^r-:-%'T:r:^i^!^^^^^im^mM
:r^A'i^o:^rMfi'*r-iry^frSii»tf^'
-:d
■<f-'
rSS
^\u If
-5^
■ A<J ' ugii a^
^.
G
^Xji--..v.r,>I^ -7^/^^,
^^^'^
N !-^
5>
— <
Si
ji-^'^ "^/iajAmiiJV^
^(!/0JllV0JO
■'^;.
ex:
^\1tijN!Y;
^
_-v?
^ ^
vlOSANCFlf/..*
,OFCAllF0P.v, ^^.OFfAllFO% , ^MF '
j;]n-3S^ '^AiivM8n-#^ %i3:
'AlllBKARYC// , ^M^■DNIVtKi•/A ^vVlUSANCFlfj.
^
^
^^^HtKRA;
^
^
'^^ojiiVDjv)-'-" <riiJONV-sov<' "^//sajAiNn-jftV*
^(SfOJITVD
- eft
^OFCAIIFO/?^
C3
\WEUNIVER% -^^-'
->!
CO
iS^
Otr
vr
•^Ml_4/ \I ■
\<
^^//.- .-vio^ A,vr,Fiff,,
\\— .<
,^f.MRRA,RV7V .>j^V(|RRARY/9^ \MFI.INIVF'
inc »i'rri rr
■ c r« MCAn .
't^AaV^Uili-^
^\nf I;-''
-^r
r^'
\\>'
0,1-
c^
\tu unitrnj/r, , k iim Atn.tir i
^A
^
-'Jli.
''<JIUiliVJ-jU' ''iiUiiiVJiU'
V>
^
■"c/UJiivJ-JU^
.^^
, f
^>L>L
Qe^
L-
-^
0-^^^^
^dcn
)
■0\f~^^
'>--n
SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
tONDOS
PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODB AND CO,
NEW-STKEET SQUARE
SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS
NEVER BEFORE INTERPRETED:
HIS PRIVATE FRIENDS IDENTIFIED
TOGETHER WITH
^ Sctdkrt^ f ikiuss of finistlf.
BY
GERALD MASSEY.
'With THTR key Shak$pearc unlocked his heart.'
LONDON :
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
186fi.
The right of translation is rtserved.
pp.
M3%
TO
THE EIGHT HON. LORD BEOWNLOW
m POOR ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF PRINCELY KINDNESS
f ^S §00k
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED
BY
GERALD MASSEY.
COiNTENTS.
PAGE
The Sonnets : —
Notices and Comments ..... 1
Of the Personal Theory as interpreted by Charles
Armitage Brown . . . . . 19
Of the period at which the Earlier Sonnets were Written
and the Person to whom they are Addressed . . 28
Life and Character of Henry Wriothesley, Earl of
Southampton ..... 50
Poet and Patron : —
Their Personal Friendship .... 94
Peksonal Sonnets : —
Shakspeare to the Earl, wishing him to Marry . . 108
Shakspcare to the Earl, in praise of his Personal Beauty 117
Shakspeare to the Earl, promising Immortality . . 123
Shakspeare to the Earl, chiefly concerning a Rival Poet,
adjudged to be Marlowe . . . 127
Shakspeare is about to write on the Courtsliip of his
Friend Southampton, according to the Earl's suggestion 162
Dramatic Sonnets : —
Southampton in love with Elizabeth Vernon . . 160
PEiisoNAL Sonnets : —
Shakspcare to the Earl, when he has kno^^^l him some
three years . . . . . . Ill 9
Shakspeare proposes to write of the Earl in his absence
abroad . . . . . . 171
viii CONTENTS.
PAGE
Dramatic Sonnets : —
The Earl to Misti'css Vernon on and in his absence
abroad ...... 173
Personal Sonnets : —
Shakspeare of the Earl in his absence . . . 185
The Dark Story of the Sonnets .... 188
Dramatic Sonnets: —
Elizabeth Vernon's Jealousy of her Lover, Lord South-
ampton, and her Friend, Lady Rich . . . 205
A Personal Sonnet : —
Shakspeare on the Slander .... 225
Dramatic Sonnets : —
The Earl to Elizabeth Vernon after the Jealoufsy . 228
Elizabeth Vernon repays the Earl by a Flirtation of her
OAvn : His Reproach . . . . .231
Personal Sonnets : —
Shakspeare is sad for the Earl's ' Harmful Deeds ' . 237
Dramatic Sonnets : —
A Farewell of the Earl's to Elizabeth Vernon . . 243
The Earl to Elizabeth Vernon after his Absence . 247
Personal Sonnets : —
Shakspeare to the Earl after some Time of Silence . 251
Dramatic Sonnets :
The Earl to Elizabeth Vernon — Their Final Reconcilia-
tion : with Shakspeare's Sonnet on their Marriage . 256
Personal Sonnets: —
Shakspeare to the Earl, chiefly on his o\vn Death . 289
Dramatic Sonnets : —
Southampton, in the Tower, to his Countess, also Shak-
speare to the Earl in Prison, and upon his Release . 296
The MSS. Book of the Southampton Sonnets . . 317
Dramatic Sonnets: —
The ' Dark ' Lady of the Latter Sonnets . . 323
William Herbert's Passion for Lady Rich . . 367
CONTENTS.
Life of Lady Ilicii ......
Thomas Thokpe, and his ' Onlie Begetter ' of tue Sonnets
Of the New Reading and Arrangement .
' His Sugred Sonnets among his Private Friends.'
The Man Shakspeake: A Ke-touched Portrait .
PAGB
380
416
436
460
491
APPENDIX.
Appendix A : —
Cupid's Brand : Two Odd Sonnets
569
Appendix B : —
Drayton and Shakspeare
571
Appendix C : —
Queen Elizabeth's Favourites .
575
Appendix D : —
Titus Audronicus ....
580
Appendix E : —
'EyseU' .....
586
Appendix F : —
Sonnet 132, and the Taming of the Shrew
589
Appendix G : —
Wilham Herbert and Shakspeare's Minor Pieces
591
Appendix 11 : —
The Silent Lover ....
594
Appendix I : —
Notes on Disputed Readings.
King John .....
598
Macbeth .....
599
Cyinbeline .....
600
Romeo and Juliet
601
AN
INDEX OF THE SONNETS
ACCOEDING TO
THORPE'S ARRANGEMENT.
Sonnet 1
o
>>
*'
}>
3
}}
4
1»
5
»
6
})
7
7}
8
V
9
JJ
10
>»
11
V
12
>?
13
»
14
»>
15
)}
16
i)
17
»
18
»
19
»
20
J>
21
»
22
»
23
jj
24
»
25
jf
20
))
27
f}
28
»t
29
»)
30
*)
81
»
32
PAGE
110
no
no
111
111
111
112
112
113
113
113
114
114
114
115
115
116
120
124
119
132
121
124
186
118
109
170
180
166
167
168
133
f
PAGE
PAGE
Sonnet 33 .
206
Sonnet 65 ,
. 125
„ 34 .
. 2(X)
„ 60 .
. 239
„ 35 ,
. 207
„ Q7 .
239
„ 36 .
. 177
„ 68 .
240
„ 37 .
168
„ 69 .
241
„ 38 .
157
„ 70 .
226
,, 39 .
171
„ 71 .
292
„ 40 .
210
„ 72 .
292
„ 41 .
207
„ 73 ,
292
,; 42 .
208
„ 74 .
293
„ 43 .
181
„ 75 .
229
„ 44 .
182
„ 76 .
254
„ 45 .
183
„ 77 .
241
„ 46 .
186
„ 78 .
130
;; 47 .
187
„ 79 .
130
„ 48 .
182
„ 80 .
130
„ 49 .
233
„ 81 .
294
„ 60 .
177
„ 82 .
133
„ 51 .
178
„ 83 .
132
183
„ 84 .
132
„ 53 .
121
„ 85 . .
131
„ 54 . .
121
„ 86 . .
131
„ 55 .
126
„ 87 . .
245
„ 56 .
229
„ 88 . .
233
,; 57 . .
373
„ 89 . .
245
„ 58 .
373
., 90 .
246
„ 59 . .
119
„ 91 . .
2:34
„ 60 . .
125
„ 92 . .
235
;; 61 .
181
„ 93 .
235
„ 62 .
120
„ 94 . .
241
,i 63 .
293
„ 95 . .
236
„ 04 .
125
„ 96 . .
370
Xll
INDEX OF THE SONNETS.
Sonnet 97
98
99
100
n
101
»
102
103
104
»
105
5J
106
107
108
109
>J
110
111
112
113
114
1J5
110
PAGE
248
249
249
252
253
253
253
169
255
129
312
254
269
270
270
271
178
179
308
285
Sonnet 117
>;
118
J)
119
»
120
>>
121
yi
122
}}
123
jj
124
jj
125
jj
126
)>
127
jj
128
}^
129
}>
130
>>
131
>>
132
;>
133
»
134
)>
135
»
136
PAGE
PAGE
272
Sonnet 137 .
. 375
272
))
138 .
. 368
273
))
139 ,
. 374
274
))
140 .
. 374
271
}>
141 •
. 376
321
})
142 .
. 372
303
jj
143 .
. 372
303
}}
144 .
. 205
304
)}
145 .
. 342
170
)f
146 .
. 379
367
)f
147 .
. 379
368
))
148 .
. 376
378
})
149 ,
. 375
369
}f
150 .
. 377
370
;j
151 .
. 378
368
»
152 .
. 377
209
)f
153 .
. 569
209
)j
154 .
. 570
371
371
THE SONNETS:
NOTICES AND COMMENTS.
' As the soiile of Euphorhiis was tliouglit to live in Py-
thagoras : so the sweete wittie soule of Ovid lives in inel-
lifluons & hony-tongued Shakespeare, witnes his Vejius and
Adonis, his Lucrece, his sugred Sonnets among liis private
friends.' Thus wrote Francis Meres, Master of Arts of
both Universities, in his work entitled 'Palladis Taniia,
Wits Treasury, being tlie Second Part of Wits Comnion-
Avealth,' pubhshed in tlie year 1598.
This is the carhest notice we liave of Shakspeare's
Sonnets, and it supplies us witli an important startincr-
point. From the information gi\en by Mercs, we learn
that in the year 1598, the sonnets of Shakspeare "were
sufficiently known and sufficiently numerous to warrant
public recognition on the part of a writer, who is remark-
able for his compressed brevity ; well known enough in
certain circles for the critic to class them with Shaks-
peare's publislied poems. That the sonnets spoken of by
Meres are to a large extent those which have come down
to us, cannot be doubted, save, in desperation, by tlie
supporters of an unsound theory. Thus, according to
FrancisMercs, in 1598, Shakspeare had made the 'private
friends' for wliom he was composing his sonnets, and if
the sonnets be tlio same, the private friendsliip pubhcly
2,^ B
2 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
recognised, must include that which is so warmly cele-
brated in the earliest numbers.
Further, the title to Tliorpe's Collection, printed in
1609, reads with an echo to the words of Meres —
' Shaks])eare's Sonnets, never before Imprinted,'^ though
so often spoken of, and so long known to exist in MS.
An understanding on the subject is implied in the
familiarity of phrase. The inscriber appears to say, 'You
have heard a great deal about the " Sugred Sonnets,"
mentioned by the critic, as circulating amongst the poet's
private friends ; I have the honour to set tliem forth for
the public'
The sonnets were published in IGOO,'-^ with this in-
scription : —
TO . THE . ONLIE . BEGETTER . OF .
THESE . INSVINa . SONNETS .
M^' . W . H . ALL . HArriNESSE .
AISD . THAT . ETERNITIE .
PROMISED .
BY .
OVR . EVER-LIVINa . POET .
WISHETH .
THE . WELL-WISHING .
ADVENTVRER . IN .
SETTING .
FORTH . T. T.
The book is inscribed by Thomas Thorpe, a well-known
publisher of the time, who was himself a dabbler in
^ Hence the title to the present work.
^ According to tlie following technical account, ' SnAKE-srEAEES sonnets.
Xeuer hefore Imprinted. At London by G. Eld for T. T. and are to be
solde by AVilliam Aspley. 1609.' 4°. Collation. Title, one leaf; Inscription,
one leaf; the Sonnets, etc. B to K in fours, and L 2 leaTes=40 leaves. In
some copies, for WiUicnn Anpley we have lohn Writ/Id, dwcdling- at Christ-
church gate. 1009. The sonnets commence on B 1 recto and end on K 1
recto, with finis. Then comes, without any advertisement, A Loners com-
plaint hj William Shahc-spcare. It extends from K 1 verso to L 2 verso,
with a second finis. The sonnets are numbered 1 — 154, but have neither
addresses nor any indication of the subjects. The Loners complaint is a poem
in 47 seven-line stanzas.
VATUOUS EDITIONS. .-J
literature. lie edited a ]:)osthumous work of ]\Tarlowe's,
and was the publisher of plays, by Marston, Jonsou,
Chapman, and others. Shakspeare makes no sign of
assent to the publication ; whereas he prefaced his
'Venus and Adonis' with dedication and motto; the
'Lucrece' with dedication and argument.
We shall see and say more of Thoq:)e and his In-
scription, by-and-by ; for the time being I am only giving
a brief account of the sonnets, and the opinions respecting
them, up to the present day. After they were printed by
Thorpe in 1609, we hear no more of them for thirty-one
years. In 1640 appeared a new edition, with an arrange-
ment totally different from the original one. This was
published as ' Poems written by Wil. Shakspeare, Gent.
Printed at London by Tho. Cotes, and are to be sold
by John Benson.' In this arrangement, we find many of
the pieces printed in tlie ' Passionate Pilgrim,' mixed up
with the sonnets, and the whole of them have titles which
are chiefly given to little groups. Sonnets 18, 19, 43, 56,
75, 76, 96, 126, are missing from the second edition.
This publication of the sonnets as poems on distinct
subjects shows, to some extent, how they were looked
upon by the readers of the time. The arranger, in sup-
plying his titles, would be following a feeling and answer-
ing a want. Any personal application of them was
very far from his thoughts. Sonnets 88, 89, 90, and
91, are entitled 'A Picquest to his Scornful Love.' 109
and 110, are called 'A Lover's excuse for his long
Absence.' Sonnet 122, 'Upon the Eeceipt of a Table
Book from his Mistress;' and 125, 'An Entreaty for
her Acceptance.' The greater part of the titles how-
ever are general, and only attempt to characterise the
sentiment.
In the editions that followed the two first, sometimes
the one order prevailed, sometimes the other. Lintot's,
published in 1709, adhered to the arrangement of
n 2
4 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
Thorpe's Collection. Curll's, in 1710, follows that of
Cotes. Gildon gave it as his opinion, that the sonnets were
all of tliem wj-itten in praise of Shakspeare's mistress.
Dr. Sewell edited them in 1728, and lie tells us, by way
of illustrating Gildon's idea, that ' a young Muse must
have a Mistress to play off the beginnings of fancy; nothing
being so apt to elevate the soul to a pitch of poetry, as
the passion of love.' This opinion, that the sonnets were
addressed to a mistress, appears to have obtained, until
disputed by Steevens and Malone. In 1780, the last-
named critic published his ' Supplement to the Edition of
Sliakspeare's Plays,' (1778) and the notes to the sonnets
include his own conjectures and conclusions, together
Avith those of Dr. Farmer, Tyrwhitt, and Steevens. These
four generally concur in the belief that 128 of the sonnets
are addressed to a man ; the remaining 28 to a lady.
Malone considered the sonnets to be those spoken of by
Meres. Dr. Farmer thought tliat William Harte, Shak-
speare's nephew, might be the person addressed under
the initials 'W. H.' However, the Stratford Piegister
soon put a stop to William Harte's candidature, for it
showed that he was not baptised imtil August 28, 1600.
Tyrwhitt was struck with the peculiar lettering of a line
in the 20tli sonnet, —
A man in Hew all Hews in his control! insr,
and fancied that the poet had written it on the colorable
pretext of hinting at the ' only begetter's ' name, which
the critic conjectured might be William Hughes.
The sonnets were Steevens' pet abhorrence. At first he
did not reprint them. He says, ' We have not reprinted the
sonnets, &c. of Shakspeare because the strongest Act of
Parhament that coidd l)e framed would fail to compel
readers into their service, notwithstanding these miscel-
laneous poems have derived every possible advantage
from the literature and judgment of tlieir only intellioent
STEEVENS' CENSURE. r,
editor, Mr. Malone, whose implements of criticism, like
the ivory rake and golden spade in Pi'udentius, are, on
this occasion, disgraced by the objects of their culture.
Had Shakspeare produced no other works than these, liis
name would have reached us with as little celebrity as
time has conferred on that of Thomas Watson, an older
and much more elegant sonnetteer.' Afterwards he
broke out continually in abuse of them. The eruption
of his ill humour occurs in foot-notes, and disfigures the
pages of Malone's edition of Shakspeare's poems. He
held that they were composed in the 'highest strain
of affectation, pedantry, circumlocution, and nonsense.'
' Such laboured perplexities of language,' he says, ' and
such studied deformities of style prevail throughout these
soimets, that the reader (after our best endeavours at
explanati(jn !) will frequently find reason to exclaim with
Iniofren —
'O"
I see before me, man, uor here, nor there,
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them
That I cannot look through.'
o
' This purblind and obscure stulT,' he calls their poetry.
And in a note to sonnet 54 he asks with a sneer, ' but
what has truth or nature to do with sonnets ? ' Here he
has taken the poet to task for his bad botany. Shak-
speare has written —
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses.
Steevens remarks that Shakspeare had ' not yet begun
to observe the productions of nature with accuracy,
or liis eyes w^ould have convinced him that the cynorhodon
is by no means of as deep a colour as the rose ! ' What
rose ? The poet does not say a damask rose, nor a rose
of any red. The pink hedge rose may be of as deep a
dye as the maiden-blush, and other garden roses. The
6 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
comparison in colour is only relative, the remark on that
side merely general, it is the fragrance of the rose in
which the positive part of the comparison will be found.
The meaning is this ; tlie hedge-roses may be of as deep
a dye or lovely a colour as their garden fellows in hue,
but even then they are not so precious in perfume, and
are not used for the purpose of distilling. Shakspeare
knew a dog-rose from the damask-rose ; ' no flower more
familiar to him in his rambles along the Warwickshire
lanes. He has carried into his illustrations drawn from it
all the aversion which children have to the ' cankers '
that infect this w^ayside flower.^ But Steevens had no
patience with these poems ; he wrote some sad stuff
about the sonnets, and scoffed at them in the most
profane and graceless way. He never read them, never
penetrated to the depths of feeling that underhe the
sparkhng surface. The conceits, that play of fancy,
which is a sort of more serious wit, came on him too
suddenly Avith their surprises. He was too slow for them,
and they fooled him and laughed in his face. And when
he did catch the sense of the (to him) nonsense, he took
his revenge by decrying the impertinent jingle of sense
and sound that had so playfully tried to tickle his obtuse
spirit, and only succeeded in making him savage.
Wordsworth, in his essay supplementary to the celebrated
^ I had rather be a canker in a hedge.
Than a rose in his grace. — Mtich Ado about Nothing.
2 This rucalls another peevish and petulant remark of Steevens, in making
which, he snapped too soon for his limited amount of perception. Shak-
speare, in the ' Passionate Pilgrim,' number 10, vs^rites —
' As faded gloss no rubbing wll refresh.'
Steevens catches at this, and replies: 'Every one knows that the. gloss
or polish on all works of art may he reslorecl, and that ruhhinff is the means
of restoring it.' Indeed ! Did the critic ever test his theory on an old hat ?
It would not be advisable even to try it in burnishing the faded gilding
of picture-frames and mirrors. Shakspeare used ' gloss ' in the sense of
fiilding.
WORDSWORTH — COLERIDGE — CHALMERS. 7
preface, printed with the Lyrical Ballads, has administered
a just rebuke to Steevens, and reprehended liis flippant
impertinence. He says, ' There is extant a small vulume
of miscellaneous poems, in which Shakspeare expresses
his own feelings in his own person. It is not difficult to
conceive that the editor, George Steevens, should have
been insensible to the beauties of one portion of that
volume, the sonnets ; though in no part of the writings of
this poet is found in an equal compass a greater number
of exquisite feelings felicitously expressed. But from a
regard to the critic's own credit he would not have
ventured to talk of an Act of Parhament not being strong
enough to compel the perusal of these little pieces, if he
had not known that the people of England were ignorant
of the treasures contained in them ; and if he had not, more-
over, shared the too common propensity of human nature
to exult over a supposed fall into the mire of a genius
whom he had been compelled to regard wnth admiration,
as an inmate of the celestial regions, ' there sitting where
he durst not soar.'
This was written by Wordsworth iu 1815; he had
read the sonnets for their poetry, independently of their
object, and had thus got a httle nearer to the spirit of
Shakspeare, behind its veil of mystery, and attained to
a truer appreciation of his sonnets. About the same
time Coleridge lectured on Shakspeare at the Eoyal
Institution, and publicly rebuked the obtuse sense and
shallow expressions of Steevens.
In 1797 Chalmers had endeavoured to show that the
sonnets Avere addressed to Queen Elizabeth, although
Her Majesty must have been close upon sixty years of
age when the sonnets were first commenced. He ar2;ues
that Shakspeare, knowing the voracity of Elizabeth for
praise, thought he would fool her to the top of her bent ;
aware of her patience when hstening to panegyric, he
determined, with the resolution of his own Dogberry, to
8 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
bestow his whole tedioiisness upon her. It may be men-
tioned by way of explanation that this preposterous
suggestion was hazarded in support of a very desperate
ease — the Ii-eland forgeries. Coleridge also held, though
on a far sounder basis, that the person addressed by
Shakspeare was a woman. He fancied the 20th sonnet
midit have been introduced as a blind. He felt that in
so many of the sonnets the spirit was essentially feminine
whatever the outward figure might be, sufficiently so to
warrant our thinking that where the address is to a man
it Avas only a disguise ; for, whilst the expression would
indicate one sex, the feehng altogether belied it, and
secretly wooed or worshipped the other. Poet-like, he
perceived that there were such fragrant gusts of passion
in them, such ' subtle-shining secresies ' of meaning in
their darkness, as only a woman could have called forth ;
and so many of the sonnets have the suggestive sweetness
of the lover's whispered words, the ecstatic sparlde of a
lover's eyes, the tender, ineffable touch of a lover's hands,
that in them it must be a man speaking to a woman.
Mr. Knight believes that such sonnets as 56, 57, and 58,
and also the perfect love-poem contained in sonnets 97,
98, and 99 were addressed to a female, because the com-
parisons are so clearly, so exquisitely the symbol of
womanly l)eauty, so exclusively the poetic representatives
of feminine graces in the world of flowers, and because,
in the sonnets where Shakspeare directly addresses his
male friend, it is manly beauty which he extols. He
says nothing to lead us to think that he would seek to
compliment his friend on the delicate whiteness of his
hand, the surpassing sweetness of his breath. Mr. Knight
has found the perplexities of the personal theory so insur-
mountable, that he has not followed in the steps of those
who have jauntily overleaped the difficulties that meet
us everywhere, and which ought, until fairly conquered,
to have surrounded and protected the poet's personal
KNIGHT — BOSWEIJ. — DKAKE. 9
character as with a chevaux-de-frise. He has wisely
hesitated rather than rashly joined in making a wanton
charge of immorality and egregious folly against Sliak-
speare. He likewise thinks it impossible that "VYil^^i^i
Herbert, afterwards Earl of Pembroke, could have been
the 'only begetter' of the sonnets. Seeing the difficulties
of the subject in all their density, he makes an attempt
to cut a way through, at least for himself, but the success
is not equal to the labour.
Boswell, second son of Dr. Johnson's biographer, in
editinfy a later edition of the work in which Steevens'
notes are printed, had the good sense to defend the
sonnets against that censor's bitterness of contempt, and
the good taste to perceive that they are all a-glow with
the ' orient hues ' of Shakspeare's youthful imagination.
He ventures to assert that Steevens has not ' made a con-
vert of a single reader who had any pretensions to
poetical taste in the course of forty years,' which had
then gone by since the splenetic critic first described the
sonnets as worthless. Boswell also remarks anent the
personal interpretation that the fondling expressions
which perpetually occur Avould have been better suited
to a ' cockered silken wanton ' than to ' one of the most
srallant noblemen that adorned the cliivalrous ag:e in
which he lived.'
Dr. Drake, in his ' Shakspeare and his Times' (1817),
was the first to conjecture that Henry Wriothesley Earl
of Southampton, was the friend of Shakspeare who was
addressed so afiectionately in the sonnets, as well as
inscribed to so lovingly in the dedications to his poems.
He thought the unity of feeling in both identified the
same person, and maintained that a httle attention to the
language of the times in which Thorpe's inscription was
written, would lead us to infer that Mr. W. H. had suffi-
cient influence to ' obtain the manuscript fi-oni the poet,
and that he lodged it in Thorpe's hands for the purpose
10 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
of publication, a favour which the bookseller returned by
wishing him all hapjnness and that eternity which had been
promised by the bard in such glowing colours to another,
namely, to one of the immediate subjects of his sonnets.'
Drake contended that as a number of the sonnets were
most certainly addressed to a female, it must be evident
that ' W. H.' could not be the ' only begetter ' of them in
the sense which is primarily suggested. He therefore
agreed with Chalmers and Bos well that Mr. W. H. was the
ohtainer of the sonnets for Thorpe, and he remarks that
the dedication w^as read in that light by some of the
earher editors. Having fixed on Southampton as the
subject of the first 126 sonnets, Drake is at a loss to
prove it. He never goes deep enough, and only snatches
a waif or two of evidence floating on the surface. When
he comes to the latter sonnets he expresses the most
entire conviction that they Avere never directed to a real
object. ' Credulity itself, w^e think, cannot suppose other-
wise, and at the same time, believe that the j)oet was
priAy to their pubhcation.'
About the year 1818 Mr. Bright was the first to con-
ceive the idea that the ' Mr. W. H.' of Thorpe's inscrip-
tion was William Hei'bert, afterwards Earl of Pembroke.
It is said he laboured for many years in collecting evi-
dence, brooded over his cherished idea secretly, talked
of it publicly, and was then anticipated in announcing
it by Mr. Boaden in 1832. Poor Mr. Bright ! He was
not in time, but I think he will rejoice in eternity that
he escaped the infamy of persistently trpng to tarnish
the character of Shakspeare for the sake of a pet theory ;
that is, if his discovery included the personal interpreta-
tion. Mr. Boaden argued shallowly that the Earl of
Southampton could not ])e the man addressed by Shak-
speare, and assumed desperately that William Herbert
was ! He held him to be the ' only begetter.'
These modern discoveries reached their climax in
MR. BROWN'S THEORY. 11
' Shakspeare's Autobiographical Poeins, being bis sonnets
clearly developed, with his character drawn chiefly from
his works by Cliarles Armitage Brown' (1838.) Mr.
Brown adopts tlie hypothesis of Mr. Bright, that Mr.
W. H. is the Earl of Pembroke ; he also accepts the sug-
gestion first made by Coleridge, i that the sonnets are not
sonnets proper, but a series of poems in the sonnet stanza ;
these he divides as follows : —
First Poem. Stanzas 1 to 26. — To his friend, persuading him
to marry.
Second Poem. Stanzas 27 to 55. — To his friend, who had
robbed the poet of his mistress, forgiving him.
Third Poem. Stanzas 56 to 71. To his friend, complaining
of -his coldness, and warning him of hfe's decay.
Fourth Poem. Stanzas 78 to 101. — To his friend, complaining
that he prefers another poet's praises, and reproving him
for faults that may injure his character.
Fifth Poem. Stanzas 102 to 126. — To his friend, excusing
himself for havinsr been some time silent and disclaimino-
the charge of inconstancy.
Sixth Poem. Stanzas 127 to 152. To his mistress, on her
infidehtv.
The two last sonnets he leaves out, and would also
reject the 145th stanza on account of its measure, and
the 146th because of its solemn nature ; and he considers
the sonnets containing the puns on the name of ' Will '
to be quite out of keeping with the rest, on account of
their playful character. Without adducing one atom of
proof, Mr. Brown is much satisfied in assuming that
Shakspearc was a self-debaser and self-defiimer of a
species that has no previous tyi^e — no after-copy.
Mr. Hunter thinks the discovery made by Mr. Bright
settles the whole matter. He considers the claims of the
Earl of Soutliampton as ' too improbable to deserve
examination, and the sooner they are dismissed from
^ I'ablc Talk; \\ 231.
12 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
the public recollection, the better for the reputation of
those who proposed them.'^
Mr. Hallam inchnes to the personal theory of the
sonnets, and evidently thinks we may safely conclude
that William Herbert Avas the youth of high rank as well
as personal beauty and accomplishment and licentious
life, whom Shakspeare so often addressed as his dear
friend. He remarks that, ' There is a weakness and folly
in all excessive and misplaced affection, which is not
redeemed by the touches of nobler sentiments that abound
in this long series of sonnets,' 'No one,' he says, 'ever
entered more fully than Shakspeare into the character of
this species of poetry, which admits of no expletive
imagery — no merely ornamental line.' But, so strange,
so powerful is the poet's humiliation in addressing this
youth as ' a being before whose feet he crouched, whose
frown he feared, whose injuries — and those of the most
insultino; kind — the seduction of the mistress to whom we
have alluded, he felt and bewailed without resenting ; '
that on the whole, ' it is impossible not to wish the sonnets
of Shakspeare had never been written.'
]\Ii\ Hyce, in 1864, rests in the conclusions which he
had reached thirty years before. ' For my own part,
repeated perusals of the sonnets have well nigh convinced
me that most of them Avere composed in an assumed
character, on different subjects, and at different times, for
the amusement — if not at the suggestion — of the author's
intimate associates (hence described by Meres as "his
sugred sonnets among his private friends ") ; and though
I would not deny that one or two of them reflect his
genuine feelings, I contend that allusions scattered through
the whole series are not to be hastily referred to the
personal circumstances of Shakspeare.'
Mrs. Jameson has suggested, not only that Southampton
' Illustrations of Shakspeare, vol. i. pp. 2'j6-7.
MRS. JAMESON — MK. COIINEY— M. CriASLES. 13
was the male friend addressed by Shakspcare, but tliat
some of the sonnets may liave been written for tlie Earl
to send to EUzabeth Veruun, who afterwards became
Countess of Southampton.'
Mr. ]]oU,on Corney, in a pamplilet printed for private
circulation, has recorded his conviction that the Earl of
Southampton was the ' Begetter ' of the sonnets ; that
they were written in fulfilment of a promise made to the
earl in 1594 ; that the sonnets mentioned by Meres in
1598 formed the work which was promised in 1594 and
reached the press in 1609, but that they are, with shght
exceptions, mere poetical exercises. He protests against
the theory that they relate to transactions between the
poet and his patron : — 1. Because as an abstract question
the promise to write a poem cannot imply any such ob-
ject. 2. Because in the instance of ' Lucrece ' no such
object could have been designed. 3. Because, in the
absence of evidence, it is incredible that the man of
whom divers of worsliip had reported his uprightness of
dealing should have lavished so much wit in order to
proclaim the grievous errors of his patron — and of himself.
He denounces the vaunted discovery of Mr. Brown as an
inijustifiable theory, a mischievous fallacy. He accepts
M. Chasles' reading of Mr. Thorpe's inscription, and thinks
a Frenchman has solved the Shakspeare problem Avhicli
has resisted all the efforts of our ' homely wits.' Believing
that the Earl of Southampton was really the ' only be-
getter ' of the sonnets, and that the inscription addresses
the ' only begetter ' as the objective creator of them, lsli\
Corney feels compelled to accept M. Chasles' interpreta-
tion ; he thinks that Wilhani Herbert dedicates the
soimets to the Earl of Southampton, and that Thorpe
merely adds his wishes for the success of the publication.
He assumes that the initials ' W. H.' denote William Lord
' I Avas not awrtro of this fact wliou my article on ' Shakspeare and his
Sonnets ' appeared in the Quarterhj Eevieic, April, 18G4.
14 SHAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
Herbert, afterwards Earl of Pembroke ; but he follows
the discoverer of tliis undoubted fact, Mr. Bright, no
further. As to the way in which the sonnets reached
the press, Mr. Corney submits a new theory. 'Be it
assumed tliat the volume of sonnets was a transcript
made by order of William Herbert ; that it was then
inscribed by him to the Earl of Southampton as a gift-
book, and that it afterwards came into the possession of
the publisher in a manner which required concealment.
With this theory, which the inscription and other pecu-
liarities of the volume seem to justify, the perplexities of
the question vanish. I anticipate one objection. As
copies of tlie sonnets were in the hands of the private
friends of the poet, a copy was surely in the hands of his
patron. How then could ' W. H.' offer the earl so super-
fluous a gift ? It might have been a substitute for a lost
copy, or a revised text, or a specimen of penmanship, as
it was a common enough thing for specimens of the
caligraphic art to be offered as gift-books.' Thus, he
holds that the sense of the inscription is : — To the
only begetter (the Earl of Southampton) of these en-
suing sonnets, Mr. W. H. (William Herbert) wislies all
happiness, and that eternity promised (to liim) by our
ever-living poet. This was the private inscription, in
imitation of the lapidary style, w^ritten on the private
copy which had been executed for the purpose of pre-
senting to the Earl ; and Thorpe, in making the sonnets
public, let this dedication stand, merely adding that the
' well-wishing adventurer in setting forth ' was ' T. T.'
There have been various minor and incidental notices
of the sonnets, which show that the tendency in our
time is to look on them as autobiograi)]iic. Mr. Henry
Taylor, in his ' Notes from Books,' speaks of tliose sonnets
in which Shakspeare ' reproaches Fortune and himself, in a
strain, which shows how painfully conscious he was that
lie had lived unworthily of liis doubly immortal spirit.'
MR. MASSOX — ULRICI. 16
Mr. Masson ' states resolutoly, that the sonnets are, and
can possibly be, nothing else than a record of the Poet's
own feelings and experience dnring a certain period
of his London life ; that they are distinctly, intensely,
painfully autobiographic. lie thinks they express our
poet in his most intimate and private relations to man
and nature as having been 'William the Melancholy,'
rather than ' William the Calm,' or ' William the Cheer-
ful.'
The sonnets seem to have placed Ulrici in that difficult
position which the Americans describe as ' facing North by
South.' To him the fact that Shakspeare passed his hfe in
so modest a way and left so little report, is evidence of
the calmness with which the majestic stream of his
mental development flowed on, and of the clear pure at-
mosphere which breathed about his soul. Yet, we may
see in the sonnets many traces of the painful struggles it
cost him to maintain his moral empire. His mind was a
fountain of free fresh energy, yet the sonnets show how
he fell into the deeps of painful despondency, and felt
utterly wretched. They tell us that he had a calm con-
sciousness of his own greatness, and also that he held
fame and applause to be empty, mean, and worthless.
This is Ulrici's cross-eyed view. He reads the sonnets
as personal confessions, and he concludes that Shakspeare
must have been so sincere a Christian, that being also
a mortal man, and open to temptation, he, having Mien
and risen up a conqueror over himself, to prove that he
is not ashamed of anything, set the matter forth as a
warning to the world, and offered hims(Jf up as a sacri-
fice for the good of others, most especially for the behoof
of the young Earl of Pembroke, for, according to Ulrici
he alone can be the person addressed.
