of what is moving silently beneath ; so his tragic ecstacies
take a richness of colour and flavour from the humour held
in secret reserve, and forced up to the surface now and then
by the superincumbent weight of tragic matter. This it is,
in part, that truly makes them " awful mirth." For who
does not know, that the most winning smiles are those
which play round a moistening eye, and tell of serious
thoughts beneath ; and that the saddest face is that which
wears in its expression an air of remembered joy, and speaks
darkly of sunshine in the inner courts of the soul ? For we
are so made, that no one part of our being moves to perfec-
tion, unless all the other parts move with it : when we are
at work, whatever there is of the playful within us ought to
play ; when we are at play, our working energies ought to
bear a part in the exercise. It is this harmonious move-
ment of all the organs of our being that makes the proper
music of life.

We cannot, nor need we, stay to illustrate the point in
hand at any length, by detailed reference to the Poet's
dramas ; for this belongs to the office of particular criticism,
and so is, or ought to be, duly attended to in our Intro-
ductions to the several plays. The Fool's part in King Lear
will readily occur to any one familiar with that tragedy.
And perhaps there is no one part of Hamlet that does more
to heighten the tragic effect, than the droll scene with the
grave-diggers. But, besides this, there is a vein of humour
running through the part of Hamlet himself, underlying his
most serious hours, and giving depth and mellowness to his
«trains of impassioned thought. And eveiy reflecting read-
er must have observed how much is added to the impression
of terror in the trial scene of The Merchant of Venice, by
the jets of fierce mirth with which Gratiano assails old Shy-
lock ; and also how, at the close of the scene, our very
joy at Antonio's deliverance quickens and deepens our pity
for the broken-hearted Jew who lately stocd before us dressed

CCCXliv SHAKESPEARE.

in- such fulness of terror. But indeed the Poet's skill at
heightening any feeling by awakening its opposite ; how he
manages to give strength to our most earnest sentiments by
touching some spring of playfulness ; is matter of common
observation.

But the Poet's humour has yet other ways of manifesting
itself. And among these not the least remarkable is the
subtle and delicate irony which often pervades his scenes,
and sometimes gives character to whole plays, as in the case
of Troilus and Cressida, and Antony and Cleopatra. By
methods that can hardly be described, he contrives to es-
tablish a sort of secret understanding with the reader, so as
to arrest the impression just as it is on the point of becom-
ing tragic. While dealing most seriously with his charac-
ters, he uses a certain guile : through them we catch, as it
were, a roguish twinkle of his eye, which makes us aware
that his mind is secretly sporting itself with their earnest-
ness, so that we have a double sympathy with their passion
and with his play. Thus his humour often acts in such a
way as to possess us with mixed emotions : the persons,
while moving us with their thoughts, at the same time start
us upon other thoughts which have no place in them ; and
we share in all that they feel, but still are withheld from
committing ourselves to them, or so taking part with them
as to foreclose a due regard to other claims.

We shall dismiss the subject with a very remarkable
piece of criticism by Coleridge, which is so full of large
thoughts felicitously expressed, that, in our view, it ought to
go with every future edition of the Poet that pretends to
have any critical accompaniments. It is as follows :

" It is a painful truth that not only individuals, but even
whole nations, are ofttimes so enslaved to the habits of theii
education and immediate circumstances, as not to judge dis-
interestedly even on those subjects, the very pleasure arising
from which consists in its disinterestedness, namely, on sub-

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXU

jects of taste and polite literature. Instead of deciding
concerning their own modes and customs by any rule of rea-
son, nothing appears rational, becoming, or beautiful to them,
but what coincides with the peculiarities of their education.
In this narrow circle, individuals may attain to exquisite dis-
crimination, as the French critics have done in their own
literature ; but a true critic can no more be such without
placing himself on some central point, from which he may
command the whole, that is, some general rule, which,
founded in reason, or the faculties common to all men, must
therefore apply to each, — than an astronomer can explain
the movements of the solar system without taking his stand
in the sun. And let me remark, that this will not tend to
produce despotism, but, on the contrary, true tolerance, in
the critic. Jle will, indeed, require, as the spirit and sub-
stance of a work, something true in human nature itself, and
independent of all circumstances ; but in the mode of ap-
plying it, he will estimate genius and judgment according to
the felicity with which the imperishable soul of intellect
shall have adapted itself to the age, the place, and the ex-
isting manners. The error he will expose lies in reversing
this, and holding up the mere circumstances as perpetual, to
the utter neglect of the power which can alone animate
them. For art cannot exist without, or apart from, nature ;
and what has man to give to his fellow-man, but his own
thoughts and feelings, and his observations, so far as they
are modified by his thoughts or feelings ?

" Let me, then, once more submit this question to minds
emancipated alike from national, or party, or sectarian preju-
dice : Are the plays of Shakespeare works of rude uncul-
tivated genius, in which the splendour of the parts compen-
sates, if aught can compensate, for the barbarous shapeless-
ness and irregularity of the whole ? Or is the form equally
admirable with the matter, and the judgment of the great
Poet not less deserving our wonder than his genius ? — Or
again, t/~ repeat the q estion in other words : Is Shake

CCCXlvi SHAKESPEARE.

speare a great dramatic poet on account only of those beau-
ties and excellences which he possesses in common with the
ancients, but with diminished claims to our love and honour
to the full extent of his differences from them ? Or are
these very differences additional proofs of poetic wisdom, at
once results and symb< Is of living power as contrasted with
lifeless mechanism, — of free and rival originality as contra-
distinguished from servile imitation, or, more accurately, a
blind copying of effects, instead of a true imitation of the
essential principles ? — Imagine not that I am about to op-
pose genius to rules. No ! the comparative value of these
rules is the very cause to be tried. The spirit of poetry,
like all other living powers, must of necessity circumscribe
itself by rules, were it only to unite power with beauty. It
must embody in order to reveal itself; but a living body is
of necessity an organized one ; and what is organization but
the connection of parts in and for a whole, so that each part
is at once end and means ? This is no discovery of crit-
icism ; it is a necessity of the human mind ; and all na-
tions have felt and obeyed it, in the invention of metre, and
measured sounds, as the vehicle and involucrum of poetry,
— itself a fellow-growth from the same life, — even as the
bark is to the tree !

" No work of true genius dares want its appropriate form,
neither indeed is there any danger of this. As it must not,
so genius cannot, be lawless ; for it is even this that consti-
tutes it genius, — the power of acting creatively under laws
of its own origination. How, then, comes it that not only
single Zoili, but whole nations have combined in unhesitat-
ing condemnation of our great dramatist, as a sort of Af-
rican nature, rich in beautiful monsters ; as a wild heath
where islands of fertility look the greener from the surround-
ing waste, where the loveliest plants now shine out among
unsightly weeds, and now are choked by their parasitic
growth, so intertwined that we cannot disentangle the weed
without snapping the flower ? — In this statement I have ha J

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCxlvii

no reference to the vulgar abuse of Voltaire, save as far M
his charges are coincident with the decisions of Shakespeare's
own commentators and (so they would tell you) almost idol-
atrous admirers. The true ground of the mistake lies in the
confounding mechanical regularity with organic form. The
form is mechanic, when on any given material we impress u
predetermined form, not necessarily arising out of the prop-
erties of the material ; as when to a mass of wet clay we
give whatever shape we wish it to retain when hardened.
The organic form, on the other hand, is innate ; it shapes,
as it developes, itself from within, and the fulness of its de-
velopment is one and the same with the perfection of its
outward form. Such as the life is, such is the form. Na-
ture, the prime genial artist, inexhaustible in diverse powers,
is equally inexhaustible in forms ; — each exterior is the phys-
iognomy of the being within, its true image reflected and
thrown out from the concave mirror : and even such is the
appropriate excellence of her chosen Poet, of our own
Shakespeare ; himself a nature humanized, a genial under-
standing directing self-consciously a power and an implicit
wisdom deeper even than our consciousness.

" I greatly dislike beauties and selections in general ; but
as proof positive of his unrivalled excellence, I should like
to try Shakespeare by this criterion. Make out your am-
plest catalogue of all the human faculties, as reason or the
moral law, the will, the feeling of the coincidence of the two
called the conscience, the understanding or prudence, wit,
fancy, imagination, judgment; and then of the objects on
which these are to be employed, as the beauties, the terrors,
and the seeming caprices of nature, the realities and the ca-
pabilities, that is, the actual and the ideal, of the human
mind, conceived as an individual or as a social being, as in
innocence or in guilt, in a play-paradise, or hi a war-field of
temptation; — and then compare with Shakespeare under
each of these heads all or any of the writers in prose and
veise that have ever lived! Who, that is competent tc

CCCXlVlli SHAK.ESPEARK.

judge, doubts the result ? And ask your own hearts, —
ask your own common-sense, — to conceive the possibility of
this man being, — I say not, the drunken savage of that
wretched sciolist, whom Frenchmen, to their shame, have
honoured before their elder and better worthies, — but the
anomalous, the wild, the irregular genius of our daily crit-
icism ! What ! are we to have miracles in sport ? Or, I
speak reverently, does God choose idiots by whom to convey
divine truths to man ?

" Poetiy in essence is as familiar to barbarous as to civilized
nations. The Laplander and the savage Indian are cheered
by it as well as the inhabitants of London and Paris : its
spirit takes up and incorporates surrounding materials, as a
plant clothes itself with soil and climate, whilst it exhibits
the working of a vital principle within independent of all
accidental circumstances. And, to judge with fairness of an
author's works, we ought to distinguish what is inward and
essential from what is outward and circumstantial. It is es-
sential to poetry that it be simple, and appeal to the elements
and primary laws of our nature ; that it be sensuous, and by
its imagery elicit truth at a flash ; that it be impassioned,
and be able to move our feelings and awaken our affections.
In comparing different poets with each other, we should in-
quire which have brought into the fullest play our imagina-
tion and our reason, or have created the greatest excitement
and produced the completes! harmony. If we consider great
exquisiteness of language and sweetness of metre alone, it
is impossible to deny to Pope the character of a delightful
writer ; but whether he be a poet, must depend upon oui
definition of the word ; and, doubtless, if every thing that
pleases be poetry, Pope's satires and epistles must be poetry.
This I must say, that poetry, as distinguished from other
modes of composition, does not rest in metre ; and that it is
not poetry, if it make no appeal to our passions or our im-
agination. One character belongs to all true poets, that
they write from a principle within, not originating in any

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCCXllX

tiling without ; and that the true poet's work in its form, ita
shapings, and its modifications, is distinguished from all other
works that assume to belong to the class of poetry, as a
natural from an artificial flower, or as the mimic garden of
a child from an enamelled meadow. In the former the
flowers are broken from then" stems and stuck into the
ground ; they are beautiful to the eye and fragrant to the
sense, but their coiours soon fade, and their odour is tran-
sient as the smile of the planter ; — while the meadow may
be visited again and again with renewed delight ; its beauty
is innate in the soil, and its bloom is of the freshness of
nature.

" The next ground of critical judgment, and point of com-
parison, will be as to how far a given poet has been influenced
by accidental circumstances. As a living poet must surely
write, not for the ages past, but for that in which he lives,
and those which are to follow, it is, on the one hand, natural
that he should not violate, and, on the other, necessary that
he should not depend on, the mere manners and modes of
his day. See how little does Shakespeare leave us to regret
that he was born in his particular age ! The great era in
modern times was what is called the Restoration of Letters :
the ages preceding it are called the dark ages ; but it
would be more wise, perhaps, to call them the ages in which
we were in the dark. It is usually overlooked that the sup-
posed dark period was not universal, but partial and succes-
sive, or alternate ; that the dark age of England was not
the dark age of Italy, but that one country was in its light
and vigour, whilst another was in its gloom and bondage.
But no sooner had the Reformation sounded through Eu-
rope like the blast of an archangel's trumpet, than from king
to peasant there arose an enthusiasm for knowledge ; the
discovery of a manuscript became the subject of an embas-
sy ; Erasmus read by moonlight, because he could not afford
a torch, and begged a penny, not for the love of chanty, but
for the love of learning. The three great point* of at ten-

CCCI SHAKESPEARE.

tion were religion, morals, and taste: men of genius as well
as men of learning, who in this age need to be so widely
distinguished, then alike became copyists of the ancients ;
and this, indeed, was the only way by which the taste of
mankind could be improved, or their understandings in-
formed. Whilst Dante imagined himself an humble follower
of Virgil, and Ariosto of Homer, they were both uncon-
scious of that greater power working within them, which in
many points carried them beyond their supposed originals.
All great discoveries bear the stamp of the age in which
they are made : — hence we perceive the effects of the purer
religion of the moderns, visible for the most part in their
lives ; and in reading their works we should not content our-
selves with the mere narratives of events long since passed,
out should learn to apply their maxims and conduct to
ourselves.

" Having intimated that times and manners lend their
form and pressure to genius, let me once more draw a slight
parallel between the ancient and modem stage, the stages
of Greece and of England. The Greeks were polytheists ;
their religion was local ; almost the only object of all their
knowledge, art, and taste, was their gods ; and, accordingly,
their productions were, if the expression may be allowed,
statuesque, whilst those of the moderns are picturesque.
The Greeks reared a structure, which in its parts, and as a
whole, filled the mind with the calm and elevated impression
of perfect beauty and symmetrical proportion. The mod-
erns also produced a whole, a more striking whole ; but it
was by blending materials and fusing the parts together.
And as the Pantheon is to York Minster or Westminster
Abbey, so is Sophocles compared with Shakespeare : in the
one a completeness, a satisfaction, an excellence, on which
the mind rests with complacency ; in the other a multitude
of interlaced materials, great and little, magnificent and
mean, accompanied, indeed, with the sense of a falling short
of perfection, and yet, at the same time, so promising of our

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCcl'l

social and individual progression, that we would not, if we
could, excnange it for that repose of the mind which dwells
on the forms of symmetry in the acquiescent admiration of
grace. This general characteristic of the ancient and mod-
ern drama might be illustrated by a parallel of the ancient
and modern music : the one consisting of melody arising
from a succession only of pleasing sounds ; the modern
embracing harmony also, the result of combination and the
effect of a whole.

" I have said, and I say it again, that great as was the
genius of Shakespeare, his judgment was at least equal to
it. Of this any one will be convinced, who attentively con-
siders those points in which the dramas of Greece and Eng-
land differ, from the dissimilitude of circumstances by which
each was modified and influenced. The Greek stage had its
origin in the ceremonies of a sacrifice, such as of the goat to
Bacchus, whom we most erroneously regard as merely the
jolly god of wine ; for among the ancients he was vener-
able, as the symbol of that power which acts without our
consciousness in the vital energies of nature, — the vinum
mundi, — as Apollo was that of the conscious agency of our
intellectual being. The heroes of old under the influences
of this Bacchic enthusiasm performed more than human ac-
tions : hence tales of the favourite champions soon passed
into dialogue. On the Greek stage the chorus was always
before the audience ; the curtain was never dropped, as we
should say ; and change of place being therefore, in general,
impossible, the absurd notion of condemning it merely as
improbable in itself was never entertained by any one. If
we can believe ourselves at Thebes in one act, we may be-
lieve ourselves at Athens in the next. If a story lasts
twenty-four hours or twenty-four years, it is equally improb-
able. There seems to be no just boundary but what the
feelings prescribe. But on the Greek stage, where the same
persons were perpetually before the audience, great judg-
ment was necessary in venturing on any such change. Th«

CCclii SHAKESPEARE.

poets never, therefore, attempted to impose on the senses
by bringing places to men, but they did bring men to places,
as in the well-known instance in the Eumenides, where, dur-
ing an evident retirement of the chorus from the orchestra,
t,he sc^ne is changed to Athens, and Orestes is first intro-
duced in the temple of Minerva, and the chorus of Furies
come in afterwards in pursuit of him.

" In the Greek drama there were no formal divisions into
scenes and acts ; there were no means, therefore, of allow-
ing for the necessary lapse of time between one part of the
dialogue and another, and unity of time in a strict sense was,
of course, impossible. To overcome that difficulty of ac-
counting for time, which is effected on the modern stage by
dropping a curtain, the judgment and great genius of the
ancients supplied music and measured motion, and with the
lyric ode filled up the A acuity. In the story of the Aga-
memnon of ^Eschylus, the capture of Troy is supposed to
be announced by a fire lighted on the Asiatic shore, and the
transmission of the signal by successive beacons to Mycense.
The signal is first seen at the 21st line, and the herald from
Troy itself enters at the 486th, and Agamemnon himself at
the 783d line. But the practical absurdity of this was not
felt by the audience, who, in imagination, stretched minutes
into hours, while they listened to the lofty narrative odes of
the chorus which almost entirely filled up the interspace.
Another fact deserves attention here, namely, that regularly
on the Greek stage a drama, or acted story, consisted in
reality of three dramas, called together a trilogy, and per-
formed consecutively in the course of one day. Now, you
may conceive a tragedy of Shakespeare's as a trilogy con-
nected in one single representation. Divide Lear into three
parts, and each would be a play with the ancients ; or take
the three ^Eschj'lean dramas of Agamemnon, and divide
them into, or call them, as many acts, and they together
would be one play. The first act would comprise the usur-
pation of ^Egisthus, and the murder of Agamemnon ; the

GENERAL, CRITICISM. CCcliii

second, the revenge of Orestes, and the murder of his
mother ; and the third, the penance and absolution of Ores-
tee • — occupying a period of twenty-two years.

" The stage in Shakespeare's time was a naked room with
a blanket for a curtain ; but he made it a field for monarchs.
That law of unity, which has its foundations, not in the fac-
titious necessity of custom, but in nature itself, the unity of
feeling, is every where and at all times observed by Shake-
speare in his plays. Read Romeo and Juliet : — all is youth
and spring ; — youth with its follies, its virtues, its precipi-
tancies ; — spring with its odours, its flowers, and its tran-
siency ; it is one and the same feeling that commences, goes
through, and ends the play. The old men, the Capulets
and the Montagues, are not common old men ; they have
an eagerness, a heartiness, a vehemence, the effect of spring :
with Romeo, his change of passion, his sudden marriage,
and his rash death, are all the effects of youth ; — whilst in
Juliet love has all that is tender and melancholy in the
nightingale, all that is voluptuous in the rose, with whatever
is sweet in the freshness of spring ; but it ends with a long
deep sigh like the last breeze of the Italian evening. This
unity of feeling and character pervades every drama of
Shakespeare.

"It seems to me that his plays are distinguished from
those of all other dramatic poets by the following charac-
teristics :

" 1. Expectation in preference to surprise. It is like the
true reading of the passage ; — ' God said, Let there be light,
and there was light ; ' not there was light. As the feel-
ing with which we startle at a shooting star compared with
that of watching the sunrise at the pre-established moment,
such and so low is surprise compared with expectation.

" 2. Signal adherence to the great law of nature, that all
opposites tend to attract and temper each other. Passion
in Shakespeare generally displays libertinism, but involves
morality ; and if there are exceptions to this, they are, in-

CCcliv SHAKESPEARE.

dependency of their intrinsic value, all of them indicative
of individual character, and, like the farewell admonitions
of a parent, have an end beyond the parental relation.
Thus the Countess's beautiful precepts to Bertram, by ele-
vating her character, raise that of Helena her favourite, and
soften down the point in her which Shakespeare does not
mean us not to see, but to see and to forgive, and at length
to justify. And 60 it is in Polonius, who is the personified
memory of wisdom no longer actually possessed. This ad-
mirable character is always misrepresented on the stage.
Shakespeare never intended to exhibit him as a buffoon ;
for although it was natural that Hamlet — a young man of
fire and genius, detesting formality, and disliking Polonius
on political grounds, as imagining that he had assisted his
uncle in his usurpation — should express himself satirically ;
yet this must not be taken as exactly the Poet's concep-
tion of him. In Polonius a certain induration of character
had arisen from long habits of business ; but take his advice
to Laertes, and Ophelia's reverence for his memory, and we
shall see that he was meant to be represented as a states-
man somewhat past his faculties ; his recollections of life
all full of wisdom, and showing a knowledge of human na-
ture, whilst what immediately takes place before him, and
escapes from him, is indicative of weakness.

" But as in Homer all the deities are in armour, even Ve-
nus ; so in Shakespeare all the characters are strong. Hence
real folly and dulness are made by him the vehicles of wis-
dom. There is no difficulty for one being a fool to imitate
a fool ; but to be, remain, and speak like a wise man and a
great wit, and yet so as to give a vivid representation of a
veritable fool, — hie labor, hoc opus est. A drunken con-
stable is not uncommon, nor hard to draw ; but see and ex-
amine what goes to make up a Dogberry.

" 3. Keeping at all times in the high road of life. Shake-
speare has no innocent adulteries, no interesting incests, no
virtuous vice : he never lenders that amiable which religion

GENERAL CRITICISM. CCClv

and reason alike teach us to detest, or clothes impurity in
the garb of virtue, like Beaumont and Fletcher, the Kotze-
bues of the day. Shakespeare's fathers are roused by in-
gratitude, his husbands stung by unfaithfulness ; in him, in
short, the affections are wounded in those points in which all
may, nay, must, fee.. Let the morality of Shakespeare be
contrasted with that of the writers of his own or the suc-
ceeding age, or of those of the present day, who boast their
superiority in this respect. No one can dispute that the re-
sult of such a comparison is altogether in favour of Shake-
speare; even the letters of women of high rank in his
age were often coarser than his writings. If he occasion-
ally disgusts a keen sense of delicacy, he never injures the
mind ; he neither excites nor flatters passion, in order to
degrade the subject of it ; he does not use the faulty thing
for a faulty purpose, nor carries on warfare against virtue, by
causing wickedness to appear as no wickedness, through the
medium of a morbid sympathy with the unfortunate. In
Shakespeare vice never walks as in twilight ; nothing is pur-
posely out of its place : he inverts not the order of nature
and propriety, — does not make every magistrate a drunk-
ard or glutton, nor every poor man meek, humane, and tem-
perate ; he has no benevolent butchers, nor any sentimental
rat-catchers.

" 4. Independence of the dramatic interest on the plot.
The interest in the plot is always in fact on account of the
characters, not vice versa, as in almost all other writers ; the
plot is a mere canvass and no more. Hence arises the true
justification of the same stratagem being used in regard to
Benedick and Beatrice, — the vanity in each being alike.
Take away from the Much Ado about Nothing all that
which is not indispensable to the plot, either as having little
to do with it, or, at best, like Dogberry and his comrades,
forced into the service, when any other less ingeniously ab-
surd watchmen and night-constables would have answered
the mere necessities of the action ; — take away Benedick.

CCclvi SHAKESPEARE

Beatrice, Dogberry, and the reaction of the former on the
character of Hero, — and what will remain? In other
writers the main agent of the plot is always the prominent
character ; in Shakespeare it is so, or is not so, as the char-
acter is in itself calculated, or not calculated, to form the
plot Don John is the main-spring of the plot of this play
but he is merely shown and then withdrawn.

"5. Independence of the interest on the story as the
ground-work of the plot Hence Shakespeare never took
the trouble of inventing stories. It was enough for him to
select from those that had been already invented or record-
ed such as had one or other, or both, of two recommenda-
tions, namely, suitableness to his particular purpose, and
their being parts of popular tradition, — names of which we
had often heard, and of their fortunes, and as to which all
we wanted was, to see the man himself. So it is just the
man himself, the Lear, the Shylock, the Richard, that
Shakespeare makes us for the first time acquainted with.
Omit the first scene in Lear, and yet every thing will remain ;
so the first and second scenes in The Merchant of Venice.
Indeed it is universally true.

"6. Interfusion of the lyrical — that which in its very
essence is poetical — not only with the dramatic, as in the
plays of Metastasio, where at the end of the scene comes
the aria as the exit speech of the character, — but also in
and through the dramatic. Songs in Shakespeare are in-
troduced as songs only, just as songs are in real life, beauti-
fully as some of them are characteristic of the person who
has sung or called for them, as Desdemona's ' Willow,' and
Ophelia's wild snatches, and the sweet carollings in As You
Like It. But the whole of A Midsummer-Night's Dream is
one continued specimen of the dramatized lyrical.

" 7. The characters of the dramatis persona, like those
in real life, are to be inferred by the reader ; they are not
told to him. And it is well worth remarking that Shake-
speare's characters, like those in real life, are very commonly

GENERAL. CRITICISM. CCclvii

misunderstood, and almost always understood by different
persons in different ways. The causes are the same in either
case. If you take only what the friends of the character
say, you may be deceived, and still more so, if that which
his enemies say ; nay, even the character himself sees him-
self through the medium of his character, and not exactly
as he is. Take all together, not omitting a shrewd hint
from the clown or the fool, and perhaps your impression will
be right ; and you may know whether you have in fact dis-
covered the Poet's own idea, by all the speeches receiving
light from it, and attesting its reality by reflecting it.

'• Lastly, in Shakespeare the heterogeneous is united, as it
is in nature. You must not suppose a pressure or passion
always acting on or in the character ! — passion in Shake-
speare is that by which the individual is distinguished from
others, not that which makes a different kind of him. Shake-
speare followed the main march of the human affections.
He entered into no analysis of the passions or faiths of men,
but assured himself that such and such passions and faiths
were grounded in our common nature, and not in the mere
accidents of ignorance or disease. This is an important
consideration, and constitutes our Shakespeare the morning
star, the guide and the pioneer, of true philosophy."

THE

POEMS AND SONNETS

SHAKESPEARE.

INTRODUCTION

VENUS AND ADONIS.

THE first edition of VENUS AND ADONIS was a quarto pam-
phlet of twenty-seven leaves, the latter part of the title-page read-
ing thus : " London . Imprinted by Richard Field, and are to be
sold at the sign of the white Greyhound in Paul's Church-yard.
1593." On the 18th of April, 1593, the poem was entered at the
Stationers' by Field, as " his copy, licensed by the Archbishop of
Canterbury, and the Wardens." A second edition was made by
the same publisher in 1594. There were also editions of it, by
John Harrison in 1596 and 1600, and by William Leake in 1602.
After this time it was often republished, and copies are known,
bearing the dates of 1616 and 1620. It was also printed at Edin-
burgh by John \Vreittoun in 1627.

This frequency of publication sufficiently witnesses the great
popularity of the poem. It is often alluded to, also, by the Poet's
contemporaries, and in such terms as show it to have been a gen-
eral favourite. Meres, in his Wit's Treasury, 1598, speaks of it
thus : " As the soul of Euphorbus was thought to live in Pythago-
ras, so the sweet, witty soul of Ovid lives in mellifluous and honey-
tongued Shakespeare : witness his Venus and Adonis, his Lucrece,
his sugared Sonnets among his private friends." What use was
sometimes made of it, may he inferred from Sharpe's Noble Stran-
ger, 1640, where Pupillus exclaims, — " O, for the book of Venus
and Adonis, to court my mistress by ! "

The tenth book of Ovid's Metamorphoses,_as translated by Ar-
thur Golding, probably furnished Shakespeare the story of Venus
and Adonis. Golding's translation was first published complete
in 15G7, and reissued in 1572, 1584, 1587, and 1593 ; so that it
must have had a large circulation when the poem was written.
The Poet eviden.ly worked upon the plan of concentrating all the
interest on the passion of the goddess, and took only SQ much of
the story as would directly serve this end. H's treatment of the
subject is eminently original and inventive ; his genius playing

4 VENUS AND ADONIS.

with, perhaps, aP the freedom it could find out of the Drama, where
alone he could bt thoroughly at home. The story is also briefly
told in Spenser's description of the tapestry of Castle Joyous, and
in The Shepherd's Song of Venus and Adonis, by Henry Consta-
ble, published in England's Helicon, 1600. But Shakespeare's
use and treatment of the subject are altogether different from
Spenser's. Constable was not known as a poet till 1594, when his
Diana was published ; and, as The Shepherd's Song was not in-
eluded in that collection, we may presume that it had not then been
written.

In the dedication of Venus and Adonis, Shakespeare speaks of
it as " the first heir of his invention ; " yet he had then become so
distinguished in the Drama as to be squibbed by Robert Greene,
and patronized by the Earl of Southampton. The greater part
of Greene's squib is quoted in our Life of the Poet, Chapter iii.
Whether Shakespeare dated the heirship of his poem from the time
of writing or of publishing, is uncertain : probably the former ; and
if so, then of course it must have been written several years before
1593. The general opinion refers the composition of the poem to
the period before he left Stratford ; but this is a point on which
we are without evidence of any sort either way.

The merit of Venus and Adonis, and indeed of the author's
poems generally, sinks into littleness beside that of his dramas.
We have already seen how great was its contemporary popularity.
This excessive applause was followed by a long period of undue
neglect or depreciation ; but in later times the fashion has rather
been to overpraise it. Hazlitt, who wrote at the time when this
fashion was at its height, and who could hardly see an extrav
agance in one direction without becoming equally extravagant in
the opposite, delivers himself on the subject as follows : " In his
plays, Shakespeare was ' as broad and casing as the general air : '
in his poems, on the contrary, he appears to be < coop'd and cab
in'd in ' by all the technicalities of art, by all the petty intricacies
of thought and language which poetry had learned from the con-
troversial jargon of the schools, where words had been made a
substitute for things. His imagination, by identifying itself with
the strongest characters in the most trying circumstances, grap-
pled at once with nature, and trampled the littleness of art under
its feet : the rapid changes of situation, the wide range of the
uir.verse, gave him life and spirit, and afforded full scope to his
gei ius ; but, returned into his closet again, and having assumed
the badge of his profession, he could only labour in his vocation,
ana conform himself to existing models."

In this extract, the writer, as usual, has a knack of suggesting
the truth while departing from it. Hazlitt is comparing the poems,
not with the dramas written at or near the same time, but with
those of a much later date, when the Poet, after working by " ex-
isting models,7'* had constructed an art of his own. In his poems

INTRODUCTION. 5

Shakespeare does indeed impress us rather as proceeding- by rule
•nd imitation, than by the free inspiration of genius and nature :
he is not himself, but rather what others had been before him ; and
we have repeatedly seen, especially in our Introductions to The
Two Gentlemen of Verona, Love's Labour's Lost, Titus Andron-
icus, and Pericles, that the same is almost equally true of his
earlier dramas. He had not then found himself, and perhaps it
was only by working awhile as others had done, that he could find
himself. The inferiority, then, of the poems grew not so much
from the conditions of the work, as from the state of his own mind i
it was not merely because they were not dramas, but partly be-
cause his genius was not then mature, that they fall below the
measure of bis powers.

But, much as the poems carry the air of imitations, they show,
withal, that he could not imitate without surpassing his models.
Venus and Adonis abounds in verbal and fantastical tricks and
antics caught from the taste and fashion of the age : often it may
be said of the Poet, that he appears " singling out the difficulties
of the art, to make an exhibition of his strength and skill in wres-
tling with them." But what fulness of life and spirit there is in it!
what richness and delicacy of imagery ! what fresh, and airy, and
subtle turns of invention and combination ! Coleridge, in his Bio-
graphia Literaria, has the following remarks upon it :

" In the Venus and Adonis, the first and most obvious excellence
is the perfect sweetness of the versification ; its adaptation to the
subject ; and the power displayed in varying the march of the
words without passing into a loftier and more majestic rhythm than
was demanded by the thoughts, or permitted by the propriety of
preserving a sense of melody predominant. The delight in rich-
ness and sweetness of sound, even to a faulty excess, if it be evi-
dently original, and not the result of an easily imitable mechanism,
I regard as a highly favourable promise in the compositions of a
young man. ' The man that hath not music in his soul ' can in-
deed never be a genuine poet. Imagery ; affecting incidents ;
just thoughts ; interesting personal or domestic feelings ; and
with these the art of their combination or intertexture in the form
of a poem ; may all, by incessant effort, be acquired as a trade,
by a man of talents and much reading, who has mistaken an intense
desire of poetic reputation for a natural poetic genius. But the
sense of musical delight, with the power of producing it, is a gift
of imagination ; and this, together with the power of reducing
multitude into unity of effect, and modifying a series of thoughts
by some one predominant thought or feeling, may be cultivated and
improved, but can never be learnt. It is in this sense that Poeta
nascit.ni , non Jit.

" A second promise of genius is the choice of subjects very re-
mote from the private interests and circumstances of the writei
himself. At least I have found, that where the subject is tak i«

n VENUS ANP ADONIS.

immediately from the author's personal sensations and experiences
the excellence of a particular poem is hut an equivocal mark, and
often a fallacious pledge, of genuine poetic power. In the Venus
and Adonis, this proof of poetic power exists even to excess. It
is throughout as if a superior spirit, more intuitive, more intimately
co iscious, even than the characters themselves, not only of every
outward look and act, but of the flux and reflux of the mind in all
its subtlest thoughts and feelings, were placing the whole before our
view ; himself, meanwhile, unparticipating in the passions, and
actuated only by that pleasurable excitement, which had resulted
from the energetic fervour of his own spirit, in so vividly exhibit-
ing what it had so accurately and profoundly contemplated. I
think I should have conjectured, that even the great instinct which
impelled the Poet to the drama was secretly working in him,
prompting him by a series and never-broken chain of imagery, al-
ways vivid, and, because unbroken, often minute; by the highest
effort of the picturesque in words, of which w-«rds are capable
higher perhaps than was ever realized by any other poet, even
Dnnte not excepted ; to provide a substitute for that visual lan-
guage, that constant intervention and running comment, bv tone,
look, and gesture, which in his dramatic works he was entitled to
expect from the players. His Venus and Adonis seem at once
the characters themselves, and the whole representation of those
characters by consummate actors. You seem to be told nothing,
but to see and hear every thing1.

