WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S FULL & COMPLETTE COLLECTIONS POEMS ORGINAL PRINTED VERSION

  23rd April 2024

CO ‘CVJ CD “00 THE POEMS OF SHAKESPEARE / Vilia miretur vulgus: mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua, Ovid. Ho, ye that wail, and ye that sing, make way Till I be come among you.. Hide your tears Ye little weepers. In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death. Swinburne. M THE POEMS OF SHAKESPEARE EDITED WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY GEORGE WYNDHAM METHUEN AND CO. 36 ESSEX STREET : STRAND LONDON 1898 Edinb.rBh : T. and A. COKSTA.LE, Printers ,o Her M,j,y TO MY MO T HER X CONTENTS INTRODUCTION V I. THE CHARACTERISTICS OF SHAKESPKARfi’s POEMS II. BOYHOOD IN WARWICKSHIRE …. III. ADVENT TO LONDON : LETTERS AND THE STAGE . IV. POLITICS ON THE STAGE ….. V. THE COURT AND NOBLE PATRONS VI. MARTIN MARPRELATE AND RELIGIOUS CONTROVERSY VII. THE UNIVERSITY PENS ….. VIII. THE POETOMACHIA … . ix. SHAKESPEARE’S SHOP ….. X. LAST DAYS AND DEATH ….. Nf XI. THE DETACHMENT OF SHAKESPEARE’S POEMS Sxu} VENUS AND ADONIS …… XIII. THE RAPE OF LUCRECE ….. XIV. THE SONNETS AND SONNETEERING . SONNET-GROUPS …… XVI. THEMES OF THE SONNETS …… IS XVII. IMAGERY ……. XVIII. ELOQUENT DISCOURSE ….. XIX. VERBAL MELODY …… XX. CONCLUSION ……. THE TEXTVENUS AND ADONIS \ . . THE RAPE OF LUCRECE . SONNETS . … . ^..,. A LOVER’S COMPLAINT . . . . ‘ PAGE vii xviii XXVI XXX xxxvi xlvii 111 Iv Ixx Ixxiii Ixxvii -, r> Ixxix – . xciii ci cviii cxvi cxxxii exxxvii cxxxix *V 43 193 vi CONTENTS NOTES Venus and Adonis PAGE I. THE TEXT …. 2O9 II. THE USE OF THE APOSTROPHE AS A GUIDE TO THE METRICAL PRONUNCIATION . . . 2OQ III. THE USE OF CAPITALS . . 2IO IV. DATE OF THE COMPOSITION OF VENUS AND ADONIS . 2IO V. NOTES ON THE TEXT ->Vl7lWl..l 2IO The Rape of’ Literece I. THE TEXT . . . . . . . – .; t ;.. . 223 II. THE USE OF THE APOSTROPHE AS A GUIDE TO THE METRICAL PRONUNCIATION . . . , 223 III. THE USE OF CAPITALS . . ‘ “f i 223 IV. NOTES ON THE TEXT . . . -‘., M^^V 22 5 The Sonnets I. THE TEXT …….. 242 II. EARLY EDITIONS OF THE SONNETS . . . .. 242 III. THE DATE OF THE SONNETS* COMPOSITION . . 244 IV. THE RIVAL POETS . . . . . . 250 V. THE TYPOGRAPHY OF THE QUARTO (1609), CON SIDERED IN ITS BEARING ON THE AUTHORITY OF THAT TEXT,, WITH AN ANALYSIS OF THE SYSTEM OF PUNCTUATION OBSERVED THEREIN 2 59 VI. THE USE OF THE APOSTROPHE AS A GUIDE TO THE METRICAL PRONUNCIATION . . . 269 VII. NOTES ON THE TEXT 269 A Lover’s Complaint I. THE TEXT . . . . . . . t ‘-5 II. NOTES ON THE TEXT 336 INTRODUCTION i MODERN critics have found it convenient to preserve the classification of poetry which their predecessors borrowed from the ancients at the Revival of Learning. But, in order to illustrate his theory, each has been forced to define anew such terms as ‘ lyric,’ ‘ elegiac/ ‘ epic/ and the terms, in consequence of these repeated attempts, have at last ceased to be definite. Now, despite this shifting indefiniteness, when we say of any poetry that it is lyrical and elegiac, we are understood to mean that it deals with emotion rather than with doctrine or drama ; and further, that its merit lies, not so much in the exclusive delineation of any one emotional experience as, in the suggestion, by beautiful imagery and musical sound, of those aspirations and regrets which find a voice but little less articulate in the sister-art of music. Narrowing the definition, we may say that the best lyrical and elegiac poetry expresses, by both its meaning and its movement, the quintessence of man’s desire for Beauty, abstracted from concrete and transitory embodiments. The matter in such poetry is of ‘ Beauty that must die ‘ ; the method, a succession of beautiful images flashed from a river of pleasing sound. It is the effect of an art which appeals to the mind’s eye with a lovely and vivid imagination, and to the mind’s ear with a melody at all times soft and (since Beauty dwells with Sadness) at many times pathetic. 1 To illustrate one art by 1 Mr. Bagehot seems to deny this when he says (Hartley Coleridge) that with ‘ whatever differences of species and class the essence of lyrical poetry remains in all identical ; it is designed to express, and when successful does b viii INTRODUCTION another is often to lose, in the confusion of real distinction, most of the gain won by comparing justly ; yet, at the risk of that loss, it may be said of lyrical and elegiac poetry that it stands to other poetry, and to all speech, in some such relation as that of sculpture to architecture. And this is particularly true of Shakespeare’s Poems. Marble may be used for many ends, and in all its uses may be handled) with a regard for Beauty ; but there comes a Phidias, possessed beyond others with the thirst for Beauty, and pre-eminent both in perception and in control of those qualities which fit marble for expressing Beauty to the mind through the eye. He is still unsatisfied by any divided dedication ; and so, in the rhythmic procession of a frieze, he consecrates it to Beauty alone. At other times he may be the first of architects, an excellent citizen at all. The Poems of Shakespeare may be compared to the Frieze of the Parthenon, insomuch as both are works in which the greatest masters of words and of marble that we know have exhibited the exquisite adaptation of those materials to the single expression of Beauty. express, some one mood, some single sentiment, some isolated longing in human nature.’ I doubt it. On the contrary the essence of lyrical, certainly of elegiac poetry, consists in the handling of sentiment and emotion to suggest infinity, not unity, not the science of psychology but, the mysticism of desire. The emotion may sometimes be isolated for the sake of more effectively contrasting its definiteness with the vast aspiration it engenders. A lyrical poet, for instance, would be content to echo the single note of a curlew, but only because it suggests a whole moorland: the particular moorland, that is, over which one bird is flying, and therewith the flight of all birds, once a part of religion, over all moorlands in all ages. Such a poem, if it were successful, would give, not only the transient mood of a single listener but, all the melancholy and all the meaning and all the emotion without meaning that have ever followed the flight of a lonely bird over a waste place. Mr. Bagehot knows this, for he goes on thus : * Hence lyrical poets must not be judged literally from their lyrics : they are discourses ; they require to be reduced into the scale of ordinary life, to be stripped of the enraptured element, to be clogged with gravitating prose.’ And why is this to be done? ‘To judge the poet.’ Exactly! But why judge the poet instead of enjoying the poem ? INTRODUCTION ix Other excellences there are in these works excellences of truth and nobility, of intellect and passion ; and we may note them, even as we must note them in the grander achievement of their creators : even as we may, if we choose, find much to wonder at or to revere in the lives of their creators. But in these things of special dedication we must seek in the first place for the love of Beauty perfectly expressed, or we rebel against their authors’ purpose. Who cares now whether Phidias did, or did not, carve the likeness of Pericles and his own amidst the mellay of the Amazons ? And who, intent on the exquisite response of Shakespeare’s art to the inspiration of Beauty, need care whether his Sonnets were addressed to William Herbert or to another ? A riddle will always arrest and tease the attention ; but on that very account we cannot pursue the sport of running down the answer, unless we make a sacrifice of all other solace. Had the Sphinx’s enigma been less transparent, it must have wrecked the play of Sophocles, for the minds of the audience would have stayed at the outset : much in the manner of trippers to Hampton Court who spend their whole time in the Maze. Above all, must the mind be disencumbered, clean, and plastic, when, like a sensi tive plate, it is set to receive the impression of a work of art. But are Shakespeare’s Poems works of art ? Can the Venus and Adonis, the Lucrece, and the Sonnets be received together as kindred expressions of the lyrical and elegiac mood ? These questions will occur to every one acquainted with the slighting allusions of critics to the Narrative Poems, or with the por tentous mass of theory and inference which has accumulated round the Sonnets. For to find these Poems and certain of these Sonnets so received we must turn back, over three hundred years, to one of Shakespeare’s contemporaries. Francis Meres, in his Palladia Tamia, a laboured but pleasing ‘ comparative discourse ‘ of Elizabethan poets and the great ones of Italy, Greece, and x INTRODUCTION Rome, wrote thus : ‘ As the soule of Euphorbus was thought to live in Pythagoras, so the sweete wittie soule of Ovid lives in mellifluous and honey-tongued Shakespeare, witness his Venus and Adonis, his Lucreece, his sugred sonnets among his private friends.’ Meres, therefore, was the first to collect the titles or to comment on the character of Shakespeare’s Poems. But although, since 1598, he has had many successors more com petent than himself, and though nearly all have quoted his saying, not one has followed his example of reviewing the three works together and insisting on their common charac teristic. The Poems, indeed, have but rarely been printed hand in hand (so to speak) and apart from the Plays. This strange omission did not follow, as I think, on any deliberate judgment : it was, rather, the accidental outcome of the greater interest aroused by the Plays. The Poems were long eclipsed ; and critics, even when they turned to them again, were still thinking of the Plays were rather seeking in the Poet for the man hid in the Playwright than bent on esteeming the loveli ness of Shakespeare’s lyrical art. For this purpose the Sonnets showed the fairer promise: so the critics have filled shelves with commentaries on them, scarcely glancing at the Venus and the Lucrece ; and, even in scrutinising the Sonnets, they have been so completely absorbed in the personal problems these suggest as to discuss little except whether or how far they reveal the real life of the man who, in the Plays, has clothed so many imaginary lives with the semblance of reality. The work done in this field has been invaluable on the whole. It is impossible to over-praise Mr. Tyler’s patience in research, or to receive with adequate gratitude the long labour of Mr. Dowden’s love. Yet even Mr. Dowden, when he turns from considering Shakespeare’s art in the Plays, and would conjure up his soul from the Sonnets, cannot escape the retribution inseparable from his task. This probing in the Sonnets after their author’s INTRODUCTION xi story is so deeply perplexed an enterprise as to engross the whole energy of them that essay it : so that none bent on digging up the soil in which they grew has had time to count the blossoms they put forth, Some even (as Gervinus) have been altogether blinded by the sweat of their labour, holding that the ‘ Sonnets, aesthetically considered, have been over-esti mated’ (Shakespeare, Commentary, 452). He writes much of Shakespeare’s supposed relation to Southampton ; but ‘ for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poetry, caret.’ Yet we know from Meres and others that Shakespeare impressed his contemporaries, during a great part of his life, not only as the greatest living dramatist but also, as a lyrical poet of the first rank. Thus in 1598 Richard Barnefield, after praising Spenser, Daniel, and Drayton: l ‘ And Shakespeare thou, whose hony-flowing Vaine (Pleasing the World) thy Praises doth obtaine. Whose Venus and whose Lucrece, (sweet, and chaste) Thy Name in fame’s immortall Booke have plac’t Live ever you, at least in Fame live ever : Well may the Body dye, but Fame dies never ‘ : and thus John Weever in 1599 (Epigrammes in the Oldest Cut and Newest Fashion} : ‘ Hoiiie-tong’d Shakespeare, when I saw thine issue, I swore Apollo got them and none other, Their rosie -tainted features cloth’ d in tissue, Some heaven-born goddesse said to be their mother ; Rose-checkt Adonis with his amber tresses, Fair fire-hot Venus charming him to love her, Chaste Lucretia, virgine-like her dresses, Prowd lust-stung Tarquine seeking still to prove her. . . .’ 1 ‘ A Remembrance of some English Poets : Poems in Divers Humors,’ printed with separate title-page at the end of * The Encomion of Lady PecuniaJ 1598. Michael Drayton in his Matilda, 1594-1596, after referring to Daniel’s Rosamond, refers to Shakespeare’s Lucrece. It is interesting to note that the reference is cut out of all subsequent editions. xii INTRODUCTION Now, these tributes were paid at a time when lyrical poetry was the delight of all who could read English. In one year (1600) three famous anthologies were published England’s Helicon, that is, England’s Parnassus, and Belvedere, or the Garden of the Muses ; and, something more than a year later, the author of the Returnefrom Parnassus writes this of Shakespeare, when he reaches him in his review of the poets whose lyrics were laid under contribution for the Belvedere : Ingenioso. William Shakespeare. Judicio. Who loves Adonis’ love, or Lucre’s rape, His sweeter verse containes hart robbing life, Could but a graver subject him content, Without loves foolish languishment. Discounting somewhat from the academical asperity of his judgment, you find Shakespeare still regarded well into the Seventeenth Century x as a love poet whose siren voice could steal men’s hearts. In gauging the aesthetic value of a work of art we cannot always tell ‘ how it strikes a contemporary ‘ ; and, even when we can, it is often idle to consider the effect beside maturer judgments. But when, as in the case of these Poems, later critics have scarce so much as concerned themselves with aesthetic value, we may, unless we are to adventure alone, accept a reminder of the artist’s intention from the men who knew him, who approved his purpose, and praised his success. To Francis Meres, living among poets who worshipped Beauty to the point of assigning a mystical importance to its every revelation through the eye, it was enough that Shakespeare, like Ovid, had wrought an expression for that worship out of the sound and the cadence of words, contriving them into harmonies haunted by such unexplained emotion as the soul suffers from beautiful sights. We need not set Meres as a critic beside, say, Hazlitt. 1 Dated by Arber. INTRODUCTION xiii But when Hazlitt quarrels with the Narrative Poems because they are not realistic dramas, and when Gervinus takes the Sonnets for an attempt at autobiography, baulked only by the inherent difficulty of the Sonnet form, it may be profitable to reconsider the view of even the euphuist Meres. Still, none can be asked to accept that view without some warning of the risk he runs. To maintain, with Meres, that Shakespeare’s Poems, including the Sonnets, are in the first place lyrical and elegiac, is to court a hailstorm of handy missiles. Hazlitt who, to be sure, would none of Herrick, denounced the Narrative Poems for ‘ice-houses’; and Coleridge’s ingenious defence that their wealth of picturesque imagery was Shakespeare’s substitute for dramatic gesture is almost as damaging as Hazlitt’ s attack. The one states, the other implies, that they were awkward attempts at Drama, mere essays at the form in which the author was afterwards to find his vocation. And when we come to the Sonnets, the view of Meres, and of all who agree with Meres, draws a hotter fire : not only from those who push the personal theory to its extreme conclusion, treating the Sonnets as private letters written to assuage emotion with scarce a thought for art, but also from those who vigorously deny that any Sonnet can be lyrical. Yet the hazard must be faced ; for the Venus, the Lucrece, and the Sonnets are, each one, in the first place lyrical and elegiac. They are concerned chiefly with the delight and the pathos of Beauty, and they reflect this inspiration in their forms : all else in them, whether of personal experience or contemporary art, being mere raw material and conventional trick, exactly as important to these works of Shakespeare as the existence of quarries at Carrara and the inspiration from antique marbles ^ newly discovered were to the works of Michelangelo. It is easy to gauge the relative importance in Shakespeare’s work between his achievement as an artist and his chances as a man. xiv INTRODUCTION For that relative importance is measured by the chasm which sunders his work from the work of contemporaries labouring under like conditions ; and if his Sonnets have little in common with Constable’s, his narrative verse has still less in common with (say) Marston’s Pygmalion. Unless this view be admitted there is no excuse for re- publishing the Narrative Poems with the Sonnets : we can take down the Plays, or study, instead of the Sonnets, such con clusions upon Shakespeare’s passionate experience as the com mentator has been able to draw. And many of us do this, yielding to the bias of criticism deflected from its proper office by pre-occupation with matters outside the mood of aesthetic delight. But the mistake is ours, and the loss, which also is ours, is very great. The nature of it may be illustrated from that which comes upon the many who shrink from reading the earliest of Shakespeare’s Plays, or read it only in search of arguments against his authorship. Starting from the improbable conjecture, that the character of an author may be guessed from the incidents he chooses to handle, critics have either alluded to Titus Andronicus with an apology, or have denied it to be Shakespeare’s. 1 But, read without prejudice or without anxiety to prove that Shakespeare could not have chosen the theme of Mutilation for the spring of unspeakable pathos, the play in no wise ‘reeks of blood,’ but, on the con trary, is sweet with the fragrance of woods and fields, is flooded with that infinite pity whose serene fountains well up within the walls of an hospital. It is true that Lavinia suffers a worse fate than Philomela in Ovid’s tale; that her tongue is torn out, lest it should speak her wrong ; that her hands are cut off, lest they should write it. But mark the treatment of these 1 Dowden, Shakespeare, His Mind and Art, pp 54, 55. Gerald Massey, Shakespeare’s Sonnets and His Private Friends, p. 85 1 . Halliwell- Phillipps, Outlines, i. 79. INTRODUCTION xv worse than brutalities. Thus speaks Marcus of her hands (ii. 4):_ e Those sweet ornaments, Whose circling shadows Kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As have thy love.’ And again : ‘ O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute, And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touched them for his life ! ‘ And of her tongue (iii. 1) : ‘ O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabb’d them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth its pretty hollow cage Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear.’ Who can listen to these lines or to those which tell how ‘ Fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gather’d lily almost wither’d,’ and yet conclude that ‘ if any portions of the Play be from his hand, it shows that there was a period in Shakespeare’s author ship when the Poet had not yet discovered himself ? In the same scene, hark to the desolate family : ‘ Behold our cheeks How they are stain’d, as meadows yet not dry With miry slime left on them by a flood ‘ : and consider that daughter’s kiss which can avail her father nothing : ‘ Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake.’ These passages are stamped with the plain sign-manual of xvi INTRODUCTION Shakespeare: not the creator who, living in the world, fashioned Hamlet and Falstaff and Lady Macbeth, but the lyrical poet, bred in Arden Forest, who wrote Romeo and Juliet and Love’s Labour ‘s Lost, the Midsummer Night’s Dream and the Two Gentlemen of Verona, the Venus and the Lucrece, and the Sonnets. They are of that sweet and liquid utterance, which conveys long trains of images caught so freshly from Nature that, like larks in cages, they seem still to belong to the fields and sky. Our loss is great indeed if an impertinent solicitude for Shakespeare’s morals, an officious care for his reputation as a creator of character, lead us to pass over Titus Andronicus, or to lend, in the other early plays, a half-reluctant ear to his ‘enchanting song’ and his succession of gracious images. But that loss, great as it is in the Plays, is greater and more gratuitous in the Poems, which belong to the same phase of his genius, and yield it a more legitimate expression. The liquid utterance by every character of such lovely imagery as only a poet can see and seize may be, and is most often, out of place in a drama : since it delays the action, falsifies the portraiture, and carries the audience from the scene back to the Playwright’s boyhood in the Warwickshire glades. But in a poem it is the true, the direct, the inevitable revelation of the artist’s own delight in Beauty. And it is too much to ask of those who drink in this melody without remorse from the Plays, that they shall sacrifice the Poems also to the fetish of character isation, or shall mar their enjoyment of the Sonnets with vain guesses at a moral problem, whose terms no man has been able to state. Let those, who care for characterisation only, avoid the Poems and stick to the Plays : even as they neglect Chaucer’s Troilus for his Prologue to The Canterbury Tales. Each must satisfy his own taste; but, if there be any that dwell overfondly (as it seems to others) on the sweet- INTRODUCTION xvii ness of Shakespeare’s earlier verse, let them remember that he too dwelt with a like fondness on Chaucer’s long lyric of romantic love. The Troilus must certainly have been a part of Shakespeare’s life, else he could never have written the opening to the Fifth Act of his Merchant of Venice : ‘ The moon shines bright ; in such a night as this When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees And they did make no noise, in such a night Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents Where Cressid lay that night.’ He had stood with the love-sick Prince through that passionate vigil on the wall, and had felt the sweet wind ‘ increasing in his face.’ And if Shakespeare, f qui apres Dieu crea le plus,’ found no cause in the Prologue for slighting the Troilus, surely we, who have created nothing, may frankly enjoy his Poems without disloyalty to his Plays ? Of course, to the making of these Poems, as to the making of every work of art, there went something of the author’s personal experience, something of the manner of his country and his time ; and these elements may be studied by a lover of Poetry. Yet only that he may better appreciate the amount superadded by the Poet. The impression which the artist makes on his material, in virtue of his inspiration from Beauty, and of his faculty acquired in the strenuous service of Art, must be the sole object and reward of artistic investiga tion. For the student of history and the lover of art are bound on diverse quests. The first may smelt the work of art in his crucible, together with other products of contemporary custom and morality, in order to extract the ore of historic truth. But for the second to shatter the finished creations of art in order to show what base material they are made of surely this argues a most grotesque inversion of his regard for xviii INTRODUCTION means and end? To ransack Renaissance literature for parallels to Shakespeare’s verse is to discover, not Shake speare’s art but, the common measure of poetry in Shake speare’s day ; to grope in his Sonnets for hints on his personal suffering is but to find that he too was a man, born into a world of confusion and fatigue. It is not, then, his likeness as a man to other men, but his distinction from them as an artist, which concerns the lover of art. And in his Poems we find that distinction to be this : that through all the vapid enervation and the vicious excitement of a career which drove some immediate forerunners down most squalid roads to death, he saw the beauty of this world both in the pageant of the year and in the passion of his heart, and found for its expression the sweetest song that has ever triumphed and wailed over the glory of loveliness and the anguish of decay. ii To measure the amount in these Poems which is due to Shakespeare’s art, let us consider the environment and ac cidents of his life, and then subtract so much as may be due to these. He was born 1 at the very heart of this island in Stratford-on-Avon, a town in the ancient Kingdom of Mercia the Kingdom of the Marches whose place-names still attest the close and full commingling of Angle with Celt. 2 And he was born April 22nd or 23rd, 1564 full eighty years after Bosworth Field, by closing the Middle Age, had opened a period of national union at home, and had made room and time for a crowd of literary and artistic influences from abroad. He 1 Among many sources of information let me acknowledge my special in debtedness to Professor Dowden, Mr. Robert Bell, and above all, the late Thomas Spencer Baynes. (Shakespeare St^^d^es. Longmans, Green and Co., 1894.) 2 Cf. the Rev. Stopford Brooke’s History of Early English Literature, and T. S. Baynes, who quotes J. R. Green and Matthew Arnold. INTRODUCTION xix was, therefore, an Englishman in the wider extension of that inadequate term ; and he lived when every insular character istic flared up in response to stimulants from the Renaissance over-sea. For nationality is not fostered by seclusion, but dwindles, like a fire, unless it be fed with alien food. By parentage he was heir to the virtues and traditions of diverse classes. His mother, Mary Arden, daughter of a small pro prietor and ‘gentleman of worship/ could claim descent from noble stocks, and that in an age when good blood argued a tradition of courtesy among its inheritors as yet un prized by other ranks. But, though something of Shake speare’s gentleness and serenity may be traced to his mother’s disposition, it is with Shakespeare as with Dickens 1 the father, John, who strikes us the more sharply, with the quainter charm of a whimsical temperament. John was the eldest son of Richard, tenant of a forest farm at Snitterfield, owned by Robert Arden of Wilmcote, the aforesaid ‘ gentleman of wor ship.’ But John had a dash of the adventurer, and dreamed of raising the family fortunes to a dignity whence they had declined.2 So he left the little farm behind him in 1551, and, shifting his base of operations some three or four miles to Stratford, he there embarked his capital of hope in a number of varied enterprises 3 : with such success, that in six years he could pretend to the hand of Mary Arden, the heiress of his father’s landlord. Like Micawber, he counted on ‘ something turning up ‘ in a market town ; and, although his career was marked from the very outset by a happy-go-lucky incurious1 The parallel was noted first but only in talk by the late R. L. Stevenson. He was keenly alive (I am told) to its possibilities, which, in deed, are encouraging enough. 2 Griffin Genealogy. Times, October 14, 1895. 3 He is described in the register of the Bailiff’s Court for 1556 as a ‘ glover,’ but according to tradition he was also a butcher, wool-stapler, corndealer, and timber-merchant. xx INTRODUCTION ness, 1 at first he was not disappointed. He becomes a burgess, or town-councillor, probably at Michaelmas 1557, High Bailiff in 1568, Chief Alderman in 1571 ; purchasing house property, and making frequent donations to the poor. His high heart and his easy good-nature won him wealth and friends ; but they landed him at last in a labyrinth of legal embarrassments, so that the family history becomes a record of processes for debt, of mortgages and sales of reversionary interests. In 1578 he obtains relief from one-half of the aldermanic contribution to military equipment; and, again, he is altogether excused a weekly contribution of fourpence to the poor. In the same year he mortgages his estate of the Asbies for forty pounds, and his sureties are sued by a baker for his debt of five pounds. In 1579 he sells his interest in two messuages at Snitterfield for four pounds. In 1586 his name is removed from the roll of Aldermen because he * doth not come to the halles when they are warned, nor hath done for a long time.’ And in 1592 his affairs have sunk to so low an ebb that curiously enough with Fluellen and Bardolph for companions in misfortune, he ‘ comes not to church for fear of process for debt/ 2 Yet poverty and 1 He was fined in 1552 for not removing the household refuse which had accumulated in front of his house, and in 1558 for not keeping his gutter clean. Some argue, but not very plausibly, that every record or tradition which they hold derogatory to Shakespeare or his father, is to be referred to others of the same name. 2 Some have held this plea a pretext to cover recusancy : and, from Malone downwards, the best authorities have conjectured in John Shakespeare one of the many who at that time had no certitude of, perhaps no wish for, a definite break and a new departure in religion. The Rev. T. Carter, however, has argued (Shakespeare, Puritan and Recusant), 1897, that John Shakespeare and William, were Puritans. Such conscription of the dead to the standards of religious factions may well seem unnecessary in any case. Applied to the Poet of All Time, it is repugnant and absurd. As to John, Mr. Carter’s contention is found to rest on certain entries in the municipal accounts of Stratford-on-Avon. These show that images were defaced by order of the Town Council in the year 1562-3, and that vestments were sold in 1571. Now, John Shakespeare filled a small office during the first, and the impor- INTRODUCTION xxi sorrow neither tamed his ambition nor sealed up his springs of sentiment. Through the lean years he persists in appealing to tant post of Chief Alderman during the second, of these two years. In order to gauge how nearly such transactions may point to every member of the Town Council, who did not repudiate them, having been a Puritan, it is necessary to consider the attitude of most Englishmen towards questions or ritual at that time. According to Green and other received authorities it was an attitude of uncertainty. ‘ To modern eyes,’ Green writes (History of the English People, ii. 308), ‘ the Church under Elizabeth would seem little better than a religious chaos.’ After ten years of her rule ‘ the bulk of Englishmen were found to be “utterly devoid of religion,” and came to church “as to a May game.'” It is therefore difficult or, as I hold, impossible to determine from the action of individuals upon questions of ritual, and still more so from their inaction, whether they were Puritans, loyal supporters of the last new State Religion, or Church-Papists, viz. : those who conformed in public and heard mass at home. But apart from such points, which can hardly be determined, Mr. Carter puts himself out of court on two broad issues. (i) He makes John a Puritan, and chronicles his application for coat-armour (p. 177) without comment. Contrast ‘ Lenvoy to the Author’ by Garter Principall King of Armes, prefixed to Guillim’s Display of Heraldrie, 1610: * Peevish Precisenesse, loves no Heraldry, Crosses in Armes, they hold Idolatry. . . . Shortly no difference twixt the Lord and Page. Honours, Recusants’ (i.e. puritan recusants) ‘doe so rmtltiply, As Armes, the Ensignes fl/” Nobility, Must be laid downe ; they are too glorious ‘ (boastful) ‘ Plaine idle shewes, and superstitious : Plebeian basenesse doth them so esteeme. ” Degrees in bloud, the steps ofpride and scorne, All Adam’s children, none are Gentle borne : Degrees of state, titles ^/”Ceremony :” Brethren in Christ, greatnesse is tyranny : O impure Purity that so doth deeme ! ‘ and Guillim’s own opinion : * the swans purity is too Puritanicall, in that his featters and outward appearance he is all white, but inwardly his body and flesh is very blacke.’ (2) He omits the introduction of stage plays into Stratford under John Shakespeare’s auspices, and asserts (p. 189) that * Puritans of the days of Elizabeth had not the abhorrence of the stage which the corruptions of Charles n.’s reign called forth.’ Let me quote xxii INTRODUCTION the Heralds’ College for a grant of arms 1 ; and in 1579, being reduced to the straitest expedients, he still pays an excessive sum for the bell at his daughter’s funeral. It was not altogether from Shakespeare’s own experience, but also, we may think, from boyish memories of this kindly and engaging Micawber that he was afterwards to draw his unmatched pictures of thriftless joviality. From him, also, Shakespeare may well have derived his curious knowledge of legal procedure and of the science of heraldry, for his father contested some sixty law suits, and applied, at least three times, for coat-armour. But the father, if he squandered his inheritance, left him an early love and understanding of the stage. f The best companies in the Kingdom constantly visited Stratford during the decade of Shakespeare’s active youth from 1573 to 1584′ 2 : thanks, I the Corporation of London in 1575 : ‘To play in plague-time increases the plague by infection : to play out of plague-time calls down the plague from God ‘ (Fleay, History of the Stage, p. 47) : and William Habington, a devout Catholic, writing in 1634, when Prynne had just lost his ears for attacking Players in Histrio-mastix : ‘ Of this wine should Prynne Drinke but a plenteous glasse, he would beginne A health to Shakespeare’s ghost. ‘ Castara> Part ii., To a Friend. Mr. Carter’s attempt to incarcerate Shakespeare in the ‘prison-house of Puritanism’ rests on too slender a basis to stand unless buttressed by new, and not very convincing, accounts of the principal movements and characters of the time. For example, he makes James I. a hero of Puritanism, in the face of his declarations : ‘ A Scottish Presbytery as well fitteth with Monarchy as God and the Devil,’ and his threat against the Puritans : ‘ I will make them confdrm, or I will harry them out of the land ! ‘ 1 Conceded in 1596 and extended in 1599. Some dispute this. But the arms of 1596 appear on Shakespeare’s monument. Cf. the drafts of Grants of Coat-Armour proposed to be conferred on John Shakespeare, from original MSS. preserved at the College of Arms. (Halliwell-Phillipps, Outlines, ii. pp. 56, 61.) 2 Baynes, p. 67. INTRODUCTION xxiii cannot but think, to the taste and instigation of Shakespeare’s sire ; for we first hear of stage plays during the year in which he was High Bailiff, or Mayor, and we know that, during his year of office, he introduced divers companies to the town, and, doubtless, in accordance with custom, inaugurated their per formances in the Guild-hall. From the known facts of John Shakespeare’s extraction and career we may infer the incidents of his son’s boyhood : the visits to the old home at high seasons of harvest and sheepshearing; the sports afield with his mother’s relations; the convivial gatherings of his father’s cronies ; and certain days of awe-struck enchantment when the Guild-hall resounded to the tread and declamation of Players. But in the first years all these were incidental to the regular curriculum of Stratford Grammar-School still to be seen in the same building over the Hall. Fortunately we know what that curriculum was, and a bound is set to speculation on the nature and extent of the schooling Shakespeare had. From the testimony of two for gotten books,1 Mr. Baynes has pieced together the method of teaching in use at grammar-schools during the years of Shake speare’s pupilage ; and his theory is amply and minutely confirmed by many passages in the Plays. 2 Shakespeare went to school at seven, and, after grinding at Lily’s Grammar, enjoyed such conversation in Latin with his instructors as the Ollendorfs of the period could provide. The scope and charm of these 1 John Brinsley’s Ludus literarius, or Grammar Schoole, 1612 (Brinsley was master of the Ashby-de-la-Zouche Grammar-School for 16 years), and Charles Hoole’s A New Discovery of the old Art of Teaching Schools, etc. This book, though of later date Hoole was born in 1610 has its own interest ; since the author was head-master of a school at Rotherham closely resembling the Stratford School in ‘its history and general features.’ (Baynes.) ” Baynes, Shakespeare Studies, pp. 147-249 : ‘ What Shakespeare Learnt at School.’ xxiv INTRODUCTION ‘ Confabulationes pueriles ‘ may be guessed from his sketch in Loves Labour ‘s Lost : Sir Nathaniel. ‘ Laus Deo, bone intelligo.’ Holophernes. ‘ Bone ! bone for bene. Priscian a little scratched ; ’twill serve. 3 Sir Nathaniel. ‘Videsne quis venit?’ Holophernes. ‘ Video et gaudeo.’ 1 And from Holophernes his ‘ Fauste precor. Old Mantuan, old Mantuan ! who understandeth thee not, loves thee not/ we may infer that the pupil did not share the pedagogic admiration for the Eclogues of the monk, Mantuanus.2 But when, with ^sop’s fables, these in their turn had been mastered, the boy of twelve and upwards was given his fill of Ovid, something less of Cicero, Virgil, Terence, Horace, and Plautus, and, perhaps, a modicum of Juvenal, Persius, and Seneca’s tragedies ; and of these it is manifest, from the Poems and the early Plays, 8 that Ovid left by far the most profound impression in his mind. But his studies were cut short. At fourteen 4 he was taken from school, doubtless to assist his father amid increasing difficulties, and we have a crop of legends 1 I preserve Theobald’s emendation. In one of the manuals, * Familiarcs Colloquendi Formulae in usum Scholarum concinnatacj Mr Baynes has found, ‘Who comes to meet us? Quis obviam venit? He speaks false Latin, Diminuit Prisciani caput; ‘Tis barbarous Latin, Olet barbarietn.’ Cf. Holofernes : ‘ O, I smell false Latin, ” dunghill” for unguem.’ 2 From Michael Drayton’s epistle in verse to Henry Reynolds Of Poets and Poesy 1627, we gather that his poetic aspirations survived the same youthful ordeal : * For from my cradle (you must know that) I Was still inclined to noble Poesie ; And when that once Pueriles I had read, And newly had my Cato construed. . . . And first read to me honest MantuanS 8 Cf. in particular Love’s Labour’s Lost and Titus Andronicus. 4 Rowe, 1709. INTRODUCTION xxv suggesting the various callings in which he may have laboured to that end. 1 None of these legends can be proved, but none is impossible in view of his father’s taste for general dealing and of the random guidance he is likely to have given his son. After four and a half years of such hand-to-mouth endeavour, sweetened, we may guess, by many a holiday in the forest and derelict deer-park at Fulbrook,2 Shakespeare, in December 1582, being yet a lad of eighteen, married Anne Hathaway, his senior by eight years, daughter to the tenant of Shottery Farm. This marriage may, or may not, have been preceded in the summer by a betrothal of legal validity 3 : his eldest child, Susannah, was born in May 1583. But in either case the adventure was of that romantic order which is justified by success alone, and such success must have seemed doubt ful when twins were born in February 1585. About this period of youth, * when the blood ‘s lava and the pulse a blaze,’ may be grouped the legends of the drinking-match be tween rival villages at Bidford, and of the deer-slaying resented by Sir Thomas Lucy. Mr. Baynes places this latter exploit at Fulbrook ; and, if he be right, Sir Thomas’s interference was unwarranted, and may have been dictated by Protestant bigotry against Shakespeare for his kinship with the Ardens of Parkhall,, who stood convicted of a plot against the Queen’s life. 4 We know little of these years; but we know enough to approve 1 Rowe makes him a dealer in wool, on the authority of information collected by Betterton ; Aubrey (before 1680) a school-master, and else where a journeyman butcher, which is corroborated by the Parish Clerk of Stratford, born 1613. To Malone’s conjecture, that he served in an Attorney’s office, I will return. 2 The property of an attainted traitor, ‘ sequestered, though not adminis tered by the Crown.’ Baynes, as above, p. 80. 3 Mr. Halliwell-Phillipps argues that it was. There is no evidence either way. 4 Certain indications, each slight in itself, taken together point to some sympathy on Shakespeare’s part with the older faith. The Rev. Richard xxvi INTRODUCTION Shakespeare’s departure in search of fortune. For at Strat ford, frowned on by the mighty and weighed down with the double burden of a thriftless father and his own tender babes, there was nothing for him but starvation. in To London, then, he set out on some day between the opening of 1585 and the autumn of 1587, looking back on a few years of lad’s experience and forward to the magical unknown. And to what a London ! Perhaps the first feature that struck him, re-awaking old delights, was the theatres on both banks of Thames. It may even be that he rode straight to one of these houses (one built by James Burbage, himself a Stratford man) and that, claiming the privilege of a fellow-townsman, he enrolled himself forthwith in the company of the Earl of Leicester’s players. 1 It is likelier than not ; for Burbage can hardly have built, not this later structure but, the ‘ Theater,’ twenty years earlier, for a first home of the drama in London, without receiving the con gratulations, perhaps the advice, of Shakespeare’s father, in those old prosperous aldermanic days, when every strolling company might claim a welcome from the Mayor of Stratford ; and the probability is increased by the presence of two other Stratford men, Heminge and Greene, in the same company. In Blackfriars, also, and near the theatres, stood the shop of Thomas Vautrouillier, publisher, and here Shakespeare found another acquaintance : for Richard Field served the first six years of his apprenticeship (1579-1585) with VautrouDavies in notes on Shakespeare, made before the year 1708, says ‘he dyed a Papist.’ 1 Baynes. Fleay holds that Shakespeare joined the company at Stratford and travelled with it to London. INTRODUCTION xxvii illier, and Richard was the son of ‘ Henry ffielde of Strat ford uppon Aven in the countye of Warwick, tanner/ whose goods and chattels had once, we know, been valued by the Poet’s father and two other Stratfordians.1 Now, about the time of Shakespeare’s advent to London, Richard Field married Jaklin, the daughter or widow 2 of Vautrouillier, and succeeded to the emigre s business. The closeness of the connexion is confirmed by our knowledge that Field printed the first three editions of Venus (1593, 1594, 1596) and the first Lucrece (1594). But Field also printed Putten- ham’s Arte ofEnglish Poesie (1589), and, m ‘ a n^at brevier Italic/ fifteen books of Ovid’s Metamorphosis. In 1595, again, he printed his fine edition, the second,3 of North’s Plutarch, following it up with others in 1603, 1607, 1612. Without companioning Mr. William Blades 4 so far as to infer that Shakespeare worked as a printer with Field, we cannot miss the significance of his friend’s having given to the world the Latin poem which left so deep an impression on Shakespeare’s earlier lyrical verse, and that English translation from Amyot’s Plutarch, out of which he quarried the material of his Greek and Roman plays. When Shakespeare came to London, then, he found in Blackfriars a little colony of his fellow-townsmen caught up in the two most pronounced intellectual movements of that day : the new English Drama and the reproduction, whether 1 Diet. Nat. Biog. Richard Field. Arber, transcript, ii. 93. 2 In 1588 he married, says Ames, ‘Jaklin, d. of Vautrollier ‘ ( Typographical Antiquities, ed. Herbert, ii. 1252) and succeeded him in his house ‘in the Black Friers, neer Ludgate.’ Collier quotes the marriage register R. Field to Jacklin, d. of Vautrilliam 12 Jan. 1588. It is stated, however, in a list of master-printers included in the ‘ Stationers’ Register ‘ (transcript, iii. 702) that Field married Vautrouillier’s widow, and succeeded him in 1590. 3 The first was published by Vautrouillier in 1579- 4 Shakespere and Typography, 1877. xxviii INTRODUCTION in the original or in translation, of classical masterpieces. We know nothing directly of his life during the next five years. There is the tradition that he organised shelter and baiting for the horses of the young gallants, who daily rode down to the Theatres after their midday meal; and there is the tradition that he paid one visit to Stratford every year. 1 Yet it is easy to conjecture the experience of a youth and a poet translated from Warwickshire to a London rocking and roaring with Armada-patriotism and the literary fervour of the ( university pens.’ All the talk was of sea-fights and new editions : Drake and Lyly, Raleigh and Lodge, Greene and Marlowe and Grenville were names in every mouth. The play-houses were the centres, and certain young lords the leaders, of a confused and turbulent movement appealing with a myriad voices to the lust of the eye and the pride of life. In pure letters Greene’s Menaphon (1589), Lodge’s Rosalynd 2 (1590), were treading on the heels of Lyly’s later instalments of Euphues ; and Sidney’s Arcadia,3 long known in MS., was at last in every hand. The first three books of The Faery Queen were brought over from Ireland, and were published in the same year. Poetry, poetical prose, and, for the last sign of a literary summer, even criticism of the aim and art of poetry as Webb’s Discourse of English Poetrie (1586), Puttenham’s Arte of English Poesie (1589), and Sidney’s Apologiefor Poetrie 4 all kept pouring from the press. But the Play was the thing that chiefly engaged the am bition of poets, and took the fancy of young lords. The players, to avoid the statute which penalised their profes sion, were enrolled as servants of noblemen, and this led, directly, to relations, founded on their common interest, between 1 Aubrey (before 1680). – Where Shakespeare found the germ of As You Like It. 3 Begun 1580, published 1590. 4 Not published till 1595, but written perhaps as early as 1581. INTRODUCTION xxix the patron who protected a company and the poet who wrote for it. Indirectly it led to much freedom of access between nobles who, though not themselves patrons, were the friends or relatives of others that were, and the leading dramatists and players. Noblemen are associated with Poets, i.e. Play wrights, in contemporary satires. In Ben Jonson’s Poetaster, for example, Cloe, the wife of a self-made man, asks, as she sets out for the Court : ( And will the Lords and the Poets there use one well too, lady ? ‘ These artistic relations often ripened into close personal friendships: Ben Jonson, for example, left his wife to live during five years as the guest of Lord Aubigny ; l and Shakespeare’s friendships with Southampton and William Herbert are so fully attested as to preclude the omission of all reference to their lives from any attempt at reconstituting the life of Shakespeare. Doubtless they arose in the manner I have suggested. In 1 599 2 we read ‘ the Lord Southampton and Lord Rutland came not to the Court; the one doth very seldom ; they pass away the time in London, merely in going to plays every day ‘ ; and from Baynard’s Castle to the Blackfriars Theatre was but a step for Pembroke’s son, William Herbert, ‘the most universally beloved and esteemed of any man of his age.’ 3 Shakespeare wrote to Southampton : ‘ The love I dedicate to your lordship is without end’; 4 and we know, apart from any inference deduced from the Sonnets, that William Herbert also befriended our poet. His comrades 1 Esme Stewart, Lord Aubigny, Duke of Lennox (cf. Jonson’s Epigrams, 19, and the dedication of Sejanus). ‘ Five years he had not bedded with her, but had remained with my lord Aulbany,’ Drummonds Conversations, 13, quoted by Fleay. 2 Letter from Rowland White to Sir Robert Sidney. Rowe, on the authority of Sir William Davenant, states that Southampton once gave Shakespeare j I ooo. The story, if it be true, probably refers to an investment in the Blackfriars Theatre. 3 Clarendon. 4 Dedication of Liurtce. xxx INTRODUCTION dedicated the Folio (1623) after his death to William Herbert and his brother Philip, as ‘the most incomparable paire of brethren/ in memory of the favour with which they had ‘ prose- quuted’ both the Plays f and their Authour living.’ Shake speare was the friend of both Southampton and Herbert ; and in his imagination, that mirror of all life, the bright flashes and the dark shadows of their careers must often have been reflected. IV Southampton was scholar, sailor, soldier, and lover of letters.1 Born in 1573, he graduated at sixteen as a Master of Arts at St. John’s College, Cambridge. 2 At twenty-four he sailed with Essex as captain of the Garland, and, attacking thirtyfive Spanish galleons with but three ships, sank one and scattered her fellows. And for his gallantry on shore in the same year (1597), he was knighted in the field by Essex before Villa Franca, ere ‘he could dry the sweat from his brows, or put his sword up in the scabbard.’ 8 Now, in 1598 Essex was already out of favour with the Queen she had been provoked to strike him at a meeting of the Council in July ; but he was popular in London, and had come, oddly enough, to be looked on as a deliverer by Papists and Puritans both. In April 1599 he sailed for Ireland, accompanied by Lord Southampton ; and we need not surmise, for we know, how closely Shakespeare followed the fortune of their arms. In 1 Qui in primo aetatis flore praesidio bonarum literarum et rei militaris scientia nobilitatem communit, ut uberiores fructus maturiore aetate patriae et principiprofundat.’ Camden’s Britannia, 8vo, 1600, p. 240. 2 Southampton was admitted a student in 1585 (act. 12). Note that Tom Nash, who in after years ‘ tasted the full spring ‘ of Southampton’s liberality (Terrors ofNight, 1594) matriculated at the same College in 1582, and ever cherished its memory : ‘ Loved it still, for it ever was and is the sweetest nurse of knowledge in all that university’ (Lenten Stuff). 3 Gervois Markham, Honour In Its Perfection, 4to, 1624. INTRODUCTION xxxi London, ‘ the quick forge and working-house of thought/ Shakespeare weaves into the chorus to the Fifth Act of his Henry V. a prophetic picture of their victorious return : f Were now the general of our gracious empress, As in good time he may, from Ireland coming, Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, How many would the peaceful city quit To welcome him ! ‘ The play was produced in the spring of that year, but its prophecy went unfulfilled. Essex failed where so many had failed before him; and, being censured by the Queen, replied with impertinent complaints against her favours to his political opponents, Cecil, Raleigh, and that Lord Cobham who had two years earlier taken umbrage at Shakespeare’s Henry IV.1 In September he returned suddenly from a futile campaign, and on Michaelmas Eve, booted, spurred, and bespattered, he burst into the Queen’s chamber, to find her with ‘her hair about her face.’ 2 He was imprisoned and disgraced, one of the chief causes of Elizabeth’s resentment being, as she after wards alleged, ‘that he had made Lord Southampton general of the horse contrary to her will.’ 3 For Southampton was already under a cloud. He had presumed to marry Elizabeth Vernon without awaiting the Queen’s consent, and now, com bining the display of his political discontent with the indulgence of his passion for the theatre, he, as I have said, is found avoiding the Court and spending his time in seeing plays. The combination was natural enough, for theatres were then, as newspapers are now, the cock-pits of political as of religious and literary contention. Rival companies, producing new plays, or ‘ mending ‘ old ones each month, and almost each week, 1 Infra. 2 Rowland White to Sir Robert Sidney, Michaelmas day, 1599. 3 Ibid., 25th October 1599. xxxii INTRODUCTION were quick to hail the passing triumphs, or to glose the passing defeats of their chosen causes. Whilst high-born ladies of the house of Essex besieged the Court clad in deep mourning,1 and the chances of his being forgiven were canvassing among courtiers wherever they assembled, Dekker in Patient Grissel (1599), Heywood in his Royal King and Loyal Subject,’ 2′ hinted that probation, however remorseless, might be but the prelude to a loftier honour. Now, just at this time there occurs a strange reversal in the attitudes of the Court and the City towards the Drama. One Order of Council follows another,3 enjoining on the Mayor and Justices that they shall limit the number of play-houses ; but the City authorities, as a rule 1 Rowland White, passim. 2 I venture to date this play 1600, although printed much later, on the following grounds : (i) It was published with an apology for the number of its ‘rhyming lines,’ which pleaded that such lines were the rage at the date of its first production, though long since discarded in favour of blank verse and ‘ strong lines.’ The plea would hardly tally with a later date. (2) The allusion to Dekker’s Phaethon, produced 1598, and re- written for the Court, 1600, points to Heywood’s play having been written whilst Dekker’s, referred to also in Jonson’s Poetaster, 1601, was attracting attention. In Poetaster, iv. 2, Tucca calls Demetrius, who is Dekker, Phaethon. (3) The passage of Heywood’s play in which this allusion occurs is significant : ‘ Prince. The Martiall ‘s gone in discontent, my liege. King. Pleas’d, or not pleas’d, if we be England’s King, And mightiest in the spheare in which we move, Wee ’11 shine along this Phaethon cast down. ‘ This trial of the Marshal, who is stripped of all his offices and insignia, seems moulded on the actual trial of Essex in June 1600, as described by Rowland White in a letter to Sir Robert Sidney of June 7th, 1600 : ‘ The poore Earl then besought their Honors, to be a meane unto her Majestic for Grace and Mercy ; seeing there appeared in his offences no Disloyalty towards Her Highness, but Ignorance and Indiscretion in hymself. I heare it was a most pitifull and lamentable sight, to see hym that was the Mignion of Fortune, now unworthy of the least Honor he had of many; many that were present burst out in tears at his fall to such misery.’ A writer (probably Mr. R. Simpson) in The North British Review, 1870, p. 395, assigns Heywood’s play to 1600. 3 June 22, 1600. March 10, 1601. May 10, 1601. December 31, 1601. Quoted by Fleay. INTRODUCTION xxxiii most Puritanical, are obstinately remiss in giving effect to these decrees. Mr. Fleay attributes this waywardness to a jealous vindication of civic privileges : I would rather ascribe it to sympathy with Essex, ‘the good Earl.’ The City authorities could well, had they been so minded, have prevented the per formance of Richard II., with his deposition and death, some ‘ forty times ‘ in open streets and houses, as Elizabeth com plained; 1 and, indeed, it is hard to account for the Queen’s sustained irritation at this drama save on the ground of its close association with her past fears of Essex.2 Months after the Earl’s execution, she exclaimed to Lambard : ‘ I am Richard the Second, knowe yee not that ? ‘ 3 And we have the evidence of Shakespeare’s friend and colleague, Phillips, for the fact that Richard II. was performed by special request of the conspirators on the eve of their insane rising 4 (February 7, l601) that act of folly, which cost Essex his head and Southampton his liberty during the rest of Eliza beth’s reign. But if Shakespeare’s colleagues, acting Shakespeare’s Plays, gave umbrage to Essex’s political opponents in Henry IV., applauded his ambition in Henry V., and were accessories to his disloyalty in Richard II., there were playwrights and players ready enough to back the winning side. Henslowe, an apparent time-server, commissioned Dekker to re-write his Phaethon for presentation before the Court (1600), with, it is fair to suppose, a greater insistence on the presumption and 1 Nichols, iii. 552. 2 Cf. Elizabeth to Harrington : ‘ By God’s Son I am no Queen ; this man is above me. ‘ 3 Halliwell-Phillipps, Outlines, ii. 359. Lambard, August 1601, had opened his Pandecta Rotulorum before her at the reign of Richard II. 4 ‘ Examination of Augustyne Phillypps servant unto the Lord Chamber- leyne, and one of his players,’ quoted by Halliwell-Phillipps, Outlines, ii. 360. Phillips died, 1605, leaving by will ‘ to my fellow William Shakespeare, a thirty shillings piece of gold. ‘ xxxiv INTRODUCTION catastrophe of the ‘ Sun’s Darling ‘ ; and Ben Jonson, in his Cynthia s Revels (1600), put forth two censorious allusions to Essex’s conduct. Indeed the framework of this latter play, apart from its incidental attacks on other authors, is a defence of < Cynthia’s’ severity. Says Cupid (i. 1) : ‘The huntress and queen of these groves, Diana, in regard of some black and envious slanders hourly breathed against her for divine justice on Actaeon . . . hath . . . proclaim’d a solemn revels, which (her godhead put off) she will descend to grace.’ The play was acted before Elizabeth, and contains many allusions to the ‘ Presence.’ After the masque, Cynthia thanks the masquers (v. 3) : ‘ For you are they, that not, as some have done, Do censure us, as too severe and sour, But as, more rightly, gracious to the good ; Although we not deny, unto the proud, Or the profane, perhaps indeed austere : For so Actseon, by presuming far, Did, to our grief, incur a fatal doom. . . . Seems it no crime to enter sacred bowers And hallow’d places with impure aspect. ‘ In 1600, such lines can only have pointed to Essex-Actaeon’s mad intrusion into the presence of a Divine Virgin. In 1601 if, as some hold, these lines were a late addition, the reference to Essex’s execution was still more explicit. We know that Essex had urged the Scotch King, our James i., to enforce the recognition of his claim to the succession by a show of arms, 1 and that James ‘for some time after his accession considered Essex a martyr to his title to the English crown.’ 2 Mr. Fleay points out 3 that ‘ Lawrence Fletcher, comedian to His Majesty,’ was at Aberdeen in 1 Queen Elizabeth, E. S. Beesley. 2 Criminal Trials, L. E. K. i. 394 ; quoted by Fleay. 3 History of the Stage, 136. INTRODUCTION xxxv October 1601, and that Fletcher, Shakespeare, and the others in his company, were recognised by James as his players im mediately after his accession (1603). 1 The title-page of the first Hamlet (1603 : entered in the Stationers’ Registers, July 26, 1602) puts the play forward ‘as it hath beene diverse times acted by his Highnesse servants in the Cittie of London; as also in the two Universities of Cambridge and Oxford, and elsewhere.’ Mr. Fleay, therefore, to my thinking, proves his case : 2 that Shakespeare’s company was travelling in 1601 whilst Ben Jonson’s Cynthia was being played by the children of the Chapel. In the light of these facts it is easy to understand the conversation between Hamlet and Rosencrantz, Act ii. 2, which, else, is shrouded in obscurity : ‘ Hamlet. What players are they ? Rosencrantz. Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tragedians of the City. Hamlet. How chances it they travel ? Their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways. Rosencrantz. I think their inhibition comes by means of the late innovation. Hamlet. Do they hold in the same estimation they did when I was in the City ? are they so followed ? Ronencrantz. No, indeed they are not. Hamlet. How comes it ? Do they grow rusty ? Rosencrantz. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace ; but there is, sir, an eyrie of children, little eyases that cry out on the top of question and are most tyrannically clapped for’t : these are now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages so they call them that many wearing rapiers are afraid of goose-quills, and dare scarce come 1 The license is quoted by Halliwell-Phillipps in full, Outlines, ii. 82. 