Gervinus, in his Commentaries on Shakspeare, holds
' EssaySy chiejlij on Eiuilish Poets.
16 SILiKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
that the sonnets were not originally intended for publica-
tion, and that 126 of them are addressed to a friend ; the
last 28 bespeaking a relation with some light-minded
woman. It is quite clear to him that they are addressed
to one and the same youth, as even the last 28, from
their purport, relate to the one connection between
Shakspeare and his young friend, and with his fellow-
countryman, Eegis, who translated the sonnets into
German, Gervinus considers that these should pro-
perly be arranged with sonnets 40 — 42. He maintains
that the real name of the ' only begetter ' was not
designated by the publisher, the initials W. H. were
only meant to mislead. That this ' Begetter ' is the
same man Avhom the 38th sonnet calls in a similar sense
the ' Tenth Muse,' and whom the 78th sonnet enjoins to
be 'most proud' of the poet's works, because their
influence is his, and born of him. He does not believe
that the Earl of Pembroke could be tlie person ad-
dressed, the age of the earl and the period at which the
sonnets were written, making it an impossibility. He
thinks the Earl of Southampton is the person, he being
early a patron of the drama, and a nobleman so much
looked up to by the poets and writers of the time, that
they vied with each other in dedicating their works to
him. Gervinus is of opinion that a portion of sonnet
53 directly alludes to the poems which the poet had
inscribed to the earl, and that he points out how much
his friend's English beauty transcends that old Greek
beauty of person, which the poet had attempted to
describe, and set forth newly attired in his 'Venus and
Adonis.' This foreign critic wonders why in England
the identity of the object of these sonnets with the
Earl of Southampton should have been so much op-
posed. To him it is simply incomprehensible, for, if
ever a supposition bordered on certainty, he holds it to
be this.
THE LATEST THEORY. 17
A strenuous endeavour not to read the sonnets has
recently been made by a German, named Bernstorflj and
it is out of sight more successful than any attempt yet
made to lead them. It is so immeasurably fiu^-reach-
ing, so unfathomably profound, that we may call it
perfectly successful This author has discovered that
the sonnets are a vast Allegory, in which Shakspeare has
masked his own face ; he has here kept a diary of his
inner self, not in a plain autobiographic way, but by
addressing and playing a kind of bo-peep with his dopple-
gamjer. Yov the sonnets do not speak to beings of flesh
and blood, no Earls of Southampton or Pembroke, no
Queen Elizabeth or Elizabeth Vernon, no corpoi^eal being,
in short, no body whatever, but Shakspeare's own soul or
his genius or his art.
It is Shakspeare who in the 1st sonnet is the ' only
herald to the blooming spring ' of modern literature, and
the world's fresh ornament. The 'beast that bears 'the
speaker in sonnet 51 is the poet's animal nature. The
' sweet roses that do not fade ' in sonnet 54 are his dramas.
The praises so often repeated are but the poet's enthu-
siasm for his inner self. All this is proved by the
dedication, which inscribes the sonnets to their ' only
begetter,' W. H. — William Himself. The critic has
freed the Shakspeariun Psyche from her sonnet film, and
finds that she has shaken off every particle of the con-
crete to soar on beautiful wings, with all her inborn love-
liness unfolded, into the emj)yrean of pure abstraction !
There sits the poet sublimely 'pinnacled, dim in the
intense inane,' at the highest altitude of self-consciousness,
singing his song of self-worship ; contemplating the
heights, and depths, and proportions of the great vast of
himself, and as he looks over centuries on centuries of
years he sees and projihesies that the time will yet come
when the world will gaze on his genius with as much awe
as he feels for it now, ' Is this vanity and self-conceit ? '
c
18 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
the critic asks, and he answers, ' iSTot a whit, simple
trutliful self-perception ! ' Into this region has he fol-
lowed Shakspeare, where 'human mortals' could not
possibly breathe. He keeps up pretty well, self-inflated,
for some time, but at length, before the flight is quite
finished, our critic gives one gasp, showing that he is
mortal after all, and down he drops dead-beaten in the
middle of the latter sonnets.
The mind of Shakspeare is a vast ocean teeming witli
life, and his works, critically considered, afford an oceanic
space and range for every sort of creature and mental
species that come to sport or make sport in this great
deep. Also, the sonnets have caused much perplexity
and bewilderment, as is sufficiently reflected in the pre-
sent account, but of all the strange thinirs that have
taken advantage of the largeness and the liberty, this
author is surely the oddest. His theory is a creation
worthy of Shakspeare's own humour, sincere past all per-
ception of foolishness. What w^e require is the secret
cue to his profundity, at which we can but dimly guess.
It may be that he has explored the Shakspearian ocean
so determinedly and dived so desperately, that he has
found the very place w^here, as is popularly supposed of
the sea, there is no bottom, and he has gone right
through headloncj !
OF THE
PERSONAL THEOM
T
AS IXTERPRETED BY
CHARLES ARMITAGE BROWN.
Now this ill-vrrestin<,' world is gi-owu so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be. — Sonnet 140,
There has never yet been any genuine, honest attempt to
grapple with, and truly interpret, the sonnets. A theory
lias sprung up in the mind of a reader here and there, and
straightway all the effort and the energy have been de-
voted to the theory ; the sonnets being left to shift for
tliemselves. There has been no prolonged endeavour to
grasp the reality. No one has yet wrought at the sonnets
Avith the amorous diligence and sharpened insight and pain-
ful patience of an Owen at his work ; sought out the scat-
tered and embedded bones of fact, and put them together
ngain and again, imtilthey should lit with such nicety that
the departed s|)irit which once breathed and had its being
in these remains, should stir with the breath of life, and
clothe itself in flesh once more, and take its original
shape. Tliere has been nothing done, except a little sur-
face work. Thorpe's Inscription has afforded a dcligiitful
bone of contention, most savoury and satisfactory to tlie
C 'i
20 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
critical wranglers who love to worry each other most over
the point that is of least importance, and who, when they
have even got a good bone, will eagerly drop the reality,
like the fabulist's dog, and spend all their might in trying
to grasp its shadow. Give them such a question for de-
bate as this : ' Did Shakspeare call Cleopatra a gipsy
because she was an Egyptian ? ' or was an Elizabethan
necessarily a cripple because he spoke of being 'lamed
by Fortune?' and there will forthwith be a vast display
of learned folly ; the most shallow device will serve to
show their deepest profundity. So that the subject of all
Shakspearian subjects, being of such vital interest and so
personal to the poet of whom the world is anxious to
hear the least whisper of authentic fact, has been left
almost untouched, and there is no opposition theory to
take five minutes' labour in demolishing ; no opponent
worthy of steel ; no antagonist that calls foilli the respect-
ful sword-salute. TJie most considerable attempt hitherto
made — that of Messrs. Boaden and Brown — is about equal
in value to the work of those painters, whose art consists
solely in the knack they have of disguising all the diffi-
culties of a subject, not of their skill in conquering them.
In dealing with the sonnets they both adopted a policy
old as that of the hunted ostrich.
And yet it is of great importance to have this question
of the sonnets settled. We must be ignorant hypocrites
to continue talking as we do on the subject of our great
poet's character, and believe what we do of his virtues
and moral qualities, if these sonnets are personal confes-
sions. And if they be not, then all lovers of Shakspeare
will be glad to get rid of the uncomfortable suspicions,
see the 'skeleton' taken to pieces, and have the ghost
of the poet's guilt laid at once and for ever ; so that
wise heads need no longer ])q sluiken at ' those sonnets,'
and fools may not wag the finger with comforting reflec-
tions upon the littleness of great men. The poet's bio-
Ml;. I'.iiowx's siioirrsKiiiTEDXESs. l>i
grapliy cannot be satisfactorily built, with this shifting
sand of the sonnets at the foundations.
To illustrate and enforce his theory of the sonnets,
Mr. Brown has api)ended a prose version of their con-
tents. And it is interesting to compare the two ; for, in
order to make ends meet, he has been compelled to slur
over or leave out all the most important matters ; all the
literalities and italicised meanings of the poetry. These
did not concern him, apparently, because not necessary to
his theory. Nor does he appear to have suspected that,
whilst marching forward in such easy triumph to his con--
clusions, he was leaving in his rear many a masked bat-
tery, any one of which would be able to sweep his forces
from the field. He could not have seen the drift of what
he was leaving out, or he would surely have attempted to
paraphrase it in some specious way.
His reading is rendered utterly worthless, and the
theory is invalidated, by the suppressed evidence. He
has not noticed that the youth addressed is fatherless, and
that in consequence of this the roof of his house is going
to decay, and the poet urges him to marry on purpose to
repair this roof, and uphold his house by ' husbandry in
honour.' He has left out the personal allusion to the
poet's ' pupil' pen, and the promise to 'show his head' hi
public print, when he had written something tliat should
worthily prove his great respect, and enable him to
' boast,' as he afterwards did in his dedications, how
much he loved the earl. All these thinirs have been
overlooked and omitted, because they are opposed to the
Herbert theory in every particular. Then the tender
history of lost friends, who were so near and dear, and
whose love was of the most sacred kinil, with all tlni
special revelation of sonnets 30, 31, is passed over. Mr.
Brown dare not touch it. Yet these precious friends who
are buried were most intimately related to the speaker ;
the memorv of them moves him intenselv. and the music
2-2 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
gi'ows grave and slow with the burden of feehng, the
weio"ht of o-athered tears ; it sounds lilve a dead-march
lieard in the distance. If these losses had been Shak-
speare's, such facts should have had some interpretation.
Mr. Brown thus summarises the two sonnets :
30. When I grieve at past misfortunes, the thinking of you
restores my losses and ends my sorrows.
31. All those friends whom I have supposed dead, lie hidden
in you. All that they had of me is yours, and I view their
beloved images in you.
A theory which requires this sort of support must be in
a perilous way ! Again, in the Sonnets on Absence, Mr.
Brown does not suspect that tliere are and must be two
speakers : one who is a traveller abroad on a distant
shore, at ' limits far remote,' and who speaks most of
these sonnets when he is from home and away from his
love; whilst the other, in sonnet 39, speaks of the absence
of tliis speaker, and says what a torment his absence
would be, but that the ' sour leisure gives sweet leave '
to write about him, and make one person twain by
' praising him here who doth hence remain.' Thus,
we have the writer who speaks at home, and another
person who speaks abroad from over sea.
Again, this is Mr. Brown's rendering of sonnet 70 :
The slander of others shall not harm you. On the contrary,
while you remain good, it will but prove your worth the more.
Your having hjng escaped censure is no security for the future ;
and your power in the world might be too great, were you
beheved faultless.
Which reading has not the least likeness to wliat Shak-
speare wrote. This sonnet is one of the most valuable
of the whole series. The anchorage of personality in
it is assured. And it gives the lie point-blank to the
supposition that the earl had robbed the poet of his
mistress. If this had been so, he could not have been
Mir T5i;<)\vx's srppKESSioxs. 23
the 'Victor, being charged.' And as Shakspeare is able
to congratulate the earl in this "way, that fully disproves
Mr. Brown's reading of the story ; something had oc-
cun-ed ; the earl had been blamed for his conduct ; slan-
der liad been at work. Shakspeare takes part with his
friend, and says, the blame of others is not necessarily
a defect in him. The mark of slander has always been
'the fair,' just as the cankers love the sweetest buds.
Suspicion attaches to beauty, and sets it off; — it is the
black crow iiying against the sweet blue heaven. It is in
the natural order of things, that one in the position of the
earl and having his gifts and graces, shcjuld be slandered.
But, ' so thou be good,' he says, ' Slander only proves thy
worth the greater, being wooed of Time' What does that
mean ? but that the earl has met with opposition in his
love ; has had to wait for its full fruition ; and Slander, in
talking of him without warrant, will but serve to call
attention to his patient suffering and heroic bearing under
this trial and tyranny of Time. So Shakspeare did think
the earl was slandered, and he accounts for it on grounds
the most natural.
He then offers his testimony as to character —
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime !
Thou bast past by the ambush of young days,
Either not assailed, or victor being- charged.
A singular thing to say, if Mr. Brown's version of the
earlier sonnets were true. Very singular, and so Mr.
Brown has omitted it ! Further, the sonnet is a striking
illustration of the mutual relationship of poet and peer — a
most remarkable thing that Shakspeare should congratu-
late the earl for his Joseph-like conduct, and call him a
'victor.' Very few young noblemen of the time, we think,
would have considered that a victory, or cared to have
had it celebrated. Yet this fiict, which Shakspeare says
is to the earl's praise, will not be sullicient to tie u[)
24 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONXETS.
Envy, which is always on the loose, seeking for some
reputation to devour.
This, again, is Mr. Brown's rendering of the world of
meaning to be found in sonnet 107 —
Xo consideration can controul my true friendship. In spite
of death itself, I shall live in this verse, and it shall be your
enduring monument.
Xow let the reader turn to the sonnet thus paraphrased.
The historic circumstances and all tlie most precious par-
ticulars are lost with such a theory, the believers in which
are blind to the jewelly sparkle that indicates the lode of
the meaning in certain hnes, rich in hidden treasure. So
of sonnet 124 ; at Mr. Brown's touch the spirit passes out
of it, the history of the time fades away, the dates grow
dim, Shakspeare's meaning is dead, and Mr. Brown wraps
it in a winding-sheet of witless words. In his account of
sonnet 117, he takes no notice of four lines, which of
themselves are sufficient to differentiate the characters and
lives of Shakspeare and SouthamptoiL —
That I have frequent been with unknown minds.
And given to Time your own dear-purchased right ;
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
That should transport me farthest from, your sight.
Here was matter of great ' pith and moment,' but Mr.
Brown knew not what to make of it. In sonnet 36, Mr.
Brown professes to find this : ' Perhaps I must not openly
acknowledge you, lest the resentment I showed, which I
bitterly lament, should be remembered to your shame ! '
And he conjectures — harping on liis favourite string
that the poet's resentment had been made public. Shak-
speare wrote nothing of the sort. The speaker in that
sonnet is the guilty person, whatsoever the guilt may be ;
his are the blots ; so guilty is he, that for the other to
take notice of him ])ub]icly, will be to court dishonour.
rnr: person. \i, kkadinc oi- .'^oxxirr .•',<;. 25
' My bewailed guilt,' is the guilt which 1 do bewail — am
sorry for — not which I did bewail and give expression to
in public.
Boaden, who is here followed by Gcr\inus, was dri\en
to think that in this 3Gth sonnet, the poet must lament
the difference of rank that existed betwixt them, and was
fearful lest politic reasons might pull them apart. But
this will not do any way. It is sufficient answer to know
that this difference in rank had been no barrier to their
intercourse ; and if the patron had made no obstacle of the
disparity in station, it would be a gratuitous insult for
Shakspeare to set it up as one. Nor could he, after the
secure self-congratulation on this very point in sonnet 25,
have spoken of the difference of rank as the separating
spite of Fortune ; for he had expressly sung of the friend-
ship as a gift beyond all the prizes of Fortune. Xor
could the poet's lot in life be his ' bewailed guilt.' Also,
the ' blots' are altogether of a personal character. And
if the poet had done something so bad as is here implied,
he would not have the right to say on behalf of both, that
there was still but one respect, and the love on both sides
yet remained the same. The sonnet cannot be read by
such a theory.
Then Mr. Brown has altogether ignored the discrepan-
cies betwixt what is recorded of Shakspeare's personal
character by those who knew him and what has been
surmised of it by some who have read but never under-
stood the sonnets. Nor has he hesitated to charge the
greatest dramatic poet that ever lived with the grossest
violation of dramatic proprieties poet ever made. He
has assumed that Shakspeare was capable of mixing
truth and falsehood in the wildest, most wanton way — as
thoush he were a moimtebank whose foce was like one
of those elastic playthings for children that may be
squeezed or stretched into any shape, on purpose to mock
us with a myriad transformations of appearances. Here
•2Q SHAKSrEAEE'S SO]SNETS.
are a few expressions thus assumed, without question, to
have been addressed to a man by the most natural of all
poets :
I tell the day to please him, thou art bright.
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven ;
So flatter I the swart-complexioned night.
Sonnet 28.
Lascivious Grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites ; yet, we must not be foes.
Sonnet 40.
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.
Sonnet 57.
Now proud as an enjo3'er, and anon
Doubting i\\e filckiru) age will steal his treasure.
Sonnet 75.
And prove thee viriwous though thou art forsworn.
Sonnet 88.
But what's so blessed fair that fears no blot ?
Thou nuiy^st be false, and yet I know it not.
Sonnet 92.
How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow.
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show. — Sonnet 93.
As on the finger of a throned Queen
The basest Jewel will he well esteemed.
So are those errors that in thee are seen.
To truths translated. Sonnet 96.
For nothing this wide universe I call.
Save thou, my Rose ! in it thou art ray all.
Sonnet 109.
]IIS SUPPOSED UNTRUTHFULNESS T( > NATURE, 2
-/
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof to try an older friend. — Sonnet 110.
Such Cherubins as your sweet self. — Sonnet 114.
For why should others' false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive Llood ? — Sonnet 121.
Thus, it is assumed that Shakspeare, the peerless
Psychologist, the poet whose observance of natural law
was infallible, whose writings contain tlie ultimate of all
that is natural in poetry, should have sinned grossly
against nature, in a matter so primal as the illustration of
sex !
Lastly, Mr. Brown remarks of the rival poet in sonnet
86, 'who this rival poet was is beyond my conjecture ; nor
does it matter!' But it matters much; for if this poet
should prove to be Marlowe, that one fact alone would be
of sufficient force to deal the death-blow to the vaunted
theory" that William Herbert was the ' only" begetter' of
Shakspeare's sonnets ; because Marlowe died in the year
1593, when Herbert was exactly thirteen years and four
montlis of age. And linalh", the upholders of this Herbert
Hypothesis have, in their helpless desperation, been driven
to assert tliat tlie well-known 'sugred sonnets' of Shak-
speare, spoken of so pointedly by Meres, as among the
poet's 'private friends,' in the year 1598, must have been
lostl The theory did indeed require to be supported
with an audacity that would stick at nothing ; but what a
' lame and impotent conclusion ! '
Mr. Brown's book leaves the subject just where he
found it ; dark and dubious as ever. His theory has
only served to trouble deep waters, and make them so
nuiddy that it was impossible to see to the bottom.
OF
THE PERIOD AT WHICH THE EAELIEE
SOXNETS VimE WRITTEN,
')
AND
THE PEESON TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED.
That the greater portion of Shakspeare's " sonnets was
written at too early a period for William Herbert to have
been the ' begetter,' is capable of positive, absolute, and
overwhelming proof First, we have the poet's ' sugred
sonnets among his private friends,' known to Meres in
1598, Then we find ample internal evidence to prove
that the mass of these sonnets are the poet's early work,
and possess the characteristics of his early composition.
As Coleridge has remarked, and he did not enter into the
controversy concerning tlie ' only begetter,' they have,
like the ' Venus and Adonis,' and the ' Lucrece,' ' bound-
less fertility and laboured condensation of thought, with
perfection of sweetness in rhythm and metre. These are
the essentials in the budding of a great poet. Afterwards
habit and consciousness of power teach more ease, prceci-
pitandum liherum spiritum.' The abundant use of anti-
thesis also shows that his fancy had more to do with, their
making, than his mature imagination. Besides which, he
tells us plainly enough that the early sonnets were written
THE MKAN[X(J OF SONNET 20. 29
with his ' })upil pen.' Sonnet lU is explicit on this head,
it is also supported by the way in which he speaks of his
Muse in sonnet 32. And nothing can be more obvious
than that sonnet 26 was composed and sent to his friend
and patron in written embassage,, before the poet had
appeared in print. It is equally evident that this was
at a time when Shakspeare did not know where his
success was to be won, or how his ' moving ' on his
course w^ould be guided. Meanwhile, he asks his
patron to accept these sonnets in manuscript to 'wit-
ness duty ' privately, not to ' show his wit ' in public.
Before daring to addi-ess him in a public dedication,
he will wait until his star shall smile on him gra-
ciously, and his love shall be able to clothe itself in fit
apparel, that is, when he is ready to put forth a poem
such as he sliall not shrink from offering to his patron in
])ublic ; the present sonnets being exclusively private ;
then will he hope to show himself worthy of the friend's
' sweet respect,' but till then he will not dare to dress out
his love for the critical eye of the world, will not lift up
his head to boast publicly in print of that love in his
heart which he now expresses in writing. Here are
three indisputable facts recorded by Shakspeare himself.
He writes these earlier sonnets Avith his ' pupil pen ; ' he
sends them as ])rivate exercises before he appears in
print, and he is looking forward hopefully to the time
when he may be ready with a work which shall be more
worthy of his love than are these sonnets — prehminary
ambassadors that announce his purpose — which work he
intends to dedicate publicly to the earl, his patron and
friend, and appear in person; that is, by name; where the
merits of his poetry may be tested, that is, in j)rint.
Whosoever we may hold to have been the Lord of
Shakspeare's love here addressed, he would know,
however much mav be hidden from us, whether or
not the poet was telling the truth ; and there can be no
30 8HAKSPEARES SONNETS.
Other conclusion for us but tliat this 26th sonnet, together
Avitli those "to which it is L'Envoy, was presented to the
patron before tlie ' Venus and Adonis ' was pubHcly dedi-
cated to tlie Earl of Southampton, and the poet ventured
to ascertain how the world would censure him for ' choos-
ing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden.'
Mr. Knight, in proof that the earlier series of these
sonnets must have been "written before William Herbert
was old enough to be the ' begetter,' has instanced a line,
first pointed out by Steevens, which was printed in a play
attributed, "svith poetic warrant, to Shakspeare, entitled
' The lieion of King Edward IIL' The same line occurs
in sonnet 94 : —
Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds.
This drama w^as published in 1596, after it had been
sundry times played. It is presumable that the line was
first used in the sonnet privately, before it appeared in the
play, as the poetic notions of the sonnet, as well as the
personal and private friendship, would demand the more
fastidious taste. If so, this w^as one of the sonnets in wdiich
William Herbert could not have been addressed. But I
do not care to press the argument, nor is it necessary
to emphasise a single illustration. There are so many in-
stances of likeness in thought and image betwixt these son-
nets and certain of the plays as to almost make it a matter
of indifference whether the lines were used first in the play
or the sonnet, although I have no doubt that as a point
of literary etiquette the sonnet would have first choice.
My examination of both shows that these resemblances
and repetitions occur most palpably and numerously in
dramas and soimets, which I take to liave been written
from 1592 to 1597 ; they most strongly suggest, if they
do not prove, both sonnets and plays to have been writ-
ten about the same period, having the same dress of his
mind, the com]:)osition perhaps running parallel at times.
SIGNS OF KAin.v wnrvK:\r.\xsii 1 1'. 31
These plays are the ' Two Gentlemen of Verona,' ' Love's
Labour Lost,' a ' Midrsununer Night's Dream,' and ' Komeo
and Juliet.' First, we have an indehnable likeness in
tone and mental tint, which is yet recognisable as are the
flowers of the same season. In Shakspeare so great is the
unity of feeling as it is seen pervading a whole play, that
whatsoever was going on below would give visible signs
on the surface whether he was working at a drama or a
sonnet. Especially if, as I shall have reason to show, the
same persons were aimed at in both, and in play and
sonnet he was at tunes working from one and the same
life-model. Colerido-e has said of ' Eomeo and Juliet ' that
all is youth and spring; it is 'youth with its follies, its
virtues, its precipitancies ; it is spring with its odours,
flowers, and transciency ; the same feeling commences,
goes through and ends the play. The old men, the
Capulets and Montagues are not common old men ; they
have an eagerness and hastiness, a precipitancy — the effect
of spring. Witli Eomeo, his precipitate change of pas-
sion, his hasty marriage, and his rash death, are all the
effects of youth. With Juliet, love has all that is tender
and melancholy in the niglitingale, all that is voluptuous
in the rose, with whatever is sweet in the freshness of
spring ; but it ends with a long deep sigh, like the breeze
of evenincj.'
This unity of character and oneness of feeling is so
perfect in Shakspeare that it not only colours the persons
in the same play, but I contend that it tinges his w(n-k. of
the same period, and that it is most identifiable in the
spring-time of his powers, when the warmth of May was
stirring the budding forces, and the music was at its
sweetest, the imagery most abundantly used, even to re-
petition. In the earlier sonnets, and in the above-named
plays certain ideas and figures continually appear an^l re-
appear. We might call them by name, as the sliadow-
idoa or conceit, the war of roses in the red and white of
32 SHAKSPEAKE'S SONNETS.
a lady's clieek, the pattern or map-idea, the idea of the
antique world in oj)position to tlie tender transciency of
3'outh, the images of spring used as emblems of mor-
tality, the idea of engraving on a tablet of steel, the
canker in the bud, the distilling of roses to preserve
tlieir sweets, the cloud-kissing hill, and the hill-kissing
sun with golden face — and many others which were the
poet's early stock of imagery, the frequent use of which
shows that it Avas yet the time of fondhng, the honey-
moon of fancy, the sj^ring of his creative powers.
But to pass from this indefiniteness to the actual like-
ness, here are a few passages compared : —
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all-triumphant splentloiir on my brow.
But, out, alack ! he was but one hour mine.
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
Sonnet 33.
how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day.
Which now shows all the beauty of the Sun,
And by-and-by a cloud takes all away !
Two Gentlemen of Verona, act i., scene 1.
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate^
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
Sonnet 10.
thou, that dost inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion so long tenantless,
Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall.
And leave no memory of what it was.
Repair me with thy presence Silvia.
Tivo Gentlemen of Verona.
For canker Vice the sweetest buds doth love.
Sonnet 70.
As in the sweetest buds the eating canker dwells.
Tivo Gentlemen of Verona,
THE LIKENESS TO EARLY PLAYS. 33
Let them say more that like of hear-say well,
I will not praise that purpose not to sell. — Sonnet 21.
Fie painted Rhetoric I she needs it not :
To things of sale a seller's praise belongs, —
She passes praise.
Love's Labour^s Lost, act iv. scene 3.
But from thine eyes this knowledge I derive.
Sonnet 14.
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive.
Love's Labour^s Lost.
As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie.
Sonnet 109.
Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast.
Love's Labour's Lost.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle Thief,
Altho' thou steal thee all my poverty. — Sonnet 40.
That sweet Thief which sourly robs from me.
Sonnet 35.
me : you Juggler : you canker-worm !
You Thief of Love ! What, have you come by night
And stolen my Love's heart from him ?
Hei^iia to Helena ; Midsummer Night's
Dream, act iii. scene 2.
Sweet Koses do not so ;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made.
Sonnet 54.
Earthlier happy is the Eose distilled,
Than that, which, withering on the virgin thorn.
Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Midsummer Xight's Dream.
That is my home of love : if I have ranged.
Like him that travels, I return again. — Sonnet 109.
My heart witli her but as guest-^vise sojourned.
And now to Helen it is home returned.
Midsummer Night's Dream.
D
34 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward.
Sonnet 133.
That thro' thy bosom makes me see my heart.
Midsummer Nighfs Dream, act ii. scene 2,
Truth and Beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou would'st convert :
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.
Sonnet 14.
And tender churl, mak'st waste in niggarding.
Sonnet 1.
Oh she is rich in beauty, only poor
That when she dies with beauty dies her store. '
Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste ?
She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste.
For Beauty starved with her severity.
Cuts beauty off from all posterity.
Romeo and Juliet, act i. scene 1.
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view.
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Sonnet 27.
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of Night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear.
Roineo and Juliet, act i. scene 5.
WTien sparkling stars tire' not thou gild'st the even.
Sonnet 28.
Fair Helena who more engilds the night
Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light.
Midsummer Night's Dream, act iii. scene 2.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
Romeo and Juliet, act i. scene 5.
* See note to the Sonnet.
EESULT OF THE COMPARISON. 35
Whilst tliat this shadow doth such sul^stance give.
Sonnet 37.
Ah nie ! how sweet is love itself possessed.
When but Love's shadows are so rich in joy I
Romeo and Juliet, act v. scene 1.
Oh what a mansion have those Vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee.
Sonnet 95.
Oh, that Deceit should dwell in such a Palace !
Romeo and Juliet, act iii. scene 2.
As the result of this comparison, my reading of the
Sonnets shows that in one or two instances the expression
must have first appeared in the play. This apphes to the
extracts from sonnet 109. But there the Ukeness is one
of a personal character. In most instances my reading
shows the thought or illustration to have been first
employed in the sonnets, or that the plays and sonnets
were being written at the same time. And as four
of these plays were in all probability produced by the
year 1596 \ the sonnets which I have instanced, together
with others that belong to the respective stories told, must
have been written before that date, except in those cases
where there is a still more particular determining cause
for the same image or expression being used in both
sonnet and drama ; that is, ichen, in each, they appli/ to
the same person. This, which is at the root of the mattei',
I shall illustrate in another part of my book. I have
quoted and said enough to demonstrate that many of the
sonnets were composed at too early a period for William
Herbert to have been the inspirer, and the friend of
Shakspeare who was addressed in them.
There is strong reason to suppose that the poet began to
' These I should date — ' Two Gentlemen of Verona,' 1593 ; ' T.ove's
Labour's Lost,' L594 ; ' Midsummer Night's Dream,' 1595 ; ' Eomeo and
Juliet; 1590.
n -2
36 SriAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
write the sonnets in which he urges his young friend to
marry very soon after he had read the ' Arcadia ' of Sid-
ney. I shall give evidence of this never before adduced,
and in point of fact it amounts to poetic proof. In Book
iii. pp. 431, 432, of that work, will be found these argu-
ments in favour of marriage and children : —
No, no, my dear niece (said Cecropia), Nature, when you
were first born, vowed you a woman, and as she made you
child of a mother, so to do your best to be mother of a child.
She gave you beauty to move love ; she gave you ivit to know
love ; she gave you an excellent body to reward love ; which
kind of liberal reiuarding is crowned with an unspeakable
felicity. For this, as it bindeth the receiver, so it makes happy
the bestoiver. This doth not impoverish, but enrich the giver.
the comfort of comforts, to see your children grow up, in
tvhom you are, as it luere eternised ! If you could conceive
what a heart-tickling joy it is to see your own little ones, with
awful love come running to your lap, and like little models of
yourself still carry you about them, you would think un-
kindness in your own thoughts, that ever they did rebel against
the measure to it. Perchance I set this blessedness before your
eyes, as captains do victory before their soldiers, to which they
must come thro' many pains, griefs, and dangers ? No, I am
content you shrink from this my counsel, if the way to come
unto it be not most of all pleasant.
I know not (answered the sweet Philocleaj what contentment
you speak of, but I am sure the best you can make of it (which
is marriage) is a burdenous yoke.
Ah, dear niece (said Cecropia), how much you are deceived.
A yoke, indeed, we all bear, laid upon us in creation, which by
marriage is not increased, but thus far eased that you have a
yoke-fellow to help draw through the cloddy cumbers of this
world. widow-nights, bear witness with me of the difference !
How often alas, do I embrace the orphan side of my bed, which
was wont to be imprinted by the body of my dear husband !
Believe me, niece, man's experience is woman's best eye-sight.
Have you ever seen a pure rose-water kept in a crystal glass ?
How fine it looks! how siveet it smells tvhile the beautiful
glass imprisons it ! Break the prison, and let the water take
SUGGESTIONS FROM SIDNEY'S 'ARCADIA.' 37
his own course, doth it not embrace the dust, and lose all his
former sweetness and fairness? Truly so are we, if we have
not the stay rather than the restraint of crystalline marriage.
My heart melts to think of the sweet comfort I, in that happy
time, received, when I had never cause to care but the care was
doubled ; when I never rejoiced, but that I saw my joy shine
in another's eyes. And is a solitary life as good as this ? Then,
can one string make as good music as a consort ? Then, can
one colour set forth a beauty ?
Here we discover, crowded into a brief passage, half
the very arguments, illustrated by several of the very
same images which Shakspeare has used in his earliest
group of sonnets. Here, in the lines italicised, is the
suofcrestion of sonnet 1 3 : —
Co
Dear, my Love, you know,
You bad a Father : let your son say so I
The argument of sonnet 11. —
Which bounteous gift thou should'st in bounty cherish.
The suggestion of sonnet 6, —
Which happies those that pay the willing loan.
Also of the children — same sonnet — which are to ' eter-
nise,' so that death shall leave him ' living in posterity,' —
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Sonnet 13.
The plea, ' cliange thy thought,' because it is un-
kindly, sonnet 10 ; the image of the widow with her
children who keep her husband's form in mind, sonnet 9 ;
the ' liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,' sonnet 5, and
the foUowins: out of the illustration in the next sonnet,
' Make sweet some vial ; ' and the argument of the ' single
string ' in sonnet 8, reversely applied : all these are m
that brief passage of Sidney's prose, and all are used for
the same purpose, the main difference being that in tlie
' Arcadia ' it is a woman speaking to a woman. Various
38 SHAKSrEAEE'S SONNETS.
other illustrations might be cited, to show that Shakspeare
has literally adopted sentiment, idea, and image, one after
the other, from the ' Arcadia.' His starting-point in the
first sonnet will be found in these words of Sidney's ;
' Beauty is a gift which those on whomsoever the heavens
have bestowed it are without question bound to use it
for the noble purpose for which it was created ;' — that is,
of ' increase.' Headers of the sonnets will see how large
a space that sentiment occupies in the first series. Again,
in the ' Arcadia,' the question is asked, ' Will you suffer
your beauty to be hidden in the wrinkles ? ' &c. And
the second sonnet says : —
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 tattered weed of small worth held ;
Then, being askt 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.
Here also is a further illustration of sonnet 6 : —
That indeed is the right happiness which is not only in itself
happy, but can also derive the happiness to another.
The object which Shakspeare had in writing these
early sonnets is so appositely worded in a passage of the
'Arcadia,' (Book iii. p. 462) as to suggest that the reading
of that work was one of the immediate incentives to the
writing of the sonnets. ' The earnest desire I have to see
these virtues of yours knit fast with such zeal of devotion
(indeed the best bond) which the most politic wits have
found to hold man's wit in well-doing.' Sliakspeare was
undouljtedly an adapter of other men's ideas for dramatic
purposes, but it would be difficult to identify the source
of so much sequent thought and sentiment as is to be
found in the present instance. It is essentially the result
THE TIME AT WHICH THEY WEIIE BEGUN. 39
of great admiration, such as belongs to a somewhat youtli-
ful time of hfe. In borrowing from Sidney he was not
taking from a poet unknown or unnoticed, but from a
work that was among the choicest favourites of the age,
and one of the most widely read. The ' Arcadia ' was
first pubhshed in 1590, and a copy of it would soon be
in our poet's hands ; we may assume that he would at
once seize the cue there given, and expand the hints on
marriage in his first sonnets. It is a kind of unconscious
plagiarism only possible to the young and immature mind ;
the effect of a first acquaintanceship, and the warm affec-
tion felt for a new work. A careful study of the 'Arcadia'
will reveal how greatly Shakspeare must have loved the
book, and how deeply its influence dyed his mind
during those years, from 1590 to 1596, in which a large
portion of the sonnets was written. Sir Walter Scott just
reversed the facts, when he fancied that Shakspeare's
Sonnets had been in the hands of Sidney.