" Hence it is, that from the perpetual activity of attention re-
quired on the part of the reader ; from the rapid flow, the quick
change, and the playful nature of the thoughts and images ; and,
above all. from the alienation, and, if I may hazard such an ex
pression, the utter aloofness of the Poet's own feelings, from those
of which he is at once the painter and the analyst; that though the
verv subject cannot but detract from the pleasure of a delicate
mind, yet never was poem less dangerous on a moral account.
Instead of doing as Ariosto, and as, still more offensively, Wie-
land has done; instead of degrading and deforming passion into
appetite, the trials of love into the struggles of concupiscence,
Shakespeare has here represented the animal impulse itself so as
to preclude all sympathy with it. by dissipating the reader's notice
among the thousand outward images, and now beautiful, now faii-
ciful circumstances, which forms its dresses and scenery ; or by
diverting our attention from the main subject by those frequent
witty or profound reflections, which the Poet's ever-active mind
has deduced from, or connected with, the imagery and the inci-
dents. The reader is forced into too much action to sympathize
with the merely passive of our nature. As little can a mind thus
•oused and awakened be brooded on by mean and indistinct emo-
tion, as the low, lazy mist can creep upon the surface of a lake,
while a strong gale is driving it onward in waves and billows."

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

HENRY WRIOTHESLY,

EARL OP SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFLKLD.l

RIGHT HONOURABLE : I know not how I shall offend
m dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor

1 This nobleman, the third Earl of Southampton, was horn the
6th of October, 1573, became a student of Si. John's College,
Cambridge, in 1585, and proceeded Master of Arts in 1589. Three
vears later, he was admitted to the same degree at Oxford. At
the time of this dedication, 1593, he was twenty years of age. He
was early distinguished for his attachment to literature, his patron-
age of Shakespeare having begun before the taking of his degree
at Oxford. In his dedication of The Rape of Lucrece, 1594, the
Poet delicately intimates the favours he had already received from
his youthful patron. In 1597 Southampton embarked as a volun-
teer in the expedition against Spain, under Essex, being appointed
captain of one of the principal ships. He afterwards had the
command of a squadron, and was knighted by Essex for his gal-
lantry in a situation of great peril. The next year he went with
Essex into Ireland, and was there made General of the Horse;
but the Queen would not suffer him to nold the place, as he had
married a cousin of Essex without her consent. On the fall of
Essex, he was sent to the Tower, where he was kept during the
rest of Elizabeth's reign. Not long after his release, he was made
governor of the Isle of Wight ; but, being secretly accused of too
great intimacy with the Queen. King James had him arrested : the
accusation, however, being unsuslained, he was discharged, and
afterwards retired in disgust to Spa. He was with Lord Herbert
of Cherbury at the siege of Rees ; returned to England in 1619,
and was appointed a member of the Privy Council : but he again
incurred the royal displeasure by going with the popular party,
and was for a short time in the custody of the Dean of Westmin-
ster. In 1624 he had the command of a small force against the
Spaniards in the Low Countries, and died of a fever at Bergen-
op-Zoom, on the 10th of November that year. He received many
tributes and testimonies of honour from the scholars and higher
wits of his time; but his friendship for Shakespeare has given his
name and character an abiding interest. Camden tells us that he
was as well known for his love of letters as for his military exploits ;

8 DEDICATION.

how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a
prop to support so weak a burden : only, if your Honour
seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and
vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have hon-
oured you with some graver labour. But, if the first heir
of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so
noble a god-father, and never after ear so barren a land,*
tor fear it yield me still so bad a harvest I leave it to
your honourable survey, and your Honour to your heart's
content ; which I wish may always answer your own wish,
and the world's hopeful expectation.

Your Honour's in all duty,

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

•nd Sir John Beaumont, after commending his public and prvate
virtues, speaks of his liberality to men of genius and learning as
his highest title to praise :

"I keep that glory last, which is the best ;
The love of learning, which he oft express'd
By conversation, and respect to those
Who had a name in arts, in verse or prose." H.

* To ear is the old word for to plough : hence earable or ara
ble. So in All's Well that Ends Well, Act i. sc. 3 : "He that tart
my land spares mv team, and gives me leave to inn the crop."
See. also, King Richard II-. Act iii. sc. 2, note 15. H.

VENUS AND ADONIS.

Vilia miretur vulgus, inilii flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua. OVID.

ARGUMENT.

Venus in vain endeavours to inspire her favourite Ado-
nis with a mutual passion, and to dissuade him from a too
eager pursuit of the pleasures of the chase. The youth
rejects the overtures, and disregards the advice of the
goddess, and is mortally wounded by a wild boar : his
body is changed into a flower called anemone by his dis-
consolate mistress, who, after tenderly lamenting his un-
timely death, is conveyed in the clouds to Paphos.

EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase ;
Hunting he lov'd, but love he laugh'd to scorn :
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac'd suitor 'gins to woo him.

Tl hrice fairer than myself, (thus she began,)
The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are ;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow ;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shall thou know.

10 VENUS AND ADONIS.

Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And, being set, I'll smother thee with kisses :

And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making1 them red and pale with fresh variety;
Ten rfisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.

With this, she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good :
Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy ;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough

Nimbly she fastens ; (O, how quick is love !)

The steed is stalled up, and even now

To tie the rider she begins to prove :

Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,

And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along, as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips :
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown.
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips ;
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken
If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.

VENUS AND ADONIS. II

He burns with bashful shame , she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks ;
Then, with her windy sighs and golden hairs,
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks :
He saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss ; !
What follows more, she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,2
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuff'd, or prey be gone ,
Even so she kiss'd his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.

Forc'd to content,3 but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face :
She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace ;
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dew'd with such distilling showers.

Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net,

So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies ;

Pure shame and aw'd resistance made him fret,

Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:

Rain, added to a river that is rank,4

Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she intreats, and prettily intreats,
For to a pretty air she tunes' her tale ;

* Amiss was not unfrequently used as a substantive, meaning,
of course, something done amiss. — In the next line, the first three
editions have murders; later editions, smothers. H.

* To tire is to tear, or feed upon, as a bird of prey. See
Henry VI., Act i. sc. 1, note 14. H.

* That is, compelled to acquiescence, or forced to be content.

H.

4 That is, a river already full. So in Drayton's Barons Wars
• Fetching full tides, luxurious, high, and rank " H.

12 VENUS AND ADONI-J.

Still is he Milieu, still he lowers and frets,
'Tvvixt crimson shame, and anger ashy-nale :
Being red, she loves him best ; and, being white,
Her best is better'd with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love ;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears
From his soft bosom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet ;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,8
Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in ;
So offers he to give what she did crave ;
But, when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger, in summer's heat,

More thirst for drink than she for this good turn:

Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;

She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn

O, pity, 'gan she cry, flint-hearted boy.!

'Tis but a kiss I beg : why art thou coy ?

I have been woo'd, as I intreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow ;
Who conquers where he comes, in every jar :
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt havft

Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
f lis batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest ;
And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest ;

* A dive 'dapper is a didapper or dabchich, a species of Colyn*

bus «

VENUS AND ADOM5. 13

Scorning his churlish drum, and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

Thus he that over-rul'd, I oversway'd,

Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:

Strong-tern per 'd steel his stronger strength obey'd,

Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.

O ! be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,

For mastering her that foil'd the god of fight.

Toucli but my lips with those fair lips of thine,
(Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red,)
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground ? hold up thy head '
Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies;
Then, why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes 1

Art thou asham'd to kiss ? then, wink again,
And I will wink ; so shall the day seem night:
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain ;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight :
These blue-vein'd violets, whereon we lean,
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

The tender spring upon thy tempting lip

Shows thee unripe, yet rnay'st thou well be tasted

Make use of time, let not advantage slip ;

Beauty within itself should not be wasted :

Fair flowers, that are not gather'd in their prime,

Rot and consume themselves in little time.

Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtur'd, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O'er-worn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,
Then might'st thou pause, for then I were not foi

thee ;
But, having no defects, why dost abhor me ?

14 VENUS AN1J ADONIS.

Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow ;
Mine eyes are gray and bright,6 and quick in turn-
ing ;

My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow ;
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning :
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.7

Hid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear ;

Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green ;

Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair,

Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen :

Love is a spirit all compact of fire;8

Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie :

These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me ;

Two strengthless doves will draw me through the

sky,

From morn till night, even where I list to sport me:
Is love so light, swset boy ; and may it be,
That thou should'st think it heavy unto thee 1

Is thine own heart to thine own face affected ?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left 1
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

6 Gray eyes were the same as are now called blue. See Ro
meo and Juliet, Act ii. sc. 4, note 7. H.

7 What moisture of hand was thought to indicate, is shown in
Antony and Cleopatra, Act i. sc. 2 : " Nay, if an oi'y palm be not a
fruitful prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear." And in Othel-
lo, Act iii. sc. 4 : " Here's a young and sweating devil here, thai
commonly rebels. 'Tis a good hand; a frank one." H.

8 That is, all made up or composed of fire ; as in the phrase, "of
imagination a1! compact." H.

VENUS AND ADONIS. 15

Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear ;
Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse :
Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty :
Thou wast begot ; to get, it is thy duty.

Upon the earth's increase why should'st thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed ?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so in spite of death thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.

By this, the love-sick queen began to sweat,

For where they lay the shadow had forsook them ;

And Titan, 'tired in the mid-day heat,

With burning eye did hotly overlook them ;

Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,

So he were like him, and by Venus' side.

And now Adonis, with a lazy sprite,

And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,

His lowering brows o'erwhelming his fair sight.

Like misty vapours, when they blot the sky,

Souring his cheeks, cries, Fie ! no more of love :

The sun doth burn my face ; I must remove.

Ali me ! (quoth Venus,) young, and so unkind 1
What bare excuses mak'st thou to be gone !
I'll sigli celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun :
I'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs ;
If they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears.

The sun that shines from heaven, shines but warm,
And, lo ! I lie between that sun and thee :
The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Thine eye darts forth the fire .that burneth me ;

16 VENUS AND ADONIS.

And were I not immortal, life were done,
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel ?

Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth

Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel

What 'tis to love ? how want of love tormenteth 1

O ! had thy mother borne so hard a mind,

She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.9

What am I, that thou should'st contemn me this ?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit ?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair ; but speak fair words, or else be mute
Give me one kiss ; I'll give it thee again ;
And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.

Fie ! lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,
Statue, contenting but the eye alone ;
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred :
Thou art no man, though of a man's complexion;
For men will kiss even by their own direction.

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause ;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong:
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause ;
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground ;
Sometimes her arms infold him like a bnnd:
She would, he will not in her arms be bound ;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers, one in one.

• That is, died childless, or without any of her kind.. B

VENUS AND ADONIS. 17

Fondling, she saith, since I have hemm'd thee here,

Within the circuit of this ivory pale,

I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer:

Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale ;

Graze on my lips, and, if those hills be dry,

Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

Within this limit is relief enough ;

Sweet bottom-grass, and high delightful plain,

Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,

To shelter thee from tempest and from rain :

Then, be my deer, since I am such a park ;

No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.

At this Adonis smiles, as in disdain,

That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple :

Love made those hollows ; if himself were slain,

He might be buried in a tomb so simple ;

Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,

Why, there Love liv'd, and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Open'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits ?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking 1
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn !

Now which way shall she turn 1 what shall she say 1
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing ;
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
Pity ! she cries ; some favour, some remorse ! I0
Away he springs, and Imsteth to his horse.

10 The more common meaning of remorse in the Po«t'» time
was compassion or tenderness. H.

18 VENUS AND ADONIS.

But, lo ! from forth a copse that neighbours l/y
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud :
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his reign, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thundei
The iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick'd, his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stands on end ;n
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send;
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,

With gentle majesty and modest pride ;

Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,

As who should say, lo ! thus my strength is tried

And this I do, to captivate the eye

Of the fair breeder that is standing by.

What recketh he his ridei's angry stir,

His flattering holla, or his " Stand, I say ? "

What cares he now for curb, or pricking spur ?

For rich caparisons, or trapping gay 7

He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,

For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,

11 Compass'd for arched.

VENUS AND ADONIS 19

His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed ;
So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone.

Round-hoof 'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs, and passing

strong,

Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide :
Look, what a horse should have, he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometime he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather :
To bid the wind a base12 he now prepares,
And whe'r he run or fly, they know not whether ,
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her ;
She answers him, as if she knew his mind :
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo hei,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind ;
Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,

He vails his tail,13 that, like a falling plume,

Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent :

He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.

His love, perceiving how he is enrag'd,

Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd.

12 That is, to challenge the wind to a contest for superiority
Base is a rustic game, sometimes termed prison-base, or prison-
bars. See Cymbeline, Act v. sc. 3, note 1.

13 To vail is to lower or let fall. See The Merchant of Ven
ice. Act i. sc. 1, note 3. B.

20 VENUS AND ADONIS.

His testy master go'th about to take him ;
When, lo ! the unback'd breeder, full of feai,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Outstripping crows that strive to over-fly them.

All swol'n with chafing,14 down Adonis sits,
Banning his boisterous and unruly beast ;
And now the happy season once more fits,
That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest ;
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong,
When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.

An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage ;
So of concealed sorrow may be said :
Free vent of words love's fire doth assuage ;
But, when the heart's attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.

He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow ;
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.

O ! what a sight it was, wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy ;
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy :
But now her cheek was pale, and by and by
It flash'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

14 The first three editions have chafing; that of 1600 misprints
chasing, and is commonly followed in modern erf:'.ions. — Banning,
in the next line, is cursing. H.

VENUS AND ADONIS. 2'

Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels ;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels :
His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand's print,
As apt as new-fall'n snow takes any dint.

O, what a war of looks was then between them !
Her eyes, petitioners, to his eyes suing ;
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them ;
Her eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing
And all this dumb play had his acts15 made plain
With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,

A lily prison'd in a jail of snow,

Or ivory in an alabaster band ;

So white a friend engirts so white a foe :

This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,

Show'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began :

O, fairest mover on this mortal round !

Would thou wert as I am, and I a man ;

My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound ; ia

For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,

Though nothing but my body's bane would cure thee.

Give me my hand, saith he ; why dost thou feel it !
Give me my heart, saith she, and thou shalt have it :
O ! give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,
And, being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it :
Then love's deep groans I never shall regard,
Because Adonis' heart hath made mine hard.

15 We have often seen that his was constantly used for its in the
Poet's time, the latter not being then a legitimate word. — The
closing couplet of this stanza is an evident allusion to the dutnl)
shows, and accompanying choruses of the old stage. H.

" Tby heart wounded as :r.;ne i*

22 VENUS AND ADONIS.

For shame ! he cries ; let go, and let me go ;
My day's delight is past, my horse is gone,
And 'tis your fault I am bereft him so :
I pray you, hence, and leave me here alone ;
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.

Thus she replies : Thy palfrey, as he should,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire :
Affection is a coal that must be cool'd ;
Else, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire :
The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;
Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone

How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,
Servilely master'd with a leathern rein !
But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee,
He held such petty bondage in disdain ;
Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,
Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.

Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,
But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,
His other agents aim at like delight ?
Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold
To touch the fire, the weather being cold 1

Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy ;

And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,

To take advantage on presented joy ;

Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee

O ! learn to love ; the lesson is but plain,

And, once made perfect, never lost again.

I know not love, quoth he, nor will not know it,
Unless it be a boar, and then 1 chase it :

VENUS AND ADONIS. 23

'Tig much to borrow, and I will not owe it ;
My love to love is love but to disgrace it ; 17
For I have heard it is a life in death,
That laughs, and weeps, and all but with a breath

Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinished 1
Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth I
If springing things be any jot diminish'd,
They wither in their prime, prove nothing woith.
The colt that's back'd and burden'd being young,
Loseth his pride, and never waxeth strong.

You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,
And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat :
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart ;
To love's alarms it will not ope the gate.
Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery ;
For where a heart is hard, they make no battery.

What ! canst thou talk 1 quoth she ; hast thou a

tongue '?

O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing !
Thy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong ;
I had my load before, now press'd with bearing :
Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh-sounding,
Ear's deep sweet music, and heart's deep sore

wounding.

Had I no eyes, but ears, my ears would love
That inward beauty and invisible ;
Or, were I deaf, thy outward parts would move
Each part in me that were but sensible :
Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,
Yet should I be in love by touching thee.

17 My inclination towards love is only a desire to render it con-
temptible.

24 VENUS AND ADONIS.

Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me,
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,
And nothing but the very smell were left me,
Yet would my love to thee be still as much ;
For from the stillatory of thy face excelling18
Comes breath perfum'd, that breedeth love by smell-
ing.

But O ! what banquet wert thou to the taste,
Being nurse and feeder of the other four :
Would they not wish the feast might ever last,
And bid Suspicion double-lock the door ;
Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,
Should by his stealing-in disturb the feast ?

Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield ;
Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd
Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field,
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gusts and foul flaws I9 to herdmen and to herds.

This ill presage advisedly she marketh :
Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth,
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,
Or as the berry breaks before it staineth ;
Or, like the deadly bullet of a gun,
His meaning struck her ere his words begun.

And at his look she flatly falleth down ;

For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth

A smile recures the wounding of a frown ;

But blessed bankrupt, that by loss so thriveth !

The silly boy, believing she is dead,

Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red ,

18 Stillatory is an obsolete word meaning the same as labora-
tory, a.
10 Flaws are sudden blasts of wind.

VENUS AND ADONIS. 25

And aU-amuz'd brake off his late intent,
For sharply he did think to reprehend her,
Which cunning love did wittily prevent ;
Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her !
For on the grass she lies as she were slain,
Till his breath breatheth life in her again.

He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard ;
He chafes her lips ; a thousand ways he seeks
To mend the hurt that his unkindness niarr'd ;
He kisses her ; and she, by her good will,
Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.

The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day .

Her two blue windows faintly she upheaveth,

Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array

He cheers the morn, and all the earth relieveth • *

And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,

So is her face illumin'd with her eye ;

Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd,
As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine.
Were never four such lamps together mix'd,
Had not his clouded with his brows' repine ;
But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light.
Shone like the moon in water seen by night.

O ! where am I ? quoth she ; in earth or heaven,
Or in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire ?
What hour is this 1 or morn, or weary even ?
Do I delight to die, or life desire 1
But now I liv'd, and life was death's annoy ;
But now I died, and death was lively joy.

O ! thou didst kill me ; — kill me once again :
Thy eyes' shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine*

** All the old editions except the first have world instead ol
•arth a.

20 VENUS AND ADONia.

Hath taught them scornful tricks, and such disdam;
That they have murder'd this poor heart of mine ;
And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,
But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.

Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!
O, never let their crimson liveries wear !
And, as they last, their verdure still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year!
That the star-gazers, having writ on death,
May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath.

Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,
What bargains may I make, still to be sealing ?
To sell myself T can be well contented,
So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing,
Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips21
Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.

A thousand kisses buys my heart from me ;
And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.
What is ten hundred touches unto thee 1
Are they not quickly told, and quickly gone ?
Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble 1

Fair queen, quoth he, if any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with my unripe years:
Before I know myself, seek not to know me ;
No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears :
The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
Or, being early pluck'd, is sour to taste.

Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait,
His day's hot task hath ended in the west :

n Slips was a term for certain counterfeit coin. See Romeo
aud Juliet, Act ii. sc. 4, note 9. H.

VENUS AND ADONIS. 27

The owl, night's herald, shrieks, 'tis very late ;
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest ;
And coal-black clouds, that shadow heaven's light,
Do summon us to part, and bid good night.

Now let me say good night, and so say you ;
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.
Good night, quoth she ; and, ere he says adieu,
The honey fee of parting tender'd is :
Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace ;
Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face,

Till breathless he disjoin'd, and backward drew
The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,
Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,
Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drought :
He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth.
Their lips together glued, fall to the earth.

Now quick Desire hath caught the yielding prey.
And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth ;
Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
Paying what ransom the insulter willeth ;
Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,
That she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry :

And, having felt the sweetness of the spoil,

With blindfold fury she begins to forage ;

Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,

And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage ;

Planting oblivion, beating reason back,

Forgetting shame's pure blush, and honour's wrack.

Hot, faint, and weary with her hard embracing,
Like a wild bird being tam'd with too much ban?

dling ;

Or as ihe fleet-foot roe, that's tired with chasing ;
Or like the froward infant, still'd with dandling ;

23 VENUS AND ADONIS.

He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,
Wlule she takes all she can, not all she listeth.

What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,
And yields at last to every light impression 1
Things out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing.
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission :
Affection faints not like a pale-fac'd coward,
But then wooes best, when most his choice is froward.

When he did frown, O ! had she then gave over,
Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd.
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover :
What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd :
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
Yet love breaks through, and picks them all at last.

For pity now she can no more detain him ;
The poor fool prays her that he may depart :
She is resolv'd no longer to restrain hirn ;
Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,
The which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest,
He carries thence encaged in his breast.

Sweet boy, she says, this night I'll waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
Tell me, love's master, shall we meet to-morrow ?
Say, shall we ? shall we ? wilt thou make the match !
He tells her, no ; to-morrow he intends
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.

The boar ! quoth she ; whereat a sudden pale,
Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,
Usurps her cheek : she trembles at his tale,
And on his neck her yoking arm she throws ;
She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck ;
Ele on her belly falls, she or her back.

VENUS AND ADONfS. iKJ

Now is she in the very lists of love,

Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:

All is imaginary she doth prove ;

He will not manage her, although he mount her ;

That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy,

To clip Elysium,22 and to lack her joy.

Even as poor birds, deceiv'd with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye, and pine the maw,23
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.24
The warm effects which she in him finds missing,
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing:

But all in vain ; good queen, it will not be :
She hath assay'd as much as may be- prov'd ;
Her pleading hath deserv'd a greater fee ;
She's love, she loves, and yet she is not lov'd.
Fie, fie ! he says ; you crush me ; let me go:
You have no reason to withhold me so.

Thou hadst been gone, quoth she, sweet boy, er«

this,

But that thou told'st me thou would'st hunt the boar.
O, be advis'd ! thou know'st not what it is
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes never-sheath'd he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.2*

On his bow-back he hath a battle set

Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;

** To clip was often used for to embrace. H.

K Alluding to the picture of Zeuxis, in which the grapes are yaid
to have been represented so well that the birds mistook them foi
natuie's own work. H.

44 That is, berries that afford no help or nourishment

86 Mortal was continually used for deadly. H

30 VENUS AND ADONIS.

His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret ;
His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes ;
Being mov'd, he strikes whate'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.

His hrawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,

Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter ;

His short thick neck cannot be easily hann'd ;

Being ireful, on the lion he will venture :

The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,

As fearful of him, part ; through whom he rushes

Alas ! he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes ;
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes ;
But, having thee at vantage, (wondrous dread !)
Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.

O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still !
Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends :
Come not within his danger by thy will ;
They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.
When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,
I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.

Didst thou not mark my face ? Was it not white !
Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye 1
Grew I not faint 1 and fell I not downright 1
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
But like an earthquake shakes thee on my breast.

For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection's sentinel ;
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry, "Kill, kill !**

VENUS AND ADONIS. 31

Distempering gentle love in his desire,
As air and water do abate the fire.

This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,se
This canker that eats up love's tender spring,
This carry-tale, dissensious Jealousy,
That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear,
That, if I love thee, I thy death should fear ;

And, more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore ;
Whose blood, upon the fresh flowers being shed,
Doth make them droop with grief, and hang the head

What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,

That tremble at th' imagination ?

The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,

And fear doth teach it divination :

I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,

If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

But, if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me ;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare ;
Or at the fox, which lives by subtilty ;
Or at the roe, which no encounter dare :
Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy hounds.

And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles "

** Bate is an old word, signifying strife, contention.

*7 All the old editions have overshuts, which Steevens conjee-
tared to be a misprint for overshoots, and Mr. Dyce adopts the
latter word. But overshut may be used in the sense of shut up
or conclude. To get shut of a thing is still in use for to get rid
of it. H

32 VENUS AND ADONIS.

How he outruns the wind, and with what care
Ho cranks and crosses, with a thousand doubles:
The many musets through the which he goes,88
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,

To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell ,

And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,

To stop the loud pursuers in their yell ;

And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer :

Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear.

For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt.
Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out :
Then do they spend their mouths ; Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.

By this, poor Wat, far oflf upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still •
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear ;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick, that hears the passing-bell.

Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn and return, indenting with the way :
Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch ;
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay ,
^or misery is trodden on by many,
And, being low, never reliev'd by any.

Lie quietly, and hear a little more ;

Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise .

18 Mustt is probably a diminutive of muse, which means a hole
in a hedge, made by the passing of a hare. Cotgrave explains
tronee " a gap or muset in a hedge." — Crunks, in the preceding
line, is hends or turns; as in Hotspur's phrase, "this river comes
me cranking- in."

VENUS AND ADONIS. 32

To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself tliou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so ;
For love can comment upon every woe.

Where did I leave ? — No matter where, quoth lie. ;

Leave me, and then the story aptly ends :

The night is spent. Why, what of that ? quoth she.

I am, quoth he, expected of my friends ;

And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.

In night, quoth she, desire sees best of all.

But if thou fall, O ! then imagine this :

The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,

And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.

Rich preys make true men thieves ; so do thy lips

Make niodest Dian cloudy and forlorn,

Lest she should steal a kiss, and die forsworn.

Now, of this dark night I perceive the reason :
Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,
Till forging nature be condemn'd of treason,
For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine
Wherein she fram'd thee, in high heaven's despite,
To shame the sun by day, and her by night.

And therefore hath she brib'd the Destinies,

To cross the curious workmanship of nature ;

To mingle beauty with infirmities,

And pure perfection with impure defeature ;

Making it subject to the tyranny

Of mad mischances and much misery ;

As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence, and frenzies wood ; m

29 Wood is an old word for mad. See A Midsummer-Night's
Dream, Act ii. sc. 1, note 26. H.

34 VENUS AND ADONIS.

The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood :
Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair,
Swear nature's death for framing thee so fair.

And not the least of all these maladies
But in one minute's fight brings beauty under;
Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities,
Whereat th' impartial gazer late did wonder,
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd, and done,
As mountain snow melts with the mid-day sun.

Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals, and self-loving nuns,
That on the earth would breed a scarcity,
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
Be prodigal : the lamp that burns by night
Dries up his oil, to lend the world his light.

What is thy body but a swallowing grave,

Seeming to bury that posterity

Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,

If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity ?

If so, the world will hold thee in diddain,

Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.

So in thyself thyself art made away ;

A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,

Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay

Or butcher sire that reaves his son of life.

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets ;

But gold that's put to use, more gold begets.

Nay, then, quoth Adon, you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theme :
The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream ;

VENUS AND ADONIS. 35

For by this black-fac'd night, desire's foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse

If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown :
For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,
And will not let a false sound enter there ;

Lest the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure of my breast ;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bed-chamber to be barr'd of rest.
No, lady, no ; my heart longs not to groan,
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.

What have you urg'd that I cannot reprove ?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger :
I hate not love, but your device in love,
That lends embracements unto every stranger.
You do it for increase : O, strange excuse !
When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse.

Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating Lust on earth usurp'd his name ,
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame ;
Which the hot tyrant stains, and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.

Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But lust's effect is tempest after sun ;
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done;
Love surfeits not, lust like a glutton dies ;
Love is all truth, lust full of forged lies.

36 VENUS AND ADONIS.

More I could tell, but more I dare not say ;
The text is old, the orator too green.
Therefore, in sadness, now I will away ;
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen : 30
Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,
T)o burn themselves for having so offended.

With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace
Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,
And homeward through the dark lawn runs apaje
Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.
Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
So glides he in the night from Venus' eye ;

Which after him she darts, as one on shore

Gazing upon a late-embarked friend,

Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,

Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend :

So did the merciless and pitchy night

Fold in the object that did feed her sight :

Whereat amaz'd, as one that unaware
Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,
Or 'stonish'd as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood ;
Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair discovery of her way.

And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,

That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,

Make verbal repetition of her moans ;

Passion on passion deeply is redoubled.

Ah me ! she cries; and, twenty times, Woe, woe!

And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.

30 Teen is an old word for sorrow. See Romeo and Juliet. Aci
i ac. 3, note 1. "•

VENUS AND ADONIS. 37

She, marking them, begins a wailing note,

And sings extemporally a woeful ditty ;

How love makes young men thrall, and old men

dote :

How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty :
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Her song was tedious, and outwore the night,
For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short :
If pleas'd themselves, others, they think, delight
In such like circumstance, with such like sport :
Their copious stories, oftentimes begun,
End without audience, and are never done.

For whom hath she to spend the night withal,

But idle sounds resembling parasites,

Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,

Soothing the humour of fantastic wits ?

She says, 'Tis so ; they answer all, 'Tis so ;

And would say after her, if she said no.

Lo ! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,

From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,

And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast

The sun ariseth in his majesty ;

Who doth the world so gloriously behold,

That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.

Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow :
O, thou clear god, and patron of all light !
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence that makes him bright ;
There lives a son, that suck'd an earthly mother
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other-

This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o'erworn.

ti8 VENUS AND ADONIS.

And yet she hears no tidings of her love *
She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn :
Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.31

And as she runs, the bushes in the way,
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay :
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache
Hasting to feed her fawn, hid in some brake.

By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay,
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
Wreath'd up in fatal folds, just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shuddei
Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds.

For now she knows it is no gentle chase,

But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud ;

Because the cry remaineth in one place,

Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud :

Finding their enemy to be so curst,32

They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.

This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
Through which it enters to surprise her heart ;
Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part
Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,
They basely fly, and dare nut stay the field.

Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy,
Till, cheering up her senses all dismay'd,33

11 To coast was used for a sidelong approach to a thing.
M Curst is cross, snappish, Jierce ; often so used in the plays.

H

33 So the first two editions : that of 1596 has sore instead of all
Sort is commonly preferred, perhaus nehtlv so a

VENUS AND ADONrS 30

She tells them, 'tis a causeless fantasy

And childish error, that they are afraid ;

Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more :

And with that word she spied the hunted boar ;

Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
This way she runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires, to rate the boar for murther.

A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways ;
She treads the path that she untreads again :
Her more than haste is mated with delays,34
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain ;
Full of respects,36 yet nought at all respecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.

Here kennel'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master ;
And there another licking of his wound,
'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster ,
And here she meets another sadly scowling,
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.

When he hath ceas'd his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,
Against the welkin volleys out his voice ;
Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.

34 Mated is confounded or defeated. The word is met wilb
geveral times in the plays. See Macbeth, Act v. sc. 1, note 4.

H.

35 So the first two editions ; the later, respect. Respect was
often used thus for consideration ; as in King Lear, Act i. sc. 1 •
" Love is not love, when it is mingled with respect* that stand aloof
from the entire point " u

40 VENUS AND ADONIS.

Look, how the world's poor people are atnaz'd

At apparitions, signs, and prodigies,

Whereon with fearful eyes they long have guz'd,

Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;

So she at these sad signs draws up her breath,

And, sighing it again, exclaims on Death :

Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love, (thus chides she Death,)
Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou

mean,

To stifle beauty, and to steal his breath,
Who when he liv'd, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet ?

If he be dead, — O no ! it cannot be,
Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it. —
O yes ! it may ; thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
Thy mark is feeble age ; but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant's heart.

Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke ;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower:
Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not death's ebon dart, to strike him dead.

Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok'st such weejv-

(i

What may a heavy groan advantage thee ?
Why hasl thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see ?
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,8*
Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.

38 Mortal again in the sense of deadly. See note 25. u

VENUS AND ADONIS. 4 1

Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She vail'd her eye-lids,37 who, like sluices, stopp'd
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp'd ;
But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
Arid with his strong course opens them again.

O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow !
Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye ;
Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow ;
Sorrow, that friendly sighs sought still to dry ;
But, like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.

Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving who should best become her grief;
All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
But none is best ; then join they all together,
'Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.

By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollow ,
A nurse's song ne'er pleas'd her babe so well :
The dire imagination she did follow,
This sound of hope doth labour to expel ;
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her it is Adonis' voice :

Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison'd in her eye, like pearls in glass ;
Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pasa,
To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
Who is but drunken, when she seemeth drowii'd.

O, hard-believing love, how strange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too credulous !

" That is, let fall her eye-lids. See note 13. B.

42 VENUS AND ADONIS.

Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes ;
Despair and hope make thee ridiculous :
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.

Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought

Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame :

It was not she that call'd him all to nought ;

Now she adds honours to his hateful name ;

She clepes him king of graves,38 and grave for kings,

Imperious supreme of all mortal things.

No, no, quoth she, sweet Death, I did but jest ;
Yet, pardon me, I felt a kind of fear,
When as I met the boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no pity, but is still severe ;
Then, gentle shadow, (truth I must confess,)
I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.

'Tis not my fault ; the boar provok'd my tongue :

Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander :

'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong ;

I did but act, he's author of thy slander.

Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet

Could rule them both, without ten women's wit.

Thus, hoping that Adonis is alive,

Her rash suspect she doth extenuate ;

And, that his beauty may the better thrive,

With Death she humbly doth insinuate ;

Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs ; and stories

His victories, his triumphs, and his glories.

O Jove ! quoth she, how much a fool was I,
To be of such a weak and silly mind,

M Clepet for calls ; often so used. See Macbeth, Act iii. sc. ](
oote 6. a.

VENUS AND ADONIS. 43

To wail h/s death, who lives, and must not die,
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind ;
For, he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

Fie, fie, fond Love ! thou art so full of fear,

As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves j

Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,

Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.