3 Mr. Sidney Lee (Die. Nat. Biog. ‘ Shakespeare ‘), objects that there is nothing to indicate that Fletcher’s companions in Scotland belonged to Shakespeare’s company. This hardly touches the presumption raised by the fact that ‘Fletcher, Comedian to His MajestyJ i.e. to James as King of Scotland in 1601, was patented with Shakespeare, Burbage, and others, as the ‘ King’s servants’ on James’s accession to the English throne in 1603. xxxvi INTRODUCTION thither. . . . Faith, there has been much to do on both sides, and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to con troversy ; there was for a while no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs on the ques tion. . . .* Hamlet. Do the boys carry it away ? Rosencrantz. Ay, that they do, my lord ; Hercules and his load too/ 2 The collection of such passages ; Shakespeare’s professed affection for Southampton ; his silence when so many mourned the Queen’s death, marked (as it was) by a contemporary : all these indications tend to show that Shakespeare shared in the political discontent which overshadowed the last years of Elizabeth’s reign. But it is safer not to push this conclusion, and sufficient to note that the storms which ruined Essex and Southampton lifted at least a ripple in the stream of Shake speare’s life. 3 To turn from Southampton to Shakespeare’s other noble patron, is to pass from the hazards of war and politics to the lesser triumphs and disasters of a youth at Court. Many slight but vivid pictures of Herbert’s disposition and conduct, during the first two years of his life at Court, are found in the intimate letters of Rowland White to Herbert’s uncle, Sir Robert Sidney. ‘My Lord Harbert’ so he in variably styles him ‘hath with much a doe brought his Father to consent that he may live at London, yet not before next spring.’ This was written 19th April 1597, when Herbert was but seventeen. During that year a project was 1 See infra on the personal attacks in Cynthia’s Revels and Poetaster. 2 I.e. the Globe Theatre. 3 I shall not pursue the further vicissitudes of Southampton’s adventurous career, for the last of Shakespeare’s Sonnets was written almost certainly before the Queen’s death or soon after. INTRODUCTION xxxvii mooted between Herbert’s parents and the Earl of Oxford for his marriage with Oxford’s daughter, Bridget Vere, aged thirteen. 1 It came to nothing by reason of her tender years, and Herbert, in pursuance of a promise extracted from a father confined by illness to his country seat, came up to town, and thrust into the many-coloured rout, with all the flourish and the gallantry, and something also of the diffidence and uneasiness, of youth. You catch glimpses of him : now, a glittering figure in the medley, watching his mistress, Mary Fitton, lead a masque before the Queen, or challenging at the Tournay in the valley of Mirefleur 2 an equivalent for Greenwich, coined for the nonce, since both place and persons must be masked after the folly of the hour ; and again you find him sicklied with ague and sunk in melan choly the Hamlet of his age, Gardiner calls him seeking his sole consolation in tobacco. I cannot refrain from transcribing Rowland White’s references in their order, so clean are the strokes with which he hits off Herbert, so warm the light he sheds on the Court that surrounded Herbert. 4th August 1599: ‘My lord Harbert meanes to follow the camp and bids me write unto you, that if your self come not over, he means to make bold with you and send for Bayleigh’ Sir Robert Sidney’s charger ‘to Penshurst, to serve upon. If you have any armor, or Pistols, that may steede him for him self only, he desires he may have the Use of them till your own Return.’ llth August 1599: ‘He sent to my lady’ (‘Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother’) ‘to borrow Bayleigh. 1 Mr. Tyler, Shakespeare’s Sonnets, p. 45, quotes the Rev. W. A. Harrison and the original letters, discovered by him, which prove the existence of this abortive contract. 2 This name belongs to 1606 ; in 1600, however, he also jousted at Greenwich. xxxviii INTRODUCTION She returned this Answer, that he shall have it, but condition ally, that if you come over or send for yt to Flushing he may restore yt, which he agrees to/ 18th August 1599 : ‘ My Lord Harbert hath beene away from Court these 7 Daies in London, swagering yt amongest the Men of Warre, and viewing the Maner of the Musters.’ 8th September 1599: ‘My lord Harbert is a continuall Courtier, but doth not follow his Business with that care as is fitt ; he is to cold in a matter of such Greatness.’ 12th September 1599: ‘Now that my lord Harbert is gone, he is much blamed for his cold and weak maner of pursuing her Majestie’s Favor, having had so good steps to lead him unto it. There is want of spirit and courage laid to his charge, and that he is a melancholy young man.’ September 13, 1599 : ‘ I hope upon his return he will with more lisse l and care undertake the great matter, which he hath bene soe cold in.’ 2 On the 20th September 1599, White perceives ‘that Lord Nottingham would be glad to have Lord Harbert match in his house ‘ i.e. marry his daugh ter. This, then, is the second project of marriage entertained on Herbert’s behalf. On Michaelmas Day, White describes Essex’s return, and you gather from many subsequent letters how great was the commotion caused by his fall. ‘ The time/ he writes, September 30th, ‘is full of danger,’ and llth October : ‘ What the Queen will determine with hym is not knowen; but I see litle Hope appearing of any soddain liberty.’ Meanwhile Herbert steers clear of the eddies, and prosecutes his cause with greater energy. Whilst South ampton is a truant at the play, ‘My lord Harbert’ (llth 1 Fr. Liesse = Gaiety. 2 About this time his father underwent an operation for the stone, and, if he had died under it, his place in Wales would have gone to the Earl of Worcester or the Earl of Shrewsbury. Herbert was to secure the reversion to himself. INTRODUCTION xxxix October), ‘is at Court, and much bound to her Majestic for her gracious Favor, touching the Resignation of the office of Wales.’ Herbert, indeed, seems to have been favoured by all the Court faction, including even Sir Robert Cecil, the chief enemy of Essex and, therefore, of Southampton. Nov ember 24, 1 599 : ‘ My lord Harbert is exceedingly beloved at Court of all men.’ And 29th November 1599, ‘9000 (Herbert) is very well beloved here of all, especially by 200 (Cecil) and 40 who protest in all places they love him.’ In the same letter, ‘9000 (Herbert) is highly favoured by 1500 (the Queen) for at his departure he had access unto her, and was private an Houre ; but he greatly wants advise/ On 28th December 1599, we find him sick with ague, and again, 5th January 1600: ‘ My Lord Harbert is sick of his tertian ague at Ramesbury.’ On the 12th January 1600 we have the first notice of Mary Fitton : ‘ Mrs Fitton is sicke, and gone from Court to her Father’s.’ 19th January 1600: ‘My lord Harbert coming up towards the Court, fell very sicke at Newberry, and was forced to goe backe again to Ramisbury. Your pies, ‘ White continues, exhibiting the solicitude of uncle and mother alike for the young courtier, ‘ were very kindly accepted there, and exceeding many Thankes returned. My Lady Pembroke desires you to send her speedely over some of your excellent Tobacco.’ 1 24th January 1600: Herbert has ‘ fallen to have his ague again, and no hope of his being here before Easter.’ 26th January 1600 : He complains ‘that he hath a continuall Paine in his Head, and finds no manner of ease but by taking of Tobacco.’ The mother’s care ex tended even to the lady, Mary Fitton, whom her son was soon to love supposing, that is, that he did not love her already, 21st February 1600 : ‘ My lady goes often to my Lady Lester, 1 Tobacco was first introduced by Nicot as a sovereign remedy against disease. d xl INTRODUCTION my Lady Essex and my Lady Buckhurst, where she is ex ceeding welcome ; she visited Mrs. Fitton, that hath long bene here sicke in London.’ But her son was soon to recover. 26th February 1600: f My lord Harbert is well again; they all remove upon Saturday to Wilton to the races; when that is ended, my Lord Harbert comes up.’ 22nd March 1600: ‘My lord Harbert is at Court and desires me to salute you very kindly from him. I doubt not but you shall have great comfort by him and I believe he will prove a great man in Court. He is very well beloved and truly deserves it/ But some of the love he won brought danger in its train. The next two references, describing the marriage of Mistress Anne Russell to ‘ the other Lord Herbert/ viz., Lord Worcester’s son, picture a masque in which Mrs. Fitton played a conspicuous part before the eyes of her young lover. 14th June 1600 : ( There is a memorable mask of 8 ladies ; they have a straunge Dawnce newly invented ; their attire is this : Each hath a skirt of cloth of silver, a rich wastcoat wrought with silkes, and gold and silver, a mantell of Carnacion Taffete cast under the Arme, and there Haire loose about their shoulders, curiously knotted and interlaced. These are the maskers, My Lady Doritye, Mrs. Fitton, Mrs. Carey, Mrs Onslow, Mrs. Southwell, Mrs. Bes Russell, Mrs. Darcy and my lady Blanche Somersett. These 8 daunce to the musiq Apollo bringes, and there is a fine speech that makes mention of a ninth/ of course the Queen ‘ much to her Honor and Praise/ The ceremony was ‘ honored by Her Majestie’s Presence/ and a sennight later we hear how all passed off. 23rd June l600: f After supper the maske came in, as I writ in my last; and delicate it was to see 8 ladies soe pretily and richly attired. Mrs. Fitton leade, and after they had donne all their own ceremonies, these 8 Ladys maskers choose 8 ladies more to daunce the measures. Mrs. Fitton went to the Queen, and wooed her to daunce; her INTRODUCTION xli Majesty asked what she was ; Affection, she said. Affection ! said the Queen. Affection is false. Yet her Majestic rose and daunced.’ . . . ‘The bride was lead to the Church by Lord Harbert/ and ‘ the Gifts given that day were valewed at 1000 in Plate and Jewels at least/ Nine months later Mrs. Fitton bore Herbert an illegitimate child ; but meanwhile he pursued his career as a successful courtier. 8th August 1600: ‘My lord Harbert is very well thought of, and keapes company with the best and gravest in Court, and is well thought of amongst them.’ The next notice, in the circumstances as we know them, is not surprising. l6th August 1600: ‘ My lord Havbert is very well. I now heare litle of that matter intended by 600 (Earl of Nottingham) towards hym, only I observe he makes very much of hym ; but I don’t find any Disposition at all in this gallant young lord to marry.’ With the next we come to Herbert’s training for the tournament, and gather something of his relations with the learned men whom his mother had collected at Wilton to instruct him in earlier years. Mr. Sandford had been his tutor, sharing that office, at one time, with Samuel Daniel, the poet and author of the Defence of Rhyme. 26th Sep tember 1600 : ‘ My Lord Harbert resolves this yeare to shew hymselfe a man at Armes, and prepared for yt ; and because it is his first tyme of runninge, yt were good he came in some excellent Devize, I make it known to your lordship that if you please to honor my lord Harbert with your advice ; my feare is, that Mr. Sandford will in his Humor, persuade my lord to some pedantike Invention.’ Then, 18th October 1600: ‘ My lord Harbert will be all next weeke at Greenwich, to prac tice at Tylt. He often wishes you here. Beleve me, my lord, he is a very gallant Gentleman and, indeed, wants such a Frend as you are neare unto him.’ Again, 24th October 1600: ‘Lord Harbert is at Greenwich practicing against the Coronation (?) ‘ ; xlii INTRODUCTION and, 30th October 1600 : , soon after it ; there is Fuller’s account of the ‘ wit combats ‘ between them; 3 there is the tradition that Shakespeare enter1 Dekker’s address ‘ To the World’ prefixed to Satiromastix. Jonson, as the Author, in the ‘Apology,’ appended to The Poetaster: ‘ Three years They did provoke me with their petulant styles On every stage.’ 3 The History ofthe Worthies of England, endeavoured by Thomas Fuller, D.D. Published, unfinished, by ‘the author’s orphan, John Fuller,’ in 1662. From its bulk we may judge that it occupied many years of Thomas Fuller’s life, so that it brings his account of Shakespeare fairly close to the date of his death (1616), and well within the range of plausible tradition. I quote the whole passage for its quaintness : ‘ William Shake speare was born at Stratford on Avon in this county (Warwick) in whom three eminent Poets may seem in some sort to be compounded. I. Martial in the warlike sound of his Sur-name (whence some may conjecture him of a Military extraction), 2iasti-vibrans or Shake-speare. 2. Ovid, the most naturall and witty of all Poets, and hence it was that Queen Elizabeth coming into a Grammar-school made this extempore verse : ‘ Persias a Crab-staffe, Bawdy Martial, Ovid afine wag’ 3. Plautus, who was an exact Comaedian, yet never any scholar, as our Shake speare (if alive) would confess himself. Adde to all these, that though his Genius generally was jocular, and inclining him to festivity, yet he could (when so disposed) be solemn and serious, as appears by his tragedies, so that Heraditus himself (I mean if secret and unseen) might afford to smile at his Comedies, they were so merry, and Democritus scarce forbear to smile at his Tragedies, they were so mournfull. ‘ He was an eminent instance of the truth of that Rule, Poeta non fit, sed INTRODUCTION Ivii tained Jonson and Drayton at Stratford on the eve of his death. 1 Against these proofs of good-fellowship there is the con jecture, 2 founded on Kempe’s speech quoted above, that Shakespeare had a hand in the production of Dekker’s Saliro- mastix 3 and, perhaps, played William Rufus in it. Of Jonson’s attitude towards Shakespeare we know more, but the result is ambiguous. We have the two poems in Underwoods the second, surely, the most splendid tribute ever paid by one poet to another? But, then, we have Jonson’s conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden, in which he spared Shakespeare as little as any, laying down that he ‘ wanted art and sometimes sense/ We have, also, the strong tradition that Jonson treated Shakespeare with ingratitude. This may have sprung from the charge of malevolence preferred against Jonson, so he tells us himself, by Shakespeare’s comrades (Discoveries : ‘ De Shakspeare nostrat.’). ‘I remember/ he says, ‘ the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakspeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, Would he had blotted a thousand, which they thought a malevolent speech/ In this passage we nascitur, one is not made, but born a Poet. Indeed, his learning was very little, so that as Cornish diamonds are not polished by any lapidary, but are pointed and 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-combates betwixt him and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish Great Gallion, and an English Man of IVar ; Master Jonson (like the former) was built far higher in learning, solid, but slow in his performances. Shake-spear with the English Man of War, lesser in bulk, 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. He died Anno Domini 16 . . and was buried at Stratford upon Avon, the Town of His Nativity. ‘ 1 * Shakespeare, Drayton, and Ben Jonson * had a merry meeting, and itt seems drank too hard, for Shakespeare died of a feaver there contracted.’ Diary of Ward, Vicar of Stratford, bearing the date 1662. 2 T. Tyler and R. Simpson. 3 Acted by his Company, the Lord Chamberlain’s. Iviii INTRODUCTION probably have Jonson’s settled opinion of Shakespeare, the artist and the man. He allows his excellent phantasy, brave notions and gentle expressions wherein he flowed/ but, he qualifies, ( with that facility, that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped/ He admits that ‘ his wit was in his own power/ but adds :’ Would the rule of it had been so too, many times he fell into those things could not escape laughter/ As arrogant as men (and scholars) are made, Jonson found some of Shakespeare’s work ‘ ridiculous’ ; but he was honest, and when he says, ‘ I loved the man, and do honour his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any,’ we must believe him. But we are not to infer with GifFord that Drummond mis represented Jonson, or that Jonson, during the Poetomachia, did not trounce Shakespeare for rejecting, with success, the Jonsonian theory of the Drama. GifFord, to minimise the authority of Drummond’s report, denounces that Petrarchan for a ‘ bird of prey ‘ ; but his whole apology for Ben Jonson is a piece of special pleading too violent and too acerb to command much confidence. He is very wroth with the critics of the eighteenth century, who had scented an attack on Shakespeare in the Prologue to Jonson’s Every Man in His Humour. But what are the facts? The Play, in which Shakespeare had acted (1598), is published (1600) without the Prologue. A revised version is published with the Prologue in l6l6, but, as Mr. Fleay has proved 1 from internal references to the ‘Queen’ and ‘Her Majesty/ that version must also have been acted before Elizabeth’s death (1603), and he adds an ingenious argument for assigning its production to the April of 1601.2 In the added 1 The English Drama, vol. i. p. 358. 2 Hi. 2, Bobadil says :’ To-morrow ‘s St. Mark’s day.’ It appears from Cob’s complaint that the play was acted on a Friday. Cf. Jonson’s Bartholomew Fair, 1614 : ‘Tales, Tempests and such like drolleries.’ INTRODUCTION lix Prologue Jonson denounces the ‘ ill customs of the age ‘ in neglecting the Unities. He ‘ must justly hate ‘ to ‘ purchase ‘ the ‘ delight ‘ of his audience by the devices of those who f With three rusty swords, And help of some few foot and half-foot words, Fight over York and Lancaster’s long jars, And in the tyring house bring wounds to scars.’ With his usual complacency : ‘ He rather prays you will be pleas’d to see One such to-day, as other plays should be ; Where neither chorus wafts you o’er the seas,’ etc. etc. Without referring these two gibes specifically to Shakespeare’s Henry VI. ii. and iii., and Henry V. (although the second describes what the chorus in Henry V. was actually doing at the time l ), or the remaining lines to other plays from his hand, it is clear that the whole tirade is an attack in set terms on the kind of play which Shakespeare wrote, and which the public preferred before Jonson’s. 2 The attack is in perfect accord with Jonson’s reputation for militant self-sufficiency, and, if he made friends again with Shakespeare, he also made friends again with Marston. Dekker wrote thus of him : ‘ ‘Tis thy fashion to flirt ink in every man’s face ; and then to crawle into his bosome.’ 8 1 Fleay, ibid. 2 Cf. the copy of verse by Leonard Digges (floruit 1617-1635) ‘evidently written,’ says Halliwell-Phillipps, ‘soon after the opening of the second Fortune Theatre in 1623 : * Then some new day they would not brooke a line, Of tedius (though well laboured) Catiline, Scjanus was too irksome ; they prize the more Honest lago, or the jealous Moore. He goes on to say that Jonson’s other plays, The Fox and The Alchemist, even when acted ‘ at a friend’s desire . . . have scarce defrai’d the seacole fire ‘ ; when ‘ let but Falstaffe come, ‘ Hal, Poins, or ‘ Beatrice and Benedicke,’ and ‘ loe, in a trice the cock-pit, galleries, boxes, all are full.’ 3 Satiromastix. Ix INTRODUCTION In the Poetomachia Dekker and Marston were the victims of Jonson’s especial virulence, which spared neither the seaminess of an opposite’s apparel nor the defects in his personal appearance ; but it is hard to say whether they or he began it. Drummond in his Conversations attributes the beginning of Jonson’s quarrel with Marston to Marston 5 s having ‘ repre sented him on the stage in his youth given to venery ‘ ; and in Dekker s Patient Grissel (1599), in which Chettle had a hand, Emulo may be Jonson ; for the taunt at his thin legs : ‘ What ‘s here ? laths ! Where ‘s the lime and hair, Emulo ? ‘ : is of a piece with innumerable jests at the expense of Jonson’s scragginess l and his early work at bricklaying. Jonson, at any rate, did not reserve his fire till 1601, though in his apology to The Poetaster he suggests that he did : ‘ Three years They did provoke me with their petulant styles On every stage.’ It was in 1599 that he began the practice of staging himself and his fellows : himself as a high-souled critic, his fellows as poor illiterates whose foibles it was his duty to correct. As Asper in Every Man out of His Humour (1559), as Crites 2 in Cynthia’s Revels (1600), as Horace in The Poetaster (1601), he professes a lofty call to reform the art and manners of his age. This was too much for rivals in a profession in any case highly competitive, and rendered the more precarious by the capricious inhibition of the Companies for which its members wrote. It was hard when their own men were ‘ travelling ‘ 3 or idle, on account of the Plague or for having offended the authorities, to be lampooned by ‘the children of the Chapel’ playing Jonson’s pieces before the Queen. And at last in Satiro1 He got fat in later life. 2 Criticus in an earlier version. 8 E.g. Shakespeare’s Company in 1601. Fleay. INTRODUCTION Ixi mastix (1602), Dekker gave as good as he got, through the mouth of the Tucca he had borrowed from Jonson : ‘ No, you starv’d rascal, thou ‘t bite off mine eares then, thou must have three or foure suites of names, when like a lousie Pediculous vermin th ‘ast but one suite to thy backe ; you must be call’d Asper, and Criticus, and Horace, thy tytle’s longer in reading than the stile a the big Turkes : Asper, Criticus, Quintus, Horatius, Flaccus.’ Between the opening in 1599 and the end in 1602, the wordy war never relaxes. Jonson staged Marston in Every Man out of His Humour (1599) as Carlo Buffbne 1 : ‘a public, scurrilous and profane jester … a good feast-hound and banquet-beagle,’ whose f religion is railing and his discourse ribaldry ‘ ; and, in Satiromastix, Dekker suggests that JonsonHorace, if at a tavern supper he ‘ dips his manners in too much sauce/ shall sit for a penalty ‘ a th’ left hand of Carlo Biiffon.’ Jonson-Crites in Cynthia’s Reveh (1600) attacks Hedon-Dekker and Anaides-Marston (iii. 2) : ‘ The one a light, voluptuous reveller, The other a strange, arrogating puff, Both impndent and arrogant enough.’ Dekker retorts by quoting the lines in Satiromastix; while Mar ston parodies them in What You Will.- In The Poetaster (1601) Jonson-Horace administers pills to Demetrius Fannius-Dekker and Crispinus 3 (or Cri-spinas or Crispin-ass)-Marston, so that they vomit on the stage such words in their vocabulary as offended his purist taste. Dekker in Satiromastix, ‘ untrusses the Humorous poet/ i.e. tries Horace-Jonson, and condemns him to wear a wreath of nettles until he swears, among other things, 1 Fleay rejects this attribution, but he is alone in his opinion. 2 Published 1607, ‘ written shortly after the appearance of Cynthia’s Revels’ A. H. Bullen. Introduction to Works of John Marston, 1887. Acted 1 60 1. Fleay. 3 Juvenal’s c Ecce iterum Crispinus ‘a notorious favourite of Domitian. Ixii INTRODUCTION not to protest that he would hang himself if he thought any man could write Plays as well as he ; not ‘ to exchange compliments with Gallants in the Lordes roomes, to make all the house rise up in Armes, and to cry that’s Horace, that ‘s he, that ‘s he, that ‘s he, that pennes and purges Humours and diseases ‘ ; nor, when his ‘ playes are misse-likt at Court/ to ‘ crye Mew like a Pussecat,’ and say he is glad to ‘ write out of the Courtier’s Element.’ In all these Plays acute literary criticism is mingled with brutal personal abuse. Thus, for sneering at seedy clothes and bald or singular heads,1 Horace is countered with his brick laying and his coppered ‘ face puncht full of oylet-holes, like the cover of a warming pan.’ One might hastily infer that Jonson was the life-long enemy at least of Dekker and Marston. Yet it was not so. Dekker had collaborated with him on the eve of these hostilities, 2 though for the last time. Marston’ s shifting alliances are merely bewildering : the very man whom he libels at one time he assists, at another, in libelling a third. Outraged (you would think) by Jonson’s reiterated onslaughts, and conscious of equally outrageous provocation and retort, in 1604 he plasters Sejanus with praise; but next year, after the failure of that Play, he hits it, so to say, when it is down.3 1 Tttcca. ‘ Thou wrongst heere a good honest rascall Crispinus, and a poor varlet Demetrius Fannius (brethren in thine owne trade of Poetry) ; thou sayst Crispinus’ sattin dublet is reveal’d out heere, and that this penurious sneaker is out of elboes.’ Satiromastix. Sir Vaughan. ‘ Master Horace, Master Horace . . . then begin to make your railes at the povertie and beggerly want of hair.’ Follows a mock heroic eulogy of hair by Horace, thirty-nine lines in length. Ibid. Tucca. * They have sowed up that broken seame-rent lye of thine that Demetrius is out at Elbowes, and Crispinus is out with sattin. ‘Ibid. 2 Dekker and Jonson are paid for ‘ Page of Plymouth, Aug. 20 and Sept. 2, 1599. Dekker, Jonson, and Chettle for Robert 2, King of Scots? Sept. 3, 15, 1 6, 27, 1599. Henslowe’s Diary, quoted by Fleay. 3 Preface to Sophonisba : ‘Know that I have not laboured in this poem to tie myself to relate anything as an historian, but to enlarge everything as a poet. To transcribe authors, quote authorities and translate Latin prose INTRODUCTION Ixiii Between the two pieces of attention he collaborates with Jonson and Chapman in producing Eastward Ho.1 He, certainly, was no friend to Shakespeare ; 2 for when The Metamorphosis of Pigmalion, his ‘ nasty’ copy of Venus and Adonis the epithet is his own failed as a plagiarism, he had the impudence (Scourge of Villainy, vi.) to declare it a parody, written to note ‘ The odious spot And blemish that deforms the lineaments Of modern Poesy’s habiliments.’ Yet he must have sided with Shakespeare now and then. As we shall see. But amidst the welter and confusion of this embroilment, it is possible to discern, if not a clear-cut line between opposed forces, at least a general grouping about two standards. There was the tribe of Ben, with Jonson for leader, and Chapman for his constant,3 Marston for his occasional, ally. And, to borrow the war-cries of 1830, there was opposed to this Classical army a Romantic levy, with Shakespeare, Dekker, and Chettle among orations into English blank verse, hath, in this subject, been the least aim of my studies ‘ : an obvious blow at Sejanus. 1 In which Warton (History of English Poetry, iv. 276, ed. 1824) discovers many ‘ satirical parodies ‘ of Shakespeare. Gifford replies ; but Gertrude’s parody of Ophelia’s song, iii. 2, is a hard nut for the apologist, not to insist on the name Hamlet given to a footman who is accosted by Potkins with a * S’foot, Hamlet, are you mad ? ‘ 2 He harps on one of Shakespeare’s lines, ‘ A man, a man, a kingdom for a man.’ The first line of Sat. vii. The Scourge of Villainy (1598). ‘ A fool, a fool, a fool, my coxcomb for a fool.’ Parasitaster. f A boat, a boat, a full hundred marks for a boat. ‘ Eastward Ho. 3 Jonson in his Conversations with Drummond said that ‘ he loved Chap man.’ They were imprisoned together for satirising James First’s Scotch Knights in Eastward ffo, but Chapman turned in his old age. One of his latest poems arraigns Ben for his overweening arrogance. Ixiv INTRODUCTION its chiefs. Where much must be left to surmise, we know that Chettle once went out of his way to befriend Shakespeare, apologising handsomely for Greene’s onslaught in A Groat’s Worth oj Wit, and contrasting him favourably with Marlowe ; and that Dekker, as we gather from Kempe’s speech in The Returne from Parnassus, found Shakespeare an ally in his war against Jonson.1 We know, too,, from Henslowe’s Diary, that Dekker and Chettle collaborated in April and May 1599, on a play called Troilus and Cressida, 2 and, from the Stationers7 Registers, that a play with that name was acted by the Lord Chamberlain’s servants (Shakespeare’s Company) on February 7, 1603. May we not have herein the explanation of Shakespeare’s Troilus, in which he caricatures the manners and motives of everybody in the Greek (i.e. the Classic) tents? 3 This play and the allusions to rival poets in the Sonnets are the two deepest mysteries of Shakespeare’s work. But if we accept the division 1 Some find an allusion to this in Jonson’s dialogue acted, only once, at the end of The Poetaster in place of an Author’s apology, which the Authorities had suppressed : ‘ What they have done ‘gainst me, I am not moved with : if it gave them meat Or got them clothes, ’tis well ; that was their end, Only amongst them, I am sorry for Some better natures, by the rest so drawn To run so vile a line.’ 2 Trojelles and Cressida. Also in Patient Grissel, October 1599. 3 Shakespeare’s Play was published in 1609, apparently in two editions : (i) with ‘As it was acted by the King’s Majestie’s servants at the Globe (the title of Shakespeare’s Company after 1603) ; and (2) with a preface stating that the Play had never been ‘Stal’d with the Stage.’ But the two editions are ‘absolutely identical,’ even the Title-page being printed from the same forme. Preface to Cambridge Shakespeare, vol. vi. This mystification does not affect the overmastering presumption that Shakespeare’s Play, published in 1609, and acted by his company between 1603-1609, was the Play, or a re-written version of the Play, acted by his Company in 1603. The presumption that the 1603 Play was founded on that of Dekker and Chettle is also strong. Dekker’s Satiromastix was played by Shakespeare’s Company in 1601. INTRODUCTION Ixv of forces which I have suggested, a gleam of light may fall on both. It is reasonable to suppose that Shakespeare, who habitually vamped old Plays, took the Dekker-Chettle play for the staple of his own ; and, if he did, the satirical portions of his Troilus and Cressida, so closely akin to the satire of Satiromastix, may be a part of Dekker’s attack on Chapman, Jonson, and Marston. Chapman’s Shield of Achilles and his ‘ Seaven Bookes of the Iliades of Homere, Prince of Poets’ 1 appeared in 1598, the year before the Dekker-Chettle Troilus, and were prefaced by arrogant onslaughts, repeated again and again, upon f apish and impudent braggarts/ 2 men of ‘ loose capacities,’ ‘ rank riders or readers who have no more souls than bur bolts ‘ : upon all, in short, who prefer ‘sonnets and lascivious ballads’ before ( Homerical poems.’ 3 If this suggestion be accepted, we have Shakespeare, a Trojan, abetting the Trojan Dekker against Chapman, an insolent Greek. Shakespeare’s play, and Dekker’s of 1599, if> as I have surmised, it was the sketch which Shake speare completed, were founded, ultimately, on the mediaeval romance into which the French Trouvere, Benoit de Sainte- Maure, first introduced the loves of Troilus and Briseida, Roman de Troie (1160) afterwards imitated by Boccaccio, Guido delle Colonne, Chaucer and Caxton (Recuyell of the Histories of Troy}.* In this traditional story, adapted to natter a feudal nobility, which really believed itself the seed of Priam, Hector is the hero, treacherously murdered by Achilles. In Lucrece there is no 1 Books I, 2, and 7-11 inclusive. The copy in the British Museum bears the autograph, ‘ Sum Ben Jonsonii.’ 2 Preface to the Reader. Folio. 3 ‘ To the Understander,’ Shield of Achilles. His deepest concern is lest he should be thought a ‘malicious detractor of so admired a poet as Virgil.’ Epistle dedicatory to the Earl Marshal, Ibid. 4 Ker, Epic and Romance, p. 378, traces Shakespeare’s ‘ dreadful sagittary,’ Troilus and Cressida, v. v. 14) back to Benoit’s ‘ II ot o lui un saietaire Qui moult fu fels et deputaire.’ Ixvi INTRODUCTION attack on the Greeks, but Dekker, who calls London Troynovant (Seven Deadly Sins, 1607), and the Romantic School gener ally, resented the rehabilitation of Homer’s credit Chaucer had called him a liar involving, as it did, the comparative dis grace of their hero : all the more that the new glorification of the Greeks came from arrogant scholars, who presumed on their knowledge of the Greek language to rail at the ignorance and to reject the art of their contemporaries and predecessors. That Shakespeare did so abet Dekker against Chapman is a theory more in harmony with known facts than Gervinus’ guess that Shakespeare, chagrined by the low moral tone of Homer’s heroes, felt it incumbent on him to travesty their action. Minto and Mr. Dowden find in Chapman the rival poet of Shakespeare’s Sonnets (I should prefer to say one of the rival poets) and this falls in with the theory. The banter of Ben Jonson (Ajax) in the Play is more obvious, and pushes, even beyond reasonable supposition, the view, which I submit, that much of Shakespeare’s version was written by him during the Poetomachia. Many of the plainest attacks and counterbuffs of that war are in the Epilogues and Prologues to the Plays involved in it. The Speaker of the Epilogue to Cynthia (1600) will not ‘crave their favour’ of the audience, but will ‘only speak what he has heard the maker say ‘ : 1 By God ’tis good, and if you like’t, you may.’ As Envy descends slowly, in the Introduction to The Poetaster (1601), the Prologue enters ‘hastily in armour,’ and replies to censures provoked by this bragging challenge : ‘ If any muse why I salute the stage An armed Prologue ; know, ’tis a dangerous age, Wherein who writes, had need present his scenes Forty-fold proof against the conjuring means Of base detractors and illiterate apes. . . . \ INTRODUCTION Ixvii Whereof the allegory and hid sense Is, that a well erected confidence Can fright their pride and laugh their folly hence. Here now, put case our author should once more, Swear that his play was good ; he doth implore You would not argue him of arrogance.’ Marston’s Epilogue, added, I imagine, to his Antonio and Mellida 1 (1601), says : ‘ Gentlemen, though I remain an armed Epilogue, I stand not as a peremptory challenger of desert, either for him that composed the Comedy, or for us that acted it ‘ ; and, at the lips of the Prologue to Shakespeare’s Troilus, the jest runs on ‘ Hither am I come A Prologue arm’d, but not in confidence Of Author’s pen or actor’s voice. . . .’ I venture to call this Prologue Shakespeare’s, for other lines in it, as those on the Trojan Gates : f With massy staples, And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts ‘ : are to me audibly his. 2 Shakespeare, I hold, wrote this Prologue, and wrote it while the Prologue to The Poetaster was still a fresh object for ridicule. 3 That Thersites in Shakespeare’s 1 It is satirised in The Poetaster (1601) ; so that both may have been on the boards together. 2 Mr. Fleay, Chronicles of the English Drama, ii. 190, holds the authorship of the Prologue very doubtful. But this is a question not of evidence but of ear. 3 Fleay, Ibid., i. 366: ‘Whoever will take the trouble to compare the description of Crites (Jonson) by Mercury in Cynthia’s Revels, ii. I, with that of Ajax by Alexander in Troilus and Cressida, i. 2, will see that Ajax is Jonson.’ But he is inconsistent. Ibid., ii. 189: ‘The setting up of Ajax as a rival to Achilles shadows forth the putting forward of Dekker by the King’s men to write against Jonson his SatiromastixJ so that Ajax = Dekker, Achilles = Jonson. This inconsistency does not invalidate his con- Ixviii INTRODUCTION Troilus stood for Marston can hardly be doubted. When Agamemnon says ironically (i. in. 72) : ‘ We are confident When rank Thersites opes his mastic J jaw We shall hear music ‘ : the allusion to Marston, who had signed himself ‘ Th&ciomastix ‘ to the prose Envoy of his Scourge of Villainy, is patent. 2 More : apart from this punning taunt there is no parallel for the foul railing of Thersites’ every speech outside the persistent black guardism of Marston’s Satires and Scourge of Villainy. Did Shakespeare join elsewhere with his own hand in the Poetomachia? The question arises when we reflect that the Plays contributed to it by Jonson, Marston, and Dekker fairly bristle with personalities : recognised by the key which Dekker supplied in Satiromastix. Of all Shakespeare’s characters, Pistol is the one in which critics have especially scented a personal attack ; and some have thought that Marlowe was the victim. But Marlowe never wrote as Pistol is made to speak ; whilst Marston generally, and particularly in the Satire (Scourge vi.) to which I have already alluded, writes in the very lingo of the Ancient. Urging that his nasty ‘ Pigmalion was in elusion that rival playwrights are satirised, and in many other passages of Troilus , the ‘guying’ of the Greek Commander by Patroclus to amuse Achilles (i. iii. 140-196): ‘ And with ridiculous and awkward action Which, Slanderer, he imitation calls, He pageants us ‘ : and the ‘ guying ‘ of Ajax by Thersites (undoubtedly Marston) also to amuse Achilles (ill. iii. 266-292), are not to be explained unless as portions easily recognisable at the time of the general ‘ guying ‘ in the Poetomachia. 1 Rowe suggested mastiff-, Boswell mastive. 2 Fleay, again inconsistently, refers this line to Dekker, History of the Stage, 106, and to Marston, Chronicle of the English Drama, i. 366. INTRODUCTION Ixix truth but a reproach upon Venus and Adonis, he says, and the accent is familiar : ( Think’st thou that genius that attends my soul, And guides my fist to scourge magnificos, Will deign my mind be rank’d in Paphian shows ? ‘ : Indeed, when we remember the f wit combats’ at the Mermaid, in which these pot companions and public an tagonists Carlo Buffone cheek by jowl with Asper rallied each other on their failings, and Jonson’s anecdote l that he had once ‘ beaten Marston and taken his pistol from him/ it is pleasant to imagine that the name of Shakespeare’s scur rilous puff was the nickname of Jonson’s shifty ally. 2 For in considering this wordy war, it is necessary to remember that the fight was, in the main, a pantomime ‘ rally,’ in which bigsounding blows were given and returned for the amusement of the gallery. Captain Tucca, the character borrowed from The Poetaster to set an edge on Dekker’s retort, speaks the Epilogue to Satiromastix, and begs the audience to applaud the piece in order that Horace (Jonson) may be obliged to reply once again. Half in fun and half in earnest did these ink-horn swash-bucklers gibe each other over their cups, and trounce each other on the boards. Yet behind all the chaff and bustle ‘of that terrible Poetomachia lately commenced between 1 Drummond’s Conversations. 2 Jonson comments on some such adventure in his Epigrams, LXVIII. On Playwright : ‘ Playwrit convict of public wrongs to men, Takes private beatings, and begins again. Two kinds of valour he doth shew at once ; Active in’s brain, and passive in his bones.’ The Quarto of Shakespeare’s Henry V. was published in 1600. Pistol is beaten in it, as Thersites is beaten in Troilus. Pistol uses the fustian word ‘ exhale ‘ ; so does Crispinus in Poetaster (noted by Fleay). Pistol’s * Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cresides kinde ‘ is reminiscent of Troilus, produced the year before. Pistol’s ‘ What, have we Hiren here ‘ is a mock quotation from an early play of which Marston makes use more than once. Ixx INTRODUCTION Horace the Second and a band of lean-witted poetasters/ l there was a real conflict of literary aims ; and in that conflict Shakespeare took the part of the Romantics, upon whose ulti mate success the odds were, in Dekker’s nervous phraseology, < all Mount Helicon to Bun-hill.’ 2 Without seeking further to distinguish the champions, it is sufficient to know that Shakespeare was an actor and a playwright throughout the alarums and excursions of these paste-board hostilities, whose casualties, after all, amounted but to the ‘lamentable merry murdering of Innocent Poetry. ‘ 3 IX In examining the relation between the lyrics which Shake speare wrote and the environment of his life, it was impossible to overlook this controversy which must have lasted longer and bulked larger than any other feature in that life.4 For Shakespeare, the man, was in the first place an actor and a playwright bound up in the corporate life of the Company to which he belonged. We are apt to reconstruct this theatric world, in which he had his being, fancifully : from his Plays rather than from the Plays of his contemporaries, and from the few among his Plays which are our favourites, just because they differ most widely from theirs. But his world of every day effort and experience was not altogether, as at such times 1 Address ‘ To the World ‘ prefixed to Satiromastix. The author thanks Venusian Horace for the ‘ good words ‘ detraction, envy, snakes, adders, stings, etc. which he gives him. They are taken from the Prologue to The Poetaster. 2 To the World ‘ prefixed to Satiromastix. 3 Dekker, Epilogue to Satiromastix. In the thick of the fray, 1601, Jonson, Chapman, Marston, and Shakespeare each contributed a poem on The Phoenix and the Turtle to ^Robert Chester’s Love’s Martyr \ 4 The Venus and Lucrece were written, of course, years before the Poetomachia ; but, unless we accept the improbable view that Shakespeare brought his Venus with him from Stratford, both were written under con ditions to which the Poetomachia gives a clue. INTRODUCTION Ixxi it may seem to us, a garden of fair flowers and softly sighing winds and delicate perfumes, nor altogether a gorgeous gallery of gallant inventions : it was also garish, strident, pungent ; a Donnybrook Fair of society journalists, a nightmare of Gillray caricature. ‘A Gentleman/ you read, ‘or an honest Citizen, shall not sit in your pennie-bench Theatres with his squirrel by his side cracking nuttes ; nor sneake into a Taverne with his Mermaid; but he shall be satyr’d, and epigram’d upon, and his humour must run upo’ the Stage : you ’11 ha Every Gentleman in ‘s humour, and Every Gentleman out on ‘s humour.’ l Shakespeare tells the same story, when he makes Hamlet say of the players : ‘ They are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time : after your death you were better to have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.’ 2 Note that he speaks of the actors, riot the playwrights : though much of their satire turned on size of leg, scantness of hair, pretensions to gentility and seediness of apparel in well-known individuals veiled under transparent disguises. Far more obvious even than such lampooning was the actors’ ‘ guying ‘ of persons and types which we see reflected in Troilus 3 and enacted in Cynthia’s Revels. The actor playing Crites (v. 3) takes off every trick of speech and gesture in the person whom he caricatures, for, says Hedon : ‘ Slight, Anaides, you are mocked ‘ ; and again, in the Induction, one of the three children who play it borrows the Prologue’s 1 Dekker’s Satiromastix. In his address ‘ To the World ‘ he instances Cap tain Hannam as the living prototype taken for Tucca by Jonson. In the earlier Marprelate plays (circa 1589) Nash’s antagonist, Gabriel Harvey, was put on the stage. Aubrey, before 1680, wrote that ‘ Ben Jonson and he (Shakespeare) did gather humour of men dayly wherever they came.’ 2 Hamlet, n. ii. 501. Fleay, History of the Stage, p. 160: -‘1601, May 10, the Council writes to the Middlesex Justices complaining that the players at the Curtain represent on the stage ‘under obscure manner, but yet in such sort as all the hearers may take notice both of the matter and the persons that are meant thereby ‘ : certain gentlemen that are yet alive. in. iii. 266-292. Cf. supra. f Ixxii INTRODUCTION cloak, and mimics, one after another, the gallants who frequent the theatre ; so that here is the ‘ genteel auditor ‘ to the life, with his ‘ three sorts of tobacco in his pocket,’ swearing ‘ By this light’ as he strikes his flint, that the players ‘ act like so many wrens/ and, as for the poets ‘ By this vapour ‘ that ‘ an ’twere not for tobacco the very stench of them would poison ‘ him. We can picture from other sources both the conditions of Shakespeare’s auditors and the upholstering of his stage. Dekker, 1 describing ‘how a gallant should behave himself at a playhouse/ writes of the groundling who masked the view of the ‘prentices : ‘ But on the very rushes where the comedy is to dance, yea, under the state of Cambyses himself, must our feathered estridge, like a piece of ordnance, be planted valiantly (because impudently) beating down the mews and hisses of the opposed rascality/ The dignity of ‘ Cambyses state’ may be guessed from Henslowe’s list 2 of grotesque properties ‘ Serberosse (Cerberus’) three heads ; lerosses (Iris’) head and rainbow ; 1 tomb of Dido ; 1 pair of stairs for Fayeton (Phaethon) and his 2 leather antic’s coats’ and f the city of Rome(!).’ ‘ The galant in gorgeous apparel, his jerkin ‘ frotted ‘ with perfumes, ‘ spikenard, opoponax, senanthe/ 3 the ‘Courtmistress ‘ in ‘Satin cut upon six taffetaes/ the ‘prentice and harlot viewed these plays, farced with scurrilous lampoons, and rudely staged on rushes, through an atmosphere laden with tobacco and to an accompaniment of nut-cracking and spitting. This was Shakespeare’s shop, the ‘ Wooden O ‘ into which he crammed t the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt/ 4 and in which, year after year, he won fame and wealth and rancorous envy from defeated rivals. We catch a last note of detraction, in Ratseis Ghost (1 605-6), 1 Gulfs Horn-Book. Cynthia’s Revels. 2 Quoted by Fleay, History of the Stage, 114. 4 Chorus to Henry V. i. INTRODUCTION Ixxiii wherein the phantom hightobyman advises a strolling Player to repair to London : ‘ There thou shalt 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 then bring thee to dignity and reputation : 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 council : 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 ex ceeding wealthy.’ It is significant, almost conclusive, to know that Shakespeare’s name appeared on the roll of the King’s Players for the last time in l604> and that in 1605 he pur chased an unexpired term (thirty years) in the lease of tithes, both great and small, in Stratford : thus securing an addition to his income equal to at least 350 l a year of our money. Behind this life of business, on and for the stage, Shake speare, as the friend of young noblemen, saw something of the Court with its gaiety and learning and display, ever undermined by intrigue, and sometimes eclipsed by tragedy. He was impeded in his art by controversies between puritans, church men, and precisians, and exercised in his affection for those who to their own ruin championed the old nobility against the growing power of the Crown. As a loyal citizen of London, he must have grieved at her sins and diseases, over which even Dekker, the railing ruffler of Satiromastix, wailed at last in the 1 Baynes. Ixxiv INTRODUCTION accents of a Hebrew prophet : ‘ O London, thou art great in glory, and envied for thy greatness ; thy Towers, thy Temples, and thy Pinnacles stand upon thy head like borders of fine gold, thy waters like frindges of silver hang at the hemmes of thy garments. Thou art the goodliest of thy neighbours, but the prowdest, the welthiest, but the most wanton. Thou hast all things in thee to make thee fairest, and all things in thee to make thee foulest ; for thou art attir’d like a Bride, drawing all that looke upon thee, to be in love with thee, but there is much harlot in thine eyes’ … so f sickness was sent to breathe her unwholesome ayres into thy nosthrills, so that thou, that wert before the only Gallant and Minion of the world, hadst in a short time more diseases (than a common harlot hath) hanging upon thee ; thou suddenly becamst the by-talke of neighbors, the scorne and contempt of Nations.’ l Thus Dekker in 1606; and, in the next year, Marston, who equalled him in blatant spirits and far excelled him in ruffianism, left writing for the Stage, and entered the Church ! These are aspects of Shakespeare’s environment which we cannot neglect in deciding how much or how little of his lyrical art he owed to anything but his own genius and devotion to Beauty. Least of all may we first assume that his art reflects his environment, and then, inverting this imaginary relation, declare it for the product of a golden age which never existed. Yet, thanks to modern idolatry of naked generalisations, it is the fashion to throw Shakespeare in with other fruits of the Renaissance, acknowledging the singularity of his genius, but still labelling it for an organic part of a wide development. And in this development we have been taught to see nothing but a renewal of life and strength, of truth and sanity, following on the senile mystifications of an effete Middle Age. The theory makes for a sharp definition of contrast ; but it is hard to find its 1 The Seven Deadly Sins of London (1606). INTRODUCTION Ixxv justification either in the facts of history or in the opinions of Shakespeare’s contemporaries, who believed that, on the con trary, they lived in an epoch of decadence. In any age of rapid development there is much, no doubt, that may fitly be illus trated by metaphors drawn from sunrise and spring ; but there are also aspects akin to sunset and autumn. The truth seems to be that at such times the processes of both birth and death are abnormally quickened. To every eye life becomes more coloured and eventful daily ; but it shines and changes with curiously mingled effects : speaking to these of youth and the hill-tops, and to those of declension and decay. In 1611 Shakespeare withdrew to Stratford-on-Avon.1 Of his life in London we know little at first hand. But we know enough of what he did ; enough of what he was said to have done ; enough of the dispositions and the lives of his contemporaries ; to imagine very clearly the world in which he worked for some twenty-three years. He lived the life of a successful artist, rocked on the waves and sunk in the troughs of exhilaration and fatigue. He was befriended for personal and political reasons by brilliant young noblemen, and certainly grieved over their misfortunes. He was intimate with Southampton and William Herbert, and must surely have known Herbert’s mistress, Mary Fitton. He suffered, first, rather more than less from the jealousy and de traction of the scholar-wits, the older University pens, and then, rather less than more, from the histrionic rivalry of his brother playwrights. He was himself a mark for scandal, 2 and he 1 Baynes argues that he left London in 1608. He ceased writing for the stage in 161 1, and disposed of his interest in the Globe and Blackfriars Theatres probably in that year. 2 Sir W. Davenant boasted that he was Shakespeare’s son : When he was pleasant over a glass of wine with his most intimate friends ‘ (Aubrey’s Lives of Eminent Persons. Completed before 1680). Cf. Halliwell-Phillipps’ Out lines, ii. 43. And there is that story of the trick the poet played on Burbage : which might hail from the Decameron. See John Manningham’s Diary> I3th March 1601-2. Ixxvi INTRODUCTION watched the thunder clouds of Politics and Puritanism gathering over the literature and the drama which he loved.1 Yet far away from the <5ust and din of these turmoils he bore the sorrows, and prosecuted the success of his other life at Stratford. His only son, Hamnet, died in 1596. His daughter, Susannah, married, and his mother, Mary Arden, died in 1608, and in the same year he bestowed his name on the child of an old friend, Henry Walker. Through all these years, by lending money and purchasing land, he built up a fortune magnified by legend long after his death. And in the April of l6l6 he died himself, as some have it, on his birthday. He ‘ was bury’d on the north side of the chancel, in the great Church at Stratford, where a monument is plac’d on the wall. On his grave-stone under neath is : (e 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. ” ‘ 2 This slight and most imperfect sketch, founded mainly on impressions brought away from the study of many noble portraits, is still sufficient to prove how little the Poems owe, even remotely, to the vicissitudes of an artist’s career. Of the wild woodland life in Arden Forest, of boyish memories and of books read at school, there is truly something to be traced in echoes from Ovid and in frequent illustrations drawn from sport and nature. But of the later life in London there is little 1 Warton, Hist, of Eng. Poetry (1824), iv. 320. ‘In 1599 . . . Marston’s Pygmalion, Marlowe’s Ovid, the Satires of Hall and Marston, the epigrams of Davies and the Caltha poetarum, etc., were burnt by order of the prelates, Whitgift and Bancroft. The books of Nash and Harvey were ordered to be confiscated, and it was laid down that no plays should be printed without permission from the Archbishop of Canterbury, nor any ” English Historyes ” (novels?), without the sanction of the Privy Council.’ 2 Rowe, 1709. INTRODUCTION Ixxvii enough, even in the Sonnets that tell of rival poets and a dark lady, and nothing that points so clearly to any single experience as to admit of definite application. For in Shakespeare’s Poems, as in every great work of art, single experiences have been generalised or, rather, merged in the passion’ which they rouse to a height and a pitch of sensitiveness immeasurable in contrast with its puny origins. The volume and the intensity of ah artist’s passion have led many to believe that great artists speak for all mankind of joy and sorrow. But to great artists the bliss and martyrdom of man are of less import, so it seems, than to others. The griefs and tragedies that bulk so largely in the lives of the inapt and the inarticulate are so far as we may divine the secrets of an alien race but a small part of the great artist’s experience : hardly more, perhaps, than stimulants to his general sense of the whole world’s infinite appeal to sensation and consciousness. XI Shakespeare’s Poems are detached by the perfection of his art from both the personal experience which supplied their matter and the artistic environment which suggested their rough-hewn form. Were they newly discovered, you could tell, of course, that they were written in England, and about the end of the Sixteenth Century: just as you can tell a Flemish from an Italian, a Fourteenth from a Sixteenth Century picture ; and every unprejudiced critic has said of the Sonnets that they ‘express Shakespeare’s own feelings in his own person.’ l That is true. But it is equally true, and it is vastly 1 Mr. Dowden : * With Wordsworth, Sir Henry Taylor, and Mr. J^rni- burne ; with Francis-Victor Hugo, with Kreyssig, Ulrici, G^rvinu^ and Hermann Isaac ; with Boaden, Armitage Brown, and Hallam ; with Furnivall, Spalding, Rossetti, and Palgrave, I believe that Shakespeare’s Sonnets express his own feelings in his own person.’ So do Mr. A. E. Harrison and Mr. Tyler. Ixxviii INTRODUCTION more important, that the Sonnets are not an Autobiography. In this Sonnet or that you feel the throb of great passions shaking behind the perfect verse; here and there you listen to a sigh as of a world awaking to its weariness. Yet the move ment and sound are elemental : they steal on your senses like a whisper trembling through summer-leaves, and in their vast- ness are removed by far from the suffocation of any one man’s tragedy. The writer of the Sonnets has felt more, and thought more, than the writer of the Venus and the Lucrece ; but he remains a poet not a Rousseau, not a Metaphysician and his chief concern is still to worship Beauty in the imagery and music of his verse. It is, indeed, strange to find how much of thought, imagery, and rhythm is common to Venus and Adonis and the Sonnets, for the two works could hardly belong by their themes to classes of poetry more widely distinct (the first is a late Renaissance imitation oflate Classical Mythology; the second a sequence of intimate occasional verses) nor could they differ more obviously from other poems in the same classes. Many such imitations and sequences of sonnets were written by Shake speare’s contemporaries, but among them all there is not one poem that in the least resembles Venus and Adonis, and there are but few sonnets that remind you, even faintly, of Shakespeare’s. And just such distinctions isolate The Rape of Lucrece. By its theme, as a romantic story in rhyme, it has nothing in common with its two companions from Shakespeare’s hand ; but it is lonelier than they, having indeed no fellow in Elizabethan poetry and not many in English literature. Leaving ballads on one side, you may count the romantic stories in English rhyme, that can by courtesy be called literature, upon the fingers of one hand. There are but two arches in the bridge by which Keats and Chaucer communicate across the centuries, and Shake speare’s Lucrece stands for the solitary pier. Yet, distinct as they are from each other in character, these three things by INTRODUCTION Ixxix Shakespeare are closely united in form by a degree of lyrical excellence in their imagery and rhythm which severs them from kindred competitors : they are the first examples of the highest qualities in Elizabethan lyrical verse. No poet of that day ever doubted that ‘poesie dealeth with Katholon, that is to say with the universall consideration, ‘ * or that of every language in Europe their own could best ‘yeeld the sweet slyding fit for a verse.’ 2 But in these three you find the highest expression of this theory and this practice alike : a sense of the mystery of Beauty profound as Plato’s, with such a golden cadence as no other singer has been able to sustain. XII Venus and Adonis was published in 1593, the year of Marlowe’s death, and was at once immensely popular, editions following one hard upon another, in 1594, 1596, 1599, 1600, and (two editions) 1602. Shakespeare dedicated his poem to Lord Southampton, and called it ‘the first heir of his in vention.’ There is nothing remarkable in his choice of a metre the ‘ staffe of sixe verses ‘ (ab ab cc) ; for four years earlier Puttenham (?) had described it (The Arte of English Poesie, 1589) as f not only most usual, but also very pleasant to th’ eare.’ We need not, then, suppose that Shakespeare borrowed it exclusively from Lodge. He may have been guided in his choice. For Lodge had interwoven a short allusion to Adonis’ death into his Scylla’s Metamorphosis, also published in 1589 and written in this staff of six. But Lodge’s melody is not Shakespeare’s : ‘ Her dainty hand addressed to claw her dear, Her roseal lip allied to his pale cheek, 1 Sidney, Apologic for Poetrie. 2 Ibid. Ixxx INTRODUCTION Her sighs, and then her looks, and heavy cheer, Her bitter threats, and then her passions meek : How on his senseless corpse she lay a-crying, As if the boy were then but now a-dying ‘ : and, indeed, Shakespeare’s poem is, in all essentials, utterly unlike Lodge’s Scylla, Marlowe’s unfinished Hero and Leander, Drayton’s Endymion and Phoebe, and Chapman’s Ovid’s Banquet of Sense. Still less does it resemble the earlier adaptations from Ovid’s Metamorphosis, as Thomas Peend’s f Salmacis and Herma phrodites’ (1565): f Dame Venus once by Mercurye Comprest, a chylde did beare, For beauty farre excellyng all That erst before hym weare.’ It borrows from, or lends to, Henry Constable’s Sheepheard’s Song scarce a phrase, 1 and the same may be said still more .em phatically of its relation to Spenser’s five stanzas 2 on c The Love of Venus and her Paramoure,’ and to Golding’s Ovid. Briefly, it has nothing to do either with studious imitations of the Classics or with the ‘rhyme doggerel’ that preceded them, for it throws back to the mediaeval poets’ use of Ovid : to” 1 The SheephenrcCs Song of Venus and Adonis. First published in England’s Helicon, 1600 : it may have been written before Shakespeare’s Adonis. The bare theme, which is not to be found in Ovid, of Venus’s vain soliciting and of Adonis’s reluctance, is alluded to in Marlowe’s Hero and Leander : * Where Venus in her naked glory strove To please the careless and disdainful eyes Of proud Adonis, that before her lies ‘ : and in Robert Greene’s pamphlet, Never Too Late (1590) : ‘ Sweet Adon, dar’st not glance thine eye (N’oseres vous, mon bel amy ?) Upon thy Venus that must die ? Je vous en prie, pitty me : N’oseres vous, mon bel, mon bel, Woseres vous, mon bel amy ? 