Thus the sonnets themselves supply proof in various
kinds of evidence, that a large number of them were
written too early for William Herbert to have been their
' begetter,' or the friend who is the object of Shakspeare's
affection. Many of them were written by the poet's
' pupil pen ' before he had ventured to appear in public :
therefore, before he printed in 1593. On other grounds
I shall show, from internal evidence, that another group
was written before the death of Marlowe, in the same
year. Consequently, these must belong to the ' Sonnets
among his private friends,' which were known to Meres
in 1598 ; and, as William Herbert did not come to live
in London till the year 1598,' and was then only eighteen
years of age, he cannot bo the person addressed in these
Sonnets during a number of years previously !
At the outset of our inquiry, and on the very face
of things, it is patent that William Herbert cannot
' Sydney Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 4.3.
40 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
be the man whom Shakspeare so anxiously urged to
marry, to whom he dedicated eternal love ; and to all
who can fairly weigh the facts, it must be just as evident
that the Earl of Southampton is the patron and friend
whom our poet loved, and by whom he was so much be-
loved. Amongst the few precious personal rehcs of
Shakspeare are the short prose epistles in which he in-
scribes his two poems to the Earl of Southampton. Tliese
are remarkable revelations of his feeling towards the
Earl. The first is shaded with a delicate reserve, and
addressed to the patron ; the second, printed one year
afterwards, glows out full-hearted in a dedication of per-
sonal love for the friend. The difference is so great, and
the growth of the friendship so rapid, as to indicate that
the ' Venus and Adonis ' was sent to the Earl some time
before it was printed.
The dedication runs thus : —
Eight Honourable, — I know not how I shall offend in de-
dicating my unpolished lines to your Lordship, nor how the
world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support
so weak a burthen : only, if your honour seem but pleased, I
account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all
idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour.
But, if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be
sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after ear so barren
a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to
your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart's con-
tent ; which I wish may always answer your own wish, and the
world's hopeful expectation.
Your Honour's in all duty,
William Shakspeare.
Now, as our poet had distinctly promised in sonnet 26,
that w^hen he was ready to appear in print and put
w^orthy apparel on his love, he would then dare to boast
how much he loved his patron and friend, and show his
head, where he might be proved, we cannot but conclude
that the dedication to the 'Venus and Adonis' is in part
HIS PROMISES TO SOUTIIAMFrON. II
fulfilment of the intentions expressed in that sonnet. I
take the sonnet to be as much a private dedication of the
poet's first poem, as this epistle was afterwards the public
one, and hold that in it he as much promised the first
poem, as in the prose inscription he promises the future
' Lucrece,' when he vows to take advantage of all idle
hours till he has honoured the earl with some graver
labour, and tliat the 'Venus and Adonis' followed the
promise of the sonnet, just as one year later the 'Lucrece'
followed the dedication of the first printed poem to the
Earl of Southampton. Therefore, the person who was
privately addressed in 'written embassage' as the lord
of Shakspeare's love, must be one with him whom the
poet afterwards publicly ventured to address as such, in
fulfilment of intentions abeady recorded. The feeling of
the earhest sonnets is exactly that of this first public
inscription ; it is reticent and noticeably modest, whilst
in each there is an expression that gives the same per-
sonal image. In the first sonnet, this lord of Shak-
speare's love is ' the world's fresh ornament ; ' and in the
first dedication, the poet hopes his young patron may
answer to the 'world's hopeful expectation.' In both we
have Hope a-tiptoe at gaze on this new wonder of youth
and beauty, this freshest blossom of the young nobility.
In the next year, 1594, Shakspeare dedicated his poem
of 'Lucrece ' to the Earl of Southampton as foUows: —
The love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end, whereof
this pamphlet, A\dthout beginning, is but a superfluous moiety.
The 'Warrant I have of your honourable disposition not the
worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance.
What I have done is yours ; ichat I have to do is yours ; being
part in all I have devoted yours.^ Were my worth greater my
^ In the ^lalone and Grenville copies this reads ' beinpr part in all I have,
devoted yours,' which punctuation has been preserved. But it is so obviously
an error of the press as not even to demand a passing remark. It is ob-
structive to the sense, and severs what Shakspeare meant to clench by his
last repetition of * yours.
42 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
diity would shoiu greater ; meantime, as it is, it is bound to
your lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with
happiness.
Your Lordship's in all duty.
William Shakspeare.
Again the dedication echoes the 26th sonnet. 'The
warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the
worth of my untutored lines,' and 'were my worth
greater, my duty would show greater,' are the prose of
the previous ' to witness duty, not to show my wit.'
Then we have the 'lord of our poet's love,' to whom his
service was vowed, his duty bound in '■vassailage,'' iden-
tified in the person of Lord Southampton, to whom
Shakspeare is in duty bound, as in the sonnet where
' thy merit hath my duty strongly knit ; ' and to this lord
the poet has dedicated all that he has done, and all that
he has to do. Thus we have it recorded in 1594, by
Shakspeare himself, that the relationship of poet and
patron was so close, the friendship had so far ripened,
that Shakspeare could dedicate 'love without end,' and
he uses these never-to-be-forgotten words : — ' What 1 have
done is yours ; what I have to do is yours ; being part in
all I have devoted yours.'' That is, the Earl of South-
ampton is proclaimed to be the lord of our poet's love,
' love without end,' — the man to whom he is bound, and
the patron for whom he has hitherto written, and for
whom, as is understood betwixt them, he has yet to write.
'Wliat I have to do is yours' — so there is work in hand
— ' being part as you are in all that my duty and love
have devoted to your service.' What work in hand
devoted to Southampton can this be, save the sonnets
which he was then composing ? Here is a promise made,
which was never fulfilled in any other shape. But Shak-
speare was not a man to make light of his word. He
would not give a pledge privately or publicly, and leave
it unredeemed. He made a promise in the 26t]i sonnet,
HIS PUBLIC ALLUSION TO THEM, 43
wliich he fulfilled in 1593 with the 'Venus and Adonis.'
In his inscription to that poem, he makes a further pro-
mise, this he carries out in dedicating the ' Lucrece ' to
the Earl of Southampton. In the second public inscrip-
tion, he speaks still more emphatically of work that he
has to do for the earl, not like a poet addressing a patron,
but as a familiar friend alluding to something only known
amongst friends. It is a public promise respecting work
that has a private history ; its precise speciality has never
yet been fathomed, although something marked in the
meaning has been felt ; it could only have had fulfilment
in the sonnets, and that in a very particular way.
As the 'Venus and Adonis' was printed in 1593, we
may safely assume that the first sonnets, inclusive of the
26th, were not written later than the year 1592. Shak-
speare might have met Southampton as early as 1589, for
in the June of that year the earl came to London, and
entered himself as member of Gray's Inn. The young
earl's fondness for plays is well know^n, and his step-father.
Sir Thomas HeneaQ;e, beins; Treasurer of the Chamber and
Vice-Chamberlain of Her Majesty's Household, as well as
Captain of the Guard to the Queen, his immediate access
to players and playwrights would be easy; his good word
in their favour w^ould be eagerly sought.
But this was not an ordinary case of a poet in search of
a patron. Shakspeare must have kept his poem by him
some years after it was written before he printed it. He
calls it the ' first heir of his invention,' at a time when he
was known to have written some plays, and had a hand
in others. This does not look as though he had been an
eager seeker of a patron ; and I hold that sonnet 25 tells
us how the earl had sought out the poet who ' unlooked
for joys ' in that he ' honours most ' — the acquaintanceship
and friendship of one so much unlike the ordinary patrons
of literature in those days.
Taking the year 1592, then, as the date of the first
44 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
group of sonnets, we shall find the young earl of South-
ampton's age precisely reckoned up in sonnet 16, —
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
which shows us that the youth has sprung lightly up the
ladder of his life, and now stands on the last golden round
of boyhood ; he is at the top of his ' teens,' The Earl of
Southampton was born October 6th, 1573, consequently
in 1592 he was nineteen years of age.
The very first sonnet addresses one Avho is the ' world's
fresh ornament,' — that is, the budding favourite at Court,
the fresh grace of its circle, the latest representative there
of youthful spring ; ' the expectancy and rose of the fair
State!' Southampton was, in truth, the ' child of State,'
under the special protection of the Court. He was recom-
mended to Her Majesty's notice by the loss of his father
at so early an age, and by the quiet service of his step-
father, who was an old servant of the Queen's, as well as
favoured with the best word of his guardian, Burleigh,
who at one time hoped to bring about a marriage betwixt
Southampton and his own granddaughter. We shall see
further, that such was his place in Her Majesty's regards,
that an endeavour was made by Sir Fulke GreviUe and
otliers, to get the Earl of Southampton installed as royal
favourite in the stead of Essex. ' There was a time,' says Sir
Henry Wotton,^ sometime secretary to the Earl of Essex,
' when Sir Eulke Greville (Lord Brook), a man intrinsically
Avith him (Essex), or at the least, admitted to his melan-
choly hours, either belike espying some weariness in the
Queen, or perhaps (with little change of the word, though
more in the danger), some wariness towards him, and
working upon the present matter (as he was dexterous
and close), had almost superinduced into favour the Earl
of Southampton, which yet being timely discovered, my
' Reliquice Wottoniancp, p. 1G3.
SOUTItAMPTOX AS FAVOL'RITE 45
Lord of Essex chose to evaporate his thoughts in a sonnet
(being his common way), to be sung before the Queen
(as it was) by one Hales, in wliose voice she took some
pleasure ; whereof the couplet, melhinks, had as much of
the Hermit as of the Poet.' I suspect that Wotton has not
gone quite to the root of the affair, and that the real
ground on which the motion of Sir Fulke Greville was
made, was a strong feeling of personal favour on the part
of Her Majesty towards the yoimg Earl of Southampton ;
this to some extent is implied in the fact recorded,
but tliere was more in it than Wotton had seen from the
one side. It is difficult to define what this royal favour
meant, or what was the nature of Her Majesty's affec-
tion, but it most assuredly existed, and was shown, and
Essex manifested his jealousy of it, as in the cases of
Southampton and Mountjoy. Perhaps it was an old
maid's passion for her puppies ! In judging of Ehzabeth's
character, we must remember tliat some of her richest,
most vital feelings had no proper sphere of action, though
their motion was not necessarily improper. She did
not live the married life, and Nature sometimes plays
tricks when the vestal fires are fed by the animal passions,
that are thus covered up, but all aglow ; these will give
an added warmth to the imagination, a sparkle to the eye,
and a youth to the affections in the later years of life,
such as may easily be misinterpreted. I am not raising
any scandal against Elizabeth, when, supported by the
suggestive hint of Wotton, I conjecture that the persistent
opposition of the Queen to Southampton's marriage may
have had in it a personal feeling which, under the circum-
stances, could have no other expression than in thwarting
the wedded ha})piness of others.
It is in this sense of the new favourite at Court, that I
read —
The World's fresh ornament
And only herald of the gaudy spring.
46 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
and find in it another feature whereby we can identify
the Earl of Southampton as the person addressed.
Next — and here we feel an endearing touch of Shak-
speare's nature — the youth is so evideiitlj fathei^less, that
it seems strange it should have been hitherto overlooked.
The plea all through the first sonnets is to one who is the
sole prop of his house, and the only bearer of the family
name ; hence the importance of marrying, on which the
poet lays such stress. It seems to me that the first
sonnet opens with an allusion to the earli/ death of the
earl's father : —
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 !
In sonnet 10 he is charged with not inclining his ear
to the advice given to him that he should marry.
Thus :—
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate,
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
We find the same use made of the verb to ruinate in
Ilenry VI., part iii. act 5 : —
I will not ruinate my father's house.
And in the abseiice of Pericles one of the lords says —
This kingdom is without a head.
Like goodly buildings left without a roof.
Of course the roof would not need repairing if it were
not going to decay. Accordingly we find that Southamp-
ton's father — head of the house — died in 1581, ere the
young earl was quite eight years old, and within four
years of that time his elder brother died. Again in
sonnet 13 the poet urges —
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay.
Which husbandry in honour might uphold "i
THE PERSON ADDRESSED IS FATHERLESS. 47
And, although aware that the hnes may not be con-
fined to the Hteral reading, I cannot avoid thinking that
the underlying fact was in the poet's mind when in the
same sonnet he wrote —
Dear my love, you know
You had a father ; let your son say so.
Also in sonnet 3 he tells the earl —
Thou art thy JNIother's glass, and she, in thee.
Calls back the lovely April of her prime.
There is no mention of his having a father ; there is an
allusion to his having had one, and the mother is referred
to as though she were the only hving parent. Shakspeare
could not speak of the earl's likeness to his father, who
had died before the poet came to London ; he is forced to
make use of the ' mother's glass,' when the father, had
there been one in existence, is demanded by the heredi-
tary nature of the argument. Also, it makes greatly in
favour of my reading that some of the arguments taken
from Sidney's prose have been altered precisely to suit the
case as put by me. The speaker in the ' Arcadia ' says,
' Nature made you child of a mother ' (Philoclea's mother
' Lettice Knollys ' was then living), but Shakspeare says,
' you had a father ' (the Earl of Southampton's father
being dead). The description is also differentiated by the
' tender heir,' who, ' as the riper should by time decease,'
might ' bear his memory,' and by the house-roof going to
decay, ' which to repair ' by ' husbandry in honour,'
should be the chief desire of the person addressed.
Thus, we have the Earl of Southampton identified as the
lord of Shakspeare's love, and the object of these early
sonnets by his exact age at the time when Shakspeare
speaks of appearing soon in print, by his position as the
■• fresh ornament ' of the Court world and Court societ}^
and by the fatherless condition which gave a weightier
48 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
empliasis to the poet's argument for marriage, a more
paternal tone of anxions interest to liis personal affection.
To revert for a moment to the words of Meres, it is
obvious that the ' private friends ' of Sliakspeare alluded
to must have had as much to do with the critic's mention
as the poet had ; it would be made on their account as
much as on Shakspeare's. Who else could prove the
opinion recorded ? And certainly there was no living
patron of literature at the time more likely to elicit the
public reference of Meres than Henry Wriothesley, Earl
of Southampton.
On going a little further afield we may glean yet more
evidence that the Earl of Southampton is the object of
these sonnets. ' Thy poet,' Sliakspeare calls himself in
sonnet 79, and one of the earl's two poets in sonnet 83.
Whose poet could he have been but Southampton's either
before or after the dedication of his two poems ? Of
whom, save Southampton, should he say —
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
Sonnet 100.
when it was that earl who had so esteemed the poefs lays?
To whom, except this noble fellow and personal friend,
could he speak of his sonnets as the poor returns^
The barren tender of a jpoefs debt ?
Sonnet 83.
which is a most palpable acknowledgement of the earl's
munificence — good, even for a thousand pounds. More-
over, we have in sonnet 78, the recognition of the earl
after publishing, just as we have him pointed out in
sonnet 26, before the poet had printed. ' Thine eyes
that taught the dumb on high to sing ! ' These must
have belonged to the man who caused the poet to speak
aloud for the first time in public. In sonnet 108 he says
his love is great, ' even as when first I hallowed thy fair
SOUTHAMPTON THE LORD OF SIIAKSPEARE'S LOVE. 49
iianic' Whose name did he liallow or honour save that
of Southampton ? Again in sonnet 102 : —
Our love was new and then bnt in the spring.
When I was wont to greet it with my lays.
"Wliat love but that betwixt this earl and Shakspeare did
tlie poet ever greet with his lays? And sonnet 105 tells
us that up to the time at wliicli it was written, the afifec-
tion must have been undivided ; and the patron of both
sonnets and poems must have been one and the same
person. For —
All alike my songs and praises be,
To one, of one, still such and ever so.
But I shall not only show that the Earl of Southampton
was the lord of Shakspeare's love, and the ' dear friend '
of these sonnets, the budding favourite at court, the
fatherless youth of nineteen, the patron to whom Shak-
speare sent ' what silent love had writ ' before he pubhcly
dedicated his ' love without end ; ' those sonnets that were
the dumb presagers of his speaking breast^ and as such
preceded and heralded the spoken thought and feeling of
his public inscriptions. I shall also show how Southamp-
ton alone could have been spoken of as becoming tlie
' tenth Muse ' of sonnet 38, not in the be^innino- of the
sonnets, but after many of them had l^een begotten, and
prove how he only could be a part in what Shakspeare had
devoted to him. And lastly, I shall show that wliether the
sonnets be addressed to the object of tliem by Shakspeare
himself, or spo"ken dramatically, it is the character of
Southampton and that alone, wdtli its love of change, its
shifting hues, its passionate impetuosity, its spirit restless as
flame, its tossings to and fro, its hiu'iying here and there
to seek in strife abroad the satisfaction denied to him in
peace at home, that we shall find reflected all througli the
larger number of them, and Southampton only Avho is
congratulated in sonnet 107 on having escaped his doom
of imprisonment for hfe, through the deatli of the Queen.
E
LIFE AND CHAEACTER
OF
HENKY WKIOTHESLEY,
EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON,
The name of Soiitliampton was once well known on a
past page of our rough island story ; his swaling plume was
looked to in the battle's front, and recognised as worn by
a natural leader of fighting men. He was of the flower
of England's chivalry and a close follower of Sir Philip
Sidney in heading the onset and breaking hardily on the
enemy with a noble few, without pausing to count
numbers or weigh odds.
With a most natural aptitude for war, he never had
sufficient scope : one of the jewels of Elizabeth's realm
did not meet with a fit setting at her hand ; a bright
particular star of her constellation was dimmed and
diminished through a l^aleful conjunction. But he has
a rich reprisal in being the friend of Shakspeare, be-
loved by him in life, embalmed by him in memory ;
once a sharer in his own personal affection, and for ever
the partaker of his earthly immortality.
Henry Wriothesley was the second of the two sons of
Henry, the second earl of the name. His mother was the
daughter of Anthony Brown, first Viscount Montague.
The founder of the family was Thomas Wriothesley,
our earl's grandfather, a favourite servant of Henry VIH.,
'HONOUR IN ms perfection.' r>i
who granted to ]iim the Promonstratensian abbey of
Tichfiekl, Hants, endowed witli about 280/. per year in
1538, creating him Baron Tichfield about the same time,
and Earl of Southampton in 154G. He died July 30,
1550. A rare work entitled ' Honour in his Perfection,'
by G. M., 4to, 1G24,' contains the following notice of
our Southampton's ancestors : — ' Next (0 Bntain !) read
imto thy softer nobility the story of the noble house
of Southampton ; that sliall bring new fire to their
bloods, and make of the little sparks of honour great
flames of excellency. Show them the life of Thomas
Wriothcsley, Earl of Southampton, who was l^otli an
excellent soldier and an admirable scholar ; who not
only served the great king, his master, Heniy VHI.
in his wars, but m his council chamber ; ^ not only in the
field but on the bench, within his courts of civil justice.
This man, for his excellent parts, was made Lord
Chancellor of England, where he governed with tliat
integrity of heart, and true mixture of conscience and
justice, that he won tlie hearts of both king and people.
'After tliis noble prince succeeded his son, Henry, Earl
of Southampton, a man of no less vii^tue, prowess, and
wisdom, ever beloved and favoured of his prince, highly
reverenced and favoured of all that were in his own rank,
and bravely attended and served by the best gentlemen of
those countries wherein he lived. His muster-roll never
consisted of four lacqueys and a coachman, but of a
whole troop of at least a hundred well-mounted gentle-
* * Honour in his Perfection ' supposed by Malone to have been written by
Gervase Markliam. But Gervase was accustomed to write his name Jarvis
or larvis. He signs his sonnets dedicatory to his tragedy of Sir Richard
Grenville, hjs dedication to the * Poem of Poems or Sinn's Muse ' and his
contributions to ' England's Helicon ' with the initials J. M. not G. M. I
rather think that ' Honour in his Perfection ' was written by Griffith or
Griffin Mai-khain, the brother of Gervase. He served undor the Earl of
Southampton in L-eland, as Colonel of Horse, and was an intimate personal
friend.
- As Secretary of State.
K 2
52 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
men and yeomen. He was not known in the streets by
guarded liveries but by gold chains ; not by painted
butterflies, ever running as if some monster pursued
them, but by tall goodly fellows that kept a constant
pace both to guard his person and to admit any man to
their lord which had serious business. This prince could
not steal or drop into an ignoble place, neither might do
anytliing unworthy of his great calhng ; for he ever had
a world of testimonies about him.' Tliis earl was attached
to Popery, and a zealous adherent to the cause of Mary,
Queen of Scots ; which led to his imprisonment in the
Tower in 1572. He died October 4, 1581, at the early age
of thirty-five, bequeathing his body to be buried in the
chapel of Tichfield Church, where his mother had been
interred, his father having been buried in the choir of
St. Andrew's Church, Holborn ; and appointing that 200/.
should be distributed amongst the poor within his several
lordships, to pray for his soul and the souls of his
ancestors.
'Wlien it pleased the divine goodness to take to his
mercy this great earl, he left behind to succeed him
Henry, Earl of Southampton, his son (now living), being
then a child. But here methinks, Cinthius aurem vellet,
something pulls me by the elbow and bids me forbear, for
flattery is a deadly sin, and will damn reputation. But, shall
1 that ever loved and admired this earl, that lived many
years'where I daily saw this earl, that knew him before
the wars, in the wars, and since the wars — shall I that
have seen him endure the worst mahce or venQ;eance that
sea, tempests, or thunder could utter, that have seen him
undergo all the extremities of war ; that have seen him
serve in person on tlic enemy — shall I tliat have seen
him receive the reward of a soldier (before the face of
an enemy) for the best act of a soldier (done upon the
enemy) — shall I be scared with shadows? No; truth
is my mistress, and though I can write nothing which
SOUTHAMPTON'S EARLY YEARS. 53
can equal tlie least spark of lire witliin him, yet for her
sake will I speak something which may inflame those that
are heavy and dull, and of mine own temper. This earl
(as I said before) came to his father's dignity in cliild-
hood, spending that and his other younger times in the
study of good letters (to which the University of Cam-
bridge is a witness), and after confirmed that study with
travel and foreign observation.' He was born October G,
1573. His father and elder brother both died before he
had reached the age of twelve years. On December 11,
1585, he was admitted of St. John's College, Cambridge,
with the denomination of Hemy, Earl of Southampton,
as appears by the books of that house ; on June 6, 1589,
he took liis degree of Master of Arts, and after a resi-
dence of nearly five years, he finally left the University for
London. He is said to have won the hvj\\ eulo»]jies of his
contemporaries for his uncommon proficiency, and to
have been admitted about three years later to the same
degree, by incorporation, at Oxford.
The Inns of Court, says Aulicus Coquinariie, w^ere al-
ways the place of esteem with the Queen, who considered
that they fitted youth for the futm^e, and were the best
antechambers to her Court. And it was customary for
the nobilit}^, as well as the most considerable gentry of
England, to spend some time in one of the Inns of Coiu't,
on purpose to complete their course of studies. Soon
after leaving the University, the young earl entered him-
self a member of Gray's Inn, and on the authority of a
roll preserved in the library of Lord Hardwicke, he is said
to have been a member so late as the year IGll. Malone
was inclined to believe that he rallier was admitted a
member of Lincoln's Inn, to the chapel of which society
the earl gave one of the admirably pahited windows, in
which his arms may be yet seen.
One of the earliest notices of tlie earl in the calendar of
54 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
State Papers,' gives us the note of preparation for the
memorable year of the 'Armada,' in which the encroaching
tide of Spanish power was dashed back broken, from the
Avooden walls of England, ' June 14th,' we read, ' the Earl
of Southampton's armour is to be scoured and dressed up
by his executors ! ' In consequence of his father's death,
the young earl became the ward of Lord Burghley. He
was, as he said on his trial, brought up under the Queen.
Sir Thomas Heneage, his stepfather, had been a favourite
servant of the Queen from his youth ; made by her.
Treasurer first, of her Chamber, and then Vice-Cham-
berlain ; appointed in 1588 to be Treasurer at War of the
armies to be levied to withstand any foreign invasion of
the realm of England; and successor to Walsingham in
the office of the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster,
in 1590.
October 14th, 1590, Mary, Countess of Southampton,
writes to Burghley, and thanks him for the long time he
had entrusted her son with her. She now returns the
earl, and hopes that Burgliley will so dispose of him, that
his exercises be such as may and must grace persons of
his quality. He only is able to work her son's future
happiness.'^
It appears that Burghley had contemplated the marriage
of the earl with his granddaughter, for, on the 15th July,
1590, Sir Thomas Stanhope writes to Lord Burghley and
assures him that he had never sought to procure the
young Earl of Southampton in marriage for his daughter,
as he knew Burghley intended a marriage between him
and the Lady Vere. And on the 19th September, same
year, Anthony Viscount Montague writes to Lord Burghley
to the efiect that he has had a conversation with the Earl
of Southampton as to his engagement of marriage with
Burghley 's granddaughter. The C(Hmtess of Southampton
^ Domestic Series of the Rdyn of Elizahtth, 1581-1590, p. 417.
* Calendar of State Papers, lb, p. BOo.
SOUTHAMPTON'S CC^XTEMPLATED [MARRIAGE. 55
the earl's mother, and Montague's daughter, is not aware
of any alteration in her son's mind.' The son's mind was
changed, however; the lady was destined only to play the
part of Eosaline until JuUet appeared ; the impression in
wax was doomed to be melted when once the real fire of
love was kindled.
About this time the frankness of the earl's nature and
the ardour of liis friendship flashed out in a character-
istic act of reckless generosity. Two of his young friends
had got into trouble ; the provocation is not known,
but they had broken into the house of one Henry
Long, at Draycot in Wiltshire, and, in a struggle. Long
was killed. These were the two brothers, Sir Charles
and Sir Henry Danvers. They informed the earl that a
life had been unfortunately lost in an aflray, and threw
themselves under his protection. He concealed them for
some time in his house at Tichlield, and afterwards con-
veyed them to France, where Sir Charles Danvers became
highly distinguished as a soldier under Henry IV.
He returned to Ensland in 1598, havinsf with o;reat diili-
culty obtained the Queen's pardon, and his personal at-
tachment to tlie Earl of Southampton caused him to lose
his head on Tower Hill, in March, 1001. Sir Henry lived
for many years after his brother's death ; he was created
Baron Danvers by King James L, in the first year of his
reign, and by King Charles L,Earl of Derby.
The young Earl of Southampton became so great a
favourite at Court and was noticed so graciously by Her
Majesty, as to excite the displeasure and jealousy of the
Earl of Essex. As in the case of Sir Charles Blount,
Essex appears to have personally resented the favour
shown by the Queen to Southampton, and, we are told
that emulations and differences arose betwixt tlie two
earls, who were rivals for Her Majesty's affection. Of
this we get a glimpse in the story told by Wootton. Also
' Calendar of State Paper-'^, p. 6'^.
r)0 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
tlie favours, the rivaliy, and the consequent personal
dilTerences, are imphed in the following note of Eowland
White's, in the 'Sydney Memoirs,'i dated Oct. 1st, 1595 : —
'My Lord of Essex kept his bed all yesterday; his Favour
continues quam diu se bene gesserit. Yet, my Lord of
Southampto7i is a careful waiter here, and, sede vacante,
doth receive favours at her Majesty's hands; all this
without breach of amity between them' — (i.e. the two earls).
But a new influence was now at work to make the
rivals friends. The Earl of Southampton had met the
' faire IMistress Vernon,' and fallen deeply in love with her.
This afi'ection for the Earl of Essex's cousin, joined the
hands of the two earls in the closest grasp of friendship,
which was only relaxed by death. Love for the cousin was
the incentive for Southampton to cast in his lot with the
fortmies of Essex, and become the other self of his friend.
There were reasons why there should be no further breach
of amity between the two earls. Eight days before the
date of White's letter just quoted, he had written thus, —
'My Lord of Southampton doth with too much familiarity
court the fair Mistress Vernon, while his friends, observing
the Queen's humours towards my Lord of Essex, do what
they can to bring her to favour him, but it is yet in vain.'^
This lady, who afterwards became Countess of South-
ampton, was a maid of honour, and a beauty of Elizabeth's
Court ; she was cousin to the Earl of Essex, and daughter
of Sir John Vernon of Hodnet, by Elizabeth Devereux,
Essex's aunt. Shakspeare's acquaintance with Lord and
Lady Southampton, and consequent knowledge of her
family belonging to Shropshii-e, may have led him to
introduce a Sir John Vernon in ' The First Part of Henry
IV,' Hodnet is thirteen miles from Shrewsbury, and the
high road leading to the latter place passes over the plain
where the battle was fought in which Falstaff performed
1 Vol. ii. p. 61.
^ Sydney Memoirs, vol. i. ji. 348.
SOUTHAMPTON IN LOVE WITH ELIZAlil^TII VERNON. 57
liis prodigies of valoiir for 'a long hour by Shrewsbuiy
clock.'
Eowlancl White's statement contains matter of great
moment to our subject. The Earl of Southampton's love
for Ehzabeth Vernon cost him the favour of the Queen.
Her Majesty was not to be wrought on, even througli 'lier
humours towards my Lord of Essex,' to restore the fallen
favourite to his lost place in her regards. As the breach
of amity betwixt the two earls had closed, that between
her Majesty and Southampton continually widened. She
forbade his marriage, and opposed it in a most implacable
spirit. Whatsoever may have been the Queen's motive,
she certainly did not forgive, first the falling in love, and
next the marriage of the Earl of Southampton with
Ehzabeth Vernon.
Birch quotes a letter of Antonio Perez, written in Latin,
dated May 20tli, 1595, which contains a reference to the
Earl of Essex and his ill situation at the time at court,
and he suggests that the cause probably arose from the
Queen's displeasure at the share taken by Essex in the
marriage of his cousin to the Earl of Southampton ^vithout
her Majesty's permission or knowledge.
But as the marriage did not take place until late
in 1598, we must look a little further for the mean-
injx of ]\Ir. Standen's letter to Mr. Bacon, same date, in
Avhich he relates what he had learned the night before
among the court ladies, to the effect that the Lady Eich,
Elizabeth Vernon's cousin, having visited the lady of Sir
Ixobert Cecil at her house, understood that Elizabeth
Vernon and her ill good man had waited on Sunday two
hours to have spoken with the Queen, but could not. At
last Mistress Vernon sent in word that she desired her
Majesty's resolution. To which the Queen replied that
she was sufficiently resolved, but that the next day she
would talk with her farther.^ Whatsoever the precise
1 Birch's Elizabeth, vol. i. p. 238.
58 SITAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
occurrence may have been, it is doubtless the one referred
to by Eowland White. The earl had been courting Mis-
tress Vernon too warmly for the cloistral coolness of
Elizabeth's court ; this had reached her Majesty's ears.
I surmise that the affair was similar in kind to that of
Kaleigh and Mrs. Throckmorton two or three years be-
fore, and that the earl and Mistress Vernon were most
anxious to get married, as their prototypes had done.
But Elizabeth, either for reasons or motives of her own,
' resolved ' they should not. We may consider this to
have been one of the various occasions on which South-
ampton was ordered to absent himself from court. We
shall hear more of the subject from the sonnets. Nearly
two years later the familiarity became still more apparent,
in spite of the Queen's attempt to keep the persecuted
pair apart. The earl was again ordered to keep away
from the court. The gossips, who had seen the coming
events casting their shadows before, were at length justi-
fied. But I am anticipating.
The exact period of ' travel and foreign observation,'
alluded to by the author of ' Honour in his Perfection,' is
unidentifiable, but I conjecture that 'leave of absence'
and a journey followed the explosion of 1595, when the
earl had been courting the fair Mistress Vernon ' with too
much familiarity.' Her Majesty's ' resolve,' expressed in
reply to the message of Elizabeth Vernon, is sufficiently
ominous, although not put into words for us. It has been
stated that the earl was with Essex, as an unattached
volunteer, at the attack on Cadiz, in the summer of 1596.
This, Malone asserted on grounds apparently strong. In
the Catalogue of the MSS. in the library of the Earl of Den-
bigli — ' Catalogi Librarum Manuscriptorum Anglice,' &c.,
vol. ii. p. 30, where the following notice is found : ' Diana
of Montemayor (the first part), done out of Si)anish by
Thomas Wilson, Esq., in the year 1596, and dedicated to
the Earl of Southampton, ivlio was then upon the Spanisli
THE QUEEN'S OPPOSITION. 59
voijaye with my Lord of Essex.' ^ lie could not, however,
have left England in company with Essex, as on the 1st
of July, 1500, the earl executed at London a power of
attorney to llichard Kounching to receive a thousand
pounds of George, Earl of Cumberland, and John Taylor
his servant. Also it may be calculated that if the earl
had been in action on that occasion, we should have heard
of his part in the fight. 13ut it is quite probable that he
followed in the wake of the expedition, and the legal
transaction has the look of an arrangement or agreement
such as might have been made on leaving England in haste.
Being too late to share in the storming of Cadiz, which
was taken before Southampton could have left London,
he may have joined his friend Eoger Manners, Earl of
Eutland, who was then making a tour of France, Italy
and Switzerland.^ From the time that the Queen for-
bade his marriage with Ehzabetli Vernon, and ordered
him to absent himself from the com't, up to the death of
Essex, it was a period of great trial and vexation for a
proud, impetuous spirit like his. Thwarted in his dearest
wish to wed the woman he loved, and constantly checked
in his pubHc career, he became more and more impatient
wlien struck by the stings and arrows of his cruel and
outrageous fortune, that so pitilessly pursued him. Out-
breaks of his fiery blood, and ' tills ' with his mistress
were frequent. He appears to have got away from Lon-
don as often as he could ; though most anxious to do
England service he 'hoisted sail to every wind' that would
blow him the farthest from her. He was most unlike his
' It bas been a subject of wonder bow Sbakspeare got at tbe Diana of
Montemayor, to take so uiucb of bis 'Two Gentleuieu of Verona' from it.
But as both be and Wilson were under tbe patronage of Southampton, there
can be nothing more likely than that Shakspearo bad a look at Wilson's
translation long before it was printed. Attention bad been drawn to tbe
drama by Sidney's translations from it made for Lady Kieb.
■-* It was on tbe occasion of tbe Earl of Kutland's journey in 1595 that
Essex addressed to him the long letter of advice which may be found in tbe
llarleiim MSS (4bb8. 1(>.)
GO SIIAKSPEAHE'S SONNETS.
stepfather, Sir Thomas Heneage, who had been for so
many years a docile creature of the court, and who, as
Camden tells us, was of so spruce and polite address, that
he seemed purely calculated for a court. Southampton
had not the spirit that bows as the wind blows. He
was more at home in mail than in silken suit. Like
the ' brave Lord Willoughby,' he could not belong to the
Eeptilice of court life. He had a will of his own, a spirit
til at stood erect and panted for free air, and that trick of
the frank tongue that so often attends the full heart of
youthful honesty. The words of Mr. Eobert Markham,
written to John Harington, Esq., somewhat apply to the
Earl of Southampton : ' I doubt not your valour, nor
your labour, but that damnable uncovered Honesty will
mar your fortunes.' And the Queen's persistent opposi-
tion to his love, her determination to punish him for
disobedience and wilfnhiess, kept him on the continual
fret, and tended to turn his restlessness into reckless-
ness, his hardihood into fool-hardihood, his daring into
dare-devilry, the honey of his love into the very gall of
bitterness.