Even at this word she hears a merry horn,

Whereat she leaps, that was but late forlorn.

As falcon to the lure, away she flies :

The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light ;

And in her haste unfortunately spies

The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight :

Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,

Like stars asham'd of day, themselves withdrew

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there all smother'd up in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again ;
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
Into the deep dark cabins of her head ;

Where they resign their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain ;
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again ;
Who, like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan ;

Whereat each tributary subject quakes ;
As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes,
Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound

44 V£NUS AND ADONIS.

This mutiny each part doth so surprise.

That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes ,

And, being open'd, threw unwilling light

Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd

In his soft flank ; whose wonted lily white

With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd

No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,

But stole his blood, and seem'd with him to bleed.

This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth ;
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head ;
Dumbly she passions,39 franticly she doteth ;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead :
Her voice is stopp'd, her joints forget to bow ;
Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now.

Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,

That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem

three ;

And then she reprehends her mangling eye,
That makes more gashes where no breach should be :
His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled ;
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.

My tongue cannot express my grief for one,
And yet, quoth she, behold two Adons dead !
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead :
Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire i
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.

Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost !
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing''
Whose tongue is music now ? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or any thing ensuing ?

39 We have before met with passion used as a verb. See The
Two Gentle men of Verona, Act iv. sc. 4, note 6. H.

VENUS AND ADONIS. 45

The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh arid trim ;
But true sweet beauty liv'd and died with him.

Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear !
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you :
Having no fair to lose,40 you need not fear ;
The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you :
But, when Adonis liv'd, sun and sharp air
Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair ;

And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep ;
The wind would blow it off, and, being gone,
Play with his locks : then would Adonis weep ;
And straight, in pity of his tender years,
They both would strive who first should dry his tears.

To see his face, the lion walk'd along

Behind some hedge, because he would not fear

him ; 4I

To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tiger would be tame, and gently hear him ;
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey,
And never fright the silly lamb that day.

When he beheld his shadow in the brook,
The fishes spread on it their golden gills ;
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
That some would sing, some other in their bills
Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries ;
He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.

*5 Fair is here used as a substantive for beauty. See The
Comedy of Errors, Act ii. s«. 1, note 10. H.

41 Fear used as a transitive verb, for to make afraid; as in
Measure for Measure, Act ii. sc. 1 : " We must not make a scare-
crow of the law, setting it up to fear the birds of prey." H,

46 VENUS AND ADONIS.

But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar/*
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he woie ;
Witness the entertainment that he gave :
If he did see his face, why, then, I know,
He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.

'Tis true, 'tis true ; thus was Adonis slain :
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who did not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there ;
And, nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheath'd, unaware, the tusk in his soft groin.

Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have kill'd him first -,
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth with his ; the more am I accurs'd.
With this she falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold ;
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told;
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where, lo ! two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect ;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect.
Wonder of time, quoth she, this is my spite,
That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light

Since thou art dead, lo ! here I prophesy,
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend ;

4* That is, snouted like a hedgehog.

VENUS AND ADONIS. 47

It shall be waited on with jealousy,

Find sweet beginning, but unsavory end ;

Ne'er settled equally, but high or low,

That all love's pleasure shall not match Ids woe

ft shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud ;
Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while ;
The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd
With sweets, that shall the truest sight beguile :
The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak

It shall be sparing, and too full of riot,

Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;43

The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,

Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;

It shall be raging-mad, and silly-mild ;

Make the young old, the old become a child.

It shall suspect, where is no cause of fear ;

It shall not fear, where it should most mistrust ;

It shall be merciful, and too severe ;

And most deceiving, when it seems most just :

Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward j

Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.

It shall be cause of war and dire events,

And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire ;

Subject and servile to all discontents,

As dry combustious matter is to fire :

Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy,

They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.

By this the boy, that by her side lay kill'd,
Wsw melted like a vapour from her sight ;

43 A measure was a slow and stately dance. Set Much Ada
about Nothing, Act ii. sc. I, uo'.c 2.

18 VENUS AND ADONIS.

And in his blood, that on the ground lay spill 'd,
A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white,
Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood
Which in round drops upon their wliiteness stood.

She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell.
Comparing it to her Adonis' breuth ;
And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death :
She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.

Poor flower ! quoth she, this was thy father's guise,
(Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire,)
For every little grief to wet his eyes :
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so 'tis thine ; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast, as in his blood.

Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast ;
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right :
Lo ! in this hollow cradle take thy rest ;
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night :
There shall not be one minute in an hour,
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.

Thus, weary of the world, away she hies,

And yokes her silver doves ; by whose swift aid,

Their mistress mounted, through the empty skies

In her light chariot quickly is convey'd ;

Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen

Means to immure herself, and not be seen.

INTRODUCTION

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

"A BOOK entitled The Ravishment of Luerece" is the reading
of an entry at the Stationers', by " Mr. Harrison, senior," on the
9th of May, 1594. The same year was issued a quarto pamphlet
of forty-seven leaves, with the following title-page : " Lucrece.
London : Printed by Richard Field for John Harrison, and are to
be sold at the sign of the white Greyhound in Paul's Church-yard.
1594." The poem was reissued by the same publisher, in 1598,
1600, and 1607. Malone claims to have heard of editions in 1596
and 1602 ; he was probably misinformed, as no copies with those
dates have been discovered.

In his dedication of this poem to the Earl of Southampton, th«
author speaks in a more confident tone than in that of the Venus
and Adonis, as if his growth of reputation curing the interval had
given him a feeling of strength with his noble friend and patron.
The language, too, of the dedication is such as to infer, that he had
in the mean time tasted more largely of that nobleman's bounty.

The Rape of Lucrece was not commended so much as its pred-
ecessor during the Poet's life, but it received commendation from
higher sources, and in a higher style. A strong instance from Ga-
briel Harvey has been quoted in our Introduction to Hamlet, and
therefore need not be given here.

Lucretia the Chaste is a theme of frequent recurrence in the ro-
mantic literature of the middle ages, when knighthood and chivalry
were wont to feed themselves on the glory of her example. The
storv was accessible to Shakespeare in Chaucer and Lydgate, and
in Paynter's Palace of Pleasure : there were also several ballads
on the subject. As to the classical sources of the tale, it is not
likely that the Poet was beholden directly to any of them, except,
perhaps, the Fasti, of which an English version appeared in 1570.

Modern criticism generally, assigns The Rape of Lucrece a
place of merit consHerably below that of the Venus and Adonis.
The thought and pas.sion of the later poem were, from the nature
nf the subject, of a much severer order, and probi bly did not ad-
mit of the warmth and vividness of colouring and imagery which

50 RAPE OF LUCRECE.

so distinguish the earlier; though there is in both a certain incon
tinence of wit and fancy, which shows that impulse was at thai
time stronger with the Poet than art. The truth seems to be, that
both are too highly seasoned with the peculiar spicery of the time
to carry an abiding relish. Their shape and physiognomy express
rather the literary fashion of the age, than the Poet's mental char-
acter ; and what was then apt to be regarded as the crowning
witchcraft of poetry, has the effect now of studied and elaborate
coldness ; the real glow of the work being drowned and lost to us
in a profuse and redundant sparkling of conceit.

In Bell's edition of the English Poets, now publishing, the com-
parative merit of the two poems is discussed as follows : " Opinion
is divided in the choice between Venus and Adonis and The Rape
of Lucrece. McJone pronounces decidedly against the latter, —
a decision which greatly surprises Boswell. The majority of read-
ers will be likely to agree with Malone. The subject of the former
piece is, at least, less painful, and its treatment is more compact
and effective. In beauty of expression and passionate depth of
feeling, the Venus and Adonis transcends the Lucrece, upon which
more elaboration has been bestowed with less success. The in
terest of Lucrece suffers from attenuation. The agony is too pro-
tracted ; the horror of the main incident is exhausted by prolonged
augmentation ; and the close is abrupt and hurried. There is a
want of symmetry in the parts; and the catastrophe is not pre-
sented with the fulness and solemnity proportionate to the expec-
tations excited by the preparatory details. But the poem abounds
in sweet and noble passages ; and in both pieces we discover the
germs of that unerring genius which impressed the true image of
nature upon every scene and character it depicted."

A passage from Coleridge will best dismiss the subject : " No
niHii was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a
profound philosopher. For poetry is the blossom and fragrancy
of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human passions, emo-
tions, language. In Shakespeare's poems, the creative power and
the intellectual energy wrestle as in a war embrace. Each in its
excess of strength seems to threaten the extinction of the other.
At length, in the drama they were reconciled, and fought each with
is shield before the breast of the other. The Venus and Adonis
did not, perhaps, allow the display of the deeper passions. But
the story of Lucretia seems to favour, and even demand their in-
tensest workings. Yet we find in Shakespeare's management of
the tale neither pathos, nor any other dramatic quality. There is
the same minute and faithful imagery as in the former poem, in the
same vivid colours, inspirited by the same impetuous vigour of
thought, and diverging and contracting with the same activity of
the a.ssimulative and of the modifying faculties ; and with a yet
larger display, a yet wider range of knowledge and reflection ; and,
lastly, with the same perfect dominion, often domination, over the
whole world of language."

TO THX RIGHT HONOURABLK

HENRY WRIOTHESLY,

EARL OP SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.

THE love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end
whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a super-
fluous moiety.1 The warrant I have of your honourable
disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it
assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours, what
I have to do ia yours ; being part in all I have, devoted
yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would show
greater : meantime, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship, to
whom I wish long life, still lengthened with happiness
Your Lordship's in all duty,

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

1 In Shakespeare's time, moiety was used indifferently for any
part of a thing, whether the half, or more or less than half. The
plays furnish several instances in point. See 1 Henry IV., Act
iii sc. 1, note 6 } and King Lear, Act i. sc. 1, note 1. . H.

THE RAPE OF LUCIIECE.

THE ARGUMENT.'

Lucius Tarquinius, (for his excessive pride surnamed
Buperbus,) after he had caused his own father-in-law, Ser-
vius Tullius, to be cruelly murdered, and, contrary to the
Roman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the
people's suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom,
went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of
Rome, to besiege Ardea: during which siege, the princi-
pal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of
Sextus Tarquinius, the king's son, in their discourses after
supper every one commended the virtues of his own wife ;
among whom, Collatinus extolled the incomparable chas-
tity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they all
posted to Rome ; and, intending by their secret and sud-
den arrival to make trial of that which every one had be-
fore avouched, only Collatinus finds his wife, though it
were late in the night, spinning amongst her maids : the
other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, or in
several disports ; whereupon the noblemen yielded Colla-
tinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time
Sextus Tarquinius, being inflamed with Lucrece' beauty,
yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with
the rest back to the camp ; from whence he shortly after
privily withdrew himself, and was, according to his estate
royally entertained and lodged by Lucrece at Collatium.

J This argument is presumed to have been written by the Poet
himself, and it was prefixed to the edition of 1594. Besides that
it narrates the story with clearness and simplicity, it has the further
interest of being the only prose composition of Shakespeare, not
dramatic, known to exist, except the two dedications to Southamp
ton. H.

54 THE ARGUMENT.

The same night, he treacherously stealeth into her cham-
ber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speed-
eth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily de-
epatcheth messengers, one to Rome for her father, another
to the camp for Collatine. They came, the one accom-
panie.d with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valeri-
us ; and, finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, de-
manded the cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath
of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole
manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed her-
self: which done, with one consent they all vowed to root
out the whole hated family of the Tarquins ; and, bearing
the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with
the doer and manner of the vile deed, with a bitter invec-
tive against the tyranny of the king ; wherewith the peo-
ple were so moved, that, with one consent and a general
acclamation, the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state
government changed from kings to consuls.

FROM the besieged Arrlea all in post,
Borne by the trustless wings of false desire,
Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host,
And to Collatium bears the lightless fire,
Which, in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire,
And girdle with embracing flames the waist
Of Collatine's fair love, Lucrece the chaste.

Haply, that name of chaste unhappily set

This bateless edge on his keen appetite ;

When Collatine unwisely did not let *

To praise the clear unmatched red and white,

Which triumph'd in that sky of his delight ;

Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven's beauties,

With pure aspects did him peculiar duties.

1 The proper meaning of let, as we have often seen in the plays,
was to hinder or prevent. Here it seems to be used reflexively;
that is, did not let or hinder himself ; or, did not forbear. H.

THE RAPE OF L.UCKECB. 55

For lie the night before, in Tarquin's tent,
Unlock'd the treasure of his happy state;
What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent
In the possession of his beauteous mate ;
Reckoning his fortune at such high proud rate,
That kings might be espoused to more fame,
But king nor peer to such a peerless dame.

O, happiness enjoy 'd but of a few !
And, if possess'd, as soon decay'd and done
As is the morning's silver-melting dew
Against the golden splendour of the sun !
An expir'd date, cancell'd ere well begun !
Honour and beauty, in the owner's arms,
Are weakly fortress'd from a world of harms.

Beauty itself doth of itself persuade
The eyes of men without an orator :
What needeth, then, apologies be made
To set forth that which is so singular?
Or why is Collatine the publisher
Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown
From thievish ears, because it is his own 1

Perchance, his boast of Lucrece' sovereignty

Suggested this proud issue of a king;2

For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be :

Perchance, that envy of so rich a thing,

Braving compare, disdainfully did sting

His high-pitch 'd thoughts, that meaner men should

vaunt
That golden hap which their superiors want.

But some untimely thought did instigate
His all too timeless speed, if none of those :

* Suggest was continually used for ttmpt or instigate. The
plays have many examples of the kind. See The Tempest, Act
iv. sc. 1, note 3. u.

56 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state
Neglected all, with swift intent he goes
To quench the coal which in his liver glows.*
O, rash, false heat ! wrapp'd in repentant cold,
Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne'er grows old

When at Collatium this false lord arriv'd,
Well was he welcom'd hy the Roman dame,
Within whose face beauty and virtue striv'd
Which of them both should underprop her fame
When virtue bragg'd, beauty would blush for shame ;
When beauty boasted blushes, in despite
Virtue would stain that o'er with silver white.4

But beauty, in that white intituled,5

From Venus' doves doth challenge that fair field ;

Then virtue claims from beauty beauty's red,

Which virtue gave the golden age, to gild

Their silver cheeks, and call'd it then their shield ;

Teaching them thus to use it in the fight ; —

When shame assail'd, the red should fence the white.

This heraldry in Lucrece' face was seen,
Argued by beauty's red and virtue's white:
Of either's colour was the other queen,
Proving from world's minority their right ;
Yet their ambition makes them still to fight,
The sovereignty of either being so great,
That oft they interchange each other's seat.

The liver was anciently supposed to be the seat of certain
passions. See The Tempest, Act iv. sc. 1, note 5. H.

4 Tne first edition has ore; the later ones, o'er. Ore was a
common way of printing o'er. Some editors, however, retain ore
here, and explain it to mean gold, in which sense it was often used
See Hamlet, Act iv. sc. 1, note 4. H.

4 That is, which consists in that whiteness, or takes its title
from it

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 57

Tliis silent war of lilies and of roses,
Which Tarquin view'd in her fair face's field,
In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses ;
Where, lest between them both it should he kill'd,
The coward captive vanquished aoth yield
To those two armies, that would let him go,
Rather than triumph in so false a foe.

Now thinks he, that her husband's shallow tongue,

The niggard prodigal that prais'd her so,

In that high task hath done her beauty wrong,

Which far exceeds his barren skill to show :

Therefore, that praise which Collatine doth owe,*

Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise.

In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes.

This earthly saint, adored by this devil,

Little suspecteth the false worshipper,

For unstain'd thoughts do seldom dream on evil ;

Birds never lim'd no secret bushes fear:

S'., guiltless, she securely gives good cheer

And reverend welcome to her princely guest,

Whose inward ill no outward harm express'd :

For that he colour'd with his high estate,

Hiding base sin in plaits of majesty ;

That nothing in him seem'd inordinate,

Save sometime too much wonder of his eye,

Which, having all, all could not satisfy ;

But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store,

That, cloy'd with much, he pineth still for more.

But she, that never cop'd with stranger eyes,
Could pick no meaning from their parling looks,
Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies

6 Praise here signifies the object of praise, that is, Lucretia. —
Owe for own or possett

58 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Writ in the glassy margents of such books:7
She touch'd no unknown baits, nor fear'd no hooks
Nor could she moralize his wanton sight,8
More than his eyes were open'd to the light.

He stories to her ears her husband's fame,

Won in the fields of fruitful Italy ;

And decks with praises ColJatine's high name,

Made glorious by his manly chivalry,

With bruised arms, and wreaths of victory :

Her joy with heav'd-up hand she doth express,

And, wordless, so greets Heaven for his success.

Far from the purpose of his coming thither,
He makes excuses for his being there :
No cloudy show of stormy blustering weather
Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear ;
Till sable Night, mother of dread and fear,
Upon the world dim darkness doth display,
And in her vaulty prison stows the day :

For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed,
Intending weariness with heavy sprite ; 9
For, after supper, long he questioned
With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night.
Now leaden slumber with life's strength doth fight,
And every one to rest themselves betake,10
Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, thai
wake.

7 Alluding to the custom of printing comments on books in ihe
margin. See Hamlet, Act v. sc. 2, note 23. H,

8 Moralize is here used in the sense of interpret. See The
Taming of the Shrew, Act iv. sc. 4. H.

9 Intending for pretending ; questioned for conversed. See King
Richard III., Act iii. sc. 5, note 1. H.

10 Some copies of the first edition have himself betakes, and,
In the next line, wakes instead of wake. Mr. Collier tells us that
iko f.ruos of 1594 belonging to the Duke of Devonshire and the

THb RAPE OF LUCRECE. 59

As one of which, doth Tarquin lie revolving
The sundry dangers of his will's obtaining;
Yet ever to obtain his will resolving,
Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstain-
ing:

Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining;
And when great treasure is the meed propos'd,
Though death be adjunct, there's no death suppos'd.

Those that much covet are with gain so fond,

That what they have not, that which they possess,

They scatter and unloose it from their bond,

And so, by hoping more, they have but less ;

Or, gaining more, the profit of excess

Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain,

That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.

The aim of all is but to nurse the life

With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age;

And in this aim there is such thwarting strife,

That one for all, or all for one we gage ;

As life for honour in fell battle's rage ;

Honour for wealth ; aud oft that wealth doth cost

The death of all, and all together lost.

So that, in venturing ill, we leave to be

The things we are, for that which we expect ;

And this ambitious foul infirmity,

In having much, torments us with defect

Of that we have : so then we do neglect

The thing we have, and, all for want of wit,

Make something nothing by augmenting it.

Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make,
Pawning his honour to obtain his lust ;

late Mr. Caldecott read as in the text. Of course the explanation
is, that the changes were made i liile the edition was in press.

GO THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

And for himself himself he must forsake :
Then, where is truth, if there be no self-trust ?
When shall lie think to find a stranger just,
When he himself himself confounds, betrays
To slanderous tongues, and wretched hateful days 1

Now stole upon the time the dead of night,
When heavy sleep had clos'd up mortal eyes ;
No comfortable star did lend his light,
No noise but owls' and wolves' death-boding cries :
Now serves the season that they may surprise
The silly lambs. Pure thoughts are dead and still,
While Lust and Murder wake to stain and kill.

And now this lustful lord leap'd from his bed,
Throwing his mantle rudely o'er his arm ;
Is madly toss'd between desire and dread ;
Th' one sweetly flatters, th' other feareth harm :
But honest fear, bewitch'd with lust's foul diann
Doth too, too oft betake him to retire,
Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire.

His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth,
That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly ;
Wliereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth,
Which must be load-star to his lustful eye ;
And to the flame thus speaks advisedly :
As from this cold flint I enforc'd this fire,
So Lucrece must I force to my desire.

Here, pale with fear, he doth premeditate
The dangers of his loathsome enterprise,
And in his inward mind he doth debate
What following sorrow may on this arise ;
Then, looking scornfully, he doth despise
His naked armour of still-slaughter'd lust,
And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. dl

Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not
To darken her whose light excelleth thine ;
And die, unhallow'd thoughts, before you blot
With your uncleanness that which is divine:
Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine :
Let fair humanity abhor the deed
That spots and stains love's modest snow-white
weed.

O, shame to knighthood, and to shining arms !
O, foul dishonour to my household's grave !
O, impious act, including all foul harms !
A martial man to be soft fancy's slave !
True valour still a true respect should have ;
Then my digression is so vile, so base,
That it will live engraven in my face.

Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive,
And be an eye-sore in my golden coat ;
Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive,
To cipher me how fondly I did dote ;
That my posterity, sham'd with the note,
Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin
To wish that I their father had not been.

What win I, if I gain the thing I seek 1

A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.

Who buys a minute's mirth, to wail a week?

Or sells eternity, to get a toy ?

For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy 1

Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown,

Would with the sceptre straight be stricken down \

If Collatinus dream of my intent,
Will he not wake, and in a desperate rage
Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent 1
This siege that hath engirt his marriage,
This blur to youth, this sorrow to the saget

S2 J-IIE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

This dying virtue, this surviving shame,
Whose crime will hear an ever-during blame *
O ! wnat excuse can my invention make,
When thou shall charge me with so black a deed ?
Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake,
Mine eyes forego their light, my false heart bleed 1
The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed
And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly,
But, coward-like, with trembling terror die.

Had Collatinus kill'd my son or sire,

Or lain in ambush to betray my life,

Or were he not my dear friend, this desire

Might have excuse to work upon his wife,

As in revenge or quittal of such strife ;

But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend,

The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end.

Shameful it is ; — ay, if the fact be known :
Hateful it is; — there is no hate in loving:
I'll beg her love ; — but she is not her own :
The worst is but denial, and reproving.
My will is strong, past reason's weak removing -
Who fears a sentence or an old man's saw,
Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.11

Thus, graceless, holds he disputation
'Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning wijl,
And with good thoughts makes dispensation,
Urging the worser sense for vantage still ;
Which in a moment doth confound and kill
All pure effects, and doth so far proceed,
That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed.

11 In the old tapestries, or painted cloths, moral sentences wer«
usually wrought. See As You Like It, Act iii. sc. 2, note 28

THE RAPE OF L,UCRkUfc. 63

he, She to ^k me kindly by the nand,
And gaz'd for tidings in my eager eyes,
Fearing some hard news from the warlike band,
Where her beloved Collatinus lies.
O, how her fear did make her colour rise !
First red as roses that on lawn we lay,
Then white as lawn, the roses took away.

And how her hand, in my hand being lock'd,
Forc'd it to tremble with her loyal fear !
Which struck her sad, and then it faster rock'd,
Until her husband's welfare she did hear ;
Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer,
That had Narcissus seen her as she stood,
Self-love had never drown'd him in the flood.

Why hunt I, then, for colour or excuses ?
All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth :
Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses ;
Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth :
Affection is my captain, and he leadeth ;
And when his gaudy banner is display'd,
The coward fights, and will not be dismay'd.

Then, childish fear, avaunt ! debating, die !
Respect12 and reason, wait on wrinkled age !
My heart shall never countermand mine eye :
Sad pause and deep regard beseem the sage ;
My part is youth, and beats these from the stage.
Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize ;
Then, who fears sinking where such treasure lieu 1

As corn o'ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear
Is almost clmk' 1 by unresisted lust.

13 Respect here means consideration. See Venus and Adonis,
note 35 a.

64 THE RAPE OF LUCREOE.

Away lie steels with open listening ear,

Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust ;

Both which, as servitors to the unjust,

So cross him with their opposite persuasion,

That row he vows a league, and now invasion.

Within his thought her heavenly image sits,

And in the selfsame seat sits Collatine:

That eye which looks on her confounds his wits ;

That eye which him beholds, as more divine,

Unto a view so false will not incline ;

But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart,

Which, once corrupted, takes the worser part ;

And therein heartens up his servile powers,
Who, flatter'd by their leader's jocund show,
Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours ;
And as their captain, so their pride doth grow
Paying more slavish tribute than they owe.
By reprobate desire thus madly led,
The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece' bed.

The locks between her chamber and his will,
Each one, by him enforc'd, retires his ward ; 13
But, as they open, they all rate his ill,
Which drives the creeping thief to some regard .
The threshold grates the door to have him heard ;
Night-wandering weasels shriek to see him there ;
They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear.

As each unwilling portal yields him way,
Through little vents and crannies of the place
The wind wars with his torch, to make him stay,
And blows the smoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct in this case ; M

13 Retires is here used as a transitive verb, ward being its ob-
ject ; so that the sense is the same as withdraws. — His for it*.

u.

14 Conduct for conductor

THE RAPE OF LUCHECE. 60

But Ids hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch :

And, being lighted, by the light he spies
Lucretia's glove, wherein her needle sticks :
He takes it from the rushes where it lies,15
And griping it, the neeld his finger pricks ;
As who should say, this glove to wanton tricks
Is not inur'd ; return again in haste :
Thou seest our mistress' ornaments are chaste.

But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him ;

He in the worst sense construes their denial :

The doors, the wind, the glove, that did delay him.

He takes for accidental things of trial,

Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial ;

Who with a lingering stay his course doth let,

Till every minute pays the hour his debt.

So, so, quoth he ; these lets attend the time,
Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring,
To add a more rejoicing to the prime,
And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing.17
Pain pays the income of each precious thing :
Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and

sands,
The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.

Now is he come unto the chamber-door,

That shuts him from the heaven of his thought ;

16 Apartments in England were strewed with rushes in the time
of our author.

18 Needle was sometimes used as a monosyllable. See A Mid-
summer-Night's Dream, Act iii. sc. 2, note 16. H.

17 Sneaped probably means checked. In 2 Henry IV., Act ii
sc. 1, Falstaff, when reproved by the Chief Justice, replies, — " M»
lord, I will not undergo this swap without reply." u

66 THE RAPE OF LOCRECE.

Wliich with a yielding latch, and with no more,

Hath bai/'d him from the hlessed thing he sought

So from himself impiety hath wrought,

That for his prey to pray he doth begin,

As if the heavens should countenance his sin.

But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer,
Having solicited th' eternal Power
That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair,
And they would stand auspicious to the hour ;
Even there he starts: — quoth he, I must deflower:
The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact ;
How can they, then, assist me in the act ?

Tben Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide !
My will is back'd with resolution :
Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried ;
The blackest sin is clear'd with absolution :
Against love's fire fear's frost hath dissolution.
The eye of heaven is out, and misty night
Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.

This said, his guilty hand pluck'd up the latch,
And with his knee the door he opens wide :
The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch 5
Thus treason works ere traitors be espied.
Who sees the lurking serpent, steps aside ;
But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing,
Lies at the mercy -of his mortal sting.

Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,
And gazeth on her yet-unstained bed :
The curtains being close, about he walks,
Rolling his greedy eye-balls in his head :
By their high treason is his heart misled ;
Which gives the watch-word to his hand full goon,
To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon.

THE RAPE UF LUCRECE. 6?

Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed sun,
Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight ;
Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun
To wink, being blinded with a greater light
Whether it is, that she reflects so bright,
That dazzleth them, or else some shame suppos'd
But blind they are, and keep themselves enclos'd

O ! had they in that darksome prison died,
Then had they seen the period of their ill :
Then Collatine again, by Lucrece' side,
In his clear bed might have reposed still ;
But they must ope, this blessed league to kill ;
And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight
Must sell her joy, her life, her world's delight.

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,
Cozening the pillow of a lawful kiss ;
Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder
Swelling on either side, to want his bliss,
Between whose hills her head entombed is ;
Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies,
To be admir'd of lewd, unhallow'd eyes.

Without the bed her other fair hand was,
On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white
Show'd like an April daisy on the grass,
With pearly sweat, resembling dew of night.
Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheath'd their light
And canopied in darkness sweetly lay,
Till they might open to adorn the day.

Her hair, like golden threads, play'd with her breath ;
O, modest wantons ! wanton modesty !
Showing life's triumph in the map of death,
And death's dim look in life's mortality :
Each in her sleep themselves so beautify,

68 THE RAPE OF LUCUECE.

As if between them twain there were no strife,
But that life liv'd in death, and death in life.

Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue,

A pair of maiden worlds unconquered ;

Save of their lord, no bearing yoke they knew,

And him by oath they truly honoured.

These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred ;

Who, like a foul usurper, went about

From tliis fair throne to heave the owner out.

What could he see, but mightily he noted 1
What did he note, but strongly he desir'd ?
What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,
And in his will his wilful eye he tir'd.
With more than admiration he admir'd
Her azure veins, her alabaster skin,
Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin.

As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey,

Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,

So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,

His rage of lust by gazing qualified ;

Slack'd, not suppress'd ; for, standing by her side,

His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,

Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins :

And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting

Obdurate vassals, fell exploits effecting,

In bloody death and ravishment delighting,

Nor children's tears nor mother's groans respecting

Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting;

Anon his beating heart, alarum striking,

Gives the hot charge, and bids them do their liking

His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye ;
His eye commends the leading to his hand ;

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. G9

His hand, as proud of such a dignity,
Smoking with pride, march'd on to make his stand
On her bare breast, the heart of all her land ;
Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale,
Left their round turrets destitute and pale.

They, mustering to the quiet cabinet

Where their dear governess and lady lies,

Do tell her she is dreadfully beset,

And fright her with confusion of their cries :

She, much amaz'd, breaks ope her lock'd-up eyes,

Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold,

Are by his flaming torch dimm'd and controll'd.

Imagine her, as one in dead of night
From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking,
That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite,
Whose grim aspect sets every joint a-shaking ;
What terror 'tis ! but she, in vvorser taking,
From sleep disturbed, needfully doth view
The sight which makes supposed terror true.

Wrapp'd and confounded in a thousand fears,
Like to a new-kill'd bird she trembling lies:
She dares not look ; yet, winking, there appears
Quick-shifting antics, ugly in her eyes:
Such shadows are the weak brain's forgeries ;
Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights,
In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights.

His hand, that yet remains upon her breast,
(Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall !)
May feel her heart (poor citizen !) distress'd,
Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall,
Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal.1*

J8 Bulk was formerly used for breast. So in Hamlet, Act it.
»c. 1 : "He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound, that it did >ecm
to shatter all his bulk, and end his being.'' H.

70 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

This moves in him more rage, and lesser pity,
To make the breach, and enter this sweet city

First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin
To sound a parley to his heartless foe ;
Who o'er the white sheet peers her whiter chin,
The reason of this rash alarm to know,
Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show ;
But she with vehement prayers urgeth still,
Under what colour he commits this ill.

Thus he replies : The colour in thy face
(That even for anger makes the lily pale,
And the red rose blush at her own disgrace)
Shall plead for me, and tell my loving tale ;
Under that colour am I come to scale
Thy never-conquer'd fort : the fault is thine,
For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine.

Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide*
Thy beauty hath ensnar'd thee to this night,
Where thou with patience must my will abide,—
My will, that marks thee for my earth's delight,
Which I to conquer sought with all my might ;
But as reproof and reason beat it dead,
By thy bright beauty was it newly bred.

I see what crosses my attempt will bring ;

I know what thorns the growing rose defends :

I thir.k the honey guarded with a sting :

All this, beforehand, counsel comprehends ;

But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends :

Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty,

And dotes on what he looks, 'gainst law or duty.

I have debated, even in my soul,

What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 71

But nothing can affection's course control,
Or stop the headlong fury of his speed :
I know repentant tears ensue the deed,
Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity,
Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy.

This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade,
Which, like a falcon towering in the skies,
Coucheth the fowl below with his wings' shade ;
Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount he dies
So under his insulting falchion lies
Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells,
With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcons' bells.

Lucrece, quoth he, this night I must enjoy thee ,
If thou deny, then force must work my way,
For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee :
That done, some worthless slave of thine I'll slay
To kill thine honour with thy life's decay ;
And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him,
Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him.

So thy surviving husband shall remain
The scornful mark of every open eye ;
Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain,
Thy issue blurr'd with nameless bastardy ;
And thou, the author of their obloquy,
Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes,
And sung by children in succeeding times.

But, if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend :
The fault unknown is as a thought unacted ;
A little harm, done to a gieat good end,
For lawful policy remains enacted.
The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted
In a pure compound ; being so applied
His venom in effect is ourified.

/£ THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Then, for thy husband and thy children's sake,
Tender my suit : bequeath not to their lot
The shame that from them no device can take.
The blemish that will never be forgot ;
Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-hour's blot
For marks descried in men's nativity
Are nature's faults, not their own infamy.

Here with a cockatrice' dead-killing eye

He rouseth up himself, and makes a pause;

While she, the picture of pure piety,

Like a white hind under the grype's sharp claws,"

Pleads in a wilderness, where are no laws,

To the rough beast that knows no gentle right,

Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite.

But, when a black-fac'd cloud the world doth threat,
In his dim mist th' aspiring mountains hiding,
From earth's dark womb some gentle gust doth get,
Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding,
Hindering their present fall by this dividing ;
So his unhallow'd haste her words delays,
And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays.

Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally,

While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth*

Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly,

A swallowing gulf, that even in plenty wanteth :

His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth

No penetrable entrance to her plaining :

Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.

Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fix'd
In the remorseless wrinkles of his face ;
Her modest eloquence with sighs is mix'd,
Which to her oratory adds more grace.
She puts the period often from his place ;

19 The grype is the griffin or vulture.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 73

And 'miJst the sentence so her accent breaks,
Thru twice she doth begin, ere once she speaks.