2 Faerie Queene, iii. i, 34-38. INTRODUCTION Ixxxi Chretien de Troyes, that is, the authors of the Roman de la Rose, and Chaucer, who first steeped themselves in the Meta morphosis, and then made beautiful poems of their own by the light of their genius in the manner of their day. Sometimes you may trace the extraction of an image in Shakespeare’s verse back and up the mediaeval tradition. Thus (Sonnet cxix.) : ( What potions have I drunke of syren teares Distill’d from lymbecks.’ Thus Chaucer (Troilus, iv.) : “This Troilus in teares gan distill As licour out of allambick full fast. ‘ And thus the Roman de la Rose (1. 6657) : ‘ For quoi done en tristor demores ? Je vois maintes fois que tu plores. Cum alambic sus alutel.’ But with greater frequency comes the evidence of Shakespeare’s loving familiarity with Ovid whose effects he fuses : taking the reluctance of Adonis from Hermaphroditus (Metamorphosis, iv.) ; the description of the boar from Meleager’s encounter in viii. ; and other features from the short version of Venus and Adonis which Ovid weaves on to the terrible and beautiful story of Myrrha (x.). 1 In all Shakespeare’s work of this period the same fusion of Ovid’s stories and images is obvious. Tarquin and Myrrha are both delayed, but, not daunted, by lugubrious fore bodings in the dark ; and Titus Andronicus, played for the first time in the year which saw the publication of Venus and Adonis, is full of debts and allusions to Ovid. Ovid, with his power of telling a story and of eloquent discourse, his shining images, his cadences coloured with assonance and weighted with alliteration ; 1 Cf. Le Roman de la Rose. Chap. cvii. follows the order of Ovid’s Tenth Book, passing from Pygmalion to ‘Mirra’ and adding 11. 21992, ‘Libiaus Adonis en fu nes.’ Ixxxii INTRODUCTION Chaucer, with his sweet liquidity of diction, his dialogues and soliloquies these are the ‘only true begetters’ of the lyric Shakespeare. In these matters we must allow poets to have their own way : merely noting that Ovid, in whom critics see chiefly a brilliant man of the world, has been a mine of delight for all poets who rejoice in the magic of sound, from the dawn of the Middle Ages down to our own incomparable Milton.1 His effects of alliteration : ‘ Corpora Cecropidum pennis pendere putares ; Pendebant pennis. . . . Vertitur in volucrem, cui stant, in vertice cristae ‘ : his gleaming metaphors, as of Hermaphroditus after his plunge : e In liquidis translucet aquis ; ut eburnea si quis Signa tegat claro, vel Candida lilia, vitro ‘ : are the very counterpart of Shakespeare’s manner in the Poems and the Play which he founded in part on his early love of the Metamorphosis. But in Titus Andronicus and in Venus and Adonis there are effects of the open air which hail, not from Ovid but, from Arden : ‘ The birds chant melody on every bush ; The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun ; The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind, And make a chequer’d shadow on the ground ‘ : Thus the Play (ii. 3), and thus the Poem : ‘ Even as the wind is hush’d before it raineth . . . Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.’ Indeed in the Poem, round and over the sharp portrayal of every word and gesture of the two who speak and move, you have brakes and trees, horses and hounds, and the silent 1 Mackail on ‘ Milton’s Debt to Ovid.’ (Latin Literature, 142.) Cf. Ker, Epic and Romance^ 395. INTRODUCTION Ixxxiii transformations of day and night from the first dawn till eve, and through darkness to the second dawn so immediately impressed, that, pausing at any of the cxcix. stanzas, you could almost name the hour. The same express observation of the day’s changes may be observed in Romeo and Juliet. It is a note which has often been echoed by men who never look out of their windows, and critics, as narrowly immured, have denounced it for an affectation. Yet a month under canvas, or, better still, without a tent, will convince any one that to speak of the stars and the moon is as natural as to look at your watch or an almanack. In the Venus even the weather changes. The Poem opens soon after sunrise with the ceasing of a shower : ‘ Even as the sun with purple colour’d face, Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn.’ But by the 89th Stanza, after a burning noon, the clouds close in over the sunset. ‘ Look,’ says Adonis : f The world’s comforter with weary gate His day’s hot task hath ended in the west, 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.’ The next dawn is cloudless after the night’s rain : f 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 burnisht gold.’ Beneath these atmospheric effects everything is clearly seen and sharply delineated : ‘ The studded bridle on a ragged bough Nimbly sbe fastens.’ Ixxxiv INTRODUCTION And when the horse breaks loose : ‘Some time he trots, as if he told the steps.’ Then the description of a hunted hare (stanzas 114-118) : ‘ Sometimes he runs along a flock of sheep To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell. . . . By this poor Wat far off upon a hill Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear. . . . Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch Turn and return, indenting with the way ; Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch, Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay ‘ : howbeit a treasure of observation, is no richer than that other of the hounds which have lost their huntsman : ‘ Another flap-mouth’d mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin, vollies out his voice, Another and another, answer him, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratch-ears, bleeding as they go. The illustrations from nature : ‘ As the dive-dapper peering through a wave Who being lookt on, ducks as quickly in … As the snail whose tender horns being hit Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain ‘ : are so vivid as to snatch your attention from the story ; and when you read that ‘ lust ‘ feeding on ‘ fresh beauty/ ‘ Starves and soon bereaves As caterpillars do the tender leaves,’ the realism of the illustration does violence to its aptness. It is said that such multiplicity of detail and ornament is out of place in a classic myth. But Shakespeare’s Poem is not a classic myth. Mr. Swinburne contrasts it unfavourably with Chapman’s Hero and Leander, in which he finds ‘ a small shrine INTROD UCTION Ixxxv of Parian sculpture amid the rank splendour of a tropical jungle.’ Certainly that is the last image which any one could apply to Venus and Adonis. Its wealth of realistic detail reminds you rather of the West Porch at Amiens. But alongside of this realism, and again as in Mediaeval Art, there are wilful and half- humorous perversions of nature. When Shakespeare in praise of Adonis’ beauty says that ‘ To see his face, the lion walked along Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him,’ or that When he beheld his shadow in the brook, The fishes spread on it their golden gills,’ you feel that you are still in the age which painted St. Jerome’s lion and St. Francis preaching to the birds. But you feel that you are half way into another. The poem is not Greek, but neither is it Mediaeval : it belongs to the debatable dawntime which we call the Renaissance. There is much in it of highly charged colour and of curious insistence on strange beauties of detail ; yet, dyed and daedal as it is out of all kinship with classical repose, neither its intricacy nor its tinting ever suggests the Aladdin’s Cave evoked by Mr. Swinburne’s Oriental epithets : rather do they suggest a landscape at sunrise. There, too, the lesser features of trees and bushes and knolls are steeped in the foreground with crimson light, or are set on fire with gold at the horizon ; there, too, they leap into momentary significance with prolonged and fantastic shadows ; yet overhead, the atmosphere is, not oppressive but, eager and pure and a part of an immense serenity. And so it is in the Poem, for which, if you abandon Mr. Swinburne’s illustration, and seek another from painting, you may find a more fitting counterpart in the Florentine treatment of classic myths : in Botticelli’s Venus, with veritable gold on the goddess’s hair and Ixxxvi INTRODUCTION on the boles of the pine trees, or in Piero di Cosima’s Cephalus and Proem, with its living animals at gaze before a tragedy that tells much of Beauty and nothing of Pain. Shakespeare’s Poem is I of love, not death ; but he handles his theme with just the same regard for Beauty, with just the same disregard for all that disfigures Beauty. He portrays an amorous encounter through its every gesture; yet, unless in some dozen lines where he glances aside, like any Mediaeval, at a gaiety not yet divorced from love, his appeal to Beauty persists from first to last; and nowhere is there an appeal to lust. The laughter and sorrow of the Poem belong wholly to the faery world of vision and romance, where there is no sickness, whether of sentiment or of sense. And both are rendered by images, clean-cut as in antique gems, brilliantly enamelled as in mediaeval chalices, numerous and interwoven as in Moorish arabesques; so that their incision, colour, and rapidity of development, apart even from the intricate melodies of the verbal medium in which they live, tax the faculty of artistic appreciation to a point at which it begins to participate in the asceticism of artistic creation. ‘ As little can a mind thus roused and awakened be brooded on by mean and indistinct emotion, 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 ‘ : thus does Coleridge resist the application to shift the venue of criticism on this Poem from the court of Beauty to the court of Morals, and upon that subject little more need be said. How wilful it is to discuss the moral bearing of an invitation couched by an imaginary Goddess in such ima ginative terms as these : ‘ Bid me discourse, I will inchant thine eare, Or like a Fairie, trip upon the greene, Or like a Nymph, with long disheveled heare, Dauuce on tlie sands, and yet no footing scene ! ‘ INTRODUCTION Ixxxvii As well essay to launch an ironclad on ‘ the foam of perilous seas in fairylands forlorn.’ When Venus says, ‘ Bid me discourse, I will inchant thine ear/ she instances yet another peculiar excellence of Shake speare’s lyrical art, which shows in this Poem, is redoubled in Lucrece, and in the Sonnets yields the most perfect examples of human speech : 1 Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine, Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red. . . . Art thou ashamed to kiss ? Then wink again, And I will wink, so shall the day seem night. . . .’ These are the fair words of her soliciting, and Adonis’s reply is of the same silvery quality : 1 If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more meaning than your own, Bewitching like the wanton mermaid’s songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown. . . .’ And, as he goes on : f Lest the deceiving harmony should run Into the quiet closure of my breast ‘ : you catch a note prelusive to the pleading altercation of the Sonnets. It is the discourse in Venus and Adonis and Lucrece which renders them discursive. And indeed they are long poems, on whose first reading Poe’s advice, never to begin at the same place, may wisely be followed. You do well, for instance, to begin at Stanza cxxxvi. in order to enjoy the narra tive of Venus’ vain pursuit : with your senses unwearied by the length and sweetness of her argument. The passage hence to the end is in the true romantic tradition : Stanzas CXL. and CXLI. are as clearly the forerunners of Keats, as CXLIV. is the child or Chaucer. The truth of such art consists in magnifying selected details until their gigantic shapes, edged with a shadowy iridescence, fill the whole field of observation. Certain gestures g Ixxxviii INTRODUCTION of the body, certain moods of the mind, are made to tell with the weight of trifles during awe-stricken pauses of delay. Venus, when she is baffled by ‘ the merciless and pitchy night/ halts 1 amazed as one that unaware Hath dropt a precious jewel in the flood, Or stonisht as night wanderers often are, Their light blown out in some mistrustfull wood.’ She starts like ‘ one that spies an adder ‘ ; ‘ the timorous yelp ing of the hounds appals her senses ‘ ; and she stands ‘ in a trembling extasy.’ Besides romantic narrative and sweetly modulated discourse, there are two rhetorical tirades by Venus when she ‘ exclaimes on death ‘ a : ‘ Grim grinning ghost, earth’s-worme, what dost thou meane To stifle beautie and to steale his breath,’ etc. : and when she heaps her anathemas on love : ( It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud, Bud, and be blasted in a breathing while ; The bottome poyson, and the top ore-strawed With sweets, that shall the truest sight beguile, The strongest bodie shall it make most weake, Strike the voice dumbe, and teach the foole to speake ‘ : and in both, as also in Adonis’s contrast of love and lust : ‘ Love comforteth, like sunshine after raine, But lust’s effect is tempest after sunne, Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remaine, Lust’s winter comes ere summer halfe be donne ; Love surfets not, lust like a glutton dies : Love is all truth, lust full of forged lies ‘ :- you have rhetoric, packed with antithesis, and rapped out on alliterated syllables for which the only equivalent in English 1 I retain the early spelling, as something of the rhetorical force depends on the sounds it suggests. INTRODUCTION Ixxxix is found, but more fully, in the great speech delivered by Lucrece. 1 The seed of these tirades, as of the dialogues and the gentle soliloquies, seems derived from Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde; and in his Knight’s Tale (lines 1747-1758) there is also a foreshadowing of their effective alliteration, used and this is the point not as an ornament of verse, but as an instru ment of accent. For example : f The helmes they to-hewen and to-shrede ; Out brest the blood, with sterne stremes rede. With mighty maces the bones they to-breste ; He thurgh the thikkeste of the throng gon threste/ etc. This use of alliteration by Shakespeare, employed earlier by Lord Vaux : Since death shall dure till all the world be waste ‘ 2 : and later by Spenser 3 : f Then let thy flinty heart that feeles no paine, Empierced be with pitiful remorse, And let thy bowels bleede in every vaine, At sight of His most sacred heavenly corse, So torne and mangled with malicious forse ; And let thy soule, whose sins His sorrows wrought, Melt into teares, and grone in grieved thought ‘ : is not to be confused with ‘ the absurd following of the letter amongst our English so much of late affected, but now hist out of Paules Church yard ‘ ; 4 for it does not consist in collect ing the greatest number of words with the same initial, but in letting the accent fall, as it does naturally in all impassioned speech, upon syllables of cognate sound. Since in English verse the accent is, and by Shakespeare’s contemporaries was understood to be, ‘the chief lord and grave Governour of 1 In denunciation of Night, Opportunity, and Time (lines 764-1036). 2 Paradise of Dainty Devices, 1576. 3 An Hymne of Heavenly Love (September 1596). * Campion, Observations in the Art of English Poesy, 1602. xc INTRODUCTION Numbers/ * this aid to its emphasis is no less legitimate, and is hardly less important, than is that of rhyme to metre in French verse : we inherit it from the Saxon, as we inherit rhyme from the Norman; both are essential elements in the poetry built up by Chaucer out of the ruins of two languages. But Shakespeare is the supreme master of its employment : in these impassioned tirades he wields it with a naked strength that was never approached, in the Sonnets with a veiled and varied subtilty that defies analysis. There are hints here and there in the Venus of this gathering subtilty : 1 These blew-vein’d violets whereon we leane Never can blab, nor know not what we meane . . . Even as a dying coale revives with winde . . . More white and red than doves and roses are.’ But apart from the use of cognate sounds, which makes for emphasis without marring melody, in many a line there also lives that more recondite sweetness, which plants so much of Shakespeare’s verse in the memory for no assignable cause : { Scorning his churlish drum and ensinge red. . . . Dumbly she passions, frantikely she doteth. . . . Showed like two silver doves that sit a billing. . . . Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chaine. . . . Were beautie under twentie locks kept fast, Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last. . . . O learne to love, the lesson is but plaine And once made perfect never lost again.’ Herein a cadence of obvious simplicity gives birth to an in explicable charm. I have spoken of Shakespeare’s images, blowing fresh from 1 S. Daniel’s Defence of Ryme, 1603 : ‘ Though it doth not strictly observe long and short sillables, yet it most religiously respects the accent.’ Ibid. Cf. Sidney’s Apologie : Wee observe the accent very precisely.’ INTRODUCTION xci the memory of his boyhood,, so vivid that at times they are violent, and at others wrought and laboured until they become conceits. You have f No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears/ with its frank reminiscence of a sportsman’s scruple ; or, as an obvious illustration, ‘ Look how a bird lies tangled in a net ‘ ; or, in a flash of intimate recollection : e Like shrill-tongu’d tapsters answering everie call, Soothing the humours of fantastique wits ‘ : the last, an early sketch of the ‘ Francis ‘ scene in Henry IV., which, in quaint juxtaposition with ‘cedar tops and hills’ of ‘ burnisht gold,’ seems instinct with memories of John Shake speare and his friends, who dared not go to church. But, again, you have conceits : ‘ But hers (eyes), which through the crystal tears gave light, Shone like the Moone in water seen by night ‘ ; ‘ A lilie prison’d in a gaile of snow ‘ ; and ‘ Wishing her cheeks were gardens ful of flowers So they were dew’d with such distilling showers.’ But, diving deeper than diction, alliteration, and rhythm : deeper than the decoration of blazoned colours and the labyrinthine interweaving of images, now budding as it were from nature, and now beaten as by an artificer out of some precious metal : you discover beneath this general inter pretation of Phenomenal Beauty, a gospel of Ideal Beauty, a confession of faith in Beauty as a principle of life. And note for the coincidence is vital that these, the esoteric themes of Venus and Adonis, are the essential themes of the Sonnets. In Stanza xxn. : ( Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time ‘ : and in Stanzas xxvu., XXVIIL, xxix., you have the whole argu ment of Sonnets i.-xix. In Stanza CLXXX. : ‘ Alas poore world, what treasure hast thou lost, What face remains alive that ‘s worth the viewing ? xcii INTRODUCTION Whose tongue is musick now ? What canst thou boast, Of things long since, or any thing insuing ? The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh, and trim, But true sweet beautie liv’d, and di’de with him ‘ : you have that metaphysical gauging of the mystical import ance of some one incarnation of Beauty viewed from imaginary standpoints in time, which was afterwards to be elaborated in Sonnets xiv., xix., LIX., LXVII., LXVIII., civ., cvi. And in Stanza CLXX. : ‘ For he being dead, with him is beautie slaine, And beautie dead, blacke Chaos comes again ‘ : you have the succinct credo in that incarnation of an Ideal Beauty, of which all other lovely semblances are but ‘ shadows ‘ and ‘ counterfeits,’ which was to find a fuller declaration in Sonnets xxxi. and LIU., and xcvm. But in Shakespeare’s Poems the beauty and curiosity of the ceremonial ever obscure the worship of the god; and, per haps, in the last stanza but one, addressed to the flower born in place of the dead Adonis and let drop into the bosom of the Goddess of Love, you have the most typical expression of those merits and defects which are alike loved and condoned by the slaves of their invincible sweetness : ‘ Here was thy father’s bed, here in my brest, Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right, So in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing hart shall rock thee day and night ; There shall not be one minute in an houre Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s floure.’ Here are conceits and a strained illustration from the profes sion of law ; but here, with these, are lovely imagery and perfect diction and, flowing through every line, a rhythm that rises and falls softly, until, after a hurry of ripples, it expends itself in the three last retarding words. INTRODUCTION xciii XIII The Rape of Lucrece was published in 1 594, and was dedi cated in terms of devoted affection to Lord Southampton. It was never so popular as the Venus, yet editions followed in 1598, 1600, 1607, 1616, 1624, and 1632 1 ; and its subsequent neglect remains one of the enigmas of literature. It is written in the seven-lined stanza borrowed by Chaucer from Guillaume de Machault, a French poet, whose talent, according to M. Sandras 2 was ‘ essentiellement lyrique.’ The measure, indeed, is capable of the most heart-searching lyrical effects. Chaucer chose it, first for his Compleint unto Pite and, more notably, for his Troilus and Criseyde; in 1589 Puttenham (?) had noted that ‘ his meetre Heroicall is very grave and stately,’ and, was ‘most usuall with our auncient makers’; Daniel had used it for his Rosamund, published four years before Lucrece, Spenser for his Hymnes, published the year after. The subject lay no further than the form from Shakespeare’s hand. He took it from Ovid’s Fasti. 3 Mr. Furnivall has argued that he may also have read it in Livy’s brief version of the tragedy, or in The Rape of Lucrece, from William Painter’s The Palace of Pleasure (1566), where, he notes, ‘ Painter is but Livy, with some changes and omissions.’ Warton, History of English Poetry (1824, iv. 241-2), cites ‘A ballet the grevious complaynt of Lucrece/ 1568; ‘A ballet of the death of Lucreessia,’ 1569; and yet another of 1576. He adds: ‘Lucretia was the grand example of con jugal fidelity throughout the Gothic Ages.’ That is the point. Shakespeare took the story from Ovid, with the knowledge that Chaucer had drawn on the same source for the Fifth Story in his Legend of Good Women, just as Chaucer had 1 Two others of 1596 and 1602 have been cited but never recovered. 2 Ettide sur G. Chawer, 1859. 3 Book ii. line 721 et seq. xciv INTRODUCTION taken it from Ovid, with the knowledge that its appositeness had been consecrated before 1282 in chapter L. of Le Roman de la Rose : ‘ Comment Lucrece par grant ire Son cuer point, derrompt et dessire Et chiet morte sur terre adens, Devant son mari et parens.’ And Shakespeare must certainly have been familiar with the allusion to it in North’s Plutarch, as with the passage in Sidney’s Apologie, where a painting of Lucrecia is imagined to illustrate the art of those who are ‘ indeed right Poets’ as distinguished from the authors of religious or of moral and metaphysical verse. This passage, save where it suffers from the constraint of an apologetic attitude, stands still for a sound declaration of the ethics of art; and in Shakespeare’s day, when such questions were canvassed as freely as in our own, it may well have determined his choice. But speculation on the literary origins of a poem is idle when the poem is in itself far worthier attention than all the materials out of which it has been contrived the more so when of these the literary origins are the most remote and the least important. Shakespeare, indeed, owes more to the manner of Chaucer’s Troilus than to the matter of his Lucretia, or of its original in Ovid. For in treating that story the two poets omit and retain different portions : Chaucer, on the whole, copying more closely paints on a canvas of about the same size, whereas Shakespeare expands a passage of 132 lines into a poem of 1855. Chaucer omits Ovid’s note rendered by Shakespeare’s c Haply that name of chaste unhap’ly set This bateless edge on his keen appetite.’ He also omits Lucretia’s unsuspecting welcome of Tarquin, making him ‘ stalke’ straight into the house ‘ful theefly.’ INTRODUCTION xcv Shakespeare retains the welcome, and reserves the phrase, * Into the chamber wickedly he stalks,’ for a later incident. On the other hand, Chaucer renders the passage, ‘Tune quoque jam moriens ne non procumbat honeste, respicit/ somewhat quaintly : ‘ And as she fel adown, she cast her look And of her clothes yit she hede took, For in her falling yit she hadde care Lest that her feet or swiche thing lay bare ‘ : and Shakespeare omits it. Both keep the image of the lamb and the wolf, together with Lucretia’s flavi capilli, which are nowhere mentioned by Livy. In the Lucrece, as in the Venus, you have a true develop ment of Chaucer’s romantic narrative ; of the dialogues, soliloquies, and rhetorical bravuras which render Books iv. and v. of his Troilus perhaps the greatest romance in verse. And yet the points of contrast between the Lucrece and the Venus are of deeper interest than the points of comparison, for they show an ever -widening divergence from the characteristics of Mediaeval romance. If the Venus be a pageant of gesture, the Lucrece is a drama of emotion. You have the same wealth of imagery, but the images are no longer sunlit and sharply denned. They seem, rather, created by the reflex action of a sleepless brain as it were fantastic symbols shaped from the lying report of tired eyes staring into darkness ; and they are no longer used to decorate the outward play of natural desire and reluctance, but to project the shadows of abnormal passion and acute mental distress. The Poem is full of nameless terror, of ‘ ghastly shadows ‘ and ‘ quick-shifting antics.’ The First Act passes in the ‘dead of night/ with f no noise’ to break the world’s silence ‘but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries/ nor any to mar the house’s but the grating of doors and, at last, xcvi INTRODUCTION the hoarse whispers of a piteous controversy. The Second shows a cheerless dawn with two women crying, one for sorrow, the other for sympathy. There are never more than two persons on the stage, and there is sometimes only one, until the crowd surges in at the end to witness Lucrece’s suicide. I have spoken for convenience of ‘ acts ‘ and a ‘ stage/ yet the sug gestion of these terms is misleading. Excepting in the last speech and in the death of Lucrece, the Poem is nowhere dramatic : it tells a story, but at each situation the Poet pauses to survey and to illustrate the romantic and emotional values of the relation between his characters, or to analyse the moral passions and the mental debates in any one of them, or even the physiological perturbations responding to these storms and tremors of the mind and soul. When Shakespeare describes Tarquin’s stealthy approach : ‘ Night wandering weazels shriek to see him there ; They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear ‘ : or Lucrece shrinking from the dawn : ‘ Revealing day through every cranny spies And seems to point her out where she sits weeping ‘ : or Collatine’s attempt at railing when he is inarticulate with wrath : f Yet some time ” Tarquin ” was pronounced plain But through his teeth, as if the name he tore ‘ : his method is wholly alien from the popular methods of our own day. Yet would they be rash who condemned it out of hand. The illustration of gesture, and of all that passes in the mind, by the copious use of romantic imagery constitutes an artistic process which is obviously charged with sensuous de light, and is in its way not less realistic than the dramatic method which has superseded it. The hours of life, which INTRODUCTION xcvii even ordinary men and women expend in selfish sensation and a fumbling, half-conscious introspection, far outnumber the hours in which they are clearly apprized of eventful action and speech between themselves and their fellows ; and in men of rarer temperament life often becomes a monodrama. The dramatic convention is also but a convention with its own limitations, staling by over-practice into the senseless rallies of a pantomime or the trivial symbols of a meagre psychology. The common-place sayings and doings of the puppets are meant by the author to suggest much; and, when they are duly explained by the critics, we may all admire the reserved force of the device. But it remains a device. In the romantic narratives of Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Keats, with their imaginative illustrations of the mind’s moods and their imaginative use of sights and sounds accidental to moments of exacerbated sensation, you have another device which portrays, perhaps more truly, the hidden mysteries of those temperaments whose secrets are really worth our guessing. It is at least worth while to watch an artist, who has shown the inevitable acts and words of any one man in any one situation, at work within upon the accompanying sequence of inevitable sensations and desires. And sometimes, too, from the analysis of emotion in the Lucrece you catch a side-light on the more subtle revelation in the Sonnets : ‘ O happiness, enjoy’d but of a few, And if possest, as soon decayed and done As is the morning’s silver melting dew Against the golden splendour of the sun ! 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 ; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost. xcviii INTRODUCTION What win I if I gain the thing I seek ? 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 ? ‘ Vanitas vanitatum ! Besides this philosophy of pleasure, there is also a pathos in Lucrece which is nowise Mediaeval. The Poem is touched with a compassion for the weakness of women, which is new and alien from the Trouvere convention of a knight who takes pity on a damsel : ‘ 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 . . . Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks, Poor women’s faces are their own fault’s books.’ Then let’No man inveigh against the withered flower, But chide rough winter that the flower hath kill’d : Not that devour’d, but that which doth devour Is worthy blame.’ But in spite of so much that is new in the Lucrece, there is no absolute break between it and the Venus: the older beauties persist, if they persist more sparsely, among the fresh-blown. As ever in Shakespeare’s earlier work, there are vivid impres sions of things seen : ‘ You mocking birds, quoth she, your tunes entomb Within your hollow swelling feather’d breasts . . . Ay me ! the bark peel’d from the lofty pine, His leaves will wither, and his sap decay . . . As lagging fouls before the Northern blast.’ 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 forced him on so fast . INTRODUCTION xcix Illustrations are still drawn from sport : ‘ Look, as the full fed hound or gorged hawk Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight. ‘ . . . There are, as ever, conceits : e Without the bed her other fair hand was, On the green coverlet ; whose perfect white Showed like an April daisy on the grass …” ‘ And now this pale swan in her watery nest Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending ‘ : and there are, as I have said, tirades of an astonishing rheto rical force, passages which, recited by an English Rachel, would still bring down the house. As the denunciations of Night : ‘ Blind muffled bawd ! dark harbour of defame ! Grim cave of death ! whispering conspirator ‘ : of Opportunity : f Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, Thy private feasting to a public fast, Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name : Thy sugard tongue to bitter wormwood tast : Thy violent vanities can never last* : and of Time : ( Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, Base watch of woes, sin’s pack-horse, vertue’s snare ‘ : whose glory it is : c To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours And smear with dust their glitt’ring golden towers . . . To feed oblivion with decay of things.’ The form of these tirades is repeated from the Venus, but their music is louder, and is developed into a greater variety of keys, c INTRODUCTION sometimes into the piercing minors of the more metaphysical Sonnets : f 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. . . . Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity ! ‘ This last apostrophe is great ; but that in Lucrece there should be so many of the same tremendous type, which have escaped the fate of hackneyed quotation, is one of the most elusive factors in a difficult problem: 1 Pure thoughts are dead and still While Lust and Murder wake to stain and kill. . . . His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye. . . . Tears harden lust, though marble wears with raining. . . . Soft pity enters at an iron gate. . . . 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/ These, for all their strength and sweetness, might conceivably have been written by some other of the greater poets. But these : f And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy lights. . . . ‘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. O ! that is gone for which I sought to live, And therefore now I need not fear to die. … For Sorrow, like a heavy hanging bell, Once set on ringing with his own weight goes ‘ : these, I say, could have been written by Shakespeare only. INTRODUCTION ci They may rank with the few which Arnold chose for standards from the poetry of all ages ; yet by a caprice of literary criticism they are never quoted, and are scarce so much as known. XIV The fate of Shakespeare’s Sonnets has been widely different from the fate of his Narrative Poems. The Venus and the Lucrece were popular at once, and ran through many editions : the Sonnets, published in 1609, were not reprinted until 1640, and were then so effectually disguised by an arbitrary process of interpolation, omission, re-arrangement, and misleading de scription as to excite but little attention, until in 1780 Malone opened a new era of research into their bearing on the life and character of Shakespeare. Since then the tables have been turned. For while the Venus and the Lucrece have been largely neglected, so many volumes, in support of theories so variously opposed, have been written on this aspect of the Sonnets, that it has become impossible even to sum up the contention except by adding yet another volume to already overladen shelves. The controversy has its own interest ; but that interest, I submit, is alien from, and even antagonistic to, an appreciation of lyrical excellence. I do not mean that the Sonnets are ‘mere exercises’ written to ( rival’ or to ‘ parody’ the efforts of other poets. Such curiosities of criticism are born of a nervous revulsion from conclusions reached by the more con fident champions of a ‘ personal theory ‘ ; and their very eccen tricity measures the amount of damage done, not by those who endeavour, laudably enough, to retrieve a great lost life but, by those who allow such attempts at biography to bias their con sideration of poems which we possess intact. If, indeed, we must choose between critics, who discover an autobiography in the Sonnets, and critics, who find in them a train of poetic cii INTRODUCTION exhalations whose airy iridescence never reflects the passionate colours of this earth, then the first are preferable. At least their theory makes certain additions which, though dubious and defective, are still additions to our guesses at Shakespeare the man ; whereas the second subtracts from a known masterpiece its necessary material of experience and emotion. But we need not choose: the middle way remains of accepting from the Sonnets only the matter which they embody and the form which they display. Taking them up, then, as you would take up the Lucrece or another example of Shakespeare’s earlier work, there is nothing to note in their metrical form but the perfection of treatment by which Shakespeare has stamped it for his own. They were immediately preceded by many sonnet-sequences : by so many, indeed, that Shakespeare could hardly have taken his place at the head of his lyrical contemporaries without proving that he, too, could write sonnets with the best of them. Sidney’s Astrophel and Stella (written 1581-84-) had been published in 1591 (when Tom Nash was constrained to bid some other ‘ Poets and ‘ Rimers to put out their ‘ rush candles,’ and bequeath their * crazed quaterzayns’ to the chandlers for ‘loe, here hee cometh that hath broek your legs’) with the sonnets of ‘sundry other noblemen and gentlemen’ appended, among them twenty-eight by S(amuel) D(aniel), nineteen of which were afterwards reprinted in his Delia; the next year H(enry) C(onstable) published twenty, after wards reprinted in his Diana; in 1593 B. Barnes published Parthenophil and Parthenope, containing a hundred and four (besides madrigals, odes, and eclogues) ; and in 1594 W. Percy, to whom this gathering had been dedicated, riposted in twenty, f to the fairest Coalia,’ which touch the nadir of incompetence. But in the same memorable year three other sequences appeared, whose excellence and fame rendered an attempt in INTRODUCTION ciii this form almost obligatory upon any one claiming to be a poet : H(enry) C(onstable)’s Diana, with ‘divers quatorzains of honourable and learned personages/ notably, eight by Sidney, afterwards appended to the Third Edition of the Arcadia ; Samuel Daniel’s Delia, consisting of fifty-five; 1 and Michael Drayton’s Idea’s Mirrour, fifty-one strong, augmented to fifty- nine in 1599 and eventually (1619) to sixty-three. Then in 1595 Spenser published his Amoretti (written 1592(?)), and in 1 596 R. L(inche) his Diella and B. Griffin his Fidessa. I name these last because an example from R. Linche : f My mistress’ snow-white skin doth much excell The pure soft wool Arcadian sheep do bear’ : will show what inept fatuity co-existed with the highest flights of Elizabethan verse ; and because the third number in Fidessa 2 was reprinted by Jaggard in the Passionate Pilgrim (1599), together with other pieces stolen from Shakespeare and Barnefield. The publication of such a medley attests the well- known fact that Elizabethan sonnets were handed about in MS. for years among poetical cliques, and, as W. Percy complains, ‘were committed to the Press’ without the authors’ knowledge, although ‘ concealed … as things privy ‘ to himself. 3 It is also worth noting that the Elizabethans I have named, who signed their sonnet-sequences sometimes only with initials, often transfigured them by additions, omissions, and re- arrangings prior to republication ; and this was especially the practice of Daniel and Drayton, whose sonnets, it so happens, offer the closest points of comparison to Shakespeare’s. That two of Shakespeare’s should have been published with the work of others in 1599, and afterwards, with slight variations, 1 Nineteen of which had appeared, cf. supra. 2 Griffin was almost certainly one of Shakespeare’s connexions by marriage. See ‘Shakespeare’s Ancestry,’ The Times, Oct. 14, 1895. 3 W. Percy to the Reader. k civ INTRODUCTION as units in a fairly consecutive series, is quite in the manner of the time. There is no mention of Delia in all the twenty-eight appended by Daniel to Astrophel and Stella * ; but nineteen of these were interpolated into the later sequence, which bears her name, yet mentions it in thirteen only out of fifty-five. To glance at Drayton’s Idea is to be instantly suspicious of another such mystification. The proem begins : ‘ Into these loves, who but for Passion looks, At this first sight here let him lay them by ‘ : and the author goes on to boast that he sings ‘ fantasticly ‘ without a ‘ far-fetched sigh/ an ‘ Ah me,’ or a ‘ tear/ Yet the sixty-first in the completed series (1619) is that wonderful sob of supplication for which Drayton is chiefly remembered : ‘ Since there ‘s no help, come, let us kiss and part ! ‘ Only by the use of the comparative method can we hope to recover the conditions under which sonnets were written and published in Shakespeare’s day. A side-light, for instance, is thrown on the half good-natured, half malicious rivalry between the members of shifting literary cliques, from the fact that Shakespeare, Chapman, Marston, and Jonson all contributed poems on the Phoenix to Rob. Chester’s Loves Martyr (1601), 2 and that sonnets on the same subject occur in Daniel’s additions to Astrophel (Sonnet in.), and in Drayton’s Idea (Sonnet xvi.). All six poets are suspected, and some are known, to have been arrayed from time to time on opposed sides in literary quarrels ; yet you find them handling a common theme in more or less friendly emulation. I fancy that many of the coincidences between the Sonnets of Shakespeare and those of Drayton, on which charges of plagiarism have been founded, and 1 Sonnet xm. opens thus : * My Cynthia hath the waters of mine eyes.’ 3 See Note IV. on The Sonnets. INTRODUCTION cv by whose aid attempts have been made to fix the date of Shake speare’s authorship, may be explained more probably by this general conception of a verse-loving society divided into emulous coteries. Mr. Tyler adduces the conceit of ‘ eyes ‘ and ‘ heart’ in Drayton’s xxxni. (Ed. 1599), and compares it to Shakespeare’s XLVI. and XLVII. (1609); but it appears in Henry Constable. Again, he instances Drayton’s illustration from a ‘map’ in XLIII. l ; but, perhaps by reason of the fashionable in terest in the New World, the image was a common one : Daniel employs it in his Defence of Ryme. And if Drayton, in this sonnet, ‘strives to eternize ‘ the object of his affection in accents echoed by Shakespeare, Daniel does the like in his L. : ‘ Let others sing of Knights and Palladins In aged accents, and untimely words,’ etc. : with a hit at Spenser that only differs in being a hit from Shakespeare’s reference in cvi. : ‘ When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely Knights.’ Of course it differs also in poetic excellence ; yet many chancing on Daniel’s later line : ‘ Against the dark and Time’s consuming rage ‘ : might mistake it for one by the mightier artist. Drayton, like Shakespeare, upbraids some one, whom he compares to the son and the sex is significant ‘of some rich penny-father/ for wasting his ‘ Love ‘ and ‘ Beauty,’ which Time must conquer, ‘ on the unworthy ‘ who cannot make him ‘ survive ‘ in ‘ immortal song.’ 2 And the next number sounds familiar, with its curious metaphysical conceit of identity between the beloved one and 1 Ed. i599=XLiv. of 1619. 2 Sonnet x. Ed. 1619. cvi INTRODUCTION the poet who sings him.1 If any one had thought it worth his while to investigate the biographical problems of Drayton’s obviously doctored Idea, he would have found nuts to crack as hard as any in Shakespeare’s Sonnets. It is best, perhaps, to take Sidney’s advice, and to ‘believe with him that there are many misteries contained in Poetrie, which of purpose were written darkely.’ At any rate, the ironic remainder of the passage throws a flood of light on the extent to which the practice of immortalising prevailed: ‘ Believe’ the poets, he says, ‘when they tell you they will make you immortal by their verses,’ for, thus doing, * your name shall flourish in the Printers’ shoppes ; thus doing, you shall bee of kinne to many a poetical preface ; thus doing, you shall be most fayre, most rich, most wise, most all, you shall dwell upon superlatives.’ 2 Shakespeare’s Sonnets, then, belong to a sonneteering age, and exhibit many curious coincidences with the verse of his friends and rivals. But his true distinction in mere metrical form, apart from finer subtleties of art, consists in this : that he established the quatorzain as a separate type of the European Sonnet; he took as it were a sport from the garden of verse, and fixed it for an English variety. The credit for this has been given to Daniel; but the attribution can not be sustained. For Daniel sometimes hankered after the Petrarchan model, though in a less degree than any other of Shakespeare’s contemporaries : he travels in Italy, 3 contrasts his Muse with Petrarch’s, 4 imitates his structure, 5 and strains after feminine rhymes. Shakespeare alone selected the English quatorzain, and sustained it throughout a sonnet1 Cf. Shakespeare’s xxxix., XLII., LXII. 3 Sidney, Apologie. 3 Delia> XLVII., XLVIII. 4 Ibid., XXXVHI. 5 Ibid., xxxi. and xxxm. and x. of the Sonnets appended to Arcadia. INTRODUCTION cvii sequence. 1 Even the merit of invention claimed for Daniel must be denied him. When Shakespeare makes Slender say 2 : ‘ I had rather than forty shillings I had my book of songs and sonnets here ‘ : he refers to Tottel’s Miscellany, published in 1557. But the numbers by the Earl of Surrey in that anthology were written many years earlier, and in the Eighth of his Sonnets there printed, you will find as good a model for Shakespeare’s form as any in Daniel’s Delia : ‘ Set me whereas the sunne doth parche the grene Or where his beames do not dissolve the yse : In temperate heate where he is felt and sene : In presence prest of people madde or wise. Set me in hye, or yet in lowe degree : In longest night, or in the shortest daye : In clearest skye, or where clowdes thickest be : In lusty youth, or when my heeres are graye. Set me in heaven, in earth or els in hell, In hyll, or dale, or in the fomyng flood : Thrall, or at large, alive where so I dwell : Sicke or in health : in evyll fame or good. Hers will I be, and onely with this thought Content my selfe, although my chaunce be nought. 3 The theme is borrowed from Petrarch ; but the form is Surrey’s, who used it in nine out of his fourteen sonnets, and essayed the Petrarchan practice in but one. By this invention he achieved a sweetness of rhythm never attained in any strict imitation of the Italian model until the present century. His sonnet is the true precursor of Shakespeare’s, and it owes directly little more than the number of its lines to France and Italy : being founded on English metres of alternating rhymes, with a final 1 Sidney and Drayton frequently copy French and Italian models. Spenser’s linked quatrains are neither sonnets nor quatorzains : they re present an abortive attempt to create a new form. 2 Merry Wives of Windsor, \. i. 3 ‘Form and favour’ in Shakespeare’s Sonnet CXXV., ‘golden tresses’ in his LXVIII. may also be echoes of Surrey. cviii INTRODUCTION couplet copied by Chaucer from the French two centuries before. The number of sonnet-sequences published in the last decade of the Sixteenth Century, during which Shakespeare lived at London in the midst of a literary movement, raises a presump tion in favour of an early date for his Sonnets, published in 1609; and this presumption is confirmed by the publication of two of them in The Passionate Pilgrim (1599). We know from civ. that three years had elapsed since he first saw the youth to whom the earlier Sonnets were addressed; and the balance of internal evidence, founded whether on affinities to the plays or on references to political and social events affecting Shakespeare as a dramatist and a man, 1 points to the years 1599-1602 as the most probable period for their composition. 2 Further confirmation of an almost decisive character has been adduced by Mr. Tyler. 3 But I pass his arguments, since they are based, in part, on the assumption that the youth in question was William Herbert; and, al though Mr. Tyler would, as I think, win a verdict from any jury composed and deciding after the model of Scots procedure, his case is one which cannot be argued without the broaching of many issues outside the sphere of artistic appreciation. xv Had Shakespeare’s Sonnets suffered the fate of Sappho’s lyrics, their few surviving fragments would have won him an equal glory, and we should have been damnified in the amount only of a priceless bequest. But our heritage is almost 1 Cf. Sonnet LXVI. : ‘And art made tongue-tied by authority ‘ : with the edict of June 1600, inhibiting plays and playgoers. 2 See Note in. on The Sonnets. 3 Introduction to the ‘ Shakespeare Q., No. 30’ and Shakespeare’s Sonnets. London, D. Nutt, 1890. INTRODUCTION cix certainly intact : the Sonnets, as we find them in the Quarto of 1609, whether or not they were edited by Shakespeare, must so far have commanded his approval as to arouse no protest against the form in which they appeared. It would have been as easy for him to re-shuffle and re-publish as it is impos sible to believe that he could so re-shuffle and re-publish, and no record of his action survive. Taking the Sonnets, then, as published in their author’s lifetime, you discover their obvious division into two Series: in the First, one hundred and twenty-five, closed by an Envoy of six couplets, are addressed to a youth ; in the Second, seventeen out of twenty-eight are addressed to the author’s mistress, and the others comment, more or less directly, on her infidelity and on his infatuation. Most critics indeed all not quixotically compelled to reject a reasonable view are agreed that the order in the First Series can scarce be bettered ; and that within that Series certain Groups may be discerned of sonnets written at the same time, each with the same theme and divided by gaps of silence from the sonnets that succeed them. There is also substantial agreement as to the confines of the principal Groups; but between these there are shorter sequences and even isolated numbers, among which different critics have succeeded in tracing a greater or lesser degree of connexion. The analogy of a correspondence, carried on over years between friends, offers perhaps the best clue to the varying continuity of the First Series. There, too, you have silences which attest the very frequency of meetings, with silences born of long absence and absorption in diverse pursuits ; there, too, you have spells of voluminous writing on intimate themes, led up to and followed by sparser communications on matters of a less dear importance. The numbers seem to have been chrono logically arranged ; and, that being so, the alternation of con tinuous with intermittent production shows naturally in a ex INTRODUCTION collection of poems addressed by one person to another at intervals over a period of more than three years. There are seven main Groups in the First Series : Group A, i. -xix. : The several numbers echo the arguments in Venus and Adonis, Stanzas xxvu.-xxix. They are written ostensibly, to urge marriage on a beautiful youth, but, essen tially, they constitute a continuous poem on Beauty and Decay. That is the subject, varied by the introduction of two subsidiary themes ; the one, philosophic, on immortality conferred by breed : ‘ From fairest creatures, we desire increase That thereby beauty’s Rose might never die ‘ : the other, literary, on immortality conferred by verse : ‘ My love shall in my verse ever live young.’ This line is the last of the sonnet which serves as an envoy to the Group. Here follow Sonnets xx.-xxi., xxn., xxin.-xxiv., xxv. : occasional verses written, playfully or affectionately, to the youth who is now dear to their author. In giving the occasional sonnets I bracket only those which are obviously connected and obviously written at the same time. Group B, xxvi .-xxxn. : A continuous poem on absence, dis patched, it may be, in a single letter, since it opens with a formal address and ends in a full close. In this group there are variations on the disgust of separation and the solace of remembered love ; but it is a poem and not a letter turning each succeeding emotion to its full artistic account. Group C, XXXIII.-XLII. : The first of the more immediately personal garlands. The writer’s friend has wronged him by stealing his mistress’s love. The counterpart to this group, evidently written on the same theme and at the same time, will be found in the Second Series (CXXXIII.-CXLIV.), addressed in complaint to the writer’s mistress, or written in comment on INTRODUCTION cxi her complicity in this wrong. The biographical interest of this Group has won it an undeserved attention at the expense of others. Many suppose that all the Sonnets turn on this theme,, or, at least, that the loudest note of passion is here sounded. But this is not so. Of all ten three at the most can be called tragic. These are xxxiv. but it arises out of the lovely imagery of xxxm. ; xxxvi., but it ends : ‘ I love thee in such sort As thou being mine,, mine is thy good report ‘ ; and XL., but it ends : e Yet we must not be foes.’ xxxm. is indeed beautiful, but the others return to the early theme of mere immortalising, or are expressed in abstruse or playful conceits which make it impossible to believe they mirror a soul in pain. They might be taken for designed interpolations, did they not refer, by the way, to a sorrow, or misfortune, not to be distinguished from the theme of their fellows. Knowing what Shakespeare can do to express anguish and passion, are we not absurd to find the evidence of either in these Sonnets, written, as they are, on a private sorrow, but in the spirit of conscious art ? ‘ If my slight Muse do please these curious days The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.’ xxxvin. Here follow XLIII., XLIV.-XLV., XLVI.-XLVII.-XLVIII., XLIX., L.-LI., LII., connected or occasional pieces on mere absence. Then LIII.-LIV., and LV. return to the theme of immortalising. The first two are steeped in Renaissance platonism ; while the last (as Mr. Tyler has shown) does but versify a passage in which Meres quotes Ovid and Horace (1598): it seems to be an Envoy. Group D, LVI.-LXXIV. : The Poet writes again after silence: ‘ Sweet love, renew thy force.’ The first three are occasioned by a voluntary absence of his friend ; but that absence, un expectedly prolonged, inspires a mood of contemplation which, cxii INTRODUCTION becoming ever more and more metaphysical, is by much re moved from the spirit of the earlier poem on absence (Group B, xxvi.-xxxn.) with its realistic handling of the same theme. In LIX. the poet dwells on the illusion of repeated experience, and speculates on the truth of the philosophy of cycles : 1 If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled.’ In LX. he watches the changing toil of Time : ‘ Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore So do our minutes hasten to their end.’ In LXI. he gazes into the night at the phantasm of his absent friend, and thus leads up to a poem in three parts (LXII.-LXV., LXVI.-LXX., LXXI.-LXXIV.) on Beauty that Time must ruin, on the disgust of Life, and on Death. These nineteen numbers, conceived in a vein of melancholy contemplation, are among the most beautiful of all, and are more subtly metaphysical than any, save only cxxni., cxxiv., cxxv. There follow LXXV., LXXVI., LXVII. Group E, LXXVIII.-LXXXVI., is the second of a more immediate personal interest. It deals with rival poets and their meretricious art especially with one Poet who by f the proud full sail of his great verse ‘ has bereft the writer of his friend’s admiration. The nine are written in unbroken sequence and are playful throughout, suggesting no tragedy. But in Group F, LXXXVII.-XCVI., the spirit of the verse suddenly changes : the music becomes plangent, and the theme of utter estrangement is handled with a complete command over dramatic yet sweetly modulated discourse. The Group is, indeed, a single speech of tragic intensity, written in elegiac verse more exquisite than Ovid’s own. Here the First Series is most obviously broken, and xcvu. xcvni.-xcix. emphasise the break. They tell of two absences the first in late summer (xcvi.), the second in the spring. INTRODUCTION cxiii They are isolated from the Group which precedes, and the Group which follows them, and they embrace an absence extending, at least, from early autumn in one year to April in the next. The first is of great elegiac beauty, the second of curious metaphysical significance ; the third seems an in ferior, perhaps a rejected, version of the second. Group G, c.-cxxv., opens after a great silence : ‘ Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget’ st so long ‘ : and the poet develops in it a single sustained attack on the Law of Change, minimising the importance of both outward chances and inward moods. Once more taking his pen, he invokes his Muse (c.) ‘ to be a satire to Decay,’ to bring contempt on ‘ Time’s spoils/ and to ‘ give fame faster than Time wastes Life.’ True, he argued against this in Group E : deprecating (LXXXII.) ‘ strained touches of rhetoric ‘ when applied to one ‘ truely fair ‘ and, therefore, ‘ truely sympathized ‘ by ‘ true plain words ‘ : maintaining (LXXXIII.) that silence at least did not ‘ impair beauty,’ and disparaging (LXXXV.) ‘ comments of praise richly compiled.’ But now he puts this same defence into the mouth of his Muse, making her argue in turn (ci.) that Truth and Beauty, which both ‘ depend on ‘ his Love, need no ‘ colour ‘ and no ‘ pencil ‘ since ‘best is best, if never intermixed.’ Yet he bids her ‘ excuse not silence so,’ since it lies in her to make his love ‘ outlive a guilded tomb,’ and ‘ seem long hence as he shows now.’ In this Group, as in earlier resumptions, the music is at first imperfect. But it soon changes, and in en. the apology for past silence is sung in accents sweet as the nightingale’s described. There are marked irregularities in the poetic excellence of the Sonnets : which ever climbs to its highest pitch in the longer and more closely connected sequences. This is the longest of all : a poem of retrospect over a space of three years to the time when ‘ love was new, and then but in the spring.’ In its survey it goes over the old themes with a cxiv INTRODUCTION soft and silvery touch : Beauty and Decay, Love, Constancy, the Immortalising of the Friend’s beauty conceived as an incarna tion of Ideal Beauty viewed from imaginary standpoints in Time. And interwoven with this re-handling, chiefly of the themes in the First and Fourth Groups, is an apology (cix.- cxii., cxvii.-cxx., cxxn.) for a negligence on the Poet’s part of the rites of friendship, which he sets off (cxx.) against his Friend’s earlier unkindness : ‘ That you were once unkind, befriends me now’ This apology offers the third, and only other, immediate reference to Shakespeare’s personal ex perience ; and, on these sonnets, as on those which treat of the Dark Lady and the Rival Poet, attention has been unduly concentrated. They seem founded on episodes and moods necessarily incidental to the life which we know Shakespeare must have led. To say that he could never have slighted his art as an actor : ‘ Alas, ’tis true I have gone here and there And made myself a motley to the view . . . My nature is subdued To what it works in like the dyer’s hand ‘ : and then to seek for far-fetched and fantastic interpretations, is to evince an ignorance, not only of the obloquy to which actors were then exposed, and of the degradations they had to bear, but also of human nature as we know it even in heroes. Well ington is said to have wept over the carnage at Waterloo ; the grossness of his material often infects the artist, and ‘ potter’s rot ‘ has its analogue in every profession. This feeling of un deserved degradation is a mood most incident to all who work, whether artists or men of action : an accident, real but transitory, which obliterates the contours of the soul, and leaves them in tact, as a fog swallows the Town without destroying it. In cxxi. there is a natural digression from this personal apology to reflexions cast on Shakespeare’s good name. In cxxn. the INTRODUCTION cxv apology is resumed with particular reference to certain tablets, the gift of the Friend, but which the Poet has bestowed on another. He takes this occasion to resume the main theme of the whole group by pouring contempt on ‘dates’ and ‘ records ‘ and ‘ tallies to score his dear love ‘ : the tablets, though in fact given away, are still ‘ within his brain, full charactered, beyond all date even to Eternity/ Thus does he lead up directly to the last three sonnets (cxxiir., cxxiv., cxxv.), which close this ‘ Satire to Decay/ and with it the whole series (i.