Eowland White, writing to Sir Eobert Sidney at Flush-
ing, March 2, 1597, says,^ ' My lord of Southampton hath
leave for one year to travel, and purposes to be with you
before Easter. He told my lady that he would see you
before she should.' The earl was for leaving England
again in his discontent and weariness. But the famous
Island Voyage was now talked of, and Southampton was
not the man to lose a chance if there were fio;htinej to be
done. He had some difficulty in obtaining a command,
but was at length appointed to the ' Garland.' Eowland
White, in his letter of April 9, says, ' My lord of South-
ampton, by 200 means, hath gotten leave to go with them'
(Essex and Ealeigh). The influence here exerted in
* Sydney Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 24.
THE ISLAND VOYAGE. 61
favour of the earl was Cecil's. Whatsoever the feeling
of Cecil toward Essex, he proved himself on various
occasions to have been the true good friend of the Earl
of Southampton. ' The Earl was made commander of
the " Garland," ' to quote once more from ' Honour in his
Perfection,' and was ' Vice-admiral of the first squadron.
In his first putting out to sea (July, 1597) he saw all the
terrors and evils whicli the sea had power to show to
mortality, insomuch that the general and the whole fleet
(except some few ships of which this earl's was one) were
di'iven back into Plymouth, but this earl, in spite of
storms, held out his course, made the coast of Spain, and
after, upon an adviso, returned. The fleet, new reinforced,
made forth to sea again with better prosperity, came to
the islands of the Azores, and there first took the island
of Fiall, sacked and burnt the great town, took the high
fort which was held impregnable, and made the rest of
the islands, as Pike, Saint George's, and Gratiosa, obe-
dient to the general's service. Then the fleet returnino-
from Fiall, it pleased the general to divide it, and lie went
himself on the one side of Gratiosa, and the Earl of South-
ampton, with some three more of the Queen's ships and a
few small merchant ships sailed on the other; when early
on a morning by spring of day, this brave Southampton
lit upon the King of Spain's Indian fleet, laden with trea-
sure, being about four or five and thirty sail, and most of
them great warlike galleons. They had all the advantage
that sea, wind, number of ships, or strength of men could
give them ; yet, hke a fearfid herd they fled from the fury
of our earl, who, notwithstanding, gave them chase witli
all his canvas. Cue he took, and sunk her ; divers he
dispersed, which were taken after, and the rest he drove
into the island of Tercera, which was then unassailable.'
Camden continues the story. ' When the enemy's ships
had got off safely to Tercera, Southampton and Vere at-
tempted to crowd into the haven witli great boats at mid-
62 SIIAKSPEAIIE'S SONNETS.
night, and to cut the cables of the nearest ships, that they
might be forced to sea by the gusts whicli blew from shore.
But the Spaniards kept too strict a watch, and the project
miscarried.'^ After the English had taken and 'looted'
the town of Villa Franca, the Spaniards finding that most
of them had returned to their ships, made an attack in
g:reat force upon the remaining few. The Earls of South-
ampton and Essex stood almost alone, with a few friends,
but these received the attack with such spirit that many
of the Spaniards were slain, and the rest forced to re-
treat. On this occasion Southampton fought with such
gallantry, that Essex in a burst of enthusiasm knighted
his friend on the field, ' ere he could dry the sweat from
his brows, or put his sword up in his scabbard.'
Sir William Monson, one of the admirals of the ex-
pedition, took a different view to that of Essex of what
Southampton had done on this voyage. He considered
that time had been lost in the chace, which might have
been better employed. On his return to England South-
ampton found the Queen had adopted the opinion of
Monson rather than that of Essex, and he had the morti-
fication of being met with a frown of displeasure for
having presumed to pursue and sink a ship without direct
orders from his commander, instead of being welcomed
with a smile for having done tlie only bit of warm work
that was performed on the 'Island Voyage.' This was
just like the earl's luck all through, after his fatal falling
in love with Elizabeth Vernon.^ His intimacy with Essex
was a secondary cause of his misfortunes.
The Queen often acted toward Essex in the spirit of
that partial mother instanced by Fuller, who when her
neglected son complained that his brother, her favourite,
had hit and hurt him with a stone, whipped him for
standing in the way of the stone which the brother
had cast !
» Camden's Elizaheth, p. 598.
A BROIL IN COURT. G3
On this occasion the quarrels of Essex and Kalcigli
were visited on the liead of Southampton. Fortune ap-
peared to liave an unappeasable spite against liim ; the
world seemed bent upon thwarting his desires and cross-
ing his deeds. Do what he might it was impossible for
him to be in the right. There is little marvel that he
grew of a turbulent spirit, or that his hot temper broke
out in frequent quarrels ; that he should wax more and
more unsteady, much to the sorrow and chagrin of his
mistress, who wept over the iU reports that she heard of
his doings, and waited, hoping for the better days to
come when he should pluck his rose ^ from the midst of
the thorns, and wear it on his breast in peaceful joy.
In Januar}%1598, a disgraceful affair occurred in court
w^hicli became the subject of common scandal. On the
19th of that month Rowland White Avrites : — ' I hard of
some unlindness should be between 3000 (the No. in his
cypher for Southampton) and his Mistress, occasioned by
some report of Mr. Ambrose Willoughby. 3000 called
hym to an account for yt, but the matter was made
knowen to my Lord of Essex, and my Lord Chamberlain,
who had them in Examinacion ; what the cause is I could
not learne, for yt was but new ; but / see SOOO fidl of dis-
contentments.'^ And on the 21st of January he says : —
* The quarrel of my Lord Soutliampton to Ambrose Wil-
loughby grew upon this : that he with Sir Walter Raleigh
and ^Ii\ Parker being at primero (a game of cards), in the
Presence Chamber ; the Queen was gone to bed, and he
being there as Squire for the Body, desired them to give
over. Soon after he spoke to them again, that if they
w^ould not leave he would call in the guard to pull down
the board, w^hich. Sir Walter Raleigh seeing, put up his
' For notliiug this -wide universe 1 call,
Save Thou, my Rose, in it thou art my alL
Sonnet 100.
* Sydnoii ^fn)lo^'rs, vol. ii. pp. 82-.S.
G4 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
money and went his ways. But my Lord Southampton
took exceptions at him, and told him he would remember
it ; and so finding him between the Tennis Court wall
and the garden shook him, and Willoughby pulled out
some of his locks. The Queen gave Willoughby thanks
for what he did in the Presence, and told him he had
done better if he had sent him to the Porter's Lodge to
see who durst have fetched him out.''
The Earl also had a quarrel with Percy, Earl of
Northumberland, which produced a challenge, and nearly
ended in a duel. Percy sent copies of the papers to Mr.
Bacon with a letter, in which he gives an account of the
affair. The sole point of interest in this quarrel Hes in
the hkehhood that Touchstone, in 'As you hke it,' is
aiming at it when he says : — ' 0, Sir ; we quarrel in print
by the book ; as you have books for good manners. I
will name you the degrees : the first, the retort courteous ;
the second, the quip modest ; the third, the reply churl-
ish ; the fourth, the reproof valiant ; the fifth, the counter-
beck quarrelsome ; the sixth, the lie with circumstance ;
the seventh, the lie direct. All these you may avoid but
the lie direct ; and you may avoid that too with an " If."
I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel ;
but when the parties were met themselves, one of them
thought but of an " If" as " 7/'" you said so, then I said
so ; and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your if
is the only peace-maker ; much virtue in an if
We may find an illustration of ' the Percy's ' temper in
a letter of Mr. Chamberlain's to Mr. Winwood in 1613,
which relates that Percy has, while in the Tower, beaten
Ituthven, the Earl of Cowrie's brother, for daring to
cross his path in the garden. So that when we read of
Southampton's quarrels, it will only be fair to remember
who are his fellows in fieryness. The Percy appears to
have had his match, however, in his own wife, Dorothy
^ Hxjdney Memoirs, vol. ii. pp. 82-3.
THE EARL OFFERS IILS SWORD TO IIEXRY IV. OF FRANCE. 05
Devereux, the sister of Lady Eich and Eobert Earl of
Essex. In one of their domestic quarrels the Earl of
Northumberland had said he would rather the King of
Scots were buried tlian crowned, and that both he and
all his friends would end their lives before her brother's
great God should reign in his element. To which the
lady spiritedly replied, that rather than any other save
James should reign king of England she would eat their
hearts in salt, though she were brought to the gallows
immediately. ^
In spite of his quarrels, the scuffle with Willoughby
and the consequent scandals, the earl attended to his
duty as a senator from October 24, 1597, till the end of
the session, February 8, 1598. He also entered upon an
engagement to accompany Mr. Secretary Cecil on an
embassy to Paris. A few extracts from Eowland White's
letters will continue the story.
Januaiy 14, 1598. — ' I hear my Lord Southampton
goes with Mr. Secretary to France, and so onward on his
travels, which course of his doth extremely grieve his
mistress, that passes her time in weeping and lamenting.'
January 28, 1598. — 'My Lord Southampton is now
at Court, w]\o, for awhile, by her Majesty's command,
did absent himself.'
January 30. — ' My Lord Compton, my Lord Cobham,
Sir Walter Ealeigli, my Lord Southampton, do severally
feast Mr. Secretary before he depart, and have plaj^s and
banquets.'
February 1. — 'My Lord of Southampton is much
troubled at lier Majesty's strangest usage of him. Some-
body ■ hath played unfriendly parts with him. Mr.
Secretary hath procured him licence to travel. His fair
mistress doth icash her fairest face v'ith too many tears.
* Birch's Elizabeth, vol. ii. p. 514. Perhaps Shakspeai-e liad heard of
this when he made Beatrice exclaim, ' O God, that I were a man ! I would
eat his heart in the market-place.'
F
66 SILIKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
I l^ray God his going away bring her to no such infirmity
which is as it were hereditary to her tiame.'
February 2, 1598. — 'It is secretly said that my Lord
Southampton shall be married to his fair mistress.'
February 12. — ' My Lord of Southampton is gone and
hath left behind him a very desolate gentlewoman that
hath almost wept out her fairest eyes. He w^as at Essex
House with 1000 (Earl of Essex), and there had much
private talk with him for two hours in the court below.'
On March 17, Cecil introduced his friend, at Angers, to
Henry IV., telling that illustrious monarch that Lord
Southampton 'was come with deliberation to do him
service.' His Majesty received the earl with warm
expressions of regard. Here again Southampton met
with the customaiy frustration of his hopes ; he had
come for the express purpose of serving under so famous a
commander, and was eager for the campaign, which was
suddenly stopped by the peace of Vervins. There was
nothing to be done except to have a look at Paris, and
there he stayed some months.
July 15, 1598, Thomas Edmondes to Sir Eobert Sidney
writes : — ' I send your lordship certain songs,^ which were
delivered me by my Lord Southampton to convey to your
lordship from Cavelas. His lordship commendeth himself
most kindly to you, and would have written to you if it
had not been for a httle slothfulness.'
The same w^riter fixes the time of the earl's return.
He writes, November 2, 1598 : — 'My Lord of Southamp-
ton that now goeth over can inform your lordship at
large of the state of all things here.' ^
But, according to Mr. Chamberlain's letter of August
30, 1598, the Earl of Southampton must have made a
^ Very possibly some of the sonnets sent by Shakspeare to tbe earl in
Paris. There were two familiar visitors at Sir Robert Sidney's house who
were much interested in tlie sonnets of Sbaltspeare, viz., William Herbert
and Lady Rich.
2 Sydney Memoirs, vol. ii. pp. 102-4.
SOUTIIAMITON'S SECRET MARKIAGE, G7
special journey from Paris for tlie purpose of effecting
his marriage, and been on his way back when accom-
panied to Margate by Sir Tliomas Germaine. EHzabeth
Vernon had been compelled to retire from the Court.
Chamberlain writes : — ' Mistress Vernon is from tlie Court
and lies at Essex House (at Wanstead, where the Earl of
Essex was the fair Elizabeth's companion in disfavour).
Some say she hath taken a venue ^ under her girdle, and
swells \\])o\\ it ; yet she complains not of foul play, but
says my Lord of Southampton will justify it, and it is
bruited underhand that he was lately here four days in
great secret of purjiose to marry her, and effected it
accordingly.' A week later the same writer says : —
' Yesterday the Queen was informed of the new Lady of
Southampton and her adventures, whereat her patience
was so much moved that she came not to chapel. She
threateneth them all to the Tower, not only the parties,
but all that are partakers of the practice. It is confessed
the earl was here, and solemnised the act himself, and
Sir Thomas Germaine accompanied him on his return to
Margate.' Li his next letter Mr. Chamberlain says : — ' I
now understand that the Queen hath commanded the
novizia countess the sweetest and best appointed lodging
in the Fleet ; her lord is by commandment to return upon
his allegiance with all speed. These are but the begin-
nings of evil ; well may he hope for that merry day on
his deathbed, which I think he shall not find on his
wedding couch.' ^ That the earl was also thrust into prison
on his return we may infer from the words of Essex in
^ Venue or venew. Steevens and Malone differed respecting this word,
•which occurs in ' Love's Labour's Lost.'
Armado. ' A sweet touch ! a quick veneto of wit ! '
Steevens argued that it was the technical term for a bcwt or set-to at the
fencing school. ^lalone held that it meant simply a /lif. Douce maintained
that venew and bout equally denote a hit in fencing. Mr. Chamberlain uses
the word to signify a hit ; the allusion is to being hit below the belt, which
was, and is, reckoned a blow imfairly given.
^ 5. P. O.
f2
68 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
Lis letter of July 11, 1599 : — ' Was it treason in mj^Lord
of Southampton to many my poor kinswoman, that
neither long imprisonment nor any punishment besides
that hatli been usual in like cases can satisfy or appease ?
Or will no kind of punishment be fit for him but that
which punisheth not him but me, this army, and this poor
country Ireland ? ' When a young man marries, says an
Arab adage, the demon utters a fearful cry. And Eliza-
beth seems to have been almost as profoundly affected on
such occasions.
This fact of Southampton's love for Elizabeth Yernon,
and the Queen's opposition to their marriage, is the chief
point of interest in the earl's life, because it is one of the
main facts in relation to the sonnets of Shakspeare. It is
my conclusion that this pair of ill-starred lovers was
badly treated by her Majesty. She not only rejected
everything proposed by Essex for the advancement of his
friend, but continued, as we shall see, the same spiteful
policy wlien Lord Mountjoy wished to advance the
fortunes of the earl in a wider sphere of action.
Southampton, Elizabeth Vernon, and their mutual
friends, tried long and hard to obtain the Queen's consent
to their marriage, but as she would not give it, and
showed no signs of relenting, they did the very natural
thing of getting married without it. This being done,
what more is there to be said ? It is unfair to talk of the
earl being licentiously in love with Mistress Vernon when
the Queen would not grant them the licence. The mar-
riage certainly took place in one of the later months of
1598, and the bitterness of the Queen towards Southamp-
ton was thereby much increased. The Queen was jealous
and enraged to find any of her favourites loving else-
wliere, or sufficiently unloyal to her personal beauty
to get married. It was so when Hatton, Leicester, and
Essex married ; but no one of them all was so wuleutly
SOUTHAMPTON IN IRELAND. (59
pursued as the Earl of Soutliamptoii. Towards no one else
was tlie fire of her anirer kei)t so lon<f a^low. It makes
one fancy there must have been some feeling of animosity
betwixt the two Elizabeths, which has not come to the
surface.
In 1599 Essex was appointed Lord Deputy of Ireland,
and Southampton accompanied him thither. On their
arrival Essex made his friend General of Horse. By her
Majesty's letter to Essex, July 19,^ we learn that this was
' expressly forbidden ' by the Queen, and ' it is therefore
strange to us that you will dare thus to value your own
pleasing, and think by your own private arguments to
carry fur your own glory a matter wherein our |?/(?a6'ifre
to the contrary is made notorious.'' The Queen did not
intend Southampton to be employed, and after some
defensive pleadings Essex had to give him up. Before
resigning his command he had done some little service.
Sir J. Harington ^ gives us a glimpse of the earl's darino-
and dash in action. June 30, about three miles from
Arklow, the army had to pass a ford. The enemy was
ready to dispute or trouble the army in its passage. The
Earl of Essex ordered Southampton to charge, the enemy
having retired himself into his strength, a part of them
casting away their arms for lightness. ' Then the Earl of
Southampton tried to draw them on to firm ground, out
of the bog and woodland, and at length he gathered up
his troop, and seeing it lost time to endeavour to draw
the vermin from their streno;th, resolved to charixe them
at all disadvantage, which was performed with that
suddenness and resolution that the enemy wliicli was
before dispersed in skirmish had not time to put himself
in order ; so that by the opportunity of occasion taken
by the earl, and virtue of them that were with liini
' S. P. O. 2 Xui/ce Antiipue, vol. i. p. 287.
70 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
(which were almost all noble), there was made a notable
slaiigliter of the rebels.' Here, too, we find fighting by
Soutliampton's side a brother of Elizabeth Vernon, who
managed to kill his man previous to his own horse going
down in the bog and rolling a-top of him. The Earl of
Southampton was such a leader of horse as could inspire
the rebels with a salutary respect, and cause them to
watch warily all his motions. It was in one of these
skirmishes that the Lord Grey pursued a small body of
the enemy in opposition to Southampton's orders. He
was punished with a night's imprisonment, or rather, as
Mr. Secretary Cecil explained in a letter to Sir H. Neville,
'the confiuement w^as merely for order sake. Grey being
a colonel, and Southampton a general.' But my Lord
Grey took it as a personal affront, and brooded over it
bitterly, seeking to make it a cause of quarrel.
The earl remained by the side of Essex some time
after his command had been taken from him. He was
present at a council of war held at the Castle of Dublin
August 21, and was one of the chief men that accom-
panied Essex at his conference with Tyrone early in
September, 1599, when a truce was concluded. We
next hear of him in London by White's letter of
October 1 1 : — ' My Lord Southampton and Lord Eutland
came not to Court ; the one doth but very seldom, they
pass away the time in London merely in going to plays
every day.^ Southampton's sword had been struck from
his hand, the Earl of Eutland had been recalled, as if the
policy at Court was to lame Essex through his personal
friends. Lord Grey, too, we find, is observed to be much
discontented. His ill-feeling towards Southampton is
smouldering, soon to break out in a desperate attack
upon Southampton with drawn sword in open day and
public street. He also challenged Southampton. Eow-
' Sydney Memoirs, vohii. p. 132.
SOUTHAMPTON'S QUARRELS. 71
land Wliite, January 2-i, IGOO, tells his correspondent
that Lord Grey hath sent the Earl of Southampton a
challenge which ' I hear he answered thus — that he
accepted it ; but for the weapons and the place being by
the laws of honour to be chosen by him, he would not
prefer the combat in England, knowing the danger of the
laws, and the little grace and mercy he was to expect if
he ran into the daniicr of them. He therefore Avould let
liim know, ere it were long, what time, what weapon, and
what place he would choose for it.' The violent temper
and quarrelsome disposition of Southampton have been
much dwelt upon. I repeat, it is only just that we should
note the spirit of his personal oj^ponents ; and here we
may recall the last words of Sir Charles Danvers on the
scaflbld. x\mongst others present was the Lord Grey.
Sir Charles asked pardon of him, and acknowledged he
had been 'ill affected to him purely on the Earl of
Southampton's account, towards wlioni the Lord Grey
professed absolute enmity.^
In 1600 the Queen had neither forii^otten nor forgiven
the marriage of Southampton. Mountjoy was now made
Lord-Deputy of Ireland, and Southampton hoped to ac-
company him in his first campaign. Again we have
recourse to our agreeable court gossip, Eowland White : —
Jan. 24, IGOO.— ' My Lord of Southampton goes over
to Ireland, having only the charge of 200 foot and 100
horse.' He was not permitted to accompany the Lord-
Deputy to Ireland, and on February 9, we find that, ' My
Lord of Southampton's going is uncertain, for it is thought
that her Majesty allows it not.' Lord Mountjoy landed
in L-eland February 26, and on March 15, White says : —
' My Lord of Southampton is in very good hope to kiss
the Queen's hand before his going into Ireland. Mr.
Secretary is his good friend and he attends it ; liis horses
and stuff are gone before.' March 22 : — ' My Lord of.
Southampton hath not yet kissed the Queen's hands, but
'2 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
attends it still.' March 29 : — ' My Lord of Southampton
attends to-morrow to kiss the Queen's hands ; if he miss
it, it is not like he shall obtain it in any reasonable time.
I hear he will go to Ireland, and hopes by doing of some
notable service to merit it at his return.' April 19 : —
' My Lord of Southamj^ton deferred his departure for one
week longer, hoping to have access to her Majesty's pre-
sence, but it cannot be obtained ; yet she very graciously
wished him a safe going and returning.' April 26 : —
' My Lord of Southampton went away on Monday last.
Sir Charles Danvers brought him as far as Coventry.'
May 3 : — ' My Lord Southampton upon his going away
sent my Lord Grey word that what in his first letter he
promised, he was now ready in Ireland to perform.'
On June 8, the Lord-Deputy wrote to Master Secretary
concerning the state of Connaught, wherein nothing was
surely the Queen's but Athlone by a provident guard,
and Galway by their own good disposition, wishing that
the government of that province might be conferred on
the Earl of Southampton (to whom the Lord of Dunkellin
would more willingly resign, and might do it with greater
reputation to himself, in respect of the earl's greatness)
rather tlian upon Sir Arthur Savage (who, notwithstanding,
upon the Queen's pleasure again signified, was shortly
after made governor of that province). His lordship
protested that it was such a place as he knew the earl
would not seek, but only himself desired this, because he
knew the earl's aptness and willingness to do the Queen
service, if he might receive such a token of her favour ;
justly commending his valour and wisdom, as well in
general as in the late particular service in the Moyry,
when the rear being left naked, he by a resolute charge
with six horse upon Tyrone at the head of 220 horse,
drove him back a musket shot, and so assuring the rear,
eaved the honour of the Queen's army.' It was as useless,
^ Monjsmi's History of Ireland^ book i. chap. 2, p. 173.
INTIMACY OF SOUTH A^IPTON AND ESSEX. 73
however, for Moiintjoy to plead on behalf of Southampton
as it had been for Essex in the previous year. Her
Majesty was unrelenting. And in August, about the 25t]i,
Southampton left the Irish war and sailed into England.
There was some rumour of his going into the Low Coun-
tries in search of my Lord Grey ; if so, nothing came of
it. He is said to have been summoned home by Essex.
White tells us, September 2G, 1600:— 'The Earl of
Southampton arrived upon Monday night, and upon
Wednesday went to his lady who lies at Lees, my Lord
Riches; he hath been extreme sick but is now recovered.'
Such treatment as Southampton had received from tlie
Queen Avas materially calculated to drive him closer to the
side of his friend Essex, who was then under the Queen's
sore displeasure, brooding over liis discontent. So far
had her Majesty's ])etty tyranny been carried, that in the
March of tliis year Lord and Lady Southampton, together
with others of Essex's friends, had been all removed from
Essex House ; whilst great offence had been taken at
Southampton and others having entered a house that
overlooked York Garden, on purpose to salute Essex
from the window.
The two earls were drawn together by many ties, by some
likeness of nature, by strong bonds of personal friendship,
and Iniks of household love. Southampton was the near-
est and dearest personal friend that Essex had ; first in all
matters of vital import and secret service. When Essex
was consigned to the custody of the Lord Keeper in the
autumn of 1599, his two most intimate and trusted friends
were Southampton and Mountjoy ; to these he committed
the care of his interests. When Southam})ton,in April, IGOO,
went to join Lord Mountjoy in L'cland, Essex sent letters
to Mountjoy saying he relied on him and Southampton as
his best friends and would take their advice in all things.
It was upon the intercession of Southampton, says Sir
Henry Wotton, that the fatal tempter, Cuffe, was restored
74 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
to his place after Essex had dismissed liim ; and he ' so
working upon his disgraces and upon the vain foundations
of vulgar breath, which hurts many good men, spun out the
final destruction of his master and himself, and almost of
his restorer, if his pardon had not been won by inches.'
It was at Southampton's residence, Drury House — on the
site of which now stands the Olympic Theatre — that the
chief partisans of Essex held their meetings in January,
1601. And Southampton in his youthful zeal and fervent
friendship seems to have felt that come what might it was
his place to dwell with Essex in disgrace, and if need be,
fall by his side in death. Though what the Essex con-
spiracy was formed for or amounted to it is very difficult
to determine. Essex and his sister. Lady Eich, we know
intrigued for the purpose of bringing James to the throne,
but that was never put forward on this occasion.
Lord Mountjoy being under the influence of Lady Eich
and held captive in her strong toils of grace, was to some
extent bound up with the cause of Essex. His secretary
tells us that he was privately professed and privy to the
earl's intentions, though as these were so vague and full
of change, the acquiescence of Mountjoy may have been
very general. According to Sir Charles Danvers, Mount-
joy had promised that if tlie King of Scots woidd head
the revolution and strike for the throne of England, he
would leave Ireland defensively guarded and come over
with 5,000 or 6,000 men, ' which, with the party that my
Lord of Essex should make head withal, were thought
sufficient to luring to pass that which was intended.' He
had afterwards advised the Earl of Essex to have j)atience
and wait. Southampton had opposed this march on Lon-
don. He held it altogetlier unfit as well in respect of his
friend's conscience to God and his love to his country, as
his duty to his sovereign, of which he, of all men, ought
to have greatest regard, seeing her Majesty's favours to
ESSEX'S REBELLION. 75
him (Essex) had been so extraordiuaiy, wherefore he,
Southampton, could never give his consent to it.'
To me the attempt of Essex looks like a too audacious
endeavour to a]i[)ly, in a more public Avay, the rights of
personal familiarity which he had in some sort acquired
and so often relied on in private with the Queen. But
the force and freedom of the personal were on the wane.
Essex had shown disloyalty to her Majesty's person, which
was more than disloyalty to her throne. He had said
the ' Queen was cankered, and her mind had become as
crooked as her carcase.' ' These words,' quoth Ealeigh,
' cost the earl his head.' Also, there were statesmen
round the throne who represented the public element,
which was now rising in power as the life and vigour of
the royal lioness were ebbing, and they were anxious that
the personal fooling should cease, and the State pohcy
be shaped less by whims and more by fixed principles.
Else, according to Camden, the so-called conspirators
were surprised to hear of a trial for treason. They had
thought the matter would have been let sleep, and that
the Queen's affection for Essex would cause it to be pri-
vately settled or kept in the dark.''^ No doubt there were
some who stood about the earl and urged him on with
desperate advice, that secretly nursed tlie wildest hopes
of what a success might bring forth for them, who also
calculated that the earl's infiuence with the Queen would
tide them over a defeat.
Southampton had his jx'rsoual complaint with regard
to the attack made upon him in the street by Lord Grey,
and to this he alluded in the course of the parleyings at
Essex House before the surrender; but of course he knew
this was no warrant for his being in arms against his sove-
reign. With hiui it was essentially a matter of personal
friendship ; he acted according to his sense of personal
* Examination of Sonthampton after his arraignment.
* C(J})i(lc?i's Elizahi'th. p. 022.
70 SHAKSPEAIIE'S SONNETS.
honour, whicli blinded him to all else. He had told Sir
Charles Danvers tliat he would cast m his lot with my
Lord of Essex, and venture his life to save him. He had
done all that he possibly could on behalf of a man who
had lost his head lonfj before it fell from the block. He
was one of those Avho in 1599 dissuaded Essex from one
of his projected attempts, in which he purposed reducing
his adversaries by force of arms. He opposed the con-
templated march upon London. He advised the earl's
escape into France, and offered to accompany him into
exile and share his fortunes there. He, with Sir Charles
Danvers, had, as Essex admitted, persuaded the rash
earl to 'parley with my Lord General.' Evidently he
had seen all the peril, but thought his place was with
his friend, no matter what mieht be their fate. As he
pleaded on his trial, the first cause of his part in the
matter was that affinity betwixt him and Essex, 'being
of his blood, and having married his kinswoman,' so that
for his sake he would have hazarded his life. He had the
good sense to see that the ' rising,' as it was called, the
going into the city, was a foolish thing, and he said so,
but he continued, ' My sword was not drawn all day.' '
He urged in his defence, ' What I have by my forward-
ness offended in act, I am altogether ignorant, but in
thought I am assured never. If through my ignorance of
law I have offended, I humbly submit myself to her Ma-
jesty, and from the bottom of my heart do beg her gra-
cious pardon. For, if any foolish speeches have passed, I
protest, as I shall be saved, that they were never purposed
by me, nor understood to be so purposed, to the hurt of
* It was indeed foolish, for such a cause, and sucli a cry of revolution as
* For the Queen I For the Queen I My life is in damjei- ! ' were never set up in
this world before or since. Stowe informs us that the wondering citizens,
not knowing what to make of the cry, fancied that it might be one of joy
because Essex and the Queen had become friends again, and that Her
Majesty had appointed him to ride through London in that triumphant
manner.
TUIAL OF SOUTIIA.MPTOX. 77
her Majesty's person. I deny that I did ever mean or
intend any treason, rebellion, or other action against my
sovereign or the state ; what I did was to assist my Lord
of Essex in his private quarrel ; and therefore, Mr.
Attorney, you have urged the matter very far ; my blood
be upon your head, I submit myself to her Majesty's
mercy. 1 know I have offended her, yet, if it please her
to be merciful unto me I may live, and by my service de-
serve my life. I have been brought up under her Majesty.
I have spent the best part of my patrimony in her Majes-
ty's service, with danger of my life, as your lordships
know.' Southampton was in his twenty-eighth year
when he was tried for treason. He had espoused the
Earl of Essex's cause unwarily, and followed him upon his
fatal course imprudently. But there was something chi-
valrous in his self-sacrificing friendship ; a spirit akin to
that of the Scottish chieftain, who, when the Pretender
made his personal appeal, saw all the danger, and said,
' You have determined, and we shall die for you ;' and to
death they went, proudly open-eyed.
The historian notes that when my Lord Grey was called
at the trial, ' the Earl of Essex laughed upon the Earl of
Southampton, and jogged him by the sleeve,' to call his
attention to his old ' sweet enemy.'
Perhaps we shall get at the Earl of Soutlianipton's view
of the matter, in a letter written by Sir Dudley Carlton
to Sir Thomas Parry, dated July 3, 1603 ; the remarkable
words being spoken when and where there was no need
for the speaker to ' hedge ' on the subject :
' The Lords of Southampton and Grey, the first night
the Queen came hither, renewed their old quarrels, and
fell flatly out in her presence. She was in discourse with
Lord Southampton touching the Lord of Essex' action,
and wondered, as she said, so many great men did so
little for themselves. To wliich Lord Soutliampton an-
swered, that the Queen being made a party ayainst them.
78 - SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
they were forced to yields hut if that course had not been
taken, there was none of their private enemies, with whom
their only quarrel was, that durst have opposed themselves.
This being overheard by the Lord Grey, he would main-
tain the contrary party durst have done more than they.
Upon which he had the he hurled at him. The Queen
bad them remember where thev were.'^ This was in vain.
The bickering continued, and they had to be sent to their
lodgings to which they were committed, with a guard
placed over them. The King had to settle the quarrel,
and make peace between them.
Southampton was condemned to die, and lay in the
ToAver at point of death ; he was long doubtful whether
his life would be spared. His friends outside hoped for
the best, but sadly feared the worst. In a letter to Sir
George Carew, dated March 4, 1601, Secretary Cecil
professes to be pleading all he dare, for the ' poor young
Earl of Southampton, who, merely for the love of Essex,
hath been drawn into this action.' He says that he hardly
finds cause to hope. It is ' so much against the earl that
the meetings were held at Drury House, where he was the
chief, that those who deal for him are much disadvantaged
of arguments to save him.' Yet ' the Queen is so merci-
ful, and the earl so penitent, and he never in thought
or deed offended save in this conspiracy,' that the Secre-
tary will not despair. At length the sentence was com-
muted to perpetual imprisonment.
At the deatli of the Queen the earl was much visited,
says Bacon, who was one of the first to greet him, and
who wrote to assure his lordship that, how^ little soever
it might seem credible to him at first (he having been
counsel against Southampton and Essex on their trial),
yet it was as true as a thing that God knoweth, that
this great change of the Queen's death, and the King's
accession, had wrouglit in himself no other change to-
1 Nicholas Progresses of James I.
SOUTHAMPTON'S RELEASE. 79
wards his lordship than this, that he might safely be that
to him now, which he was truly before.^ We may rest
assured that Shakspeare was one of the first to greet
his ' dear boy,' over whose errors he had grieved, and
upon whose imprudent unselfishness he had looked with
tears, half of sorrow, and half of pride. He had loved
him as a father loves a son ; he had warned hhn, and
prayed for him, and fought in soul against ' Fortune ' on
his behalf, and he now welcomed him from the gloom of
a prison on his way to a palace and the smile of a mon-
arcli. This was the poet's written gratulation :
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,
And the sad Augurs mock their own presage.
Uncertainties 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.
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
"VVhile he insidts o'er dull and speechless tribes.
And thou in this shalt find thy Monument
When Tp-ants' crests and Tombs of Brass are spent.
Mr. Chamberlain, writing to Dudley Carleton, April
1603, says, ' The lOtli of tliis month the Earl of South-
ampton was delivered out of the Tower by warrant
from the King,' sent by Lord Kinloss — 'These bountiful
beginnings raise all men's spirits, and put them in great
hopes.' Wilson says," 'The Earl of Southampton, covered
long with the ashes of great Essex his ruins, was sent
for from the Tower, and the King looked upon him with
a smihng countenance, though displeasing happily to the
» Birch's Elizabeth, vol. ii. p. 500.
• Histori/ of Emihvul, vol. ii. p. 003.
80 SIIAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
new Baron Essingdon, Sir Eobert Cecil, yet it was much
more to the Lords Cobham and Grey, and Sir WaUer
Ealeigh.'
Shakspeare's was not the only poetic greeting received
by the earl as he emerged from the Tower. Samuel
Daniel hastened to salute him, and give voice to the
general joy :
The world had never taken so full note
Of what thou art, hadst thou not been undone ;
And only thy affliction hath begot
More fame, than thy best fortunes could have won :
For, ever by Adversity are wrought
The greatest works of Admiration ;
And all the fair examples of Eenown
Out of distress and misery are grown.
How could we know that thou wouldst have endured
With a reposed cheer, wrong and disgrace ;
And, with a heart and countenance assured,
Have looked stern Death and Horror in the face I
How should we know thy soul had been secured
In honest counsels, and in way unbase ;
Hadst thou not stood to show us what thou wert
By thy affliction that descryed thy heart.