She conjures hi ID hy high almighty Jove,

By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship's oath

By her untimely tears, her husband's love,

By holy human law, and common troth,

l>y heaven and earth, and all the power of botfc,

Thai to his borrow'd bed he make retire,

And stoop to honour, not to foul desire.

Quoth she, Reward not hospitality

With such black payment as thou hast pretended ; "

Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee ;

Mar not the thing that cannot be amended ;

End thy ill aim, before thy shoot be ended.

He is no woodman, that doth bend his bow

To strike a poor unseasonable doe.

My husband is thy friend, for his sake spare me ;
Thyself art mighty, for thine own sake leave me ;
Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me;
Thou look'st not like deceit, do not deceive me :
My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave

thee.

If ever man were mov'd with woman's moans,
Be moved with rny tears, my sighs, my groans.

All which together, like a troubled ocean,
Beat at thy rocky and wreck-threatening heart,
To soften it with their continual motion ;
For stones dissolv'd to water do convert.
O, if no harder than a stone thou art,
Melt at my tears, and be compassionate !
Soft pity enters at an iron gate.

*' We have already, in note 9, had intending for pretending
Here, in like manner, we have intended for pretended. See Mac-
beth, Act ii. sc. 3, note 10 ; and sc. 4, note 5. u.

74 THE RAPE OF LUCRECt.

Ill Tarquin's Imeness I did entertain thoe .

Hast thou put on his shape to do him .shame ?

To all the host of heaven I complaiu me,

Thou wrong'st his honour, wound'st his princely

name :

Thou art not what thou seem'st ; and if the same,
Thou seem'st not what thou art, a god, a king ;
For kings, like gods, should govern every thing.

How will thy shame be seeded in thine age,
When thus thy vices bud before thy spring !
If in thy hope thou dar'st do such outrage,
What dar'st thou not, when once thou art a king !
O, be remember'd ! no outrageous thing
From vassal actors can be wip'd away ;
Then, kings' misdeeds cannot be hid in clay.

This deed will make thee only lov'd for fear ;
But happy monarchs still are fear'd for love :
With foul offenders thou perforce must bear,
When they in thee the like offences prove :
If but for fear of this, thy will remove ;
For princes are the glass, the school, the book,
Where subjects' eyes do learn, do read, do look.

And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn 1

Must he in thee read lectures of sue!) shame ?

Wilt thou be glass, wherein it shall discern

Authority for sin, warrant for blame,

To privilege dishonour in thy name ?

Thou back'st reproach against long-living laud,

And mak'st fair reputation but a bawd.

Hast thou command 1 by Him that gave it thee,
From a pure heart command thy rebel will.
Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity,
For it was lent thee all that brood to kill
Thy princely office how canst thou fulfil,

THE RAPE OF UJCRECE.

When, pattern'd by thy fault, foul Sin may say,
He learn'd to sin, and thou didst teach the way ?

Think but how vile a spectacle it were,

To view thy present trespass in another.

Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear ;

Their own transgressions partially they smother :

This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother,

O, how are they wrapp'd in with infamies,

That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes!

To thee, to thee, my heav'd-up hands appeal,

Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier ;

I sue for exil'd majesty's repeal ;

Let him return, and flattering thoughts retire;

His true respect will prison false desire,

And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne,

That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine.

Have done, quoth he : my uncontrolled tide

Turns not, but swells the higher by this let :

Small lights are soon blown out ; huge fires abide,

And with the wind in greater fury fret :

The petty streams, that pay a daily debt

To their salt soveieign with their fresh falls' haste,

Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.

Thou art, quoth she, a sea, a sovereign king;
And, lo ! there falls into thy boundless flood
Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning,
Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood.
If all these petty ills shall change thy good,
Thy sea within a puddle's womb is hears'd,
And not the puddle in thy sea dispers'd.

So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave ;
Thou nobly base, they basely dignified :

76 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave ;
Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride •
The lesser thing should not the greater hide ;
The cedar stoops not to the base shrub's foot,
But low shrubs wither at the cedar's root.

So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state, —

No more, quoth he ; by Heaven, I will not hear thee :

Yield to my love ; if not, enforced hate,

Instead of love's coy touch, shall rudely tear thee :

That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee

Unto the base bed of some rascal groom,

To be thy partner in this shameful doom.

This said, he sets his foot upon the light,
For light and lust are deadly enemies :
Shame, folded up in blind, concealing night,
When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize.
The wolf hath seiz'd his prey, the poor lamb cries
Till with her own white fleece her voice controll'd
Entombs her outcry in her lips' sweet fold:

For with the nightly linen that she wears
He pens her piteous clamours in her head ;
Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears
That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed.
O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed !
The spots whereof could weeping purify,
Her tears should drop on them perpetually.

But she hath lost a dearer thing than life,
An<] he hath won what he would lose again :
This forced league doth force a further strife ;
This momentary joy breeds months of pain ;
This hot desire converts to cold disdain :
Pure chastity is rifled of her store,
And lust, the thief, far poorer than before.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 77

Look, as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk,
Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight,
Make slow pursuit, or altogether halk
The prey, wherein by nature they delight ;
So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night ;
His taste delicious, in digestion souring,
Devours his will, that liv'd by foul devouring.

O, deeper sin than bottomless conceit
Can comprehend in still imagination !
Drunken desire must vomit his receipt,
Ere he can see his own abomination.
While lust is in his pride, no exclamation
Can curb his heat, or rein his rash desire,
Till, like a jade, self-will himself doth tire :

And then, with lank and lean discolour'd cheekf
'With heavy eye, knit brow, arid strengthless pace,
Feeble desire, all recreant, poor, and meek,
Like to a bankrupt beggar wails his case :
The flesh being proud, desire doth fight with grace.
For there it revels ; and when that decays,
The guilty rebel for remission prays.

So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome,
Who this accomplishment so hotly chas'd ;
For now against himself he sounds this doom,
That through the length of times he stands dis

grac'd :

Besides, his soul's fair temple is defac'd ;
To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares,
To ask the spotted princess how she fares.

She says, her subjects with foul insurrection
Have batter'd down her consecrated wall,
And by their mortal fault brought in subjection
Her immortality, and made her thrall
To living death, and pain perpetual ;

7H THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Which in her prescience she controlled still,
But her foresight could not forestall their will.

Even in this thought, through the dark night he

stealeth,

A captive victor, that hath lost in gain ;
Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth,
The scar that will despite of cure remain ;
Leaving his spoil perplex'd in greater pain.
She bears the load of lust he left behind,
And he the burthen of a guilty mind.

He, like a thievish dog, creeps sadly thence,

She, like a wearied lamb, lies panting there ;

He scowls, and hates himself for his offence,

She, desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear;

He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear,

She stays, exclaiming on the direful night ;

He runs, and chides his vanish'd, loath'd delight.

He thence departs a heavy convertite,

She there remains a hopeless castaway ;

He in his speed looks for the morning light,

She prays she never may behold the day :

For day, quoth she, night's scapes doth open lay ;

And my true eyes have never practis'd how

To cloak offences with a cunning brow.

They think not but that every eye can see
The same disgrace which they themselves behold ;
And therefore would they still in darkness be,
To have their unseen sin remain untold :
For they their guilt with weeping will unfold,
And grave, like water that doth eat in steel,
Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.

Here she exclaims against repose and rest,
And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind :

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 79

She wakes her heart by beating on her breast,
And bids it leap from thence, where it may find
Some purer chest to close so pure a mind.
Frantic with grief, thus breathes she forth her spite
Against the unseen secrecy of night :

O, comfort-killing night, image of hell !

Dim register and notary of shame !

Black stage for tragedies and murders fell !

Vast sin-concealing chaos ! nurse of blame !

Blind, muffled bawd ! dark harbour for defame '

Grim cave of death ! whispering conspirator

With close-tongued treason and the ravisher!

O, hateful, vaporous, and foggy night !
Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime,
Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light,
Make war against proportion'd course of time ;
Or, if thou wilt permit the sun to climb
His wonted height, yet, ere he go to bed,
Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head.

With rotten damps ravish the morning air ;

Let their exhal'd unwholesome breaths make sick

The life of purity, the supreme fair,

Ere he arrive his weary noon-tide prick ;

And let thy musty vapours march so thick,81

That in their smoky ranks his smother'd light

May set at noon, and make perpetual night.

Were Tarquin night, (as he is but night's child,)
The silver-shining queen he would distain ;
Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defil'd,
Through night's black bosom should not peep again
So should I have copartners in my pain ;

80 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage,

As palmers' chat makes short their pilgrimage -

Where now I have no one to blush with me,*2
To cross their arms, and hang their heads with mine
To mask their brows, and hide their infamy;
But I alone, alone must sit and pine,
Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine ;
Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans,
Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans.

O night ! thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke,
Let not the jealous day behold that face
Which, underneath thy black all-hiding cloak,
Immodestly lies martyr'd with disgrace :
Keep still possession of thy gloomy place,
That all the faults which in thy reign are made
May likewise be sepulcher'd in thy shade.

Make me not object to the tell-tale day !

The light will show, character'd in my brow,

The story of sweet chastity's decay,

The impious breach of holy wedlock vow :

Yea, the illiterate, that know not how

To 'cipher what is writ in learned books,

Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.1*

The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story,

And fright her crying babe with Tarquin's name ;

The orator, to deck his oratory,

Will couple my reproach to Tarquin's shame ;

Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame,

Will tie the hearers to attend each line,

How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine.

** Where in this line has the force of whereat ; a frequent nsaga
in old poetry. H.

** To quote is to mark or observe ; often so used. •

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. S)

Let my good name, that senseless reputation.
For Collatine's dear love be kept unspotted :
If that be made a theme for disputation,
The branches of another root are rotted,
And undeserv'd reproach to him allotted,
That is as clear from this attaint of mine,
As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine.

O, unseen shame ! invisible disgrace !
O, unfelt sore ! crest-wounding, private scar !
Reproach is stamp'd in Collatinus' face,
And Tarquin's eye may read the mot afar,24
How he in peace is wounded, not in war.
Alas ! how many bear such shameful blows,
Which not themselves, but he that gives them
knows !

If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,

From me by strong assault it is bereft :

My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee,

Have no perfection of my summer left,

But robb'd and ransack 'd by injurious theft :

In thy weak hive a wandering wasp hath crept,

And suck'd the honey which thy chaste bee kept.

Yet am I guilty of thy honour's wrack ;
Yet for thy honour did I entertain him :
Coming from thee, I could not put him back,
For it had been dishonour to disdain him :
Besides, of weariness he did complain him,
And talk'd of virtue: — O, unlook'd-for evil,
When virtue is profan'd in such a devil !

Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud 1
Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows' nests 7 **

14 Mot i<s word; the motto of reproach. H.

** The cuckoo's naughty custom of stealing her eggs into the

62 THE RAPE OB LUCRECE.

Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud ?

Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts 1

Or kings be breakers of their own behests ?

But no perfection is so absolute,

That some impurity doth not pollute.

The aged man, that coffers up his gold,

Is plagued with cramps and gouts and painful fits,

And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold,

But like still-pining Tantalus he sits,

And useless barns the harvest of his wits ;

Having no other pleasure of his gain,

But torment that it cannot cure his pain.

«

So, then, he hath it, when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be master'd by his young ;
Who in their pride do presently abuse it :
Their father was too weak, and they too strong,
To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long.
The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours,
Even in the moment that we call them ours.

Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring ;

Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers

The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing ;

What virtue breeds iniquity devours :

We have no good that we can say is ours,

But ill-annexed Opportunity

Or kills his life, or else his quality.

O, Opportunity ! thy guilt is great :

'Tis thou that execut'st the traitor's treason ;

sparrow's nest, ana there leaving tnem to be hatched by the gentle
owner, is often alluded to by the old poets. Hence, perhaps, the
notion of the cuckoo mocking married men, in the song at the end
of Love's Labour's Lost. See 1 Henry IV., Act v. sc. 1, note 4

H.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 83

Thou sett'st the wolf where he the Iamb may get ;
Whoever plots the sin, thou 'point'st the season :
'Tis thou that spurn 'st at right, at law, at reason ;
And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him,
Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him.

Thou mak'st the vestal violate her oath ;
Thou blow'st the fire when temperance is thaw'd;
Thou smother'st honesty, thou murder'st troth :
Thou foul abettor ! thou notorious bawd !
Thou plantest scandal, and displacest laud :
Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!

Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame ;
Thy private feasting to a public fast ;
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name ; st
Thy sugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste :
Thy violent vanities can never last.
How comes it, then, vile Opportunity,
Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee ?

When wilt thou be the humble suppliant's friend,
And bring him where his suit may be obtain'd ?
When wilt thou sort27 an hour great strifes to end,
Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chain'd 1
Give physic to the sick, ease to the pain'd 1 .
The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee ,
But they ne'er meet with Opportunity.

The patient dies while the physician sleeps ;
The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds ;
Justice is feasting while the widow weeps ;
Advice is sporting while infection breeds :
Thou grant'st no time for charitable deeds.

M Smoothing was very often used in the sense of flattering.
See King Lear, Act ii. sc. 2, note 12. H.

*7 To sort is to choose or select. So in 3 Henry VI., Act V. •«
£ : '• Hut I will sort a pitchy day for thee." B.

Q4 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murders ragea,
The heinous hours wait on then* as their pages.

When truth and virtue have to do with thee,
A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid :
They buy thy help, but sin ne'er gives a fee ;
He gratis comes, and thou art well appay'd,
As well to hear as grant what he hath said :
My Collatine would else have come to me
When Tarquin did ; but he was stay'd by thee.

Guilty thou art of murder and of theft;
Guilty of perjury and subornation ;
Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift ;
Guilty of incest, that abomination :
An accessary, by thine inclination,
To a1! sins past, and all that are to come,
From ihe creation to the general doom.

Mis-shapen Time, copesmate of ugly night,"

Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care ;

Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,

Base watch of woes, sin's packhorse, virtue's snare,

Thou nursest all, and murder'st all that are.

O, hear me, then, injurious, shifting Time !

Be guilty of my death, since of my crime.

Why hath thy servant, Opportunity,
Betray 'd the hours thou gav'st me to repose 1
Cancell'd my fortunes, and enchained me "
To endless date of never-ending woes ?
Time's office is to fine the hate of foes ; **
To eat up errors by opinion bred,
Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.

18 Copesmate is companion.

29 To fint , as here used. i» to Jinish, or make an end of. It is
one of the P jet's T.atinisms H.

THE RAPE OF LUCKECE.

85

Time's glory is to calm contending' kings ;

To unmask falsehood, and bring truth to light;

To stamp the seal of time in aged things ;

To wake the morn, and sentinel the night ;

To wrong the wronger till he render right ;

To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,

And smear with dust their glittering golden towers :

To fill with worm-holes stately monuments ;

To feed oblivion with decay of things ;

To blot old books, and alter their contents ;

To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings ;

To dry the old oak's sap, and cherish springs ;

To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel,

And turn the giddy round of Fortune's wheel ;

To show the beldame daughters of her daughter:
To make the child a man, the man a child ;
To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter ;
To tame the unicorn and lion wild ;
To mock the subtle, in themselves beguil'd ;
To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,
And waste huge stones with little water-drops.

Why work'st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage,
Unless thou could'st return to make amends?
One poor retiring minute in an age
Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,
Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends :

0 ! this dread night, would'st thou one hour coma

back,

1 could prevent this storm, and shun thy wrack

Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity,

With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight;

Devise extremes beyond extremity,

To make him curse this cursed, crimeful night :

Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright.

gf} THE RAPF OF UTCRECt,-

And the dire thought of his committed evi.
Shape every bush a hideous, shapeless devil.

Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances ;
Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans ;
Let there bechance him pitiful mischances,
To make him moan, but pity not his moans :
Stone him with harden'd hearts, harder than stoiief
And let mild women to him lose their mildness,
Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness.

Let him have time to tear his curled hair ;
Let him have time against himself to rave ;
Let him have time of time's help to despair ;
Let him have time to live a loathed slave ;
Let him have time a beggar's orts to crave,
And time to see one that by alms doth live
Disdain to him disdained scraps to give.

Let him have time to see his friends his foes,

And merry fools to mock at him resort ;

Let him have time to mark how slow time goes

In time of sorrow, and how swift and short

His time of folly, and his time of sport :

And ever let his unrecalling crime30

Have time to wail th' abusing of his time.

O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad,
Teach me to curse him that thou taught'st this ill »
At his own shadow let the thief run mad,
Himself himself seek every hour to kill !
Such wretched hands such wretched blood should

spill ;

For who so base would such an office have
As slanderous death's-mau to so base a slave 1

30 Unrecalling for ^-'evocable. The plays furnish many such
instances of the active and passive forms used indifferently. Sea
Measure for Mea; ire, Act iii. sc. 1, note 20. H.

THE RAPE OF LI7CRECE. 87

The baser is he, coming from a king,
To shame his hope with deeds degenerate :
The mightier man, the mightier is the tiling
That makes him honour'd, or begets him hate ;
For greatest scandal waits on greatest state.
The moon being clouded presently is miss'd,
But little stars may hide them when they list.

The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire,

And unperceiv'd fly with the filth away;

But if the like the snow-white swan desire,

The stain upon his silver down will stay.

Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious dayj

Gnats are unnoted wheresoe'er they fly,

But eagles gaz'd upon with every eye.

Out, idle words ! servants to shallow fools,
Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators !
Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools;
Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters ;
To trembling clients be you mediators :
For me, I force not argument a straw,31
Since that my case is past the help of law.

In vain I rail at Opportunity,

At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful night ;

In vain I cavil with my infamy ;

In vain I spurn at my confirm'd despite :

This helpless smoke of words doth me no right.

The remedy indeed to do me good,

Is to let forth my foul, defiled blood.

Poor hand, why quiver'st thou at this decree 1
Honour thyself to rid me of this shame ;

31 That is, I do not care a straw for argument. See Love's
l-abour's Lost, Act v sc. 2, note 26 a.

88 THE RAPE OF LUCKECE.

For if I die, my honour lives in thee ;
But if I live, thou liv'st in my defame :
Since thou could'st not defend thy loyal dame,
And wast afeard to scratch her wicked foe,
Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.

This said, from her betumbled couch she starteth
To find some desperate instrument of death ;
But this no slaughter-house no tool imparteth,
To make more vent for passage of her breath,
Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth
As smoke from ^Etna, that in air consumes,
Or that which from discharged cannon fumes.

In vain, quoth she, I live ; and seek in vain
Some happy mean to end a hapless life :
I fear'd by Tarquin's falchion to be slain,
Yet for the selfsame purpose seek a knife ;
But when I fear'd, I was a loyal wife.
So am I now : — O, no ! that cannot be ;
Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me.

0 ! that is gone, for which I sought to live,
And therefore now I need not fear to die :
To clear this spot by death, at least, I give
A .badge of fame to slander's livery ;

A dying life to living infamy.

Poor, helpless help, the treasure stolen away,

To burn the guiltless casket where it lay !

Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shall not kno\*
The stained taste of violated troth ;

1 will not wrong thy true affection so,
To flatter thee with an infringed oath :

This bastard graff shall never come to growth :
He shall not boast, who did thy stock pollute,
That thou art doting father of his fruit.

THE RAPE OF LUCREOE. 99

IVor shall he smile at thee in secret thought,
Nor laugh with his companions at thy state ;
But thou shall know thy interest was not bought
Basely with gold, but stol'n from forth thy gate.
For me, I am the mistress of my fate,
And with my trespass never will dispense,
Till life to death acquit my forc'd offence.

I will not poison thee with my attaint,

Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coin'd excuses;

My sable ground of sin I will not paint,

To hide the truth of this false night's abuses :

My tongue shall utter all ; mine eyes, like sluices

As from a mountain spring that feeds a dale,

Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.

By this, lamenting Philomel had ended
The well-tun'd warble of her nightly sorrow ,
And solemn night with slow sad gait descended
To ugly hell ; when, lo ! the blushing morrow
Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow :
But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see,
And therefore still in night would cloister'd be.

Revealing day through every cranny spies,

And seems to point her out where she sits weeping ;

To whom she sobbing speaks : O, eye of eyes !

Why pry'st thou through my window? leave thy
peeping ;

Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleep-
ing;

Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light,

For day hath nought to do what's done by night.

Thus cavils she with every thing she sees.
True grief is fond and testy as a child,

90 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Who, wayward once, his mood with nought agrees
Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild
Continuance tames the one ; the other wild,
Like an unpractis'd swimmer plunging still,
With too much labour drowns for want of skill.

So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care,
Holds disputation with each thing she views,
And to herself all sorrow doth compare :
No object but her passion's strength renews ;
And as one shifts, another straight ensues :
Sometime her grief is dumb, and hath no words ;
Sometime 'tis mad, and too much talk affords.

The little birds, that tune their morning's joy,
Make her moans mad with their sweet melody ;
For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy :
Sad souls are slain in merry company ;
Grief best is pleas'd with grief's society :
True sorrow then is feelingly suffic'd,
When with like semblance it is sympathis'd.

'Tis double death to drown in ken of shore ;
He ten times pines, that pines beholding food ,
To see the salve, doth make the wound ache more
Great grief grieves most at that would do it good ;
Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood,
Who, being stopp'd, the bounding banks o'erflows
Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows.

You mocking birds, quoth she, your tunes entomb
Within your hollow swelling feather'd breasts,
And in my hearing be you mute and dumb :
My restless discord loves no stops nor rests ;"
A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests.

x

** Stops and rests are terms in music. •

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 91

Relish your nimble notes to pleasing; ears;33
Distress likes dumps, when time is kept with tears.

Come, Philomel, that sing'st of ravishment,
Make thy sad grove in my dishevell'd hair.
As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment,
So I at each sad strain will strain a tear,
And with deep groans the diapason bear :
For burden-wise I'll hum on Tarquin still,
While thou on Tereus descant'st, better skill.'4

And whiles against a thorn thou bear'st thy part,"
To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I,
To imitate thee well, against my heart
Will fix a sharp knife, to affright mine eye ;
Who, if it wink, shall thereon fall and die.
These means, as frets upon an instrument,
Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment.

And for, poor bird, thou sing'st not in the day,

As shaming any eye should thee behold,

Some dark deep desert, seated from the way,

That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold,

We will find out ; and there we will unfold,

To creatures stern, sad tunes to change their kinds:

Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.

As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze.
Wildly determining which way to fly ;

** Pleasing for pleased, as in note 30. — A dump is a melan-
choly song. B.

** That is, with better skill. — Descant was a musical term for
what is now railed variation. See The Two Gentlemen of Vero-
na, Act i. sc. 2, note 7. — Philomela, the daughter of Pandion,
king of Athens, being ravished by Tereus, the husband of her sis-
ter Progne, was turned into a nightingale, her sister into a swallow,
and Tereus into a lapwing. H.

35 Alluding to the nightingale's singing with her breast igainst
a thorn. a

92 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Or one encompass'*] with a winding maze.

That cannot tread the way out readily ;

So with herself is she in mutiny,

To live or die which of the twain were better,

When life is sham'd, and death reproach's debtor.

To kill myself, quoth she, alack ! what were it,
But with my body my poor soul's pollution ?
They that lose half with greater patience bear it,
Than they whose whole is swallow'd in confusion
That mother tries a merciless conclusion,36
Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes
Will slay the other, and be nurse to none.

My body or my soul, which was the dearer,
When the one pure, the other made divine ?
Whose love of either to myself was nearer,
When both were kept for Heaven and Collatine t
Ah me ! the bark peel'd from the lofty pine,
His leaves will wither, and his sap decay ;
So must my soul, her bark being peel'd away.

Her house is sack'd, her quiet interrupted,

Her mansion batter'd by the enemy ;

Her sacred temple spotted, spoil'd, corrupted,

Grossly engirt with daring infamy :

Then, let it not be call'd impiety,

If in this blemish'd fort I make some hole,

Through which I may convey this troubled soul.

Yet die I will not, till my Collatine
Have heard the cause of my untimely death ;
That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine,
Revenge on him that made me stop my breath.
My stained blood to Tarquin I'll bequeath,

M To try conclusions is to try experiments. See Hamlet, Act
tii sc. 4, note 33. H.

THE RAPE OE LUCRECE. 93

Which, by him tainted, shall for him be spent,
And as his due writ in my testament.

My honour I'll bequeath unto the knife
That wounds my body so dishonoured.
'Tis honour to deprive dishonour'd life ;
The one will live, the other being dead :
So of shame's ashes shall my fame be bred ;
For in my death I murder shameful scorn :
My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born.

Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost,
What legacy shall I bequeath to thee 1
My resolution, love, shall be thy boast,
By whose example thou reveng'd may'st be.
How Tarquin must be us'd, read it in me :
Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe,
And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so.

This brief abridgment of my will I make :

My soul and body to the skies and ground ;

My resolution, husband, do thou take ;

Mine honour be the knife's that makes my wound ;

My shame be his that did my fame confound ;

And all my fame that lives disbursed be

To those that live, and think no shame of me

Thou, Collatine, shall oversee this will ;37
How was I overseen that thou shall see it !
My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill ;
My life's foul deed, my life's fair end shall free it.
Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, " So be it."
Yield to my hand ; my hand shall conquer thee :
Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.

37 It was usual for a testator to appoint overseers as well as ex-
ecutors of his will. The Poet himself named Thomas Russell
•nd Francis Collins as overseers of his will.

H.

94 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Tliis pljt of death when sadly she had laid,
.And wip'd the brinish pearl from her bright eyeg,
With untun'd tongue she hoarsely calls her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies ;
For fleet-wing'd duty with thought's feathers flies
Poor Lucrece' cheeks unto her maid seem so,
As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow.

Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow
With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty,
And- sorts a sad look to her lady's sorrow; —
For why? her face wore sorrow's livery; —
But durst not ask of her audaciously
Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so,
Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash'd with woe.

But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set,
Each flower moisten'd like a melting eye ;
Even so the rnaid with swelling drops 'gan wet
Her circled eyne, enforc'd by sympathy
Of those fair suns, set in her mistress' sky,
Who in a salt-vvav'd ocean quench their light,
Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night

A pretty while these pretty creatures stand,
Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling :
One justly weeps, the other takes in hand
No cause but company of her drops spilling :
Their gentle sex to weep are often willing,
Grieving themselves to guess at others' smarts,
And then they drown their eyes, or break their
hearts :

For men have marble, women waxen, minds,
And therefore are they form'd as marble will ;
The weak oppress'd, th' impression of strange kinds
Is form'd in them by force, by fraud, or skill :
Then, call them not the authors of their ill,

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 95

No more than wax shall be accounted evil,
Wherein is stamp'd the semblance of a devil

Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain,
Lays open all the little worms that creep ;
In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain
Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep.
Through crystal walls each little mote will peep :
Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks,
Poor women's faces are their own faults' books.

No man inveigh against the wither'd flower,
But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill'd !
Not that devour'd, but that which doth devour,
Is worthy blame. O ! let it not be hild 38
Poor women's faults, that they are so fulfill'd
With men's abuses : those proud lords, to blame,
Make weak-made women tenants to their shame.

The precedent whereof in Lucrece view,
Assail'd by night with circumstances strong
Of present death, and shame that might ensue
By that her death, to do her husband wrong:
Such danger to resistance did belong,
That dying fear through all her body spread ,
And who cannot abuse a body dead ?

By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak
To the poor counterfeit of her complaining :
My girl, quoth she, on what occasion break
Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are

raining

If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining,
Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood:
If tears could help, mine own would do me good.

But tell me, girl, when went — (and there she stay'd
Till after a deep groan) Tarquin from hence ?

38 That is, held ; so spelt for the sake of the rhyme.

96 THE RAPE OF LUCIIECE.

Madam, ere I was up, replied the maid ;
The more to blame my sluggard negligence :
Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense, —
Myself was stirring ere the break of day,
And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away.

But, lady, if your maid may be so bold,

She would request to know your heaviness.

O, peace ! quoth Lucrece : if it should be told,

The repetition cannot make it less ;

For more it is than I can well express :

And that deep torture may be call'd a hell,

When more is felt than one hath power to tell

Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen ; —

Yet save that labour, for I have them here.

What should I say ? — One of my husband's men

Bid thou be ready by and by, to bear

A letter to my lord, my love, my dear :

Bid him with speed prepare to carry it ;

The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.

Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write,
First hovering o'er the paper with her quill :
Conceit and grief an eager combat fight ;
What wit sets down, is blotted straight with will ;
This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill :
Much like a press of people at a door
Throng her inventions, which shall go before.

At last she thus begins : " Thou worthy lord
Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee,
Health to thy person ! next, vouchsafe t'afford
(If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see)
Some present speed to come and visit me.
So I commend me from our house in grief:
My woes are tedious, though my words are brief."

THE. RAPE OF LUCRECE. 97

Here folds she up the tenor of her woe,

Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly.

By this short schedule Collatine may know

Her grief, but not her grief's true quality :

She dares not thereof make discovery,

Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse,

Ere she with blood had stain'd her stain'd excuse.

Besides, the life and feeling of her passion

She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her ;

When sighs and groans and tears may grace the

fashion

Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her
From that suspicion which the world might bear her.
To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter
With words, till action might become them better.

To see sad sights moves more than hear them told ;

For then the eye interprets to the ear

The heavy motion that it doth behold,

When every part a part of woe doth bear .

'Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear ;

Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords,

And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words.

Her letter now is seal'd, and on it writ,

"At Ardea, to my lord, with more than haste."

The post attends, and she delivers it,

Charging the sour-fac'd groom to hie as fast

As lagging fowls before the northern blast :

Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems;

Extremity still urgeth such extremes.

The homely villain courtesies to her low;
And, blushing on her, with a steadfast eye
Receives the scroll, without or yea or no,

7

98 THE RAPE OF LUCREOE.

And forth with bashful innocence doth hip -
But they, whose guilt within their bosoms lie,
Imagine every eye beholds their blame ;
For Lucrece thought he blush'd to see her shame ;

When, silly groom ! God wot, it was defect
Of spirit, life, and bold audacity.
Such harmless creatures have a true respect
To talk in deeds, while others saucily
Promise more speed, but do it leisurely :
Even so, this pattern of the worn-out age
Pawn'd honest looks, but laid no words to gage

His kindled duty kindled her mistrust,

That two red fires in both their faces blaz'd ;

She thought he blush'd, as knowing Tarquin's lust,

And, blushing with him, wistly on him gaz'd ;

Her earnest eye did make him more amaz'd :

The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish,

The more she thought he spied in her some blemish

But long she thinks till he return again,
And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone.
The weary time she cannot entertain,
For now 'tis stale to sigh, to weep, and groan :
So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan,
That she her plaints a little while doth stay,
Pausing for means to mourn some newer way.

At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece
Of skilful painting, made for Priam's Troy ;
Before the which is drawn the power of Greece,
For Helen's rape the city to destroy,
Threatening cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy;
Which the conceited painter drew so proud,3*
As heaven, it seem'd, to kiss the turrets bow'd.

39 Conceited is ingenious or fanciful.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 99

A thousand lamentable objects there,
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life :
Many a dry drop seem'd a weeping tear.
Shed for the slaughter'd husband by the wife :
The red blood reek'd to show the painter's strife ;
And dying eyes gleam'd forth their ashy lights,
Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights.

There might you see the labouring pioneer
Begrim'd with sweat, and smeared all with dust ;
And from the towers of Troy there would appear
The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust,
Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust:
Such sweet observance in this work was had,
That one might see those far-off eyes look sad.

In great commanders grace and majesty
You might behold, triumphing in their faces ;
In youth, quick bearing and dexterity ;
And here and there the painter interlaces
Pale cowards, marching on with trembling paces ,
Which heartless peasants did so well resemble,
That one would swear he saw them quake and
tremble.

In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art

Of physiognomy might one behold !

The face of either 'cipher'd either's heart ;

Their face their manners most expressly told :

Jn Ajax' eyes blunt rage and rigour roll'd ;

But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent,

Show'd deep regard and smiling government.

There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand,
As 'twere encouraging the Greeks to fight ;
Making such sober action with his hand,
That it beguil'd attention, charm'd the sight,
hi speech, it seern'd, his beard, all silver white,

100 THE RAPE OF LUCKECE.

Wagg'd up and down, and from his lips did fly
Thin winding breath, which purl'd up to the skv

About him were a press of- gaping faces,
Which seem'd to swallow up his sound advice ;
All jointly listening, but with several graces,
As if some mermaid did their ears entice :
Some high, some low ; the painter was so nice,
The scalps of many, almost hid behind,
To jump up higher seem'd, to mock the mind.

Here one man's hand lean'd on another's head,
His nose being shadow'd by his neighbour's ear ;
Here one, being throng'd, bears back, all boIFn and

red;40

Another, smother'd, seems to pelt and swear :
And in their rage such signs of rage they bear,
As, but for loss of Nestor's golden words,
It seem'd they would debate with angry swordu

For much imaginary work was there ;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,41
That for Achilles' image stood his spear,
Grip'd in an armed hand ; himself, behind,
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind
A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head,
Stood for the whole to be imagined.

And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy,
When their brave hope, bold Hector, march'd to

field,

Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy
To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield;
And to their hope they such odd action yield,

40 Bollen means swollen.

41 That is, so natural. See Ths Merchant of Venice, Act I
•c. 3, note 7 H

THE RAPE OF LUCUECE. 101

That through their light joy seemed to appear
(Like bright things stain'd) a kind of heavy fear.

And from the strond of Dardan, where they fought

To Simois' reedy banks the red blood ran,

Whose waves to imitate the battle sought

With swelling ridges ; and their ranks began

To break upon the galled shore, and than 42

Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks,

They join, and shoot their foam at Simois' banks.