-cxxv.). They are pieces of mingled splendour and obscurity in which Shakespeare presses home his metaphysical attack on the reality of Time ; and the difficulty, inherent in an argument so transcendental, is further deepened by passing allusions to contemporary events and persons, which many have sought to explain, with little success. Here follows an Envoy of six couplets to the whole Series. The Second Series shows fewer traces of design in its sequence than the First. The magnificent cxxix. on ‘ lust in action ‘ is wedged between two : one addressed to Shakespeare’s mistress and cne descriptive of her charm ; both playful in their fancy. CXLVI. to his soul, with its grave pathos and beauty, follows on a foolish verbal conceit, written in octosyllabic verse ; while CLIII. and CLIV. are contrived in the worst manner of the French Renaissance on the theme of a Greek Epigram. 1 But the rest are, all of them, addressed to a Dark Lady whom Shakespeare loved in spite of her infidelity, or they com ment on the wrong she does him. It cannot be doubted that they were written at the same time and on the same subject as the sonnets in Group C, XXXIII.-XLII., or that they were excluded from that group on any ground except that of their being written to another than the Youth to whom the whole First Series is addressed. Like the numbers in Group C, they are alternately 1 Dowden, 1881. cxvi INTRODUCTION playful and pathetic ; their diction is often as exquisite, their discourse often as eloquent. But sometimes they are sardonic and even fierce : ‘ For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.’ XVI The division of the Sonnets into two Series and a number of subsidiary Groups, springs merely from the author’s actual experiences, which were the occasions of their production, and from the order in time of those experiences. But the poetic themes suggested by such experiences and their treatment by Shakespeare belong to another sphere of con sideration. They derive not from the brute chances of life which, in a man not a poet, would have suggested no poetry, and, to a poet not Shakespeare, would have dictated poetry of another character and a lesser perfection, but from Shake speare’s inborn temperament and acquired skill, both of selection and execution. These poetic themes are comparatively few in number, and recur again and again in the several Groups. Some are more closely connected with the facts of Shakespeare’s life ; others embody the general experience of man : others, again, detached, not only from the life of Shakespeare but, from the thought of most men, embody the transcendental speculations of rare minds which, at certain times and places in Socratic Athens and in the Europe of the Renaissance have commanded a wide attention. Follows a tabulation. (1) Themes personal to Shakespeare : His Friend’s Error. Group C, XXXIII.-XLII., xciv.-xcvi., cxx. cxxxni.-cxxxv. The Dark Lady. Group C, and the Second Series, CXXVII.-CLII. His Own Error, xxxvi., ex., cxn., cxvu.-cxxii. His Own Misfortune, xxv., xxix., xxxvu., cxi. The Rival Poets, xxi., xxxii. Group E, LXXVIII.-LXXXVI., and (as I hold) LXVII., LXVIII., LXXVI., and cxxv. INTRODUCTION cxvii That there were more Rival Poets than one is evident from LXXVIII. 3 : ‘ Every alien pen hath got my use, And under thee their poesy disperse ‘ : and from LXXXIII. 12 : ( For I impair not beauty, being mute When others would give life.’ And among these others who still sing, while the Poet is himself silent, two are conspicuous : ‘ There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise. ‘ (2) Themes which embody general experience : Love, xx.-xxxn., xxxvu., XLIII.-LII., LVI., LXIII., LXVI., LXXI., LXXII., LXXV., LXXXVII.-XGII.J XCVI. , CII., CV., CXV.-CXVI. Absence. Group B, xxvi.-xxxi., xxxix., XLIII.-LII., LVII., LVIII., xcvu., xcvni. Beauty and Decay. Group A, i.-xix., xxii., LXXVII. At times this Theme is treated in a mood of contemplation remote from general experience as in LIV., LV., LX., LXIII. -LXV., and, thus handled, may serve, with two Themes, derived from it : Immortality by Breed, i.-xiv., xvi., xvii. Immortality by Verse, xv., xvn.-xix., xxxvni., LIV., LV., LX., LXV., LXXIV., LXXXI., c., ci., cvn. : for a transition to (3) Themes which are more abstruse and demand a more particular examination. Identity with his Friend : xx. ‘ My glass shall not persuade me I am old So long as youth and thou are of one date. . . . For all that beauty that doth cover thee Is but the seemly raiment of my heart. . . .’ xxxix. ‘ What can mine own praise to mine own self bring ? And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee? . . .’ cxviii INTRODUCTION XLII. ‘ But here’s the joy : my friend and I are one. . . .’ LXII. ‘ Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days. . . . ‘ cxn. (See Note.) cxxxui. ‘ Me from my self thy cruel eye hath taken And my next self (his friend) thou harder hast ingrossed cxxxiv. ‘ My self I ’11 forfeit, so that other mine Thou wilt restore.’ The conceit of Identity with the person addressed is but a part of the machinery of Renaissance Platonics derived, at many removes, from discussions in the Platonic Academy at Florence. Michelangelo had written in 1553 : ‘ If I yearn day and night without intermission to be in Rome, it is only in order to return again to life, which I cannot enjoy without the soul ‘ l viz., his friend. The Idea of Beauty. In xxxvii. ‘That I … by a part of all thy glory live’ is a ‘Shadow,’ cast by his Friend’s excellence, which yet f doth such substance give ‘ that ‘ I am not lame, poor, nor despised.’ In xxxi. all whom the Poet has loved and ‘ supposed dead ‘ ‘ love and all Love’s loving parts ‘ are not truly dead, ‘ but things removed that hidden in there lie’ viz. in the Friend’s bosom : ‘ Their images I lov’d I view in thee, And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.’ The mystical confusion with and in the Friend of all that is beautiful or lovable in the Poet and others, is a development from the Platonic theory of the IDEA OF BEAUTY: the eternal type of which all beautiful things on earth are but shadows. It is derived by poetical hyperbole from the Poet’s prior identification of the Friend’s beauty with Ideal Beauty. The theory of Ideal Beauty was a common feature of Renaissance 1 J. A. Symonds’ translation. INTRODUCTION cxix Poetry throughout Europe. Du Bellay had sung it in France fifty years before Shakespeare in England : ‘ La, O mon ame, au plus haut ciel guidee, Tu y pourras recognoistre 1’idee De la beaute qu’en ce monde j’adore.’ We need not infer that Shakespeare studied Du Bellay ‘s verse or the great corpus of Platonic poetry in Italy. Spenser, who translated some of Du Bellay’s sonnets at seventeen, had touched the theory in his Hymne of Heavenly Beautie (1596): ‘ More faire is that (heaven), where those Idees on hie Enraunged be, which Plato so admired ‘ : and had set it forth at length in his Hymne in Honour of Beautie (1596): 1 What time this world’s great Workmaister did cast To make all things such as we now behold, It seems that he before his eyes had plast A goodly Paterne. . . . That wondrous Paterne . . . Is perfect Beautie, which all men adore. . . . How vainely then do ydle wits invent, That Beautie is nought else but mixture made Of colours faire. . . . Hath white and red in it such wondrous powre, That it can pierce through th’eyes unto the hart . . . ? That Beautie is not,, as fond men misdeeme, An outward shew of things that only seeme. . . . But that faire lampe . . . … is heavenly born(e) and cannot die, Being a parcell of the purest skie. . . . Therefore where-ever that thou doest behold A comely corpse, with beautie faire endewed, Know this for certaine, that the same doth hold A beauteous soul. . . .’ Mr. Walter Raleigh has pointed out to me that Spenser and Shakespeare must have been familiar with Hoby’s translation of cxx INTRODUCTION Baldassare Castiglione’s // Cortegiano, published in 1 56 1 . l Indeed Spenser in his Hymne in Honour of Beautie does but versify the argument of Hoby’s admirable Fourth Book. ‘ Of the beawtie,’ Hoby writes, ‘ that we meane, which is onlie it that appeereth in bodies, and especially in the face of man . . . we will terme it an in fluence of the heavenlie bountifulness, the whiche for all it stretcheth over all thynges that be created (like the light of the Sonn) yet when it findeth out a face well proportioned, and framed with a certein livelie agreement of severall colours, and set forth with lightes and shadowes, and with an orderly distance and limites of lines, therinto it distilleth itself and appeereth most welfavoured, and decketh out and lyghtneth the subject, where it shyneth with a marveylous grace and glistringe (like the sonne beames that strike against a beautifull plate of fine golde wrought and sett with precyous jewelles).’ In Hoby’s exposition the beauty of the human face is the best reflector of the Heavenly Beauty which, like the sunlight, is reflected from all things from the ‘ world/ the ‘ heaven/ the ‘earth/ the ‘sun/ the ‘moon/ the ‘planets’ from ‘fowls/ f trees,’ ‘ ships/ ‘ buildings ‘ even from the ‘ roof of houses ‘ : so that ‘if under the skye where there falleth neyther haile nor rayne a mann should builde a temple without a reared ridge, it is to be thought, that it coulde have neyther a sightly showe nor any beawtie. Beeside other thinges therefore, it giveth great praise to the world, in saying that it is beawtifull. It is praised, in sayinge, the beawtifull heaven, beawtifull earth, beawtifull sea, beawtifull rivers, beawtifull wooddes, trees, gardeines, beawtifull cities, beawtifull churches, houses, 1 ‘ The Courtyer of Count Baldessar Castilio divided into foure bookes. Very necessary and profitable for yonge Gentilmen and Gentilwomen abiding in Court, Palaice or Place, done into Englyshe by Thomas Hoby. Imprinted at London by Wyllyam Seres at the signe of the Hedghogge, 1561.’ Cf. ‘ Adieu, my true court-friend : farewell my dear Castilio ‘ : where Malevole. addresses Bilioso. Marston’s The Malcontent’, I. i. 302. INTRODUCTION cxxi armies. In conclusion this comelye and holye beawtie is a wonderous settinge out of everie thinge. And it may be said that Good and bearvtifull be after a sort one selfe thinge. especiallie in the bodies of men : of the beawtie whereof the nighest cause (I suppose) is the beawtie of the soule : the which as a partner of the right and heavenlye beawtie, maketh sightly and beawtifull what ever she toucheth.’ Plato’s theory of Beauty had been ferried long before from Byzantium to Florence, and had there taken root, so that Michelangelo came to write : 1 Lo, all the lovely things we find on earth, Resemble for the soul that rightly sees That source of bliss divine which gave us birth : Nor have we first-fruits or remembrances Of heaven elsewhere. Thus, loving loyally, I rise to God, and make death sweet by thee.’ 1 And from Italy young noblemen, accredited to Italian courts or travelling for their pleasure, had brought its influence to France and England. So you have Spenser’s Hymne ; Drayton harping on Idea 2 ; and Barnfield (1595) apostrophising the sects : { The Stoicks thinke (and they come neere the truth) That vertue is the chiefest good of all, The Academicks on Idea call.’ Shakespeare must have read Spenser’s Hymn and Hoby’s Courtyer, in which Plato, Socrates, and Plotinus are all instanced : 1 J. A. Symonds’s translation. The great body of Platonic poetry did not pass without cavil even in Italy, for thus does the Blessed Giovenale Ancina state the defence and his reply : ‘ Mi rispose per un poco di scudo alia difesa, non esser cio tenuto ivi per lascivo, ne disonesto amore, se ben vano, e leggiero, ma Platonico, civile, modesto, con simplicita, e senza malitia alcuna, e per consequente poi honesto, gratioso, e comportabile. Al che sogginusi io subito, non amor Platonico, no, ma si ben veramente Plutonico, cive Satanico, e Infernale.’ Nuove Lattdi Ariose della Beatissima Virgine. Rome. 1600. 8 On the title-page of The Shepherd’s Garland, 1593 ; Ideas Mirrour, 1504, etc. cxxii INTRODUCTION the phrase genio Socratem applied to him in the epitaph on his monument attests his fondness for Platonic theories ; he was conversant with these theories, and in the Sonnets he addressed a little audience equally conversant with them; it is, therefore, not surprising that he should have borrowed their terminology. In some sonnets he does so, but the Sonnets are not, therefore, as some have argued, an exposition of Plato’s theory or of its Florentine develop ments. Shakespeare in certain passages does but lay under contribution the philosophy of his time just as, in other passages, he lays under contribution the art and occupations of his time, and in others, more frequently, the eternal processes of Nature. His Sonnets are no more a treatise of philosophy than they are a treatise of law. So far, indeed, is he from pursuing, as Spenser did pursue, a methodical exposition of the Platonic theory that he wholly inverts the very system whose vocabulary he has rifled. The Friend’s beauty is no longer Hoby’s ‘ plate of fine gold,’ which reflects Eternal Beauty more brilliantly than aught else. For a greater rhetorical effect it becomes in Shakespeare’s hand itself the very archetypal pattern and substance of which all beautiful things are but shadows.^ In i. the Poet urges the youth to marry, ‘That thereby Beauty’s Rose 2 might never die ‘ : xiv. ‘ Truth and Beauty shall together thrive If from thy self to store thou would’st convert : Or else of thee this I prognosticate, Thy end is Truth’s and Beauty’s doom and date.’ xix. His is ‘ Beauty’s pattern to succeeding men/ 1 ‘Shadow’ (Lat. umbra) was the term of art in Renaissance Platonism for the Reflexion of the Eternal Type. Giordano Bruno discoursed in Paris ‘De Umbris Idearum. 2 See Note on Typography of the Quarto (1609). INTRODUCTION cxxiii LIII. ‘ 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. ‘ The beauty of Adonis is such a shadow, so is the beauty of Helen : the ‘ spring of the year . . . doth shadow of your beauty show . . . and you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part.’ And in xcvni. ‘ The lily’s white, the deep vermilion in the rose ‘ are : ‘ But figures of delight, drawn after you, you pattern of all those,’ ( As with your shadow I with these did play.’ The Truth of Beauty. The theme of the IDEA OF BEAUTY, of his friend’s beauty as the incarnation of an eternal type, is often blended with another metaphysical theme THE TRUTH OF BEAUTY, e.g. in xiv. (supra). LIV. : Truth is an ornament which makes ‘ Beauty ‘ seem more beauteous. Here the Poet seems to equivocate on the double sense, moral and intellectual, of our word Truth, comparable to the double sense of our word Right, if, indeed, this be altogether a confusion of thought arising from poverty of language, and not a mystical perception by poets of some higher harmony between the Beautiful, the Good, and the True. Goethe wrote : Das Schone enthdlt das Gute ; and Keats : ‘ Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty, that is all Ye know on earth and all ye need to know.’ Many hold this for madness, but if that it be, it has been a part of the ‘divine madness’ of poets since they first sang ‘the most excellent of all forms of enthusiasm (or possession) ‘ ; l and Shakespeare, when he handles the TRUTH OF BEAUTY, does so almost always with but a secondary allusion, or with no allusion 1 Plato’s Phcsdrus. Plato and Platonism, Pater, 156. cxxiv INTRODUCTION at all, to his Friend’s constancy. He argues that the IDEA OF BEAUTY, embodied in his Friend’s beauty, of which all other beautiful things are%ut shadows, is also Truth : an exact coin cidence with an ‘ eternal form ‘ to which transitory presentments do but approximate. Plato wrote : ‘ Beauty alone has ‘ any such manifest image of itself: ‘so that it is the clearest, the most certain of all things, and the most lovable,’ l and Shake speare (Lucrece, 11. 29-30) : ‘ Beauty itself doth of itself persuade The eyes of men without an orator.’ Thus, in LXII., the Poet looks in the glass and thinks : ‘ No face so gracious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account.’ And why is his shape so true and the truth of it so important ? Because, reverting to the theme of Identity, his shape is that of the Friend’s beauty : ‘ ‘Tis thee (myself) that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days. . . .’ Again in ci. : f O Truant Muse, what shall be thy amends For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed ? Both truth and beauty on my love depends.’ And the Poet makes his Muse reply : ‘ Truth needs no colour with his colour fixt, Beauty no pencil beauty’s truth to lay : But best is best, if never intermixt.’ False Art Obscures the Truth of Beauty. In this last passage the Poet resumes an argument, put forward in earlier numbers, that the beauty of his Friend, being true, can only suffer from < false painting’ and ‘ornament.’ While so defending Beauty, which is Truth, from the disfigurement 1 Plato’s Phcsdrus. Plato and Platonism, Pater, 158. INTRODUCTION cxxv of false ornament, Shakespeare compares the false art of the Rival Poets, who also sing his Love, with the common practices of painting the cheeks 1 and wearing false hair 2 : xxi. ( So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse. . . . O let me true in love but truly write, And then believe me my love is as fair As any mother’s child/ In LXVII. all these themes are brought together : ‘ Why should false painting immitate his cheek And steal dead seeing of his living hue ? Why should poor Beauty indirectly seek Roses of shaddow, since his Rose is true ? ‘ In LXVIII. ‘ His cheek is the map of days out-worn, before the golden tresses of the dead . . . were shorn away … to live a second life on second head ‘ : ( And him as for a map doth nature store To shew false art what Beauty was of yore.’ Here * false art ‘ cannot refer, at any rate exclusively, to the actual use of fucuses and borrowed locks, for when the theme 1 Cf. Richard Barnfield, The Complaint of Chastitie, 1594. An obvious echo of the tirades in Shakespeare’s Lucrece. He writes of many : ‘ Whose lovely cheeks (with rare vermillion tainted) Can never blush because their faire is painted. ‘ ‘ O faire foule tincture, staine of Women-kinde, Mother of Mischiefe, Daughter of Deceate, False traitor to the Soule, blot to the Minde, Usurping Tyrant of true Beautie’s seate ; Right Coisner of the eye, lewd Follie’s baite, The flag of filthiness, the sinke of Shame, The Divell’s dey, dishonour of thy name.’ 2 Cf. Bassanio’s speech, Merchant of Venice^ iii. 2 : ‘ The world is still deceived by ornament.’ cxxvi INTRODUCTION is resumed (LXXXIL), the illustration of ‘gross painting’ is directly applied to the < false art ‘ of the Rival Poets : ‘ When they have devized What strained touches Rhetoric can lend, Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathised In true plain words, hy thy true telling friend. And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused.’ LXXXIII. continues : { I never saw that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set. . . . Their lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your Poets can in praise devize/ And in LXXXIV. : f Who is it that says most, which can say more Than this rich praise, that you alone are you.’ This ‘ false painting’ is the ‘false art’ of the Rival Poets in LXXXV., their ‘ praise richly compiled/ their ‘ golden quill ‘ and ‘ precious phrase by all the Muses filed/ Imaginary Standpoints in Time. The Poet views this Ideal Beauty of his friend from Imaginary Standpoints in Time. He looks back on it from an imaginary future (civ.), and tells the ‘ Age unbred, Ere you were born was Beauty’s summer dead/ He looks forward to it from the past, and, the descriptions of the fairest wights in the Chronicle of wasted Time (cvi.) shew him that ( Their antique pen would have exprest Even such Beauty as you master now/ So all their ‘praises are but prophesies/ Sometimes, with deeper mysticism, he all but accepts the Illusion of Repeated Experience for a truth of Philosophy. f If there be nothing new, INTRODUCTION cxxvii but that which is, hath been before ‘ (LIX.), then might e Record with a backward look Even of five hundred courses of the sun Show me your image in some antique book.’ For his Friend’s beauty is more than a perfect type prophesied in the past : it is a re-embodiment of perfection as perfection was in the prime : LXVII. < O, him she (Nature) stores, to show what wealth she had In days long since before these last so bad . . .’ LXVIII. ( And him as for a map doth Nature store To shew false art what Beauty was ofyore.’ The Unreality of Time. Since this Ideal Beauty is true, is very Truth, it is independent of Time, and eternal; it, with the love it engenders, is also independent of accident, and is unconditioned : cvn. ‘ 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 . . . ‘ cxvn. ( Love ‘s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come.’ Thus does the whole Series culminate in an Attack on the Reality of Time. cxxin., cxxiv., cxxv. are obscure to us ; yet they are written in so obvious a sequence, and with so unbroken a rhythmical swing, as to preclude the idea of ex tensive corruption in the text. They must once have been intelligible. Some attempts at elucidation have been made by fixing on single words, such as ‘ state ‘ (cxxiv. 1 ) and ‘ canopy’ (cxxv. 1), and then endeavouring to discover an allusion to historical events or to the supposed nobility of the person to whom the verses were addressed. But these attempts dissemble the main drift of the verses’ meaning, which cxxviii INTRODUCTION is clearly directed, at least in cxxm. and cxxiv., against the reality and importance of Time. In c., which opens this Group (c.-cxxv.), the Poet has bidden his Muse to ‘make Time’s spoils despised everywhere.’ In cxvi. he has declared that Love is an eternal power, of a worth unknown, but im measurably superior to the accidents of Time. In LIX. he has urged that even our thoughts may be vain repetitions of a prior experience : f If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled Which labouring for invention bear amiss, The second burthen of a former child ? ‘ And here, in a magnificent hyperbole, he asserts that ‘pyramids’ (1, 2) built up by Time with a might which is ‘ newer’ by comparison to his own changelessness, are, for all their antiquity, but ‘ new dressings ‘ of sights familiar to ante-natal existence : ‘ Our dates are brief and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old.’ So far there is fairly plain sailing, but the ensuing Lines 7, 8, constitute a real crux : 1 And rather make them born(e) to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told ‘ : Assuming these lines to refer to ‘ what ‘ Time ‘ foists upon us,’ the second implies that we ought to recognise the old things foisted upon us by Time for objects previously known, but that we ‘prefer to regard them as really new’ as just ‘born’ (Tyler), and e specially created for our satisfaction ‘ (Dowden). The explanation is not satisfactory, though probably the best to be got from the assumed reference. But(l) this reference of ‘ them ‘ to ‘ what,’ followed by a singular ‘ that is,’ can hardly be sustained grammatically, and (2) it scarce makes sense. Shakespeare cannot have intended that we admire things for their age while we regard them as really new.’ I suggest that INTRODUCTION cxxix the plural ‘them’ refers grammatically to the plural ‘ dates/ and that the word usually printed ‘ born ‘ 1 in line 7, had best be printed ‘borne’ as it is in the Quarto 2 ( = ‘ bourn’}. We make our brief dates into a bourn or limit to our desire (cf. e confined doom/ cvn. 4) instead of recollecting that ‘ we have heard them told’ (=reckoned) ‘before.’ There is but a colon in the Quarto after Line 8. And the third Quatrain continues to discuss dates ( =registers, Line 9, and records, Line 11). In Line 11 Shake speare denies the absolute truth both of Time’s records and the witness of our senses : ‘ For thy records and what we see doth lie.’ The sonnet, in fact, does but develop the attack of the one before it (cxxn.), in which he declares that the memory of his Friend’s gift ‘shall remain beyond all date even to Eternity; that such a ( record ‘ is better than the ‘ poor retention ‘ of tablets ; and that he needs no ‘ “tallies” to “score” his dear love.’ In cxxiv. Line 1 : ‘ If my dear love were but the child of State ‘ : ‘ State ‘ may contain a secondary allusion (as so often with Shakespeare) to the dignity of the person addressed ; but its primary meaning, continuing the sense of the preceding sonnet, and Indeed of all the numbers from c., is ‘ condition ‘ or ‘ circumstance.’ (Cf. ‘ Interchange of state and state itself confounded to decay/ LXIV. ; and ‘Love’s great case’ in cvm.). If his Love were the child of circumstance it might be dis inherited by any chance result of Fortune; but on the contrary, ‘it was builded far from accident.’ And ‘accident,’ as were ‘ case ‘ and ‘ State,’ is also a term of metaphysic : his Love belongs to the absolute and unconditioned, to Eternity and not to Time. In developing the idea of mutations in 1 Printed so first by Gildon, and accepted by subsequent editors. 2 Borne (French), and in Hamlet, Folio 1623 and Quarto. cxxx INTRODUCTION fortune, Shakespeare glances aside at some contemporary reverse in politics or art which we cannot decipher. It may have been the closing of the Theatres, the censorship of Plays, the imprisonment of Southampton or of Herbert. No one can tell, nor does it matter, for the main meaning is clear : namely, that this absolute Love is outside the world of politics, which are limited by Time, and count on leases of short numbered hours ; but in itself is ‘ hugely politic/ is an independent and self-sufficing State. In the couplet : ‘ To this I witness, call the fools of time Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime ‘ : some find an allusion to the merited execution of Essex, popularly called ‘the good Earl/ But the probability is that Shakespeare sympathised with Essex and those of the old nobility who were jealous of the Crown. And, again, it is simpler to take the lines as a fitting close to the metaphysical disquisition, and to see in them a rebuke of those who are so much the slaves of Time and its dates as to imagine that a moment of repentance cancels the essential iniquity of their lives. cxxv. is even more obscure. Yet the sense, to my mind, again seems clearer if we dismiss the theory that Shakespeare is here dwelling exclusively on the dignity of the person he addresses. Most of the sonnets, in the First Series, handle the themes of an Ideal Beauty incarnate in a mortal body, yet saved from decay by the immortality which verse confers ; of the need that such verse should truly express the Truth and Beauty of its object ; and of Love and Constancy which tran scend the limitations of Time. Since cxxv. comes at the end of the peroration to the last twenty-six Sonnets, which are all retrospective, and immediately before the Envoy, it seems to me only reasonable to read it in the light of its immediate INTRODUCTION cxxxi predecessors and of the principal themes recurring throughout the whole Series. The search for direct allusions to life in the Sonnets distracts us from the truth, that the selection of their themes was based quite as much upon current philosophy and artistic tradition as upon any actual experience. Something of all is involved, and we should lose sight of none. The poetry of Europe was steeped in Platonism, and, since the Trionf of Petrarch, the ‘ Triumph of Time ‘ and his ultimate defeat had been a common theme in many forms of art, especially in the Tapestries of Arras intro duced into great English houses during the Sixteenth Century : ‘ The wals were round about apparelle’d With costly cloths of Arras and of Toure.’ Faerie Queen, in. i. 34. Shakespeare wrote out of his own experience, but also under these influences of contemporary Art and Philosophy. And here, pursuing the earlier themes, he asks if it were ought to him, holding his views, to worship the outward show of Beauty with external homage, or, as I interpret Lines 3, 4, to win eternity by the mere form of his verse. This interpretation of 3-4 is borne out by the second quatrain. We have in it, as I submit, a recurrence to his attacks on the styles of poetry which he deprecated in the ‘ false painting ‘ of LXVII. ; the ‘ false art ‘ of LXVIII. ; the ‘ compounds strange ‘ of LXXVI. ; the ( strained touches of rhetoric ‘ and ‘ gross painting ‘ of LXXXII. ; the ‘ comments of praise richly compiled ‘ of LXXXV. These are the * compounds sweet ‘ of Line 7, for which dwellers on form and favour pay too much rent. ‘That you are you’ (LXXXIV.) is all that needs to be said, for (LXXXIII.) : ‘ There lives more life in one of your fair eyes Than both your poets can in praise devise.’ Therefore he tenders his ‘ oblation poor but free, Which is not mixed with seconds.’ cxxxii INTRODUCTION That last word ‘ seconds ‘ has been a stumbling-block for more than a century, thanks to Steevens. His note runs thus : ‘ I am just informed by an old lady that seconds is a provincial term for the second kind of flour, which is col lected after the smaller bran is sifted. That our author’s oblation was pure, unmixed with baser matter, is all that he meant to say.’ But may not seconds mean ‘ assistants’ and refer to the collaboration of the Two Poets in LXXXIII. ? It can hardly mean e baser matter ‘ ; since the contrast is between an offering humble, poor, and without art, and some other offering pre sumably rich and artificial, such as the verse of the Rival Poets criticised in the group concerned with their efforts. As for Line 1 3, ‘ Hence thou suborned Informer,’ I have argued else where x that the words in italics with capitals are not accidents of printing. This word of violent apostrophe refers to some person whose identity was obvious to the object of Shake speare’s verse, and if, as I have tried to show, these Sonnets belong to one sequence, it may be compared to the ‘ frailer spies’ of cxxi. XVII IMAGERY. These poetic themes are figured and displayed throughout the Sonnets by means of an Imagery which, as in Venus and Lucrece, is often so vividly seized and so minutely presented as to engross attention to the prejudice of the theme. Indeed, at some times the poet himself seems rather the quarry than the pursuer of his own images as it were a magician hounded by spirits of his summoning. Conceits were a fashion, and Shakespeare sometimes followed the fashion ; but this characteristic of his lyrical verse is rather a passive consequence of such obsession than the result of any deliberate pursuit of an 1 Note on typography of the Quarto (1609). INTRODUCTION cxxxiii image until it become a conceit. Put ‘ his ‘ for ‘ her,’ and, in Lucrece he, himself, describes the process : ‘ Much like a press of people at a door, Throng his inventions which shall go before. ‘ The retina of his mind’s eye, like a child’s, or that of a man feverish from the excitement of some high day, is as it were a shadow-sheet, on which images received long since revive and grow to the very act and radiancy of life. A true poet, it is tritely said, ever remains a child, but especially in this, that his vision is never dulled. The glass of the windows through which he looks out on the world is never ground of set purpose that his mind may the better attend to business within. And to a poet, as to a child, the primal processes of the earth never lose their wonder. So the most of Shakespeare’s images are taken from Nature, and then are painted but the word is too gross to convey the clarity of his art in so transparent an atmosphere as to seem still a part of Nature, showing her uses of perpetual change. In the Sonnets we watch the ceaseless Passing of the Year : civ. ‘ Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride ; Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d ; In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d. . . . ‘ v. ‘ Sap check’d with frost and lusty leaves quite gone. …” xii. ( . . . lofty trees . . . barren of leaves Which erst from heat did canopy the herd. . . . ‘ xin. ‘ . . . the stormy gusts of winter’s day And barren rage of death’s eternal cold. . . .’ LXXIII. ( 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’ : cxxxiv INTRODUCTION or, in a narrower cycle we follow the Decline of Day : xxxiu. ‘ 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 alchymy ; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. . . LXXIII. ‘ In me thou see’st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west ; Which by and by black night doth take away Death’s second self, that seals up all the rest.’ Taine insists, perhaps too exclusively, on the vivid imagery of Shakespeare’s verse ; Minto and Mrs. Meynell, perhaps too exclusively, on the magic of sound and association which springs from his unexpected collocation of words till then unmated. The truth seems to lie in a fusion of the two theories. When Shakespeare takes his images from Nature, the first excellence is predominant ; the second, when he takes them from the occupations of men. Often, in the Sonnets, he illustrates his theme with images from Inheritance^ or Usury, 2 or the Law ; B and then his effects 1 I. ‘tender heir.’ n. ‘ by succession.’ iv. ‘legacy’; ‘bequest.’ 2 iv. ‘usurer.’ vi. ‘usury’; ‘loan.’ xxxi. ‘tears’ are ‘interest of the dead.’ 3 xm. lease ; determination, xvni. lease ; date. xxx. sessions ; sum mon. XLVI. defendant’s plea ; title ; impannelled ; quest ; tenants ; verdict. XLIX. ‘And this my hand against myself uprear,’ viz., in taking an oath. LXXIV. arrest ; trial. LXXXVII. charter ; bonds ; determinate ; patent ; misprision ; judgment. CXX. fee ; ransoms, cxxvi. audit ; quietus, ‘ a technical term for the acquittance which every Sheriff (or accountant) receives on sell ing his account, at the Exchequer.’ The frequency of these terms in the Sonnets and Plays led Malone to conclude that Shakespeare must at one time have been an attorney. If so, we may the better believe that Ben Jonson intended Ovid for Shakespeare in The Poetaster, i. I : ‘ Poetry ! Ovid, whom I thought to see the pleader, became Ovid the play-maker ! ‘ Ibid, ‘ Misprize ! ay. marry, I would have him use such words now. … He should make him self a style out of these. ‘ And passim. INTRODUCTION cxxxv are rather produced by the successful impressment of technical terms to the service of poetry than by the recollections they revive of legal processes : ‘ When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past.’ Among such occupations he draws also upon Journeys (L.) ; Navigation (LXXX., LXXXVI., cxvi.) : ‘ O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark (sea-mark) That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wandering bark ‘ : Husbandry (in.) ; Medicine (cxvm.) ; Sieges (n.) : r { When forty winters shall besiege thy brow And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field ‘ : and a Courtier’s Career (vn., cxiv.) : xxxui. ( Full many a glorious morning have J seen Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye. . . . ‘ xxv. ‘ Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread But as the marygold at the sun’s eye ‘ : and this last was of a more striking application than now in the days of Elizabeth or James. He draws also on the arts of Painting (frequently), of Music (vm., cxxvm.), of the Stage (xxm.) ; on the Dark Sciences : xv. ‘Whereon the stars in secret influence comment.’ cvn. ( The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured, And the sad augurs mock their own presage ‘ xiv. l Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet, methinks, I have Astronomy ‘ (Astrology) : so prognosticating from his friend’s ‘ eyes ‘ ; on Alchemy (xxxm.), and Distillation (vi., LIV.) : v. ‘ Then were not summer’s distillation left A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass. . . . ‘ k cxxxvi INTRODUCTION cxix. ‘ What potions have I drunk of Syren tears Distill’d from lymbecks (alembics) foul as hell within.’ When, as in these examples, he takes his illustrations from professions and occupations, or from arts and sciences, his magic, no doubt, is mainly verbal ; but it springs from immediate perception (as in the case of annual and diurnal changes), when his images are taken from subtler effects of sensuous appreciation, be it of Shadows ; of the Transparency of Windows (in., XXIV.); of Reflections in Mirrors (in., xxn., LXII., LXXVII., cm.), or of Hallucinations in the Dark : xxvn. ‘ Save that my soul’s imaginary sight Presents their shaddow to my sightless view, Which, like a Jewell hung in ghastly night, Makes black night beauteous. . . .’ XLIII. ‘ When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay ! ‘ LXI. ‘ Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night ? ‘ And this source of his magic is evident also, when, as frequently, he makes use of Jewels (xxvn., xxxiv., XLVIII., LII., LXV., xcvi.); Apparel (11., xxvi., LXXVI.) ; the Rose (i., xxxv., LIV., LXVII., xcv., xcix., cix.); the Grave (i., iv., vi., xvii., xxxi., xxxn., LXXL, LXXII., LXXVII., LXXXI.) ; Sepulchral Monuments (LV., LXXXI., cvn.) ; the Alternation of Sunshine with Showers (xxxm., xxxiv.) ; the Singing of Birds (xxix.), and their Silence (xcvii., en.). Realism is the note of these imaginative perceptions, as it is when he writes : xxxiv. ( ‘Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face. . . .’ xxin. ‘ As an imperfect actor on the Stage, Who with his fear is put beside his part. . . .’ L. ‘ The beast that bears me, tired with my woe Plods dully on. . . .’ INTRODUCTION cxxxvii LX. f Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore. . . .’ LXXIII. ‘ When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs ‘ : when he instances the ‘Dyer’s Hand’ (cxi.) and the ‘crow that flies in heavens sweeiest air’ (LXX.) a clue to carrion or when he captures a vivid scene of nursery comedy : CXLIII. ‘ 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 which flies before her face, Not prizing her fair infant’s discontent.’ In all such passages the magic springs from imaginative observation rather than from unexpected verbal collocutions. And, while this observation is no less keen, the rendering of it no less faithful, than in the earlier Lyrical Poems, Conceits, though still to be found, are fewer : e.g., of the Eye and Heart (xxiv., XLVI. XLVII) ; Of the Four Elements earth, air, fire, water (XLIV., XLV.) ; and of the taster to a King (cxiv.). XVIII ELOQUENT DISCOURSE. On the other hand the ELOQUENT DIS COURSE of the earlier Poems becomes the staple of the Sonnets and their highest excellence. It is for this that we chiefly read them : xxxvi. ‘ Let me confess that we two must be twain Although our undivided loves are one. . XL. ‘ Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all ; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before ? . . . ‘ cxxxix. ‘ O call me not to justify the wrong That thy unkinduess lays upon my heart. . . .’ cxxxviii INTRODUCTION CXL. ‘ 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. … For if I should despair, I should grow mad, And in my madness might speak ill of thee.’ The last, addressed to the Dark Lady, are, it may be, as elo quent as any addressed to the Youth, but they lack something of those others’ silvery sadness : LXXI. ‘ No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly sullen hell, Give warning 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 wrote it ; for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking of me then should make you woe. O, if, I 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. ‘ O, lest the world should task you to recite What merit lived 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. For I am sham’d by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth. ‘ INTRODUCTION cxxxix xc. ‘ 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 after-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.’ XIX VERBAL MELODY. The theme of xc. is a sorrow which has, I suppose, been .’ suffered, at one time or another, by most men : it is hackneyed as dying. Yet the eloquence is peer less. I doubt if in all recorded speech such faultless perfec tion may be found, so sustained through fourteen consecutive lines. That perfection does not arise from any thought in the piece itself, for none is abstruse ; nor from its sentiment, which is common to all who love, and suffer or fear a diminu tion in their love’s return ; nor even from its imagery, though the line, ‘Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,’ holds its own against Keats’s ‘ There is a budding morrow in midnight,’ which Rossetti once chose for the best in English poetry. It arises from perfect verbal execution : from diction, rhythm, and the just incidence of accentual stresses enforced by assonance and alliteration. The charm of Shakespeare’s verbal surprises e.g., * a lass unparalleled,’ ‘ multitudinous seas,’ instanced by Mrs. Meynell once noted, is readily recognised, but much of his Verbal Melody defies analysis. Yet some of it, reminding cxl INTRODUCTION you of Chaucer’s ‘ divine liquidness of diction, his divine fluidity of movement ‘ : l { Feel I no wind that souneth so like peyne It seith “Alas ! why twinned be we twe^ne ” ‘ : or of Surrey : ‘ The golden gift that nature did thee geve To/asten/rendes, and/ede them at thy will With form and favour, taught me to bele’ve How thou art made to shew her greatest skill : may be explained by that absolute mastery he had over the rhythmical use of our English accent. Mr. Coventry Patmore has justly observed 2 that e the early poetical critics ‘ notably Sidney and Daniel ‘commonly manifest a much clearer dis cernment of the main importance of rhyme and accentual stress, in English verse, than is to be found among later writers.’ And this because, as he goes on to say, ‘ the true spirit of English verse appears in its highest excellence in the writings of the poets of Elizabeth and James.’ If we neglect Quantity, that is to say the duration of syllables, whose sum makes up an equal duration for each line and we must neglect it, for, except in the classical age of Greece, and of Rome in imitation of Greece, no language observes so constant a quantity for its syllables as to afford a governing element in verse we find in English verse Rhyme and Accentual Stress or Ictus. Now, Rhyme, but falteringly nascent in Folk-song before his day, was fully acclimatised by Chaucer from French, which has no emphatic accents, at a time when French was the natural tongue of the cultured in England. In a language without emphatic accents, or exact quantity, Rhyme was, and Rhyme is, a necessity to mark off and enforce the only con stant element, viz., Metre or the number of syllables in each line. But in the homely and corrupt English of Chaucer’s 1 Matthew Arnold. ‘2 Essay on English Metrical Law. INTRODUCTION cxli day, and side by side with the Court poetry, another poetry persisted, which was based exclusively upon the accentual stresses natural to northern languages. And it persisted down even to Shakespeare’s day. We find so curious and artful a metrist as Dunbar pursuing both traditions : Chaucer’s rhymed ‘staff of seven’ and the unrhymed, alliterative verse of Piers Plowman. Dimbar died, c. 1513 (as some think, at Flodden). But after his voice was silenced we have a contemporary poem on the battle Scottish Field 1 : There was girding forth of guns, with many great stones ; Archers uttered out their arrows and eagerly they shotten ; They proched us with spears and put many over ; That the blood outbrast at their broken harness. There was swinging out of swords, and swapping of heads, We blanked them with bills through all their bright armour, That all the dale dinned of the derf strokes : and editions of Piers Plowman were published in 1551 and 1561, showing a continuous appreciation of our indigenous but archaic mode. In that mode the major accents fall on syllables either consonantal or of cognate sound. This was no device of mere artifice : the impassioned speech of any Englishman becomes charged with stresses so heavy as to demand syllables of kindred sound on to which they may fall, and the demand is met unconsciously, since otherwise the weight of the accent would interrupt and shatter the flow of discourse. The heavy beat at the end of a French line and the heavy accents in an English line must be met and supported in the first case by Rhyme, in the second, by syllables similarly produced. Shake speare, in the Sonnets, whilst revelling in the joy of Rhyme, handed down from the French origin of English verse and con firmed by the imitation of Italian models, also turned the other 1 Cited by Ker with the reference : Ed. Robson, Chetham Society, 1855, from the Lyme MS. ; ed. Furnivall and Hales, Percy Folio Manuscript, 1867. cxlii INTRODUCTION and indigenous feature of English verse to the best conceivable advantage. No other English poet lets the accent fall so justly in accord with the melody of his rhythm and the em phasis of his speech, or meets it with a greater variety of subtly affiliated sounds. This may be illustrated from any one of the more melodious and, therefore, the more characteristic Sonnets. Take the First : 1. From/airest Creatures we desire increase 2. That thereby beauty’s .Rose might never Die 3. But as the /fc’per should by Time decease 4. His tender heir might bear his memory. 5. But thou contacted to thine own bright eyes 6. -Feed’st thy light’s /lame with se/^substantial/uel 7. Making a/amine where a&undance lies, 8. Thyself thy/oe to thy sweet self too cruel 9. ThoM that art now the world’s fresh ornament 10. And only herald to the gaudy spring 11. Within thine own bud buriest thy content 12. And tender churl mak’st waste in m’ggarding 13. Pity the world or else this Button be 14. To eat the world’s due by the grave and thee : and you observe (1) the use of kindred sounds, of alliteration or of assonance or of both, to mark the principal stresses in any one line : E.g., Line 1, Creatures and increase, where both are used ; Line 3, Jfftper and Time ; Line 4, heir and bear ; Line 5, contracted and bright ; Line 9, Thou and now : and (2), and this is most characteristic, the juxtaposition of assonantal sounds where two syllables consecutive, but in separate words, are ac cented with a marked pause between them : E.g., Line 5, bright eyes; Line 8, too cruel ; Line 11, bud bwriest ; Line 12, ma&’st waste. Mr. Patmore points out 1 that ‘ ordinary English phrases exhibit a great preponderance of emphatic and unemphatic syl1 Essay on English Metrical Law. INTRODUCTION cxliii lables in consecutive couples/ and our eighteenth century poets, absorbed in Metre and negligent of varied Rhythm, traded on this feature of our tongue to produce a number of dull iambic lines by the use of their banal trochaic epithets, ‘balmy/ ‘ mazy/ and the rest. Shakespeare constantly varies his Rhythm in the Sonnets, and frequently by this bringing of two accented syllables together, with a pause between. But, when he does so, he ensures a correct delivery by affiliating the two syllables in sound, and prefixing to the first a delaying word which pre cludes any scamping of the next ensuing accent : E.g. ‘ own ‘ before ‘ bright eyes ‘ ; ‘ self before ‘ too cruel ‘ ; ‘ churl ‘ before ‘ mak’st waste.’ Cf. ‘ Earth ‘ before ‘ sings hymns ‘ in xxix. 12; and xv. 8, ‘ and wear their brave state out of memory/ It is by this combination of Accent with Rhyme that Shake speare links the lines of each quatrain in his Sonnets into one perfect measure. If you except two ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds,’ and ‘ The expense of spirit in a waste of shame’ you find that he does not, as Milton did afterwards, build up his sonnet, line upon line, into one monumental whole : he writes three lyrical quatrains, with a pronounced pause after the second and a couplet after the third. Taking the First Sonnet once more, you observe (3) The binding together of the lines in each quatrain by passing on a kindred sound from the last, or most important, accent in one line to the first, or most important, in the next: E.g. from 2 to 3, from Die to .Riper by assonance ; from 3 to 4-, from Time to Tender by alliteration; from 6 to 7, from .Fuel to Famine; from 7 to 8, from Famine . . . lies to Thyself . . . jFoe; from 9 to 10, from Ornament to Herald; from 11 to 12, from content to tender; from 13 to 14, from be to eat. Cf. LX. lines 6, 7 : ‘ Crawls to maturity wherewith being crown d CVooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight.’ cxliv INTRODUCTION and cvin. 9, 10: ‘ So that eternal love in love’s fresh case Weighs not the dust.’ In a Petrarchan sonnet any such assonance, if it embraced the rhyme, would prove a blemish, but in the Shakespearian quatorzain it is a pleasant and legitimate accessory to the general binding together of the quatrain. Most subtle of all is the pent-up emphasis brought to bear on Rose in i. 2 a word not easily stressed by the frequency of R’s in the first line and their absence till Rose is reached in the second. (4) For a further binding together of the quatrain the Rhyme, or last syllable, though not accented, is often tied by assonance to the first syllable, though not accented, of the next line : E.g. i. lines 3, 4, decease Hi*; lines 7, 8, lies thyself; lines 10, 11, Spring within, lines 12, 13, niggardmg Pity. Shake speare’s effects of alliteration, apart from this use of them for the binding together of the quatrain, are at some times of astonishing strength : LXV. 7, 8. ‘ When rocks impregnable are not so stout Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays ‘ : and at others of a strange sweetness : ix. 5. ‘ The world will be thy widow and still weep.’ Again, at others he uses the device antithetically in dis course : xxxix. 10. ( Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave ‘ : and his rhythm is at all times infinitely varied : xix. 14. ‘ My love shall in my verse ever live long. . . .’ xxxin. 7. ‘ And from the forlorn world his visage hide. . . .’ LXXXVI. 4. e Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew. . . .’ xi. 10. ‘ Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish.’ INTRODUCTION cxlv Apart from all else, it is the sheer beauty of diction in Shakespeare’s Sonnets which has endeared them to poets. The passages, which I have quoted to other ends, must abund antly have proved this. Yet let me add these : v. 5, 6. ‘ For never-resting time leads summer on To hideous winter, and confounds him there. ‘ xvu. 7-12. ‘ The age to come would say, This Poet lies, Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces. So should my papers, yellowed with their age, Be scorn’ d, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be termed a poet’s rage, And stretche’d metre of an antique song.’ xvni. 1-4. ‘ Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day ? Thou art more lovely and more temperate : Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.’ XLVIII. 10, 11. ‘ Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art Within the gentle closure of my breast.’ LIV. 5, 6. ( The canker-blooms have all as deep a die As the perfumed tincture of the roses.’ LX. 9, 10. ‘ Time doth transfix the nourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow/ LXIV. 5, 6. ‘ When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore.’ LXV. 1-4. f Since brass, nor stone, nor earth , nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o’ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower ? ‘ LXXXIX. 8. ‘ I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange.’ xciv. 9, 10. ‘ The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die.’ cxlvi INTRODUCTION xcvii. 1-4. ‘ 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 everywhere.’ xcvii. 12-14. ‘ 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. xcvui. 9, 10. ‘ Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose.’ cv. 1. ‘ Let not my love be call’d idolatry.’ cxxxn. 5, 6. ‘ And truly not the morning sun in heaven Better becomes the gray cheeks of the East.’ CXLII. 5, 6. e Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine That have profaned their scarlet ornaments.’ CXLVI. 13, 14. ‘ So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, And death once dead, there’s no more dying then.’ xx It matters nothing to Art that Titian may have painted his Venus from the Medici’s wife : Antinous gave the world a Type of Beauty to be gazed at without a thought of Hadrian. But the case is not altered when the man who rejoices or suffers is also the man who labours and achieves. It matters nothing to Art that Luca Signorelli painted the corpse of his beloved son, and it is an open question if Dante loved indeed a living Beatrice. Works of perfect Art are the tombs in which artists lay to rest the passions they would fain make immortal. The more perfect their execution, the longer does the sepulchre endure, the sooner does the passion perish. Only where the hand has faltered do ghosts of love and anguish still complain. In the most of his Sonnets Shake speare’s hand does not falter. The wonder of them lies in INTRODUCTION cxlvii the art of his poetry, not in the accidents of his life ; and, within that art, not so much in his choice of poetic themes as in the wealth of his IMAGERY, which grows and shines and changes : above all, in the perfect execution of his VERBAL MELODY. That is the body of which his IMAGERY is the soul, and the two make one creation so beautiful that we are not concerned with anything but its beauty. G. W. P.S. Let me here acknowledge my great debt to Mr. W. E. Henley for his constant help in the preparation of this Edition. But for his persuasion I should never have attempted a task which, but for his encouragement, I could never have accomplished. m VENUS AND ADONIS ‘ Vilia miretur vulgus ; mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.’ TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE HENRE WRIOTHESLEY, EARLE OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TITCHFIELD. RIGHT HONOURABLE, I know not how I shall offend in dedi cating my unpolisht lines to your Lordship, nor how the worlde will censure mee for choosing so strong a proppe to support so weak a burthen : onelye, if your Honour seeme but pleased, I account my selfe highly praised, and vowe to take aduantage of all idle houres, till I have honoured you with some grauer labour. But if the first heire of my inuention proue deformed, I shall be sorie it had so noble a god-father, arid neuer after eare so barren a land, for feare it yeeld me still so bad a haruest. I leaue it to your Honourable suruey, and your Honor to your heart’s con tent ; which I wish may always answere your owrie wish and the world’s hopefull expectation. Your Honor’s in all dutie, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. VENUS AND ADONIS 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 chace ; Hunting he loved, but love he laugh’d to scorn ; 4 Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, And like a bold-faced suitor ‘gins to woo him. n ‘ Thrice-fairer than myself,’ thus she began, 7 ‘ 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 ; 10 Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, Saith that the world hath ending with thy life. in ‘ Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, 13 And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow ; If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know : 16 Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses, And being set, I ’11 smother thee with kisses : IV 1 And yet not cloy thy lips with loath’d satiety, 19 But rather famish them amid their plenty, Making them red, and pale, with fresh variety ; Ten kisses short PS one, one. long as twenty : 22 A summer’s da raliiil seem an hour but short, Being wasted -il such time-beguiling sport.’ 4 VENUS AND ADONIS V With this she seizeth on his sweating palm, 25 The precedent of pith and livelihood, And trembling in her passion, calls it balm, Earth’s sovereign salve, to do a goddess good : 28 Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force Courageously to pluck him from his horse. VI Over one arm the lusty courser’s rein, 31 Under her other was the tender boy, Who blush’d, and pouted in a dull disdain, With leaden appetite, unapt to toy ; 34 She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, He red for shame, but frosty in desire. VII The studded bridle on a ragged bough 37 Nimbly she fastens : O, how quick is love ! The steed is stalled up, and even now To tie the rider she begins to prove : 40 Backward she push’d him, as she would be thrust, And govern’d him in strength, though not in lust. VIII So soon was she along as he was down, 43 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 ; 46 And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, f If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open/ IX He burns with bashful shame, she with her tears 49 Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks ; Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs To fan, and blow them dry again sjhe seeks : 52 He saith she is immodest, hi’ yS her miss ; What follows more she murdei with a kiss. VENUS AND ADONIS 5 X Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, 55 Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone, Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, Till either gorge be stuff’d or prey be gone ; 58 Even so she kiss’d his brow, his cheek, his chin, And where she ends she doth anew begin. XI Forced to content, but never to obey, 61 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 ; 64 Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers, So they were dew’d with such distilling showers. XII Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net, 67 So fast’ned in her arms Adonis lies ; Pure shame and aw’d resistance made him fret, Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes : 70 Rain added to a river that is rank Perforce will force it overflow the bank. pin / Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, 73 For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale ; Still is he_sullen, still he lours and frets, Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale ; 76 Being red, she loves him best ; and being white, Her best is better’d with a more delight. XIV Look how he can, she cannot choose but love ; 79 And by her fair immortal hand she swears, From his soft bosom never to remove, Till he take truce with her contending tears, 82 Which long have rain’d, making her cheeks all wet ; And one sweet kiss shall pay this comptless debt. 6 VENUS AND ADONIS XV Upon this promise did he raise his chin, , 85 Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, Who, being look’d on, ducks as quickly in ; So offers he to give what she did crave ; 88 But when her lips were ready for his pay, He winks, and turns his lips another way. XVI Never did passenger in summer’s heat 9 1 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 : 94 ‘ O, pity,’ ‘gan she cry, ‘ flint-hearted boy ! Tis but a kiss I beg ; why art thou coy ? XVII ‘ I have been woo’d, as I entreat thee now, 97 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 ; 100 Yet hath he been my captive and my slave, And begg’d for that which thou unask’d shalt have. XVIII ‘ Over my Altars hath he hung his lance, 103 His 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, 106 Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red, Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. XIX ‘ Thus he that overruled I overswayed, 109 Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain : Strong-temper’d steel his stronger strength obeyed, Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. 