John Davies of Hereford also addressed the earl on his
liberation, and grew jubilant over the rising dawn of the
new reign, opening on the land with such a smiling pro-
spect :
The time for mirth is now, even now, begun ;
Now wisest men with mirth do seem stark mad.
And cannot choose — their hearts are all so glad.
Then let's be merry in our God and King,
That made us merry, being ill bestadd :
Southampton, up thy Cap to Heaven fling.
And on the Viol there sweet praises sing ;
For he is come that grace to all doth bring.
Southampton was invited to meet the King on his way
SOUTH AM Pl'OX'S RESTOKATIOX. 81
to London. In Nicholls's 'Progresses of James I.'' we
read, that ' Witliiu luilf a mile of Master Oliver Crom-
well's {our Oliver's uncle), the Bailiff of Iluntiiig-don met
the King, and there delivered the sword, which his High-
ness gave to the new-released Earl of Southampton, to bear
before him. O admirable wx^rk of mercy, confirming the
hearts of all true subjects in the good opinion of his
]\Iajesty's royal compassion ; not alone to deliver from
captivity such high nobility, but to use vulgarly with great
favour, not only him, but also the children of his late
honourable fellows in distress. His Majesty passed on in
state, the earl bearing the sword before him, as I before
said he was appointed, to Master Oliver Cromwell's house.'
His lands and other rights, which had been forfeited
by the earl's attainder, were now restored, with added
honours and increase of wealth. He was appointed
Master of the Game to the Queen, and a pension of 600/.
per annum was conferred u[X)n his countess. He was
also installed a Knight of the Garter, and made Captain of
the Isle of Wight. By a new patent, dated July 21, he
was again created earl by his former titles. And the first
bill after the recognition of the King, which was read in
the parliament that met on the 19th of March, 1604, was
for restitution of Henry, Earl of Southampton. On the
4th of this month, Eowland White writes, 'My Lady South-
ampton was brought to bed of a young lord upon St.
David's day (March 1), in the morning ; a saint to be
nuich honoured by that house for so great a blessing, by
wearing a leek for ever upon that day.'- On the 27th of
the same month the child was christened at Court, 'the
King and Lord Cranboui-n with the Countess of Suffolk
being gossips.' March 30 the earl was appointed Lord
Lieutenant of Hampshire, together with liis friend the
Earl of Devonshire. These marks of fa\our were fol-
' \o\. i. p. 98. 2 Sijchicij Memoirs.
G
82 SHAIvSPEARE'S SONNETS.
lowed, ill June, 1 606, by the appointment of his lordship
to be Warden of the New Forest (on the death of the
Earl of Devonshire), and Keeper of the Park of Lindhurst.
In November, 1607, the earl lost his mother, who had
been the wife successively of Henry Wriothesley, Earl of
Southampton, Sir Thomas Heneage, and Sir William
Hervey. We are told that she 'left the best of her stuff
to her son, and the greater part to her husband.' The
'stuff' consisted of jewellery, pictures, hangings, &c.,
chiefly collected by Sir Thomas Heneage, for the pos-
session of which the Earl of Arundel ranked him among
the damned.
The Earl of Southampton was a very intimate fiiend of
the Earl of Pembroke, and both, like the sage Eoger
Ascham, were sadly addicted to cock-fighting. Eowland
White records, on the 19th of April, 1605, that 'Pem-
broke hath made a cock-match with Suffolk and South-
ampton, for 50^. a battle ;' and May 13 he says, or rather
sings : —
The Herberts, every cockpit day,
Do carry away
The gold and glory of the day.
This fellowship in sport led to the quarrel with Lord
Montgomery, recorded in Winwood's Memorials.'- South-
ampton and the wild brother of the Earl of Pembroke
fell out, as they were playing at tennis, in April, 1610,
when and ' where the rackets flew about their ears, but
the matter was compounded by the King without further
bloodshed.'
The two earls, Southampton and Pembroke, were
yoked in a nobler fellowship than that of sport. They
fought side by side in the uphill struggle wliich colonisa-
tion had to make against Spanish influence. They carried
on the work of Ealeigh when his adventurous spirit beat
its wings in vain behind the prison bars, and continued it
* Vol. iii. p. lo4.
THE COLONISATION OF VIRGINLV. 83
after his grey head had fallen on Tower Hill. They both
belonged to the Company of Adventurers and Planters of
the City of London for the first colony of Virginia (May 23,
1G09): Southampton being appointed one of the council.
He became a most active promoter of voyages of disco-
veiy, and a vigilant watcher over the interests of the
colonists. December 15, 1G09, the earl writes to Lord
Salisbury, that he has told the King about the Virginian
squirrels brought into England, which are said to fly.
The King very earnestly asked if none were provided for
him, and whether Sahsbury had none for him, and said he
was sure Salisbury would get him one. The earl says he
would not have troubled Lord Salisbury on the subject,
' hut that you know so well how he is affected to these toys'
A squirrel that could fly being of infinitely more interest
to James than a colony that could hardly stand alone.
In 1607 Southampton and Sir Ferdinando Gorges had
sent out two ships, under the command of Harlie and
Xicolas. They sailed along the coast of New England,
and were sometimes v/ell but oftener ill received by the
natives. They returned to England in the same year,
brino-inf? five savaires back with them. One wonders
whether Shakspeare's rich appreciation of such a ' find'
had not something to do Avith Lis discovery of Caliban,
the man-monster.
It is pretty certain that the earl's adventures as a
colonizer had a considerable influence on the creation of
Shakspeare's 'Tempest.' The marvellous stories told of
'Somers' Island,' called the Wonderful Island, for the
plantation of which a charter was granted to Southampton,
Herbert, and others, may have fired the poet's imagination
and tickled his humour.
Au<nist, 1612, the English merchants sent home some
ambergris and seed pearls, ' which the devils of the Ber-
mudas love not better to retain than the angels of Castile
do to recover.'
G 2
84 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
October 27, 1613, a piece of ambergris was found,
' big as the body of a giaut, the head and one arm want-
ing ; but so foohshly handled that it brake in pieces, so
that the hirgest piece brought home was not more than
68 ounces in weight.' Again, we read that the Spaniards,
dismayed at the frequency of hurricanes, durst not adven-
ture there, but called it Dcemoniorum insidam.
On the 12th of May, 1614, the Earl of Southampton
supported the cause of his young plantation in Parliament,
on which occasion Dick Martin, in upholding the Virginian
colony, so attacked and abused the House that he was had
up to the bar to make submission. Sir Thomas Gates had
just come from Virginia, and reported that the plantation
must fall to the ground, if it were not presently helped.
The earl lived to see the colony founded and flourish-
ing. In 1616 Virginia was reported by Sir Thomas Dale
to be ' one of the goodliest and richest kingdoms in the
world, which being inhabited by the King's subjects, will
put such a bit into our ancient enemy's mouth as will curb
his haughtiness of monarchy.' And in 1624, the year of
the earl's death, the colony was so far thriving that it had
' worn out the scars of the last massacre,' and was only
pleading for a fresh supply of powder. The good work
was crowned. ' The noble and glorious work of Virginia,'
as it was called by Captain Bargrave, whose estate had
been ruined in its support, and his life afterwards dedicated
to the ' seeing of it effected.'
The earl of Southampton has left his mark on the
American map ; his name will be found in various
parts of Virginia. Southampton Hundred is so called
after his title ; and the Hampton Eoads, where Presi-
dent Lincoln met the envoys from the South, to broach
terms of reconciliation and peace, were so named after
the friend and patron of Shakspeare.
Our American friends were oblivious of much that was
stirring in the mother's memory, when the heart of
SULTlIA.MrTON'.S NAME IN AMERICA, 85
England tlirilled to the deeds done by Virginians in tlie
late civil wars. In spite of her face being set sternly
against slavery, she could not stifle the cry of race, and
the instinct of nature, — could not but remember that
these were the descendants of her heroic adventurers, the
hardy pioneers of her march round the globe, who laid
down their weary bones when their work was done, and
slept in the valleys of old Virginia, to leave a living voice
that cries from the mountains and the waters with the voice
of her own blood, and in the words of her own tongue.
As the friend of Essex, whom King James delighted to
lionour, the Earl of Southampton received many marks of
royal favour, although he was not one who was naturally
at home in such a court. On June 4, 1610, he acted as
carver at the splendid festival which was given in honour
of young Henry's assumption of the title of Prince of
Wales. In 1G13 he entertained the King at his house in
the New Forest. A letter written by him to Sir Ealph
Winwood,^ August 6, 1613, gives us a glimpse of his
feelings at the time. He was one of the friends chosen
to act on the part of Essex' son Eobert, in the matter of
devising the means of a divorce. And he writes with
evident disgust at the conduct of affairs : ' Of the Nullity
I see you have lieard as much as I can write ; by which
you may discern the power of a King with Judges, for of
those which are now for it, I knew some of them, when I
was in England, were vehemently against it. I stay here
only for a wind, and purpose (God willing) to take the
first for England ; though, till things be otherwise settled,
I coidd be as well pleased to be an3^vhere else ; but the
King's coming to my House imposeth a necessity at this
time upon me of returning.' In 1614, he made a visit to
the Low Countries, and was with Lord Herbert of Cher-
bury at the siege of Eees, in the duchy of Cloves. In
1617, Southampton accompanied James on his visit to
' Wiiiicoocl Memorials, vol. iii. p. 475.
86 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
Scotland. And, from a letter of the earl's to Carleton,
April 13, 1619, Ave learn that he has been chosen a privy
councillor. He remarks, that he will rather observe his
oath by keeping counsel than giving it ; much is not to
be expected from one ' vulgar councillor,' but he will
strive to do no hurt. It is said that he had long
coveted this honour. June 30, 1613, the Eev. Thos.
Larkin, writing to Sir Thos. Puckering, had said : —
' My Lord of Southampton hath lately got licence to
make a voyage over the Spa, whither he is either already
gone, or means to go very shortly. He pretends to
take remedy against I know not what malady ; but his
greatest sickness is supposed to be a discontentment con-
ceived that he cannot compass to be made one of the
Privy Council ; which not able to brook here well at
home, he Avill try if he can better digest it abroad.'
If he had looked up to this as the consummation of his
wishes, he could have found but little satisfaction, and no
benefit, from it when realised. He was unable from prin-
ciple to acquiesce in the measures of the Cou]'t. Those
who had kept the Council Chamber closed against him for
so long had by far the truer instinct. He is spoken of by
Wilson as one of the few gallant spirits, that aimed at
the public liberty more than their own personal interests
or the smiles of Court favour. This writer says^ : —
' Southampton, tho' he were one of the King's Privy
Council, yet was he no great Courtier. Salisbury kept
him at a bay, and pinched him so, by reason of his
relation to old Essex, that he never flourished much
in his time ; nor was his spirit (after him) so smooth shod
as to go always at the Court pace, but that now and then
he would make a carrier that was not very acceptable to
them, for he carried his business closely and slily, and was
rather an adviser than an actor.'
' Life and lieign of Kiny James /., p. 736.
SOUTIIAMPTON'S OPPOSITION TO THE COURT. 87
He now joined the small party that was in opposition to
the Court, his ardent temperament often kindling into
words, which were as scattered sparks of fire in inflaming
the little band that thwarted the meaner and baser wishes
of the Kmg and his ministers. Contrary to the desire of
Government, he was chosen Treasurer of the Virginia
Company. Also, in parliament, he stood forward to with-
stand the unconstitutional views of ministers and fa-
vourites. Early in the year 1G21 he made a successful
motion against illegal i)atents ; and Camden mentions
that durinor the sittim,^ of the 14th of March ' there was
some quarrelHng between the Marquis of Buckingham,
and Southampton and Sheffield, who had interrupted him,
for repeating the same thing over and over again, and
that contrary to received approved order in parliament.'
The Prince of Wales tried to reconcile them. Buck-
ingham, however, was not the man to forget or forgive an
affront. And those on whom he fixed his eye in enmity
sooner or later felt the arm of his power, although the
blow was at times very secretly dealt. Twelve days after
the parliament had adjourned, Southampton was com-
mitted to the custody of the Dean of We>tminster, to be
allowed no intercourse with any other than his keeper
(Sir Eichard Weston). June 23, Sir Eichard Weston
declined to be the earl's keei)er, and Sir W. Parkhurst
w^as appointed.
The Eev. Joseph Mead writes to Sir Martin Stutville,
June 30 of this year : — ' It is said that this week the
Countess of Southampton, assisted by some two more
countesses, put up a petition to the King, that her lord
might answer before himself ; which, they say, his Majesty
granted.'^
Various others were imprisoned, about the same time, for
speaking idle words. Among the rest, John Selden was
committed to the keeping of the Sheriff of London; he
' Court and Times of James, vol, ii. p. 263.
88 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
was also set at liberty, on the same day as the Earl of
Southampton, July 18, 1G21. In a letter of proud sub-
mission sent to the Lord Keeper Williams, Southampton
promises to ' speak as little as he can,' and ' meddle as
little as he can,' according to ' that part of my Lord
Buckingham's advice ! ' Li these stormy discussions and
early grapplings with irresponsible power, we hear the
first mutterings of the coming storm that was to sweep
thro' England, and feel that, in men like Southampton, the
spirit was stirring which was yet to spring up, fuU-statured
and armed, for the overthrow of weak prince and fatal
parasites, to stand at last as a dread avenger flushed with
triumph, smiling a stern smile by the block at White-
hall. His imprisonment did not repress Southampton's
energies or lessen his acti\dty. In the new parliament,
which assembled on the 9th of February, 1624, he was on
the committee for considering of the defence of Ireland ;
the committee for stopping the exportation of money ;
the committee for the making of arms more serviceable.
He was a true exponent of the waking nation, in its
feeling of animosity against Spain, and of disgust at the
pusillanimous conduct of James, who would have tamely
submitted to see his son-in-law deprived of the Palatinate.
The aroused spirit of the nation having compelled the
King to enter into a treaty with the States General,
granting them permission to raise four regiments in this
country, Southampton obtained the command of one of
them. ' This spring,' says Wilson, ' gave birth to four
brave Eegiments of Foot (a new apparition in the English
liorizon), fifteen hundred in a Regiment, which were
raised and transported into Holland (to join the army
under Prince Maurice) under four gallant colonels : the
Earl of Oxford, the Earl of Southampton, the Earl of
Essex, and the Lord Willoughby.' This was a fatal
journey for the Earl, the last of his wanderings, that
was to bring him tlie 'so long impossible Eest.' 'The
DEATH OF SOUTHAMPTON. 80
winter quarter at Rosendale,' Wilson writes, 'was also fatal
to the Earl of Soutliampton, and the Lord Wriothesley
liis son. Being both sick there togetlier of burning fevers,
tlie violence of whicli distemper wrouglit most vigorously
upon the heat of youth, overcoming tlie son first ; and the
drooping father, having overcome the fever, departed from
Ivosendale with an intention to bring his son's body into
England, but at Berghen-op-Zoom he died of a lethargy^
in the view and presence of the relator.' The dead son
and father were both brought in a small bark to England,
and landed at Southampton ; both Avere buried at Titch-
field, on Innocents' day, 1624.
' They were both poisoned by the Duke of Bucking-
ham,' says Sir Edward Peyton, in his ' Catastrophe of
the House of the Stuarts ' (p. SCO), as plainly appears,
he adds, ' by the relation of Doctor Eglisham.' This
relation of Ejzhsham's will be found in the ' Forerunner
of Eevenofe.'^ The doctor was one of Kino; James's
ph^'sicians for ten years. His statement amounts to this- -
that tlie Earl of Southampton's name was one of those
which were on a roll that was found in King Street,
Westminster, containing a list of those who were to be
removed out of Buckingham's way. Also, that when the
physicians were standing round the awfully disfigured
body of the dead Marquis of Hamilton (another supposed
victim of Buckingham's), one of them remarked, that ' my
Lord Southampton was blistered all within the breast, as
my Lord Marquis was.'
This statement made me curious enough to examine
Francis Glisson's report of the post mortem examination
of the Earl of Southampton's body : it is in the British
Museum;- and I found it to be so suspiciously reticent, that
the silence is far more suggestive than what is said. It
contains no mention whatever of the condition of the blood
' Harleian Miscellany, vol. ii. pp. 72-7.
^ Vide Avscougb's catalogue of MS.
90 SHAKSPEARE-S SONNETS.
or the brain, the spleen or bowels, the heart or liver,
the stomach or lungs. The bladder and kidneys are the
only parts described. An altogether unsatisfactory report,
that looks as though it were a case of suppressed evidence.
This, coupled with the lethargy noticed by Wilson, and
the known implacable enmity of Buckingham, does at least
give colour to the statements of Sir Edward Peyton, and
Dr. Eglisham. But for us it will remain one of the many
secrets — for wdiich John Felton, ' with a wild flash in the
dark heart of him,' probed swiftly and deeply with his
avemjinc^ knife, — to be known hereafter.
CO '
One cannot but feel that the Earl of Southampton did
not get adequate scope for his energies under James any
more than in the previous reign, and that he should have
lived a few years later, for his orb to have come full circle.
He might have been the Eupert of Cromwell's horsemen.
He was not a great man, nor remarkably wise, but he was
brave, frank, magnanimous, thoroughly honourable, a true
lover of his country, and the possessor of such natural
qualities as won the love of Shakspeare. A comely noble
of nature, wdth highly finished manners ; a soldier, whose
personal valour was proverbial ; a lover of letters, and a
munificent patron of hterary men.
Chapman, in one of his dedicatory sonnets prefaced to
the lUad, calls the Earl ' learned,' and proclaims him to
be the ' choice of all our country's noble spirits.' Eichard
Braithwaite inscribes his ' Survey of History, or a Nursery
for Gentry,' to Southampton, and terms him ' Learning's
select Favourite.' Nash calls him ' a dear lover and che-
risher, as well of the lovers of poets as of poets themselves.'
Florio tells us that he lived for many years in the earl's
pay, and terms him the 'pearl of peers.' He relieved
the distress of Minshew, author of the ' Guide to
Tongues.' Barnaby Barnes addressed a sonnet to him,
in 1593, in which he expressed a hope that his verses
'if graced by that heavenly countenance w^hich gives
THE EARL'S PATROXAGE OF LITERATURE. 01
liglit to the Muses, may be shielded from the poisoned shafts
of envy.' Jervais Markham, in a sonnet attached to his
poem on the death of Sir Eicliard Grenville, addresses
Southampton thus : —
Thou, the laurel of the Muses hill,
Whose eyes doth crown the most victorious pen.'
Wither appears to have had some intention of cele-
brating the earl's marked virtues and nobiUty of character
as exceptionally estimable in his time, for, in presenting
him with a copy of his ' Abuses stript and whipt,' he tells
him, —
I ought to be no stranger to thy worth,
Nor let thy virtues in oblivion sleep :
Nor will I, if my fortunes give me time.
In the year 1621, the earl had not ceased his patronage
of literary men, as is shown by the dedication to him of
Thomas Wright's ' Passions of the mind in general.'
Many elegies were sung over the death of Southampton,
of which the following, by Sir John Beaumont, is the
best : —
I will be bold my trembling voice to try.
That his dear name in silence may not die ;
The world must pardon if my song be weak,
In such a cause it is enough to speak.
Who knew not brave Southampton, in whose sight
Most placed their day, and in his absence night ?
When he was yoimg, no ornament of youth
Was wanting in him, acting that in truth
Which Cyrus did in shadow ; and to men
Appeared like Peleus' son from Chiron's den :
While through this island Fame his praise reports.
As best in martial deeds and courtly sports.
When riper age with winged feet repairs,
Grave care adorns his head with silver hairs ;
His valiant fervour was not then decayed.
But joined with counsel as a further aid.
' It has been suggested that Markham here alludes to the Eai-l's patronage
of Shakspeare.
92 - SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Behold his constant and undaunted eye,
In greatest danger, when condemned to die !
He scorns the insulting adversary's breath,
And will admit no fear, though near to death.
When shall we in this realm a feather find
So truly sweet, or Husband half so kind ?
Thus he enjoyed the best contents of life.
Obedient children, and a loving wife.
These were his parts in peace ; but, 0, how far
This noble soul excelled itself in war.
He was directed by a natural vein.
True honour by this painful way to gain.
I keep that glory last which is the best.
The love of learning, which he oft expressed
In conversation, and respect to those
Who had a name in arts, in verse, or prose.
His countess survived the earl for many years, and died
in 1640.
AValpole, in his Anecdot-es of Painting, mentions a por-
trait, half-length, of Elizabeth Vernon, as being at Sher-
burn Castle, Dorsetshire. It is by Cornelius Jansen, who
was patronized by the Earl of Southampton,^ and may
thus have drawn the portrait of Shakspeare. This picture,
says Walpole, is equal to anything the master executed.
The clothes are magnificent, and the attire of her head is
singular, a veil turned quite back. The face and hands
are coloured with incomparable lustre. There is also an
authentic portrait of this lady, in good preservation, at
Hodnet Hall, which represents her as a type of a beauty
in the time of Elizabeth. Her dress is a brocade in brown
and gold, her ribbons are scarlet and gold, her ruff and
^ Peacliiim, in his 'Grapliico, or the most Ancient and Excclh^nt Art of
Drawing and Limning,' says, the Earls of Southampton and Pembroke were
amongst the chief patrons of painting in England.
N.B. — In the footnote p. 220 of Walpole's Anecdotes of Painting in Eng-
land, Mr. Dallaway speaks wrongly of this work as being first published in
1G.34. The first edition, a copy of which is in the British Museum, was
published in 1612.
ELIZ.VBETII VERNON AND LADY RUSSELL. 93
deep sleeve cuffs are of point lace, her ornaments of coral ;
her hair is light, and her complexion fresh, vivid, auroral,
having clearly that war of the red rose and the white
described by Shakspeare in his 99th sonnet. The hair is
suggestive, too, of the singular comparison used in that
sonnet of ' buds of marjoram,' not in colour, but in shape.
Supposing the lady was accustomed at times to leave a por-
tion of it rather short, to be worn in front of the head-dress,
or veil that swept backward, the ends would crisp and
bunch themselves into a likeness of the Uttle clusters of
marjoram buds. Indeed, the shape of the head of hair,
dressed superbly as it is, is not unlike a bush of marjo-
ram in the spread of it !
An engraving by Thompson, from a portrait by Van-
dyke, a copy of which is in the British Museum, shows
Lady Southampton to have been tall and graceful, with a
fine head and thoughtful face ; the long hair is softly
waved with light and shadow, and the look has a touch
of languor, different to the Hodnet Hall picture, but this
last may be only a Vandyke grace.
It is pleasant to remember that from this much-tried
pair, in whom Shakspeare took so affectionate an interest,
sprang one of the most glorious of Englishwomen, one
of the pure white lilies of all womanhood ! This was the
Lady Kussell, whose spirit rose so heroically to breast the
waves of calamity ; whose face was as an angel's shining
through the gathering shadows of death, with a look of
lofty cheer, to hearten her husband on his way to the scaf-
fold ; ahnost personifying, in her great love, the good Pro-
vidence that had given to him so precious a spirit for a
companion, so exalted a woman to be his wife ! This lady
was the £jrand-dau<:?hter of the Earl and Countess of South-
ampton. She was daughter of Thomas Wriothesley, who
was called the Virtuous Lord Treasurer of Charles II.,
by his first wife, daughter of Henry de Massey, Baron de
Kouvii]ciii, a French Protestant noble.
94 SIIAKSPEARFS SONNETS.
POET AND PATRON:
THEIK PEESONAL FRIENDSHIP.
The Earl of Southampton cannot be to us what he was
to Shakspeare, and time has almost effaced him from the
national memory ; he has nearly passed out of sight in
that cloud of dust created by the fall of Essex. Yet, for
our great poet's sake, no one can help taking an interest
in his story, or in his friendship, of which the Sonnets
are the fruit ; and the more we draw near to read his
character aright, the greater reason we shall find to love
liini for what he once was to Shakspeare. There was a time
in our poet's life when the patronage of Southampton,
as it was described by Barnes, shone like a splendid
shield in the eyes of envious rivals, and such a dazzling
defence must have tended to lessen the yelpings of the
pack that was at him in full cry about the year 1592.
In all likelihood the earl was one, and the chief one, of
those ' divers of worship,' who, according to Chettle, had
reported so favourably of the poet's private character and
dramatic abihty. And, although not intended as an
autobiograpliic record, the Sonnets sufficiently sliow that
the friendship of the earl was the source of many com-
forting and loving thoughts, which cherished and illumed
his inner life, when the outer day may have been some-
what desolate and drear. The 25th sonnet tells us how
\ALirE OF THE EARL'S FRIENDSHIP. 95
Sliakspeare congratulated himself on having secured such
a friend, whose heart was larger than his fortunes, whose
hand was liberal as his thought was generous, and whose
kindly regard placed the poet far above the ' favourites
of great princes.' What trutli there may be in the tra-
dition that the earl gave Shakspeare a thousand pounds
at one time we cannot know ; it may have resulted from
the fact that he had given the poet as much at various
times. There can be no question, however, that he did
him sundry good turns, and gave help of many kinds ; if
required, money would be included ; this too, when the
poet most needed help, to hearten him in his life-struggle,
wdiile he was workinsi; at the basis of his character and the
foundations of his fortune and his fame. It would be a kind
of breakwater influence, when the poet was fighting wntli
wind and wave for every bit of foothold on firm ground.
Shakspeare would likewise be indebted to his noble
friend for many a glimpse of Court hfe and Court man-
ners, many an insight into personal character, through
this chance of seeing the personal characteristics that
would otherwise have been veiled from him. His friend
the earl would lift the curtain for him, and let him peep
behind the scenes which Avere draped to the vulgar.
It was a wonderful time for such a dramatist. Men
and women played more personal parts, exerted more
personal influence, and revealed more of their personal
nature. The inner man got more direct manifestation.
Shakspeare saw the spirits of men and women, as it were,
in habitations of glass, sensitive to every fight and shadowy
and showing how the changes passed over them, by the
glow or the gloom that followed. Now-a-days, we are
shut up in houses of stone, iron-fenced by manners and
customs and the growths of time, that have accumulated
between man and man, putting them farther and farther
apart, until a good deal of the Elizabethian nearness of
life is gone for public men. We have lost mucli of that
06 SHAKSPEAKE'S SONNETS.
element, which has been described as the real source of
genius, the spirit of boyhood carried into manhood, which
the Elizabethans had, and showed it in their friendships
and their fighting, their passions and their play. We are
more shut up, and only peep at one another, we reveal
the smallest possible part of ourselves. The EUzabethans
had more naked nature for Shakspeare to draw ; he was
as fortunate in the habits of his time as the Greek
sculptors were in the freedom of the Greek dress. He
would not have made nearly so much out of us, had he
lived in our day, because so much would not have been
revealed in public. He would not be able to see the most
characteristic things, the best and the worst saying out
their utmost, known by name, and visible at their work.
The personality which Shakspeare saw and seized, would
now be lessened till almost invisible, in the increasing
crowd of hfe, and conflict of circumstances, and change of
things. He would only be able to read about such as
those whom he saw and knew in daily hfe. He would
now see no sight like that of Drake at bowls on Plymouth
Hoe ; or Ealeigh smoking his pipe with his peasants, and
making their eyes glitter with the mirage of a land of
gold ; a Lord Grey rushing at Southami)ton in the street,
with his sword drawn ; noble grey heads going to the
block after a life of service for their country ; Essex and
her Majesty exhibiting in public the pets and passions of
the nursery ; or the Queen showing her leg to an am-
bassador and boxing the ears of a favourite ; or a player
who, like Tarleton, dared to abuse the favourite Leicester,
present with tlie Queen, and who ' played the God Luz,
witli a flitch of bacon at his back ; and the Queen bade them
take away the knave for making her to laugh so excessivel}^
as he fought against her little dog Perrico de Faldas, with
his sword and longstalT, and bade the Queen take oflf her
mastiff.'^ That was a time in which character was
' Scrap of paper in the State Paper Office, 1588. Calendar of State
Papers, EUzabeth, 1581-1500, p. 541.
HIS PlllNATK FUIEND.S. , 97
brought closer home to the dramatist. And tlie Earl of
Soutliamptoii's friendship was a means of introducing our
poet to cliaracters that must otherwise have remained out
of reacli. In this way he was enabled to make a close
study of Southampton's friends, including persons like
Essex and Montjoy, and one of the most remarkable
characters of that time, one of tlie most unique samples
of human nature, the Lady Eich, in whose person I think
the poet saw several of his creations in outline, and whose
influence warmed his imagination and jrave colour to the
complexion of his earlier women. Many a hint of foreign
scenes would he catch from those who had travelled, and
could describe ; men who in our time would perhaps put
their experience into books, and many a heroic trait from
tlie silent lighting men, who had done what they could not
put into words. Looking over the shoidder of his noble
friend, Shakspeare could thus see some of the best things
that the life of his time had to show, and take his mental
pictures with his instantaneous quickness of impression,
for he had the chameleon-like spirit that could catch its
colour from the air he breathed, and in the Earl of South-
ampton's company he must often have breathed an air
that ' sweetly crept ' into the study of his imagination,
brightening and enriching his mind, and making its im-
ages of life come to him ' apparelled in more precious
habit,' more ' moving dehcate,' especially in the shape of
the exquisite fragrant-natured English ladies who became
his Mirandas, Perditas, Imogenes, and Hermiones.
It has been assumed that these sonnets of Shakspeare
do but represent a form of sonneteering adulation
common to the time. As though they were the poetic
coin wherewith the poet sought to repay the patron for
his nuuiificent gifts. Nothing could be farther from the
fact. They contain no flattery whatever. So far as they
are personal to Shakspeare they come warm from liis
own sincere heart, and are vital with his own aflectionate
11
98 , SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
feeling for the brave and bounteous peer to whom he
publicly dedicated ' love without end,' and for whom he
meant to make a wreath of immortal flower Avhich had its
mortal rootage in the poet's own life. Such a celebration
of personal friendship as occurs in these sonnets was not
common as some writers have supposed. In fact it has
no parallel in the Elizabethan time. And such a friend-
ship was as rare as is this celebration of it.
Looking backward over the two centuries and a half,
and seeing the halo of glory on the brow of the dead Past,
it seems that the personal friendship of man and man was
a more possible and noble thing with the Elizabethan men.
Perhaps it is partly owing to the natural touch of Time in
the composition of his historic pictures ; to the softened
outline and mellowing tint. But those Elizabethans
have a way of coming home to us with more of the
nearness of brotherhood ; they are like a band of brothers
with a touch of noble boyhood about their ways, and on
their faces a light of the golden age. They make it
possible to our hard national nature that the love of man
to man may be at times ' passing the love of woman.'
But such an example of personal friendship as that of
Shakspeare the player and Southampton the peer stands
absolutely alone ; there is nothing like it.
We are apt to think of Shakspeare as the great master-
spirit, who was fit to be the friend of the noblest by birth,
and the kinglicst by nature. Those who knew him, we
fancy, would be more likely to think of the Scripture text,
that reminds us not to be forgetful of entertaining stran-
gers, for they may be the angels of God in disguise, rather
than to be troubled with thoughts and suggestions of his
being only a poor player. But the age in which he lived,
and in which this friendship was engendered, was a time
when the distinctions of rank and the boundary lines of
classes were so precisely observed that even the particular
style and quality of dress were imposed according to the
THE FIRST MEETING OF POET AND PATRON. W
wearer's position in life. Tlierefore the feeling of personal
friendship must have been very strong in these two men,
to have so far obliterated the social landmarks, and made
their remarkable intimacy possible.
I think the 25th somiet tells us })lainly enough, that the
young earl first sought out tlie poet, and conferred on him
an unexpected honour ; a joy unlooked-for. This view is
most in keeping with the two personal characters. Then
the frank-hearted, free-handed young noble soon found that
his advances were amply repaid. And he had the insight
to see that here was a noble of nature, with something in
him which towered over all social distinctions. On his side,
the poet would warmly appreciate the open generous dis-
position of the earl, who, whatever else he lacked, had the
genius to make himself beloved. Shakspeare Avas that natu-
ral gentleman, who could preserve exactly the distance at
which the attraction is magnetically perfect, and most
powerfidly felt ; thus the acquaintanceship soon grew into
a friendship of the nearest and dearest possible between
Shakspeare, the man of large and sweet affections, and the
comely good-natured youth, who had the intuition to dis-
cover the poet, and was drawn lovingly towards the man.
Of the depth of the personal affection, and the inward
nature of the friendship, there is the most abundant proof.
The dedicatory epistle to liis poem of ' Lucrece' breathes
the most cheery assurance, and publicly alludes to a pri-
vate history that has never before been understood, but
which will noAv serve to show how close were the person-
ahties, how secret the relationship of Southampton and
Shakspeare. Then we have the letter of Lord Southamp-
ton, which I, for one, feel to be a genuine document;
and, as regards tlie internal evidence, the present reading
of the sonnets will make that speak more eloquently than
ever in favour of our accepting it as the utterance of South-
ampton. The letter has a t(nich of nature, a familiarity
in the tone, beyond the dream or the daring of a forger
H 2
100 SHAKSPEAKE'S SONNETS. ?
to assume, for the facts of the intimate personal friendship
revealed for the first time by the present reading of the
sonnets, which accord so perfectly with the tone of the
letter, could not be sufficiently known, to warrant the
statements, or support the design, had it been a forgery.
In tliis letter, the earl pleads with his powerful friend the
Lord Ellesmere, on behalf of the ' poor players of the
Blaekfriars,' and asks him to ' be good ' to them ' in this the
time of their trouble,' for they are threatened by the Lord
Mayor and aldermen of London with tlie destruction of
their means of liveliliood ' by the pulling down of their
playhouse.' The chief point for us is, that the Earl of
Southampton introduces one of the bearers, ' William
Shakspeare,' to the Lord High Chancellor's notice, as ' his
especial friend,' a man who is 'right famous ' in his quality
as a w^riter of plays, and a husband of ' good reputation.'