To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come,
To find a face where all distress is stell'd.43
Many she sees, where cares have carved some,
But none where all distress and dolour dwell'd,
Till she despairing Hecuba beheld,
Staring on Priam's wounds with her old eyes,
Which bleeding under Pyrrhus' proud foot lies

In her the painter had anatomiz'd
Time's ruin, beauty's wreck, and grim care's reign :
Her cheeks with chaps and wrinkles were disguis'd ;
Of what she was no semblance did remain :
Her blue blood chang'd to black in every vein,
Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed,
Show'd life imprison'd in a body dead.

On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes,
And shapes her sorrow to the beldam's woes,
Who nothing wants to answer her but cries,
And bitter words to ban her cruel foes :
The painter was no god to lend her those ;

42 A form of then, frequently used by old poets for the sake of
the rhyme.

43 This word is printed steld in the original. The only other
mown instance of the word is in the Poet's twenty-fourth Sonnet

" Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart." H.

102 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE

And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong
To give her so much grief, and not a tongue.

Poor instrument, quoth she, without a sound,
I'll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue,
And drop sweet balm in Priam's painted woundi
And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done Mm wrong,
And with my tears quench Troy, that burns so long,
And \vith my knife scratch out the angry eyes
Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies.

Show me the strumpet that began this stir,
That with my nails her beauty I may tear.
Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur
Tlu's load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear.
Thine eye kindled the fire that burneth here ;
And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye,
The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die.

Why should the private pleasure of some one
Become the public plague of many mo 1 44
Let sin, alone committed, light alone
Upon his head that hath transgressed so ;
Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe.
For one's offence why should so many fall,
To plague a private sin in general 1

Lo ! here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies,

Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds ;

Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies,

And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds,

And one man's lust these many lives confounds.

Had doting Priam check'd his son's desire,

Troy had been bright with fame, and not with fire.

44 A form of mart, often used by old writers, especially when
it was needed for the rhyme. H.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 103

Here feelingly she weeps Troy's painted woes ,
For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell
Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes ;
Then little strength rings out the doleful knell •
So Lucrece, set a-work, sad tales doth tell
To pencill'd pensiveness and colour'd sorrow :
She lends them words, and she their looks doth
borrow.

She throws her eyes about the painting, round,
And whom she finds forlorn, she doth lament :
At last, she sees a wretched image bound,
That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent .
His face, though full of cares, yet show'd content.
Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes,
So mild, that Patience seem'd to scorn his woes.

In him the painter labour'd with his skill
To hide deceit, and give the harmless show
An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still,
A brow unbent, that seem'd to welcome woe ;
Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so,
That blushing red no guilty instance gave,
Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have :

But, like a constant and confirmed devil,
He entertain'd a show so seeming just,
And therein so ensconc'd his secret evil,
That jealousy itself could not mistrust,
False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust
Into so bright a day such black-fac'd storms,
Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forma.

The well-skill'd workman this mild image drew
For perjur'd Sinon, whose enchanting story
The credulous old Priam after slew ;

104 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

Whose words like wild-fire burnt the shining glory
Of rich-built Iliori, that the skies were sorry
And little stars shot from their fixed places,
When their glass fell wherein they view'd their faces

This picture she advisedly perus'd,
And chid the painter for his wondrous skill;
Saying, some shape in Sinon's was abus'd,
So fair a form lodg'd not a mind so ill :
And still on him she gaz'd ; and, gazing still,
Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied,
That she concludes the picture was belied.

It cannot be, quoth she, that so much guile —
(She would have said) can lurk in such a look ;
But Tarquin's shape came in her mind the while,
And from her tongue, "can lurk" from "cannot"

took :

"It cannot be" she in that sense forsook,
And turn'd it thus : It cannot be, I find,
But such a face should bear a wicked mind :

For even as subtle Sinon here is painted,

So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild,

As if with grief or travail he had fainted,

To me came Tarquin armed ; so beguil'd

With outward honesty, but yet defil'd

With inward vice : as Priam him did cherish,

So did I Tarquin ; so my Troy did perish.

Look, look ! how listening Priam wets his eyes,

To see those borrow'd tears that Sinon sheds.

Priam, why art thou old, and yet not wise?

For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds :

His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds ;

Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity,

Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. 105

Such devils steal effects from lightless hell ;

For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold,

And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell;

These contraries such unity do hold,

Only to flatter fools, and make them hold :

So Priam's trust false Sinon's tears* doth flatter,

That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.

Here, all enrag'd, such passion her assails,

That patience is quite beaten from her breast:

She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails,

Comparing him to that unhappy guest

Whose deed hath made herself herself detest.

At last she smilingly with this gives o'er :

Fool ! fool ! quoth she ; his wounds will not be sore.

Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow,
And time doth weary time with her complaining :
She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow ;
And both 'she thinks too long with her remaining.
Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining
Thoiiffh woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ;
And they that watch see time how slow it creeps :

Which all this time hath overslipp'd her thought,
That she with painted images hath spent ;
Being from the feeling of her own grief brought
By deep surmise of others' detriment ;
Losing her woes in shows of discontent.
It euseth some, though none it ever cur'd,
To think their dolour others have endur'd.

But now the mindful messenger, come back,
Brings home his lord and other company ;
Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black ;
And round about her tear-distained eye
Blue circles stream'd, like rainbows in the skv:

106 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

These water-galls4* in her dim element
Foretell new storms to those already spent.

Which when her sad-beholding husband saw,

Amazedly in her sad face he stares :

Her eyes, though sod in tears, look'd red and raw ;

Her lively colour kill'd with deadly cares.

He hath no power to ask her how she fares :

Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance,

Met far from home, wondering each other's chance.

At last, he takes her by the bloodless hand,

And thus begins : What uncouth ill event

Hath thee befall'n, that thou dost trembling stand 1

Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent ?

Why art thou thus altir'd in discontent ?

Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness,

And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.

Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire,
Ere once she can discharge one word of woe :
At length, address'd to answer his desire,
She modestly prepares to let them know
Her honour is ta'en prisoner by the foe ;
While Collatine and his consorted lords
With sad attention long to hear her words.

And now this pale swan in her watery nest
Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending.
Few words, quoth she, shall fit the trespass best,
Where no excuse can give the fault amending:
In me more woes than words are now depending ;
And my laments would be drawn out too long,
To tell them all with one poor tired tongue.

Then, be this all the task it hath to say :
Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed

46 Watery appearance in the sky, attendant ou rainbows.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECE. Iff7

A stranger came, and on that pillow lay,
Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head ;
And what wrong else may be imagined
By foul enforcement might be done to me,
From that, alas ! thy Lucrece is not free.

For, in the dreadful dead of dark midnight,
With shining falchion in my chamber came
A creeping creature, with a flaming light,
And softly cried, "Awake, thou Roman dame,
And entertain my love ; else lasting shame
On thee and thine this night I will inflict,
If thou my love's desire do contradict.

" For some hard-favour'd groom of thine," quoth he

"Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will,

I'll murder straight, and then I'll slaughter thee,

And swear I found you where you did fulfil

The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill

The lechers in their deed : this act will be

My fame, and thy perpetual infamy."

With this I did begin to start and cry,

And then against my heart he set his sword,

Swearing, unless I took all patiently,

I should not live to speak another word :

So should my shame still rest upon record,

And never be forgot in mighty Rome

Th' adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom.

Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak,
A.nd far the weaker with so strong a fear :
My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak ;
No rightful plea might plead for justice there :
His scarlet lust came evidence to swear
That my poor beauty had purloin'd his eyes,
when the judge is robb'd, the prisoner diea

l()8 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

O ! teach me how to make mine own excuse,

Or, at the least, this refuge let me find, —

Though my gross blood be stain'd with this abuse.

Immaculate and spotless is my mind :

That was not forc'd ; that never was inclin'd

To accessory yieldings, but still pure

Doth in her poison'd closet yet endure.

Lo ! here the hopeless merchant of this loss,

With head declin'd, and voice damm'd up with woe

With sad-set eyes, and wreathed arms across,

From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow

The grief away, that stops his answer so ;

But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain ;

What he breathes out, his breath drinks up again.

As through an arch the violent roaring tide
Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste,
Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride
Back to the strait that forc'd him on so fast,
In rage sent out, recall'd in rage, being past;
Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw,
To push grief on, and back the same grief draw.

Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth,

And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh :

Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth

Another power : no flood by raining slaketh.

My woe too sensible thy passion maketh

More feeling-painful : let it, then, suffice

To drown one woe one pair of weeping eyes :

And for my sake, when I might charrn thee so,
For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me :
Be suddenly revenged on my foe,
Thine, mine, his own : suppose thou dost defend me
From what is past, the help that thou shalt lend me

THE RAPE OF l.UCRECE. 109

Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die ;
For sparing justice feeds iniquity.

But, ere I name him, you, fair lords, quoth she,
(Speaking to those that came with Collatine,)
Shall plight your honourable faiths to me,
With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine ;
For 'tis a meritorious, fair design,
To chase injustice with revengeful arms:
Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies*
harms.

At this request, with noble disposition
Each present lord began to promise aid,
As bound in knighthood to her imposition,
Longing to hear the hateful foe bewray'd ;
But she, that yet her sad task hath not said,
The protestation stops. O ! speak, quoth she,
How may this forced stain, be wip'd from me ?

What is the quality of mine offence,

Being constrain'd with dreadful circumstance?

May my pure mind with the foul act dispense,

My low-declined honour to advance ?

May any terms acquit me from this chance 1

The poison'd fountain clears itself again ;

And why not I from this compelled stain 1

With this, they all at once began to say,
Her body's stain her mind untainted clears;
While with a joyless smile she turns away
The face, that map which deep impression bears
Of hard misfortune, carv'd in it with tears.
No, no, quoth she ; no dame, hereafter living,
By my excuse shall claim excuse's giving.

Here, with a sigh as if her heart would break,
She throws forth Tarquiu's name : He, he, she says.

HO THE RAPE OF LUCltECE.

But more than "he" her poor tongue could no!

speak ;

Till, after many accents and delays,
Untimely breathings, sick and short assays,
She utters this : He, he, fair lords, 'tis he,
That guides this hand to give this wound to me.

Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast
A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheath'd '
That blow did bail it from the deep unrest
Of that polluted prison where it breath'd :
Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeath'd
Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth ily
Life's lasting date from cancell'd destiny.

Stone-still, astonish'd with this deadly deed,
Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew ;
Till Lucrece' father, that beholds her bleed,
Himself on her self-slaughter'd body threw :
And from the purple fountain Brutus drew
The murderous knife, and, as it left the place,
Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase ;

And, bubbling from her breast, it doth divide
In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood
Circles her body in on every side,
Who like a late-sack'd island vastly stood,46
Bare and unpeopled, in this fearful flood.
Some of her blood still pure and red remarn'd,
And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin
stain 'd.

About the mourning and congealed face
Of that black blood, a watery rigol goes,47

48 That is, stood waste or desolate • a sense of vastly now ob-
solete. For similar uses of the substantive vast, see Hamlet, Act
i. sc. 2. note 27. H.

47 A rigol is a circle See 2 Henry IV., Act iv. sc. 4 note 16

u

THE RAPE OF LUCHECE. Ill

Which seems to weep upon the tainted place :
And ever since, as pitying Lucrece' woes,
Corrupted blood some watery token shows ;
And blood untainted still doth red abide,
Blushing at that which is so putrefied.

Daughter, dear daughter ! old Lucretius cries,

That life was mine, which thou hast here depriv'd

If in the child the father's image lies,

Where shall I live, now Lucrece is unli v'd ?

Thou wast not to this end from me deriv'd.

If children pre-decease progenitors,

We are their offspring, and they none of ours.

Poor broken glass, I often did behold
In thy sweet semblance my old age new-born ,
But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old,
Shows me a bare-bon'd death by time outworn ;
O ! from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn,
And shiver 'd all the beauty of my glass,
That I no more can see what once I was.

O time ! cease thou thy course, and last no longer,
If they surcease to be, that should survive.
Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger,
And leave the faltering feeble souls alive ?
The old bees die, the young possess their hive :
Then, live, sweet Lucrece, live again, and see
Thy father die, and not thy father thee !

By this starts Collatine as from a dream,
And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place ;
And then in key-cold Lucrece' bleeding stream
He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face,
And counterfeits to die with her a space ;
Till manly shame bids him possess his brealli,
And live to be revenged oi\ her death.

112 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

The deep vexation of his inward soul
Hath serv'd a dumb arrest upon his tongue ;
Who, mad that sorrow should his use control,
Or keep him from heart-easing words so long,
Begins to talk ; but through his lips do throng
Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart's aid,
That no man could distinguish what he said.

Yet sometime Tarquin was pronounced plain,
But through his teeth, as if the name he tore.
This windy tempest, till it blow up rain,
Held back his sorrow's tide, to make it more;
At last it rains, and busy winds give o'er :
Then son and father weep with equal strife,
Who should weep most for daughter or for wife.

The one doth call her his, the other his,
Yet neither may possess the claim they lay.
The father says, She's mine. — O ! mine she is,
Replies her husband : do not take away
My sorrow's interest ; let no mourner say
He weeps for her ; for she was only mine,
And only must be wail'd by Collatine.

O ! quoth Lucretius, I did give that life
Which she too early and too late hath spill'd.48
Woe, woe ! quoth Collatine, she was my wife ;
I ow'd her, and 'tis mine that she hath kill'd.
My daughter ! and My wife ! with clamours fill'd
The dispers'd air, who, holding Lucrece' life,
Answer'd their cries, My daughter ! and My wife !

Brutus, who pluck'd the knife from Lucrece' side
Seeing such emulation in their woe,

48 Too late is too lately or too recently. — Ow'd, second line af-
ler, is oian'd, possess'd. H.

THE RAPE OF LUCRECK. 1 13

Began to clothe his wit in state and pride,

Burying in Lucrece' wound his folly's show

He with the Romans was e.steemed so

As silly-jeering idiots are with kings,

For sportive words, and uttering foolish things:

But now he throws that shallow habit by,
Wherein deep policy did him disguise ;
And arm'd his long-hid wits advisedly,
To check the tears in Collatinus' eyes.
Thou wronged lord of Rome, quoth he, arise !
Let my unsounded self, suppos'd a fool,
Now set thy long-experienc'd wit to school.

Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe 1

Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous

deeds ?

Is it revenge to give thyself a blow,
For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds ?
Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds,
Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so,
To slay herself, that should have slain her foe.

Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart
In such relenting dew of lamentations ;
But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part,
To rouse our Roman gods with invocations ;
That they will suffer these abominations
(Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgrac'dj
By our strong arms from forth her fair streets
chas'd.49

Now, by the Capitol that we adore,

And by this chaste blood so unjustly stain'd,

49 The construction is, " that they will suffer these nbominationf
to be chased."

I 14 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE.

By heaven's fair sun that breeds the fat earth's store,
By all our country rights in Rome maintain'd,
And hy chaste Lucrece' soul that late complain'd
Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife,
We will revenge the death of this true wife.

This said, he struck his hand upon his breast,
And kiss'd the fatal knife to end his vow ;
And to his protestation urg'd the rest,
Who, wondering at him, did his words allow:
Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow,
And that deep vow which Brutus made before,
He doth again repeat, and that they swore.

When they had sworn to this advised doom,
They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence ,
To show her bleeding body thorough Rome,
And so to publish Tarquin's foul offence:
Which being done with speedy diligence,
The Romans plausibly did give consent
To Tarquin's everlasting banishment.60

M Plausibly is with applause or with acclamation. B

INTRODUCTION

THE SONNETS

A LONER'S COMPLAINT.

A BOOK called SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS" was entered at
the Stationers' by Thomas Thorpe, on the 20lh of May, 1609. In
(he course of the same year was issued a small quarto volume of
forty leaves, with the following title-page : " Shakespeare's Son-
nets. Never before imprinted. At London : By G. Eld for T. T.,
and are to be sold by William Aspley." The name of Thomas
Thorpe in 'the entry at the Stationers' ascertains him to be the per-
son meant by the initials T. T. in the title-page. It is remarkable
that in some copies of the edition of 1609, the title-page has "are
to be sold by John Wright, dwelling at Christ Church gate." In
all other respects, both the title-pages and the whole printing of
•he different copies of 1609 are exactly alike; which shows them
to be all of one and the same edition. What may have been the
cause or purpose of the difference specified, is not known, nor is
it of any consequence.

Thorpe stood somewhat eminent in his line of business, and his
edition of the Sonnets was accompanied with a bookseller's ded-
ication very quaint and affected both in the style of wording and
of printing ; the printing being in small capitals with a period after
each word, and the wording thus : " To the only begetter of these
ensuing Sonnets, Mr. W. H., all happiness, and that eternity prom-
ised by our everliving Poet, wishelh the well-wishing adventurer
in setting forth, T. T."

There was no other edition of the Sonnets till 1640, when they
were republished by Thomas Cotes, but in a totally different ordei
from that of 1609, being cut up, seemingly at random, into seventy
four little poems, with a quaint heading to each, and with parts of

I 16 SONNETS.

The Passionate Pilgrim interspersed. This edition is iiot repant
ed as of any authority, save as showing that within tweniy-foni
vears after the Poet's death the Sonnets were so far from being
thought to have that unity of cause, or purpose, or occasion, which
has since been attributed to them, as to be set forth under an ar-
rangement quite incompatible with any such idea.

Our Introduction to the Venus and Adonis quotes a passage
from the Wit's Commonwealth of Francis Meres, speaking of the
Poet's •• sugared Sonnets among his private friends." This ascer-
tains that a portion, at least, of the Sonnets were written, and well
known in private circles, before 1598. It naturally infers, also,
that they were written on divers occasions and for divers persons.
some of them being intended, perhaps, as personal compliments,
and others merely as exercises of fancy. Copies of them were
most likely multiplied, to some extent, in manuscript ; since this
would naturally follow both from their intrinsic excellence, and
from the favour with which the mention of them by Meres shows
ibem to have been regarded. Probably the author added to the
number from time to time after 1598 ; and as he grew in public
distinction and private acquaintance, there would almost needs
have been a growing ambition or curiosity among his friends and
admirers, to have each as large a collection of these little treasures
as they could. What more natural or likely than that, among those
'.o whom, in this course of private circulation, the}' became known,
there should be some one person or more, perhaps of humbler
name, who took pride and pleasure in making or procuring Iran
scripts of as many as he could hear of, and thus getting together,
if possible, a full set of them ?

Two of the Sonnets, as we shall see hereafter, the cxxxvm.
and the CXLIV., were printed, with some variations, as a part of
The Passionate Pilgrim in 1599. In the same publication, which
was doubtless made ignorantly and without authority, there are
also several others, especially the iv., viv and ix., which, if really
Shakespeare's, have as much right to a place among the Sonnets
as many that are already there. At all events, the fact of those
two being thus detached and appearing by themselves may be
fairly held to argue a good deal as to the manner in which the
Sonnets were probably written and circulated.

We have seen that Thorpe calls the " Mr. W. H.," to whom he
dedicates his edition, " the only begetter of these ensuing Son-
nets." The word begetter has been commonly understood as
meaning the person who was the cause or occasion of the Sonnets
being written, and to whom they were originally addressed. The
taking of the word in this sense has caused a great deal of contro-
versy, and exercised a vast amount of critical ingenuity, in en-
deavouring to trace a thread of continuity through the whole
series, and to discover the person who had the somewhat equiv-
ocal honour of begetting or inspiring them. And such, no doubt

INTRODUCTION. 117

is the natural and proper sense of the word ; hut what it might
mean in the mouth of one so anxious, apparently, to speak out of
the common way. is a question not so easily settled. That the
Sonnets could not, in this sense, have been all begotten by ont
person, has to be admitted ; for if it be certain that some of them
were addressed to a man, it is equally certain that others were
addressed to a woman. But the word begetter is found to have
been sometimes used in the sense of obtainer or procurer ; and
such is clearlj1 the only sense which, in Thorpe's affected language,
it will bear, consistently with the internal evidence of the Sonnet*
themselves. As for the theories, therefore, which have mainly
grown from taking Thorpe's only begetter to mean only inspirer,
we shall set them all aside, and practically ignore them, as being
totally impertinent to the subject. We have not the slightest
doubt, that "the only begetter of these ensuing Sonnets" was
simply the person who made or procured transcripts of them, and
got them all together, either for his own use or for publication, and
to whom Thorpe was indebted for his copy of them. The same
view is taken by Knight and Collier.

But Thorpe wishes to his Mr. W. H. " that eternity promised
by our ever-living Poet." Promised by the Poet to whom ? To
' Mr. W. H.," or to himself, or to some one else ? For aught ap-
pears to the contrary, it may be to either one, or perhaps two, of
these ; for in some of the Sonnets, as the xvm. and xix., the
Poet promises an eternity of youth and fame both to his vrrse and
to the person he is addressing. Here may be the proper place
for remarking, that in a line of the xx., — " A man in hue, all hues
in his controlling," — the original prints hues in Italic and with a
capital, Hews, just as Will is printed in the cxxxv. and cxxxvi.,
where the author is evidently playing upon his own name. It was
not uncommon for hues to be spelt hews and printed with a capital,
Hews. Tyrwhitt, however, conjectured that in this case a play
was intended on the name of Hughes, and that VV. Hughes was
the " Mr. W. H." of Thorpe's dedication, and the person ad-
dressed in the Sonnets. If the Sonnet in question were meant t«
be continuous with that which precedes, the Poet certainly perpe-
trated a very palpable anticlimax in the writing of it. Knight, as
will be seen by our notes, groups it along wiih the Lin., LIV., and
LV., as forming a cluster or little poem by themselves. Whether
this grouping be right, seems very questionable; but it is barely
possible that the xx. and those belonging with it may have been
addressed to a personal friend of the Poet's, named W, Hughes,
who was the procurer of the whole series for publication : we say
barely possible, and that seems the most that can be said about it.

Great effort has been made, to find in the Sonnets some deepei
or other meaning than meets the ear, and to fix upon them, gen-
erally, a personal and autobiographical character. It must indeed
be owned that there is in several of them an can estuess of tone

J18 SONNETS.

and in some few a subdued pathos, which strong.y argues ihem .o
t?e expressions of the Poet's real feelings respecting himself, his
condition, and the person or persons addressed. This is particu-
larly the case with the series of thirteen, beginning with the cix.
in our numbering, the 72d. Something the same may be said ot
the xxvi. and the other two which Knight groups with it, in our
numbering- the 24lh, 25th, and 26th, where we find a striking re-
semoiance to some expressions used in the dedications of the
Venus and Adonis, and the Lucrece. But, as to the greater part
of the Sonnets, we grow more and more persuaded that they
were intended mainly as flights or exercises of fancy, thrown into
the form of a personal address, and written, it may be, in some
cases at the instance or in compliment of the Poet's personal
friends, and perhaps mingling an element of personal interest or
allusion, merely as a matter of art ; whatsoever there is personal
in them being thus kept subordinate and incidental to poetical
beauty and effect. For example, in the cxxxvm., than which
few have more appearance of being autobiographical, the Po<H
.speaks of himself as being old, and says his " days are past the
best;" yet this was printed in 1599, when he was but thirly-five
years of age. Surely, in that case, his reason for using such lan-
guage must have been, that it suited his purpose as a poet, not
that it was true of his age as a man.

Much light is thrown on these remarkable effusions by the gen-
eral style of sonneteering then in vogue, as exemplified in the
Sonnets of Spenser, Drayton, and Daniel. In these, too, though
unquestionably designed mainly as studies or specimens of art,
the authors, while speaking in the form of a personal address, and
as if revealing their own actual thoughts and inward history, are
continually using language and imagery that clearly had not and
could not have any truth or fitness save in reference to their pur-
pose as poets. In proportion to the genius and art of the men,
these Sonnets have, as much as Shakespeare's, the appearance of
being autobiographical, and of disclosing the true personal senti-
ments and history of the authors ; except, as already mentioned,
in some few cases where Wordsworth is probably right in saying
of the Sonnet, that " with this key Shakespeare unlock'd his
heart." We have spoken of the strong confidence which Shake-
speare expresses repeatedly in tht Sonnets, that his lines would
both possess and confer an eternity 3f youth and fame. It i? re-
markable that all three of the other poets named use language of
precisely the same import in their Sonnets, and use it repeatedly
It seems, indeed, to have been at that time a sort of stereotype*!
matter in sonnet-writing. Thus in Spenser's 75th Sonnet :

" Mv verse vour virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heavens write your glorious name ;
Where, when as death shall all the world subdue,
Our love shall live, and later life runew.''

INTRODUCTION. 119

And nc has the same thought in at least two other Sonnets. So
too, .n Drayton s 44th :

'•And though in youth rny youth untimely perish.
To keep thee from oblivion anil the grave,
Ensuing ages yet my rhymes shall cherish,
Where I enlotnb'd my better part shall save ;
And though this earthly body fade and die,
My name shall mount upon eternity."

A similar strain occurs in his 6th. The same promise of eternity
is also met with in two of Daniel's. Thus in his 41st i

" How many live, the glory of whose name
Shall rest in ice, when thine is grav'd in marble!
Thou may'st in after ages live esteem'd,
Unburied in these lines, reserv'd in pureness ;
These shall entomb those eyes that have redeem'd
Me from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness."

In short, it was a common fashion of the time, in sonnet-writing,
for authors to speak in an ideal or imaginary character as if it
were their real one, and to attribute to themselves certain thoughts
and feelings, merely because it suited their purpose, and was a
part of their art as poets, so to do. And this, we make no doubt,
is the true key to the mystery which has puzzled so many critics
in the Sonnets of Shakespeare. In writing Sonnets, he naturally
fell into the current style of the age ; only, by how much he sur-
passed the others in dramatic power, by so much was he better
able to express ideal sentiments as if they were his own, and to
pass, as it were, out of himself into the characters he had imagined
or assumed.

Knight has some remarks on this point, which are so apt and
well-put that we cannot forbear quoting them. " It must not be
forgotten," says he, " that in an age when the Italian models of
poetry were so diligently cultivated, imaginary loves and imagi-
nary jealousies were freely admitted into verses which appeared to
address themselves to the reader in the personal character of the
poet. Regarding a poem, whether a sonnet or an epic, essentially
as a work of art, the artist was not careful to separate his own
identity from the sentiments and situations which he delineated j
any more than the pastoral poets of the next century were solicit-
ous to tell their readers that their Corydons and Phyllises were noi
absolutely themselves and their mistresses. The Amoretti of
Spenser, for example, consisting of eighty-eight Sonnets, is also a
puzzle to all those who regard such productions as necessarily
autobiographical. These poems were published in 1596 5 in sev-
eral passages a date is somewhat distinctly marked ; foi there are
lines which refer to the completion of The Faerie CJueene, and to
Spensei 's appointment to 'ie laureateship. And yet they are f ul.

120 SONNETS.

of the complaints of an unrequited love, and of a disdainful mis-
tress, at a period when Spenser was married, and settled with nil
family in Ireland.

"We believe that, taken as works of art, having- a certain de
gree of continuity, the Sonnets of Spenser, of Daniel, of Drayton,
of Shakespeare, although in many instances they might shadow
forth real feelings, and be outpourings of the inmost heart, were
presented to the world as exercises of fancy, and were received
l-y the world as such. The most usual form which such compo-
sitions assumed was that of love-verses. Spenser's Amoretti are
entirely of this character, as their name implies : Daniel's, which
are fifty-seven in number, are all addressed ' To Delia : ' Dray-
ton's, which he calls ' Ideas,' are somewhat more miscellaneous
in their character. In 1593 was also published ' Licia. or Poems
of Love, in honour of the admirable and singular virtues of his
Lady.' This book contains fifty-two Sonnets, all conceived in the
language of passionate affection and extravagant praise. And yet
the author, in his Address to the Reader, says, — 'If thou muse
what my Licia is, take her to be some Diana, at the least chaste,
or some Minerva ; no Venus, fairer far. It may be she is Learn-
ing's imiige, or some heavenly wonder, which the precisest may
not mislike : perhaps under that name I have shadowed Discipline '
This fashion of sonnet-writing upon a continuous subject prevailed,
thus, about the period of the publication of the Venus and Adonis
and the Lucrece, when Shakespeare had taken his rank amongst
the poets of the time, independent of his dramatic rank."

Taking this view of the matter, we of course do not search after
nny thread or principle of continuity running through tne wnole
series of Sonnets, or any considerable portion of them. We hold
them to have been strictly fragmentary in conception and execu-
tion, written at divers times and I'rom various motives ; addressed
sometimes, perhaps, to actual persons, sometimes to ideal ; and,
for the most part, weaving together the real and me imaginary
sentiments of the author, as would best serve the end of poetical
beauty and effect. In a word, we think he wrote them mainly as
an artist, not as a man, though as an artist acting more or less
upon the incidents and suggestions of his actual experience.
Doubtless, too, in divers cases, several of them have a special
unity and coherence among themselves, being run together in con-
tinuous sets or clusters, and forming separate poems. This avoid*
the endless mirage of conflicting theories that has gathered about
them, and also clears up the perplexity and confusion which one
cannot but feel while reading them under an idea or persuasion of
their being a continuous whole.

We give the Sonnets, it will be seen, in the same order and ar-
rangement as they stand in the original edition, believing that this
ought not to be interfered with, until the question shall be better
settled as to the order in which they should be given. Neverthe

INTRODUCTION. 121

less, -ve are far from thinking this orrler to be the right one ; on
the contrary, we hold it to be in divers particulars very much dis-
ordered. It seems quite evident that there is a good deal of mis
placement and confusion among them; sometimes those being
scattered here and there, which belong together, sometimes one
set being broken by the thrusting in of a detached member of an-
other set. For instance, the three Sonnets playing upon the Poet's
name clearly ought to be set together, yet they are printed as the
cxxxv., cxxxvi., and CXLIII., the last of the trio being thus sep-
arated from the rest by the interposition of six jumbled together,
apparently, from their proper connection in other sets. So, again,
the cxxvu., cxxxi., and cxxxn. clearly ought to stand together,
being continuous alike in the subject and in the manner of treating
it. Numerous other cases of like dislocation might be cited, but
there is no need of dwelling on the matter here, as it will be dulj
attended to in our notes.

We have no ground for supposing that Thorpe's edition of the
Sonnets was made under the supervision or with the sanction of the
Poet. The internal evidence all makes against the notion of the
author having any hand in getting the work out; and as for ex-
ternal evidence, there is none bearing on the point. We have
found, in connection with the plays, abundant proof that Shake
speare's reputation rendered many publishers very eager to grace
their establishments with his workmanship. Thorpe did not pub
lish any other of his writings, nor does he anywhere but in this one
instance appear in connection with his name. That his issue of
the Sonnets was anywise fraudulent or surreptitious, is more than
we have any right to say; neither, on the other hand, is there any
sign of its having been done with the author's allowance or con-
sent. Probably, as the business was then conducted, a publisher
was held justifiable, in law and honour, in catching such matter
where and as he could, provided he did not directly interfere with
the known interest of anybody else in the same line. And so, as
regards the issue in question, perhaps the most that can be said
fur it is, that it was with the Poet's connivance. The Sonnets
were floating about in circulation, and their excellence had become
matter of public fame. There was cause enough why a publisher
should be glad to come by a copy of them, and perhaps to reward,
with compliments or cash, any one who would get together, for hrs
use, as many of them as he could find. "Mr. VV. H." probably
served in this capacity. And for the order and arrangement of
them, there was most likely nothing better than the ignorance or
caprice of the procurer or the publisher. It is nowise improbable
that some may have been mistakenly included which were not
really Shakespeare's, nor, again, that he may have written some
ivhich were not obtained.

The whole question of the Sonnets has been sifted and sciuti-
Dized with much care and ability in Knight's Shakespeare the

122 SONNETS.

writer endeavouring to sort and arrange them on a principle or
internal fitness and congruity. Probably his order is not in all
points satisfactory ; in one particular, as will be seen, we depart
from it, and there are some others where we think it might be bet-
tered : but it seems, at all events, a great improvement on the old
disorder ; and we would not that the settling of a belter arrange-
ment should be hindered by having too many innovations adopted
or proposed. While retaining them, therefore, in their old order,
we have numbered them with figures, so that they can be read,
except in the instance just mentioned, according to Knight's group-
ing ; though in our numbering the several groups or sets do not
occupy the same relative places which he assigns them, because
we wished the figures to run, as nearly as might he, in the snme
order as the Sonnets are printed. Along with our figures, we al«o
keep the numerals the same as in the old arrangement ; and by
following the numerals which we have placed after certain Son-
nets or clusters of Sonnets, the reader will be able to take the
whole series according to our numbering, and to find the several
sets or groups as Knight has sorted and classed them. We know
not how it may strike others ; but, for ourselves, we have found
the interest of them greatly heightened, by having the old confu-
sion th'is disciplined out of their arrangement.

Touching the merit of the Sonnets, there need not much be said
Some of them would hardly do credit to a school-boy, while many
are such as it may well be held an honour even to Shakespeare
to have written ; there being nothing of the kind in the language
at all approaching them, except a few of Milton's and a good
many of Wordsworth's. That in these the Poet should have
sometimes rendered his work excessively frigid with the euphuislic
conceits and affectations of the time, is far less wonderful than the
exquisite beauty, and often more than beauty, of sentiment and
imagery that distinguishes a large portion of them. Many might
be pointed out, which, with perfect clearness and compactness of
thought, are resplendent with the highest glories of imagination ;
others are replete with the tenderest pathos ; others again are
compact of graceful fancy and airy elegance; while in all these
styles there are specimens perfectly steeped in the melody of
sounds and numbers, as if the thought were born of music, and
the wusic interfused with its very substance. Wordsworth gives
it as his opinion, that " there is no part of the writings of this
Poet, where is found, m an equal compass, a greater number of
exquisite feelings felicitously expressed."