112 O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, For mast’ring her that foil’d the god of fight ! VENUS AND ADONIS 7 XX 1 Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine, 115 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 : n Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies ; Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes ? ‘ Art thou ashamed to kiss ? then wink again, 121 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 : 124 These blue-vein’d violets whereon we lean, Never can blab, nor know not what we mean. XXII ‘The tender spring upon thy tempting lip 127 Shows thee unripe ; yet mayst thou well be tasted : Make use of time, let not advantage slip ; Beauty within itself should not be wasted : 130 Fair flowers that are not gather’d in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time. XXIII ‘ Were I hard-favour’d, foul, or wrinkled-old, 133 Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, O’erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold, Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice, 136 Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee ; But having no defects, why dost abhor me ? XXIV ( Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow ; 139 Mine eyes are grey and bright and quick in turning ; My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow, My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning ; 142 My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt, Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. 8 VENUS AND ADONIS XXV ‘ Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, 145 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 : 148 Love is a spirit all compact of fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. XXVI ‘ Witness this Primrose bank whereon I lie ; 151 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 : 154 Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee ? xxvn ‘ Is thine own heart to thine own face affected ? 157 Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left ? Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected : Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft. 160 Narcissus so himself himself forsook, And died to kiss his shadow in the brook. XXVIII ‘Torches are made to light, jewels to wear, 163 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 : 166 Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty ; Thou wast begot ; to get it is thy duty. XXIX ‘ Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed, 169 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 ; 172 And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive, In that thy likeness still is left alive.’ VENUS AND ADONIS 9 XXX By this the love-sick Queen began to sweat, 175 For where they lay, the shadow had forsook them, And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat, With burning eye did hotly overlook them ; 178 Wishing Adonis had his team to guide, So he were like him and by Venus’ side. XXXI And now Adonis, with a lazy spright, 181 And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye, His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight, Like misty vapours when they blot the sky, 184 Souring his cheeks, cries ‘ Fie, no more of love ! The sun doth burn my face ; I must remove/ XXXII ‘ Ay me,’ quoth Venus, ‘ young, and so unkind ? 187 What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone ! I ’11 sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind Shall cool the heat of this descending sun : 190 I ’11 make a shadow for thee of my hairs ; If they burn too, I ’11 quench them with my tears. XXXIII ‘ The sun that shines from heaven, shines but warm, 193 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 ; 196 And were I not immortal, life were done Between this heavenly and earthly sun. xxxiv ‘ Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel ? 199 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 ? 202 O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind, She had not brought forth thee, but died unkinn’d. 10 VENUS AND ADONIS XXXV ‘ What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this ? 205 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 : 208 Give me one kiss, I ’11 give it thee again, And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain. xxxvi ‘ Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, 211 Well-painted idol, image dull and dead, Statue contenting but the eye alone, Thing like a man, but of no woman bred ! 214 Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion, For men will kiss even by their own direction.’ XXXVII This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, 217 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 : 220 And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak, And now her sobs do her intendments break. XXXVIII Sometime she shakes her head, and then his hand, 223 Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground ; Sometime her arms infold him like a band : She would, he will not in her arms be bound ; 226 And when from thence he struggles to be gone, She locks her lily fingers one in one. xxxix Fondling, she saith, Since I have hemm’d thee here 229 Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I ’11 be a park, and thou shalt be my deer ; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale : 232 Graze on my lips ; and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie. VENUS AND ADONIS 11 XL ‘ Within this limit is relief enough, 235 Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain, Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough, To shelter thee from tempest and from rain : 238 Then be my deer, since I am such a park : No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark. XLI At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, 241 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 ; 244 Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, Why, there Love lived and there he could not die. XLII These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits, 247 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 ? 250 Poor Queen of love, in thine own law forlorn, To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn ! XLIII Now which way shall she turn ? what shall she say ? 253 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 : 256 ‘ Pity,’ she cries, ‘ some favour, some remorse ! ‘ Away he springs and hasteth to his horse. XLIV But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by, 259 A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud, Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy, And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud : 262 The strong-neck’d steed, being tied unto a tree, Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he. 12 VENUS AND ADONIS XLV Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, 265 And now his woven girths he breaks asunder ; The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds, Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder ; 268 The iron bit he crusheth ‘tween his teeth, Controlling what he was controlled with. XLVI His ears up-prick’d ; his braided hanging mane 271 Upon his compass’d crest now stand on end ; His nostrils drink the air, and forth again, As from a furnace, vapours doth he send : 274 His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shows his hot courage and his high desire. XLV1I Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps, 277 With gentle majesty and modest pride ; Anon he rears upright, curvets, and leaps, As who should say ‘ Lo, thus my strength is tried ; 280 And this I do to captivate the eye Of the fair breeder that is standing by.’ XLVIII What recketh he his rider’s angry stir, 283 His flattering < Holla,’ or his ‘ Stand, I say ‘ ? What cares he now for curb or pricking spur ? For rich caparisons or trappings gay ? 286 He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, For nothing else with his proud sight agrees. XLIX Look, when a Painter would surpass the life, 289 In limning out a well-proportion’d steed, His Art with Nature’s workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed ; 292 So did this horse excel a common one In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone. VENUS AND ADONIS 13 L Round-hoofd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, 295 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 : 298 Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back. LI Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares ; 301 Anon he starts at stirring of a feather ; To bid the wind a base he now prepares, And whe’r he run or fly they know not whether ; 304 For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who wave like feath’red wings. LII . He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her ; 307 She answers him as if she knew his mind : Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her, She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind, 310 Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels, Beating his kind embracements with her heels. LIII Then, like a melancholy malcontent, 313 He vails his tail that, like a falling plume, Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent : He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume. 316 His love, perceiving how he is enraged, Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged. LIV His testy master goeth about to take him ; 319 When, lo, the unback’d breeder, full of fear, Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him, With her the horse, and left Adonis there : 322 As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them, Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them. 14 VENUS AND ADONIS LV All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits, 325 Banning his boist’rous and unruly beast : And now the happy season once more fits, That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest ; 328 For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue. LVI An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d, 331 Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage : So of concealed sorrow may be said ; Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage ; 334 But when the heart’s attorney once is mute, The client breaks, as desperate in his suit. LVII He sees her coming, and begins to glow : 337 Even as a dying coal revives with wind And with his bonnet hides his angry brow, Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind : 340 Taking no notice that she is so nigh, For all askance he holds her in his eye. LVIII O, what a sight it was, wistly to view 343 How she came stealing to the wayward boy ! To note the fighting conflict of her hue, How white and red each other did destroy ! 346 But now her cheek was pale, and by and by It flash’d forth fire, as lightning from the sky. LIX Now was she just before him as he sat, 349 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 : 352 His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand’s print, As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint. VENUS AND ADONIS 15 LX O, what a war of looks was then between them ! 355 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 : 358 And all this dumb play had his acts made plain With tears, which, Chorus-like, her eyes did rain. LXI Full gently now she takes him by the hand, 361 A lily prison’d in a gaol of snow, Or ivory in an alabaster band ; So white a friend engirts so white a foe : 364 This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling, Show’d like two silver doves that sit a-billing. LXII Once more the engine of her thoughts began : 367 ‘ 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 ; 370 For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee, Though nothing but my body’s bane would cure thee.’ LXIII e Give me my hand,’ saith he, ‘ why dost thou feel it ? ‘ 373 ‘ 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 : 376 Then love’s deep groans I never shall regard, Because Adonis’ heart hath made mine hard.’ LXIV 1 For shame,’ he cries, l let go, and let me go ; 379 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 ; 382 For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.’ 16 VENUS AND ADONIS LXV Thus she replies : ‘ Thy palfrey, as he should, 385 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, 388 The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none ; Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone. LXVI ‘ How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree, 391 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 ; 394 Throwing the base thong from his bending crest, Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast. LXVII ‘ Who sees his true-love in her naked bed, 397 Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white, But, when his glutton eyes so full hath fed, His other agents aim at like delight ? 400 Who is so faint, that dares not be so bold To touch the fire, the weather being cold ? LXVIII ‘ Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy ; 403 And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee, To take advantage on presented joy ; Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee : 406 O, learn to love ; the lesson is but plain, And once made perfect, never lost again/ LXIX e I know not love,’ quoth he, ‘ nor will not know it, 409 Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it ; ‘Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it ; My love to love is love but to disgrace it ; 412 For I have heard it is a life in death, That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath. VENUS AND ADONIS 17 LXX ‘ Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish’d ? 415 Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth ? If springing things be any jot diminish’d, They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth : 418 The colt that’s back’d and burthen’d being young Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong. LXXI ‘ You hurt my hand with wringing ; let us part, 421 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 : 424 Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery ; For where a heart is hard they make no battery.’ LXX1 1 ‘ What ! canst thou talk ? ‘ quoth she, ‘ hast thou a tongue ? O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing ! 428 Thy mermaid’s voice hath done me double wrong ; I had my load before ; now press’ d with bearing, 430 Melodious discord, heavenly tune harsh-sounding, Ear’s deep-sweet music, and heart’s deep-sore wounding. LXXIII ‘ Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love 433 That inward beauty and invisible ; Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would wove Each part in me that were but sensible : 436 Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see, Yet should I be in love by touching thee. LXXIV ‘ Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me, 439 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 ; 442 For from the stillitory of thy face excelling Comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by smelling. 18 VENUS AND ADONIS LXXV ‘ But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste, 445 Being nurse and feeder of the other four ! Would they not wish the feast might ever last, And bid Suspicion double-lock the door, 448 Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest, Should by his stealing in disturb the feast ? ‘ LXXVI Once more the ruby-colour’d portal open’d, 451 Which to his speech did honey passage yield ; Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken’d Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field, 454 Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds. LXXVII This ill presage advisedly she marketh : 457 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, 460 Or like the deadly bullet of a gun, His meaning struck her ere his words begun. LXXVIII And at his look she flatly falleth down, 463 For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth : A smile recures the wounding of a frown ; But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth ! 466 The silly boy, believing she is dead, Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red ; LXXIX And all amazed brake off his late intent, 469 For sharply he did think to reprehend her, Which cunning love did wittily prevent : Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her ! 472 For on the grass she lies as she were slain, Till his breath breatheth life in her again. VENUS AND ADONIS 19 LXXX He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks, 475 He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard, He chafes her lips ; a thousand ways he seeks To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr’d : 478 He kisses her ; and she, by her good will, Will never rise, so he will kiss her still. LXXXI The night of sorrow now is turn’d to day : 481 Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth, Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth ; 484 And as the bright sun glorifies the sky, So is her face illumin’d with her eye ; LXXXII Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix’d, 487 As if from thence they borrow’d all their shine, Were never four such lamps together mix’d, Had not his clouded with his brow’s repine ; 490 But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light, Shone like the Moon in water seen by night. LXXXIII ‘ O, where am I ? ‘ quoth she, ‘ in earth or heaven, 493 Or in the Ocean drench’d, or in the fire ? What hour is this ? or morn, or weary even ? Do I delight to die, or life desire ? 496 But now I liv’d, and life was death’s annoy ; But now I died, and death was lively joy. LXXXIV ‘ O, thou didst kill me : kill me once again : 499 Thy eyes’ shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine, Hath taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain, That they have murder’d this poor heart of mine ; 502 And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen, But for thy piteous lips no more had seen. 20 VENUS AND ADONIS LXXXV e Long may they kiss each other, for this cure ! 505 O, never let their crimson liveries wear ! And as they last, their verdure still endure, To drive infection from the dangerous year ! 508 That the star-gazers, having writ on death, May say, the plague is banish’ d by thy breath. LXXXVI f Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted, 511 What bargains may I make, still to be sealing ? To sell myself I can be well contented, So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing ; 514 Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips, Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips. LXXXVII ‘ A thousand kisses buys my heart from me ; 517 And pay them at thy leisure, one by one. What is ten hundred touches unto thee ? Are they not quickly told and quickly gone ? 520 Say, for non-payment that the debt should double, Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble ? ‘ LXXXVIII ‘ Fair Queen,’ quoth he, ‘ if any love you owe me, 523 Measure my strangeness with my unripe years : Before I know myself, seek not to know me ; No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears : 526 The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast, Or being early pluck’d is sour to taste. LXXXIX ‘ Look, the world’s comforter, with weary gait, 529 His day’s hot task hath ended in the west ; The owl, night’s herald, shrieks ; ’tis very late ; The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest, 532 And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven’s light Do summon us to part and bid good-night. VENUS AND ADONIS 21 xc ‘ Now let me say ” Good night/’ and so say you ; 535 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 : 538 Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace ; Incorporate then they seem ; face grows to face. xci Till breathless he disjoin’d, and backward drew 541 The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth, Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew, Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth : 544 He with her plenty press’d, she faint with dearth, Their lips together glued, fall to the earth. xcii Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey, 547 And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth ; Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey, Paying what ransom the insulter willeth ; 550 Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high, That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry. XCIII And having felt the sweetness of the spoil, 553 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, 556 Planting oblivion, beating reason back, Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s wrack. xciv Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing, 559 Like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling, Or as the fleet-foot roe that ‘s tired with chasing, Or like the froward infant still’d with dandling, 562 He now obeys, and now no more resisteth, While she takes all she can, not all she listeth. 22 VENUS AND ADONIS XCV What wax so frozen but dissolves with temp’ring, 565 And yields at last to every light impression ? Things out of hope are compass’d oft with vent’ring, Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission : 568 Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward. xcvi When he did frown, O, had she then gave over, 571 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 ! 574 Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last. xcvn For pity now she can no more detain him ; 577 The poor fool prays her that he may depart : She is resolv’d no longer to restrain him ; Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart, 580 The which, by Cupid’s bow she doth protest, He carries thence incaged in his breast. xcvin ( Sweet boy,’ she says, ‘ this night I ’11 waste in sorrow, 583 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 ? ‘ 586 He tells her, no ; to-morrow he intends To hunt the boar with certain of his friends. xcix ‘ The boar ! ‘ quoth she ; whereat a sudden pale, 589 Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose, Usurps her cheek ; she trembles at his tale, And on his neck her yoking arms she throws : 592 She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, He on her belly falls, she on her back. VENUS AND ADONIS 23 c Now is she in the very lists of love, 595 Her champion mounted for the hot encounter : All is imaginary she doth prove, He will not manege her, although he mount her ; 598 That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy, To clip Elysium and to lack her joy. ci Even so poor birds, deceiv’d with painted grapes, 601 Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw : Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. 604 The warm effects which she in him finds missing, She seeks to kindle with continual kissing. en But all in vain ; good Queen, it will not be : 607 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. 610 ‘ Fie, fie,’ he says, ‘ you crush me ; let me go ; You have no reason to withhold me so.’ cm ‘ Thou hadst been gone,’ quoth she, ‘ sweet boy, ere this, But that thou told’st me thou would’st hunt the boar. 614 O, be advised : thou know’st not what it is With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore, 616 Whose tushes never sheath’d he whetteth still, Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill. civ ‘ On his bow-back he hath a battel set 619 Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes ; His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret ; His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes ; 622 Being moved, he strikes whate’er is in his way, And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay. 24 VENUS AND ADONIS cv 1 His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed, 625 Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter ; His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed ; Being ireful, on the lion he will venture : 628 The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, As fearful of him, part ; through whom he rushes. cvi ( Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine, 631 To which Love’s eyes pay tributary gazes ; Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne, Whose full perfection all the world amazes ; 634 But having thee at vantage, wondrous dread ! Would root these beauties as he roots the mead. CVII ‘ -O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still ; 637 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. 640 When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble, I fear’d thy fortune, and my joints did tremble. CVIII ‘ Didst thou not mark my face ? was it not white ? 643 Saw’st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye ? Grew I not faint ? and fell I not downright ? Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie, 646 My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest, But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast. cix ‘ For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy 649 Doth call himself affection’s sentinel ; Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny, And in a peaceful hour doth cry ” Kill, kill ! ” 652 Distemp’ring gentle Love in his desire, As air and water do abate the fire. VENUS AND ADONIS 25 cx ( This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy, 655 This canker that eats up Love’s tender spring, This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy, That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring, 658 Knocks at my heart and whispers in mine ear That if I love thee, I thy death should fear : CXI ‘ And more than so, presenteth to mine eye 661 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 ; 664 Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head. cxn ( What should I do, seeing thee, so indeed, 667 That tremble at th’ imagination ? The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, And fear doth teach it divination : 670 I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow, If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow. CXIII ‘ But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me ; 673 Uncouple at the timorous flying hare, Or at the fox which lives by subtilty, Or at the roe which no encounter dare : 676 Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs, And on thy well-breath’d horse keep with thy hounds. cxiv ‘ And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, 679 Mark the poor wretch, to overshut his troubles, How he outruns the wind, and with what care He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles : 682 The many musits through the which he goes Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes 26 VENUS AND ADONIS cxv ‘ Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep, 685 To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell ; And sometime where earth-delving conies keep, To stop the loud pursuers in their yell ; 688 And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer : Danger deviseth shifts ; wit waits on fear : cxvi 1 For there his smell with others being mingled, 691 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 ; 694 Then do they spend their mouths : Echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies. cxvn ‘ By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill, 697 Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear, To hearken if his foes pursue him still : Anon their loud alarums he doth hear ; 700 And now his grief may be compared well To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell. CXVIII ‘ Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch 703 Turn, and return, indenting with the way ; Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch, Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay : 706 For misery is trodden on by many, And being low never relieved by any. cxix ‘ Lie quietly, and hear a little more ; 709 Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise : To make thee hate the hunting of the boar, Unlike myself thou hear’st me moralize, 712 Applying this to that, and so to so ; For love can comment upon every woe. VENUS AND ADONIS 27 cxx ‘ Where did I leave ? ‘ ‘ No matter where ; ‘ quoth he, 715 ‘ Leave me, and then the story aptly ends : The night is spent.’ ‘ Why, what of that ? ‘ quoth she. ‘ I am/ quoth he, e expected of my friends ; 718 And now ’tis dark, and going I shall fall.’ ‘ In night/ quoth she, ‘ desire sees best of all. CXXI ‘ But if thou fall, O, then imagine this, 721 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 724 Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn, Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn. cxxn ( Now of this dark night I perceive the reason : 727 Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine, Till forging Nature be condemn’d of treason, For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine ; 730 Wherein she framed thee in high heaven’s despite, To shame the sun by day and her by night. CXXIII ‘ And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies 733 To cross the curious workmanship of nature, To mingle beauty with infirmities, And pure perfection with impure defeature, 736 Making it subject to the tyranny Of mad mischances and much misery ; cxxiv ‘ As burning fevers, agues pale and faint, 739 Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood, The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint Disorder breeds by heating of the blood : 742 Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn’d despair, Swear Nature’s death for framing thee so fair. 28 VENUS AND ADONIS cxxv ‘ And not the least of all these maladies 745 But in one minute’s fight brings beauty under : Both favour, savour, hue, and qualities, Whereat th’ impartial gazer late did wonder, 748 Are on the sudden wasted, thaw’d, and done, As mountain snow melts with the midday sun. cxxvi ‘ Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity, 751 Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns, That on the earth would breed a scarcity And barren dearth of daughters and of sons, 754 Be prodigal : the lamp that burns by night Dries up his oil to lend the world his light. cxxvn ‘ What is thy body but a swallowing grave, 757 Seeming to bury that posterity Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity ? 760 If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain. CXXVIII ( So in thyself thyself art made away ; 763 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. 766 Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, But gold that ‘s put to use more gold begets/ cxxix ( Nay, then,’ quoth Adon, ‘ you will fall again 769 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 ; 772 For, by this black-faced night, desire’s foul nurse, Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse. VENUS AND ADONIS 29 cxxx ‘ If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, 775 And every tongue more moving than your own, Bewitching like the wanton Mermaid’s songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown ; 778 For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear, And will not let a false sound enter there ; cxxxi ‘ Lest the deceiving harmony should run 781 Into the quiet closure of my breast ; And then my little heart were quite undone, In his bedchamber to be barr’d of rest. 784 No, Lady, no ; my heart longs not to groan, But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone. CXXXII ‘ What have you urged that I cannot reprove ? 787 The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger : I hate not love, but your device in love, That lends embracements unto every stranger. 790 You do it for increase : O strange excuse, When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse ! CXXXIII 1 Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled, 793 Since sweating Lust on earth usurp’d his name ; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame ; , 796 Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves, As caterpillars do the tender leaves. CXXXIV t Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, 799 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 ; 802 Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies ; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies. 30 VENUS AND ADONIS cxxxv ‘ More I could tell, but more I dare not say ; 805 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 : 808 Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended, Do burn themselves for having so offended.’ cxxxvi W*c/’*”^ ** **v/ .. With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace ^ 8n Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast, x^ And homeward through the dark lawnd runs apace ;^\ Leaves Love upon her back, deeply distress’ d : ^ 814 Look, how a’ bright stal- shpote^h from the sITy,t\ So glicles he in the nigKt from Venus’ eye fc^ cxxxvu Which after him she darts, as one on shore 817 Gazing upon a late-embarked friend, Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend : 820 So diU the merciless ariH pitchy night m Fold in the object that did feed her sight. CXXXVIII Whereat amazed, as one that unaware 823 Hath dropp’d a precious jewel in the flood, Or stonish’d as night-wand’rers often are, Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood ; 826 Even so confounded in the dark she lay, Having lost the fair discovery of her way. CXXXIX And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, 829 That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled, Make verbal repetition of her moans ; Passion on passion deeply is redoubled : 832 ‘ Ay me ! ‘ she cries, and twenty times ‘ Woe, woe ! ‘ And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. VENUS AND ADONIS 31 CXL She marking them begins a wailing note, 835 And sings extemporally a woeful ditty ; How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote ; How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty : 838 Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so. CXLI Her song was tedious, and outwore the night, 841 For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short : If pleas’d themselves, others, they think, delight In such like circumstance, with such like sport : 844 Their copious stories, oftentimes begun, End without audience, and are never done. CXLII For who hath she to spend the night withal 847 But idle sounds resembling parasites, Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call, Soothing the humour of fantastic wits ? 850 She says f ‘Tis so : ‘ they answer all ‘ Tis so ; ‘ And would say after her, if she said ‘ No.’ CXLIII Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, 853 From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty ; 856 Who doth the world so gloriously behold That Cedar-tops and hills seem burnish’d gold. CXLIV Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow : 859 ‘ 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, 862 There lives a son that suck’d an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.’ 32 VENUS AND ADONIS CXLV This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, 865 Musing the morning is so much o’erworn, And yet she hears no tidings of her love : She hearkens for his hounds, and for his horn : 868 Anon she hears them chant it lustily, And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. CXLVI And, as she runs the bushes in the way, 871 Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, Some twined about her thigh to make her stay : She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, 874 Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake. CXLVII By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay ; 877 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 shudder ; 880 Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds Appals her senses and her spirit confounds. CXLVIII For now she knows it is no gentle chase, 883 But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud, Because the cry remaineth in one place, Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud : 886 Finding their enemy to be so curst, They all strain court’ sy who shall cope him first. CXLIX This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, 889 Through which it enters to surprise her heart ; Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear, With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part : 892 Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly, and dare not stay the field. VENUS AND ADONIS 33 CL Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy ; 895 Till, cheering up her senses all dismay’d, She tells them ’tis a causeless fantasy, And childish error, that they are afraid ; 898 Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more : And with that word she spied the hunted boar ; CLI Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red, 901 Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spread, Which madly hurries her, she knows not whither : 904 This way she runs, and now she will no further, But back retires to rate the boar for murther. CLII A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways ; 907 She treads the path that she untreads again ; Her more than haste is mated with delays, Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, 910 Full of respects, yet naught at all respecting ; In hand with all things, nought at all effecting. CLIII Here kennell’d in a brake she finds a hound, 913 And asks the weary caitiff for his master, And there another licking of his wound, ‘Gainst venom’d sores the only sovereign plaster ; 916 And here she meets another sadly scowling, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling. CLIV When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise, 919 Another flap-mouth’d mourner, black and grim, Against the welkin volleys out his voice ; Another and another answer him, 922 Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratch’d ears, bleeding as they go. C 34 VENUS AND ADONIS CLV Look, how the world’s poor people are amazed 925 At apparitions, signs, and prodigies, Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, Infusing them with dreadful prophecies ; 928 So she at these sad signs draws up her breath And sighing it again, exclaims on Death. CLVI ( Hard-favour’d tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, 931 Hateful divorce of love/ thus chides she Death, f Grim-grinning ghost, earth’s worm, what dost thou mean To stifle beauty and to steal his breath, 934 Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet ? CLVII ‘ If he be dead, O no, it cannot be, 937 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. 940 Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant’s heart. CLVI II ‘ Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, 943 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 : 946 Love’s golden arrow at him should have fled, And not Death’s ebon dart, to strike him dead. CLIX ‘Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok’st such weeping? What may a heavy groan advantage thee ? 950 Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see ? 952 Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, Since her best work is ruin’d with thy rigour,’ VENUS AND ADONIS 35 CLX Here overcome, as one full of despair, 955 She vail’d her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt ; 958 But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again. CLXI O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow ! 961 Her eye 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 ; 964 But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. CLXII Variable passions throng her constant woe, 967 As striving who should best become her grief; All entertain’ d, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief, 970 But none is best : then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. CLXIII By this, far off she hears some huntsman halloo ; 973 A nurse’s song ne’er pleased her babe so well : The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel ; 976 For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis’ voice. CLXIV Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, 979 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 pass 982 To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown’d. 36 VENUS AND ADONIS CLXV hard-believing love, how strange it seems ! 985 Not to believe, and yet too credulous : Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes ; Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous : 988 The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. CLXVI Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought ; 991 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 ; 994 She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings, Imperious, supreme of all mortal things. CLXVII ‘ No, no/ quoth she, e sweet Death, I did but jest ; 997 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 ; 1000 Then, gentle shadow, truth I must confess, I rail’d on thee, fearing my love’s decease. CLXVIII ‘ ‘Tis not my fault : the boar provok’d my tongue ; 1003 Be wreak’d on him, invisible commander ; ‘Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong ; 1 did but act, he ‘s author of thy slander : 1006 Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet Could rule them both without ten women’s wit/ CLXIX Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, 1009 Her rash suspect she doth extenuate ; And that his beauty may the better thrive, With Death she humbly doth insinuate ; 1012 Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories His victories, his triumphs and his glories. VENUS AND ADONIS 37 CLXX ‘ O Jove,’ quoth she, ‘ how much a fool was I, 1015 To be of such a weak and silly mind, To wail his death who lives, and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind ! 1018 For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black Chaos comes again. CLXXI ‘ Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear 1021 As one with treasure laden, hemm’d with thieves ; Trifles unwitnessed with eye, or ear, Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.’ 1024 Even at this word she hears a merry horn, Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn. CLXXIl As falcons to the lure, away she flies ; 1027 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 ; 1030 Which seen, her eyes, as murder’d with the view, Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew ; CLXXIII Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, 1033 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 ; 1036 So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled Into the deep dark cabins of her head : CLXXIV Where they resign their office and their light 1039 To the disposing of her troubled brain ; Who bids them still consort with ugly night, And never wound the heart with looks again ; 1042 Who, like a king perplexed in his throne, By their suggestion gives a deadly groan. 38 VENUS AND ADONIS CLXXV Whereat each tributary subject quakes ; 1045 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. 1048 This mutiny each part doth so surprise, That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes ; CLXXVI And, being open’d, threw unwilling light 1051 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, 1055 But stole his blood and seem’d with him to bleed. CLXXVII This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth ; 1057 Over one shoulder doth she hang her head ; Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth ; She thinks he could not die, he is not dead : 1060 Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow ; Her eyes are mad that they have wept till now. CLXXVIII Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly, 1063 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 : 1066 His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled ; For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled. CLXXIX ‘ My tongue cannot express my grief for one, 1069 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 : 1072 Heavy heart’s lead, melt at mine eyes’ red fire ! So shall I die by drops of hot desire. VENUS AND ADONIS 39 CLXXX ‘ Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost ! 1075 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 ? 1078 The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim ; But true, sweet beauty liv’d and died with him. CLXXXI ‘ Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear ! 1081 Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you : Having no fair to lose, you need not fear ; The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you : 1084 But when Adonis liv’d, sun and sharp air Lurk’d like two thieves, to rob him of his fair : CLXXXII 1 And therefore would he put his bonnet on, 1087 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 ; 1090 And straight, in pity of his tender years, They both would strive who first should dry his tears. CLXXXIII f To see his face the lion walk’d along 1093 Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him ; To recreate himself when he hath sung, The tiger would be tame and gently hear him ; 1096 If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey And never fright the silly lamb that day. CLXXXIV ‘ When he beheld his shadow in the brook, 1099 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 1102 Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries ; He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. 40 VENUS AND ADONIS CLXXXV f But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, 1105 Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, Ne’er saw the beauteous livery that he wore ; Witness the entertainment that he gave : 1108 If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath killed him so. CLXXXVI ‘ ‘Tis true, ’tis true ; thus was Adonis slain : mi 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 ; 1114 And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheath’d unaware the tusk in his soft groin. CLXXXVII ‘ Had I been tooth’ d like him, I must confess, 1117 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 accurst.’ 1120 With this, she falleth in the place she stood, And stains her face with his congealed blood. CLXXXVIII She looks upon his lips, and they are pale ; 1123 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 ; 1126 She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies ; CLXXXIX Two glasses, where herself herself beheld 1129 A thousand times, and now no more reflect ; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell’d, And every beauty robb’d of his effect : 1132 ( Wonder of time/ quoth she, ‘ this is my spite, That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light. VENUS AND ADONIS 41 cxc ‘Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy : 1135 Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend : It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end ; 1138 Ne’er settled equally, but high or low, That all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe. cxci ‘ It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud, 1141 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 : 1144 The strongest body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak. cxcn ‘ It shall be sparing and too full of riot, 1147 Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures ; The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures ; 1150 It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. CXCIII ‘ It shall suspect where is no cause of fear ; 1153 It shall not fear where it should most mistrust ; It shall be merciful and too severe, Arid most deceiving when it seems most just ; 1156 Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward, Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. cxciv 1 It shall be cause of war and dire events, 1159 And set dissension ‘twixt the son and sire ; Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustious matter is to fire : 1162 Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy, They that love best their loves shall not enjoy/ 42 VENUS AND ADONIS cxcv By this, the boy that by her side lay kill’d 1165 Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood that on the ground lay spill’ d, A purple flower sprung up, chequer’d with white, 1168 Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. cxcvi She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, 1171 Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath, And says, within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death : 1174 She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears. cxcvn ‘ Poor flower,’ quoth she, ‘ this was thy father’s guise 1177 Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire For every little grief to wet his eyes : To grow unto himself was his desire, 1180 And so ’tis thine ; but know, it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. CXCVIII ‘ Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast ; 1183 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 : 1186 There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower/ cxcix Thus weary of the world, away she hies, 1189 And yokes her silver doves ; by whose swift aid, Their mistress, mounted through the empty skies In her light chariot, quickly is convey’d ; 1192 Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen. THE RAPE OF LUCRECE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARLE OP SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TITCHPIELD. THE loue I dedicate to your Lordship is without end : whereof this Pamphlet without beginning is but a superfluous Moity. The warrant I haue of your Honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutord Lines makes it assured of acceptance. What I haue done is yours, what I haue to doe is yours, being part in all I haue, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duety would shew greater, meane time, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship ; To whom I wish long life still lengthned with all happinesse. Your Lordship’s in all duety, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARK. tt THE ARGUMENT. Lucius TARQUINIUS, for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus, after he had caused his own father-in-law Servius 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 principal 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 chastity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they all posted to Rome ; and intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which every one had before 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 Collatinus 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. The same night he treacherously stealeth into her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatcheth messengers, one to Rome for her father, another to the camp for Collatine. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius ; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded 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 herself. 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 invective against the tyranny of the king : wherewith the people 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. 44 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE FROM the besieged Ardea 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 ‘ unhaply set 8 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, 12 Where mortal stars, as bright as heaven’s Beauties, With pure aspects did him peculiar duties. in For he the night before, in Tarquin’s tent, 15 Unlock’d the treasure of his happy state ; What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent In the possession of his beauteous mate ; Reck’ning his fortune at such high-proud rate, 19 That Kings might be espoused to more fame, But King nor Peer to such a peerless dame. 45 46 LUCRECE IV O happiness enjoy’d but of a few ! 22 And, if possessed, as soon decay’d and done As is the morning’s silver-melting dew Against the golden splendour of the Sun ! An expired date, cancell’d ere well begun ; 26 Honour and Beauty, in the owner’s arms, Are weakly fortress’d from a world of harms. Beauty itself doth of itself persuade 29 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 33 Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown From thievish ears, because it is his own ? VI Perchance his boast of Lucrece’ Sov’reignty 36 Suggested this proud issue of a King ; For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be : Perchance that envy of so rich a thing, Braving compare, disdainfully did sting 40 His high-pitch’d thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt That golden hap which their superiors want. VII But some untimely thought did instigate 43 His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those : His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state, Neglected all, with swift intent he goes To quench the coal which in his liver glows. 47 O rash false heat, wrapp’d in repentant cold, Thy hasty spring still blasts, and ne’er grows old ! LUCRECE 47 VIII When at Collatium this false Lord arrived, 50 Well was he welcom’d by the Roman dame, Within whose face Beauty and Virtue strived Which of them both should underprop her fame : When Virtue bragg’d, Beauty would blush for shame ; 54 When Beauty boasted blushes, in despite Virtue would stain that or with silver white. IX But Beauty, in that white intituled 57 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 ; 61 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, 64 Argued by Beauty’s red and Virtue’s white : Of cither’s colour was the other Queen, Proving from world’s minority their right : Yet their ambition makes them still to fight ; 68 The sovereignty of either being so great, That oft they interchange each other’s seat. XI This silent war of Lilies and of Roses, 71 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 be kill’d, The coward captive vanquished doth yield 75 To those two armies that would let him go, Rather than triumph in so false a foe. 48 LUCRECE XII Now thinks he that her husband’s shallow tongue, 78 The niggard prodigal that praised 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, 82 Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, In silent wonder of still gazing eyes. XIII This earthly saint, adored by this devil, 85 Little suspecteth the false worshipper ; For ‘ unstain’d thoughts do seldom dream on evil ‘ ; ‘ Birds never limed no secret bushes fear ‘ ; So guiltless she securely gives good cheer 89 And reverend welcome to her princely guest, Whose inward ill no outward harm express’d : XIV For that he colour’ d with his high estate, 92 Hiding base sin in pleats of Majesty ; That nothing in him seem’d inordinate, Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, Which, having all, all could not satisfy ; 96 But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store, That, cloy’d with much, he pineth still for more. xv But she, that never coped with stranger eyes, 99 Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, Nor read the subtle-shining secrecies Writ in the glassy margents of such books : She touch’ d no unknown baits, nor fear’d no hooks ; 103 Nor could she moralize his wanton sight, More than his eyes were open’d to the light LUCRECE 49 XVI He stories to her ears her husband’s fame, 106 Won in the fields of fruitful Italy ; And decks with praises Collatine’s high name, Made glorious by his manly chivalry With bruised arms and wreaths of victory : no Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express, And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success. XVII Far from the purpose of his coming thither, 113 He makes excuses for his being there : No cloudy show of stormy blust’ring weather Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear ; Till sable Night, mother of dread and fear, 117 Upon the world dim darkness doth display, And in her vaulty prison stows the day. XVIII For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, 120 Intending weariness with heavy spright ; For, after supper, long he questioned With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night : Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth fight ; 124 And every one to rest themselves betake, Save thieves, and cares, and troubled minds, that wake. XIX As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving 127 The sundry dangers of his will’s obtaining ; Yet ever to obtain his will resolving, Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining : Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining, 131 And when great treasure is the meed proposed, Though death be adjunct, there ‘s no death supposed. D 50 LUCRECE XX Those that much covet are with gain so fond 134 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 138 Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain. XXI The aim of all is but to nurse the life 141 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 ; 145 Honour for wealth ; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost. XXII So that in venturing ill we leave to be 148 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 152 The thing we have, and, all for want of wit, Make something nothing by augmenting it. XXIII Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make, 155 Pawning his honour to obtain his lust ; And for himself himself he must forsake : Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust ? When shall he think to find a stranger just, 159 When he himself himself confounds, betrays To slanderous tongues and wretched hateful days ? LUCRECE 51 XXIV Now stole upon the time the dead of night, 162 When heavy sleep had closed 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 166 The silly lambs : pure thoughts are dead and still, While Lust and Murder wakes to stain and kill. XXV And now this lustful Lord leap’d from his bed, 169 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 charm, 173 Doth too too oft betake him to retire, Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire. XXVI His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, 176 That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly ; Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, Which must be lode-star to his lustful eye ; And to the flame thus speaks advisedly, 180 ‘ As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, So Lucrece must I force to my desire.’ XXVII Here pale with fear he doth premeditate 183 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 187 His naked armour of still, slaughter’d Lust, And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust : 52 LUCRECE XXVIII ‘ Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not 190 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 : 194 Let fair humanity abhor the deed That spots and stains love’s modestsnow-white weed. XXIX ‘ O shame to knighthood and to shining Arms ! 197 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 ; 201 Then my digression is so vile, so base, That it will live engraven in my face. XXX ( Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive, 204 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, shamed with the note, 208 Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin To wish that I their father had not been. XXXI ‘What win I, if I gain the thing I seek ? 2n 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 ? 215 Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down ? LUCRECE 53 XXXII ‘ If Collatinus dream of my intent, 218 Will he not wake, and in a desp’rate rage Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent ? This siege that hath engirt his marriage, This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage, 222 This dying virtue, this surviving shame, Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame ? XXXIII ‘ O, what excuse can my invention make, 225 When thou shalt 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 ? The guilt, being great, the fear doth still exceed ; 229 And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, But coward-like with trembling terror die. XXXIV ‘ Had Collatinus kill’d my son or sire, 232 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 : 236 But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend, The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end. xxxv ‘ Shameful it is ; ay, if the fact be known : 239 Hateful it is ; there is no hate in loving : I ’11 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. 243 Who fears a sentence or an old man’s saw Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.’ 54 LUCRECE XXXVI Thus graceless holds he disputation 246 ‘Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning will, And with good thoughts makes dispensation, Urging the worser sense for vantage still ; . Which in a moment doth confound and kill 250 All pure effects, and doth so far proceed, That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed. XXXVII Quoth he, ‘ She took me kindly by the hand, 253 And gazed 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 ! 