Now, to my thinking, that phrase 'my especial friend'
would not have been ventured by a forger ; he would not
have hazarded the lordly largeness, if the fact had been
visible, which is more than doubtful ; for, although Sliaks-
peare dedicated to the earl his ' love without end,' yet,
apart from this letter, it could not be known that the earl
proclaimed the especial friendship to be reciprocal, and the
forger would not have had authentic warrant. Therefore I
do not see how any other than Southampton could have so
})erfectly hit the very fact, which is now unveiled for the
first time, in my reading of the sonnets. The present in-
terpretation of these must help to prove the genuineness of
the letter.^ The sonnets themselves abound with proofs that
' The matter of this 'H. S.' letter is, in my humble opinion, most authentic ;
both openly and secretly so. There is a witness within it of more infallible
authority than that of the Palajographists, wlio, in the case of a copj' like
this, can hardly know what it is they are called upon to disprove. Supposing
a forger to have hit upon the personal friendship of the Earl for Shakspeare
and dared to proclaim it, and made tliat the motive of the Earl's plea, he
would not have ventured on the perilous attempt to mark the exact period
of Shakspeare's retirement from the stage as an actor, and thus lamed his
ILLUSTRATIONS OF INTIMACY. 101
the personal intimacy of Shak.speare and Soutliampton was
verv inward, the friendsliip most uncommon. So near are
they, that in sonnet 39, the poet says the two are but one ;
and, that when he praises his friend, it is as though lie were
praising himself. Therefore, he proposes to take advantage
of a separation, wliich is to divide tliem, and make their
' dear love ' lose the name and look of singleness, by
throwing into perspective that half which alone deserves to
be praised. Absence and distance are necessary to show
even in appearance that the two are not one ! In sonnet
23, his love is so great that he cannot speak it, when they
meet in person : the strength of his feehng is such as to
tie his tongue, and make him like an unpractised actor on
the stage, overcome by his emotion, so he tries to express
it in his sonnets, pleading that they may be more eloquent
with their silent love than the tongue, that might have said
more. The plea also of sonnet 22 is most expressive of
tender intimacy. ' Oh, my friend,' he says, ' be of your-
self as wary as I will be of myself; not for myself, but on
your account. I will bear your heart as cautiously, and
keep it from all ill, as protcctingly as a nurse carries her
babe.' His spirit hovers about the earl. lie warns him
that youth is short, and beauty a fleeting glow. He defends
hhn when he has been falsely accused and slandered by
the gossips about the Court ; is sad, when the earl is reck-
less and does break out in wild courses, or dwells in infec-
tious society ; wishes himself dead, rather than that he
should have seen such sorrowful things ; tries, as I read,
to set the earl writing (in sonnet 77), by way of diver-
case by selecting the wrong point in illustrating the friendsliip ! Then, the
reconiniendation of Shakspeare on account of liis good reputation as n marrivd
man, is so utterly opposed to the idea of a forgerj'. It was nut one of the
outlines of the poet's life pencilled ready for tilling in ! For it has always
been assumed that his reputation as a married man was 7iot good, and latterly
it has been taken for granted that the Earl of Southampton had very private
reasons for knowing so. Nevertheless, tlie letter, a:i I believe, statos the real
fact of the case in this, as in the other particulars, with a sureness beyond
the happiest divination of a forger, and the life is not yet trodden out of it !
102 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
sion, for his moral behoof and mental benefit. He will
write of liim and his love in his absence abroad, and when
he returns to England how lovingly (in sonnet 100) he
liolds him to look into the sun-browned face, with a
peering jealousy of affection, to see what change has been
wrought by the wear of war, and waste of time, —
Rise, restive Muse, my Love's sweet face survey ;
If Time have any wrinkle graven there.
' If any, be ready with the colour of immortal tint to retouch
his beauty and make it live for ever in immortal youth.'
Then we see that the poet's love grows warmer, as the
world looks colder on the earl ; it rises witli the tide of
calamitv, that threatened to overwhelm him ; it exults and
' looks fresh with the drops of that most balmy time,'
when the poet welcomed his friend at the opened door of
his prison, in 1603 (sonnet 107), and made the free light
of day richer with his cordial smile.
' If the Earl of Soutliampton,' says Boaden, ' had been
the person addressed by Shakspeare, we should expect the
poet to have told the earl that but for his calamity and
diss3;race, mankind would never have known the resources
of his mighty mind.' So might we if the poet had been a
common flatterer, who had stood afar off and talked flam-
boyant nonsense tliat was never meant to be tested for
tlie truth, never brought to bear upon the real facts
because of the personal distance at which it was spoken.
But this was not Shakspeare's position. The earl had not
a mighty mind, and Shakspeare w^as not driven by stress
of circumstances to laud the mental gifts which his friend
did not possess. In only a single instance has he men-
tioned the intellect of the earl.^ In this fact we may find
one more illustration of the inwardness of their personal
intimacy. They were too intimate, and knew each other
' Sonnet 82, ' Thou art as fair in knoioledyc as in hue.'
NEARNESS OF THE TWO FRIENDS. 10:{
too well, for any ' bosh ' to be tolerated on either side.
When Shakspeare spoke of his friend Southampton it was
from the quiet depths of genuine feeling, not fi-oni the
noisy shallows of flattery; and such was the nature of their
intercourse, the freedom of their friend.ship, that lie was
permitted to do so, and could afford it. What Shakspeare
found in Southampton was not great gifts of mind to
admire, but a fuie generosity and hearty frankness of
nature to love. He was one of those who grasp a friend
with both hands to hold him fast, and wear him in their
heart of hearts. Shakspeare loved him too truly to speak
falsely of him. He was the only great poet in his time who
never stood cap in hand, or dealt in ' lozengerie.'' His
tone is like the voice of good breedhig, gentle and low,
wdth no straining for effect. Any exaggerative expression
was unnecessary, and would have been most unnatural,
which with Shakspeare means impossible. Tliis mode of
treatment proves the personal privacy. Shakspeare did
not address his friend as a public man at a distance — had
no need of the speaking trumpet — but was thus secret and
familiar with him as a bosom friend.
Upon any theory of interpretation the personal intimacy
must have been of the closest, most famihar kind. Those
wdio have so basely imagined that Shakspeare and his
young friend both shared one mistress must assume that
the intimacy was one of great nearness. Also those who
accept the coarsest reading of the 20th sonnet must admit
that the poet was on very familiar terms with the earl to
address him in the low loose language which they have
attributed to him by their modern rather than Ehzabethian
reading. My interpretation supposes a nearness equally
great, a personal intimacy ecjually secret, but as pure as
theirs is gross, as noble as theirs is ignoble, as natural as
theirs is unnatural. An intimacy which does not strain
all probabihty in assuming it to have been close enougli for
Shakspeare to write dramatic sonnets on his friend's love
104 SIIAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
and courtship, as it does to suppose the poet wrote sonnets
to proclaim their mutual disgrace, and perpetuate his
own sin and shame. In truth it is the sense of that
nearness, which I advocate, which, working blindly, has
given some show of likelihood to the vulgar interpreta-
tion ; the tender feehng passing the love of woman which,
carried into the interpretation of the impersonal sonnets
by prurient minds, has made the intimacy look one of
which any extravagance might be believed.
The personal sonnets all tend to show and illustrate
this nearness of the two friends, only they prove it to have
been on Shakspeare's part of the purest, loftiest, most manly
kind. There is not one of those wherein Shakspeare is
the speaker for certain, that can possibly be pressed into
showing that the friendship had the vile aspect into which
it has been distorted.
Southampton being identified as the person addressed,
and the object of Shakspeare's personal affection, the inti-
macy must have been one that was perfectly compatible
with the earl's love for a woman. For it is certain that he
was in love, and passionately wT)oing Elizabeth Vernon,
during some years of the time over which the sonnets
extend. And it would be witlessly weak to suppose that
Shakspeare wrote sonnets upon .a disgraceful intimacy to
amuse a man who was purely in love ; out of all nature
to imagine that he pursued Southampton in the wooing
amorous way more fondly and tenderly than ever, after
the earl had become passionately enamoured of Elizabeth
Yernon. He would neither thrust himself forward as the
lady's rival for the earl's love, nor appear in her presence-
chamber covered with moral mire to I'cmind them both
of the fact that he and the earl had rolled in the dirt
together ; and the intimacy must have been such as to
recommend Shakspeare to Elizabeth Vernon as a ftiend
of the earl, not brand him as an enemy to herself. Again,
Boaden is of opinion that the sonnets do not at all apply
ELDER BROTIIEltllUOD. 105
to Lord Southampton, eitlier as to age, character, or the
bustle and activity of a life distinguished by distant and
hazardous service, to something of which they must have
alluded had he been their object. lie argues that there
was not sufficient difference in their ages for Shakspeare
to have called the earl ' sweet boy.' The difference was
9 years and G months. Our poet was born Ai)ril, 15G4,
and his friend October, 1573. Now if the two men had
been of like mental constitution that difference in years
would have made considerable disparity in character
when the one was thirty and the other but twenty years
of age. But one man is not as old as another at the same
age, nor are men constituted alike. Shakspeare's mental
life, and ten years' experience in such a hfe, were very
diHerent things to the life and experience of his young
friend. He may have been quite warranted by this
difference in age in calling the earl ' sweet boy,' but
his expression did not depend on age alone. When a
priest says ' my cliild,' he does not first stop to consider
whether the person so addressed is some twenty years
younger tlian himself. He is presumed to be speaking
from a feeling that is not exactly governed or guided
chronologically. So with Shakspeare. He is taking the
hberty and latitude of affection. He uses the language of
a love that delights to dally Avith the wee words and
dainty diminutives of speech, and tries as it were to ex-
press the largeness of its feeling in the smallest shape, on
piH'pose to get all the nearer to nature, it being tlie way
of all fond love to express itself in miniature. It is one
of Shakspeare's ways of expressing the fulness and
familiarity of his affection rather than any difference in
age. He speaks by virtue of that protecting tenderness of
spirit which he feels for the youth — the })rerogative of
very near friendship — an authority which no age could
necessarily confer. And it is also 1 1 is way of expressing
the difference of rank and position, as the world would
106 SHAKSPKIRE'S SONNETS,
have it, that existed betwixt them ; the distance at which
he is supposed to stand is turned to account in the shape
of an elder brotherhood. It is of set purpose that
Shakspeare paints himself older than he was, as most
obviously he has done ; it is intended as a framework for
his picture. He deepens the contrast and gives to his own
years a sort of golden gloom, and mellow background,
with the view of setting forth in more vernal liues the
fresh ruddy youth of his friend. He puts on an autumnal
tint and exaggerates his riper years on purpose to place
in relief that image of youth which he has determined to
perpetuate in all its spring-tide beauty, and the ' yellow
leaf throws out the ratlieness of the green. This does
not show that there were not sufficient years betwixt them,
but that the intimacy of friendship was such as to permit
the poet to obey a natural law which has served to finish
his picture with a more artistic touch, and to further
illustrate the familiarity of his affection.
It may be that to the dear and generous friendship of
the earl, the world is to a large extent indebted for those
beautiful delineations of loving friendship betwixt man and
man which Shakspeare has given us, excelhng all other
dramatists here as elsewhere. There is a sacred sweetness
in his manly friendship ; fine and fragrant in its kind, as
is the delicate aroma breathed by his most natural and ex-
quisite women. No one, like him, in secular literature, has
so tenderly shown the souls of two men in the pleasant
wedlock of a delightful friendship. The rarest touch being
reserved for the picture in which one friend is considerably
older than the other. Then the effect is gravely-gladsome
indeed ; tlie touch is one of the nearest to nature. This
we may fairly connect with his own affectionate feeling
for the young earl, and see how that which was subjective
in the soiinets has become objective in the plays. Thus,
behind Bassanio and Antonio we may identify Southamp-
ton and Shakspeare. How much Shakspeare may have
SIIAKSPEARES KING KICIIARl) II. 107
adventured for his young friend who was bound up in tlie
Essex bond, — how fur he lent himself, in spite of his better
judgment, we shall probably never know, but we maybe
sure that his love, like that of Antonio, was strong enough
to surmount all selfish considerations. And so, at tlie
pressing solicitations of Southamjiton, the drama of King
Eichard II. was altered by Shakspeare on purpose to be
played seditiously, with the deposition scene newly added !
This patent fact is my concluding proof of the personal
intimacy of peer and poet, and of the force and familiarity
of their friendship.'
' For a fact I hold it to be in spite of the squeamish assertion made by-
Mr. Collier to the contrary. The known friendship of Southampton for the
poet is better evidence than anything in the recollections of Forman. The
reply of Coke to Southampton's question as to what he thought they would
have done with the Queen had they gained the Court points directly to
Shakspeare's play. !Mr. Attorney said the 'pretence was alike for removing
certain councillors, but it shortly after cost the King his life.' Then, if it were
not Shakspeare's drama, which was some years old at the time, revived, with
additions for Essex' purpose, what is the meaning of the advertisement pre-
fixed to the edition of 1608 ' The Trayedy of King Richard the 2nd, xvith new
additions of the Parliament scene and tlie deposing of King Richard. As it
hath been lately acted hy the Kinges Majesties servants, at the Globe ' ? Plainly
enough it is the play altered for the puqiose which excited curiosity, and had
a long run in consequence. The same advertisement is printed in the edition
of 1015, and it is perfectly absurd to suppose that any other ' King Richard
the K^econd' Wivs being played at Shakspeare's Theatre in the year 1011.
This is going against the tide, and seeking to catch at a straw (Forman's
Jack Straw !) most vainly.
1C8 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
PEKSONAL SONNETS.
1592.
-<>o>*ic
SHAKSPEARE TO THE EAEL, WISHING HIM TO
MAERY.
We may now look upon the dear friend of Shakspeare as
sufficiently identified, and the nearness of the friendship
as sufficiently established. In the first group of his sonnets
the poet advises and persuades his young friend the Earl
of Southampton to get married. A very practical object
in writing the sonnets! This of itself shows that he
did not set out to write after the fashion of Drayton and
Daniel, and dally with 'Idea' as they did. Here is
a young noble of nature's own making ; a youth of quick
and kindling blood, apt to take fire at a touch, whether of
pleasure or of pain ; likely enough to be enticed into the
garden of Armida and the palace of sin. He is left with-
out the guidance of a father, and the poet feels for him an
affection all the more protecting and paternal. We may
easily perceive that underneath the pretty conceits sparkhng
on the surface of these earlier sonnets there lies a grave
purpose, a profound deptli of wisdom. This urgency on
the score of marriage is no mere sonneteering trick, or
playing with the shadows of things. The writer knows
well that there is nothing like true marriage, a worthy
wife, the love of children, and a happy liome, to bring
the exuberant life into the keeping of the highest, holiest
law. Notliing like the wifely influence, and the clinging
DEDICATION OF EAKLY SONNETS. 109
of cliilclren's wee fingers, for twining winningly about the
lusty energies of youth, and reahzing the antique image of
Love riding on a lion ; the laughing mite triumphantly lead-
ing captive the fettered miglit, having taken liim ' pri-
soner, in a red rose chuin ! ' Seeing his young friend sur-
rounded with temptations, his personal beauty of mien and
manner being so prominent a mark for the darts of the
enemy, he would fain have him safely shielded by the
sacred shelter of marriage. Accordingly he assails him
with suggestion and argument in many forms of natural
appeal ; and whilst harping much on the main object for
Avhich marriage was designed, the harmony of the life
truly wedded rises like a strain of exquisite music, as it
were, wooing the youth from within the doors of the
marriage sanctuary.
These sonnets the poet sends to Kis friend in ' written
embassage ' of love, hoping tliat lie may yet have some-
tliing worthy of print, so that he can dare to boast pub-
licly of that affection for his friend, which he only ventures
for the present to show privately.
DEDICATOKV.
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit.
To thee I send this written embassage.
To witness duty, not to show my wit :
Duty so great which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it ;
But that I hope some good conceit of tliine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it :
Till whatsoever star that guides my moviu^j
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tattered 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.
(••^6.)
no SHiVKSPEARE'S 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 I mak'st waste in niggarding :
Pity the world, or else this glutton be.
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.
0.)
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 tattered weed, of small worth held :
Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
\STiere 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 deserved thy beauty's use.
If thou could'st answer, " tlds fair child of mine
Shall sum m.y county and make m^y 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.
(2.)
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 uneared 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 ;
YOUNG MEX SHOULD MARRY. Ill
So thou, through windows of thine age, shalt see.
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time :
But if thou live — remeujbered not to be--
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.
(3.)
Unthrifty loveliness I 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 :
Tiien, beauteous niggard I why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give ?
Profitless usurer I 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 deceave :
Then how, when Nature calls thee to be gone.
What acceptable audit canst thou leave ?
Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee.
Which, used, lives thy executor to be.
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 excell :
For never-resting Time leads summer on
To hideous winter, and confounds him there;
Sap check'd with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone.
Beauty o'er-snovved, and bareness everywhere :
Then, were not Summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in Avails of glass.
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft.
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was !
But flowers distilled, tho' they witli winter meet,
Leese but their show ; their substance still lives sweet.
(5.)
Then let not Winter's rugged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distilled :
Make sweet some phial ; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-killed :
Thatuse is not forbidden luxury.
112 SIIAKSPE ARE'S SONNETS.
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 retisrured thee :
Then what could Death do if thou shouldst depart.
Leaving thee living in posterity ?
Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
To be Death's conquest, and make worms thine heir.
(6.)
Lo, in the Orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each iinder-e3^e
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty :
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill.
Resembling strong Youth in his middle age.
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty, still
Attending on his golden pilgrimage :
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble Age, he reeleth from the day.
The eyes— 'fore duteous — now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way :
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon,
Unlooked on diest, unless thou get a son.
Music to hear ! why bear'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 ivilt prove none.^^
(8.)
WORDS OF WARNING. 113
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
That tliou consum'st thyself in single life ?
Ah I if thou issueless shalt hap to die,
The world %\dll 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 its 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 towards others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murderous shame commits.
(9.)
For shame I deny that thou bear'st love to any.
Who for thyself art so unprovideut :
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many.
But that thou none lov'st is most evident ;
For thou art so possessed with murderous hate
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire ;
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire :
0, change thy thought, that I may change my mind !
Shall Hate be freer lodged 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.
(10.)
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
In one of thine, from that which thou departest ;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
Thou niay'st call thine, when thou from youth con^i^rtest :
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase ;
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay :
If all were minded so, the times should cease.
And threescore years would make the world away :
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store.
Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish :
I
114 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Look, whom she best endowed she gave the more ;
Which bounteous gift thou should'st in bounty cherish ;
She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
Thou should'st print more, nor let that copy die.
(11.)
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 are silvered o'er with white ;
Wlien lofty trees I see barren of leaves.
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd.
And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ; —
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou amongst the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow ;
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence,
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thet hence.
(12.)
0, that you were yourself! but Love, you are
No longer yours, than you yourself here live
Against this coming end you should prepare.
And your sweet semblance to some other give :
So should that beauty which you hold in lease.
Find no determination ; then you were
Yourself again after yourself 's decease.
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear :
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day.
And barren rage of Death's eternal cold ?
none but unthrifts ! Dear, my Love, you know
You had a Father ; let your Son say so.
(13.)
Not from the stars do I my judgement 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.
THE TRUE WAY TO WAR WITH TIME. 115
'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 ej^es my knowledge 1 derive,
And, — constant stars, — in them I read such art,
As truth and beauty shall together thrive.
If from thyself to store thou would'st convert ;
Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
Thy end is Truth's and Beauty's doom and date.
When I consider everything that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment ;
That this huge stage presentetli 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 yoiur day of youth to sullied night ;
And all in war with Time for love of vou,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
(15.)
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,
Mucli liker than 3-our painted counterfeit :
So should the lines of life that life repair.
Which this time's Pencil, or my pupil Pen,'
* This line has never yet been read, nor could it be whilst priiittHl as
heretofore : —
'Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen.'
It was impossible to see what this meant. What Shakspeare says is, that
the best painter, the master-pencil of the time, or his own pen of a learner,
I 2
116 SILVKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Neither in inward worth, nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men :
To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.
(16.)
WTio will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were filled 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 touched earthly faces : '
So should my papers, yellowed with their age.
Be scorned, 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.
(17.)
will alike fail to draw the Earl's lines of life as lie himself can do it, by his
*own sweet skill.' This pencil of the time may have been Mirevelt'sj he
painted the Earl's portrait in early manhood.
117
PEKSONAL SONNETS.
1592-3.
SHAKSPEARE TO THE EARL, IN PRAISE OF HIS
PERSONAL BEAUTY.
In the next two groups of Sonnets there are two ideas
which touch in one or more places. Tliese are the praise
of his friend's beauty and the promise of immortahty.
Yet, they are wrought out with a sufficient distinctness to
warrant my keeping tliem apart. I group tliem accord-
incf to their unity of feeling rather than follow their
numbers, for the confusion has now commenced which
runs all through the remainder of the Sonnets. The
subject of this present gathering is tlie Earl's beauty of
person, which the Poet pourtrays with a moralising touch.
Manly comeliness was of greater account with the Poets in
Shakspeare's time than it is in ours. We consider such
taste too feminine. Our Poet thought his friend's graces
of person worthy of commendation. He searches amongst
old paintings and the ancient chronicles to see if pen
or picture has expressed such an image of youth and
beauty. He looks at his own elder face in the glass, and
tries to paint it with his friend's boy-bloom, and thinks it
very gracious when seen beneath the crown of his friend's
affection. He points out what is the loftiest beauty.
But Shakspeare may have had another motive for sing-
ing of the Earl's personal good looks. It is noticeable that
lis SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
the Poet's urgency oii the score of his friend's marriage
ceases witli the first seventeen sonnets. So that it is
reasonable to suppose Southampton had met and fallen in
love with ' the fair Mistress Vernon,' and that he being
desirous of marrying her, there was no further call for
Shakspeare's advice on the subject. This being so, the
sonnets in praise of the Earl would sooner or later be
written with a consciousness that they would come under
the eyes of Elizabeth Vernon, and the Poet's laudation be
likewise for her ears, his portrait of the Earl coloured for
her eyes ! ISTot for himself alone nor for the Earl merely
did he utter all the praise of his friend's beauty of person
and constancy in love, but for another interested and
loving listener. These sonnets I have supposed the Poet
to send with a sort of dedicatory strain in which he con-
gratidates himself on having so dear a friend.
DEDICATORY.
Let tliose who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast.
Whilst I, whom Fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlooked-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 worth^
After a thousaiid victories once foiled,
Is from tlie book of honour ras^d forth,
And all the rest forfjot for which he toiled :
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove, nor be removed.
(25.)
^ The Quarto reads 'famoused for worth,' which only needs the rhyme
of ' forth ' to make out both sense and sound. Why ' worth ' should have
been changed for ' fight ' by Theobald, it is difficult to perceive. The Poet
never could have written 'famoused for fight.' Steevens says : 'the stanza
is not worth the labour that has been bestowed on it,' but as commentators
THE EARL'S PORTRAIT. 110
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 hues in his controlling,
\Miich steal Men's eyes and Women's souls amazeth :
And for a Woman wert thou first created.
Till Nature, as she wrouglit thee, fell a-doting.
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing :
But since she marked thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treanxre.
(20.)
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 I
0, 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 where better they.
Or whether revolution be the same :
! sure I am the wits of former days
To subjects worse have given admiring praise.
(59.)
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,
must make unnecessary alterations by way of improving Shakspeare, he tries
his hand at a transposition thus: —
* The painful warrior for worth fa mom^d^
After a thousand victories once foiled,
la from the book of honour quite razbd.'
And he xmostentatiously remarks that the rhyme may be recovered in tJMt
way ' without further change.
120 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
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 expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now !
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked not with divining eyes,
They had not skill eaough your worth to sing :
For we, which now behold these present days.
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
(l06.)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day ?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate :
Eough 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 dimmed ;
And every fair from fair sometime declines.
By chance, or Nature's changing course untriramed ;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest ;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest :
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see.
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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 others in all worths surmount :
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopped with tanned antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read ;
Self so self-loving were iniquity :
'Tis thee — myself — that for myself I praise.
Painting my age with beauty of thy days.
(,8.)
(62.)
THE TIIGTTEST BEAUTY.
My glass sluiU 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?
0, therefore, Love, be of thyself so wary,
As I, not for myself, but for thee will ;
Bearing thy heart which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill :
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,
Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.
(22.)
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.
(53.)
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.
122 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
They live unwooed, and unrespected fade ;
Die to themselves : Sweet Roses do not so ;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made :
And so of you, beauteous and lovely Youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth.
(54.)
123
PEKSONAL SONNETS,
1592-3.
SHAKSPEAEE TO THE EARL, PROMISING
IMMORTALITY.
Shakspeare's two dominant ideas in the sonnets written
for the Earl of Southampton are, first, to get the Earl
married, and next to make him immortal. In these pre-
sent he has grown bolder in his tone, and apparently more
conscious of his power. It is quite likely that the Earl's
fight with fortune had begun when most of these were
written, and the Poet grows defiant of time and fate on
his friend's behalf. In the sonnet which I have placed as
Dedicatory to the group, the poet unwittingly tells us how
great was his own personal modesty. When he is with
the Earl he is unable to say how much he loves him ;
cannot do any justice in expression to his own feehngs,
and so he asks that his books, his writings, may speak for
him, silently eloquent.
124 SIL\KSPEARE'S SONNETS.
DEDICATORY.
As an imperfect Actor on the stage
WTio with his fear is put beside 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
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 :
0, let my books be then the eloquence '
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast ;
Who plead for love and look for recompence.
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed :
' learn to read what silent love hath writ ;
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
(23.)
Devouring Time, blunt thou the Lion's paws.
And make the Earth devour her own sweet brood ;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce Tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-lived Phoenix in her blood ;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
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 :
0, 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 live ever young.
(19.)
* • 0, let my hooks be then the eloquence.'
Steevens gives a decided preference to ' looks ' instead of hooks, because
* the eloquence of looks would be more in unison with Love's fine wit, and
much more poetical.' As if Shakspeare could have said that his looks
looked for recompence ! The right expression tends to show that the Poet
was here addressing the person to whom he did dedicate his hooks — i.e. the
Earl of Southampton.
LOVE'S TRIUMPH OVER TIME. 125
Like as the waves make towards tlie pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to tlieir 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 crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst bis glory fight.
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound :
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth.
And delves the parallels on Beaut3''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.
(CO.)
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 wltich it fears to lose.
(6..)
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 ?
0, how shall Summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days.
When rocks impregnable are not so stout.
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays ?
126 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
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 beaut)'^ can forbid ?
none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my Love may still shine bright.
(65.)
Not marble, nor the gilded monmnents
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 wars shall statues overturn.
And broils root out the work of masonry.
Nor Mars his sword nor War's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory !
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity,
That wear this world out to the ending doom :
So, till the judgment that yourself arise.
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.
(55.)
127
PERSONAL SONNETS.
1592-3.
SHAKSPEARE TO THE EARL, CHIEFLY COXCERNINa
A RIVAL POET, ADJUDGED TO BE MARLOWE.
I HAVE grouped tliese sonnets as naturally as I can,
according to my interpretation of the Poet's feeling. I
do not say this series was written or sent exactly as it
now stands. These may not have been all composed at
the same time, but they are all on the same subject, and
my arrangement gives them a probable beginning, pro-
gress, and a fit conclusion ; the very thought, indeed, that
Shakspeare loved to dwell on, and wished his friend to
rest in ! He pleads here, in the last sonnet, as he sings
so often, for personal love. He did not care for admira-
tion as the writer of sonnets, and the Earl might read
others for their style if he would only look at his when
he was gone, ' for his love.' The subject is those other
poets and writers who have followed the example of
Shakspeare in celebrating the praise of the Earl his friend,
or in seeking to publish under the protection of his name.
It is not one poet only of whom the speaker is jealous,
but, he says he has so often called on the Eaid's name,
and received so much inspiration for his verse, that every
' alien pen ' and outsider have followed suit, and sought to
set forth their poesy under his patronage. His eyes have
128 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
not only tauglit the dumb to sing, but have made Igno-
rance to soar, and added feathers to the wing of learning ;
made majesty itself doubly majestic.
But he pleads : — ' Be most proud of what I write, be-
cause it is so purely your own. In the work of others
you only mend the style, but you are all my art, and you
set my rude ignorance as high as the art of the most
learned. Whilst I alone sang of you my verse had all
your grace, but now my Muse gives place to another, and
my numbers are decayed. I know well enough that
your virtue and kindness deserve the labour of a worthier
pen, the praise of a better Poet ; yet what can the best of
poets do ? He can only repay back to you that which he
borrows from you.' In sonnet 3 of this group the poet
smgles out his great rival amongst those who are singing
and dedicating to the Earl. ' I feel diffident,' he says, ' in
writing of you when I know that a far better Poet is
spending his strength in your praise, and singing at his
best to make me silent. But since you are so gracious,
there is room on the broad ocean of your worth for my
small bark as weU as for his of proud sail and lofty build.
And if he ride in safety whilst I am wrecked, the worst
is this, it was my love that made me venture and caused
my destruction.' He then questions himself as to the
cause of his recent silence, and he attributes it to the fact
of the Earl having ' filed up the lines ' of his rival's poetry!
Then comes another reason for his keeping quiet. His
Muse is mannerly, and holds her tongue whilst better
poets are singing. He thinks good thoughts whilst they
speak good words. He is like the unlettered clerk, who
by rote cries ' Amen ' to what his superior says. ' Eespect
others then,' he urges, ' for what words are worth, but me
for my dumb thoughts, too full for utterance! I cannot
lavish words easily, as those who do not feel what they
say, and who only write from the fancy, and can thus
cull the choicest flowers to deck their subject. As I am
CAUSE OF rilS RECENT SILENCE. 129
true in love I can but write truthfully. Let them say
more in praise of you who are expecting to hear their
words reechoed in praise of themselves. I am not writing
with an eye to the sale of my sonnets. I never saw that
you needed flattery, and therefore did not think of
painting nature. I found that you exceeded the utmost
a poet could say. Therefore have I been silent, and you
have imputed this silence for my sin, which shall be most
my glory, because I have let beauty speak for itself;
there hves more life in one of your eyes alone than
both your poets could put into any number of their
verses. Who is it that says most? Which of us can
say more than that you are you, and that you stand
alone ? It is a poor pen that can lend nothing to its
subject ; but in writing of you, it will do well if it can
fairly copy wdiat is already writ in you by Nature's
own hand. The worst of it is, you are not satisfied with
the simple truth thus told, you are fond of being written
about, and this makes it hard for those who can only say
the same old thing of you over and over again. I admit
you were not married to my Muse, and that you have
perfect freedom to accept as many dedications as you
please. Your worth is beyond the reach of my words,
and so no doubt you are forced to seek for something
more novel. And do so, my dear friend ; yet when they
have painted your portrait in flaunting colours, I shall say
your truth was best mirrored in my unaffected truthful-
ness. Let them practise their gross painting where cheeks
are in need of blood. If you live after I am dead and gone,
and should once more happen to look over these poor
lines of mine, and compare them with the newer poetry
of the day, to find them far outstripped by later pens,
keep them for the w\arm love in them, not for their lite-
rary merit, and vouchsafe me l)ut tliis one loving thought,
' Had my friend lived he would have brouoht me something
better than this ; something to compare with the best.
K
130 . SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
But since he died, and we have better poets, I will read
their poetry for its style, and keep his for his love.'
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 flee,
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.
(78.)
Whilst I alone did call npon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace ;
But now my gracious numbers are deca3^ed,
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 foimd 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.
(7<..)
0, 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 tlie proudest sail doth bear,
TII8 GREAT RIVAL. ]:5l
My saucy Bark, inferior far to his.
Oil your broad main doth wilfully appear I
Your shallowest help will hold me up alloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride ;
Or, Leing wrecked, 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.
(80.)
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse.
Bound for tlie 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 !
l-[e, 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 filed up his line.
Then lacked I matter : tltat enfeebled mine !
(86.)
INIy 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, while others write good words.
And, like unlettered clerk, still cry ' Amen '
To every line ' that able spirit affords
In polished form of well-refined pen :
Hearing you praised, I say, ' His so, His true,''
And to the most of praise add something more ;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Tho' words come hindmost, holds his rank before :
^ ' Every line.' The Quarto reads 'every hiiiine,' but Shali.-ponre know
that the most unlettered clerk would not cry 'Amen ' after tlio hymn. Al.^o,
* lino ' is more consonant with the march of the ver.'=e and the emphatiis on
' every ' ; therefore I venture to think that ' himne ' was a nii.^print.
K 2
132 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Then others for the breath of words respect.
Me for ray dumb thoughts speaking in effect.
(85.)
So is it not with me as with that INIuse
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse ;
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use,
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ;
INIaking a conplement of proud compare
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's firstborn flowers, and all things rare.
That Heaven's air in this huge rondure hems :
0, let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my Love is as fair
As any mother's child, tho' not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in Heaven's air :
Let them say more that like of hear-say well,
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
(21.)
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 sliort,
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.
(83.)
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 !
^ ' Tfltrd worth,' meaning- 7v7wh worth. I should liave tlioiiglit the word
' what ' might have been a misprint for ' which,' but was checl^cd iu changing
it by the sound of the first word in the next line but one.
OTHER COMPETITORS. 133
Lean penury within that Peu d»jtL dwell,
That to his subject lends not some small glory ;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story ;
Let him but copy what in you is writ.
Not making worse what Nature made so clear.
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired everywhere !
You to your beauteous blessings add a curse.
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.
(84.)
I grant thou wert not married to ray Muse,
And therefore may'st 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 I yet when they have devised
What strained touches rhetoric can lend.
Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathised
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.
(82.)
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 bettering of the time ;
And tho' they be outstripped by every pen.
Reserve • them for my love, not for their rhyme.
Exceeded by the height of happier men :
0, then vouchsafe me but this loving thouglit !
Had iny frieiiiVs Muse grown icitk this growing age,
* 'Reserve,' i.e. 'preserve.'
134 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
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 Pll read ; Ids for his love.
(32.)
To get at the life witliin life of these sonnets we must
look a little closer into this group, with a full belief that
when our ])oet used particular words he freighted tliem
with a particular meaning ; definiteness of purpose and
trutli of detail being the first recommendation and the
last perfection of these sonnets. The pen with which he
wrote for his patron was as pointed as that with which he
wrote for his Theatre.
In the first sonnet of this group Shakspeare is passing
in review those writers who are under the patronage of
the Earl, and he specifies two or three of these by person-
ifying ceitain of their well-known qualities ; he is telling
the Earl what his influence has wrought in divers ways : —
' Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing.
And heavy Ignorance aloft to flee,
Have added feathers to the Learned's wing,
And given grace a double majesty.'
Now, I think it possible to identify who these four
personifications represent.
In the first line Shakspeare speaks of himself as having
been dumb until the Earl turned his eyes — which are the
light of the countenance — on him to make him break
silence and soar and sing, by his encouragement of the
poet to appear in public, and dedicate his first poem to
his Patron. And the Earl not only did this, but he has
made ' Heavy Ignorance ' take wings and fly aloft. This
' Heavy Ignorance ' on whom the Earl has worked nothing
short of a miracle in lifting him from his native position
as a plodder on the earth I surmise to be Florio, the trans-
lator of Montaigne's Essays. ' Eesolute John Elorio ! ' as
FLORIO V. .SIIAK.Sl'EAIiK 1:35
lie signed liis name ; Thrasonical Julm Floiio, as he was
by nature. Florio dedicated works to tlie Earl of Soutli-
ampton, and was, on his own showing, greatly indebted
to the Earl. In 1598 he inscribed his ' World of Words '
to that brave and bounteous peer, with this frank con-
fession of the suj)port he had received : — ' In truth I
acknowledge an entire debt, not only of my best know-
ledge, but of all ; yea, of more than I kno\\" or can, to
your bounteous Lordsliip. in whose pay and patronage I
liave lived some years, to whom I owe and vowe the years
I liave to hve. But, as to me and many more, the glorious
and gracious sunshine of your Honour hath infused light
and life.'