" A LOVER'S COMPLAINT, by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,"
occupies eleven pages at the end of the volume containing the
Sonnets. There is no doubt of its being the Poet's work ; but
on what occasion or for what purpose it was written, is not known
Some parts of it ire very fine, and all of it is well worth having

SONNETS.

FKOM fairest creatures we desire increase,

That thereby beauty's rose might never die,

But as the riper should by time decease,

His tender heir might bear his memory :

But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,

Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,

Making a famine where abundance lies,

Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.

Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament,

And only herald to the gaudy spring,

Within thine own bud buriest thy content,

And, tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

n. 2.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held :
Then, being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days ;
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use,
If thou could'st answer, "This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse. "
Proving his beauty by succession thine.

12-1 SONNETS.

This were to be new-made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

in. 3.

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest,

Now is the time that face should form another ;

Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,

Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother,

For where is she so fair, whose unear'd womb !

Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry ?

Or who is he so fond,2 will be the tomb

Of his self-love, to stop posterity ?

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in theo

Calls back the lovely April of her prime :

So thou through windows of thine age shall see.

Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden tune.

But if thou live, remember'd not to be,

Die single, and thine image dies with thee

iv. 4.

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy ?
Nature's bequest gives nothing, but doth lend ;
And, being frank, she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give ?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sura of sums, yet canst not live ?
For, having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave ?

1 Unear'd is unfilled. See the dedication of Venus and Adonis,
note 2. H.

* fond was continually used in the sense of foolith. H.

SONNETS. 125

Thy unus'd beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

v. 5.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair,3 which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer oil
To hideous winter, and confounds him there ;
Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'er-snow'd, and bareness every where •
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was :
But flowers distill'd, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show;4 their substance still lives
sweet.

VI. 6.

Then, let not winter's ragged hand deface

In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd :

Make sweet some phial ; treasure thou some place

With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.

That use is not forbidden usury,

Which happies those that pay the willing loan ;

That's for thyself to breed another thee,

Or ten times happier, be it ten for one :

Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,

[f ten of thine ten times refigur'd thee.

Then, what could death do, if thou should'st depart,

Leaving thee living in posterity 1

a Unfair is here a verb, having ihe force of make unfair. H.
4 Leete is an old form of lose. H.

126 SONNETS.

Be not self-will'd ; for thou art much too fair

To be death's conquest, and make worms thine heii

VII. 7.

Lo ! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty ;
And, having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage :
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way.
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlook'd-on diest, unless thou get a son.

VIII. 8.

Music to hear,8 why hear'st thou music sadly ?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not gladly
Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy 1
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou should'st bear.
Mark, how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering ;
Resembling sire and child and happy mother,
Who, all in -one, one pleasing note do sing:
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Sings this to thee: "Thou single wilt prove none."

* That is, "thou being music to hear"

SONNETS. 127

IX. 9

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,

That thou consum'st thyself in single life ?

Ah ! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,

The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife ;

The world will be thy widow, and still weep,

That thou no form of thee hast left behind,

When every private widow well may keep,

By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind.

Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend,

Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;

But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,

And, kept umis'd, the user so destroys it.

No love toward others in that bosom sits,

That on himself such murderous shame commits

x. 10.

For shame ! deny that thou bear'st love to any,

Who for thyself art so unprovident :

Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov'd of many,

But that thou none lov'st, is most evident ;

For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate,

That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire,

Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate,

Which to repair should be thy chief desire.

O, change *hy thought, that I may change my mind !

Shall hate be fairer lodg'd than gentle love ?

Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,

Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove :

Make thee another self, for love of me,

That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

• That is, mateless. Make and mate were formerly synony-
mous.

128 , SONNETS.

XI. 11.

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
In one of thine, from that which thou departest ;
And that fresh blood, which youngly thou be?towest,
Thou may'st call thine, when thou from youth con-

veriest.

Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase ;
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay :
If all were minded so, the times should cease,
And threescore years would make the world away
Let those, whom nature hath not made for store.
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish :
Look, whom she best endow'd, she gave the more ;
Which bounteous gift thou should'st in bounty

cherish.

She carv'd thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
Thou should'st print more, nor let that copy die.

xii. 12.

When I do count the clock that tells the time,

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night ;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white ;

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd ;

And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ;

Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,

And die as fast as they see others grow ;

And nothing 'gainst time's scythe can make defence,

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

SUHNETS. L29

XIII. 13.

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are

No longer yours than you yourself here live :

Against this coming end you should prepare,

And your sweet semblance to some other give :

So should that beauty, which you hold in lease,

Find no determination : then you were

Yourself again, after yourself's decease,

When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

Which husbandry in honour might jphold

Against the stormy gusts of wintei 'a day,

And barren rage of death's eternal cold 1

O ! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know

You had a father ; let your son say so.

xnr. 14.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck ;

And yet, methinks, I have astronomy,

But not to tell of good or evil luck,

Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality ;

Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,

Pointing to each his thunder, rain, and wind ;

Or say, with princes if it shall go well,

By oft predict that I in heaven find : 7

But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive ;

And, constant stars, in them I read such art,

As truth and beauty shall together thrive,

If from thyself to store thou would'st convert;

Or else of thee this I prognosticate, —

Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date*

7 Oft predict is frequent prediction.

9

130 SONNETS. /

XV. 10.

When I consider, every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment ;
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows.
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory ;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful time debateth with decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night ;
And, all in war with time, for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new

But wherefore do not you a mightier way

Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time,

And fortify yourself in your decay

With means more blessed than my barren rhyme '

Now stand you on the top of happy hours ;

And many maiden gardens, yet unset,

With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,

Much liker than your painted counterfeit :

So should the lines of life that life repair,

Which this, time's pencil, or my pupil pen,

Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,8

Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.

To give away yourself, keeps yourself still ;

And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill

• The Poet very often uies fair for faimett or beauty. H.

SONNETS. 131

XVII. 17.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, Heaven knows, it is but as a tomb,
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, "This poet lies ;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces."
So should my papers, yellovv'd with their age,
Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue ;
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, — in it, and in my rhyme

xx*

XVIII. 21. t

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate :

* By following the numerals thus placed after certain Sonnets,
the reader will take the whole collection in tbe order of our num-
ber-leg.

f We here depart, in one particular, from Knight's classification
of the Sonnets. He makes the series, wherein the Poet exhorts
his friend to marry, to close with the xix., and then arranges the
xx., LIII., LIV., and LV. in a cluster or little poem by themselves.
It seems to us tolerably clear that the four just pointed out are
addressed to the same person, whether actual or ideal, as the first
nineteen, and therefore ought to be grouped with them. They are
conceived in much the same vein of sentiment and imagery, and
seem evidently intended to keep up and carry 011 the style of the
foregoing, in running a sort of division or variation upon the same
thoughts or ideas. We thus make the series to consist of twenty-
three Sonnets, instead of nineteen. It will be seen that we change
the relative positions of the last five in the series. This is done
in order to avoid the very obvious and awkward anticlimax which
we find in passing from the xix. to the xx., and also to preserve
an easy and gradual rising from the xvn. to the close

132 SONNETS.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd ;
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrinmi'd
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ovvest ;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade.
When in eternal lines to time thou grovvest.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thec.

LV.

XIX. 23.

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,

And make the earth devour her own sweet brood :

Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,

And burn the long-liv'd phoenix in her blood :

Make glad and sorry seasons, as thou fleet'st,

And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,

To the wide world, and all her fading sweets ;

.But I forbid thee one most heinous crime :

O ! carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,

Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen ;

Him in thy course untainted do allow,

For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.

Yet, do thy worst, old Time : despite thy wrong,

My love shall in rny verse ever live young.9

XXVI.

' It may be needful to add, (hat in Shakespeare's time, as is
often shown in his plays, the language of friendship was much the
game as that of love. So that, in speaking to or of his male
friends with a degree of passionate ardour, such us a gentleman
would now hardly venture upon using to or about bis lady-love
the Poet was but doing a common thing. H.

SONNETS. 133

XX. 18 »

A w Oman's face, with nature's OWE. hand painted,

Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion ;

A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted

With shifting change, as is false women's fashion ;

An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling

Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth ;

A man in hue, all hues in his controlling,10

Which steals men's eyes, and women's souls umazeth ;

And for a woman wert thou first created ;

Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,

And by addition me of thee defeated,

By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.

But, since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,

Mine be thy love, and thy love's use their treasure.

LI II.

XXI. 90 1

80 is it not with me, as with that Muse

Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,

Who heaven itself for ornament doth use,

And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ;

Making a couplement of proud compare,

With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,

With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare

That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.

O ! let me, true in love, but truly write ;

And then, believe me, my love is as fair

* In our arrangement, this Sonnet follows the xvii., and the
preceding does not come in till after the LV. See notes on page
131.

t In Knight's classification, this Sonnei comes in after the cxxx.,
snd is followed, in our numbering, by the cxxxix.

10 In the original, hues is spelt with a capital, Hews. From
t is slight circumstance Tyrwhitt conjectured that « the begettei
of these Sonnets" was a Mr. VV. Hughes. The question is dit
'•sssed iu our Introduction. H.

134 SONNETS.

As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air.
Let them say more that like of hear-say well ;
I will not praise, that purpose not to sell.

CXXX1X.
XXII. H0»

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date ;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold.
Then look I death my days should expirate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in, thy breast doth live, as thine in me.
How can I, then, ba elder than thou art ?
O ! therefore, love, be of thyself so wary,
As I not for myself but for thee will ;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain ;
Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again.

LXIL

XXIII. 26 1

As an unperfect actor on the stage,

Who with his fear is put besides his part ;

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart

» Knight arranges this Sonnet as in continuation of the cxxri.
t This Sonnet, in Knight's order, follows the xiv., in a set of
three, entitled " Dedications."

11 A similar instance of expiate occurs in King Richard III.,
Act iii. sc. 3 : " Make haste, the hour of death is expiate." It i«
thought by some to be in both places a misprint for expirate ;
which seems not unlike! > as the latter gives the sense required bj
the context. u

SONNETS. 135

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite ;
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharg'd with burden of mine own love's might.
O ! let my books be, then, the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast;
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more ex»

press'd.

O ! learn to read what silent love hath writ :
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

XXIX.
XXIV. 53*

Mine eye hath play'd the painter, and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;1*
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art ;
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies ;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now, see what good turns eyes for eyes have done i
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, wherethrough the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee ;
Yet eyes this cunning want, to grace their art, —
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

XLVI.

* This Sonnet, in Knight's order, follows the xcn., and is
classed along with the XLVI. and xi.vii., as forming a little poem
called " The Picture."

'* Table was used for that whereon any thing was engraved or
painted ; hence, sometimes, for the picture itself, as in a passage
of North's Plutarch, quoted in the remarks on Portia in our In-
troduction to Julius Csesar. — In Lucrece, nole 43, we have stell'd
in the same sense as it bears here. In this place, the old copies
spell the woid steel' d ; hut as it is meant to rhyme with held, iher*
eau be uo Joubt that s'dl'd is the right form. M

136 SONNETS.

XXV. 25.»

Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars.,
Unlook'd-for joy in tbat I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried ;
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,13
After a thousand victories -jnce foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd :
Then, happy I, that love and am belov'd,
Where I may not remove, nor be remov'd.

XXIII.

XXVI. 24. f

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage

Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

To thee I send this written embassage,

To witness duty, not to show my wit :

Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine

May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it.

But that I hope some good conceit of thine

In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it ;

Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,

Points on me graciously with fair aspect,

* Knight makes this Sonnet follow the xxvi., in the set of '« Ded-
ications."

t This Sonnet is classed by Knight as the first in a trio of Ded-
ications, the other two being the xxv. and xxm.

IS The original has worth instead of fight, which latter is evi
dently required for the rhyme. Theobald made the correction.

H.

SONNETS. 137

And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect :
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee ;
Till then, not show my head where thou may'st
prove me. xxv

xxvn. 3s.«

Weary with toil I haste me to my bed,

The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd ;

But then begins a journey in my head,

To work my mind when body's work's expir'd :

For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)

Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,

And keep my drooping eye-lids open wide,

Looking on darkness which the blind do see ;

Save that my soul's imaginary sight

Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,

Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,

Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new

Lo ! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,

For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

XXVIII. 39

How can I, then, return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest ;
When day's oppression is not eas'd by night,
But day by night, and night by day oppress'd 1
And each, though enemies to cither's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me ;
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still further off from thee.

* This Sonnet and the next are arranged by Knight in contin-
uation of the LII., in a set of nine, entitled « Absence. Th«
series begins with the L.

1 .'>0 SONNETS.

I tell tlit day, to please him, them art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven
So Hatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling stars twire not,14 thou gild'st the

even :

Bat day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,
And night doth nightly make grief's strength seem

stronger. LXI.

XXIX. 27.*

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,

I all alone beweep my outcast state,

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,

And look upon myself, and curse my fate ;

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,

With what I most enjoy contented least ;

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising ;

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,

Like to the lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate :

For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings,

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX. 28.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,

* Knight makes this Sonnet the first in a series of four, with the
title of " Confiding Friendship." The other three follow in due
order. In our figuring the set comes next after the xxm.

14 It seems uncertain whether twire is here used in the sense of
twinkle or of peep ; probably the latter. Thus in Jonson's Sad
Shepherd, Act ii. sc. 1 : "Which maids will twirt at 'tween their
fingers." And in Beaumont and Fletcher's Women Pleased, Act
iv. sc. 1 : "I saw the wench that twired and twinkled at thee ; the
weuch that's new come hither, the young smug wench." H

SONNETS. 139

1 sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste

Then can I drown an eye, unus'd to flow,

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,

And weep afresh 1 )ve's long-since cancell'd woe,

And moan th' expense of many a vanish'd sight.

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before :

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restor'd, and sorrows end.

XXXI. 29.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead ;
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear14
Hath dear -religious love stol'n from mine eye,
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things remov'd, that hidden in thee lie !
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many now is thine alone.
Their images I lov'd I view in thee ;
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

XXXII. 30.

If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl death my bones with dust shall
cover,

15 Obsequious here means funereal or relating to obsequies.
The Poet several times has the word iii this sense. See King
Richard 111.. Act i. sc. 2, note 1. H

140 SONNETS.

And shall by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover;
Compare them with the bettering of the time ;
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O ! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought :
" Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing

age,

A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage :
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love."

XXXVI.
XXXIII. 138.«

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy ;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,18
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace.
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow ;
But, out, alack ! he was but one hour mine ;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ;
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun
staineth.

* Knight arranges this Sonnet and the next two in a series ol
six, entitled " Injury." In our figuring, it follo'vs the cxi.iv.

18 Rack is thin, attenuated vapour} explained in The Tempest
Act iv. so. 1, note 16. H

SONNETS. 141

XXXIV. 139.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke ?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face ;
For no man well of such a salve can speak,
That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace :
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss :
Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross."
Ah ! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.

XXXV. 140.»

No more be griev'd at that which thou hast done :
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud ;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare ;
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,18
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are : "
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,

* The remaining Sonnets in this series of six, as arranged by
Knight, are the XL., XLI., and XLII.

17 Instead of cross, the old copy here repeats loss. Malone
made the change. H.

18 Amiss was sometimes used as a substantive, for any thinf
done amiss. See Venus and Adonis, note 1. H.

19 That is, making (he excuse too great for the offence. — The
meaning of the next three lines seems to be, "I bring in my rea-
son to excuse thy fault, and to commence a plea against roysdf
for being as much in fault as thou." H.

142 SONNETS.

(Thy a fl verse party is thy advocate,)

And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence.

Such civil war is in my love and hate,

That I an accessory needs must be

To thai sweet thief, which sourly rohs from m*.

XL.

XXXVI. 31.*

Let me confess that we two must be twain,

Although our undivided loves are one :

So shall those blots that do with me remain,

Without thy help, by me be borne alone.

In our two loves there is but one respect,

Though in our lives a separable spite ; *°

Which though it alter not love's sole effect,

Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.

I may not evermore acknowledge thee,

Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame ;

Nor thou with public kindness honour me,

Unless thou take that honour from thy name :

But do not so ; I love thee in such sort,

As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XXXVII. 32.

As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,*1
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth ;

* This and the next three Sonnets are in Knight's arrangement
a series by themselves, entitled " Humility." In our figuring, they
follow the xxxn.

*° That is, a cruel fate, that spitefully separates us.

81 The Poet often uses dear as an epithet of any thing thai
moves intense feeling, whether of love or the reverse. See Twelftk
Night, Act v. sc. 1, note 3. H.

SONNETS. 143

Kor whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,

Or any of these all, or all, or more,

Entitled in thy parts82 do crowned sit,

I make my love engrafted to this store :

So the1!! I am not lame, poor, nor despis'd,

Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give

That I in thy abundance am suffic'd,

And by a part of all thy glory live.

Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee :

This wish I have ; then, ten times happy me

XXXVIII. 33.

How can my Muse want subject to invent,

While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse

Thine own sweet argument, too excellent

For every vulgar paper to rehearse 1

O ! give thyself the thanks, if aught in me,

Worthy perusal, stand against thy sight ;

For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,

When thou thyself dost give invention light?

Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate ;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date.

If my slight Muse do please these curious days,

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

XXXIX. 34.»

O ! how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring]
And what is't but mine own, when I praise thee ?

* This Sonnet is the fourth and last in Knight's series on "Ha
mility."

The meaning seems to be, " ennobled in thy parts."

H.

144 SONNETS.

Even for this let us divided live,

And our dear love lose name of single one;

That by this separation I may give

That due to thee which. thou deserv'st alone.

0 absence ! what a torment would'st thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time arid thoughts so sweetly doth deceive;
And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
By praising him here, who doth hence remain.

h

XL. 141 *

Take all my loves, my love ; yea, take them all :
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before 1
No love, my love, that thou may'st true love call :
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then, if for my love thou my love receivest,

1 cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest ;
But yet be blam'd, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.

I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty ;
And yet love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong, than hate's known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites ; yet we must not be foes.

XLI. 142.

Those petty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.

* This Sonnet and the next two are classed by Knight as it
continuation of the xxxv., in the seres on " Injury."

SONNETS. 145

Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won ;
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail'd ;
And when a woman wooes, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevail'd ?
Ah me ! but yet thou might'st my seat forbear,
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forc'd to break a twofold truth ;
Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.

XLII. 143."

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief;

And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly :

That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief;

A loss in love that touches me more nearly.

Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye :

Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her ,

And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,

Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.

If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain ;

And losing her, my friend hath found that loss ;

Both find each other, and I lose both twain,

And both for my sake lay on me this cross.

But here's the joy, my friend and I are one:

Sweet flattery ! then, she loves but me alone.

XCIV
XLIII. 41. f

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected ;

* This Sonnet finishes Knight's series «f six on " Injury."
t This and the next two Sonnets are placed by Knight in con

tinuation of the LXI., in the series of nine, entitled "Absence,"

and beginning with the L.

146 SONNFTS.

But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make

bright,

How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so 1
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay ?
All days are nights to see, till I see thee,
And nights bright days, when dreams do show thec

me.

XLIV. «.

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way ;
For then, despite of space, I would be brought
From limits far remote where thou dost stay.
No matter then, although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee ;
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But, ah ! thought kills me, that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone
But that, so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend time's leisure with my moan ;
Receiving nought, by elements so slow,
But heavy tears, badges of cither's woe."

M The Poet here has in view the old doctrine of philosophy
that all things were composed of the four elements, earth, watei
•ir, and fire. See our Introduction to Julius Caesar. H.

SONNETS. 147

XLV. 43."

The other two, slight air and purging fire,

Are both wilh thee, wherever I abide;

The first my thought, the other my denire,

These present-absent with swift motion slide :

For when these quicker elements are gone

In tender embassy of love to thee,

My life, being made of four, with two alone

Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;

Until life's composition be recur'd

By those swift messengers return'd from thee,

Who even but now come back again, assur'd

Of thy fair health, recounting it to me :

This told, I joy ; but then, no longer glad,

I send them back again, and straight grow sad.

XLVIII.

XI. VJ. 54. f

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,

How to divide the conquest of thy sight ;

Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,

My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.

My heart doth plead, that tliou in him dost lie,

A closet never pierc'd with crystal eyes ;

But the defendant doth that plea deny,

And says in him thy fair appearance lies.

To 'cide this title is impannelled

A quest of thoughts,*4 all tenants to the bean ;

* This Sonnet closes Knight's series of nine beginning with the
L., and entitled " Absence."

t Knight places this Sonnet aud the next in continuation of the
n "The Picture."

54 That is, to decide this title an inquest or jury of thoughts if
impannelled. — We have repeatedly seen that moiety was used
for any part, c-f a thing. So in the dedication of Lucrece, note 1 ,

B.

148 SONNETS

And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye's moiety, and the dear heart's part
As thus, — Mine eye's due is thine outward part,
And my heart's right thine inward love of heart.

XLVII. 55*

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other :
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast.
And to the painted banquet bids my heart ;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest,
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part :
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself away art present still with me ;
For thou not further than my thoughts canst move»
And I am still with them, and they with thee ;
Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.

LXXVII.
XLVIIL 44. t

How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust ;
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust !
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou, best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.

* This Sonnet closes Knight's series of three, beginning witfc
the xxiv., ind called "The Picture."

t Knight makes this Sonnet the first in a seriei of nine, entitled
" Estrangement."

SONNETS. 149

Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,

Save where thou nrt not, though I feel thou art,

Within the gentle closure of rny breast,

From whence at pleasure thou may'st come and part;

And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,

For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

LXXV
XLIX. 46*

Against that time, if ever that time come.
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
Whenas thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Call'd to that audit by advis'd respects ;
Against that time, when thou shalt strangely pass,
And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye ;
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity ; —
Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand against myself uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
Since, why to love, 1 can allege no cause.

LXXXVIII.

L. 35. f

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek (my weary travels' end)
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,
"Thus far the miles are measur'd from thy friend!*1
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me ;

* Knight makes this Sonnet continuate with the LXXY., in th«
series on " Estrangement," beginning with the XLVIII.

t This Sonnet is placed by Knight as the first in the series o/
nine, entitled " Absence."

1 SONNET?.

As if by some instinct the wretch did know-
Ills rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
Mqre sharp to me than spurring to his side ;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind,—
My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

Li- 36.

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed :
From where thou art why should I haste me thence 1
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O ! what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow 1
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind ;
In winged speed no motion shall I know:
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace ;
Therefore desire, of perfectVt love being made,
Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race ;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade :
Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.

LII. 37.

So am I as the rich, whose blessed kev
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since seldom coming, in the long year set,

SONNETS. 151

Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.2*
So is the time that keeps you, as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special-bless'd,
By new unfolding his imprisoti'd pride.
Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

XXVIL
LIII. 19.»

What is your substance, whereof are you made,

That millions of strange shadows on you tend ?

Since every one hath, every one, one shade ;

And you, but one, can every shadow lend.

Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit

Is poorly imitated after you ;

On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,

And you in Grecian tires are painted new :

Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,"

The one doth shadow of your beauty show,

The other as your bounty doth appear,

And you in every blessed shape we know.

In all external grace you have some part ;

But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

LIV. 20.

O ! how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give !

• In our arrangement, this Sonnet and the next are made eon
tinuate with the XL. in the series of twenty-three, wherein the Po«
advises his friend to marry. See notes on page 131.

86 Captain is chfff or principal. A carcanet is a necklace
See The Comedy of Errors, Act iii. sc. 1, note 1. B.

** Poison i.s plenty, or abundance

152 SONNETS.

The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a die,"
As the perfumed tincture of the roses ;
Hang1 on such thorns, and play as wantonly,
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade ;
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so ;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made :
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth.

xvin.

LV. 22."

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments

Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ;

But you shall shine more bright in these contents

Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time.

When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

And broils root out the work of masonry,

Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn

The living record of your memory.

'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity

Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still find

room,

Even in the eyes of all posterity,
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

XIX.

* In our arrangement, this Sonnet follows the XTIII., a« part of
the series wherein the Poet urges upou his friend divers reasons foi
marrying'. See notes on page 131.

17 Canker-blooms are the blossoms of the canker-rose or «kg_
rose. See 1 Heurv IV., Act i. sc. 3, note 17. H

SONNETS. 153

LVI. 96_*

S vreet love, renew thy force ; be it not said,
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might :
So, love, be thou ; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted -new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more bless'd may be the view:
Or call it winter, which, being full of care,
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more
rare.

CXLV.

LVII. 94. f

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare 1 chide the world-without-end hour,**
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you:
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,
When you have bid your servant once adieu :
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose ;

* This Sonnet is regarded by Knight as standing alone, and
having "Coldness" for its subject. In our figuring., it follows th«

i, Yin.

t This Sonnet and the next are regarded by Knight as standing
together alone, and having "Slavery" for their subject. In oui
numbering they follow the CXLIX.

M That is, the tedious hour that seems as if it never would end

15 SONNETS.

But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought,
Save, where you are, how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love, that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

LVIII. 95.

That God forbid, that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure
Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure !

0 ! let me suffer, being at your beck,
Th' imprison'd absence of your liberty ;

And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,

Without accusing you of injury.

Be where you list, your charter is so strong,

That you yourself may privilege your time

To what you will; to you it doth belong

Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.

1 am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

LVI.

LIX. 107.*

If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burthen of a former child?
O ! that record could with a backAvard look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done !

* This Sonnet and ihe next are classed by Knight as the 1as«
in a series of eleven, beginning with the C., and probably addressed
to the same person as the first nineteen. In our numbering, the)
follow the cvin.

SONNETS. 1&5

That I might see whit the old world could say

To this composed wonder of your frame ;

Whether we're mended, or where better they,*'

Or whether revolution be the same.

O ! sure I am, the wits of former days

To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

LX. 108.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled short),

So do our minutes hasten to their end ;

Each changing place with that which goes before,

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Nativity, once in the main of light,30

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,

Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight ;

Arid time that gave, doth now his gift confound.

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow ;

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow :

And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

CXXVI.
LXI. 40.*

Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
My heavy eye-lids to the weary night ?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows, like to thee, do mock my sight?

* This Sonnet is classed by Knight as the sixth, in the series 01
' Absence," beginning with the L.

* That is, where'n or in what respects they were better. H.
*° The great body of light, or, perhaps, the ocean of light.

156 SONNETS*.

Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee

So far from home, into my deeds to pry ;

To find out shames and idle hours in me,

The scope and tenour of thy jealousy?

O, no ! thy love, though much, is not so great .

It is my love that keeps mine eye awake ;

Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat

To play the watchman ever for thy sake :

For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,

From me far off, with others all too near.

XLIII.
LXII. HI.*

Sin of self-love posscsseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part ;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks, no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account ;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Bated and chapp'd with tanri'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read ;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
'Tis thee (myself) that for myself I praise,
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

LXIII. 112.

Against my love shall be, as I am now,

W th time's injurious hand crush'd and o'erworn ;

".This and the twelve following Sonnets are placed by Knight
in a continuous series of sixteen, beginning with the cxxvi., in-
eluding, next, the xxu., and ending with the LXXXI

SONNETS. 157

When hours have drain'd his blood, and fill'd his

brow

With lines and wrinkles ; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night ;
And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring; —
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life :
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen ;
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

LX1V. 113.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age ;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz'd.
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; —
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, —
That time will come, and take my love away.
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose

LXV. 114.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'erswuvs their power,

158 SONNETS.

[low with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,

Whose action is no stronger than a flower?

O ! how shall summer's honey breath hold out

Against the wreckful siege of battering days,

When rocks impregnable are not so stout,

Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?

O, fearful meditation ! where, alack !

Shall time's best jewel from time's chest lie hull

Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back 1

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

O, none ! unless this miracle have might,

That in black ink my love may still shine bright

us.

Tir'd with all these, for restful death I cry; —

As, to behold desert a beggar born,

And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,

And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

And gilded honour shamefully misplac'd,

And maiden virtue rudely strum peted,

And right perfection wrongfully disgrac'd,

And strength by limping sway disabled,

And art made tongue-tied by authority,

And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,

And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,

And captive good attending captain ill:

Tir'd with all these, from these would 1 be gone,

Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

LXVII. H6.

Ah ! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve,
And lace itself with his society ?

SONNETS. »59

Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true ?
Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,'
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
O ! him she stores, to show what wealth she h.«.d
In days long since, before these last so bad.

LXVIII. 117.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty liv'd and died as flowers do now,
Before these bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow ;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head,
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay.81
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself, and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new ;
And him as for a map doth nature store,
To show false art what beauty was of yore.

LXIX. 118.

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend :
All tongues (the voice of souls) give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.

31 The Poet has several allusions to this custom of tht time
See The Merchant of Venice, Act iii. sc. 2, note 6; and Much Ado
about Nothing, Act ii sc. 3, note 4. a

160 SONNETS.

Thine outward thus with outward praise is ciown'd;

But those same tongues that give thee so thine own,

In other accents do this praise confound,

By seeing further than the eye hath shown.

They look into the beauty of thy mind,

And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds ;

Then (churls) their thoughts, although their eyes

were kind,

To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds :
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this, — that thou dost common grow.3*

LXX. 119.

That thou art blam'd, shall not be thy defect.

For slander's mark was ever yet the fair ;

The ornament of beauty is suspect,33

A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.

So thou be good, slander doth but approve

Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time ;

For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,

And thou present's! a pure, unstained prime.

Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,

Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd ;

Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,

To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd :

If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,

Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts should'st owe.

LXXI. 120.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

sl The original has solye, which Malone properly changed if
solrt, meaning, of course, solution. H.

83 Susvect fot suspicion ; a common usage with ihe Foet.

H.

SONNETS. 161

Give warning1 to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it ; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O ! if (F say) you look upon this verse,
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
But let your love even with my life decay ;
Lest the wise world should look into your moan,
And mock you with me after I am gone.

LXXII. 121.

O ! lest the world should task you to recite
What merit liv'd in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite ;
For you in me can nothing worthy prove,
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart.
O ! lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you i
For I am sham'd by that which I bring forth,
And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

LXXHI. 122.

That time of year thou may'st in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold ;
Bare, ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang

162 SONNETS.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day,

As after >,unset fadeth in the west,

Which by arid by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest :

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie ;

As the death-bed whereon it must expire,

Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more

strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

LXXIV. 123.«

But be contented : when that fell arrest

Without all bail shall carry me away,

My life hath in this line some interest,

Which for memorial still with thee shall stay .

When thou reviewest this, thou dost review

The very part was consecrate to thee.

The earth can have but earth, which is his due ;

My spirit is thine, the better part of me :

So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,

The prey of worms, my body being dead ;

The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,

Too base of thee to be remembered.

The worth of that, is that which it contains;

And that is this, and this with thee remains.

LXXXI.

LXXV. 45. f

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,

Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground ;

* This Sonnet is classed by Knight as the fifteenth in a serial
beginning with the cxxvi., and ending with the LXXXI.

t This Sonnet is made the second in a series of nine entitled
" Estrangement," beginning with the XLVIII.

SONNETS. 163

And for the peace of you I hold such strife

As 'twixt a miser arid his wealth is found :

Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon

Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure ;

Now counting best to be with you alone,

Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure :

Sometime, all full with feasting on your sight,

And by and by clean starved for a look;

Possessing or pursuing no delight,

Save what is had or must from you be took.

Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,

Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

ZLIZ.

LXXVI. fi7.»

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change ?
Why, with the time, do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange 1
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth, and where they did pro-
ceed?

O ! know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument ;
So, all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent :
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.

LXXVIII.

* Knight makes this Sonnet the first in a series of ten with tha
tillt of "Rivalry." In our numbering', it follows the LXiru,

164 SONNETS.

LXXVII. 56."

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste ;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning may'st thou taste :
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show,
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory ;
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth may'st know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look, what thy memory cannot contain,
Commit to these waste blanks ; and thou shall find
Those children nurs'd, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee, and much enrich thy book.*4

LXXVI.

LXXVIII. 68. f

So oft have I invok'd thee for my Muse,

And found such fair assistance in my verse,

As every alien pen hath got my use,

And under thee their poesy disperse.

Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing,

And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,

Have added feathers to the learned's wing,

And given grace a double majesty.

Jfet be most proud of that which I compile,

Whose influence is thine, and born of thee :

* Knight sets this Sonnet altogether by itself, as "clearly in-
tended to accompany the present of a note-book."

t This Sonnet and the next two are made continuate with the
LXXVI. in the series of ten on " Rivalry."

84 Steevens observes that this Sonnet was probably designed to
accompany a present of a book consisting of blank paper.

SONNETS. 165

In others' wjrks thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be ;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning my rude ignorance.

LXXIX. fi9.

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace ;
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd,
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
1 grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen ;
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word
From thy behaviour ; beauty doth he give,
And found it in thy cheek ; he can aftbrd
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
Then, thank him not for that which he doth say,
Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay

LXXX. 60.*

O ! how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame.
But since your worth (wide as the ocean is)
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth wilfully appear."

* The fourth in the series of ten on " Rivalry."