257 First red as Roses that on lawn we lay, Then white as lawn, the Roses took away. XXXVIII ‘ And how her hand, in my hand being lock’d, 260 Forced 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, 264 That had Narcissus seen her as she stood, Self-love had never drown’d him in the flood. XXXIX 1 Why hunt I then for colour or excuses ? 267 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 ; 271 And when his gaudy banner is display’d, The coward fights and will not be dismay’d. LUCRECE 55 XL ‘ Then, childish fear, avaunt ! debating, die ! 274 Respect and reason wait on wrinkled age : My heart shall never countermand mine eye ; Sad pause and deep regard beseems the sage ; My part is youth, and beats these from the stage. 278 Desire my Pilot is, Beauty my prize ; Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies ? ‘ XLI As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear 281 Is almost choked by unresisted lust : Away he steals with open list’ning ear, Full of foul hope and full of fond mistrust ; Both which, as servitors to the unjust, 285 So cross him with their opposite persuasion, That now he vows a league, and now invasion. XLH Within his thought her heavenly image sits, 288 And in the self-same 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 ; 292 But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart, Which once corrupted takes the worser part ; XLI1 1 And therein heartens up his servile powers, 295 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. 299 By reprobate desire thus madly led, The Roman Lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed. 56 LUCRECE XLIV The locks between her chamber and his will, 302 Each one by him enforced, retires his ward ; 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 ; 306 Night-wand’ring weasels shriek to see him there ; They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. XLV As each unwilling portal yields him way, 309 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 ; 313 But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch, Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch : XLVI And being lighted, by the light he spies 316 Lucretia’s glove, wherein her needle sticks : He takes it from the rushes where it lies, And griping it, the needle his finger pricks ; As who should say, e This glove to wanton tricks 320 Is not inured ; return again in haste ; Thou see’st our mistress’ ornaments are chaste.’ XLVII But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him ; 323 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, 327 Who with a lingering stay his course doth let, Till every minute pays the hour his debt. LUCRECE 57 XLVIII ‘ So, so/ quoth he, ‘ these lets attend the time, 330 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. Pain pays the income of each precious thing ; 334 Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands, The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.’ XLIX Now is he come unto the chamber door, 337 That shuts him from the Heaven of his thought, Which with a yielding latch, and with no more, Hath barr’d him from the blessed thing he sought. So from himself impiety hath wrought, 341 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, 344 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 : 348 The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact, How can they then assist me in the act ? LI ‘ Then Love and Fortune be my Gods, my guide ! 351 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. 355 The eye of Heaven is out, and misty night Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.’ 58 LUCRECE LII This said, his guilty hand pluck’ d up the latch, 358 And with his knee the door he opens wide. The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch : Thus treason works ere traitors be espied. Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside ; 362 But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing, Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting. LIII Into the chamber wickedly he stalks, 365 And gazeth on her yet unstained bed. The curtains being close, about he walks, Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head : By their high treason is his heart misled ; 369 Which gives the watch-word to his hand full soon To draw the cloud that hides the silver Moon. LIV Look, as the fair and fiery-pointed Sun, 372 Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight ; Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun To wink, being blinded by a greater light : Whether it is that she reflects so bright, 376 That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed ; But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed. LV O, had they in that darksome prison died ! 379 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 ; 383 And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight Must sell her joy, her life, her world’s delight. LUCRECE 59 LVI Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, 386 Coz’ning 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 : 390 Where, like a virtuous monument, she lies, To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes. LVII Without the bed her other fair hand was, 393 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, 397 And canopied in darkness sweetly lay, Till they might open to adorn the day. LVI1I Her hair, like golden threads, play’d with her breath ; O modest wantons ! wanton modesty ! 401 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, 404 As if between them twain there were no strife, But that life liv’d in death, and death in life. LIX Her breasts, like ivory globes circled with blue, 407 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 ; 411 Who, like a foul usurper, went about From this fair throne to heave the owner out. 60 LUCRECE LX What could he see but mightily he noted ? 414 What did he note but strongly he desired ? What he beheld, on that he firmly doted, And in his will his wilful eye he tired. With more than admiration he admired 418 Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin. LXI As the grim lion fawneth o’er his prey, 421 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, 425 His eye, which late this mutiny restrains, Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins : LXH And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting, 428 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 : 432 Anon his beating heart, alarum striking, Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking. LXIII His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye, 435 His eye commends the leading to his hand ; 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 ; 439 Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale, Left their round turrets destitute and pale. LUCRECE 61 LXIV They, mustering to the quiet cabinet 442 Where their dear governess and lady lies, Do tell her she is dreadfully beset, And fright her with confusion of their cries : She, much amazed, breaks ope her lock’d-up eyes, 446 Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold, Are by his flaming torch dimm’d and controll’d. LXV Imagine her as one in dead of night 449 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 worser taking, 453 From sleep disturbed, needfully doth view The sight which makes supposed terror true. LXVI Wrapp’d and confounded in a thousand fears, 456 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 ; 460 Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights, In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights. LXVII His hand, that yet remains upon her breast, 463 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. 467 This moves in him more rage and lesser pity, To make the breach and enter this sweet city. 62 LUCRECE LXVIII First, like a trumpet, doth his tongue begin 470 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 ; 474 But she with vehement prayers urgeth still Under what colour he commits this ill. LXIX Thus he replies : ‘ The colour in thy face, 477 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 481 Thy never-conquer’d fort : the fault is thine, For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine. LXX 6 Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide : 484 Thy beauty hath ensnared 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 ; 488 But as reproof and reason beat it dead, By thy bright beauty was it newly bred. LXXI ‘ I see what crosses my attempt will bring ; 491 I know what thorns the growing rose defends ; I think the honey guarded with a sting ; All this beforehand counsel comprehends : But Will is deaf and hears no heedful friends ; 495 Only he hath an eye to gaze on Beauty, And dotes on what he looks, ‘gainst law or duty. LUCRECE 63 LXXII ‘ I have debated, even in my soul, 498 What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed ; But nothing can affection’s course control, Or stop the headlong fury of his speed. I know repentant tears ensue the deed, 502 Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity ; Yet strive I to embrace mine infamy/ LXXIII This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade, 505 Which, like a falcon tow’ ring 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 509 Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon’s bells. LXXIV ‘ Lucrece,’ quoth he, e this night I must enjoy thee : 512 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 ’11 slay, To kill thine honour with thy life’s decay ; 516 And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him, Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him. LXXV ‘ So thy surviving husband shall remain 519 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, 523 Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes, And sung by children in succeeding times. 64 LUCRECE LXXVI < But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend : 526 The fault unknown is as a thought unacted ; “A little harm done to a great good end” For lawful policy remains enacted. The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted 530 In a pure compound ; being so applied, His venom in effect is purified. LXXVII ‘ Then, for thy husband and thy children’s sake, 533 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 : 537 For marks descried in men’s nativity Are nature’s faults, not their own infamy/ LXXVIII Here with a Cockatrice’ dead-killing eye 540 He rouseth up himself and makes a pause ; While she, the picture of pure piety, Like a white hind under the gripe’s sharp claws, Pleads, in a wilderness where are no laws, 544 To the rough beast that knows no gentle right, Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite. LXXIX But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat, In his dim mist th’ aspiring mountains hiding, 548 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 ; 551 So his unhallow’d haste her words delays, And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays. LUCRECE 65 LXXX Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally, 554 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 558 No penetrable entrance to her plaining : Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining. LXXXI Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed 561 In the remorseless wrinkles of his face ; Her modest eloquence witn sighs is mixed, Which to her oratory adds more grace. She puts the period often from his place, 565 And midst the sentence so her accent breaks, That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks. LXXXII She conjures him by high Almighty Jove, 568 By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship’s oath, By her untimely tears, her husband’s love, By holy human law, and common troth, By Heaven and Earth, and all the power of both, 572 That to his borrow’d bed he make retire, And stoop to honour, not to foul desire. LXXXIII Quoth she, e Reward not hospitality 575 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 ; $79 He is no woodman that doth bend his bow To strike a poor unseasonable doe. E 66 LUCRECE LXXXIV ‘ My husband is thy friend ; for his sake spare me : 582 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 moved with woman’s moans, 587 Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans : LXXXV ‘ All which together, like a troubled ocean, 589 Beat at thy rocky and wrack-threat’ning 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, 593 Melt at my tears, and be compassionate ! Soft pity enters at an iron gate. LXXXVI ‘ In Tarquin’s likeness I did entertain thee : 596 Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame ? To all the Host of Heaven I complain me. Thou wrongest his honour, wound’st his princely name : Thou art not what thou seem’st ; and if the same, 600 Thou seem’st not what thou art, a God, a King ; For Kings like Gods should govern every thing. LXXXVII ‘ How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, 603 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 rememb’red, no outrageous thing 607 From vassal actors can be wiped away ; Then Kings’ misdeeds cannot be hid in clay. LUCRECE 67 LXXXVIII ‘ This deed will make thee only lov’d for fear ; 610 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 ; 614 For Princes are the glass, the school, the book, Where subjects’ eyes do learn, do read, do look. LXXXIX ‘ And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn ? 617 Must he in thee read lectures of such shame ? Wilt thou be glass wherein it shall discern Authority for sin, warrant for blame, To privilege dishonour in thy name ? 621 Thou back’st reproach against long-living laud, And mak’st fair reputation but a bawd. xc ‘ Hast thou command ? by him that gave it thee, 624 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, 628 When, pattern’d by thy fault, foul sin may say, He learn’ d to sin, and thou didst teach the way ? xci 1 Think but how vile a spectacle it were, 631 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. 635 O how are they wrapp’d in with infamies That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes ! 68 LUCRECE XCII ‘ To thee, to thee, my heav’d-up hands appeal, 638 Not to seducing Lust, thy rash relier : I sue for exiled majesty’s repeal; Let him return, and flatt’ring thoughts retire : His true respect will prison false desire, 642 And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne, That thou shalt see thy state and pity mine/ XCIII ‘ Have done/ quoth he : ‘ my uncontrolled tide 645 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 649 To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls’ haste Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.’ xciv ‘ Thou art,’ quoth she, ‘ a sea, a sovereign King ; 652 And lo, there falls into thy boundless flood Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning, Who seek to stain the Ocean of thy blood. If all those petty ills shall change thy good, 656 Thy sea within a puddle’s womb is hearsed, And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed. xcv f So shall these slaves be King, and thou their slave ; Thou nobly base, they basely dignified ; 660 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 ; 663 The cedar stoops not to the base shrub’s foot, But low shrubs wither at the cedar’s root. LUCRECE 69 XCVI ‘ So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state ‘ 666 ‘ 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 670 Unto the base bed of some rascal groom, To be thy partner in this shameful doom.’ XCVII This said, he sets his foot upon the light, 673 For light and lust are deadly enemies : Shame folded up in blind concealing night, When most unseen, then most doth tyrannise. The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries ; 677 Till with her own white fleece her voice controll’d Entombs her outcry in her lips’ sweet fold : XCVIII For with the nightly linen that she wears 680 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 ! 684 The spots whereof could weeping purify, Her tears should drop on them perpetually. xcix But she hath lost a dearer thing than life, 687 And 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 : 691 Pure Chastity is rifled of her store, And Lust, the thief, far poorer than before. 70 LUCRECE Look, as the full-fed hound, or gorged hawk, 694 Unapt for tender smell, or speedy flight, Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk The prey wherein by nature they delight ; So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night : 698 His taste delicious, in digestion souring, Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring. ci O, deeper sin than bottomless conceit 701 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 705 Can curb his heat, or rein his rash desire, Till like a jade Self-will himself doth tire. en And then with lank and lean discolour’d cheek, 708 With heavy eye, knit brow, and 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, 713 The guilty rebel for remission prays. cm So fares it with this faultful Lord of Rome, 715 Who this accomplishment so hotly chased ; For now against himself he sounds this doom, That through the length of times he stands disgraced : Besides, his soul’s fair temple is defaced ; 719 To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, To ask the spotted Princess how she fares. LUCRECE 71 CIV She says, her subjects with foul insurrection 722 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 : 726 Which in her prescience she controlled still, But her foresight could not forestall their will. Ev’n in this thought through the dark night he stealeth. A captive victor that hath lost in gain ; 730 Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth, The scar that will, despite of cure, remain ; Leaving his spoil perplex’ d in greater pain. 733 She bears the load of lust he left behind, And he the burthen of a guilty mind. cvi He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence ; 736 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 ; 740 She stays, exclaiming on the direful night ; He runs, and chides his vanish’d, loath’d delight. cvii He thence departs a heavy convertite ; 743 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, 747 And my true eyes have never practis’d how To cloak offences with a cunning brow. 72 LUCRECE CVIII ‘ They think not but that every eye can see 750 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, 754 And grave, like water that doth eat in steel, Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.’ cix Here she exclaims against repose and rest, 757 And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind : 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. 761 Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite Against the unseen secrecy of night : ex ‘ O comfort-killing Night, image of Hell ! 764 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 ! 768 Grim cave of death ! whisp’ring conspirator With close-tongu’d treason and the ravisher ! CXI ‘ O hateful, vaporous, and foggy Night ! 771 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 775 His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed, Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head. LUCRECE 73 CXII ‘ With rotten damps ravish the morning air ; 778 Let their exhaled 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, 782 That in their smoky ranks his smoth’red light May set at noon, and make perpetual night. CXIII ‘Were Tarquin Night,, as he is but Night’s child, 785 The silver-shining Queen he would distain ; Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defiled. Through Night’s black bosom should not peep again : So should I have co-partners in my pain ; 789 And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage, As Palmers’ chat makes short their pilgrimage. cxiv ‘ Where now I have no one to blush with me, 792 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, 796 Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans, Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans. cxv e O Night, thou furnace of foul-reeking smoke, 799 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, 803 That all the faults which in thy reign are made May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade. 74 LUCRECE CXVI ‘ Make me not object to the tell-tale Day ! 806 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 810 To cipher what is writ in learned books, Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks. cxvn ‘ The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story, 813 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, 817 Will tie the hearers to attend each line, How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine. exvii i ‘ Let my good name, that senseless reputation, 820 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 824 That is as clear from this attaint of mine As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine. cxix e O unseen shame ! invisible disgrace ! 827 O unfelt sore ! crest-wounding, private scar ! Reproach is stamp’d in Collatinus’ face, And Tarquin’s eye may read the mot afar, How ” He in peace is wounded, not in war.” 831 Alas, how many bear such shameful blows, Which not themselves, but he that gives them knows ! LUCRECE 75 cxx ‘ If, Collating thine honour lay in me, 834 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 : 838 In thy weak Hive a wandering wasp hath crept, And suck’d the Honey which thy chaste Bee kept. cxxi ‘ Yet am I guilty of thy honour’s wrack ; 841 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, 845 And talk’d of virtue : O unlook’d-for evil, When virtue is profaned in such a Devil ! cxxn ‘ Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud ? 848 Or hateful Cuckoos hatch in Sparrows’ nests ? Or Toads infect fair founts with venom mud ? Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts ? Or Kings be breakers of their own behests ? 852 But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute. CXXIII f The aged man that coffers-up his gold 855 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 ; 859 Having no other pleasure of his gain But torment that it cannot cure his pain. 76 LUCRECE CXXIV e So then he hath it when he cannot use it, 862 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. 866 The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours Even in the moment that we call them ours. cxxv 1 Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring ; 869 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, 873 But ill-annexed Opportunity Or kills his life or else his quality. cxxvi ‘ O Opportunity, thy guilt is great ! 876 ‘Tis thou that execut’st the traitor’s treason : Thou set’st the wolf where he the lamb may get ; Whoever plots the sin, thou point’st the season ; ‘Tis thou that spurn’st at right, at law, at reason ; 880 And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him, Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him. cxxvii ‘ Thou makest the vestal violate her oath ; 883 Thou blowest 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 : 887 Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief, Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief! LUCRECE 77 CXXVIII ‘ Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, 890 Thy private feasting to a public fast, Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name, Thy sugar’d tongue to bitter wormwood taste : Thy violent vanities can never last. 894 How comes it then, vile Opportunity, Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee ? cxxix When wilt thou be the humble suppliant’s friend, 897 And bring him where his suit may be obtained ? When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end ? Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chained ? Give physic to the sick, ease to the pained ? 901 The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee ; But they ne’er meet with Opportunity. cxxx ‘ The Patient dies while the Physician sleeps ; 904 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 : 908 Wrath, Envy, Treason, Rape, and Murder’s rages, Thy heinous hours wait on them as their Pages. cxxxi ‘ When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee, 911 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 appaid, As well to hear as grant what he hath said. 915 My Collatine would else have come to me, When Tarquin did, but he was stay’d by thee. 78 LUCRECE CXXXII ‘ Guilty thou art of murder, and of theft, 918 Guilty of perjury, and subornation, Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift, Guilty of incest, that abomination ; An accessary by thine inclination 922 To all sins past, and all that are to come, From the creation to the general doom. CXXXII I ( Mis-shapen Time, copesmate of ugly Night, 925 Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care, Eater of youth, false slave of false delight, Base watch of woes, sin’s pack-horse, virtue’s snare ; Thou nursest all and murd’rest all that are : 929 O, hear me then, injurious, shifting Time ! Be guilty of my death, since of my crime. cxxxiv ‘ Why hath thy servant, Opportunity, 932 Betray’d the hours thou gav’st me to repose ? Cancell’d my fortunes, and enchained me To endless date of never-ending woes ? Time’s office is to fine the hate of foes ; 936 To eat up errors by opinion bred, Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed. cxxxv ‘ Time’s glory is to calm contending Kings, 939 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, 943 To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours, And smear with dust their glitt’ring golden towers ; LUCRECE 79 CXXXVI ‘ To fill with worm-holes stately monuments, 946 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, 950 To spoil Antiquities of hammer’d steel, And turn the giddy round of Fortune’s wheel ; CXXXVII * To show the beldam daughters of her daughter, 953 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 beguiled, 957 To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops, And waste huge stones with little water-drops. CXXXVI1 1 ( Why work’st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage, 960 Unless thou couldst 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 : 964 O, this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come back, I could prevent this storm and shun thy wrack ! CXXXIX ‘ Thou ceaseless lackey to Eternity, 967 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 ; 97 i And the dire thought of his committed evil Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil. 80 LUCRECE CXL ‘ Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances, 974 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 stones ; And let mild women to him lose their mildness, 979 Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness. CXLI ‘ Let him have time to tear his curled hair, 981 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, 985 And time to see one that by alms doth live Disdain to him disdained scraps to give. CXLII ‘ Let him have time to see his friends his foes, 988 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 ; 992 And ever let his unrecalling crime Have time to wail th’ abusing of his time. CXLIII ‘ O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad, 995 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 1000 As slanderous deathsman to so base a slave ? LUCRECE 81 CXLIV ‘ The baser is he, coming from a King, 1002 To shame his hope with deeds degenerate : The mightier man, the mightier is the thing That makes him honour’d, or begets him hate ; For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. 1006 The Moon being clouded presently is miss’d, But little stars may hide them when they list. CXLV ‘ The Crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire, And unperceiv’d fly with the filth away ; I0io But if the like the snow-white Swan desire, The stain upon his silver down will stay. Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day : Gnats are unnoted wheresoe’er they fly, 1014 But Eagles gazed upon with every eye. CXLVI ‘ Out, idle words, servants to shallow fools ! 1016 Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators ! Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools ; Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters ; To trembling clients be you mediators : 1020 For me, I force not argument a straw, Since that my case is past the help of law. CXLVI I ‘ In vain I rail at Opportunity, 1023 At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful Night , In vain I cavil with mine infamy, In vain I spurn at my confirm’d despite : This helpless smoke of words doth me no right. 1027 The remedy indeed to do me good Is to let forth my foul defiled blood. F 82 LUCRECE CXLVIII ‘ Poor hand; why quiver’st thou at this decree ? 1030 Honour thyself to rid me of this shame ; For if I die, my honour lives in thee ; But if I live, thou liv’st in my defame : Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal Dame, 1034 And wast afeard to scratch her wicked foe, Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.’ CXLIX This said, from her be-tumbled couch she starteth, 1037 To find some desp’rate 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 1041 As smoke from Jftna, that in air consumes, Or that which from discharged cannon fumes. CL ‘ In vain,’ quoth she, ‘ I live, and seek in vain 1044 Some happy mean to end a hapless life. I fear’d by Tarquin’s falchion to be slain, Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife : But when I fear’d I was a loyal wife : 1048 So am I now : O no, that cannot be ; Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me. CLI ‘ O, that is gone for which I sought to live, 1051 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 : 1055 Poor helpless help, the treasure stol’n away, To burn the guiltless casket where it lay ! LUCRECE 83 CLII ‘ Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know 1058 The stained taste of violated troth ; I will not wrong thy true affection so, To flatter thee with an infringed oath ; This bastard graff shall never come to growth : 1062 He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute That thou art doting father of his fruit. CLIII ‘ Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought, 1065 Nor laugh with his companions at thy state ; But thou shalt know thy int’rest was not bought Basely with gold, but stol’n from forth thy gate. For me, I am the mistress of my fate, 1069 And with my trespass never will dispense, Till life to death acquit my forced offence. CLIV ‘ I will not poison thee with my attaint, 1072 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, 1076 As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale, Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.’ CLV By this, lamenting Philomel had ended 1079 The well-tuned 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 : 1083 But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see, And therefore still in night would cloister’d be. 84 LUCRECE CLVI Revealing day through every cranny spies, 1086 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 sleeping : 1090 Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, For day hath nought to do what ‘s done by night.’ CLVI I Thus cavils she with every thing she sees : 1093 True grief is fond and testy as a child, Who wayward once, his mood with nought agrees : Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild ; Continuance tames the one ; the other wild, 1097 Like an unpractis’d swimmer plunging still, With too much labour drowns for want of skill. CLVIII So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care, noo 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 : 1104 Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no words ; Sometime ’tis mad and too much talk affords. CLIX The little birds that tune their morning’s joy 1107 Make her moans mad with their sweet melody : For t( mirth doth search the bottom of annoy ” ; ” Sad souls are slain in merry company ” ; ” Grief best is pleas’d with grief’s society ” : mi ” True sorrow then is feelingly sufficed When with like semblance it is sympathised.” LUCRECE 85 CLX ” ‘Tis double death to drown in ken of shore ” ; 1114 ” 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,” m8 Who, being stopp’d, the bounding banks o’erflows ; Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows. CLXI ‘ You mocking birds/ quoth she, ‘ your tunes entomb 1121 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” : 1125 Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears ; ” Distress likes dumps when time is kept with tears.” CLXII ‘Come, Philomel, that sing’st of ravishment, 1/28 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; 1132 For burden-wise I ’11 hum on Tarquin still, While thou on Tereus descant’st better skill. CLXIII ‘And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy part, 1135 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. 1139 These means, as frets upon an instrument, Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment. 86 LUCRECE CLXFV ‘ And for, poor bird, thou sing’st not in the day, 1142 As shaming any eye should thee behold, Some dark deep desert, seated from the way, That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold, Will we find out ; and there we will unfold 1146 To creatures stern sad tunes, to change their kinds : Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.’ CLXV As the poor frighted deer, that stands at gaze, 1149 Wildly determining which way to fly, Or one encompass’ d with a winding maze, That cannot tread the way out readily ; So with herself is she in mutiny, 1153 To live or die which of the twain were better, When life is shamed, and death reproach’s debtor. CLXVI ‘To kill myself/ quoth she, ( alack, what were it, 1156 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 1160 Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes one, Will slay the other and be nurse to none. CLXVII ‘ My body or my soul, which was the dearer, 1163 When the one pure, the other made divine ? Whose love of either to myself was nearer, When both were kept for Heaven and Collatine ? Ay me ! the bark peel’d from the lofty pine, 1167 His leaves will wither and his sap decay ; So must my soul, her bark being peel’d away. LUCRECE 87 CLXVIII ‘ Her house is sack’d, her quiet interrupted, 1170 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, 1174 If in this blemish’d fort I make some hole Through which I may convey this troubled soul. CLIX ‘ Yet die I will not till my Collatine 1177 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 ’11 bequeath, 1181 Which by him tainted shall for him be spent, And as his due writ in my testament. CLXX ‘ My honour I ’11 bequeath unto the knife 1184 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 ; 1188 For in my death I murder shameful scorn : My shame so dead, mine honour is new-born. CLXXI ‘ Dear Lord of that dear jewel I have lost, 1191 What legacy shall I bequeath to thee ? My resolution, love, shall be thy boast, By whose example thou reveng’d mayst be. How Tarquin must be used, read it in me : 1195 Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe, And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so. 88 LUCRECE CLXXII ‘ This brief abridgement of my will 1 make : 1198 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 ; 1202 And all my fame that lives disbursed be To those that live, and think no shame of me. CLXXIII ‘ Thou, Collatine, shall oversee this will ; 1205 How was I overseen that thou shalt 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 ” : 1209 Yield to my hand ; my hand shall conquer thee : Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.’ CLXXIV This plot of death when sadly she had laid, 1212 And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, With untuned 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 1217 As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow. CLXXV Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow, 1219 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 1223 Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so, > Nor why her fair cheeks over-wash’d with woe. LUCRECE 89 CLXXVI But as the earth doth weep, the Sun being set, 1226 Each flower moist’ned like a melting eye ; Even so the maid with swelling drops gan wet, Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy Of those fair Suns set in her mistress’ sky, 1230 Who in a salt-waved Ocean quench their light, Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night. CLXXVII A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, 1233 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 ; 1237 Grieving themselves to guess at others’ smarts, And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts. CLXXVIII For men have marble, women waxen, minds, 1240 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, 1244 No more than wax shall be accounted evil Wherein is stamp’d the semblance of a Devil. CLXXIX Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain, 1247 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 : 1251 Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks, Poor women’s faces are their own faults’ books. 90 LUCRECE CLXXX No man inveigh against the withered flower, 1254 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 Poor women’s faults, that they are so fulfill’d 1258 With men’s abuses : those proud Lords to blame Make weak-made women tenants to their shame. CLXXXI The precedent whereof in Lucrece view ; 1261 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, 1265 That dying fear through all her body spread : And who cannot abuse a body dead ? CLXXXII By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak 1268 To the poor counterfeit of her complaining : ‘ My girl/ quoth she, e on what occasion break Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining ? If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining, 1272 Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood : If tears could help, mine own would do me good. CLXXXIII ‘ But tell me, girl, when went ‘ and there she stay’d 1275 Till after a deep groan ‘ Tarquin from hence ? ‘ 1 Madam, ere I was up,’ replied the maid, f The more to blame my sluggard negligence : Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense ; 1279 Myself was stirring ere the break of day, And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away. LUCRECE 91 CLXXXIV ( But, Lady, if your maid may be so bold, 1282 She would request to know your heaviness/ ‘ O, peace ! ‘ quoth Lucrece : e if it should be told, The repetition cannot make it less ; For more it is than I can well express : 1286 And that deep torture may be call’d a Hell When more is felt than one hath power to tell. CLXXXV < Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen : 1289 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 : 1293 Bid him with speed prepare to carry it ; The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ/ CLXXXVI Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write, 1296 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 : 1300 Much like a press of people at a door, Throng her inventions, which shall go before. CLXXXVII At last she thus begins : ‘ Thou worthy Lord 1303 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. 1307 So, I commend me from our house in grief: My woes are tedious, though my words are brief/ 92 LUCRECE CLXXXVIII Here folds she up the tenure of her woe, 1310 Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly. By this short schedule Collatine may know Her grief, but not her griefs true quality : She dares not thereof make discovery, 1314 Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse, Ere she with blood had stain’d her stain’d excuse. CLXXXIX Besides, the life and feeling of her passion 1317 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. 1321 To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter With words, till action might become them better. cxc To see sad sights moves more than hear them told ; 1324 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 : 1328 Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords, And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words. cxci Her letter now is seal’d, and on it writ 1331 ‘ At Ardea to my lord with more than haste.’ The post attends, and she delivers it, Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast As lagging fowls before the Northern blast : 1335 Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems : Extremity still urgeth such extremes. LUCRECE 93 CXCII The homely villain court’sies to her low ; 1338 And, blushing on her with a steadfast eye, Receives the scroll without or yea or no, And forth with bashful innocence doth hie. But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie 1342 Imagine every eye beholds their blame ; For Lucrece thought he blush’d to see her shame. CXCIII When, silly groom ! God wot, it was defect 1345 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 : 1349 Even so the pattern of this worn-out age Pawn’d honest looks, but laid no words to gage. cxciv His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, 1352 That two red fires in both their faces blazed ; She thought he blush’d, as knowing Tarquin’s lust, And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed ; Her earnest eye did make him more amazed : 1356 The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish, The more she thought he spied in her some blemish. cxcv But long she thinks till he return again, 1359 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, 1363 That she her plaints a little while doth stay, Pausing for means to mourn some newer way. 94 LUCRECE CXCVI At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece 1366 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, Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy ; 1370 Which the conceited Painter drew so proud, As Heaven (it seem’d) to kiss the turrets bow’d. CXCVII A thousand lamentable objects there, 1373 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 ; 1377 And dying eyes gleam’d forth their ashy lights, Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. cxcvm There might you see the labouring pioneer 1380 Begrimed 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 : 1384 Such sweet observance in this work was had, That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. cxcix In great commanders grace and majesty 1387 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 ; 1391 Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble. LUCRECE 95 r< In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what Art 1394 Of Physiognomy might one behold ! The face of either cipher’d cither’s heart ; Their face their manners most expressly told : In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour roll’d ; 1398 But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent Show’d deep regard and smiling government. cci There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, 1401 As ’twere encouraging the Greeks to fight ; Making such sober action with his hand, That it beguiled attention, charm’d the sight : In speech, it seem’d, his beard, all silver white, 1405 Wagg’d up and down, and from his lips did fly Thin winding breath, which purl’d up to the sky. ecu About him were a press of gaping faces, 1408 Which seem’d to swallow up his sound advice ; All jointly list’ning, but with several graces, As if some Mermaid did their ears entice, Some high, some low, the Painter was so nice ; 1412 The scalps of many, almost hid behind, To jump up higher seem’d, to mock the mind. CCIII Here one man’s hand lean’d on another’s head, 1415 His nose being shadow’d by his neighbour’s ear ; Here one being throng’d bears back, all boll’n and red ; Another smother’d seems to pelt and swear ; And in their rage such signs of rage they bear, 1419 As, but for loss of Nestor’s golden words, It seem’d they would debate with angry swords. 96 LUCRECE CCIV For much imaginary work was there ; 1422 Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, That for Achilles’ image stood his spear, Gripp’d in an armed hand ; himself behind, Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind : 1426 A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, Stood for the whole to be imagined. ccv And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy 1429 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, 1433 That through their light joy seemed to appear, Like bright things stain’d, a kind of heavy fear. ccvi And from the strand of Dardan, where they fought, To Simois’ reedy banks the red blood ran, 1437 Whose waves to imitate the battle sought -With swelling ridges ; and their ranks began To break upon the galled shore, and than 1440 Retire again, till, meeting greater ranks, They join and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks. CCVII To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come, 1443 To find a face where all distress is steel’d. Many she sees where cares have carved some, But none where all distress and dolour dwell’d, Till she despairing Hecuba beheld, 1447 Staring on Priam’s wounds with her old eyes, Which bleeding under Pyrrhus’ proud foot lies. LUCRECE 97 CCVIII In her the Painter had anatomised 1450 Time’s ruin, beauty’s wrack, and grim care’s reign : Her cheeks with chops and wrinkles were disguised ; Of what she was, no semblance did remain : Her blue blood changed to black in every vein, 1454 Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed, Show’d life imprison’d in a body dead. ccix On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, 1457 And shapes her sorrow to the beldame’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 ; 1461 And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong, To give her so much grief and not a tongue. ccx ‘ Poor instrument,’ quoth she, ‘ without a sound, 1464 I ’11 tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue ; And drop sweet balm in Priam’s painted wound, And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong ; And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long ; 1468 And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies. ccxi ‘ Show me the strumpet that began this stir, 1471 That with my nails her beauty I may tear. Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear : Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here ; 1475 And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye, The Sire, the son, the Dame, and daughter die. G 98 LUCRECE CCXIl ‘ Why should the private pleasure of some one 1478 Become the public plague of many moe ? Let sin, alone committed, light alone Upon his head that hath transgressed so ; Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe : 1482 For one’s offence why should so many fall, To plague a private sin in general ? CCXIII ‘ Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, 1485 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 : 1489 Had doting Priam check’d his son’s desire, Troy had been bright with fame and not with fire.’ ccxiv Here feelingly she weeps Troy’s painted woes : 1492 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 awork, sad tales doth tell 1496 To pencill’d pensiveness and colour’d sorrow ; She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow. ccxv She throws her eyes about the painting round, 1499 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 ; 1503 Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, So mild, that Patience seem’d to scorn his woes. LUCRECE 99 CCXVI In him the Painter labour’d with his skill 1506 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 1510 That blushing red no guilty instance gave, Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have. ccxvn But, like a constant and confirmed Devil, 1513 He entertain’d a show so seeming just, And therein so ensconced his secret evil, That Jealousy itself could not mistrust False-creeping Craft and Perjury should thrust 1517 Into so bright a day such black-faced storms, Or blot with Hell-born sin such Saint-like forms. CCXVIII The well-skill’d workman this mild image drew 1520 For perjur’d Sinon, whose enchanting story The credulous old Priam after slew ; Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining glory Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry, 1524 And little stars shot from their fixed places, When their glass fell wherein they view’d their faces. ccxix This picture she advisedly perused, 1527 And chid the Painter for his wondrous skill, Saying, some shape in Sinon’s was abused ; So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill : And still on him she gazed ; and gazing still, 1531 Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied, That she concludes the picture was belied. 100 LUCRECE ccxx f It cannot be/ quoth she, ‘ that so much guile ‘ 1534 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, 1538 And turn’d it thus, ‘ It cannot be, I find, But such a face should bear a wicked mind : ccxxi ‘ For even as subtle Sinon here is painted, 1541 So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild, (As if with grief or travail he had fainted), To me came Tarquin, armed to begild With outward honesty, but yet defiled 1545 With inward vice : as Priam him did cherish, So did I Tarquin ; so my Troy did perish. ccxxn 1 Look, look, how list’ning Priam wets his eyes, 1548 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, 110 water thence proceeds ; 1552 Those round clear pearls of his, that move thy pity, Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city. CCXXIII ‘ Such Devils steal effects from lightless Hell ; 1555 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 bold : 1559 So Priam’s trust false Sinon’s tears doth flatter, That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.’ LUCRECE 101 ccxxrv Here, all enraged, such passion her assails, 1562 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 : 1566 At last she smilingly with this gives o’er ; ‘Fool, fool !’ quoth she, ‘his wounds will not be sore. ccxxv Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, 1569 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 : 1573 Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps ; And they that watch, see time, how slow it creeps. ccxxvi Which all this time hath overslipp’d her thought, 1576 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. 1580 It easeth some, though none it ever cured, To think their dolour others have endured. ccxxvn But now the mindful messenger, come back, 1583 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 sky : 1587 These water-galls in her dim element Foretell new storms to those already spent. 102 LUCRECE CCXXVIII Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, 1590 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 : 1594 Both stood, like old acquaintance in a trance, Met far from home, wond’ring each other’s chance. ccxxix At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, 1597 And thus begins : ‘ What uncouth ill event Hath thee befall’n, that thou dost trembling stand ? Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent ? Why art thou thus attired in discontent ? 1601 Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.’ ccxxx Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire, 1604 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 ; 1608 While Collatine and his consorted lords With sad attention long to hear her words. ccxxxi And now this pale Swan in her watery nest 1611 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 moe woes than words are now depending ; 1615 And my laments would be drawn out too long, To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. LUCRECE 103 CCXXXII ‘ Then be this all the task it hath to say : 16×8 Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed A stranger came, and on that pillow lay Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head ; And what wrong else may be imagined 1622 By foul enforcement might be done to me, From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free. CCXXXIII ‘ For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, 1625 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 1629 On thee and thine this night I will inflict, If thou my love’s desire do contradict. ccxxxiv ‘ ” For some hard-favour’d groom of thine,” quoth he, ” Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, 1633 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 1636 The lechers in their deed : this act will be My fame and thy perpetual infamy.” ccxxxv ‘ With this, I did begin to start and cry ; 1639 And then against my heart he sets his sword, Swearing, unless I took all patiently, I should not live to speak another word ; So should my shame still rest upon record, 1643 And never be forgot in mighty Rome Th’ adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom. 104 LUCRECE CCXXXVI ‘ Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak, 1646 And 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 1650 That my poor beauty had purloin’d his eyes ; And when the judge is robb’d the prisoner dies. ccxxxvn ‘ O, teach me how to make mine own excuse ! 1653 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 forced ; that never was inclined 1657 To accessary yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poison’d closet yet endure/ ccxxxvm Lo, here, the hopeless merchant of this loss, 1660 With head declined, and voice damm’d up with woe, With sad set eyes, and wretched arms across, From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow The grief away that stops his answer so : 1664 But, wretched as he is, he strives in vain ; What he breathes out his breath drinks up again. ccxxxix As through an arch the violent roaring tide 1667 Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste, Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride Back to the strait that forced him on so fast ; In rage sent out, recall’d in rage, being past : 1671 Even so his sighs, his sorrows, make a saw, To push grief on, and back the same grief draw. LUCRECE 105 CCXL Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth, 1674 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 1678 More feeling-painful : let it then suffice To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. CCXLI ‘ And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, 1681 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 1685 Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die ; For ” sparing justice feeds iniquity.” CCXLII ‘ But ere I name him, you fair Lords/ quoth she, 1688 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 1692 To chase injustice with revengeful arms : Knights, by their oaths, should right poor Ladies’ harms. ‘ CCXLIII At this request, with noble disposition 1695 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, 1699 The protestation stops. ‘ O, speak/ quoth she, ‘ How may this forced stain be wiped from me ? 106 LUCRECE CCXLIV * What is the quality of my offence, 1702 Being constrained 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 ? 1706 The poisoned fountain clears itself again ; And why not I from this compelled stain ? ‘ CCXLV With this, they all at once began to say, 1709 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, 1713 ‘ No, no/ quoth she, ‘ no Dame, hereafter living, By my excuse shall claim excuse’s giving.’ CCXLVI Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, 1716 She throws forth Tarquin’s name : ‘ He, he/ she says, But more than he ‘ her poor tongue could not speak ; Till after many accents and delays, Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, 1720 She utters this, ‘ He, he, fair Lords, ’tis he, That guides this hand to give this wound to me.’ CCXLVII Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast 1723 A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed : That blow did bail it from the deep unrest Of that polluted prison where it breathed : Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed 1727 Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly Life’s lasting date from cancel! ‘d destiny. LUCRECE 107 CCXLVIII Stone-still, astonish’d with this deadly deed, 1730 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 1734 The murderous knife, and, as it left the place, Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase ; CCXLIX And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide 1737 In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood Circles her body in on every side, Who, like a late-sack’d island, vastly stood Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. 1741 Some of her blood still pure and red remain’d, And some look’d black, and that false Tarquin stain’d. CCL About the mourning and congealed face 1744 Of that black blood a wat’ry rigol goes, Which seems to weep upon the tainted place : And ever since, as pitying Lucrece’ woes, Corrupted blood some watery token shows ; 1748 And blood untainted still doth red abide, Blushing at that which is so putrified. CCLI * Daughter, dear daughter/ old Lucretius cries, 1751 ‘ That life was mine which thou hast here deprived. If in the child the father’s image lies, Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived ? Thou wast not to this end from me derived. 1755 If children predecease progenitors, We are their offspring, and they none of ours. 108 LUCRECE CCLII ‘ Poor broken glass, I often did behold 1758 In thy sweet semblance my old age new born ; But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, Shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn : O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn, 1762 And shiver’d all the beauty of my glass, That I no more can see what once I was ! CCLIII ‘ O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer 1765 If they surcease to be that should survive. Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger And leave the falt’ring feeble souls alive ? The old Bees die, the young possess their hive : 1769 Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see Thy father die, and not thy father thee ! ‘” CCLIV By this, starts Collatine as from a dream, 1772 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 ; 1776 Till manly shame bids him possess his breath And live to be revenged on her death. CCLV The deep vexation of his inward soul 1779 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 1783 Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart’s aid, That no man could distinguish what he said. LUCRECE 109 CCLVI Yet sometime ‘ Tarquin ‘ was pronounced plain, 1786 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 : 1790 Then son and father weep with equal strife Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife. CCLVII The one doth call her his, the other his, 1793 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 1797 He weeps for her, for she was only mine, And only must be wail’d by Collatine.’ CCLVIII * O,’ quoth Lucretius, ‘ I did give that life 1800 Which she too early and too late hath spill’d.’ ‘ Woe, woe,’ quoth Collatine, ‘ she was my wife, I owed her, and ’tis mine that she hath kill’d.’ * My daughter ‘ and ‘ my wife ‘ with clamours fill’d 1804 The dispers’d air, who, holding Lucrece’ life, Answer’d their cries, ‘ my daughter ‘ and f my wife.’ CCLIX Brutus, who pluck’d the knife from Lucrece’ side, 1807 Seeing such emulation in their woe, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, Burying in Lucrece’ wound his folly’s show. He with the Romans was esteemed so 1811 As silly-jeering idiots are with Kings, For sportive words and utt’ring foolish things : 110 LUCRECE CCLX But now he throws that shallow habit by, 1814 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 : 1818 Let my unsounded self, suppos’d a fool, Now set thy long-experienced wit to school. CCLXI ‘ Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe ? 1821 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 : 1825 Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. CCLXII ‘ Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart 1828 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 1832 (Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced), By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased. CCLXIII 1 Now, by the Capitol that we adore, 1835 And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained, By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the fat earth’s store, By all our country rights in Rome maintained, And by chaste Lucrece’ soul that late complained 1839 Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, We will revenge the death of this true wife.’ LUCRECE 111 CCLXIV This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, 1842 And kiss’d the fatal knife, to end his vow ; And to his protestation urged the rest, Who, wond’ring at him, did his words allow : Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow : 1846 And that deep vow, which Brutus made before, He doth again repeat, and that they swore. CCXLV When they had sworn to this advised doom, 1849 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, 1853 The Romans plausibly did give consent To Tarquin’s everlasting banishment. SONNETS TO . THE . ONLIE . BEGETTER . OF THESE . INSVING . SONNETS. Mr . W. H. ALL . HAPPINESSE . AND . THAT . ETERNITIE . PROMISED. BY. OUR . EVER-LIVING . POET WISHETH. THE . WELL-WISHING. ADVENTURER . IN. SETTING . FORTH T. T, 114 SONNETS FROM 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, makest waste in niggarding : Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee. When forty Winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field, Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed 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 couldst answer, ‘ This fair child of mine Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,’ Proving his beauty by succession thine ! This were to be new made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold. 115 116 SONNETS ‘ III 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 will be the tomb Of his self-love, to stop posterity ? Thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime : So thou through windows of thine age shalt see Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live, rememb’red not to be, Die single, and thine image dies with thee. FV 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 sum 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 begone, What acceptable Audit canst thou leave ? Thy unused beauty must be tomb’d with thee, Which, used, lives th’ executor to be. SONNETS 117 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 which fairly doth excel : For never-resting time leads summer on 5 To hideous winter and confounds him there ; Sap check’d with frost and lusty leaves quite gone, Beauty o’ersnow’d and bareness everywhere : Then, were not summer’s distillation left, A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, 10 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 ; their substance still lives sweet. VI Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d : Make sweet some vial ; 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, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee : 3 Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in posterity ? Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir. 118 SONNETS VII 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 out-going in thy noon, Unlook’d on diest, unless thou get a son. VIII Music to hear, 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 ? 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 shouldst 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.’ SONNETS 119 IX 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 unused, the user so destroys it. No love toward others in that bosom sits That on himself such murd’rous shame commits. 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 murd’rous 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 thy 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. 120 SONNETS XI As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st, In one of thine from that which thou departest ; And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest. Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase ; 5 Without this, folly, age, and cold decay : If all were minded so, the times should cease And threescore year would make the world away. Let those whom Nature hath not made for store, Harsh featureless, and rude, barrenly perish : ic Look, whom she best endow’d, she gave the more ; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish : She carv’d thee for her seal, and meant thereby Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. XII 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, 5 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, 10 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. SONNETS 121 XIII 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 your self’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 uphold Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day And barren rage of death’s eternal cold ? O, none but unthrifts ! Dear my love, you know You had a father ; let your son say so. XIV 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 : 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 wouldst convert; Or else of thee this I prognosticate : Thy end is Truth’s and Beauty’s doom and date. 122 SONNETS XV When I consider everything 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. XVI 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, Can make you live your self in eyes of men. To give away your self keeps your self still, And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. SONNETS 128 XVII 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, yellowed with their age, Be scorn’ d like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be termed 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. XVIII Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day ? Thou art more lovely and more temperate : 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 sometime declines, By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d : But thy eternal Summer shall not fade, Nor loose possession of that fair thou ow’st ; Nor shall Death brag thou wand’rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st : So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee. 124 SONNETS XIX 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 my verse ever live young. xx A woman’s face with Nature’s own 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 Hews in his controlling, Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created ; Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting, i< 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. SONNETS 125 XXI So 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, s 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 rendure hems. O, let me, true in love, but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as fair 10 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 hearsay well ; I will not praise that purpose not to sell. xxn 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 expiate. 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 be elder than thou art ? O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary As I, not for myself, but for thee will ; Bea ring 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. 126 SONNETS XXIII As an imperfect 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 ; So I, for fear of trust, forget to say i The perfect ceremony of love’s rite, And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay, O’ercharged with burthen of mine own love’s might. O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, i< Who plead for love and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more express’d. O, learn to read what silent love hath writ : To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit. XXIV Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath steel’d Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart ; 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 pictured 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 : Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me i< Are windows to my breast, where-through 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. SONNETS 127 XXV 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 that I honour most. Great Princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread But as the Marygold 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, After a thousand victories once 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 beloved Where I may not remove nor be removed. XXVI Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit, To thee I send this written ambassage, To witness duty, not to show my wit : Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine 5 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 10 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 mayst prove me. 128 SONNETS XXVII Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The dear repose for limbs with travel tired ; But then begins a journey in my head, To work my mind, when body’s work ‘s expired : For then my thoughts, from far where I abide, Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping eyelids 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 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 ? And each, though enemies to cither’s reign, 5 Do in consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other to complain How far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the Day, to please him thou art bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven : 10 So flatter I the swart-complexion’d night, When sparkling stars twire riot thou gild’st the even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger. SONNETS 129 XXIX 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, Featured 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 rememb’red such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with Kings. XXX When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I 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, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night, And weep afresh love’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. I 130 SONNETS XXXI Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have suppos6d 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 tear Hath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye As interest of the dead, which now appear But things removed that hidden in there 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 If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased Lover : Compare them with the bett’ring of the time, 5 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 : 4 Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age, 10 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 ’11 read, his for his love,’ SONNETS 131 XXXIII 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, 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. xxxiv Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day. And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds overtake 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 : i The 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. 132 SONNETS XXXV 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, Authorising thy trespass with compare, Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins, more than their sins are : For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense Thy adverse party is thy Advocate And ‘gainst myself a lawful plea commence : Such civil war is in my love and hate, That I an accessary needs must be To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. xxxvi 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 ever more 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. SONNETS 133 XXXVII As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by Fortune’s dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth. For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, 5 Or any of these all, or all, or more, Entituled in their parts, do crowned sit, I make my love engrafted to this store : So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give, 10 That I in thy abundance am sufficed 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 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 ? 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 ; i 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. 134 SONNETS XXXIX 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 ? 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. O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove, Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave To entertain the time with thoughts of love, Which time and thoughts so sweetly dost deceive ! And that thou teachest how to make one twain, By praising him here who doth hence remain ! XL Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all ; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before ? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call ; All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. Then if for my love, thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest, But yet be blamed, if thou this self deceivest By wilful taste of what thy self refusest. I do forgive thy robb’ry, 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. SONNETS 135 XLI Those pretty 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. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won, Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed ; And when a woman woos, what woman’s son Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed ? Aye me ! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear, And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth, Who lead thee in their riot even there Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth ; Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee, Thine, by thy beauty being false to me. XLII 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 : 5 Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her ; And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, SuiTring 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 ; 10 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. 136 SONNETS XLIII When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected ; 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, 5 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 ! How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made By looking on thee in the living day ! 10 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 thee 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 removed 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 naught by Elements so slow But heavy tears, badges of cither’s woe. SONNETS 137 XLV The other two, slight air, and purging fire, Are both with thee, wherever I abide ; The first my thought, the other my desire, 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 recured By those swift messengers return’d from thee, Who, even but now come back again, assured 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. XLVI 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 thou in him dost lie, A closet never pierced with crystal eyes But the defendant doth that plea deny And says in him thy fair appearance lies. To side this title is impanneled A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart, And by their verdict is determined The clear eye’s moiety and the dear heart’s part : As thus ; mine eye’s due is thy outward part, And my heart’s right thy inward love of heart. 138 SONNETS XLVII Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, Arid 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 farther 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. XLVIII 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, 5 Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief, Thou, best of dearest and mine only care, Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not lock’d up in any chest, Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art, 10 Within the gentle closure of my breast, From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part ; And even thence thou wilt be stol’n, I fear, For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. SONNETS 139 XLIX Against that time,, if ever that time come, When I shall see thee frown on my defects, When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Call’d to that audit by advised 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 I can allege no cause. How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek, my weary travel’s end, Doth teach that ease and that repose to say ‘ Thus far the miles are measur’d from thy friend ! The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me, As if by some instinct the wretch did know His 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, More 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. 140 SONNETS LI 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 ? Till I return, of posting is no need. O, what excuse will my poor beast then find, When swift extremity can seem but slow ? 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 perfect’st love being made, 3 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 ’11 run, and give him leave to go. LII So am I as the rich, whose blessed key 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, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain jewels in the carcanet. 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 blest, By new unfolding his imprison’ d pride. Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope, Being had, to triumph, being lack’d to hope. SONNETS 141 LIU 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 O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 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 dye As the perfumed tincture of the Roses, Hang 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 vade, my verse distils your truth. 142 SONNETS LV 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, 5 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, 10 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. LVI Sweet love, renew thy force ; be it not said Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is all ay’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 Int’rim 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 blest may be the view ; Or call it Winter, which being full of care Makes Summer’s welcome thrice more wish’d, more rare. SONNETS 143 LVII 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 I 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, 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 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 ! O, let me suffer, being at your beck, 5 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 10 To what you will ; to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell ; Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well. 144 SONNETS LIX If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second burthen of a former child ! O,, that record could with a backward 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 ! That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame ; Whether we are mended, or whe’r 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 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, 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, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d, Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight, And 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. SONNETS 145 LXI Is it thy will thy image should keep open My heavy eyelids to the weary night ? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken, While shadows like to thee do mock my sight ? 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 tenure of thy jealousy ? O, no ! thy love, though much,, is not so great : It is my love that keeps mine eye awake ; 10 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. LXII Sin of self-love possesseth 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, Beated and chopp’d with tann’d antiquity, Mine own self-love quite contrary I read ; Self so self-loving were iniquity. ‘Tis thee, my self, that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days. 146 SONNETS LXIII Against my love shall be, as I am now, With Time’s injurious hand crush’d and o’erworn ; 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. LXIV When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced The rich proud cost of outworn buried age ; When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed 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. SONNETS 147 LXV Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o’er-sways their power, How 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 wrackful 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 hid ? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back ? 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. LXVI Tired 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 misplaced, And maiden Virtue rudely strumpeted, And right Perfection wrongfully disgraced, 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 111 : Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. 148 SONNETS LXVII 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 ? 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 had In days long since, before these last so bad. LXVIII 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 borne, 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 : 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. SONNETS 149 LXIX 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. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown’d ; 5 But those same tongues that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds ; 10 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 soil is this, that thou dost common grow. LXX That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair ; The ornament of beauty is suspect, 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’st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast pass’d by the ambush of young days, Either not assail’d, or victor being charged ; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy evermore enlarged : If some suspect of ill mask’d not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. 150 SONNETS LXXI No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning 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, I 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 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. For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth. SONNETS 151 LXXIII That time of year thou mayst 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. In me thou see’st the twilight of such day 5 As after Sunset fadeth in the West, Which by and by black night doth take away, Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, 10 As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. LXXIV 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. 152 SONNETS LXXV So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-season’d showers are to the ground ; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As ‘twixt a miser and 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. LXXVI 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 ? 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 proceed ? 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. SONNETS 153 LXXVII 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 mayst thou taste. The wrinkles, which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory ; Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know Time’s thievish progress to eternity. Look, what thy memory cannot contain Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt 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. LXXVIII So oft have I invoked 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. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee : In others’ works 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. 154 SONNETS LXXIX 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. I 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 afford 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 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. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride ; 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. SONNETS 155 LXXXI 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, 5 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, 10 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 Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. LXXXII I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise, And therefore art enforced to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so, love ; yet when they have devised What strained touches Rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend ; And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood ; in thee it is abused. 156 SONNETS LXXXIII 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, 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 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. Lean penury within that pen doth dwell, 5 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, 10 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 worse SONNETS 157 LXXXV My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise, richly compiled, Reserve their character with golden quill And precious phrase by all the Muses filed. I think good thoughts whilst other write good words, 5 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 praised, I say ‘ ‘Tis so, ’tis true,’ And to the most of praise add something more ; 10 But that is in my thought, whose love to you, Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before. Then others for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. LXXXVI Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize of (all-too-precious) you, 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 mortal 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. 158 SONNETS LXXXVII 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 knowing, Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking ; i 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. LXXXVIII When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, And place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side against myself I ’11 fight, And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. 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 shalt 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. SONNETS 159 LXXXIX 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 ’11 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 ’11 vow debate, For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate. xc 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 after-loss : Ah, do not, when my heart hath ‘scaped this sorrow, 5 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, 10 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, Compared with loss of thee will not seem so. 160 SONNETS XCI Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their wealth, some in their bodies’ 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’ cost, i Of more delight than hawks or horses be ; And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast : Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take All this away, and me most wretched make. XCH But do thy worst to steal thyself away, For term of life thou art assured mine, 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 Than 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 ! But what ‘s so blessed-fair that fears no blot ? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. SONNETS 161 XCIII 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 ; i Whate’er thy thoughts or thy heart’s workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell. How like Eves apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show ! XCXY They that have power to hurt, and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, 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. L 162 SONNETS xcv 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-used doth lose his edge. xcvi Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness ; Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport ; Both grace and faults are lov’d of more and less : Thou mak’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 mightst thou lead away, If thou wouldst 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. SONNETS 163 XCVII 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 removed was summer’s time, 5 The teeming Autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their Lord’s decease : Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit ; 10 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. xcvin 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 5 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 ; 10 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. 164 . SONNETS XCIX 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 dyed. 5 The Lily I condemned for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair; The Roses fearfully on thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair ; A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both, 10 And to his robb’ry had annex’d thy breath ; But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see But sweet or colour it had stol’n from thee. 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, Dark’ning 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. SONNETS 165 CI O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed ? 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 ? ‘ Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb ? Excuse not silence so ; for ‘t lies in thee To make him much outlive a gilded tomb, And to be praised of ages yet to be. Then do thy office, Muse ; I teach thee how To make him seem long hence as he shows now. CM My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming ; I love not less, though less the show appear : That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner’s tongue doth publish every where. Our love was new,, and then but in the spring, 5 When I was wont to greet it with my lays, As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing, And stops his pipe in growth of riper days : Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night, 10 But that wild music burthens 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. 166 SONNETS cm 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 ? For to no other pass my verses tend, Than of your graces and your gifts to tell ; And more, much more, than in my verse can sit Your own glass shows you when you look in it. civ To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three Winters cold Have from the forests shook three Summers’ pride ; Three beauteous springs to yellow Autumn turn’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 perceived ; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived : For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred ; Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead. SONNETS 167 cv 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. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence ; Therefore my verse to constancy confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. ‘ Fair, kind, and true ‘ is all my argument, ‘ Fair, kind, and true ‘ varying to other words ; i And in this change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords. ‘ Fair, kind, and true/ have often liv’d alone, Which three, till now, never kept seat in one. cvi When in the chronicle of wasted time I 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 ; i And, for they look’d but with divining eyes, They had not still enough your worth to sing : For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 168 SONNETS CVII 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, Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal Moon hath her eclipse endured, 3 And the sad Augurs mock their own presage ; Incertainties now crown themselves assured, 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, 10 Since, spite of him, I ’11 live in this poor rhyme, While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes : And thou in this shalt find thy monument, When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent. cvin What ‘s in the brain that ink may character, Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit ? What ‘s new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love or thy dear merit ? Nothing, sweet boy ; but yet, like prayers divine, 5 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, 10 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. SONNETS 169 CIX 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 ranged, Like him that travels I return again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that myself bring water for my stain. 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, my Rose ; in it thou art my all. ex 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, And worse essays proved thee my best of love. Now all is done, have 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 confined. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best, Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. 170 SONNETS CXI 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. Thence comes 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 eisel ‘gainst my strong infection ; No bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance, to correct correction. Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye Even that your pity is enough to cure me. cxn 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 5 To know my shames and praises from your tongue ; 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 10 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 me thinks y’ are dead. SONNETS 171 CXIII 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 ; 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. cxiv Or whether doth my mind, being crown’d with you, Drink up the monarch’s plague, this flattery ? Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true, And that your love taught it this Alchemy, To make of monsters and things indigest Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, Creating every bad a perfect best, As fast as objects to his beams assemble ? O, ’tis the first ; ’tis flatt’ry 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. 172 SONNETS cxv Those lines that I before have writ do lie, Even those that said I could not love you dearer : Yet 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 alt’ring 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 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 remover to remove : O, no ! it is an ever-fixed mark 5 That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; It is the star to every wand’ring 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 ; 10 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 proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. SONNETS 173 CXVII 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, 5 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 ; 10 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. CXVIII 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, 5 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 assured 10 And brought to medicine a healthful state Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured : But thence I learn, and find the lesson true, Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. 174 SONNETS CXIX 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,, 5 Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never ! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted In the distraction of this madding fever ! O benefit of ill ! now I find true That better is by evil still made better ; 10 And ruin’d love, when it is built anew, Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I return rebuked to my content And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. cxx 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, y’ have 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 rememb’red My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, And soon to you, as you to me, then tend’red The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits ! But that, your trespass, now becomes a fee ; Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. SONNETS 175 CXXI Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives reproach of being; And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our feeling, but by others’ seeing : For why should others’ false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood ? 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 ; Unless this general evil they maintain, All men are bad, and in their badness reign. cxxn 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 razed 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. 176 SONNETS CXXIII No ! Time, thou shalt 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 borne to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wond’ring at the present nor the past, For thy records, and what we see doth 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 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-numb’ red hours, 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. SONNETS 177 cxxv Were ‘t aught to me I bore the canopy, With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which proves 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 ? No, let me be obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, i 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. CXXVI 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’st 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. M 178 SONNETS CXXVII 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, Sweet Beauty hath no name, no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my Mistress’ eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack, Sland’ring Creation with a false esteem : Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe, That every tongue says beauty should look so. CXXVIII How oft, when thou, my music, music play’st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway’st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap 5 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, 10 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 SONNETS 179 CXXIX Th’ expense of Spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action ; and till action, lust Is perjur’d, murd’rous, 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 swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad : Mad in pursuit, and in possession so ; Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme ; n A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe ; Before, a joy proposed ; behind, a dream. All this the world well knows ; yet none knows well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. cxxx 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. I 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 ; 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. 180 SONNETS CXXXI 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. cxxxn Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain, 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 grey cheeks of the East, Nor that full Star that ushers in the Even Doth half that glory to the sober 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. SONNETS 181 CXXXIII 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 engrossed : Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken ; A torment thrice threefold thus to be crossed. 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 gaol : And yet thou wilt ; for I, being pent in thee, Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. cxxxiv So, now I have confess’d that he is thine, And I myself am mortgaged to thy will, Myself I ’11 forfeit, so that other mine Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still : But thou wilt not, nor he will not be 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, Thou usurer, that put’st forth all to use, And sue a friend came debtor for my sake ; So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him have I lost ; thou hast both him and me : He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. 182 SONNETS cxxxv 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 ? 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. cxxxvi 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. Will 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 : Then in the number let me pass untold, Though in thy stores’ account I 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 lovest me, for my name is Will. SONNETS 183 CXXXVII Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold, and see not what they see ? 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, 5 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 ? Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not, n To put fair truth upon so foul a face ? In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false plague are they now transferred. cxxxvm 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 subtleties. 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? 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 flattered be. 184 SONNETS CXXXIX 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, 5 Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside : What need’st thou wound with cunning, when thy might Is more than my o’er-press’d defence can bide ? Let me excuse thee : ah ! my love well knows Her pretty looks have been mine enemies, 10 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 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, 5 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 : 10 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. SONNETS 185 CXLI In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note ; 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, 5 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 can Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, 10 Who leaves 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 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 profaned their scarlet ornaments, And seal’d false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robb’d others’ beds’ revenues of their rents. Be it 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 mayst thou be denied ! 186 SONNETS CXLIII Lo ! as a careful housewife runs to catch One of her feathered creatures broke away, Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch 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 which 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 mayst have thy Will, If thou turn back, and my loud crying still. CXLIV 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 ; 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. SONNETS 187 CXLV 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 used in giving gentle doom, And taught it thus anew to greet ; e 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 saved my life, saying ‘ not you/ CXLVI Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth My sinful earth these rebel powers array Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 5 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 ; 10 Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ; Within be fed, without be rich no more : So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, And Death once dead, there ‘s no more dying then. 188 SONNETS CXLVII My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the Physician to my love, 5 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 evermore unrest ; 10 My thoughts and my discourse as mad men’s are, At random from the truth vainly express’ d ; For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. CXLVIII O me ! what eyes hath Love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight ! 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, 5 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, how can Love’s eye be true, That is so vex’d with watching and with tears ? 10 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. SONNETS 189 CXLIX Canst thou, O cruel ! say I love thee not, When I against myself with thee partake ? 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 lour’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 ; Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind. CL O, from what power hast thou this powerful might, With insufficiency my heart to sway ? To make me give the lie to my true sight, And swear that brightness doth not grace the day ? 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 more, The more I hear and see just cause of hate ? ] O, though I love what others do abhor, With others thou shouldst not abhor my state : If thy unworthiness rais’d love in me, More worthy I to be belov’d of thee. 190 SONNETS CLI Love is too young to know what conscience is ; Yet who knows not conscience is born of love ? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. For, thou betraying me, I 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 farther 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. CLII 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 perjured I, To swear against the truth so foul a lie ! SONNETS 191 CLIII 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-fired, The boy for trial needs would touch my breast ; I, sick withal, the help of bath desired, And thither hied, a sad distemper’ d guest, But found no cure : the bath for my help lies Where Cupid got new fire my mistress’ eyes. CLIV 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 5 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, 10 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 A LOVER’S COMPLAINT FROM off a hill whose concave womb re-worded A plaintful story from a sist’ring vale, My spirits t’ attend this double voice accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-tuned 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, 8 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, 12 Nor youth all quit ; but, spite of heaven’s fell rage, Some beauty peep’d through lattice of sear’d age. in Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, 15 Which on it had conceited characters, Laund’ring the silken figures in the brine That season’d woe had pelleted in tears, And often reading what contents it bears ; 19 As often shrieking undistinguished woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low. 195 196 A LOVER’S COMPLAINT IV Sometimes her levell’d eyes their carriage ride, 22 As they did batt’ry to the spheres intend ; Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied To th’ orbed earth ; sometimes they do extend Their view right on ; anon their gazes lend 26 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, 29 Proclaim’d in her a careless hand of pride ; For some, untuck’d, descended her sheav’d hat, Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside ; Some in her threaden fillet still did bide, 33 And true to bondage would not break from thence, Though slackly braided in loose negligence. VI A thousand favours from a maund she drew 36 Of amber, crystal, and of bedded jet, Which one by one she in a river threw, Upon whose weeping margent she was set ; Like usury, applying wet to wet, 40 Or Monarchs’ hands that let not bounty fall Where want cries some, but where excess begs all. VII Of folded schedules had she many a one, 43 Which she perused, 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 moe letters sadly penn’d in blood, 47 With sleided silk feat and affectedly Enswath’d, and seal’d to curious secrecy. A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 197 VIII These often bath’d she in her fluxive eyes, 50 And often kiss’d, and often gave 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 ! ‘ 54 This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, Big discontent so breaking their contents. IX A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh 57 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 : 61 And, privileged by age, desires to know In brief the grounds and motives of her woe. So slides he down upon his grained bat, 64 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 68 Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, ‘Tis promised in the charity of age. ‘ Father,’ she says, ‘ though in me you behold 71 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, 75 Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied Love to myself and to no Love beside. 198 A LOVER’S COMPLAINT XII ‘ But, woe is me ! too early I attended 78 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 ; 82 And when in his fair parts she did abide, She was new lodg’d and newly Deified. XIII ‘ His browny locks did hang in crooked curls ; 85 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, 89 For on his visage was in little drawn What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn. XIV ‘ Small show of man was yet upon his chin ; 92 His phoenix down began but to appear Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin Whose bare out-bragg’d the web it seem’d to wear : Yet show’d his visage by that cost more dear ; 96 And nice affections wavering stood in doubt If best were as it was, or best without. xv ‘ His qualities were beauteous as his form, 99 For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free ; Yet, if men moved him, was he such a storm As oft ‘twixt May and April is to see, When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be. 103 His rudeness so with his authorised youth Did livery falseness in a pride of truth. A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 199 XVI ‘ Well could he ride, and often men would say 106 ” That horse his mettle from his rider takes : Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes ! ” And controversy hence a question takes, no Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manege by th’ well-doing steed. 1 But quickly on this side the verdict went : 113 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, 117 Can for additions ; yet their purposed trim Pieced not his grace, but were all graced by him. XVIII ‘ So on the tip of his subduing tongue 120 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, 124 He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will : XIX ‘ That he did in the general bosom reign 127 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, 131 And, dialogu’d for him what he would say, Ask’d their own wills and made their wills obey. 200 A LOVER’S COMPLAINT XX ‘ Many there were that did his picture get, 134 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; 138 And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them : XXI ‘ So many have, that never touch’d his hand, 141 Sweetly supposed 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, 145 Threw my affections in his charmed power, Reserv’d the stalk and gave him all my flower. XXII ‘ Yet did I not, as some my equals did, 148 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 152 Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain’d the foil Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil. XXIII ‘ But, ah, who ever shunn’d by precedent 155 The destin’d ill she must herself assay ? Or forced examples ‘gainst her own content, To put the by-past perils in her way ? Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay ; 159 For when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wits more keen. A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 201 XXIV ‘ Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, 162 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! 166 The one a palate hath that needs will taste, Though Reason weep, and cry ” It is thy last.” XXV ‘ For further I could say “This man’s untrue,” 169 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 ; 173 Thought characters and words merely but art, And bastards of his foul adulterate heart. XXVI ‘ And long upon these terms I held my city, 176 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 ye sworn to none was ever said ; 180 For feasts of love I have been call’d unto, Till now did ne’er invite, nor never vow. XXVII ‘ ” All my offences that abroad you see 183 Are errors of the blood, none of the mind ; Love made them not : with acture they may be, 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, 188 By how much of me their reproach contains. 202 A LOVER’S COMPLAINT XXVIII ‘ ” Among the many that mine eyes have seen, 190 Not one whose flame my heart so much as warmed, Or my affection put to th’ smallest teen, Or any of my leisures ever charmed : Harm have I done to them, but ne’er was harmed ; 194 Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, And reign’d, commanding in his monarchy. XXIX ‘ ” Look here, what tributes wounded fancies sent me, Of palid pearls and rubies red as blood ; 198 Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me Of grief and blushes, aptly understood In bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood ; 201 Effects of terror and dear modesty, Encamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly. XXX ‘ ” And, lo, behold these talents of their hair, 204 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, 208 And deep-brain’d sonnets that did amplify Each stone’s dear nature, worth, and quality : XXXI 1 ” The Diamond, why, ’twas beautiful and hard, 211 Whereto his invised properties did tend ; The deep-green Em’rald, in whose fresh regard Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend ; The heaven-hued Sapphire and the Opal blend 215 With objects manifold : each several stone, With wit well blazon’d, smiled or made some moan. A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 203 XXXII ‘ ” Lo, all these trophies of affections hot, 218 Of pensiv’d and subdued desires the tender, Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not, But yield them up where I myself must render ; That is, to you, my origin and ender : 222 For these, of force, must your oblations be, Since I their altar, you enpatron me. XXXIII ‘ ” O, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand, 225 Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise ; Take all these similes to your own command, Hollow’d with sighs that burning lungs did raise ; What me your minister, for you obeys, 229 Works under you ; and to your audit comes Their distract parcels in combined sums. xxxiv ‘ ” Lo, this device was sent me from a Nun. 232 Or Sister sanctified, of holiest note ; Which late her noble suit in court did shun, Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote ; For she was sought by spirits of richest coat, 236 But kept cold distance, and did thence remove, To spend her living in eternal love. XXXV ‘ ” But, O my sweet, what labour is ‘t to leave 239 The thing we have not, mast’ ring what not strives, Playing the place which did no form receive, Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves ? She that her fame so to herself contrives, 243 The scars of battle ‘scapeth by the flight, And makes her absence valiant, not her might. 204 A LOVER’S COMPLAINT XXXVI ‘ ” O, pardon me, in that my boast is true : 246 The accident which brought me to her eye Upon the moment did her force subdue, And now she would the caged cloister fly : Religious love put out Religion’s eye : 250 Not to be tempted, would she be immured, And now, to tempt all, liberty procured. XXXVII ‘ ” How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell ! 253 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, 257 Must for your victory us all congest, As compound love to physic your cold breast. XXXVIII . ‘ ” My parts had power to charm a sacred Sun, 260 Who, disciplin’d, ay, dieted in grace, Believ’d her eyes when they t’ assail begun, All vows and consecrations giving place : O most potential love ! vow, bond, nor space, 264 In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, For thou art all, and all things else are thine. XXXIX ‘ ” When thou impressest, what are precepts worth 267 Of stale example ? When thou wilt inflame, How coldly those impediments stand forth Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame ! Love’s arms are peace, ‘gainst rule, ‘gainst sense, ‘gainst shame, 271 And sweetens, in the suffering pangs it bears, The aloes of all forces, shocks, and fears. A LOVER’S COMPLAINT 205 XL ‘ ” Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, 274 Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine ; And supplicant their sighs to you extend, To leave the batt’ry that you make ‘gainst mine, Lending soft audience to my sweet design, 278 And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath That shall prefer and undertake my troth.” XLI ‘ This said, his wat’ry eyes he did dismount, 281 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 ! 285 Who glazed with Crystal gate the glowing Roses That flame through water which their hue encloses. XLII < O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies 288 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 ? 292 O cleft effect ! cold modesty, hot wrath : Both fire, from hence, and chill extincture, hath. XLIII ‘ For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft, 295 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, 299 All melting ; though our drops this difFrence bore, His poison’d me, and mine did him restore, 206 A LOVER’S COMPLAINT XLIV 1 In him a plenitude of subtle matter, 302 Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or swounding paleness ; and he takes and leaves, In cither’s aptness, as it best deceives, 306 To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, Or to turn white and swound at tragic shows : XLV 1 That not a heart which in his level came 309 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 ; 313 When he most burn’d in heart-wish’d luxury, He preach’d pure maid, and prais’d cold chastity. XLVI ‘ Thus merely with the garment of a Grace 316 The naked and concealed fiend he cover’d ; That th’ unexperient gave the tempter place, Which like a Cherubin above them hover’d. Who, young and simple, would not be so lover’ d ? 320 Ay me ! I fell ; and yet do question make What I should do again for such a sake. XLVII ‘ O, that infected moisture of his eye, 323 O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow’d, O, that forced thunder from his heart did fly, O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow’ d, O, all that borrow’d motion seeming ow’d, 327 Would yet again betray the fore-betray’d, And new pervert a reconciled mairl ! ‘ NOTES NOTES VENUS AND ADONIS I. The Text. The Text is taken from the First Quarto, 1593, as re produced in facsimile by William Griggs from the unique original in the Bodleian Library, Oxford (Shakspere Quarto Facsimiles, No. 12). Spelling and punctuation have been modernised generally, but not invariably, in accordance with the use of The Cambridge Shakespeare. In every other case of a departure from the Quarto text the fact is noted. This Quarto, according to the Editors of The Cambridge Shakespeare, ‘ is printed with remarkable accuracy, doubtless from the author’s own MS.’ The Variorum Shakespeare of 1821, Shakespeare’s Poems (Kelmscott), and The Poems of William Shakspeare (Robert Bell) have also been used for the Text and Notes. Throughout the Notes the First Quarto is referred to as Q. II . The Use ofthe Apostrophe as a Guide to the Metrical Pronunciation . In this the practice of The Cambridge Shakespeare has not been followed. In the First Quartos of Venus, Lucrece, and The Sonnets a mute ‘ e ‘ is omitted, and an apostrophe substituted, so uniformly as to reveal the practice of the author, which, indeed, was the practice of his age. When, therefore, in the Quartos the ‘ e’ is not omitted from the word which furnishes the rhyme, that word must be pronounced as a dissyllable, e.g. ‘ His brawny sides with hairy bristles armed ‘ ( Venus, 625). ‘ To retain the ” e ” when it is an essential part of the verb and to substitute an apostrophe where the ” e ” is a part of the inflection,’ in accordance with the use of the Cambridge Editors, does not obviate all ambiguity. Such words as ‘lovest’ and f owest’ are not always monosyllabic, even in modern poetry. Thus Shelley : ‘ I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of Delight ! The fresh Earth in new leaves drest ‘ : and, in Shakespeare’s day, the legitimate ‘ auricular figures of adding and rabbating’ (The Arte of English Poexic, Io89)gave a wider licence. The 210 NOTES Elizabethans added and suppressed syllables, shifted the accent, and varied the spelling of words with a freedom accorded by contemporary critics ‘ sometimes … for pleasure to give a better sound, sometimes upon necessitie’ (Ibid.). But they were ever careful to indicate what they had done, and to ensure the correct delivery of their lines. It would be awkward to omit the mute e e’ where such omission must suggest an unpleasing mispronunciation; for example, to write, as they did, ‘ plac’d ‘ for ‘ placed,’ when that word scans as a monosyllable. In order, therefore, to avoid such phonetic suggestions, and at the same time to retain that certainty of correct delivery which their method ensured, the practice adoped in this Edition is : (1) to accent ambiguous ‘ e ‘s that are to be sounded ; (2) to print without an accent mute ‘ e ‘s, the omission of which would suggest a mispronunciation ; (3) to omit all other mute f e’s, substituting an apostrophe. f The wrong ranging the accent of a sillable … as to say gratious for grdtious ‘ (Arte of English Poesie) has also been indicated by an accent ; and ‘ your swallowing or eating up of one letter by another’ (Ibid.), by its omission and an apostrophe, e.g. Venus and Adonis, 1. 668 : ‘ That tremble at th’ imagination ‘ : and Sonnet cxxxv. 7 : ‘ Shall will in others seem right gracious.’ III. The Use of Capitals. See Note III. on Lucrece, and Note V. on the Sonnets. The practice therein described has been followed in Venus and Adonis. IV. Date of the Composition of Venus and Adonis. See Notes on 11. 397, 507-8-9-10. V. Notes on the Text. 3. ‘ Rose cheek’d Adonis ‘ ; cf. Marlowe’s Hero and Leander : ‘ The men of wealthy Sestos every yeare, For his sake whom their goddess held so deare, Rose-cheek’d Adonis, kept a solemue fast.’ 9. Stain, injury. Cf. Sonnet cix. : ‘ So that myself bring water for thy stain.’ 14. rein, raine Q. here and passim. 19. satiety, sacietie Q. 26. The precedent (president Q. ) of pith and livelihood. Cf. Antony and Cleopatra, i. ii. 53 ; Othello, in. iv. 36. The idea occurs in Bandello’s novel of Romeo and Juliet. VENUS AND ADONIS 211 51. hairs, heares Q. rhyming with ‘ teares.’ 53. miss, misse Q. Malone suggests ‘miss for amiss. Cf. Sonnet xxxv. : ‘ Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss.’ In tracing the meaning of obsolete words I have availed myself of an interesting work, ‘ HFEMGN EI2 TA2 FAG22A2 | id est | Ductor in Linguas | The Guide Into Tongues \ an etymological dictionary in eleven languages,’ published ‘ By the Industry and Labor of John Minshaeus, and dedicated to James i., anno 1617. ‘ Among the sub scribers were Sir Francis Bacon, the Earls of Pembroke and South ampton, the Duke of Lennox, etc. I am indebted to Dr. Gatty for the loan of his copy, which once belonged to James i. In it two meanings are given for the verb to misse : to MISSE, or erre . . . vide to ERBB, or WANDER, b. to MISSE, or want . . . vide to WANT. The noun in this passage is from the first meaning of the verb = error. 56. Tires, from French tirer, a term of falconry used of a hawk tearing its food. Cf. Jouson’s Poetaster, iv. 1 : ‘ Horace. What, and be tired on by yond vulture ! ‘ 63. prey, pray Q. 68. fast’ned, fastned Q. 78. best, brest in Q. 11, Q. 12, Q. 13. Lintott and Gildon, ‘Her breast. ‘ 84. comptless, comptlesse Q. = inestimable. 86. dive-dapper, didapper, dabchick, from its habit of diving : the little grebe (Podiceps minor. ) 90. winks, here akin to wince, formerly also winch, from O. Fr. guinchir, guenchir, to start aside, no doubt sometimes written winchir : from O. G. wenken, to start aside. Imp. Die. , cf. blink, blench. 110. Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain. Malone refers to Ronsard : ‘Les muses lierent un jour De chaines de Roses Amour.’ Odes, bk. iv. 23 (ed. 1623). Richelet points out that the Ode is taken from Anacreon, published in France, 1554. Sidney, Daniel, and Drayton, later Wither and Herrick, discover unmistakable traces of Ronsard’s influence. Ronsard travelled in England. Queen Elizabeth gave him a diamond, com paring its water to the purity of his verse. Puttenham, Arte of English Poesie, 1589, denounces plagiarisms from Ronsard : ‘ Another of reasonable good facilitie in translation finding certaine of the hymnes 212 NOTES of Pyndarus arid of Anacreoris Odes . . . very well translated by Rounsard, the French Poet . . . comes our minion and translates the same out of French into English . . . but doth so impudently robbe the French Poet both of his prayse and also of his French Termes, that I cannot so much pittie him as be angry with him for his injurious dealing.’ 114. mast’ring, maistring Q. 131-2. Fair flowers that are not gather d in their prime Rot, and consume themselves in little time : an echo of Ronsard’s reiterated maxim : ‘ Je vous envoye un bouquet que ma main Vient de trier de ces fleurs epanies ; Qui ne les eust a ce vespre cueillies, Cheutes a terre elles fussent demain. Cela vous soit un exemple certain Que vos beautez, bien qu’elles soient fleuries, En peu de temps seront toutes flaitries, Et comme fleurs, periront tout soudain.’ 1560. Ronsard made this theme his own, but it has ever appealed to poets. Before Ronsard, Wyatt had written : ‘ What vaileth the flower To stand still and wither, If no man it savour It serves only for sight, And fadeth towards night ‘ and, long before Wyatt, Ovid : ‘ Nee violae semper, nee hiantia lilia florent, Et riget amissa spina relicta rosa.’ 137-8. for thee . . . abhor me. The rhyme is imperfect. 151. Primrose, Primrose Q. See Note III. (5), Lucrece. 177. tired = attired. Boswell. 184-5. Like . . . Souring, Likd … So wring, Q. 191. hairs, heares Q. rhyming with c teares,’ as above, 1. 51. 204. unkinnd, unkind Q. ‘That is, unnatural. Kind and nature were formerly synonymous ‘ MALONE. But unkind, 1. 187, is spelt unkinde, Q., whilst here we have unkind although rhyming to minde. I am persuaded by the sense of the couplet, and specially by the but : ‘ O had thy mother borne so hard a minde, She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind ‘ : VENUS AND ADONIS 213 that the word is not the adjective but a past participle, which would now be spelt unkinned, without offspring, cf. : ‘ Unfathered heirs and loathly births of nature.’ 2 Henry IV., iv. iv. 122. ‘ But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit.’ Sonnet xcvn. The poet, probably, played on the double meaning. Cf. Hamlet : ‘ A little more than kin and less than kind.’ 205. What am I that thou shouldst contemn me this ? Steevens : ‘ I suppose, without regard to the exactness of the rhyme, it should read thus.’ Malone interprets :’ That thou shouldst contemptuously refuse this favour that I ask.’ 213. Statue, statue Q. Cf. Sonnet LV. 5, where the word is printed in italics. It was but newly accepted and occurs four times in the Plays as statua. See Note III. (8), Lucrece. 220. judge, ludge Q. See Note III. (1), Lucrece. 222. intendments = intentions. Cf. As You Like It, i. i. : ‘ Either you shall stay him from his intendment or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into.’ ‘But fear the main intendment of the Scot.’ Henry V., i. ii. ‘Ay, and said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing.’ Othello, iv. ii. ‘ But I spying his intendment, discharged my petronel in his bosom.’ JONSON, Every Mem in his Humour. 229. Fondling, she saith, ‘ Since . . . The Cambridge has :’Fond ling/ she saith, ‘ since . . . But the word is descriptive of Venus’ action, not a term of endearment applied to Adonis. 231 and 239. deer, deare Q. A play upon words. 240. rouse, a term of art in venery. Guillim in A Display of Heraldrie, 2nd Ed., 1632; Enlarged by the Author himselfe in his lifetime: Together with his owne Addition of explaining the Termes of Hawking and Hunting, lays down in detail f apt termes of Hunting pertaining both to Beasts of Venery and of Chase ‘ : Dislodge Start ‘ You shall say un-Kennell } the < Rowse Bowlt Bucke Hare Foxe Hart L Conie.’ 214 NOTES , 257. remorse = compunction, tenderness, pity. ‘ If so your heart were touched with that remorse As mine to him.’ Measure for Measure, n. ii. ‘ Curse on th’ unpard’ning prince, whom tears can draw To no remorse.’ DBYDEN. 260-1. jennet . . . courser, lennet . . . Courser, Q. See Note III. (4), Lucrece. 272. compass’d = arch’d. ( A compass’d ceiling ‘ is a phrase yet in use. MALONE. Troilus and Cressida, i. 2: ‘She came to him the other day in the compass’d window,’ i.e. the bow window. STEEVENS. 272. stand. This verb is governed by mane, which, as composed of many hairs, is used in the plural. 279. curvets, a term of the manege, ‘ the ground of all high airs,’ is generally derived from French courbette, but more properly, according to ancient manuals on horsemanship, from Italian corvetta = a curvet ; corvo = a raven. The horse was made to rear and prance for ward with his hind legs together, and this action was likened to the hopping of a raven. The Guide into Tongues, 1617 (see note on 1. 53), gives : to CURVET, or praunce. Italian, corvettare. The manege seems to have originated in Italy, the French word being derived from the Italian maneggio, a riding-school. 279. leaps, rhyming with steps. The word is still pronounced ‘ leps ‘ in Ireland. 284. holla. ‘This seems to have been formerly a term of the manege. So, in As You Like It, ” Cry holla to thy tongue, I pr’ythee : it curvets unseasonably.” See Cotgrave’s French Dictionary, “Hola, interjection. Enough, soft, soft ; no more of that if you love me.” ‘ Thus Malone. But the term seems, before it entered the manege, to have hailed from the Champ Clos. Littre quotes ‘ la pluie fit le holla ‘ [entre des combattants], D’Aub., Hist., i. 289. Charles D’Orleans, bidding his heart be still, wrote : ‘ Si, lui dis je : mon cueur hola ! ‘- Chanson, li. Owing to modern pronunciation, and a lax use resulting from it in literature, ‘Holla’ is often confounded with ‘Halloo,’ from the French Haler=to halloo on hounds. Its sense is exactly the opposite, and survives, I am told, in a street cry : ‘ Stop-thief. Stopthief. Holla! Holla! Holla!’ Holla =stop, as in the pleasant Elizabethan ditty, ‘ Holla, my Fancy, whither wilt thou stray ? ‘ Sir Walter Scott places the two expressions, accurately, in the mouth of the Earl of Huntinglen : ‘ ” Ho la,” said the Earl of Huntinglen, “halt there”‘ and, in the same passage: ‘I should love well to make the oaks of my old forest of Dalgarno ring once more with halloo, and horn, and hound.’ The Fortunes of Nigel. VENUS AND ADONIS 215 299. horse, Horse Q. See Note III. (4), Lucrece. 303. ‘ To bid the wind a base ‘ = to challenge the wind for speed. Cf. Two Gentlemen of Verona, i. ii. 97: ‘Indeed I bid the base for Proteus.’ And Marlowe : ‘ We will find comfort, money, men, and friends, Ere long to bid the English King a base.’ From the game base, prisoner’s base, or county base as it was originally called. Cf. Cymbeline, v. 3 : ‘ Lads more like to run The county base, than to commit such slaughter.’ ‘ So ran they all as they had been at bace.’ SPENSER, Faery Queen, v. viii. 304. whe’r, where Q=whether. Cf. Sonnet LIX. 11, Q: ‘Whether we are mended, or where better they.’ So, in King John (n. i. 166) : ‘ Now shame upon thee whe’r he does or no ‘ : and in a poem by G. Turberville, 1567 : ‘ I doubt where Paris would have chose Dame Venus for the best.’ MALONE. 314. vails = lowers. French avaler, from Latin ad; vallis. Cf. Merchant of Venice, i. i. : ‘Vailing her high top lower than her ribs.’ 322. horse, Horse Q. 331. oven, Oven Q. 335. the heart’s attorney =the tongue. Cf. Richard 777. , iv. iv. : ‘Why should calamity be full of words ? Windy attorneys to their client woes.’ 343. wistly= wistfully. 345. hue, hew Q : the usual spelling. Cf. Sonnet xx. : ‘ A man in hew.’ 354. new-falfn, new falne Q. 359-60. dumb play . . . Chorus-like. An illustration from the Dumb-Show which preceded and the Chorus which commented on a Play. 363. ivory, luorie Q. alabaster, allablaster Q. 216 NOTES 376. steel’d, steeld Q. Cf. Sonnet xxiv. 1, Q. : ‘ Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath steeld Thy beauties forme in table of my heart.’ 397. ‘ Who sees his true-love in her naked bed.’ The phrase ‘ naked bed ‘ is of interest. It occurs in the Mirrorfor Magistrates : ‘ When in my naked bed my limbs I lay,’ but its frequency in the works of Shakespeare’s play-writing contemporaries is due to their derision of a line, Jeronimo or Hieronymo, n. v. : ‘What outcry calls me from my naked bed.’ which was constantly ridiculed by Jonson and others on account of this phrase. The first Jeronymo ‘ was acted by Lord Strange’s men ‘ [Shakespeare’s Company] ‘ at the Rose twenty-two times in the year ] 592’ (Fleay). This echo may therefore suggest that Shakespeare wrote Venus and Adonis not long before its publication (1593). We know from Dekker’s Satiromastix that Jonson ‘ took mad leronimo’s part,’ when he ‘ ambled by a play-waggon.’ But he did not admire the play. In Cynthia’s Revels he hits at the ‘ civet-wit’ in the audience, who { prunes his mustaccio, lisps, and, with some score of affected oaths, swears down all that sit about him : ” that the old Hieronymo, as it was first acted, was the only best, and judiciously penn’d play of Europe.”‘ 416. Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth. Cf. Henry Con stable’s Sheepheard’s Song of Venus and Adonis : ‘ I am now too young To be wonne by beauty ; Tender are my yeeres, I am yet a bud.’ 421. You hurt my hand with wringing. Cf. ibid. : ‘ Thou wringest mee too hard, Pre-thee, let me goe.’ 429. Mermaid’s, Marmaides Q. 430. before; . . . bearing, before, . . . bearing, Q.; before, . . . bearing : Malone and modern editions. The sense seems to be ‘ I had my load before ; (but I am) now press’d (down) with bearing, melodious discord,’ etc. etc. 433-450. Cf. Chapman’s Ovid’s Banquet of Sense (1595), in which Ovid discourses to Corinna (Julia) of ‘Auditus, Olfactus, Visus, Gustus, Tactus.’ The Argument. 456. flaws =sudden gusts. Cf. Hamlet, v. i. : c Should patch a wall to expel the winter’s flaw. ‘ ‘ The flaw-blown sleet.’ KEATS. ‘What flaws and whirles of weather.’ BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER, Pilgrim, in. vi. VENUS AND ADONIS 217 466. bankrupt, bankrout Q. 494. Ocean, Ocean Q. See Note III. (6), Lucrece. 500. shrewd, shrowd Q. ; shrewd Q. 3. 507. verdure, verdour Q : f The poet evidently alludes to a practice of his own age, when it was customary, in time of the plague, to strew the rooms of every house with rue and other strong-smelling herbs, to prevent infection.’ MALONE. 508-9-10. 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. This vivid allusion to the Plague may give a clue to the date of the poem’s composition. It is more than improbable that Shakespeare should have written thus at Stratford of the Plague and of the excite ment it caused. He refers to the Plague in London, where it nearly affected him as an actor, affording the City authorities their stock pretext for prohibiting plays, to which they objected in deed on puritanical grounds. Fleay quotes one of their arguments in 1575 : ( To play in plague-time increases the plague by infection : to play out of plague-time calls down the plague from God.’ Now in 1586 there seems to have been a visitation, but too slight to call forth such a comment from the poet, even supposing he had then reached London, which is doubtful. In 1592, however, the theatres were closed on account of the Plague from July to December, and the Michaelmas term was kept at Hertford (Stow, p. 765, cited by Fleay, History of the Stage, p. 94). It is probable, therefore, that Shakespeare wrote the poem during the enforced idleness of the second half of the year 1592 ; and this falls in with the suggestion (supra) that the phrase naked bed echoes a line in the play acted by his company twenty-two times in that year. 515. slips = counterfeit coin. Cf. Romeo and Juliet : ‘ What counterfeit did I give you ? Mercutio. The slip, sir, the slip.’ 521. Say, for non-payment that the debt should double : ‘ The poet was thinking of a conditional bond’s becoming forfeited for non-payment ; in which case the entire penalty (usually the double of the principal sum lent by the obligee) was formerly recoverable at law.’ MALONE. 545. He, Ho Q. 561. roe, Roe Q. See Note III. (4), Lucrece. 565-7. temp ring . . . venturing, tempring . . . ventring Q. an imperfect rhyme. 218 NOTES 589-90. whereat a sudden pale, Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose. Cf. Sheepheard’s Song of Venus and Adonis : ‘ At the name of boare Venus seemed dying : Deadly-colour’d pale Roses overcast.’ and Rape ofLucrece: ‘ First red as roses that on lawn we lay, Then white as lawn, the roses took away.’ 598. manege, mannage Q. ; the context shows that ‘ manege,’ not 1 manage,’ was intended. Cf. A Lover’s Complaint, 111-12 : ‘ Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manege, by th’ well-doing steed.’ (Manege is printed mannad’g in Q. 1609.) 600. clip embrace. 601. Even so, thus in Q. Modern editions put ‘ even as,’ with a comma after e maw ‘ in 1. 602 instead of a colon. But the first altera tion from Q. breaks the rhythm, and the second makes the construction awkward in 1. 604. The poet alludes to the picture by Zeuxis. 619. Battel, battell Q. I retain the obsolete spelling as better be fitting the almost obsolete sense, viz. a division of an army arrayed. Cf. Ovid, Metam., Bk. viii. : ‘ Sanguine et igne micant oculi, riget ardua cervix : Et setce densis similes hastilibus horrent.’ 628. venture, venter Q. rhyming with ‘ enter. ‘ 632. eyes pay Malone (1790), eyes paies Q. 639. within his danger : a phrase which occurs frequently in North’s Plutarch (1579). 652. Mil, kill! the cry of soldiers entering a town to sack it, cf. ‘To the Sack, to the Sack, Kill ! Kill ! ‘North’s Plutarch Life of Sylla. 655. bate-breeding, ‘ bate ‘ = contention. The Guide into Tongues, (1617), gives ‘ Debatemaker, or make-bate . . . vide Contentions.’ ‘ Shall ever civil bate Gnaw and devour our taste ? ‘ COUNTESS OP PEMBROKE’S Antonius. 657. carry-tale. Cf. ‘ No tell-tale nor no bread-bate. ‘Merry Wives, i. iv. 12. VENUS AND ADONIS 219 674. Uncouple at the timorous flying hare. Cf. The Sheepheard’s Song, 1 Course the fearful hare.’ 676. roe, Roe Q. 680. overshut his troubles. Steevens suggested ‘overshoot, i.e. fly beyond. ‘ Malone adds : ‘ To shut up, in Shakespeare’s age, signified to conclude. I believe therefore the text is right.’ 682. cranks =turns. 683. musits. ‘Musits are said by the lexicographers to be the places through which the hare goes for relief. ‘ MALONE. The lexico graphers make out their ignorance of sport with this display of humour. A hare’s muse (French musse) is still the common and only term for the round hole made in a fence through which a hare traces her run. Musit is from the Fr. diminutive mussette. 687. conies, Conies Q. See Note III. (4), Lucrece. 695. spend their mouths, a term of venery. Cf. : ‘ He will spend his mouth, and promise, like Brabbler the hound.’ Troilus and Cressida, v. i. 99. 705. doth, do Q. 712. moralise: f The practice of moralising works that is, of drawing moral applications from treatises, fables, and romances prevailed extensively in the Middle Ages, and was, at first, chiefly cultivated by religious writers. . . . It is to this custom Venus alludes when she says it is unlike herself to moralize.’ BELL. 736. defeature. Cf. Comedy of Errors, v. i. 299: ‘ Careful hours with time’s deformed hand Have written strange defeatures in my face.’ 740. wood =mad. (The Guide into Tongues, 1617.) 748. th’ impartial, the th’ impartiall Q. 777. Mermaids, Marmaids Q. 787. reprove =disprove, refute. Cf. 2 Henry VL, in. i. 40: ‘My lords Reprove my allegation if you can.’ 798. caterpillers, Caterpillers Q. See Note III. (4), Lucrece. 808. teen =vexation. 813. lawnd, or laund = an open space of untilled ground in a wood. Cf. 3 Henry VI. , in. i. 2 : ‘ Under this thick-grown brake we ’11 shrowd ourselves For through this lawnd anon the deer will come.’ 848. parasites, parasits in Q. rhyming with f wits.’ 849. Cf. the ‘ Anon, anon, Sir’ scene, 1 Henry IV., n. iv. 220 NOTES 849. tapsters, Tapsters Q. See Note III. (1), Lucrece. 858. cedar-tops, Ceader tops Q. See Note III. (5), Lucrece. 870. Coasteth = approaches; Q. 9 has ‘ posteth.’ 871-2. And, as she runs the bushes in the way, Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, InQ. And as she runnes, the bushes in the way, Some catch her by the necke, some kisse her face, Modern Editions omit the comma after l way/ but this makes the next phrase awkward. I omit the comma after ‘ runs/ believing that verb to be transitive, as in the phrase ‘the fox ran the meadows,’ or, possibly, as in ‘he ran the blockade/ or ‘ ran the gauntlet.’ The comma which I omit is rhythmical, not grammatical. See Note II. on The Sonnets. 873. twined, twin’d Q. 875. doe, Doe Q. See Note III. (4), Lucrece. 877. at a bay, a term of venery for the action of hounds baying in a circle round the exhausted stag or boar. It seems to reflect the old French abai, abbai, more closely than does the modern English at bay (French aux abois), which is used of the quarry in its extremity rather than of the hounds that surround it. The Guide into Tongues (1617) has ‘ an Abbay or Barking q. (=as it were) at a Bay, vi. Bay or Barke/ and, under Bay, ‘ barke, or hold at a Bay.’ 888. who shall cope him first = encounter him. Cf. As You Like It, ii. i. 67 : ‘ I love to cope him in these sudden fits.’ Cope, v. t. =to encounter, perhaps from Ice. kapp, contention ; kappi, a champion derivatives from Latin campus, a field (of battle). Thus the Imperial Dictionary, The Guide into Tongues (1617), derives the word from Low German ‘ Kop, the head, as it were to come head to head, or face to face.’ 889. This dismal cry, viz. the strange intonation of the hounds’ c cry ‘ when baying. f Cry ‘ is a term of venery. Cf. A Midsummer Night’s Dream, iv. i. : ‘ A cry more tuneable Was never halloo’d to, nor cheer’d with horn ‘ : and ‘ full cry.’ 902. together, togither Q. rhyming with ‘ whither.’ 909. mated = confounded : from French mater, to fatigue, Old French mat, worn out : all from the chess term, Persian shah mat, English check mate, literally ‘ the king is dead. ‘ VENUS AND ADONIS 221 920. Another flap-mouth’d mourner. The whole passage attests the Poet’s intimate knowledge of the chase, and it reflects the use of such themes in courtly mediaeval poetry. Cf. the death of Begon in Garin te Loherain. He, too, is ineffectually dissuaded from hunting a boar, and, when dead, is mourned by his hounds. ‘ Seul ont Begon en la forest laissie ; Et jouste lui reviendrent si trois chien, Hulent et braient com fuissent enragie . . . Gentis hons fu, moult 1’amoient si chien.’ KEB, Epic and Romance. 940. random, randon Q. The old form from Old French randon, French randonnee. ‘Terme de chasse. Tour, circuit fait sur un meme lieu par une bete qu’on a laiicee.’ LITTRE. 956. vail’d = let fall. 963. Both crystals, where they view’d each other’s sorrow: Magic crystals, as Dr. Dee’s, in which one in sympathy with another could see the scene of his distress. 973. halloo, hallow Q. This spelling is given by The Guide into Tongues, 1617. 995. clepes= calls. 1002. decease, decesse Q. rhyming with ‘confesse.’ (Fr. deces, Lat. decessus.) 1003. boar, Bore Q. See Note III. (4), Lucrece. 1028. The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light. Cf. Virgil, JEneid, viii. 808 : ‘ Ilia vel, intactae segetis per summa volaret Gramina.’ 1031. as murder d Q. 3, are murder’d Q. 1. 1046-7. ^4.* when the wind, imprison d in the ground, Struggling for passage, earth’sfoundation shakes. This was the received explanation of an earthquake. Cf. 1 Henry IV. 3 in. i. 32 : ‘ Oft the teeming earth Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within her womb ; which, for enlargement striving, Shakes the old beldame earth and topples down Steeples.’ 1048. Which with cold terror doth men’s minds confound. ‘ When Shakespeare was sixteen years old (1580) there was an earthquake in England. ‘ MALONE. 1054. was drench’d, had drecht Q. 222 NOTES 1083. Having nofair to lose, fair = beauty. 1093. lion, Lion Q. See Note III. (4), Lucrece. 1096. tiger, Tygre Q. (Ibid.) 1105. Urchin-snouted; urchin = hedgehog (The Guide into Tongues). 1105. boar, Boare Q. See Note III. (4), Lucrece. 1112. boar (Ibid.). 1128. two lamps . . . in darkness lies: f lt is obvious from this example, as from numerous others, that the Elizabethan violations of time and form cannot always be referred to haste or accident, but that they were sometimes adopted designedly to suit the metre or the rhyme. In such cases as the present, it is possible that the final s came into use as a substitute for the Saxon termination th.’ BELL. 1149. staring, perhaps =bristly and unkempt, as in the e staring coat ‘ of an ungroomed horse. LUCRECE 223 THE RAPE OF LUCRECE I. The Text. The Text is taken from the First Quarto of 1594, as reproduced in facsimile from the copy in the British Museum by Mr. Charles Praetorius. Spelling and punctuation have been modern ised generally, but not invariably, in accordance with the use of The Cambridge Shakespeare. In every other case of a departure from the Quarto, the fact is noted. The Variorum Shakespeare of 1821, Shake speare’s Poems (Kelmscott), and The Poems of William Shakspeare (Robert Bell), have also been used for the text and notes. Through out the Notes the First Quarto (B. M.) is referred to as Q. II. The Use of the Apostrophe as a Guide to the Metrical Pronunciation. See Note II. on Venus and Adonis. III. The Use of Capitals. Cf. Note V. on The Sonnets. The use of capitals in the First Quartos of Venus, Lucrece, and The Sonnets is not arbitrary, and much, both of the author’s intention and of the manner of his age, is lost by a hard and fast conformation to modern practice. In the First Quarto of Lucrece capitals are used to denote: (1) Professions and Occupations, viz. : Orator, where the capital is retained in this Edition by analogy with the occasional modern practice in the cases of Poet, Painter, Musician. You find also, ludge 1. 220, Authors 1. 1244, Clients 1. 1020, Plowman 1. 958, Messenger 1. 1583, Merchant 1. 1660, Citizen 1. 464, Groom, 11. 1345, 1632-45; and, somewhat similarly, Father 1. 1731 : in which cases the modern practice has been followed. (2) Technical Terms, especially of War, viz. : Tent 1. 15, Armies I. 76, Trumpet 1. 470, Falchion 11. 509, 1046, 1626, Fort 1. 482, Sentinel 1. 942, (Battering-) Ram 1. 464, Cannon 1. 1043, Foe 1. 1696 ; and similarly, in the case of other buildings and appliances, City II. 464-5, 1544, Monument 1. 391, Cabinet 1. 442, Curtain 1. 374, Cell 1. 881, Schedule (Cedule) 1. 1312, Bell 1. 1492. In the last instance ‘ Bell ‘ is used as an image, or emblem. (3) This use is very frequent in the case of Animals, introduced as in Fables, e.g. 1. 836, ‘ My Honey lost, and I a Drone-like Bee’ ; 1. 849, 224 NOTES ‘ Or hateful Cuckoos hatch in Sparrows’ nests?’ 11. 1009-1015, where ‘ the Crow ‘ is contrasted with ‘ the Swan/ and Gnats with Eagles. In such cases the capital has been retained to emphasise the antithetical illustration. (4) It is also employed in the Quarto, but not retained in this Edition ; in the case of Animals, apart from any such fabular inten tion, e.g. Owls 11. 164, 360, Lambs 11. 166, 737, Hound, Hawk, 1. 694, Faulcon 11. 505-9, Hind 1. 543, Doe 1. 581, Deer 1. 1144, Cat 1. 554, Tigers 1. 980, Lion 1. 421, Lion and Unicorn 1. 956, Birds 1. 1121. (5) In the case of Flowers, where it is retained in this Edition, e.g. 11. 258-9, ‘ Roses. . . . Lawn ‘ (the capital given to lawn, for antithetical effect, has not, however, been retained) ; and of Trees, Cedar 11. 664-5, Bark . . . Pine 1. 1167. (6) For the Sun, Moon, and Ocean, where it is retained, though not for Sea, 1. 1100. (7) For Honour, almost invariably, Virtue 1. 846, Fame 11. 1188, 1202-3, where it is not retained unless these qualities are personified, as in the case of Beauty, almost constantly. In beauty, 1. 80, it is omitted. (8) The use of capitals in words newly introduced may best be illus trated from a passage in The Arte of English Poesie (1589) : After warning the f maker ‘ to avoid antiquated, provincial, f inkhorne terms brought in by men of learning,’ and f strange terms of other languages by secretaries and marchaunts and trauailours,’ the author allows certain exceptions : e Ye have also this word conduict, a French word, but well allowed . . . also this word idiome, taken from the Greekes, yet serving aptly . . . this word significative borrowed of the Latine and French, but to us brought in first by some Noble-mans Secretarie . . . and many more like usurped Latine and French words : as, methode, methodically placation, function, assubtiling, refining, compen dious, prolixe, figurative, inveigle . . . numerous, metrical . . . pene trate, indignitie . . . savage for wilde : obscure for darke . . . audacious for bold.’ In the First Quartos this same theory is ex emplified by the same practice, viz. of printing such words with capitals and sometimes (in The Sonnets) in italics, e.g. in Lucrece, Oratorie 1. 564, Apologies 1. 31, Hospitalitie 1. 75, Cure 1. 732, Diapason 1. 1132, Pilgrimage 1. 960, Sou’raigntie 1. 36, Lamentations 1. 1829, Ivory 1. 407, Antiques 1. 459 ; and, more doubtfully, Arch 1. 1667, Act 1. 1824, Edie (Eddy) 1. 1669, Down 1. 1012. In these cases the capital has not been retained, but they are not necessarily errors. The Swan’s Down has a capital in Guillim’s Display of Heraldrie (1610), and the word is derived in The Guide into Tongues LUCRECE 225 (1617), from Low German dunne veders : a dun = tennis, exilis ; veder = pluma. IV. Notes on the Text. 1. all in post. Cf. The Palace of Pleasure, William Painter: { Whervpon thei rode to Rome in poste.’ 8-9. Haply that name of e chaste ‘ unhaply set This bateless edge on his keen appetite. Cf. Ovid, Fasti, ii. : ‘ Verba placent, et vox, et quod corrumpere non est: Quoque minor spes est, hoc magis ille cupit ‘ ; bateless = not to be f bated,’ i.e. blunted. Cf. Love’s Labour Lost, i. i. 6: ‘That honour, which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge.’ 10. Let- forbear. Cf. Chaucer: ‘ That man is bounden to his observance For Goddes sake to Icten of his will.’ 13. heaven’s Beauties the stars. 19. high-proud, hyphened by Malone. 24. silver-melting, hyphened by Malone. 36. Sovreignty, Sou’raingtie Q. 37. Suggested = tempted. Cf. King Richard II., HI. iv. 75 : ‘ What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee, To make a second fall of cursed man.’ 50. Collatium. Thus in the Bodleian version of the First Quarto ; Colatia in all the other early Quartos. 56. Virtue would stain that or with silver white: Or (ore Q., o’er Modern Editions) may involve a play on the two words ore = or = gold in heraldry; and ore =o’er, over. But the first is here the primary sense. Malone conjectured this, instancing the use of ore = or = gold, in Hamlet; and adding, ‘The terms of heraldry in the next stanza seem to favour this supposition : and the opposition between or and the silver white of Virtue is entirely in Shakespeare’s manner. So afterwards : “Which virtue gave the golden age, to gild Their silver cheeks. . . .”‘ But Malone did not push his conjecture far enough. The conceits of this whole passage (11. 54-72), based as it is on heraldic terms throughout, can only be understood in the light of contemporary heraldic lore as expounded, for example, by Guillim in his Display of P 226 NOTES Heraldrie (1610). Guillim gives a long account of the composition and significance of the several colours used in blazon, much of which bears directly on this passage. E.g.: ‘This colour (white) is most commonly taken in Blazon for the metal silver, and is termed Argent, wheresoever the same is found in Field or Charge. In the Second Edi tion (1632) there follows : To this metall is given the second place next to gold. . . . For in Blazon it betokeneth innocency, cleannesse of life and chastity.’ Coming (First Edition) to yellow, he writes: ‘ ‘ This colour is bright yellow, which is compounded of much white, and a little red, as if you should take two parts of white, and but one of red. This colour in Armes is blazed by the name of Or, which is as much as to say aurum, which is gold. ‘ It is possible to interpret this line by assuming that Shakespeare uses f or’=gold, for the red of Beauty’s blush Beauty’s ‘red’ of line 59 (he uses ‘gold’ for ‘ red ‘ in Macbeth : f His silver skin laced with his golden blood ‘). But, on this assumption, the remainder of the passage becomes unintelligible. And whenever Shakespeare, in an age of technical conceits, indulges in one ostentatiously, it will always be found that his apparent obscurity arises from our not crediting him with a technical knowledge which he undoubtedly possessed, be it of heraldry, of law, or of philosophic disputation. When he says : ‘Virtue would stain that or with silver white,’ he means that Virtue, by an admixture of f silver white ‘ : the blazon of chastity (supra) with ‘ that ‘= Beauty’s blushes = ‘ Beauty’s red ‘ of 1. 59 : obtained, in accordance with Heraldry, the e mixed colour,’ gold, which is ‘blazed by the name of Or.’ Virtue’s white, mixed with Beauty’s red, has now produced heraldic or. 57-8. But Beauty in that white intituled From Venus’ doves, doth challenge that fair field. In Q. there is a comma after ‘intituled.’ But Shakespeare con stantly places a comma, without grammatical signification, at the end of a line (see Note V. on The Sonnets). These lines do not, even when taken alone, give any clear sense, unless so punctuated as to yield this meaning: ‘But Beauty, also intituled =formally blazoned in white (which is virtue’s colour) by derivation from Venus’ doves, doth challenge that fair field =disputes Virtue’s exclusive right to afield, again the proper heraldic term, of white. ‘ And, unless this interpre tation be accepted, it will be found that 67 : Of cithers colour was the other Queen and 70: That oft they interchange their seat yield no sense at all. 59. Then Virtue claims from Beauty, Beauty’s red : Beauty having claimed Virtue’s white, by instancing ‘ Venus’ doves,’ Virtue retorts with a counter-claim on Beauty’s red, which she founds, 1. 60-64 : LUCRECE 227 ‘ 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 assailed, that red should fence the white ‘ : on the fact that she, Virtue, gave red to the Golden Age, so that, again by admixture in accordance with heraldry, they (the people of the world’s innocent prime) might ‘ gild their silver cheeks ‘ in fact, turn their white, the symbol of ‘ innocency/ into gold. Virtue calls this their shield ; teaching them, when the white innocency is assailed, to ‘ fence ‘ = defend it with red blushes. Thus the Poet brings his conceit round to the point of departure from Lucrece’ blush. The ensuing lines : ‘ This heraldry in Lucrece’ face was seen, Argued by Beauty’s red and Virtue’s white : Of cither’s colour was the other Queen ‘ : are now intelligible ; for Beauty, starting with red, has claimed white, and Virtue, starting with white, has claimed red. 67. Proving from world’s minority their right : This also is now in telligible. It refers back to the ‘ golden age ‘ of the world’s infancy, when Virtue had red in her gift, and it refers also, as I hold, to the priority of white among heraldic colours, according to the science of Shakespeare’s day. Cf. Guillim : ‘ White challengeth the precedency of black (according to Upton) in respect of priority of time, for that it was in nature before black ‘ and, a fortiori, before red, which is 1 exactly compounded of white and black.’ 69. The sovereignty of either being so great : ( Sovereignty ‘ is also used by Guillim and his predecessors for the dignity attaching to certain dispositions of heraldic bearings : ( Moreover (as Leigh sheweth) they are also called, most worthy partitions, in respect that albeit the Field be charged in divers parts thereof, whether with things of one or of divers kinds, yet is every one of them as effectual as if it were only one by the soveraigntie of these partitions.’ Heraldry was the one science of the nobility before whom minstrels sang in the Middle Ages, and a knowledge of it, as expounded by ancient writers, may throw light on many dark passages of mediaeval song. ‘The eyes of vair’ of Aucassin and Nicolete (‘ les iex vairs’) which have remained inscrutable to Mr. Lang, Mr. Bourdillon, and M. Roquefort, may shine again with recovered brilliancy. Guillim writes, summing up the wisdom of his forbears, ‘ If your vaire doth consist of A rgent and Azure, you must in blazon thereof, say onely, hee beareth vaire, and it sufficeth : but if it be composed of any other 228 NOTES colours, then you must say, he beareth vaire of these or those colours.’ So Nicolete’s eyes shone like a shield of blue and silver. 87-8. These lines are marked as quotations in Q. 93. pleats : thus in all the Quartos. Ewing substituted ‘ plaits,’ and Boswell adduces : ‘Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides.’ Lear, i. i. 279. But this ‘ plaited ‘ is due to Pope. The first two Quartos have ‘ pleated,’ and the sense in both passages suggests the pleats or folds of an ample robe, not a covering of ‘ plaited ‘ or ‘ platted ‘ interweaving. Cf. Lear, iv. vi. 162 : ‘ Through tatter’d clothes small vices do appear ; Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. . . .’ 100. parting = speaking. 102. Writ in the glassey margents of such books. Cf. Romeo and Juliet, i. iii. 86 : ‘ And what obscured in this fair volume lies, Find written in the margent of his eyes. This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him only lacks a cover.’ Margent = margin. ‘ In all our ancient English books, the comment is printed in the margin.’ MALONE. 113. thither, thither Q. Hither Cambridge, with an erroneous attribution of ‘ thither ‘ to Q. 7 alone. 121. Intending = pretending, spright, sprite Q. 135. That what they have not, that which they possess . Thus in the first four Quartos. In later Editions : ‘ That oft they have not . . .’ But the earlier reading, though a little involved, conveys a subtiler sense: ‘ Those that covet much are rendered so foolish by their rapacity that what they have not, viz. that which they (apparently) possess but cannot truly be said to have, they scatter and unloose, and so have less by hoping to get more ; or, if they do gain more, the profit of this excess is but to surfeit and to suffer such griefs that they prove bankrupt by this poor-rich gain. ‘ Malone cites Daniel’s Cleopatra (1594) : ‘ For what thou hast, thou still dost lacke/ and a sentence of Publius Syrus : ‘ Tarn avaro deest quod habet, quam quod non habet.’ 147. all together, the seventh and eighth Quartos ; altogether in the rest.148. venturing, ventring Q. 168. wakes, Qq ; wake, Malone (Capell MS.). LUCRECE 229 188. His nuked armour of still, slaughter d lust : ‘ Still slaughtered ‘ Q. ; ‘ still-slaughter’d,’ Malone ; ‘i.e. still-slaughtering; unless the poet means to describe it as a passion that is always a killing, but never dies.’ STEEVENS. But the line continues the sense of the pre ceding passage : (171) he is toss’d between Desire and Dread ; (172) Desire flatters his enterprise ; Dread fears harm from it ; (173) Honest Fear, bewitched by Lust, too often retires ; (183) but Fear again gets the upper hand, and Tarquin debates the sorrow that must arise from his contemplated crime ; till (187) he despises (188) his naked or defenceless protection from Lust, now still and slaughtered by Fear. 198. foul dishonour to my household’s grave. This opens another passage based on Shakespeare’s knowledge of heraldry. Cf. : ( household’s grave ‘ with Titus Andronicus, v. iii. 194 : ‘ Lavinia shall forthwith Be closed in our household’s monument.’ The escutcheons of ancestors were displayed on the mortuary chapels of noble families. But, possibly, ‘ grave ‘ is here a noun, from the verb ‘ to grave.’ Cf. Merchant of Venice, n. vii. 36 : ‘ Let ‘s see once more this saying graved in gold.’ The epithet ( household ‘ is twice applied by Shakespeare to armorial bearings : ‘ Clifford. Might I but know thee by thy household badge. Warwick. Now, by my father’s badge, old Nevil’s crest, The rampant bear chain’d to the ragged staff.’ 2 Henry VI., v. i. 202. ‘ Bolingbrokc. From my own windows torn my household coat, Razed out my imprese, leaving me no sign, Save men’s opinions and my living blood, To show the world I am a gentleman.’ Richard II., in. i. 24. This use of ‘household coat,’ in juxtaposition with ‘imprese,’ a term of heraldic science, gives some slight colour to my suggestion that by ‘household’s grave’ Shakespeare meant the same thing; and the suggestion is further strengthened by his play on the word in the couplet of this same stanza : 1 Then my digression is so vile, so base That it will live engraven in my face ‘ : leading up, as it does, to the next stanza (204-210), in which he deals explicitly with f abatements,’ which are f accidentall markes annexed to Coate-Armour, denoting some ungentleman-like, dishonorable, or 230 NOTES disloyall demeanour, quality, or staine in the Bearer, whereby the dignity of the Coate-Armour is greatly abased.’ A Display of Heraldrie. Among such abatements Guillim goes on to give one ‘ unto him that discourteously intreateth either Maid or Widdow against their will.’ 217. strucken, stroke Q. 239. ay, I Q., is frequently so spelt by contemporary writers. 245. Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe : ‘ In the old tapestries or painted cloths, many moral sentences were wrought. So, in If This Be not a Good Play, the Devil is in ‘t, by Dekker, “What says the prodigal child in the painted cloth ?” ‘ MALONE. 313. conduct = conductor. 333. sneaped = nipped, pinched. Cf. Ray : ‘Herbs and fruits sneaped with cold weather.’ The first sense is to reprimand or chide, as in 2 Henry IV., n. i. 133 : ‘My lord, I will not undergo this sneap without reply.’ 335. Shelves and sands. Cf. Milton : f On the tawny sands and shelves. ‘ 342. prey to pray, c pray to pray ‘ Q. 400. Her hair, like golden threads : Cf. flavique capilli in Ovid’s version of the story. 408. e A pair of maiden worlds unconquertd ‘ : Mr. Grant White and Mr. Bell take exception to the epithet ‘ maiden.’ ‘ Is not this line contradicted in the two lines following?’ Mr. Furnivall justly replies: ‘ Shakespeare used 8. That by this separation I may give That due to thee which thou deservst alone : Separation justifies the poet’s praise of the Friend, which was not justified whilst their dear love was undivided, 11. 5, 6 ; for to praise him then was for the Poet to praise himself, 1. 3, since they were one, the Friend being all the better part of the Poet, 1. 1. 12. Which time and thoughts so sweetly dost deceive Q. : Malone substituted ‘doth deceive,’ and has been generally followed. The sense would then be: ‘ O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove, were it not that thy sour leisure gave sweet leave to entertain the time with thoughts of love, which (i.e. love) doth deceive time and thoughts so sweetly.’ Malone, to make sense, explains deceive = beguile. This may serve for time, but hardly for thoughts. I retain the Q. text, for the construction in the second person singular, which begins with the apostrophe to absence in 1. 9, recurs, with absence again as the subject, in 1. 13, And that thou teachest. It is, therefore, I think, rightly maintained in 1. 12 ‘dost deceive,’ where the ellipsis of a SONNETS 289 e thou ‘ presents no difficulty, being immediately supplemented by ‘ And that thou ‘ of 1. 13. In 11. 1-8 the poet argues that, the Friend being the better part of himself, 1. 2, his ‘ own self,’ 1. 3, he cannot praise him because thus he would be praising himself, 1. 4. For this let them be divided, 1. 5, that by separation, 1. 7, he may give ‘ that due ‘ = praise, to the Friend who alone is entitled to it, 1. 8. Here follows the apostrophe to absence, or separation : What a torment wouldst thou prove, were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave to entertain the time with thoughts of love, 1. 11, which (i.e. which same) time and thoughts (of love) thou (absence) dost so sweetly (cf. ‘ sweet leave,’ 1. 9) deceive \ Deceive here does not mean to ‘ mislead ‘ a sense which Malorie repudiates for ( beguile ‘ but ‘ to cause to fail in fulfilment or realization’ (Imp. Diet.), to defraud, defeat, undo, make vain. For kindred uses of this word cf. Troilus and Cressida, v. iii. 90 : ‘ Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive ‘ : where Cassandra tells Hector that if he neglects her warnings he will undo himself and his country ; and Macbeth, i. ii. 63 : ‘ No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive – Our bosom interest.’ Absence gives a sweet opportunity for passing away time with thoughts of love, but, though sweetly, still, by its very nature, it does defraud and make vain time and these thoughts of love. XL. 1. all; all. Q. 5, 6. Then if for my lone, thou my love receivest = lf in place of my love for you, you accept the woman I love, 1. 5 (cf. XLII. 9), I cannot blame thee, for thou usest my love, 1. 6. Here the Poet plays on the two meanings of ( love ‘ given in the preceding line. 7. But yet be blam’d, if thou this selfe deceauest: Thus in Q. Modern editions have ‘ thyself ‘ for ‘this self.’ Dowden explains: ( Yet you are to blame if you deceive yourself by an unlawful union while you refuse legal wedlock.’ Tyler : ‘ Mr. W. H., it is suggested, may be committing a fraud on himself.’ This is no more satisfactory than the Q. text, which I retain since it will bear a meaning. The Sonnet was evidently written at the same time and on the same theme the theft of the Poet’s mistress by his Friend as the one which precedes and the two which follow it ‘ This self ‘= the Poet, must, therefore, be interpreted in connexion with the identity of him self and the Friend stated in xxxix. 1-4, and re-stated in XLII. 13, 14 : ‘ But here ‘s the joy, my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery, then she loves but me alone ‘ : T 290 NOTES a couplet which concludes the whole matter of the four. And note that, when the same matter is re-handled in the Second Series (cxxvn.- CLII.), the same identity is urged : ‘And my next selfthou. harder hast engrossed.’ cxxxm. 6. ‘ Think all but one, and me in that one Will. ‘ cxxxv. 14. ‘ This self = the Poet, in 1. 7 is distinguished from ‘ thy self the Friend of 1. 8 ; and this distinction of two persons who are one self is in harmony with the conceit which runs through the four numbers. ‘Deceivest/ 1. 7, as in xxxix. 12 = defraud, undo. 8. By wilful taste of what thy self refusest : This, the last line of the quatrain must be read in the light of the three lines which precede it. For here, in accordance with Shakespeare’s usual practice, the quatrain is one, both as a measure of verse and in grammatical construction. f Of what’ refers back, grammatically, to f my love’ in 1. 6. But there f my love’ is ambiguous (supra), holding implicitly the two meanings of the phrase exhibited in 1. 5, where the first ‘ my love ‘ = the Poet’s love for the Friend, and the second = the Poet’s mistress. The sense of the quatrain is: Then if, in place of my love for you, you prefer my mistress, I cannot blame you, for each of these, in a sense, is my love, and that you are free to use, since mine is made yours and yours mine by the identity of our two selves in one. But yet you are to blame if, of the two, you defraud this, my self, by wilfully tasting my love = my mistress, while you, the other self, refuse my love = my love for you. XLI. 8. he have Q., she have Malone (Tyrwhitt conj.): The Q. reading is more subtile in sense and more musical in sound. XL11. That thou hast her, etc. : Closes GROUP C. Cf. cxxxm. 9. my love = the Poet’s mistress. Cf. the second my love in XL. 5. 12. lay on me this cross : ‘To him that bears the strong offence’s cross.’ xxxiv. 12. . ‘A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed.’ cxxxm. 8. XLIII. 1. When most I wink = when most I close my eyes, viz. when I sleep. The word bears no meaning of brevity or alternation with opening : ‘ To the perpetual wink for aye might put This ancient morsel.’ Tempest, n. i. 285. ‘And I will wink ; so shall the day seem night.’ Venus and Adonis, 121. ‘They are not blind, but they ?0mfc.’ TILLOTSON. SONNETS 291 2. unrespected = unheeded, with a play on the first sense = unseen. 4. And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed: ‘ Darkly bright’ echoes 1. 1, repeating the statement that the Poet’s eyes see best when closed, ‘Are bright in dark directed’ is contrasted against 1. 2, where the eyes, though seeing in the day, take no heed, for it states that when in dark directed, they are bright, viz. heedful. The sense is ‘My eyes see hest when they are most firmly closed, for all the day, though they view things, they do not heed them ; but when I sleep they look on thee in dreams, and, seeing although closed, in the dark they heed that on which they are fixed.’ 5. Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright : See Note on xxxvu. 10. 11. thy Malone, their Q. XLIV. 11. But that, so much of earth and water wrought : In the next Sonnet the Poet explains that of the four elements which com pose him, Fire and Air are absent with his Friend, leaving him with but the heavier two, ‘ so much of earth and water wrought ‘ : ‘ Does not our life consist of the four elements. ‘ Twelfth Night, n. iii. 10. ‘ The dull elements of earth and water never appear in him.’ Henry V., m. vii. 23. ‘ I am fire and air ; my other elements I give to baser life.’ Antony and Cleopatra, v. ii. 292. 13. naught, naughts Q. 14. But heavy tears, badges of either s woe : That is of earth and water, by their weight and moisture. XLV. The other two, slight air, etc. : Connected with the preceding sonnet. 4. present-absent, hyphened by Maloiie. 9. life’s, Hues Q. 12. thy Malone (Capell MS.), their Q. XLVI. Conceits of the eye and heart are in the convention of Elizabethan sonneteering. Cf. Watson’s Tears of Fancie, Sonnets 19, 20, 1593; Henry Constable’s Diana, Third Decade, Sonnet 9; Sixth Decade, Sonnet 7, 1594 ; Drayton’s Idea, 1619, Sonnet 33, a rewritten version of Amour 33, Edition 1594. 3. 8. 13. 14. % Malone (Capell MS.), their Q. 9. to side this title Q. : To adjudge this title to one or the other side, viz. to the eye or to the heart which are at mortal war, the eye 292 NOTES being the defendant in an action brought by the heart to recover its title to the ‘ picture’s sight’ or ‘fair appearance’ of the Friend. Sewell (Ed. Q) suggested ”cide.’ 10. quest = a jury of inquest, here ‘ impanneled ‘ to try the case. Cf. Richard III., i. iv. 189 : ‘ “What lawful quest have given their verdict up Unto the frowning judge.’ 12. moiety = portion. XLVII. Betwixt mine eye and heart, etc : Connected with the preceding sonnet. 10. art Malone (Capell MS.), are Q. XLVIII. How careful was I, etc. : Connected with the preceding sonnet. 11. Within the gentle closure of my breast : Cf. Venus and Adonis, 1. 782 : ‘ Into the quiet closure of my breast.’ XLIX. 4. advised respects : Cf. ‘ reasons of settled gravity/ 1. 8 ; f lawful reasons,’ 1. 12. The metaphor of this Sonnet is drawn from the law. The Poet imagines an audit at which the love of his Friend for him shall discharge all its obligations. 10. desert, desart Q. : Rhyming with part. 11. And this my hand against myself uprear : The Poet will give evidence on oath, lifting his hand, but against himself and in con firmation of the ‘lawful reasons’ urged by his Friend. 13. thou hast the strength of laws = thou hast the law on thy side. 14. Since why to love = since why you should love me. L. 3. Doth teach that ease and that repose to say : The end of his journey, which the Poet seeks, makes the ease and repose natural to it, to say, f Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend,’ 1. 4. First marked as a quotation by Malone. LI. Connected with the preceding sonnet. 4. posting : To post is to travel without pausing by the use of fresh horses taken at certain stations or posts, hence to travel rapidly. Cf. Milton : ‘ And post o’er land and ocean without rest.’ 6. swift extremity = ‘ the extreme of swiftness ‘ (Tyler). 8. In winged speed no motion shall I know : The whole expression of his line is hyperbolical. ‘ I shall perceive no progression in winged SONNETS 293 speed ‘ is an extravagant development of the conditional, ‘ I should spur, though mounted on the wind/ in the preceding line. 10. perfect’st, perfects Q. 11. Shall neigh, no dull flesh in his fiery race : Shall neigh as a spirited horse neighs. A f race ‘ of colts was a sporting term of the time (Madden) akin to our ‘ bevy’ of quails, ‘wisp’ of snipe, ‘herd’ of deer. 14. to go = to walk step by step, or leisurely. Cf. Two Gentlemen of Verona, in. i. 388 : ‘ Thou must run to him ; for thou hast staid so long that going will scarce serve the turn.’ ‘A foot . . . serveth to three purposes … to go, to runne, and to stand till . . . sometimes swift, sometimes slow … or peradventure steddy.’ Arte of English Pocsic, 1589. Perhaps, also, with the second sense, Give him leave to go = ‘ dismiss him ‘ (Tyler). LII. 8. carcanet, carconet Q. 9. So is the time that keeps you as my chest : Cf. LXV. 10 : ‘ Where, alack, Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s ohest lie hid ? ‘ LIII. What is your substance, etc. : Cf. Note on xxxvu. 10, Note V., and Introduction, p. cxviii.-cxxiii. LIV. 0, how much more doth beauty, etc. : Connected with the pre ceding sonnet. 5. Canker-blooms. Dowden, Tyler, Bell explain, ‘ blossoms of the dog-rose,’ following Malone : ‘ The canker is the canker-rose or dogrose.’ The rose and the canker are opposed in like manner in Much Ado About Nothing : ( I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace.’ Steevens comments :’ Shakespeare had not yet begun to observe the productions of nature with accuracy, or his eyes would have convinced him that the cynorhodon is by no means of as deep a colour as the rose. But what has truth or nature to do with sonnets ? ‘ But, pace Steevens, the Poet here, as elsewhere in the Sonnets, meant a blossom eaten by canker. The image is used five times to illustrate one of the leading themes : ‘And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.’ xxxv. 5. ‘For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love.’ LXX. 7. ‘Which like a canker in the fragrant Rose.’ xcv. 2. ‘ In pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to death.’ xcrx. 13. 294 NOTES Cf. also Venus and Adonis, 656 : ‘This canker that eats up Love’s tender spring.’ ‘ In the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells. . . .’ Two Gentlemen of Verona, i. i. 43. ‘ The most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow.’ Ibid., i. i. 46. ‘Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds.’ Midsummer Night’s Dream, n. ii. 3. ‘Now will canker sorrow eat my bud.’ King John, in. iv. 82. ‘O, that this good blossom could be kept from cankers.’ 2 Henry IV., n. ii. 102. ‘ Hath not thy rose a canker, Somerset ? ‘ 1 Henry VI., n. iv. 68. ‘Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.’ Romeo and Juliet, n. iii. 30. So far as I know, e canker ‘ is used by Shakespeare for the ‘ dog-rose ‘ or wild briar only twice (Much Ado About Nothing, i. iii. 28 and 1 Henry IV., i. iii. 176). 14. vade. Cf. Passionate Pilgrim : ‘Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon vaded.’ 14. my, Malone (Capell MS.) ; by Q. LV. Not marble, nor the gilded, etc.: Tyler has traced a remarkable similarity between this Sonnet and a passage in Meres’ Palladis Tamia, registered September 7, 1598. See Note III. (4). 1. monuments Malone, monument Q. 9. enmity, emnity Q. 13. Till the judgment that yourself arise : f Till the decree of the judgment-day that you arise from the dead.’ DOWDEN. Cf. f the ending doom ‘ of 1. 12. LVI. Sweet love, renew thyforce, etc. : Opens GROUP D (LVI. -LXXIV. ). This Sonnet seems written in immediate anticipation of an absence voluntarily imposed by the Friend. 9-12. The image is obscure. Perhaps it contains an allusion to the story of Hero and Leander. Marlowe’s two sestiads were published in 1598. 9. Int’rim, Intrim Q. 13. Or, Malone, suggested to him by Tyrwhitt ; As Q. ; Else, Palgrave. SONNETS 295 LVII. 5. world-without-end, hyphened by Ewing(Capell MS.). Dowden explains : ‘ The tedious hour that seems as if it would never end.’ So, Love’s Labour’s Lost, v. ii. 799 : ‘ A time methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in.’ 13. Will, thus in Q. Cf. cxxxv., cxxxvi., CXLIII. LVIII. 6. Th’ imprison d absence of your liberty = ihe absence which, arising out of your liberty, is as imprisonment to me. 7. And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check, Ewing ; ‘ And patience tame, to sufferance hide each check, Q. LIX. If there be nothing new, etc. : See Introduction, p. cxxvi. 6. hundred, hundreth Q. 8. character, carrecter Q. 11. whe’r, where Q. ; ‘ whether we are mended, or where better they.’ Cf. Venus and Adonis, 304 : ‘And where he runne, or flie, they know not whether.’ LX. 1. pebbled, pibled Q. 5. Nativity, once in the main of light. Dowden explains : ‘ The entrance of a child into the world at birth is an entrance into the main or ocean of light; the image is suggested by 1. 1, where our minutes are compared to waves.’ Main may possibly echo the sea imagery of the first quatrain, but this and the two next lines have primarily and essentially an astrological significance. Nativity is a term of Astrology denoting the moment of a child’s birth in rela tion to the scheme or figure of the heavens, particularly of the Twelve Houses, at that moment, and it is employed by Shakespeare, almost invariably, with this connotation : ‘My nativity was under Ursa Major.’ Lear, i. ii. 140. 1 Thou hast as chiding a nativity As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make, To herald thee from the womb.’ Pericles, in. i. 32. ‘ At my nativity The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes.’ 1 Henry IV., in. i. 13. The ‘ crooked eclipses ‘ of 1. 7 derive also from astrology : ‘ The mortal Moon hath her eclipse endured And the sad Augurs mock their own presage. ‘ Sonnet cvn. 5, 6. 296 NOTES ‘ Crooked ‘ = malign. Cf. Two Gentlemen of Verona, iv. i. 22 : ‘ If crooked Fortune had not thwarted me ‘ ; and ‘ crooked malice/ Henry VIII. , v. iii. 44. Shakespeare uses the word c main ‘ elsewhere for the principal por tion or embodiment of that which follows it in the genitive case : ‘ our main of power’ (Troilus and Cressida, n. iii. 273) ; ‘ the main of Poland’ (Hamlet, iv. iv. 15); and Merchant of Venice, v. i. 97 : ‘ As doth an inland brook Into the main of waters.’ Main indeed came thus to mean the ocean as distinguished from lesser waters, and the ‘ mainland ‘ as distinguished from islands : ‘ In 1589 we turned challengers, and invaded the main of Spain.’ BACON. And here, though possibly with a secondary echo of the sea- image from the first quatrain, main of light means the hollow sphere of the universe filled with light as conceived in Shakespeare’s day. Life beginning at a point in time within the shining sphere of the Heavens, whose aspect is charged with its fate, crawls to maturity only to be thwarted by their fateful powers, and time despoils the worth of his gift. 13. times in hope = ‘ future times,’ Dowden. LXI. 3. broken: An assonantal rhyme with ‘open,’ 1. 1. Cf. cxx. 9-11, f . . . remembred . . . tendred.’ 4. While shadows like to thee do mock my sight : Cf. XLIII. 11, 12 : ‘ When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay ! ‘ 8. tenure Q. ; tenour Malone (Capell MS.) : Cf. Lucrece, 1310. LXII. 7^ 8 : And my definition of my worth is such that, accord ing to it, I excel all other men in all kinds of worth. 10. Seated : f The regular participle, from the verb to beat, may be right. We had in a former sonnet “weather-beaten face.” In King Henry V. we find ousted, and in Macbeth *Arufe