Warburton conjectured that there was a literary set-to
betwixt Florio and Shakspeare. Farmer also took this
view : he tells us that Florio gave the first affront by
saying, in his work entitled ' Second Fruits,' published in
1591, 'The plays tliat tliey play in England are neither
right comedies nor right tragedies, but representations of
Histories without decorum.' Shakspeare's Chronicle Plays
correspond perfectly to these 'representations of Histories ; '
they were amongst the first in the field, and altogether the
most successful ; and it is supposed, with great probability,
that these are the works aimed at. The Poet took note
of this gird, as is surmised, and quietly waited his oppor-
tunity. In composing ' Love's Labour's Lost,' a year or
two afterwards, he copied his character of Holofernes
from the lav-figure of John Florio. Here the author of
the ' World of Words,' a small dictionary of the Italian
and English tongues, is represented as the pedant who
had ' lived long on the alms-basket of words^' and the
' teacher of Italian,' which Florio was, and collector of
proverbs and choice sayings, has been at a great feast
of languages and stolen the scraps.' Warburton imagines
tliat Florio gives the retort, not courteous, to Shakspeare's
having made fun of him, l)y getting furious in a passage
13G SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
of his prefoce to the new edition of his ' World of Words,'
] 598, in Avhich he says : — ' There is another sort of leering
curs that rather snarle than bite, whereof I could instance
in one who, lighting on a good sonnet of a gentleman's,
a friend of mine, that loved better to be a Poet than to be
counted so, called the Author a Ehymer. Let Aristophanes
and his comedians make plais, and scowre their mouths
on Socrates, those very mouths they make to vilifie shall
be the means to amplifie his virtue.' Warburton main-
tained, as is quite warranted by the tone of the defence,
that the sonnet was Florio's own. He further says, that
Shakspeare paraded it in the ' extemporal epitaph on the
Death of the Deer,' which begins : —
* The preyful princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing
pricket.' Love's Lahour^s Lost, act iv. sc. 2.
This conjecture is not merely ingenious, but it is of ex-
ceeding likehhood, and my reading of sonnet 78 may throw
some light on the subject, from a far different point of
view. If Shakspeare in pubhc spoke slightingly of the
Pdiymer, we see him in this sonnet privately laughing in
his sleeve at ' heavy Ignorance ' tr}ang to take wings. I
have not the least doubt that the sonnet was Florio's, nor
that it was addressed to the Earl of Southampton, in
whose pay and patronage he had then (1598) lived some
years. It would be the Earl who told Elorio that Shak-
speare did not think much of his poetry, which nettled
him wrathfuUy, much to the amusement of the two friends.
We have, in Florio, almost on his own confession — al-
though he tries a little to disguise himself — a most fitting
candidate for identification as the ' heavy Ignorance,'
Avhich the Earl had taught to soar aloft. And if he did
aspire to mount on the wings of rhyme in aj^proaching
his patron, there is no other competitor amongst those
who dedicated to the Earl that comes near him in per-
TOM XASII. 137
sonal ai)propriuteness. It is curious to think, in connec-
tion \vitJi this subject, that Shakspeare's own copy of
Florio's translation of Montaigne's Essays — now in the
British Museum — sliould be the sole book in all the
world known to have been in our Poet's possession, and
the only one which has preserved his autograph for us.^
Having spoken of himself and heavy Florio, Shakspeare
comes to another pen which made him use the epithet of
* Alien.' The Earl has not only made the dumb to sing
and Ignorance to fly, in spite of its weight, but he has
' added feathers to the Learned's Aving.' I repeat, the Poet
is enumerating some who have written under the Earl's
patronage, and this he does by personifying their chief
characteristics. And here we have a sly hit at Master
Tom Nash. He wielded an ' alien ' pen with the spirit of
an Ishmaelite. His hand was against every man, in-
cluding Shakspeare. He it was who set up so conspicu-
ously for ' Learning ; ' he was one of the learned sort ; and
he was hitting continually at tliose who had not received a
scholastic nurture, from which, however, he himself had
been weaned before his time. In his ' Pierce Penilesse '
p. 42, he exclaims, ' Alas, poor Latinless Authors ! ' In his
epistle to the ' Astrophel and Stella ' of Sidney, he says,
speaking of the works of Sextus Empedocles, ' they have
been lately translated mto English for the benejit of un-
learned icriters ' (not readers). The Nash and Greene
clique had been the first to attack Shakspeare on the score
of his little country grammar ; his education at a country
grammar-school ; and charged him "svith plucldng the
1 Florio dedicated his first work to the Earl of Leicester in 1578, aa
the * maidenhead of his industry.' The man who did that might well
think the ^posteriors of the day^ for what the vulgar call the afternoon was
* coiKjriient and measurable ; a 7Vord xrell-cuUed. choice, sweet, and apt : picked,
spruce, and peref/rinate.'' In lOll he -^Nnthdrew his dedication to Suutliaiup-
ton, and inscribed his * World of Words ' to the ' Imperial Majesty of the
highest-born Princess Anna of Denmark, crowned Queen of England, Scot-
land, France, and Ireland.'
138 SHAIvSPEARE'S SONNETS.
feathers from the wing of Learning for the purpose of
beautifying himself — the upstart Crow ! And Nash is here
personified in his own chosen image. The Poet makes au
alhision which the Earl and his friends would appreciate,
and he ccvertly returns the borrowed plumes. He says, in
effect, that the Earl has, in patronising Nash, returned
those feathers to the wing of Learning, which he, Sliak-
speare, had been publicly charged with purloining. In a
second allusion he says the Earl's favour has set the rude
' ignorance ' at which his rivals laughed as high as the
learning of which they boasted.
In ' Pierce Penilesse, his supplication to the Devil,' we
shall find that towards the end of 1592, Nash had not
only found a Patron to praise, but had been in some per-
sonal companionship with ' my Lord ' — had been staying
with him in the country for 'fear of infection.' This
was at Croydon, where his play of ' Will Summers' last
Will and Testament ' was privately produced in the
autumn of 1592, to all appearance, under the patronage
of Southampton. The good luck has somewhat soft-
ened his ' Alien pen ' of the earlier pages of that work,
Avhich is bitter in its abuse of patrons. At page 42,
Nash writes, ' If any Mecasnas bind me to him by his
bounty, or extend some round liberality to me worth
the speaking of, I will do him as much honour as
any poet of my beardless years shall in England.' He
made his supplication to the Devil because he had not
then found his Patron Saint. At page 90, he has found
his man. He calls him ' one of the bright stars of
nobility, and glistering attendants on the true Diana.' He
is also ' the matchless image of honour, and magnificent
rewarder of virtue ; Jove's eagle-born Ganymede ; thrice
noble Amyntas ; most courteous Amyntas ! ' Todd sup-
poses that Ferdinando, Earl of Derby, was meant ; because
Spenser, in his ' Collin Clout's come home again,' calls liim
by the common pastoral name of 'Amyntas.' But there
SOUTIIAMrTON'S TATRONAGE OF NASH, 130
is notliin'f known to connect Nash with this Eiirl, as there
is with Shakspeare's patron and friend. The description
fits no one so perfectly as it does the young Earl of South-
ampton. It sets before us the very image of youth
which Shakspeare calls more lovely than Adonis ; Gany-
mede having been the most beautiful of mortal youths,^
Jove's boy-beloved ; the Court's ' fresh ornament ' of
Shakspeare's first sonnet is here one of the ' glistering at-
tendants on the true Diana.' The ' matchless image of
Honour ' corresponds exactly to Southampton, tlu^ ana-
gram made out of whose name was the ' Stamp of B[onom\'
Also, he is supposed not to have been heard of as yet out
of the echo of the Court. We know that Nash was under
the patronage of Shakspeare's friend. In the year 1594,
he dedicated his ' Life of Jack Wilton ' to the Earl of
Southampton, with a reference to the difference betwixt
it and earlier w^ritings, and this work, though not pub-
lished until 1594, was dated 1593. So that I cim have no
doubt of ' Pierce Penilesse ' being really inscribed to the
Earl of Southampton in person if not by name, or that
Nash's was the ' Alien pen ' that had followed Shakspeare
in writing privately to the Earl. What other ' poesy '
Nash may have sought to 'disperse' under the Earl's pa-
tronage I know not. He must have written much that
lias not come down to us. He informs us, in his ' Pierce
Penilesse,' that his Muse was despised and neglected, his
pains not regarded, or but shghtly rewarded. Meres
places him with the poets of the time, as one of the best
for comedy. Harvey calls him a Poet, and Drayton ac-
cords him a leaf of the Laurel. But I hold that the son-
net at the end of ' Pierce Penilesse ' is addressed to the
Eaii of Southampton,'- and that this method of passing
1 Here, then, is one answer to Boaden's assertion that the Earl of South-
ampton coukl not have been the youthful noble who was beloved by Sliak-
ypoave — because he was not snjpcivitfly lta)i(Uome !
'^ * Pursuing yesternight, with idle eyes,
The Fairy Singer's stately-tunjd verse,
140 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
off his poetry gives tlie aptness to Shakspeare's use of the
word ' disperse.' It may be the ' dedicated words that
writers use,' likewise contains a hit at Nash's eulogistic
hyperbole. The ' Life of Jack Wilton ' was inscribed with
a most high-flown dedication to the Earl, whom he called
' a dear lover and cherisher, as well of the lovers of poets
as of poets themselves ; ' and he adds, ' Incomprehensible is
the height of your spirit, both in heroical resolution and
matters of conceit. Unrepriveably perished that book, what-
soever to waste paper, which on the diamond rock of your
judgment disastrously chanceth to be shipwrecked.'
The fourth of this group I hold to be Marlowe. The
Earl has 'given grace a double majesty.' His 'eyes'
have made the dumb to sing, heavy Ignorance to mount,
added feathers to the wing of ' Learning ' itself, and given
to grace a double majesty. It is a somewhat singular ex-
pression. The ' double majesty ' is very weighty to apply
to such a word as ' grace ! ' It would not be used without
an intended stress. A poet is here praised for the grace
of his manner and majesty of his music. The chief cha-
racteristic of his poetry is that it is majestic. The
very quality of aU others that we, following the Ehza-
bethans, associate with the march of Marlowe's ' mighty
line ! ' But the patron, Shakspeare says, has exalted
And viewing', after chapmen's wonted guise,
"VVbat strange contents the title did rehearse ;
1 straight leapt over to the latter end,
Where, like the quaint comedians of our time
That when their play is done do fall to rhyme,
I found short lines to sundry Nobles penned,
Whom he as special mirrors singled forth
To be the patrons of his poetry.
I read them all, and reverenced their worth,
Yet wondered he left out thy memoiy !
But therefore guessed I he suppressed thy name,
Because few words might not comprise thy fame.'
A delightful confession and an interesting picture of Nash on the look-out for
some one to flatter, and huiTying eagerly over the list of Spenser's patrons !
MARLOWE, THE Iii\ AL POET. 141
the poet, and made his poetry douhly mnjestic, or twice
Aviiat it was before. If Marlowe be the rival poet of
these sonnets — one of the two spoken of by Shakspeare
as 'botli your poets '— it follows that he is the poet of
these four lines, the sense of which I should read thus : — .
* Thine eyes that taught the dumb {myself ) on high to sing,
And heavy Ignorance {Flor'w) aloft to flee,
Have added feathers to the Learned's {Xaslcs) wing,
And given INIarlowe double majesty.'
It will be seen that the first two are of the past, the Earl
has at the present moment patronised the latter two ;
these are new writers for him. These facts will sum up
the time, standpoint, and motive of these sonnets. Time,
just after the publication of 'Pierce Penilesse,' in 1592,
and before Marlowe's death in 1593. Motive, jealousy
because the ' aliens ' in feeling had invaded the sanctuary
of his friendship. But there is one amongst those whom
the Earl patronises that Shakspeare acknowledges to be
a great poet, a better poet than himself, an able spirit,
whose simrino; has sufficed to silence our Poet, or rather,
the marked interest which the patron has taken in his
poetry has touched him to the quick.
Boaden, with his jaunt}'- presumption and high-handed
way, assures us that the ' better spirit ' and great rival
poet here spoken of was poor Samuel Daniel ; because he
was brought up at AVilton House, and inscribed his ' De-
fence of lihyme ' to William Herbert, in 1 003, and because^
in the 82nd sonnet, Shakspeare ' hints at the actual groimd
of his jealousy.' But if tliese sonnets should be those
which Meres mentioned in 1598, Shakspeare could not
have been disturbed by Daniel's ' dedicated words ' in
1G03. Besides which, the 'Defence of Ehyme' was a
prose work, and the dedication of a prose work cannot, in
this rival's case, be the actual ground of jealousy. It is
the proud full sail of his great verse bound for tlie prize
of liis i^atron, and the fact tliat the patron has touched up
142 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
tlie rival's lines with his silver file, which stuck in Shak-
speare's throat, and kept him silent. Again, Steevens had
remarked that perhaps sonnet 86 might refer to the cele-
brated Dr. Dee's pretended intercourse with an angel,
and other familiar spirits, and Boaden says : — ' There can
be no doubt about it, the fact is upon record. Queen
Elizabeth and the Pembroke family were Dr. Dee's chief
patrons ; whose exalted minds were not exempt from the
mania of the times, which the sounder philosophy of
Shakspeare led him to denounce.' But there is every
doubt about it. It is utterly and absolutely opposed to
the spirit of Shakspeare, as revealed in the personal son-
nets, that he should sneer at his patron, or denounce his
practices, even if he had been a believer in Dr. Dee ; and,
secondly, it is the poet whose tastes are wizardly, and
whose w^ork ranges above a mortal pitch, by aid of the
spirits that visit him nightly. Nothing is said of the
patron in the matter ; nothing implied. Also, it is a sup-
position perfectly improbable that Shakspeare should have
pomted out the ' proud full sail ' of Daniel's (of all others)
' great verse,' or characterise it as written ' above a mortal
pitch,' except ironically, which cannot be, or else the
' all-too-precious you ' would lie open to suspicion likewise.
The whole sonnet is seriously in earnest. Boaden does
not take it to be sarcastic ; he has no doubt that Shak-
speare actually vailed his bonnet, not only to Spenser, but
to Daniel and Chapman, to Harington and Fairfax !
Lastly, to all appearance, Daniel did not seek to ' dis-
perse ' his ' poesy ' imder the Earl of Pembroke's patro-
nage, if he inscribed a prose work to tliat nobleman ; or,
if he did seek, the young Earl must have grown shy of
]iim ; possibly because Daniel had been brought up in the
family.
In a letter of this poet's, addressed to the Earl of
Devonshire (1G04), he is sorry for having offended his
patron Ijy pleading before the Council, wlien called in
CIIAl.'.vnTElUSTirS OF MAliLOWi:. U.i
question for the Trngedy of rhilotas, tliut lie liad read
})iirt of it to the Earl (of Devonshire), and says he has
no other friend in power to help him I If this had been
the great poet of whom Shakspeare and Wilham Herl^ert
are supposed to have thouglit so higlily, and whose rela-
tion had been so intimate, how then should poor
Daniel have had no other friend in power to help him,
Avhen the friendship of Herbert had been sufficiently great
to make Shakspeare jealous? Nothing, save the blindest
belief in the Herbert hypothesis, which of necessity shifts
the date at which most of the sonnets were written, could
possibly obscure so plain a fact as that this group of
sonnets must have been composed by Shakspeare's ' pupil
pen ' before he had taken his place amongst the poets of
liis time, and that Marlowe is the rival poet of these
lines.
That ]\Iarlowe is the other poet of sonnets 80 and 8G
is shown by the most circumstantial evidence in every
hne and touch of our poet's description. Marlowe was
a dramatic celebrity before Shakspeare ; he had about
him something of that glow of Giorgione's dawn, the pro-
mise of which was only fulfilled in the perfect day of
Titian ; and there can be no doubt that Shakspeare
looked up to him, and was somewhat led captive by
his lofty stj'le. He would in those younger years fully
appreciate the delicious bodily beauty of many of I\Iar-
lowe's lines, hke those in which Faustus describes his
visionary Helen. He has, in ' As you hke it,' a kindly
thought for the dead poet, and quotes a line from IMar-
lowe's unfinished poem, ' Hero and Leander,' with which
he may have been acquainted in MSS., because it was
composed for the Earl of Southampton. He would be
the first to give him all praise for having, in his use of
blank verse, struck out a new spring of the national
Helicon with the impatient pawing-hoof of his fiery war-
horse of a Pegasus; but for which Shakspeare himself
144 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
miglit possibly liave remained more of a rhymer, and not
attained his full dramatic stature. Nothincj could better
give us our poet''s view of himself and the rival, than the
image drawn from Drake and the Spanish Dons ; after-
wards used by Fuller in his description of Shakspeare and
Ben Jonson. Marlowe is here represented as the great
portly Spanish galleon, of tall build and full sail, and
goodly pride, and Shakspeare is the small trim bark — the
' saucy bark ' that can float with the ' shallowest help ; '
venture daringly on the broad ocean, and skip lightly round
the vast bulk of his rival. The comparison is full of our
poet's modesty and lurking humour. He considers his
rival as far superior to himself, and speaks of him as
the ' better spirit,' or the greater poet of assured fame.
Shakspeare, it appears, has been silent for some time, and
the Earl has reproached him for it. 'Meanwhile, others
have been singing and dedicating to the patron ; and this
' better spirit ' has been spending all his might 'with the
intention of praising or honouring the patron in whose
name he is ^vriting. He has not only flourished in the
Earl's favoiir, but the Earl himself has lent his hand to
polish up, or give the finishing touch to, something of the
rival poet's.
Shakspeare asks : —
' Was it the proud fall sail of Ids great verse,
Bound for the prize of all-too-precious you.
That did ray ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse ?
Was it his spirit, by Spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead ?
No : neitlier he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished, —
He, nor that affable -familiar Ghost
WJiich 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 filed up his line,
Then lacked I matter ; that enfeebled mine.'
MEPIIISTOnilLES THE 'AFFABLE FAMILIAR' SPIRIT. 14o
If we believe that Shakspeare liad any power of com-
pelling spirits to appear dramatically — any mastery of
stroke in rendering human likeness — any exact and cun-
ning use of epithet — how can we doubt that the name to
be written under that portrait is Christopher Marlowe ?
Or, that his is the poetry whose extravagant tone Shak-
speare accounted ' above a mortal pitch ? '
Those lines give us the very viva effigies, not only of
the Poet (' he of tall building and of goodly pride ' —
sonnet 80), but of the man whose reputation was so
marked, the author who had eaten of the forbidden fruit
of knowledge, the poetry characterised in the precise lan-
guage used by the poets of that time. It is a triple
account, that only unites in one man, and that man is
Marlowe — far and away beyond all possible competition.
In his lust after power, and with his unhallowed glow
of imagination, Marlowe became a student of the Black
Arts, and a practiser of necromancy — he was reputed to
have dealings with the Devil. No doubt his Dr. Faustus
gave a darker colour to such report, and. in the eyes of
many as well as in their conversation, the man and his
creation became one. They would commonly call him
'Faustus,' just as they called him ' Tambuiiaine.' And
this is exactly how Shakspeare lias treated the subject. In
his dramatic way, he has identified Marlowe with Faustus,
and he presents him upon the stage where, in vision, if
it be not an actual fact, the Play is running at the rival
Theatre, whilst the Poet is composing his sonnet. The
conditions on which Faustus sells his soul are, that Mephis-
tophiles shall be his familiar spirit, who shall do all his
behests, execute all his commands, bring all that he re-
quires, be in his house or chamber invisible until wanted,
and then he is to appear in whatsoever shape Faustus
pleases. And Mephistophiles promises to be the slave of
Faustus, and give him more than he has wit to ask. A
YCYj plausible familiar ghost or attendant spirit ! Tluis our
L
146 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Poet sees tlie Doctor, or Mariowe, and his familiar ' gulling
him nightly ' with his promises, and such pleasant intelli-
gence as that in Hell is all manner of deliyht! And the
drama is once more played, so to speak, in the sonnet.
We have Marlowe identified as the poet who talked of
deriving help from spirits, by spirits taught to write above
a mortal pitch — the poet of ' Faustus,' with his ' aflable
famihar gliost ' and ' execrable art ' — Mephistophiles, his
visitant that gulled him nightly — and the poet of tliat
' proud full sail ' or resounding march of his great verse,
which is here rendered according to the tenor of all con-
temporary description, and identified by the characteristic
that is uppermost in the minds of all who are acquainted
with the King Cambyses vein of Marlowe.
It may be objected that, although we can identify
Florio, Nash, and others, as having dedicated to the Earl
of Southampton, there is no external evidence to prove
that Marlowe ever did. It may be that his early death
caused much to be hidden from our sight that was known
to Shakspeare when he wrote these sonnets. Marlowe
may have Englished the Elegies of Ovid for the Earl at
his own particular request, and died before they were
printed. He may also have written the love-song ' Come
live with me,' for Southampton, and that be the very
reason why Shakspeare wrote the answer to it — for he
most assuredly did write the answer containing the line
' In reason ripe, in folly rotton,' in spite of the daring of
those adventurers in search of Ealeigh's poetry, who are
as bold as was that ' Shepherd of the ocean ' himself in
gathering up treasure of another kind. Further, the de-
scription of this poet in his relationship to the patron does
not so much dwell on what he has done for the Earl as
what he is at present doing. He is at work in the Earl's
name when the poet writes sonnet 80, and Shakspeare is
aware that the rival is then spending all his might domg
his utmost to honour the Earl and make our Poet ' tongue-
MART.OWK'S 'TTErtO AND LEAXDER.' 147
tied ' in speaking of liis pntron's fame. lie alludes chiefly
to work in progress, not to work done. There is rivalry
in a race then being run, and Shakspeare says if the rival
should be victor over him he will know and be able to
say:—
The worst was this, my love was my decay.
In sonnet 86, likewise, thePoet speaks of the rival bark as
being ' bound for the prize of all-too-precious you,' not as
having touched the shore, or reached haven. In both these
sonnets the rival poet is working for the Earl, and there
is nothing improbable in supposing that Marlowe's ' Hero
and Leander ' was intended to be dedicated to Southamp-
ton ; that he was Avriting it when death cut short the poet's
Hfe, and the poem was left unfinished, and that Shakspeare
was acquainted with the fragment in MS. and so quoted
from it the line ' who ever loved that loved not at first
sight,' with an acknowledgement to the ' Dead Shepherd '
in ' As you Like it.'
There are further reasons why Marlowe should be this
rival poet.
Shakspeare tells the Earl that his silence was not owhig
to the fact of the rival's being reputed to write by the help
of spirits and ' metaphysical aid,' nor that he was the
great Dramatist, and author of ' Faustus,' nor yet that he
knew the ' proud full sail ' of the rival's ' great verse ' was
bound for the Earl as his intended prize ; it was none of
these things that did his ' ripe thoughts ' in his ' brain
inhearse,' or cause them to be still-born.
This seeking of a ' fresher stamp of the time-bettering
days ' — this accepted ' travail of a worthier pen ; ' these
lofty passionate braggart words of dedication ; the 'strained
touches ' and the ' gross painting ' make the true love of
Shakspeare's heart feel a little hurt ; but these things have
not stirred his jealousy. There is a deeper cause for that.
The Earl's countenance has ' filed up ' the rival's poetry ;
148 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
wliicli must mean more than that he has received it and
smiled graciously upon it. He says exphcitly that it was
not the rival's being bound for the Earl, nor the dedication,
intended or accepted, that made him fearful ; but when
the Earl undertook to ' file up ' his rival's line, that was
indeed a different matter.
This it was, Shakspeare confesses, that probed his in-
firmity — made him feel jealous, and keep silence. That
there is a touch of jealousy and a good deal of rivalry in
these sonnets relating to the ' other poet,' is apparent and
must be admitted. And in this aspect there is no poet
who could make such an appeal so justly to Shakspeare's
feehngs as Marlowe. Marlowe was the rival poet at the
opposition theatre. He was then the Shakspeare of the
English drama, in the full flush and high tide of his brief
and brilliant success. ' Tamburlaine the Great,' ' Faustus,*
the 'Jew of Malta,' ' Edward H.,' had come crowding on
the stage one after the other, with Alleyn playing his best
in the principal characters. Heywood, writing forty years
afterwards, celebrates Marlowe as the best of poets, and
Alleyn as the best of players. Shakspeare was far more
likely to be jealous for his Theatre than for himself, and,
if the Earl had looked over one of his rival's works and
suggested amendments, this would touch the player as
well as the natural man in Shakspeare, and cause him to
keep that silence which has been imputed to him as his sin,
and to show this feeling of jealousy when he next ad-
dressed the Earl. My conclusion respecting these three
personifications is, that Florio's is possible, Nash's pro-
Ijaljle, Marlowe's certain. Florio's is a guess ; Nash's an
inference ; Marlowe's a demonstration.
In this group of sonnets we may learn one or two things
by word of mouth, so to say, from Shakspeare himself,
which readers will do wisely to remember. There can
be no doubt that the Poet is here speaking personally of
his own feelings, and of his own writings. His whole ar-
THE POET'S PLEA FOR TRUTH TO XATUP.E. 149
gumcnt is for truth to nature. And he most emphatically
rebukes those who liave assumed tiiat lie perpetrated all
kinds of sonneteerinsjf nonsense, and exceeded all others
in his fantastic exaggeration ; that he transcended all the
amorous wooers of the Ideal, and lavished his love in
ardent language upon airy nothings. In these sonnets he
tells us that he writes of and from reality. It is not with
him, he says, as with that Muse ' stirred by a painted
beauty to his verse,' by which he means that he celebrates
no mere visionary image or fiction of the fancy, as
Drayton for example did, in his sonnets to ' Idea,' * and
likewise the author of ' Licia, or Poems of Love,' printed
in 1593, which work consists of 52 sonnets in honour of
the admirable and singular virtues of the A\Titer's lady,
full of fervent affection and passionate praise. In his
address to the reader the author says, ' If thou muse what
my Licia is, take her to be some Diana, at the least chaste ;
or some Minerva, no Venus, fairer far. It may be she is
Learning's image, or some heavenly wonder, which the
precisest may not dislike ; perhaps, under that name, I
have shadowed Discipline.'^ So is it not with me,
Shakspeare replies, and, therefore, I do not imitate those
who use heaven itself for ornament, and couple all the
glories of earth with their imaginary Mistress, for the
sake of making proud comparisons in her favour. I
am only rich in reality, and being truly in love can only
^ Published, says Ritson, with the ' Shepherd's Garland,' and ' Roland's
Sacrifice to the Nine Muses,' in a volume printed for T. Woodcocke, 1593 :
4to. Drayton was amusingly anxious to show that he icag ' stiiTed bv a
painti'd beauty to his verse,' and that his love was only an ' Idea.' Shak-
speare is as earnest in asserting that he writes from reality. The greatest
master of Reality is here the advocate of Realism in Art ; the soul of sin-
cerity himself, he cannot tolerate tliat which is insincere in others.
" Thomas AVatson — he who, according to the taste of Steevens, was ' a
more elegant sonnetteer than Shakspeare.' also published in 1593 the 'Tears
of Fancy, or Love disdained,' in sixty sonnets. Our Poet may have had
this work in view, as well as the * Licia,' when protesting tliat his sonnets
were not mere fancy-work, but the outcome of real feeling.
150 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
write trutlifully. Tliis sonnet contains an answer to those
who hold that the flowery tenderness and exquisite spring-
tints of sonnets 98 and 99 were devoted to a man as the
object of them. The Poet here says he does not compare
his friend ' with April's Jirst-borii jiowers and all things
rare, that Heaven's air in this huge rondure henis.^ He
protests as plainly as any living author could, who might
write to the ' Times,' or ' Atliena3um,' of to-day, that he
does not use the ' gross painting ' the ' strained touches
Ehetoric can lend.' It is the very opposite of his nature
and art to write in the extravagant style and ' high-
astounding terms,' the ' huffing, braggart, puft language '
that Marlowe so often used, whose verses, as Greene had
said in 1588: — 'jet on the stage in tragical buskins;
every word filling the mouth like the faburden of Bow-
Bells.' May we not also here read a potent protest against
such a work as ' Titus Androuicus ' being ascribed to
Shakspeare ?
This group of sonnets was written before the death of
Marlowe, in June 1593. I am of opinion that sonnet
80 marks the moment when Shakspeare was about to
embark with his first literary venture, the ' Venus and
Adonis.' If he be wrecked, if he sinks whilst Marlowe
swims, he says, the cause will have been his love for the
Earl ; not literary vanity.
NOTE.
I think there is proof in both sonnets ajid pltiys that Shakspeare had read
Marlowe's two sestiads of ' Hero and Leauder ' in AISS. For example,
compare sonnets 4 and 6 with these lines :
' Treasure is abused
When misers keep it : being put to loan,
In time it will return us two for one.'
* But this fair gem, sweet in the loss alone,
When j'ou fleet hence, can be bequeathed to none.'
Sonnets 20 and 53 with these lines :
* Some swore he was a maid in man's attire,
For in his looks were all that men desire.'
And sonnet 80 with these :
' A stately-biiilded ship, well-riggod and tall,
The ocean maketh more majestical.'
Also, readers of ' Eomeo and Juliet ' will recognise Marlowe's * gallop
amain' and 'dark night is Cupid's day.' I cannot doubt that Shakspeare
was acquainted Avith this poem years before it was printed, nor that he
characterises its sensuous grace, and refers to it as having been written for
the Earl of Southampton. In dedicating the published book to Sir Thomas
Walsingham, Edward Blunt hints that the poem has had ' other foster
countenance,' but that his name is likely to prove more ' (ujreeahle and
thrinng ' to the work, which was the view of a sensible publisher, for the
other fostering countenance — Southampton's — might not have shed so
favourable an influence in 1598, the year in which the fragment was first
printed.
Having omitted to express the thought in the text, I would here note my
conjecture, that the miserable death of Marlowe is referred to in '-4 Mid-
summer Niffht's Dream,' where we meet with —
* The THRICE-XHREE ^lusES mouruing for the death
Of Leamiug, late deceased in beggary ! '
That disreputable end of one who ought to have taken a nobler leave of
the world, was indeed a subject for a 'satire keen and critical.' And surely
this was the Poet who, in sonnet 85 (p. 131), is said to ■wTite with 'golden
quill and precious phrase by all the nrsES filed ?'
152 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
A PERSONAL SONNET.
1593-4.
»0>«^00
SHAKSPEARE IS ABOUT TO WRITE ON THE COURT-
SHIP OF HIS FRIEND SOUTHAMPTON, ACCORDINO
TO THE EARL'S SUGGESTION.
^ And now I will unclasp a secret book.^
Turning to tlie Book of Sonnets, the reader will see
that we can read them straiglit on as Personal Sonnets up
to the 2Gt]i, but with the 27th we are all adrift ; the
spirit changes so obviously as to necessitate a change of
speaker. Till now the feeling was one of repose in the
affection which the Poet celebrated. Here the feeling has
all a lover's restlessness. In tlie previous sonnets we have
not been left in doubt as to the sex of the person ad-
dressed ; there were many allusions to its being a Man.
We now meet with sonnet after sonnet, and series after
series, in which there is no mention of sex. The feeling
expressed is more passionate, and the phrase has become
more movingly tender ; far closer relationship is sung, and
yet the object to whom these sonnets are Avritten never
appears in person. There is neither ' man ' nor ' boy,'
' him ' nor ' liis.' How is this ? Surely it is not the wont
of a stronger feeling and greater warmth of affection to
fuse down all individuality and lose sight of sex. That
is not the way of Nature's or of Shakspeare's working.
Here is negative evidence that the speaker is not ad-
dressing a man. The internal evidence and poetic proof
are in favour of its being a Woman. There is a spirit too
THE AVITNESS WTTTTTX. 15».
delicate for the grosser ear of a man. The imagery is
essentially feminine. There is a fondness in the feeling,
and a preciousness in the phrase that tell of ' Love's coy
touch.' Also there are secret stirrings of nature whicli
influence us as they might if we were in the presence of
a beautiful woman disguised : little tell-tales of conscious-
ness and whisperings in the air. Many of the sonnets
addressed by Shakspeare to the Earl are as glowing in
affection, as tender in phrase as could well be written
from man to man, but there is a subtle difference be-
twixt these and others that, as I shall show, are addresssd
to a woman. The conditions under which the Poet
created did not permit of his branding them with the
outward signs of sex ; but the difference exists in the
secret spirit of them. We continually catch a breath of
fragrance, as though we were treading upon invisible
violets, and are conscious of a pcrfusive feminine grace ;
whilst a long and loving acquaintanceship brings out the
touches and tendernesses of difference, distinct as those
notes of the nightingale that make her song so peerless
amongst those of other birds. There is a music here
such as could only have found its perfect cliord in a
woman's heart. Once we shut our eyes to the supposi-
tion that all these sonnets were meant for a man, we
shall soon feel that in numbers of them the heart of a
lover is going forth with thrilHngs ineffable towards a
woman, and, in the unraistakeable ciy, we shall hear the
voice of that love which has no like— the absorbing,
absolute, all-containing Love that woman alone engen-
ders in the heart of a man. Not that Shakspeare is here
wooing a woman iu person. lie would not have done
that and left out the sex. They are written on South-
ampton's courtship. It is not Shakspeare who speaks,
but Soutliampton to his lady. This will account for the
impassioned tenderness, and, at the same time, for the
absence of all mention of the sex of the person addressed,
154 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
■svliich would naturally result from the poet's delicacy of
feeling^ or, from a reticence agreed upon.
There will be nothing very startling in the proposition
that our Poet devoted sonnets to his friend's love for Eliza-
beth Vernon, if we think for a moment of his words
addressed in public to Southampton, in the year 1594.
' What / have to do is yours ; being part in all I have
devoted yours.' Now, if he alluded to his sonnets in that
dedication of ' Lucrece,' as I maintain he did, there is but
one way in which the allusion could apply. He would
not have promised to write a book, or a series of sonnets,
and speak of them as a part of what he had to do for
the Earl if they were to be mere poetical exercises or
personal to himself. Such must have been altogether
fugitive — the subjects unknown beforehand. Wliereas he
speaks of the work as devoted to the Earl, something that
is fixed, and fixed, too, by, or with the knowledge of the
person addressed. This I take to refer to the fact that,
at the Earl's suggestion, he had then agreed to write
dramatic sonnets on the subject of Southampton's court-
ship. And as they were in hand when he dedicated his
second poem to Southampton, I infer that they were com-
menced in 1593.
If my theory of the sonnets be true, the sonnets them-
selves ought to yield the most convincing proof that it is
so. They should tell their own tale, however marvellous
it may be ; nay, they should speak with a more certain
sound because of the mystery. The voice should be all
the clearer if it comes from the cloud. This they wiU do.
Only we must have the courage to believe that Shakspeare
knew what he was writing about, and that he was accus-
. tomed to use the English language in its plainest sense,
except where words would flower double on account of
the fulness of his wit. We must not lose sight of the
literal truth and substance of his meaninsr in following the
figurative shadow, or we shall quite miss the palpable
A CHANGE IN THE POET'S MODE OF WRITING. lo5
facts, and find ourselves in the position of others wlio liave
had to make all sorts of excuses for Shakspeare's indefi-
niteness. Let us only remember that these sonnets are
by the writer who got nearest to nature through the close-
ness of his grasp of reality ; and a false interpretation has
hitherto hindered our seeing that his grij) was as close,
his feehng as true, his language as hteral here as in
his dramas. Then we shall find that they do in very
truth tell their own story according to the theory now
j^roposed and set forth. Not merely in the underlying
evidence — the inner facts which can only be paralleled in
the outer hfe of the different speakers, the distinct indi-
viduality of the characters pourtrayed — but it actually
stares us in the face on the surface, so close to us that we
have overlooked it by being too far-sighted.