35 Malone conjectures that Speiiser was the "better spirit"
here alluded to. Spenser died at London on the 16lh of January
1699. H

106 SONNETS.

Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat.
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ndej
Or, being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat ;
He of tall building, and of goodly pride :
Then, if he thrive, and I be cast away,
The worst was this, — my love was my decay.

LXXXH.
LXXX1. 124.*

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten :
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die :
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read ;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse,
When all the breathers of this world are dead ;
You still shall live (such virtue hath my pen)
Wh6re breath most breathes, even in the mouths of
men. cxxix.

LXXXII. Gl.f

I grani, thou wert not married to my Muse,
And therefore may'st without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book.

* Continuate with the LXXIV., and closing the series of sixteen
which begins with the cxxvi.

f This Sonnet and the next five are classed in continuation of
the LXXX. in the series of ten entitled " Rivalry," and beginning
with the i, xxvi.

SONNETS. 101

Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise ;
And therefore art enforc'd to seek anew
Some fresher stump of the time-bettering days.
And do so, love ; yet when they have devis'd
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathiz'd
In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend :
And their gross painting might be better us'd
Where cheeks need blood : in thee it is abus'd.

LXXXIII. 62.

I never saw that you did painting need,

And therefore to your fair no painting set ;

I found, or thought I found, you did exceed

The barren tender of a poet's debt :

And therefore have I slept in your report,

That you yourself, being extant, well might show

How far a modern quill doth come too short,38

Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow

This silence for my sin you did impute,

Which shall be most my glory, being dumb ;

For I impair not beauty being mute,

When others would give life, and bring a tomb.

There lives more life in one of your fair eyes,

Than both your poets can in praise devise.

LXXXIV. 63.

Who is it that says most? which can say more,
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you ?
In whose confine immured is the store,
Which should example where your equal grew.

36 Modern is here used in the sense of common, ordinary. Th«
plays have a nuraljcr of such instances. See Macbeth, Acf iv. »c
3, uote 9 H.

168 SONNETS.

Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,

That to his subject lends not some small glory ;

But he that writes of you, if he can tell

That you are you, so dignifies his story :

Let him but copy what in you is writ,

Not making worse what nature made so clear,

And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,

Making his style admired every where.

You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,

Being fond on praise, which makes your praises

LXXXV. 64.

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compil'd,
Reserve37 their character with golden quill,
And precious phrase by all the Muses fil'd.
I think good thoughts, while others write good

words ;

And, like unletter'd clerk, still cry " Amen "
To every hymn that able spirit affords,
In polish 'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you prais'd, I say, " 'Tis so, 'tis true,"
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank be

fore :

Then, others for the breath of words respect ;
Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

LXXXVI. 65.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,

17 That is, preserve ; a frequent usage.

&ONNKTS. 1ft

That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a moital pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished :
He, nor that affable familiar ghost,
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast.
I was not sick of any fear from thence ;
But when your countenance fill'd up his line,"
Then lack'd I matter ; that enfeebled mine.

LXXXVII. 66.*

Farewell ! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate :
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ,
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not know-
ing,

Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.

CXXI.

* The last in the series of ten on " Rivalry," beginning with
the LXXTI.

w So the original, Jilfd being, as usual, spelt Jild. Modern
editions print filed, and explain it polished. The use of matter
shows that jill'd is right : for how can a thing be polished up witr
matter? H

170 SONNF.TS.

L.XXXVIII. 47.*

When thou slialt be dispos'd to set me light,

And place my merit in the eye of scorn,

Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,

And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forswora

With mine own weakness being best acquainted,

Upon thy part I can set down a story

Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted ;

That thou, in losing me, shall win much glory :

And I by this will be a gainer too ;

For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,

The injuries that to myself I do,

Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.

Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

LXXXIX. 48.

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,

And I will comment upon that offence :

Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,

Against thy reasons making no defence.

Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,

To set a form upon desired change,

As I'll myself disgrace : knowing thy will,

I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange ;

Be absent from thy walks ; and in my tongue

Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,

Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong,

And haply of our old acquaintance tell.

For thee, against myself I'll vow debate ;

For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.

* This and the next five Sonnets follow the XLIX. in the seriei
of nine on " Estrangement."

SONNETS. 171

XC. 49.

Then, hate me when thou wilt ; if ever, now :

Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,

Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,

And do not drop in for an aftei-loss.

Ah ! do not, when my heart hath scap'd this sorrow,

Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe ;

Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,

To linger out a purpos'd overthrow.

If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,

When other petty griefs have done their spite ;

But in the onset come : so shall I taste

At first the very worst of fortune's might ,

And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,

Compar'd with loss of thee, will not seem so.

xci. so.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force ,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill ;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their

horse ;

And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest :
But these particulars are not my measure ;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' coat,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be ;
And, having thee, of ah1 men's pride I boast :
Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take
All this away, and me most wretched make.

xcn. 51.

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine :

172 SONNETS.

And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine :
Then, need I not to fear the worst of wrongs.
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Thin that which on thy humour doth depend :
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O ! what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die !
lint what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not.

XCIII. 52.*

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,

Like a deceived husband ; so love's face

May still seem love to me, though alter'd new ;

Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place :

For there can live no hatred in thine eye ;

Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.

In many's looks the false heart's history

Is writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange

But Heaven in thy creation did decree,

That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell ;

Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,

Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell

How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,

If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show !

XXIV.

XCIV. 144. f

They that have power to hurt, and will do none ;
That do not do the thing they most do show ;

* The last in the series of nine on "Estrangement," beginning
with the YLVIII.

» TtM and the next two Sonnets are made a set by themselves^

SONNETS. 173

Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow ; —
They rightly do inherit Heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense ;
They are the lords and owners of their faces.
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity :
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

xcv. 146.

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame,
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name !
O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose !
That tongue, that tells the story of thy days, *
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise:
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O ! what a mansion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation chose out thee ;
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot ;
And all things turn to fair, that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege:
The hardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge.

xcvi. 146.

Some say, thy fault is youth, some, wantonness ;
Some say, thy grace is youth and gentle sport ;

as in mild reproof ol A Friend's Faults." In our numbering
thrv follow the XLII.

1 74 SONNETS.

Both grace and faults are lov'd of more and less : "

Thou rnak'st faults graces that to thee resort.

As on the finger of a throned queen

The basest jewel will be well esteem'd ;

So are those errors that in thee are seen,

To truths translated, and for true things deem'd.

How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,

If like a lamb he could his looks translate !

How many gazers might'st thou lead away,

If thou vvouldst use the strength of all thy state !

But do not so ; I love thee in such sort,

As. thou being mine, mine is thy good report.40

CXV1II.

XCVII. 69.»

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year !
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December's bareness every where !
And yet this time remov'd41 was summer's time;
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease :
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit ;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute ;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

* This and the next two are classed together by themselves, it
forming a second poem on "Absence," and apparently addressed
to a woman. In our numbering, they follow ihe CXLVI.

39 More and less is great and small. The usage is common in
all the old poets. H.

*; The same couplet closes the 36th Sonnet. H.

41 That is, this time in which I was remote from thee.

SONNETS. 175

XCVIII. 70.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dress'd in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him ;
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they

grew:

Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you ; you pattern of all those.
Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play :

xcix. 71.

The forward violet thus did I chide :

"Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that

smells,

If not from my love's breath? the purple pride,
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dy'd."
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair :
The roses fearfully on thorn? did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair ;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both-.
And to this robbery had annex'd thy breath ;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengefuf canker eat him up to death.
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,
But sweet 01 colour it had stol'n from thee.

CIX

176 SONNETS.

c. <w.»

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,4*
Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects light!
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent ;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse ! my love's sweet face survey,
if Time have any wrinkle graven there ;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time's spoils despised every where.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life ;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife

ci. 99.

O, truant Muse ! what shall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd 1
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse : wilt thou not haply say,
" Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd ;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay ;
But best is best, if never intermix'd 1 "

* This and the eight following are classed in a series of eleven
addressed, probably, to the same friend as the first nineteen. In
our figuring, they come next after the CXLT.

4* Fury was often thus used for poetic inspiration. So in
some verses signed " Hobynoll," written in praise of The Faeri«
Queene :

" Collyn, I see, by thy new-taken taske,
Some sacred fury hath enricht thy braynes,
That leades thy Muse in haughty verse to niasttc.
And loath the laye^ ihat 'longs to lowly swaynes ;
That liftes thy notes from Shepheardes unto Kinges I
So like the lively L?rke that mounting singes." •

SONNETS. 177

Because he needs no praise, wilt them be dumb?

Excuse not silence so ; for't lies in thee

To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,

And to be prais'd of ages yet to be.

Then, do thy office, Muse : I teach thee how

To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

CII. 100.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seem.

ing;

I love not less, though less the show appear :
That love is rnerchandiz'd, whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new, and then but in the spring,
"W hen I was wont to greet it with my lays ;
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing,
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days :
Not that the summer is less pleasant now,
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night
But that wild music burdens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight :
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue
Because I would not dull you with my song.

cm. 101.

Alack ! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That, having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth,
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O ! blame me not, if I no more can write :
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful, then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?

178 SONNETS.

For to no other pass my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell ;
And more, mucli more, than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.

civ. 102.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old ;
For as you were, when first your eye I ey'd,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turu'd
In process of the seasons have I seen;
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah ! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd ;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd :
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred, —
Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.

cv. 103.

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,

Nor my beloved as an idol show,

Since all alike my songs and praises be,

To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

Rind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,

Still constant in a wondrous excellence ;

Therefore my verse, to constancy confin'd,

One thing expressing, leaves out difference.

Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,

Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words ;

And in this change is my invention spent,

Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords

SONNETS. 179

Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone ;
Which three, till now, never kept seat in one.

CVI. 104.

When in the chronicle of wasted time
1 see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights;
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
[lave eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

CVII. 106.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,

Can yet the lease of my true love control,

Suppos'd as forfeit to a confin'd doom.

The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,

And the sad augurs mock their own presage ;

Incertainties now crown themselves assur'd,

And peace proclaims olives of endless age.

Now with the drops of this most balmy time

My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes;41

Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,

While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes'.

43 That is, resigns o» submits. See King Lear, Act i. sc. 2
o ite 4. "

180 SONNETS.

And ihou in this shalt find thy monument,

When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent

CVJII. 106.«

What's in the brain that ink may character,
Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy ; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must each day say o'er the very same ;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love, in love's fresh case,
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page ;
Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it dead

LIX.

CIX. 72.f

O ! never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart,
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie.
That is my home of love : if I have rang'd,
Like him that travels, I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchang'd ;
So that myself bring water for my stain.

* This, together with the LIX. and LX., finish the series of
eleven, which seems to have been addressed, after an interval, to
the same friend as the first nineteen.

t This and the eight following are classed in a series of thir-
teen, entitled "Fidelity." They seem addressed to a woman-
perhaps to the same as rne xcix., which precedes them in om
numbering.

SONNETS 181

Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good ;
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, rny Rose ; in it thou art my alt

ex. 73.

Alas ! 'tis true I have gone here and there,
And made myself a motley to the view ; **
Gor'd mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most

dear,

Made old offences of affections new :
Most true it is, that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely ; but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,48
And worse essays prov'd thee my best of love.
Now all is done, save what shall have no end :
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confin'd.
Then, give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure, and most, most loving breast.

CXI. 74.

O ! for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide,
Than public means, which public manners breeds.

** Motley was the proper dress of allowed or professional fools.
See As You Like It, Act ii. sc. 7; also King Henry VIII., Prol-
ogue, note 1. H.

46 To blench is to start or fly off from. See The Winter's
Tale, Act i. sc. 2, note 34. — The Poet means that his offences
have given his heart another youth by proving the strength of nij
friend's affection fl.

182 SONNETS.

Thence conies it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
Pity me, then, and wish I were renew'd,
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eysell 'gainst my strong infection : **
No bitterness that [ will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
Piiy me, then, dear friend; and I assure ye,
Even that your pity is enough to cure me.47

CXII. 75.

Your love and pity doth th' impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow ;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all-the-world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue

48 Eysell is an old word for vinegar.

47 It is scarce possible to doubt that in the two foregoing- Son
nets we have some of the Poet's honest feelings respecting him
self. Some foolish rhymester having spoken of Shakespeare and
Garrick as kindred minds, Charles Lamb thereupon quotes from
these Sonnets, and comments thus : " Who can read these instances
of jealous self-watchfulness in our sweet Shakespeare, and dream
of any congeniality between him and one that, by every traditior
of him, appears to have been as mere a player as ever existed ;
lo have had his mind tainted with the lowest players' vices,—
envy and jealousy, and miserable cravings after applause ; one
who in the exercise of his profession was jealous even of women-
performers that stood in his way ; a manager full of managerial
tricks and stratagems and finesse ; — that any resemblance should
be dreamed of between him and Shakespeare, — Shakespeare wiio,
in the plenitude and consciousness of his own powers, could, wiih
that noble modesty which we can neither imitate nor appreciate
express himself thus of his own sense of his own defects ;

' Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd;
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope.' " H

SONNETS. 1*3

None else to me, nor I to none alive,

That my steel 'd sense or changes, right or wrong."

In so profound abysm I throw all care

Of others' voices, that my adder's sense

To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

Mark how with my neglect I do dispense :

You are so strongly in my purpose bred,

That all the world besides, methinks, are dead.

CXIII. 76

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;

And that which governs me to go about

Doth part his function, and is partly blind ;

Seems seeing, but effectually is out ;

For it no form delivers to the heart

Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch :*e

Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,

Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch ;

For if it see the rud'st or gentlest sight,

The most sweet favour, or deformed'st creature.,

The mountain or the sea, the day or night,

The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature :

Incapable of more, replete with you,

My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue.40

cxiv. 77.

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery ?

49 The meaning seems to he, you are the only person who has
power to change my stubborn resolution, either to what is right or
to what is wrong.

49 Latch is a provincial word for catch. See Macbeth, Act iv
sc. 3, note 12. n.

*° The word untrue is here used as a substantive. The sin
cerity of my affection is the cause of my untruth ; that is, of my
not seeing objects truly, such as they appear to the rest of man-
k;nd. — MALONK.

184 SONNETS.

Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,

And that your love taught it this afchemy,

To make, of monsters and things indigest,

Such cherubins as your sweet self resemhle,

Creating every bad a perfect best,

As fast as objects to his beams assemble ?

O, 'tis the first ! 'tis flattery in my seeing,

And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:

Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,

And to his palate doth prepare the cup :

If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin

That mine eye loves it, and doth first begin.

CXV. 78.

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,

Even those that said I could not love you dearer;

Yel then my judgment knew no reason why

My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer :

But, reckoning time, whose million'd accidents

Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,

Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,

Divert strong minds to th' course of altering things;

Alas ! why, fearing of time's tyranny,

Might I not then say, "Now I love you best,"

When I was certain o'er incertainty,

Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?

Love is a babe ; then, might I not say so,

To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

cxvi. 79.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments : love is not love,
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the rernover to remove :

SONNETS. 185

O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark,

That looks on tempests, and is never shaken ;

It is the star to every wandering bark.

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be

taken.

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come ;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov'd.

CXVII. 80.»

Accuse me thus : That I have scanted all

Wherein I should your great deserts repay;

Forgot upon your dearest love to call,

Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;

That I have frequent been with unknown minds,

And given to time your own dear-purchas'd right;

That I have hoisted sail to all the winds

Which should transport me farthest from your sight

Book both my wilfulness and errors down,

And on just proof surmise accumulate ;

Bring me within the level of your frown,

But shoot not at me in your waken 'd hate ;

Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove

The constancy and virtue of your love.

cxxn.

* This makes the ninth in the noblt »enes of thirteen on * Fi-
delity."

186 SONNETS.

CXVIII. 147.*

Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge ;"
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge ;
Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseas'd, ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, t' anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assur'd,
Arid brought to medicine a healthful state,
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur'd :
But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

CXIX. 148.

What potions have I drunk of siren tears,

Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,

Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,

Still losing when I saw myself to win !

What wretched errors hath my heart committed,

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never !

How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,

[n the distraction of this madding fever !

O, benefit of ill ! now I find true,

That better is by evil still made better ;

And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

* This and the next two are set off by themselves, as forming,
together, a poem entitled " Forgiveness." In our numbering, they
follow the XCYI.

61 Eager is sharp, acid. See Hamlet. Act i. sc. 4, note 1 ; ant1
sc. 5, note 7. B

SONNETS. 18?

So I /etnin rebuk'd to my content,

And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent

CXX. 149.

That you were once unkind, befriends me now ;
And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel :
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time ;
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffer'd in your crime.
O ! that our night of woe might have remember'd
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits ;
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits !
But that your trespass now becomes a fee ;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

cxxxv.

CXXI. 67.»

'Tis better to be vile, than vile esteem'd,

When not to be receives reproach of being;

And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd,

Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing :

For why should others' false adulterate eyes

Give salutation to my sportive blood 1

Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,

Which in their wills count bad what I think good?

No, I am that I am ; and they that level

At my abuses, reckon up their own :

I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel.

By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown ;

* This Sonnet is regarded as standing alone, its suhject b«ing.
perhaps, "Reputation." In our numbering, it follows tlieLXXxvii

188 SONNETS.

Unless this general evil they maintain,—
All men are bad, and in their badness reigr

CXLVI.

CXXII. 81 .•

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character'd with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain,
Beyond all date, even to eternity ;
Or, at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist :
Till each to raz'd oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies, thy dear love to score ;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more :
To keep an adjunct to remember thee,
Were to import forgetfulness in me

CXXIII. 82.

No ! Time, thou shall not boast that I do change :
Thy pyramids, built up with newer might,
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire,
Than think that we before have heard them told.

* Tiiis and the next three are made continuate with the
in the series entitled "Fidelity."

M " That poor retention" is the table-book given to him by hit
friend, incapable of retaining1, or rather of containing, so much as
the tablet of the brain. — MALONE

SONNETS. 169

Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past ;
For thy records and what we see do lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste :
This I do vow, and this shall ever be, —
I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

CXXIV. 83.

If my dear love were but the child of state,

It might for fortune's bastard be unfather'd,

As subject to time's love or to time's hate,

Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers

gather'd.

No, it was builded far from accident ;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls.
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-number'd hourjs;
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with

showers.

To this I witness call the fools of time,
Which die for goodness, who have liv'd for crime

CXXV. 84.

Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent ;
For compound sweet foregoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent 1

190 SONNETS.

No ; let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborn'd informer ! a true soul,
When most impeach'd, stands least in thy control

CXXVIl.
CXXVI. 109.*

O thou, my lovely boy ! who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'at
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st;
If nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O, thou minion of her pleasure !
She may detain, but not still keep her treasure :
Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
And her quietus is to render thee.63

XXII.

CXXVIl. 85. t

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or, if it were, it bore not beauty's name ;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame :
For since each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,

* This is made the first in a series of sixteen. In our number-
ing, it comes next after the LX.

t This goes with the cxxxi. and cxxxn. in a little set entitled
'Black Eyes." In our numbering, it follows the cxxv.

43 Instead of a sonnet proper, we here have a stanza o' twelva
linos 'ormeil into six couplets. H.

SONNETS. 191

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,*4
But is profan'd, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore, my mistress' brows are raven black ;
Her eyes so suited ; and they mourners seem
At such, who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem : *'
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
That every tongue says beauty should look so.

CXXXL

CXXVIII. 88."

How oft, when thou, my music, music playest
Upon that blessed wood, whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers ; when thou gently swayesl
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds ;
Do I envy those jacks,86 that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand ;
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand.
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

cxxx.

* This piece of "airy elegance" is placed by itself, to b«
headed "The Virginal." In our numbering it follows tne cxxx ii.

54 So the original. Modern editions have changed botaer into
hour. There is rhyme enough in the change, but no reason.

H.

55 They seem to mourn, that those who are not born fair, are
yet possessed of an artificial beauty, by which they pass for what
they are not; and thus dishonour nature by their imperfect imita-
tion and false pretensions. — MALONE.

s6 The jacks here spoken of are the keys of the virginal upon
which the Poet supposes the person addressed to be playing. Tn«
verb envy often had the accent on the last syllable H

192 SONNETS.

CXXIX. 125.*

TV expense of spirit in a waste of shame

Is lust in action ; and, till action, lust

Is perjur'd, murderous, bloody, full of blame,

Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ;

Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight ;

Past reason hunted, and, no sooner had,

Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait,

On purpose laid to make the taker mad :

Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ;

Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ;

A bliss in proof, and, prov'd, a very woe ; "

Before, a joy propos'd ; behind, a dream :

All this the world well knows ; yet none knows weO

To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell

CXXXVII.
CXXX. 89. t

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun ;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red ;
If snow be white, why, then her breasts are dun ;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
1 have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks ;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak ; yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound :

* This is made the first in a series of ten, entitled " Love and
Hatred." In our numbering, it follows the LXXXI.

t This and the xxi. are placed together by themselves in a lit-
tle poem entitled " False Compare." In our numbering, they fol-
low the cxxvm.

87 The original reads, " and proud and 'ery woe " The cor
rection is Malone's. B-

SONNETS. 11)3

I grant, I never saw a goddess go ;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground
And yet, by Heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she, belied with false compare.

XXL

CXXXI. 86*

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel ;
For well thou know'st, to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say, that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan :
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone ;
And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face.
One on another's neck do witness bear,
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds ;
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII. 87.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,59
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And, truly, not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the gray cheeks of the east,

* This and the next are placed in continuation of the cxxviu
in the trio entitled <•' Black Eyes."

5S The original has torment, which makes they instead of heart
'.he subject of the verb. With that arrangement, the passage is
little t>etter than nonsense. We are indebted to a correspondent
of Mr. Collier for the judicious change. H

194 SONNETS.

Nor that full star that ushers in the even,

Doth half that glory to the soher west,

As those two mourning eyes become thy face.

O ! let it, then, as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace

And suit thy pity like in every part:

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

CXXVIII.
CXXXIII. 135.*

Beshrew that heart, that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me !
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be ?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross'd :
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken ;
A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail :
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard ;
Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail :
And yet thou wilt ; for I, being pent in thee,
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV. 136.

So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgag'd to thy will ;
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still :

* This and the next are grouped with the CXLIV. as forming by
themselves a little poem entitled '• Infidelity." In our numbering
Ihey follow the CLII.

SONNETS. 195

But them wilt not, nor he will not he free ;
For thou art covetous, and he is kind :
He learn'd but, surety-like, to write for me,
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,*9
Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake ;
So hirn I lose through my unkind abuse.
Him have I lost ; thou hast both him and me:
He pays the whole, and yet am 1 not free.

CXLIV
CXXXV. 150.»

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine 1
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in Will, add to thy Will
One will of mine, to make thy large Will more.
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill ;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.90

* This and the next go with the CXLIII. in a little poem playing
on the author's name. In our numbering, they follow the cxx.

69 Statute has here its legal signification ; that of a security 01
obligation for money. — MALONE.

30 In thU Sonnet and the next, we print the Wills just as thej
stand in the original. Of course this is a play on the Poet's nam«
William. B

196 SONNETS.

CXXXVI. 151.

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy Will,
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far, for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
]Vill will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove;
Among a number one is reckon'd none.81
Then, in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy stores' account 1 one must be ;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing, me, a something sweet to thee :
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lov'st me, — for my name is WtlL

CXLIII.

CXXXVII. 126.»

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see 1
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied ?
Why should my heart think that a several plot,"
Which my heart knows the wide world's common
place 1

* This and the next are placed in continuation of the cxxix.,
in the series of ten entitled "Love and Hatred."

81 Several allusions have been found to this way of reckoning
See Romeo and Juliet, Act i. sc. 2, note 5. H.

62 "A several plot,'' as distinguished from a "common place.'
is a piece of ground that has Seen separated and made private
property. A similar play upon s<>reral and common is explained
in Love's Labour's Lost. Act ii sc. 1. note 7. H

SONNKTS. 191

Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,

To put fair truth upon so foul a face ?

In things right true my heart and eyes have err'd,

And to this false plague are they now transferr'd

CXXXVIII. 127.

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies ;
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unlearned in the world's false suhtilties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue :
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust 1
And wherefore say not I that I am old ?
O ! love's best habit is in seeming-trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told •
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.83

CXLL

CXXXIX. 91. •

O ! call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart ;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue;
Use power with power, and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere; but in my sight.
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside :

* This and the next are grouped with the CXLIX. in a set of
three, to he headed " Tyranny." In our numbering, they come
next after the xxi.

63 This Sonnet, with some variations, was first printed , n The
Passionate Pilgrim, 1599, and afterwards included in the :olleo
tion of Sonnets. H.

198 SONNETS.

What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy

might

Is more than my o'er-press'd defence can 'hide ?
Let me excuse thee : Ah ! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies ;
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries.
Yet do not so ; but since I am near slain,
Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

CXL. 92.

Be wise as thou art cruel ; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain ;
Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know :
For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee :
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go
wide.

CXLIX.

CXLI. 128»

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note ;

* This and the next are set in continuation of the cxxivm. in
the series of ten on "Love and Hatred," beginning with the

SONNETS l!»0

But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleas'd to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted :
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone :
But my five wits, nor my five senses can84
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee ;
Who leave unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

CXLII. 12i».

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving ;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profari'd their scarlet ornaments,
And seal'd false bonds of love, as oft as mine
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be't lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee :
Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example may'st thou be denied !

CXLVH.

64 The Poet elsewhere implies the same distinction of the fiv«
wits and the fire senses. See Much Ado about Nothing, Act i
»e. 1, note 8. H.

200 SONNETS.

CXLIII. 152.»

Lo ! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away ;
Sets down her babe, and makes all swift despatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay ;
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her, whose busy care is bent
To follow that whicli flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent; —
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind ;
But, if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part ; kiss me, be kind :
So will I pray that thou may'st have thy Will,
Tf thou turn back, and my loud crying still.

CLIII.
CXLIV. 137. f

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which, like two spirits, do suggest me still : *'
The better angel is a man, right fair ;
The worser spirit a woman, colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell ;

* This Sonnet stands in continuation of the cxxxvi. in the trio
playing upon the Poet's name.

t Thjs Sonnet continues the cxxxiv., in the set of three en-
titled "Infidelity."

85 Suggest was continually used for tempt. — This Sonnet, also,
was first printed in The Passionate Pilgrim, with some variations.

H.

SONNETS. 201

But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell :
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

XXXIII.
CXLV. 97."

Those lips that Love's own hand did make,
Breath'd forth the sound that said, "I hate,**
To me, that languish'd for her sake ;
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue, that ever sweet
Was us'd in giving gentle doom ;
And taught it thus anew to greet :
" I hate," she alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who, like a fiend,
From heaven to hell is flown away :
" I hate," from hate away she threw,
And sav'd my life, saying, — "not you."

C.

CXLVI. 68. t

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,"
Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array,

" This Sonnet seems unconnected with any other, its title b«-
ir,g/ perhaps, " I Hate not You." In our numbering, it follows
the r.vi.

t This Sonnet is set off by itself, as unconnected with any
othor, and entitled "The Soul." In our numbering it follows the
OXXI.

86 Earth for body. — In the next line, the original mis-repeats
"My sinful earth" instead of Fool'd by, thus making a verse of
twelve syllables, and of stark nonsense. The present reading is
Malone's : Steevens would read Starv'd instead of Fool'd. •

(Y SONNETS.

Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth.
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge ? is this thy body's end ?
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ;
Within be fed, without be rich no more :
So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men ;
And, death once dead, there's no more dying then!

XCVIL
CXLVII. 130.*

My love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease ,

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

TV uncertain sickly appetite to please.

My reason, the physician to my love,

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

Hath left me ; and I desperate now approve,

Desire is death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

And frantic mad with ever-more unrest :

My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,

At random from the truth vainly express'd ;

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee blight,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

CXLVIII. 131.

O me ! what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight !

* This and the next continue the CXLII. in the series of ten <M
-Love and Hatred " beginning with the cxxix

SONNETS. 203

Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright ? "
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's no.
How can it ? O ! hoxv can Love's eye be true,
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears ?
No marvel, then, though I mistake my view ;
The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears.
O, cunning Love ! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

CL.

CXLIX. 93.»

Canst thou, O cruel ! say I love thee not,
When I, against myself, with thee partake?6*
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake ?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend ?
On whom frown 'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lower'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan ?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
But, love, hate on ; for now I know thy mind :
Tl.ose that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.

LVII.

* This Sonnet continces the CXL. in the set of three on " Tyr-
anny."

31 Censures in the .sense of Judges. Such was the more com-
mon meaning of the word, as may be seen by many instances in
the plays. H.

68 That is, take part.

204 SONNETS

CL,. 132.*

O ! from what power hast thou this powerful might,

With insufficiency my heart to sway 7

To make me give the lie to my true sight,

And swear that brightness doth not grace the day 1

Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,

That in the very refuse of thy deeds

There is such strength and warrantise of skill,

That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds ?

Who taught thee how to make me love thee mow

The more I hear and see just cause of hate 1

O ! though I love what others do abhor,

With others thou should'st not abhor my state :

If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me,

More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.

CLL. 133.

Love is too young to know what conscience is ,
Yet who knows not, conscience is born of love 7
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,89
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove :
For, thou betraying me, 1 do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason ;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love ; flesh stays no further reason •
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it, that I call
Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.

* This and the next two are made to continue the CXLVIII.,
finishing the series of ten on " Love and Hatred."

*9 Amiss as a substantive, for the thing done amiss. See note
18 u.

SONNETS. *205

CLH. 134

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing ,
In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjur'd most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,
And all my honest faith in thee is lost :
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy ;
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see :
For I have sworn thee fair ; more perjur'd I,
To swear, against the truth, so foul a lie !

CXXXUI,

CLIII. 153.-

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep :
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground ;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye love's brand new-fir'd,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast:
I, sick withal, the help of bath desir'd,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,

* This Sonnet and the next are set together by themselves, to
be headed "The Little Love-God." In our numbering, they fol-
low the CXLIII. It is quite clear that they have no connection
or continuity with any of the preceding.

206 SONNETS.

But found no cure : the bath for my help lies
Where Cupid got new fire, — my mistress eyes.

CLIV. 154.

The little Love-god, lying once asleep,

Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,

Whilst many nymphs, that vow'd chaste life to keep

Came tripping by ; but in her maiden hand

The fairest votary took up that fire

Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd ,

And so the general of hot desire

Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm'd.

This brand she quenched in a cool well by,

Which from love's fire took heat perpetual,

Growing a bath and healthful remedy

For men diseas'd ; but I, my mistress' thrall,

Came there for cure, and this by that I prove

Love's fire heats water, water cools not love

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT.

FROM off a hill, whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits t' attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tun'd tale ;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,

Which fortified her visage from the sun,

Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw

The carcass of a beauty spent and done :

Time had not scythed all that youth begun,

Nor youth all quit ; but, spite of heaven's fell rage.

Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,1
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,8
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe
In clamours of all size, both high and low.

Sometimes her levell'd eyes their carriage ride,'
As they did battery to the spheres intend ;

1 The more usual meaning of conceited was ingenious or /an.
ci/ul. a.

* Laundering is laving or washing. Pelleted is formed into
little balls.

* In allusion to a piece of ordnance

208 A LOVER'S COMPLAINT.

Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied
To the orb'd earth ; sometimes they do extend
Their view right on ; anon their gazes lend
To every place at once, and nowhere fix'd,
The mind and sight distractedly commix'd.

Her hair, nor loose, nor tied in formal plat,
Proclaim'd in her a careless hand of pride ;
For some, untuck'd, descended her sheav'd hat,4
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside ;
Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,
And, true to bondage, would not break from thence^
Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew *

Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,

Which one by one she in a river threw,

Upon whose weeping margent she was set;

Like usury, applying wet to wet,"

Or monarchs' hands, that let not bounty fall

Where want cries " some," but where excess begs all

Of folded schedules had she many a one,
Which she perus'd, sigh'd, tore, and gave the flood ;
Crack'd many a ring of posied gold and bone,
Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud ;
Found yet more letters sadly penn'd in blood,
With sleided silk feat and affectedly
Enswath'd, and seal'd to curious secrecy.7

4 Called sheav'd because made from sheaves of straw. H.

6 Maund is still used for a basket in the north of Er gland.—
The original has bedded instead of beaded. The correction waa
suggested by Malone, and is approved by Dyce.

6 Like usury, because adding more to what is already too much.
See As You Like It, Act ii. sc. 1, notes 6 and 7. H.

T Sltided silk is raw or unwrought silk ; elsewhere called sleavt
silk. See Macbeth, Act ii. sc. 2, note 2. — Feat is neat, dtxterout
See Cymbeline, Act i sc. 1, note 6 ; and Act v. sc. 5, note 3.

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 209

These often bath'd she in her fluxive eyes,

And often kiss'd, and often 'gan to tear,

Cried, O false blood ! thou register of lies,

What unapproved witness dost thou bear!

Ink would have seem'd more black and damned

here !

This said, in top of rage the lines she rents,
Big discontent so breaking their contents.

A reverend man that graz'd his cattle nigh,

Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew

Of court, of city, and had let go by

The swiftest hours, observed as they flew,

Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew ; *

And, privileg'd by age, desires to know,

In brief, the grounds and motives of her woe.

So slides he down upon his grained bat,*
And comely-distant sits he by her side;
When he again desires her, being sat,
Her grievance with his hearing to divide :
If that from him there may be aught applied,
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,
'Tis promis'd, in the charity of age.

Father, she says, though in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,
Let it not tell your judgment I am old ;
Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power :
I might as yet have been a spreading flower,
Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied
Love to myself, and to no love beside.

8 Fancy was often used for love ; here, of course, it means thi
subject of the passion. H.

0 Bat is cudgel or club ; here meaning the man's staff. H

14

210 A LOVERS COMPLAINT.

But, woe is me ! too early L attended
A youthful suit (it was to gain my grace)
Of one by nature's outwards so commended,
That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face :
Love lack'd a dwelling, and made him her place ;
And when in his fair parts she did abide,
She was new lodg'd, and newly deified.

His browny locks did hang in crooked curls,
And every light occasion of the wind
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.
What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find :
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind ;
For on his visage was in little drawn,
What largeness thinks in paradise was sawn.10

Small show of man was yet upon his chin :
His phoenix down began but to appear,
Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin,
Whose bare outbragg'd the web it seem'd to wear ;
Yet show'd his visage by that cost most dear,
And nice affections wavering stood in doubt
If best 'twere as it was, or best without.

His qualities were beauteous as his form,

For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free ;

Yet, if men mov'd him, was he such a storm,

As oft 'twixt May and April is to see,

When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be

His rudeness so with his authoriz'd youth

Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.

Well could he ride, and often men would say, - -
v* That horse his mettle from his rider takes :

10 Sawn for town, to rhyme with drawn.

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 211

Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,

What rounds, what bounds, what course, ivhat stop

he makes ! "

And controversy hence a question takes,
Whether the horse by him became his deed,
Or he his manage by th' well-doing steed.

But quickly on this side the verdict went :

His real habitude gave life and grace

To appertainings and to ornament ;

Accomplish'd in himself, not in his case :

All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,

Came for additions, yet their purpos'd trim

Piec'd not his grace, but were all grac'd by him.

So on the tip of his subduing tongue
All kind of arguments and question deep,
All replication prompt, and reason strong,
For his advantage still did wake and sleep :
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,
He had the dialect and different skill,
Catching all passions in his craft of will : "

That he did in the general bosom reign
Of young, of old ; and sexes both enchanted,
To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain
In personal duty, following where he haunted :
Consents, bewitch'd, ere he desire have granted
And dialogued for him what he would say,
Ask'd their own wills, and made their wills obey

Many there were that did his picture get,

To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind ;

Like fools that in th' imagination set

The goodly objects which abroad they find

Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign'd

11 What a just and admirable description of the Poet hitnsell

H.

812 A LOVER'S COMPLAINT.

And labouring in more pleasures to bestow them.
Than the true gouty landlord, which doth owe
them.1*

So, many have, that never touch'd his hand,
Sweetly suppos'd them mistress of his heart.
My woeful self, that did in freedom stand,
And was my own fee-simple, (not in part,)
What with his art in youth, and youth in art,
Threw my affections in his charmed power,
Reserv'd the stalk, and gave him all my flowei

Yet did I not, as some my equals did,

Demand of him, nor, being desired, yielded ;

Finding myself in honour so forbid,

With safest distance I mine honour shielded :

Experience for me many bulwarks builded

Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil

Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.

But, ah ! who ever shunn'd by precedent

The destin'd ill she must herself assay ?

Or forc'd examples, 'gainst her own content,

To put the by-pass'd perils in her way 1

Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay ;

For when we rage, advice is often seen,

By blunting us, to make our wits more keen.

Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood,
That we must curb it upon others' proof,
To be forbid the sweets that seem so good,
For fear of harms that preach in our behoof.
O appetite, from judgment stand aloof!
The one a palate hath that needs will taste,
Though reason weep, and cry, " It is thy last. '

ls Owe for own, possest.

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 213

For further I could say, — "This man's untrue;"
And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling;
Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew;
Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling ;
Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling ; l3
Thought characters and words merely but art,
And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.

And long upon these terms I held my city,
Till thus he 'gan besiege me : " Gentle maid,
Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity,
And be not of my holy vows afraid :
That's to you sworn, to none was ever said ;
For feasts of love I have been call'd unto ;
Till now did ne'er invite, nor never woo.

"All my offences that abroad you see,

Are errors of the blood, none of the mind ;

Love made them not : with acture they may be,14

Where neither party is nor true nor kind :

They sought their shame that so their shame did

find,

And so much less of shame in me remains,
By how much of me their reproach contains.

"Among the many that mine eyes have seen,

Not one whose flame my heart so much as warm'd,

Or my affection put to th' smallest teen,16

Or any of my leisures ever charm 'd :

Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harm'd ;

Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,

And reign'd, commanding in his monarchy.

11 Broker was used for a pander, or go-between. See Troiluf
and Cressida, Act v. sc. 11, note 3. H.

14 Acture for action. So in Hamlet we have eiiactures. H.

15 The plays have many instances of teen tkus used for grief
or tnrrote H.

214 A LOVER'S COMPLAINT.

" Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me,

Of paled pearls, and rubies red as blood ;

Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me

Of grief and blushes, aptly understood

In bloodless wJtite and the encrimson'd mood ;

Effects of terror and dear modesty,

Encamp'd in hearts, but fighting outwardly.

"And, lo ! behold, these talents of their hair,1*
With twisted metal amorously impleach'd,
I have receiv'd from many a several fair,
(Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd,)
With the annexions of fair gems enrich'd,
And deep-brain'd sonnets, that did amplify
Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality.

•'The diamond, why, 'twas beautiful and hard,
Whereto his invis'd properties did tend;17
The deep-green emerald, in whose fresh regard
Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend ;
The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend
With objects manifold : each several stone,
With wit well blazon'd, smil'd or made some moan,

" Lo ! all these trophies of affections hot,
Of pensiv'd and subdued desires the tender,
Nature hath charg'd me that I hoard them not,
But yield them up where I myself must render,
That is, to you, my origin and ender :
For these, of force, must your oblations be,
Since I their altar, you enpatron me.

18 Talents is probably used, to express the costliness of the gifts
— Impleach'd is intertwined. See Antony and Cleopatra, Act iv
gc. 12, note 8. H.

17 Invis'd for unseen or invisible ; probably a word of the Poet's
»wu coining, as no jtlier instance of il is known. H

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 215

•'O then..' advance of yours that phraseleas hand,
Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise ;
Take all these similes to your own command,
Hallow'd with sighs that burning lungs did raise ;
What me, your minister, for you obeys,
Works under you ; and to your audit cornea
Their distract parcels in combined sums.

" Lo ! this device was sent me from a nun,
A sister sanctified, of holiest note ;
Which late her noble suit in court did shun,18
Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote : '*
Fur she was sought by spirits of richest coat,
But kept cold distance ; and did thence remove,
To spend her living in eternal love.

" But O, my sweet ! what labour is't to leave
The thing we love not, mastering what not strive* t
Paling the place which did no form receive ; to
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves?
She that her fame so to herself contrives,81
The scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight,
And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

" O, pardon me, in that my boast is true !
The accident which brought me to her eye,
Upon the moment did her force subdue,

8 That is, retired from the solicitation of her noble suitors.

19 Whose captivations were so great as to bewitch the flower
of tne nobility.— Coat, in the next line, probably means coat of
arms ; men of splendid heraldry. H.

*° Securing within the pale of a cloister that heart which had
never received the impression of love. The original has Playing,
which Malone changed to Paling, that is, fencing. — In tbe pre-
ceding line, the original misprints hare instead of love. H.

11 Contrive was sometimes used as from the Latin contero, for
wear away or spend. iSee The Taming of the Shrew, Act i. se, *.
note 19. B

216 A LOVER'S COMPLAINT.

And now she would the caged cloister fly ;
Religious love put out religion's eye :
Not to be tempted, would she be immur'd,
And now, to tempt all, liberty procur'd.

" How mighty, then, you are, O, hear me tell !

The broken bosoms that to me belong

Have emptied all their fountains in my well,

And mine I pour your ocean all among :

I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong,

Must for your victory us all congest,22

As compound love to physic your cold breast

"My parts had power to charm a sacred nun.
Who, disciplin'd and dieted in grace,23
Believ'd her eyes, when they t' assail begun,
All vows and consecrations giving place.
O, most potential love ! vow, bond, nor space,
In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine ;
For thou art all, and all things else are thine.

" When thou impresses!, what are precepts worth
Of stale example 1 When thou wilt inflame,
How coldly those impediments stand forth
Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame !
Love arms our peace 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense,

'gainst shame ;

And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears,
The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears.

"Now, all these hearts that do on mine depend,
Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine ;

22 To congest is to heap together.

13 Of the original, some copies have / died, others, / dieted,
wiiicn was changed to and dieted by Malone. — The original mis-
^rinis sun for nun. The change is Malone's. H.

*4 The warfare that love carries on against rule, sense, and shame
produces to the parties engaged a peaceful enjoyment.

A LOVER'S COMPLAINT. 5il7

And supplicant their sighs to you extend,
To leave the battery that you make 'gainst mine;
Lending soft audience to my sweet design,
And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath,
That shall prefer and undertake my troth."

This said, his watery eyes he did dismount,
Whose sights till then were levell'd on my face ;
Each cheek a river running from a fount
With brinish current downward flow'd apace.
O, how the channel to the stream gave grace !
Who, glaz'd with crystal, gate the glowing roses
That flame through water which their hue encloses.

O father ! what a hell of witchcraft lies
In the small orb of one particular tear !
But with the inundation of the eyes,
What rocky heart to water will not wear ?
What breast so cold, that is not warmed here ?
O, cleft effect ! cold modesty, hot wrath,
Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath !

For, lo ! his passion, but an art of craft,

Even there resolv'd my reason into tears;

There my white stole of chastity I daff 'd ;

Shook off my sober guards, and civil fears ;

Appear to him, as he to me appears,

All melting ; though our drops this difference bore,

His poison'd me, and mine did him restore.

In him a plenitude of subtle matter,

Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives,**

Of burning blushes, or of weeping water,

** Cautel is deceit or fraud. See Coriolanns, Act iv §e.
note 3. a

218 A LOVER'S COMPLAINT

Or swooning paleness ; and he takes and leaves,
In cither's aptness, as it best deceives,
To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,
Or to turn white, and swoon at tragic shows :

That not a heart, which in his level came,
Could scape the hail of his all-hurting aim,
Showing fair nature is both kind and tame ;
And, veil'd in them, did win whom he would maim.
Against the thing he sought he would exclaim :
When he most burn'd in heart-wish'd luxury,
He preach'd pure maid, and prais'd cold chastity.

Thus, merely with the garment of a Grace,
The naked and concealed tiend he cover'd ;
That th' unexperienc'd gave the tempter place,
Which, like a cherubin, above them hover'd.
Who, young and simple, would not be so lover'd^
Ah me ! I fell ; and yet do question make
What I should do again for such a sake.

O, that infected moisture of his eye !
O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow'd !
O, that forc'd thunder from his heart did fly !
O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd !
Ov all that borrow'd motion, seeming owed,"
Would yet again betray the fore-betray'd,
And new pervert a reconciled maid !

M That is, that seemed real and hit owm,

INTRODUCTION

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

"THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM, by W. SHAKESPF.ARE. At
London : Printed for W. Jaggard, and are to be sold by VV. I, pake.
at the Greyhound in Paul's Church-yard, 1599." Such is the title-
page of a 16mo volume of thirty leaves, the contents of which are
the same, and given in the same order, as in the pages following
this Introduction ; except that the last poem, entitled '• The Phos-
nix and Turtle," is taken, as will he seen by note 18, from another
source. The collection was reprinted in 1612, with additions, and
with a new title-page reading thus: "Tne Passionate Pilgrim; Or
certain amorous Sonnets, between Venus and Adonis, newly cor-
rected and augmented. By W. Shakespeare. The third Edition :
Whereunto is newly added two Love-epistles, the first from Paris
to Helen, and Helen's answer back again to Paris. Priiiterl by
W. Jaggard. 1612." In some copies of this edition, the words,
"By W. Shakespeare," are omitted from the title-page. It is
here called "the third edition;" but of the second, if there were
any, as there may have been, nothing has been seen in modern
times.

The circumstances, which were somewhat peculiar, attending
the issue of these two impressions, are thus stated by Mr. Collier!

" In 1598 Richard Barnficld put his name to a small collection
of productions in verse, entitled The Encomion of Lady Pecunia,
which contained more than one poem attributed to Shakespeare in
The Passionate Pilgrim, 1699. The first was printed by John,
and the last by William Jaggard. Boswell suggests, that John
Jaggard iit 1598 might have stolen Shakespeare's verses, and at-
tributed them to Barnficld ; but the answer to this supposition is
two-fold : First, that Barnfield formally, and in his own name,
printed them as his in 1598 ; and next, that he reprinted them un-
der the same circumstances in 1605, notwithstanding they had been
in the mean time assigned to Shakespeare. The truth seems to be,
that \V. Jaggard look them in 159'J from Barnlield's publication

220 INTRODUCTION.

printed by John Jaggard in 1598. In 1612 W. Jaggard we..t
even more boldly to work ; for in the impression of The Passiou-
ate Pilgrim of that year he not only repeated Barnfield's poems
of 1598. hut included two of Ovid's Epistles, which had been
lianslated by Thomas Hey wood, and printed by him with his
name in his Troja Britannica, 1609. The Epistles were made,
with some little ambiguity, to appear, in The Passionate Pilgrim
of 1612, to have been also the work of Shakespeare. When,
therefore, Heywood published his next work in 1612. he exposed
the wrong that had been thus done to him, and claimed the perform
ances as his own. He seems also to have taken steps against VV.
Jaggard ; for the latter cancelled the title-page of The Passionate
Pilgrim, 1612. which contained the name of Shakespeare, and sub-
stituted another without any name; so far discrediting Shake-
speare's right to any of the poems the work contained, although
some were his beyond all dispute. Malone's copy in the Bod
leian Library has both title-pages.

" To what extent, therefore, we may accept W. Jaggard's as
sertion of the authorship of Shakespeare of the poems in The
Passionate Pilgrim, is a question of some difficulty Two Son-
nets, with which the little volume opens, are contained, with va-
riations, in Thorpe's edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets, 1609: three
other pieces, also with changes, are found in Love's Labour's Lost
which had been printed the year before The Passionate Pilgrim
originally came out : another, and its ' answer' notoriously belong
to Marlowe and Raleigh : a Sonnet, with some slight differences
had been printed as his in 1596, by a person of the name of Grif-
(in ; while one production appeared in England's Helicon in 1600,
under the signature of fgnoto."

There is no need of dwelling any longer here on the several
pieces in the collection, as all the known particulars of any con-
sequence respecting them will be stated in our noies. It may be
ivorth the while to mention, that after the piece numbered xv., the
original has a new title-page running as follows : " Sonnets to sun-
dry Notes of Music. At London: Printed for W. Jaggard, and
are to be sold by W. Leake. at the Greyhound in Paul's Church-
yard," From which it would seem that the remaining pieces of
the collection had been married to tunes, for the delectation of
music-loving ears in the squire's hall and the yeoman's chimney-
corner, where old songs were wont to be sung. It is said, that
other evidence of such marriage has descended to our time.
Touching the merits of the following poems, perhaps the less said,
the better. Excepting the pieces which are found elsewhere in the
Poet's works, and excepting the last piece, which relishes some-
what of his cunning style, they might well enough be spared from
his roll of authorship. No one, however, who rightly understands
him, would willingly be without a single line that can show any fail
credentials of having been made or even mended Dy him.

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

WHEN my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor'd youth,
Unskilful in the world's false forgeries.
Thus, vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I know my yesirs he past the best,
I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue,
Outfacing faults, in love with love's ill rest.
B it wherefore says my love that she is young 1
And wherefore say not I that I am old ?
O ! love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.
Therefore I'll lie with love, and love with me,
Since that our faults in love thus smother'd be.

II.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still :
The better angel is a man, right fair,
The worser spirit a woman, colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt a saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride :
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,
Suspect 1 may, but not directly tell ;

^i THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

For being both to me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell.
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.1

in.

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,
Persuade my heart to this false perjury?
Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
A woman I forswore ; but I will prove,
Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee :
My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love ;
Thy grace being gain'd, cures all disgrace in me
My vow was breath, and breath a vapor is :
Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine
Exhale this vapor vow ; in thee it is :
If broken, then, it is no fault of mine;
If by me broke, what fool is not so wise,
To break an oath, to win a paradise 1 *

IV.

Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook,
With young Adonis, lovely, fresh, and green,
Did court the lad with many a lovely look,
Su^li looks as none could look but beauty's
She told him stories to delight his ear ;
She show'd him favours to allure his eye ;

1 This Sonnet and the preceding, which were printed as part
of the Passionate Pilgrim in 1599, were also included as the
cxxxvin. and the CXLIV. in the collection of Sonnets published
in 1609. The two copies, it may be seen, vary somewhat in the
language; which is our reason for retaining them here. H.

* This Sonnet is found, slightly varied, in Love's Labour's Lost
Aet iv. sc. 3 H

THR PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 223

To win his heart, she touch'd him here and there

Touches so soft still conquer chastity.

But whether unripe years did want conceit,

Or he refus'd to take her figur'd proffer,

The tender nibbler would not touch the bait,

But smile and jest at every gentle offer :

Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward

He rose, and ran away ; ah, fool too froward !

v.

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to

love?

O ! never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd »
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant

prove ;
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers

bow'd.

Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes,
Where all those pleasures live, that art can com

prehend.
If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall

suffice;
Well-learned is that tongue that well can thee

commend ;

All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder,
Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts ad-
mire:
Thine eye Jove's lightning seems, thy voice his

dreadful thunder,

Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
Celestial as thou art, O ! do not love that wrong,
To sing the heavens' praise with such an earthly

tongue.3

8 This Sonnet also occurs, with some variations, in Love's La
hour's Lost, Act iv. sc. 2. K.

224 THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

VI.

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn,

And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade

When Cytherea, all in love forlorn,

A longing tarriance for Adonis made,

Under an osier growing by a brook, —

A brook where Adon us'd to cool his spleen:

Hot was the day ; she hotter, that did look

For his approach, that often there had been.

Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by,

And stood stark naked on the brook's green brim

The sun look'd on the world with glorious eye,

Yet not so wistly as this queen on him :

He, spying her, bounc'd in, whereas he stood*

O Jove ! quoth she, why was not I a flood 1

VII.

Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle ;
Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty ;
Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle,
Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty :
A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her ;
None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath she join d,
Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing
How many tales to please me hath she coin'd,
Dreading my love, the loss whereof still fearing!
Yet, in the midst of all her pure pretestings,
Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings

She burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth ;
She burn'd out love, as soon as straw outburneth ;
She fram'd the love, and yet she foil'd the framing
She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning.

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

225

Was this a lover, or a lecher whether?
Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.

vin.

If music and sweet poetry agree,4
As they must needs, the sister and the brother,
Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me
Because thou lov'st the one, and I the other.
Douland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch
Upon the lute doth ravish human sense ;
Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such,
As passing all conceit needs no defence.
Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Pho3bus' lute (the queen of music) makes ;
And F in deep delight am chiefly drovvn'd
Whenas himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets feign;
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.

IX.

Fair was the morn, when the fair queen of love,*

Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove,
For Adon's sake, a youngster proud and wild '
Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill.
Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds :
She, silly queen, with more than love's good will,
Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds :

4 This Sonnet was published in Richard Barnfield's Encomion
of Lady Pecunia, 1598, the year before its appearance in The
Passionate Pilgrim. It was also retained in Barnfield's edition of
1605. Probably, therefore, he has a right to the credit of il, and
Shakespeare will not be much impoverished by missing the in
heritance H.

* The nest line is wanting in both the old copies H

2^10 THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

"Once," quoth she, "did I see a fair, sweet youth
Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar,
Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth !
See in my thigh," quoth she, "here was the sore."
She showed hers: he saw more wounds than one;
And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

x.

Sweet rose, fair flower untimely pluck'd, soon faded,
Pluck'd in the bud, and faded in the spring !
Bright orient pearl, alack ! too timely shaded ;
Fair creature, kill'd too soon by death's sharp sting '
Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree,
And falls, (through wind,) before the fall should be

I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have ;
For why? thou left'st me nothing in thy will:
And yet thou left'st me more than I did crave ;
For why 1 I craved nothing of thee still :
O yes, dear friend ! I pardon crave of thee ;
Thy discontent thou didst bequeathe to me.

XI.

Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her,

Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him :

She told the youngling how god Mars did try her

And as he fell to her, so fell she to him.

Even thus, (quoth she,) the warlike god embrac d

me ;

And then she clipp'd Adonis in her arms :
Even thus, (quoth she,) the warlike god unlac'd

me ;

As if the boy should use like loving charms :
Even thus, (quoth she,) he seized on my lips ;
And with her lips on his did act the seizure :

THE PASSIONATE PIL.GR1M. 227

And as she fetched breath, away he skips,

And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure

Ah ! that I had my lady at this bay,

To kiss and clip me till I ran away I*

XII.

Crabbed age and youth

Cannot live together :
Youth is full of pleasance,

Age is full of care;
Youth like summer morn,

Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave,

Age like winter bare :
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short ;

Youth is nimble, age is lame ;
Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold ;

Youth is wild, and age is tame.
Age, I do abhor thee;
Youth, I do adore thee :

O, my love, my love is young
Age, I do defy thee :
O, sweet shepherd ! hie thee,

For methinks thou stay'st too long.

XIII.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good;
A shining gloss that fadeth suddenly ;

8 This Sonnet, considerably varied, is the third in a collection
of Sonnets entitled Fidessa, and published in 1596, with the name
of B. Griffin as the author. Mr. Collier, however, had seen it in
a manuscript of the time, with the initials W. S. at the end. The
words, young in the first line, and so in the fourth, are taken froit
Griffin's collection. H

228 THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

A flower that dies, when first it 'gins to bud ;
A brittle glass, that's broken presently :
A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower,
Lost, faded, broken, dead within at) hour.

And as goods lost are seld or never found ;
As faded gloss no rubbing will refresh ;
As flowers dead lie wither'd1 on the ground ;
As broken glass no cement can redress ;
So beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost,
In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.

XIV.

Good night, good rest. Ah! neither be my share:
She bade good night, that kept my rest away ;
And daflT'd me to a cabin hang'd with care,
To descant on the doubts of my decay.
Farewell, quoth she, and come again to-morrow ,
Fare well I could not, for I supp'd with sorrow.

Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile,

In scorn or friendship, nill I construe whether : 7

'T may be, she joy'd to jest at my exile,

T may be, again to make me wander thither :

" Wander ! " — a word for shadows like myself,

As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf.

XV.

Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east !
My heart doth charge the watch ; the morning riw
Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest.
Not daring trust the office of mine eyes,
While Philomela sits and sings I sit and mark,
And wish her lays were tuned like the lark;

1 Kill is an old form of trill not.

THE PASSIONATE PILGflldl. '£20

For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty,
And drives away dark dismal-dreaming night :
The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty :
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight ;
Sorrow chang'd to solace, solace mix'd with sorrow ;
For why ? she sigh'd, and bade me come to-morrow.

Were I with her, the night would post too soon ;
Bu; now are minutes added to the hours:
To spite me now, each minute seems a moon ;
Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers !
Pack night, peep day ; good day, of night now bor-
row;
Short, night, to-night, and length thyself to-morrow

XVI.

It was a lording's daughter,
The fairest one of three,
That liked of her master
As well as well might be,
Till looking on an Englishman,
The fair'st that eye could see,
Her fancy fell a-turning.

Long was the combat doubtful,
That love with love did fight,
To leave the master loveless,
Or kill the gallant knight :
To put in practice either^
Alas ! it was a spite
Unto the silly damsel.

But one must be refused,
More mickle was the pain,
That nothing could be used,
To turn them both to gain;

230 THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

For of the two the trusty knight
Was wounded with disdain :
Alas ! she could not help it.

Thus art with arms contending
Was victor of the day,
Which by a gift of learning
Did bear the maid away :
Then lulluby ; the learned man
Hath got the lady gay ;

For now my song is ended.8

XVII.

On a day, (alack the day !)
Love, whose month was ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair,
Playing in the wanton air :
Through the velvet leaves the wind,
All unseen, 'gan passage find ;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow ;
Air, would I might triumph so !
But, alas ! my hand hath sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn :
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet ;
Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet.
Do not call it sin in me,
That I am forsworn for thee :
Thou, for whom Jove would'swear
Juno but. an Ethiop were ;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.*

8 In the original, this piece stands first in the diviVmn culled
''Sonnets to sundry Notes of Music." H.

* This poem, in a more finished slate, and with two addition*!

THE PASMONATE PILGUIM.
XVIII.

My flocks feed not,
My ewes breed not,
My rams speed not,

All is amiss :
Love is dying,
Faith's defying,
Heart's denying,

Causer of this.

All my merry jigs are quite forgot ;
All my lady's love is lost, God wot :
Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love,
There a nay is plac'd without remove.
One silly cross
Wrought all my loss :
O, frowning Fortune, cursed, fickle dame !
For now I see
Inconstancy
More in women than in men remain.

In black mourn I ;
All fears scorn I ;
Love hath forlorn me,

Living in thrall :
Heart is bleeding,
All help needing,
(O, cruel speeding !)

Fraughted with gall.

My shepherd's pipe can sound no deal ; "
My wether's bell rings doleful knell ;

fines, occurs in Love's Labour's Lost, Act iv. sc. 3. It was also
printed in England's Helicon, 1600, with the signature " W
Shakespeare." H.

10 ' ' No deal " is no part ; the same as in the phrase, " a good
deal' H

2& THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

My curtail dog, that wont to have pluy'd.

Plays not at all, but seems afraid ;

My sighs so deep,

Procure to weep,"

In howling-wise, to see my doleful plight.

How sighs resound

Through harkless ground,

Like a thousand vanquish'd men in bloody fight !

Clear wells spring not ;
Sweet birds sing not ;
Green plants bring not
Forth their dye :
Herds stand weeping,
Flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back creeping

Fearfully.

All our pleasure known to us poor swains,
All our merry meetings on the plains,
All our evening sport from us is fled ;
All our love is lost, for love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lass ;
Thy like ne'er was

For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan :
Poor Coridon
Must live alone ;
Other help for him I see that there is none.11

XIX.

Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame,
And stall'd the deer that thou wouldst strike,

1 That is, cause him, the dog1, to weep.

14 This poem, also, was published in England's Helicon, but 11
there called " 7'he unknown Shepherd's Complaint," and signed
Ignoto. It had appeared anonymously, with music, in a collection
of Madrigals by Thomas Weelkes, 1597. The three forms have
some slight variations, but none worth noticing'. H.

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 23J*

Let reason rule things worthy blame,
As well as partial fancy like : 13
Take counsel of some wiser head,
Neither too young, nor yet unwed.

And when thou com'st thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk,
Lest she some subtle practice smell ;
(A cripple soon can find a halt ;)
But plainly say thou lov'st her well,
And set her person forth to sell :

And to her will frame all thy ways ; 14
Spare not to spend, and chiefly there
Where thy desert may merit praise,
By ringing always in her ear.
The strongest castle, tower, and town
The golden bullet beats it down.

Serve always with assured trust,

And in thy suit be humble, true ;

Unless thy lady prove unjust,

Seek never thou to choose anew.

When time shall serve, be thou not slack

To proffer, though she put thee back.

What though her frowning brows be bent,
Her cloudy looks will clear ere night ;
And then too late she will repent,
That she dissembled her delight ;

13 In the original, this line reads, " As well as fancy party alt
might." The present reading is taken by Mr. Collier from a man-
uscript of the time. Malone had changed the line into, " As well
as fancy, partial tike." H.

14 In the old copy, this stanza and the next come in after tha
two following, where they seem something misplaced. The pres-
ent transposition is generally adopted in modern editions. H.

234 THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

And twice desire, ere it be day,
That which with scorn she put away.

What though she strive to try her strength,
And ban, and brawl, and say thee nay,
Her feeble force will yield at length,
When craft hath taught her thus to say, —
"Had women been so strong as men,
In faith, you had not had it then."

The wiles and guiles that women work,
Dissembled with an outward show,
The tricks and toys that in them lurk,
The cock that treads them shall not know
Have you not heard it said full oft,
A woman's nay doth stand for nought!

Think, women love to match with men,
And not to live so like a saint :
Here is no heaven ; they holy then
Begin, when age doth them attaint.
Were kisses all the joys in bed,
One woman would another wed.

But, soft ! enough ! too much, I fear ,
For if my lady hear my song,
She will not stick to warm mine ear,
To teach my tongue to be so long :
Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To hear her secrets so bewray'd.14

" In the copy of 1599, the last two stanzas vary somewhat froa
the text as here given, which was corrected by Malone from a man-
uscript of the time. Warm, in the last stanza, is from the man-
uscript used by Mr. Collier, the usual reading being " wring mine
oar" H.

THE PASSION A1E PILGRIM. 235

XX.

Live with me and be my love,18
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And the craggy mountain yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee a bed of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies ;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle ;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs :
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me and be my love.

LOVE'S ANSWER.

If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move,
To live with thee and be thy love.

16 This poem and the "Answer," both of which are here veij
incomplete, especially the latter, are well known as the workman-
ship of Christopher Marlowe and Sir Walter Raleigh. They ap-
peared in England's Helicon, the one as Marlowe's, the other un-
der the name of Ignoto, which was the signature sometime used
by Raleigh. See, also, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act iii.
sc. 1, note 2. Both songs are given in full at the end of that play

H.

830 THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM.

XXI.

As it fell upon a day17
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Every thing did banish moan,
Save the nightingale alone :
She, poor bird, as all-forlorn,
Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the doleful'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie ! now would she cry ;
Tereu, tereu ! by and by ;
That, to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain ;
For her griefs, so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
All ! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain :
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee.
Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee
King Pandion he is dead,
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead ;
All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.

XXII.

Whilst as fickle fortune smil'd,
Thou and I were both beguil'd:

17 This poem is found in Barnfield's Encomion of Lady Peeu-
nia. 1598, and also in England's Helicon. In the latter it has the
signature Ignoto ; but as Barnfield retained it in b>s edition of
'.605, he probably had a right to it a

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM. 237

Every one that flatters thee

Is no friend in misery.

Words are easy, like the wind ;

Faithful friends are hard to find :

Every man will be thy friend,

Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend ;

But, if store of crowns be scant,

No mian will supply thy want.

If that one be prodigal,

Bountiful they will him call,

And, with such like flattering,

Pity but he were a king:

If he be addict to vice,

Quickly him they will entice :

If to women he be bent,

They have him at commandement ;

But, if fortune once do frown,

Then farewell his great renown :

They that fawn'd on him before

Use his company no more.

He that is thy friend indeed,

He will help thee in thy need :

If thou sorrow, he will weep ;

If thou wake, he cannot sleep:

Thus, of every grief in heart,

He with thee does bear a part.

These are certain signs to know

Faithful friend from flattering foe.1*

18 Here ends The Passionate Pilgrim. The next poem is an
independent matter, and was printed in Robert Chester's " Love's
Martyr, or Rosalin's Complaint," 1601, among what are there called
" new Compositions of several modern Writers, whose names ar«
subscribed to their several Works." It was printed with Shake-
speare's name at the bottom. H.

THE PHCENIX AND TURTLE

LET the bird of loudest lay,

On the sole Arabian tree,1*

Herald sad and trumpet be,

To whose sound chaste wings obey.

But, thou shrieking harbinger,
Foul precurrer of the fiend,
Augur of the fever's end,
To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdict
Every fowl of tyrant wing,
Save the eagle, feather'd king :
Keep the obsequy so strict.

Let the priest in surplice white,
That defunctive music can,*0
Be the death-divining swan,
Lest the requiem lack his right:

And thou, treble-dated crow,
That thy sable gender mak'st
With the breath thou giv'st and tak'st,
'Mongst our mourners shall thou go.

Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead ;

19 "The bird of loudest lay" is several times alluded to by
Shakespeare as the "Arabian bird." See The Tempest, Act in.
gc. 3, note 4 ; and Othello, Act v. sc. 2, uote 28. H.

80 Thai is, who understands funereal music.

THE PHCKNIX AND TURTLE

Phoenix and the turtle fled
In a mutual flame from hence.

So they lov'd, as love in tvruin
Had the essence but in one ;
Two distincts, division none :
Number there in love was slain.

Hearts remote, yet not asunder;
Distance, and no space was seen
'Twixt the turtle and his queen :
But in them it were a wonder.

So between them love did shine,
That the turtle saw his right
Flaming in the phoenix's sight:
Either was the other's mine.

Property was thus appall'd,
That the self was not the same ;
Single nature's double name
Neither two nor one was call'd.

Reason, in itself confounded,
Saw division grow together ;
To themselves yet either neither,
Simple were so well compounded;

That it cried, — How true a twain
Seemeth this concordant one !
Love hath reason, reason none,
If what parts can so remain.

Whereupon it made this threne*1
To the phoenix and the dove,
Co-supremes and stars of love,
As chorus to their tragic scene :

21 A threne is a funeral song.

840 THE PHCENIX AND TURTLE.

THRENOS.

Beauty, truth, and rarity,
Grace in all simplicity,
Here enclos'd in cinders lie.

Death is now the phoenix' nest ;
And the turtle's loyal breast
To eternity doth rest,

Leaving no posterity :
Twas not their infirmity ;
It was married chastity.

Truth may seem, but cannot be;
Beauty brag, but 'tis not she :
Truth and beauty buried be.

To this urn let those repair,
That are either true or fair :
For these dead birds sigh a prayer.

WM. SHAKESPEARE