I purpose showing that after our Poet had written a
certain number of personal sonnets to the Earl, his dear
friend, advising him to marry, and the Earl had met and
fallen in love with the ' faire Mistress Vernon,' Shak-
speare then began, at the Earl's own request, to write
sonnets dramatically on the subject of the Earl's passion,
and the trials, ' tills,' and misadventures of a pair of star-
crossed lovers, with the view of enhancing their pleasures
and enriching their pains by his poetic treatment of tlieir
love's tender and troublous history. The intimacy, as we
have seen from the sonnets which are personal, was of
the nearest and dearest kind that can exist between man
and man. Were there no proof to be cited it would
not be so great a straining of probability to imagine the
intimacy close and secret enougli for Shakspeare to write
sonnets on Southampton's love, in this impersonal in-
direct way, as it is to suppose it was close enough for
them to share one mistress, and for Shakspeare to write
sonnets for the purpose of proclaiming the mutual dis-
grace and perpetuating the sin and shame. It might
fairly be argued also that the intimacy being of this secret
156 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
and sacred sort, would naturally take a greater delight in
being illustrated in the unseen way of a dramatic treat-
ment. It woidd be sweeter to the Earl's affection ; more
perfectly befitting the Poet's genius ; the celebration of
the marriage of two souls in the most inner sanctuary of
friendship.
But there is proof.
For all who have eyes to see, the 38th sonnet tells us
most explicitly that the writer has done with the subject
of the earlier sonnets. There is no further need of ad-
vising the Earl to marry when he is doing all he can
to get man'ied. But, says the Poet, he cannot be at
a loss for a subject so long as the Earl lives to pour
into his verse his own argument. The force of the
expression ^pourst into my verse,' shows that this is in
no indirect suggestive way, but that the Earl has now
begun to supply his own argument for Shakspeare's son-
nets. This argument is too ' excellent,' too choice, in
its nature fox ''every vulgar paper to rehearse.' Here is
something ' secret, sweet and precious,' not to be dealt
with ill the ordinary way of personal sonnets. This
excelling argument calls for the most private treatment,
and to carry out this a new leaf is turned over in the
Book of Sonnets. If the residt be in any way worthy
the Earl is to take all credit, for it is he who has sug-
gested the new theme, supplied the fresh argument, and
struck out a new light of invention ; he has ^ given Inven-
tion ZzV/A/,' lighted the Poet on his novel path. Thus, ac-
cepting the Earl's suggestion of writing dramatically on
the subject given, the Poet calls upon him to be, to become
the tenth Muse to him. Obviously he had not so con-
sidered him whilst writing to the Earl ; but as he is about
to Avrite of liim dramatically, he exclaims ' be thou the
tenth Muse ! ' And if his new sonnets should please the
Earl and his friends, who are curious in sucli matters, his
be the pain, the labour ; the Earl's shall be the praise.
THE NEW THEME. lo7
The reader will see how consistently the thought of
this sonnet follows the series in which the Poet has ex-
pressed his jealousy of the adulation of insincere rivals. He
has now stepped into the inner circle of the Earl's private
friendship, where they cannot pass. Tliey may stand
on the outside and address him, but the Earl has taken
our poet into the inmost place of his private confidence,
and w^hispered into his ear and breathed into his verse
the argument of his love for Elizabeth Vernon, too ex-
cellent for every common paper or ordinary method to
rehearse. The other sonnets contain a lover's querulous-
ness, this has the secret satisfaction of the chosen one
who has been favoured above all others.
SIIAKSPEARE IS ABOU-T TO WRITE SONXETS UPOX THE EARL's
LOVE FOR ELIZABETH VERNOX.
How can my ]Muse want subject to invent.
Whilst thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse ?
0, 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 hght ?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old Nine which rhymers invocate,
And he that calls on thee, let him brinir 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.
(3S.)
It has been said tluit sucli ani()n)us wooine:s as these
of Shakspeare's sonnets, when personally interpreted,
were common betwixt man and man with the Elizabethan
sonneteers. But where is the record of them ? In whose
158 SHAKSPE ARE'S SONNETS.
sonnets shall we find the illustration ? Not in Spenser's,
nor Sidney's, Drayton's, nor Daniel's, Constable's nor
Drummond's. Warton instanced the ' Affectionate Shep-
herd ' ; but Barnefield, in his address ' To the cnrteous
Gentlemen Readers ' prefixed to his ' Cynthia,' &c., ex-
pressly forbids such an interpretation of his ' conceit,'
and states that it was nothing else than ' an imitation
of Virgil in the 2nd EcWue of Alexis.' There is no
precedent whatever, only an assumption, a false excuse
for a foolish theory. The precedent that we find is for
such sonnets being written dramatically. It was by no
means uncommon for a Poet to write in character on
behalf of a Patron, and act as a sort of secretary in
his love affairs, the letters being put into the shape of
sonnets. In Shakspeare's plays we meet with various
allusions to courting by means of ' W^ilfid sonnets whose
composed rhymes should be full-fraught with service-
able vows.' Thurio, in the 'Two Gentlemen of Verona,*
goes into the city to seek a gentleman Avho shall set
a sonnet to music for the purpose of wooing Sylvia.
Gascoigne, who died 1577, tells us, many years before
Shakspeare wrote in this way for his young friend, he
had been engaged to write for others in the same fashion.
The author of the 'Forest of Fancy,' 1579, informs us
tliat many of the poems were written for '•persons who
had occasion to crave his help in that behalf.'' Mars-
ton in his ' Satyres,' 1598, accuses Eoscio (Burbage), the
tragedian, of having written verses for Mutio, and he tells
us that ' absolute Castillo had furnished himself in like
manner in order that he might pay court to his Mistress.
And as he is glancing at the Globe Theatre, may not he
have had Shakspeare and Southampton in his eye?
' Absolute Castilio ' is characteristic of the Earl, especially
in the mouth of an envious poet whom he did not
patronise.
Drayton also tells us in his 21st sonnet that he knew
OTHER SONNETS DRAMATICALLY WRITTEN. 159
a gallant who wooed a young girl, but <•« )u](,l not win her.
He entreated the poet to try and move her Avith his per-
suasive rhymes. And such was the force of Poesy, whether
heaven-bred or not, that he won the Mistress for his
friend with the very first sonnet he wrote ; that was suffi-
cient to make her dote on the youth beyond measure. So
that in showing Shakspeare to have written dramatic
sonnets for the Earl of Southampton, to express liis pas-
sion for Mistress Vernon, we are not compelled to go far
in search of a precedent for the doing of such a thing ; it
was a common custom when he undertook to honour it
by his observance. In the sonnet just quoted, Shakspeare
accepts the Earl's suggestion that he should write dramatic
sonnets upon subjects supplied by Southampton, who has
thus ' GIVEN Invention light.'
60 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
DKAMATIC SONNETS.
1593-4.
-o-o>afic
SOUTHAMPTON IN LOVE WITH ELIZABETH VEENON.
These four sonnets are among the most beautiful that
Shakspeare wrote ; a greater depth of feehng is sounded :
a new and most natural stop is drawn, which has the
power to ' mitigate and swage with solemn touches
troubled thoughts ' and make the measure dilate into its
stateliest music ; the poetry grows graver and more sagely
fine. Point by point, note by note, the most special par-
ticulars are touched, and facts fresh from hfe and of the
deepest significance are presented to us, yet we are unable
to identify one of them as belonging to the life and cha-
racter of Shakspeare. The music is full of meaning — the
slower movement being necessary because of the burden
it bears — but we do not know what it means. If we sup-
pose Shakspeare to be speaking, the more pointed the
verity, the greater the vagueness. Simply we cannot tell
what he is talking about in so sad a tone. It is possible
that he may have lost dear friends, although, so far as we
know, when these sonnets were written he had not even
lost a child. Also, it is probable that, full of winning
cheerfulness and sunny pleasantness, and ' smiling govern-
ment ' of himself as he was, he had his niiJ-ht-seasons of
sadness and depression ; that he experienced reverses of
fortune at his theatre, and sat at home in the ni^ht-
o
IT IS NOT SHAKSPEAKE SrEAKINd. KU
time wliilst his fellows were making merry after work,
and nursed liis hope and streiifrth with cordial loving
thoughts of his good friend. But we cannot picture
Shakspeare turned malcontent and miserable ; looking
upcm himself as a lonely outcast, bewailing his wretched
condition ; nursing his cankering thoughts prepensely, and
rocking himself, as it were, over them persistently. This
cannot be the man of proverbial sweetness and smoothness
of disposition, the incarnation of all kindliness, the very
spirit of profound and perennial cheerfulness who, in
sonnet 32, calls his life a ' well-contented day ! ' If
Shakspeare had at tunes felt depressed and despondent
for want of sympathy, it was surely most unlike him to
make such dolorous complaints to this dear friend whom
he had just addressed as being more to him than all the
world beside, and whose love had crowned him with a
crown such as Fortune could not confer. In making the
Poet his friend, he had honoured Shakspeare (his own
words) beyond the power of the world's proudest titles ;
enriched him with a gift of good that Fortune could not
paragon. How then, into wdiatsoever 'disgrace' he had
fallen, could he pour forth his selfish sorrow to this friend
who was so supremely his source of joy ? How could he
talk of being friendless and envying those who had friends
when he was in possession of so peerless a friend ? How
should he speak of ' troubling c?(?a/ Heaven with his hoot-
less cries,' when Heaven had heard him and sent him such
a friend, and his was the nature to straightway apprehend
the Giver in the gift ? How could he ' curse his fate,'
which he held to be so blessed in havincj this friend?
How should he speak of being ' contented least ' with what
he enjoyed most when he had said this friend was the
great spring of his joy? How should he exclaim against
Fortune when he had received and warmly acknowledged
the best gift she had to bestow ? Moreover, these ci-ies
of self would sooner or later have seemed bitterly sellish
M
162 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
for they would be addressed to a man who had a fair
cause of complaint against Fortune, and a real right to
utter every word tliat has been ascribed to Shakspeare
himself in these exclamatory sonnets, with their wistful
looks, and dolorous ejaculations, and tinge of lover's me-
lancholy. We may rest assured tliat Shakspeare was the
last man to have made any such mistake in Nature and in
Art. If he had his sorrows he would have kept them out
of sight whilst his friend was suffering ; he who lias nearly
kept himself out of sight altogether, and who comes the
closest to us just for the sake of smiling up into the face
of this friend, and of showing us that this was the man
whom he once loved, as he told us, the only times he
ever spoke in prose, and proclaimed that his love for him
Avas without end. The personal reading is altogether
wrong ; it does not touch these sonnets at any one point,
much less fathom the depth of their full meaning. The
character expressed is in heart and essence, as well as in
every word, that of a youthful spirit who feels in ' disgrace
witli Fortune,' and the unnoticing eyes of men, and whose
tune is ' Fortune, my Foe, why dost thou frown,' because
for the present he is condemned to sit apart inactive.
Tliis talk about ' Fortune ' was to some extent a trick
of the time, and a favourite strain with Essex. Perez, the
flashing foreign friend of this Earl, also indulged much in
it, calhng liimself ' Fortune's Monster,' which was the
motto he inscribed on his portrait. It is the young man
of Action doomed to be a mere spectator. He has seen
his fellow-nobles, the ' choicest buds of all our English
1)1 ood,' go by to battle with dancing pennons and nodding
plumes (as Marston describes them), floating in feather on
the land as ships float on the sea, or, as Shakspeare may
have described them —
'All fiiniLshed, all in arms.
All plumed like estridges that wing the wind.
Till': EARL OUT OF LUCK. 103
I^ated like eagles having lately bathed ;
(i littering in golden coats, like Images;
As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the sun at Midsummer.'
Some of them are off with Ealeigli, going to do good work
for England, and strike at the Spaniard a memorable
stroke. The land has rung from end to end with the
fame of Grenville's great deed and glorious death. A few
ycare before Cavendish had come sailing up the river
Tliames with his merry mariners clad in silk ; his sails of
damask, and his top-masts cloth of gold ; thus symbolling
outwardly the lichness of the prize they had^wrested from
the enemy. The spirit of adventure is everywhere in
motion, sending
* Some to the wars, to try their fortune there ;
Some to discover islands far away.'
The hearts of the young burn within them at the recital
of their fathers' deeds, the men who conquered Spain in
1588, when all her proud embattled powers were broken.
The after- swell of that hi^li heavin<f of the national
heart catches them up and sets them yearning to do some
such work of noble note.
He, too, is anxious for service, wearying to mount
horse and away. The stir of the time is within him,
and here he is compelled to sit still. He shares the
feelinir of his friend Charles Blount, afterwards Lord
Mountjoy, who, twice or thrice, stole away from Court,
without the Queen's leave, to join Sir John Xorris in
Bretagne, and was reproached by Her Majesty for trying
to eret knocked on the head as ' that inconsiderate fellow
Sidney had done.' He hears the sounds of the strife,
the trumpet's ' golden cry,' tlie clash and clangour of the
conflict, and his spirit longs to be gone and in amidst the
din and dust of the arena — he who is left by the wayside,
out of harness and out of heart. He feels it as a disgrace
M 2
KU SlIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
put Oil him by Fortune, and looks upon himself as a lonely
outcast. He is inclined to curse his fate ; wishes he was
of a more hopeful temperament, so that he could look on
the bright side of things ; see the silver lining to his cloud.
If he had only friends like this one at Court to get
the ear of the Queen ; or if he had but the art of that
one who seems to obtain all he asks for; or if he shared
but the other's scope and free-play for his sword to
clear a space for himself and win a prouder name for
his beloved to wear. For he is deeply in love, which
makes his spirit more than ever restless, and increases
his sadness with its delicious pain. The thought of her
is a spur to his eager spirit ; for her sake he would be
earning name and fame, and here he is compelled to wait
wearily, watch wistfully, wish vainly, and weep over this
' dear waste ' of his best time. Yet he almost despises
himself for having such thoughts, when he thinks of her
whose love he has won. However poor his prospect, he
has the love of her rich within his soul, and is really
richer than the whole world's wealth could make him.
She is a prize precious above all those that glitter in ima-
gination, and, however out of luck, self- tormented, and
inclined to read ' his own fortune in his misery ' of the
moment, he sits in her heart ; that is his throne, and he
would scorn to change condition with kings.
It is the time, too, of the lover's life when sweet thoughts
bring a feeling of sadness, and he is apt to water his wine
of love a little with tears, and find it none the less sweet.
The heart, being so tender to this new present of love,
grows more tender in thinking of the past, and seems to
feel its old sorrows truly for the first time. The trans-
figuring touch of this fresh spring of love puts a new green
on the old graves of the heart ; this precious gain of the
lover's enriches also his sense of loss, and to the silent
sessions of sweet thought it calls up the remembrance of
tilings past, the old forms of the loved and the lost rise from
A FILIAL AFFECTION, 1G5
their grave of years in ' soft attire,' and lie can weep who
is unaccustomed to shed tears. All his troubles come
gathering on him together, and he grieves over ' griev-
ances forgone ; ' wails over the old long-since cancelled
woes anew, and pays once more the sad account of
by-gone sorrows. The speaker is one who has been
bereaved of his dearest and most precious friends, friends
in the closest kinship. Their loss is the sorrow of a
life-time, the relationship the nearest to nature, and the
deaths occurred years ago. They are friends whom the
speaker has greatly lacked and needed in his life. His
love for them is ' dear religious love,' the tenderness and
tears are reverential, the affection is high and holy. We
cannot attach these friends or this feeling to Shakspeare
himself by any known facts of his life. And had there
been any such facts in his experience, to sing of which
would interest his patron, we also are concerned to know
them. In Southampton's life alone can we identify the
lixcts and find the counterpart to these sonnets. In that
we have the fullest and most particular confirmation ; it
matches the sonnets perfectly, point by point, through all
the comparisons ; it accoiuits for the feeling, and sets the
story sombrely aglow, as if written in illuminated letters
on a ground of black ; gives it the real look of hfe and
death. The Earl's father had died October 4th, 1581,
when Henry Wriothesley was two days short of eight
years old ; and about four years afterwards his elder
brother died. Here are the precious friends whom he
lacked so much ; here is the ' dear religious love ' that
made him weep such ' holy ' and funereal tears ; here is
the precise lapse of time. And in this new love of the
Earl for Elizabeth Vernon, in the year 1593-4, he finds his
solace. She comes to restore the old, to replace wliat he
has lost, to reveal all that Death had hidden away in his
endless night. She is the heaven of his departed ' loves ; *
in her they shine down on him starrily through a mist of
166 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
tears. She gathers up in one endearing image of love
liis lost friends who have bequeathed to her all their
share in his love, and she thus possesses the whole of him,
and is the all-in-all of love to him. In her he takes his
delight, just as a crippled father may rejoice to see his
active child do youthful deeds, so he, being disabled or
made lame by Fortune, sits apart and sees her in lier pride
of place wearing the rose of youth and sinning grace of
her beauty, and he finds all his comfort in her worth and
truth. For however beautiful, virtuous, wealthy, or
witty she may be, he has engrafted his love to her stock,
and shares in her natural abundance of goodness, is a part
in all her glory, so that he feels neitlier poor nor disabled
nor despised. Whatever in the world is absolutely best
lie wishes for her, his wishes for himself are only relative.
He has his wish, for she is and doth contain all that is
supremely best ; and this makes him feel ten times hap-
pier than if his own selfish wishes had been granted.
In these sonnets we may perceive a touch of Shak-
speare's art, which peeps out in his anxiety to see his friend
married. How steadily he keeps in view of the Earl, this
star of his love that tops the summit and gilds the darkest
night ; this calm influence that is to clear his cloudy
thoughts ; this balm of healing for his troubled heart ;
this crown and comfort of his life. Also in these, the
first sonnets spoken by the Earl, the poet gives us a sug-
gestive hint of his friend's character, and reveals a pre-
saging fear that fortune has a spite against him, of which
we shall hear more yet, and which was amply illustrated
in his after life. A proof that tlie love of Shakspeare for
his friend was tender enough to be tremulous with a
divining force.
When in disgrace with Fortune, and men's eyes,
I all alone heweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
THE EARL'S OLD LOSSES AND HIS NEW LOVE. 167
Wishing" nie like to one more rich in hope,
P^eatured like him,' like him with friends possessed.
Desiring this man's art and tluit 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 remembered such wealth brings.
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
(29.)
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 cancelled woe,'
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight :
' Eosaliud, in ' As You Like It,' when making fun of the fantastical
sadness of the mehincholy Jacques, tells him to be ' out of love witli his
nativity,' and almost quarrel -with God for * making him of that counte-
nance ; ' meaning his national face ! !Mr. Masson, who is a believer in the
autobiogTaphic theory of tlie sonnets, finds here exactly the same form of
* self-dissatisfaction ' as in the above sonnet. How, I do not comprehend, as
it is Ilosalind who says it to Jacques. Instead of its helping to prove that
Shakspeare speaks personally in the above sonnet, and shows his own like-
ness to the melancholy-sucking philosopher, it does just the contrary ; for
it is most certain that, so far from sympathising with this pensive pretender,
Shakspeare looks on him, through the eyes of the other characters, as an
amusing sentimental coxcomb who conceits himself upon liis sadness. Our
poet had too deep a sense of the real soitow of life to seriously countenance
this alVectation of melancholy — this playing at being sad. Jacques' melan-
choly is ' right painted cloth ; ' there is no heai-t in it ; the other characters
know this ; but he has the trick of making assumption entertaining, and
so they tolerate him. The blithe natures of the play, Ilosalind, Orhmdo,
Celia, and the banished Duke, these are the Poet's true comates in spirit.
* Shakspeare could not have wasted his precious time after he had ouco
got to work in I^ondon.
3 Southampton's father had been dead some twelve years ; his brutlier
eight years.
168 STL\KSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Then can I grieve at grievances forgone.
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 restored, and sorrows end.
(30.)
Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts.
Which I, by lacking, have supposed dead ;
And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts.
And all those friends which I thought buried :
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear- religious love stolen from mine eye
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things removed, that hidden in thee lie !
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live.
Hung with the trophies' of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give.
That due of many now is thine alone :
Their images I loved I view in thee.
And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.
(31.)
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,
Or any of these all, or all, or more
Intitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,
I make my love ingrafted to this store :
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised.
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give.
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.
(37.)
I 'Hung with the trophies.' An allusion to the ancient custom of hano--
ing wreaths upon monumental statues. Ilt-re the dead have bequeathed
J-heir crowns to adoni this present image of past love.
10f>
PERSONAL SONNETS.
1594.
SHAKSPEARE TO THE EARL, WHEN HE HAS KNOWX
HIM SOME THREE YEARS.
These two sonnets will come in here appropriately enough,
because there is a date in the one which is written when
the Poet has known his friend three years, and because
the fragment is on the same subject. As the second was
unfinislied, we may suppose it was never sent, but that it
remained among the loose papers given by the Poet to
Herbert, who put it in at the end of the Southampton
sonnets, and thus divided them from the latter series.
Time and subject determine its present place.
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 turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned.
Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green :
Ah I 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 wa.s Beauty's sunuiier dead.
(104.)
170 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
thou, my lovely Boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle-hour ;
Who hast by waning grown, and tlierein showest
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self growest !
If Nature, sov'reign 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, thou minion of her pleasure ;
She may detain, but not still keep her treasure :
Her audit, tho' delayed, answered must be.
And her quietus is to render thee !
(126.)
171
A PERSONAL SONNET.
SHAKSPEARE PEOPOSES TO WRITE OF THE EARL
IN HIS ABSENCE ABROAD.
In this sonnet an absence is contemplated. Not an ab-
sence of the Poet, but of the Earl. And the Poet pro-
posed to take advantage of this separation to sing of his
friend, and thus try to do his subject justice. To praise
liis friend whilst they are together is somewhat absurd,
because they are so much one that it is hke praising him-
self. Even for this, for his modesty's sake, he says, let us
be divided by distance, if by nothing else, so that he can,
as it were, hold his friend, the better part of himself, at
arm's length, to look on his virtues and praise his worth,
and give that due to him which is the friend's alone.
This sonnet establishes the fact that the Earl is about to
go abroad or to leave home, and that Shakspeare intends
to sing of him, to write about him, in his absence. He
stops at home — ' here ' — to sing of him who ' doth hence
remain.' It is a somewhat fontastic excuse for a parting,
and veiy different to the real parting that has to come.
SHAKSPEARE TO THE EARL, WHO IS LEAVIXG ENGLAND.
0, how thy worth with manners may I sing.
When thou art all the better part of me?
\Miat can mine own praise to mine own self bring ?
And what is't but mine own when I praise tliee ?
172 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Even for this let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one.
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee, which thou deserv'st alone !
Oh, Absence,' what a torment would'st thou prove,
"Were it not thy sour image gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
"Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive.
And that thou teachest how to make one twain.
By praising him here, who doth hence remain.
(3..)
^ The Earl's absence ; Shakspeare would not speak thus of his own, and
of its proving a tonnent to his friend ! This absence of the Earl also teaches
the Poet how to wi-ite of his friend when he is away ; gives him his cue for
the following sonnets.
17;5
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
1595.
THE EARL TO MISTRESS VERNON ON AND IN HIS
ABSENCE ABROAD.
Tt was in May 1595 that, according to Mr. Standen, the
Earl of Southampton had got into disgrace at Court, and
tliat EHzabeth Vernon and her ill good man waited upon
her irate Majesty to know her resolution in the matter,
and her Majesty sent out word to say firmly that she was
sufficiently resolved. In September of the same year, \Miite
tells us that the Earl of Southampton has been courting
the fair Mistress Vernon with, too much familiarity ; the
meaning of which is too plain for comment. The Queen's
resolve was, without doubt, that Southampton should
leave the Court in consequence. The following sonnets
tell the story of his parting, liis absence, and the cause of
botli. The cause is something he has done, for which he
holds himself solely guilty. He admits that they must be
twain, although they are one in love. The parting is im-
posed on them by a separating spite. This parting will
not change their feeling toward each other, though it will
steal sweet hours from their deliglit by the compulsory
absence. He may not call lier liis any more, lest tlie
guilt which he bewails should shame her, nor must she
notice him for others to see, else it will be to her own
17i SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
dishonour. He loves her so tliat her good report is his,
and rather than endanger it further, he accepts tlie en-
forced parting as necessary for her sake. In this way
those blots that remain with him shall be borne by him
alone, without her having to share the burden of his
blame. The rest of these sonnets are so arranged as to
tell the progress and incidents of the journey that followed
the partmg. Leaving his beloved, he journeys heavily on
his way ; the horse bears him slowly, as if it were con-
scious that his rider was in no haste, and it felt the weight
of his woe. Thus thinking of his grief that lies before
and his joy behind, he can excuse the slow pace of his
steed. But, if he were returning to his beloved, what
excuse could his horse then find ?
* Then should I spur tho' mounted on the wind ;
In winged speed no motion shall I know.'
He would come back on wings of desire ; no horse could
keep pace with him. His desire should neigh, that is,
salute, no dull flesh — as his horse is in the habit of doing
— in his fiery race. Since he left her, his eyes are in his
mind, and she so occupies his mind that the eyes lose
their proper functions, and see everything in the likeness
of that mental imasie. His mind beino; ' crowned with
her ' is monarch of the eyes, and rules them at its pleasure.
His most true mind thus makes the eyes see outward
things untruly. Weary with the daily march, he hastens
to bed at niglit ; but not to sleep. The mental journey
now begins; his mind travels back to her 'from far,'
where he is staying : — . ,
* Lo, thus by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.'
How can he then return in ' happy plight ' to renew his
travel, who has no benefit of rest.? Night shows her to
him ill vision ; the day takes him farther and farther away
A I.OVKr.'S TTTOrCIlT."^ HY TFfK WAV. 17o
from lier. lie tells them stories of liis love and of her
beauty, to wile away the time. It is all in vain. For
the day still draws out the distance longer and longer, and
the night doth nightly make stronger that length of grief
spun out by day. Sonnet 7 borders in idea upon sonnets
3 and 4 of the group. lie sees best when he shuts liis
eyes. Her image in his mind shines with such splendour
that it makes the night luminous and the day dark. Is it
her will, he asks, to keep his eyes open, his mind awake,
to mock him with shadows of herself? Or does she send
her spirit so far from home to pry into his deeds : —
' To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy ? '
Oil, no! he says, it is not her love nor her jealousy, but
his own, that keep him awake and on the fret : —
' For thee watcli I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, ivit/i others all too near.''
This brings the very natural tliought of his care, on leaving
home, in securing his jewels and locking up his trifles ;
and he has left this precious jewel of his love exposed as
the unprotected prey of every common thief Her he
could not lock up, except in his heart. If he could be all
spirit now, and move swift as thought, then the great and
perilous distance that hes between them should not stop
him. In spite of space, he would come from the distant
shores, ' limits far remote,' to the place where his beloved
stays ! But, as he cannot come himself, he sends his
thought and his yearnings in tender embassy of love to
her, and these swift messengers, on returning, tell him of
her ' fair health.' These go to and fro continually. Then
he tries to mve an ingenious turn to the enforced absence.
He makes it look as though he had a choice in the matter,
and the separation was only to put a liner point upon the
pleasure of meeting. He is rich in a locked-up possession,,
of which he keeps the key ; but he will not look in upon
170 SIIAKSPEAKE'S SO^'NETS.
his treasure too often, lest it should dull his sense of the
preciousness, make the privilege too common. The ' time
that keeps ' the beloved is his ' chest,' or jewel-casket ; or
rather it is the wardrobe that hides the robe which is to
make blest some special moment by a fresh unfolding of
the shut-up richness : —
' Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had — to Triumph ; being lacked — to Hope I '
The reader cannot fail to feel how these sonnets dilate
Avith life when spoken by a lover to his absent mistress.
Thus interpreted, they are unfathomably beautiful ; the
beauty reaching its best in sonnets 48 and 52. How much
nearer to nature they nestle when we know the yearnings
are womanward ! This gives to them the true bitter-
sweet. How tender and true and naively winsome is the
expression ! How deep-hearted the love ! The dramatic
mood shows the Poet to us likest himself; the poetry
kindles w^ith a new dawn, and breathes the aroma of
Shakspeare's sweetest love-lines ; it takes us into a presence
akin to that of Perdita and Viola, Helena and Imogen, and
the rest of those fragrant-natured women whom he ' loved
into being ; ' this veiled presence which has so perplexed
us when told that all these tender perfections of poetry,
caresses of feeling, and daintinesses of expression were
lavished on a man, and the natural instinct fought against
the seeming fact, is the presence of Elizabeth Vernon. It
is she who has been so long buried alive in the sonnets ;
smothered up in their sweets. ' See how she 'gins to
blow into Life's flower ag;ain ; ' as we let in a breath of
fresh air !
THE LOVERS' PARTING.
Let me confess that we two must be twain,'
Altho' our undivided loves are one :
• ^ So Pandarus to Helen, spoaking of Cressid and Pai-is, says, ' She'll none
of him ; they two are twain.'
SOUTIIAMraON LEAVES ENGLAND. 177
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,
Tho' in our lives a separable spite.
Which tho' it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight :
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me.
Unless thou take that honour from thy name :
But do not so, I love thee in such sort.
As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.
(36.)
THE earl's journey.
How heavy do I journey on the way,
WTien what I seek — my weary travel's end —
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say
' Thus far the miles are measured 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 loved not speed being made from thee :
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide
\\Tiich hea\aly 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.^
(50.)
^ So Bolingbroke, when goinjr into banishment, says —
' Eveiy tedious stride I make
Will but remember me what a deal of world
I wander from the jewels that I love.' — Richard II., act i. sc. 3.
' ' My (irief lies onward and my joy behind.'
Had Shakspeai'o been on his way to visit his wife and fliniily at Stratford,
which has been supposed, he must have been in a most dolorous condition.
Ills return home was not a pleasant prospect, (and why, then, should he
have gone?) if he felt thus that he was going to grief! But it is difficult
to imagine tliat Southampton would care for such an equivocal compliment
at the expense of Shakspeare's wife and little ones, to say nothing of the
Poet's want of manliness which a personal reading would imply.
N
178 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed ;
From Avhere thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need :
0, what excuse will my poor beast then find.
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur tho' 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.
Shall neigh no dull flesh in his fiery race,^
But love, for love, shall thus excuse my jade —
Since from thee going he went wilful slow.
Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.
(51.)
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 ;
1 ' Shall neiffh no dull flesh m his fiery race.'
Malone thought the expression of this line so uncouth that he laboured to
alter it. lie printed the line thus —
' Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race ; '
in which shape it has generally been printed since. He still suspected the
line to be corrupt, and thought perhaps it should read —
' Shall neigh to dull flesh in his fiery race ; '
meaning that ' Desire, in the ardour of impatience, should call to the slug-
gish aninial (the horse) to proceed with swifter motion.' Steevens opines
' the sense may be this — therefore desire, being no dull 2}iece of horseflesh,
but composed of the most perfect love, shall neigh as he proceeds in his hot
career.' Yet the Quarto was perfectly right, and the meaning quite plain.
The image is used by one who rides a horse among horses, and horses are in
the habit of neighing when they salute each other ; they will do this, too,
if speed be ever so important. And the wiiter says, his desire being made
of perfectest love, having nothing animal about it, shall not salute any dull
flesh in his fiery race ; only he continues the use of the image by means of
the word ' neif/h.' Perhaps the Poet was thinking of the words of the
prophet .Jeremiah — ' They were as fed horses in the morning : every one
neighed after his neighbour's wife.'
TRANSFORMATION. 179
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part.
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch ;
F'or 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 makes mine eye untrue.'
('13.)
Or whether doth my mind, l)eing crown'd with you.
Drink up the Monarch's plague, this flattery ?
Or whether sliall 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?
Oh, 'tis the first ; 'tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up ;
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup :
If it be poisoned, 'tis the lesser sin
That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.^
(114.)
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, w^here I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgi-image to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
liookins: on darkness which the blind do see :
■"o
* The Quarto reads —
' My must trite mind thus makcth mine vntnte.'
But an opposition is intended betwixt the mental and the visual sight ;
* mind ' and * eye ' ai"e repeated thrice in this sense in the next sonnet.
"^ It is possible that this and the preceding sonnet refer to a later journey,
but they will tiud a tit place with the other sonnets spoken by the Earl iu
his absence.
N 2
180 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
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.
(27.)
How can I then return in happy plight.
That am debarred the benefit of rest ?
When Day's oppression is not eased by Night,
But Day by Night and Night by Day oppressed ;
And each, tho' enemies to either's reign,
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 :
So flatter I the swart-complexioned Night,
WTien sparkling stars tire^ not, thou gild'st the Even :^
But Day doth daily draw my sorrows longer.
And Night doth nightly make grief's length seem
stronger. (28.)
* * It seems she hangs upon the cheek of Night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear.'
This is spoken of a woman by her lover in 'Romeo and Juliet.'
2 ' When sparkling stars tire not.'
The (Juarto reads, 'T\Tien sparkling stars tioire not/ and the word 'twire'
has much puzzled the commentators. Steevens thinks ' twire ' may have
the same signification as quire, or it is a corruption. He guesses that
' twink ' may be meant, for twinkle. Malone suggests that we should read
' when sparkling stars " tv:irl " not.' The word ' twire ' means motion of a
peculiar kind. In Chaucer it is applied to the intermitted soimds of a bird.
Twyreth (says Skirmer), is intei-preted singeth. Drayton has the word.
He says 'the sun with fervent eye looks thro' the tivyring glades ; ' by which
I take it he means tlie blades of grass thrilling in the wind. A very charac-
teristic motion of short glade-grass ! In Beaumont and Fletcher we find,
■ ' I saw the wench that twired and twinkled at thee.' Ben Jonson has it,
' Which maids will twire at 'tween their fingers thus ! ' Hence Gifford's
explanation of the word is * to leer affectedly.' Fancy a star leering
afiectedly! In Mar-ston's ' Antonio and Mellida' (act iv. first part), one of
the characters is in search of another who is hiding, and he says, ' I saw a
thing stir under a hedge, and I peeped and I spied a thing, and I peered,
and I ticeered mideraeath.' By which we see that it is not used either for
LOVE-DREAMS. 181
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.
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day mth thy much clearer light,
WTien to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so ?
How would — I say — mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
WTien in dead night thy fair, imperfect shade
Thro' heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay ?
All days are nights to see till I see thee :
And nights bright days when dreams do shew thee me.
(43.)
Is it thy will thine image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night ?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken.
Whilst shadows like to thee do mock my sight ?
peeping or peering, but for the motion made in doing both. Again, Beau-
mont and Fletcher apply it to the braying of an ass : — ' Ye are an ass, a
^jtvVf-pipe ! ' So that, whether of sound or bodily motion, it signifies an
intermittent movement. No word coidd more admirably express the motion
of a snipe, but it is nowhere used to describe the twinkling of a star ; such an
application is the result of our feeling back for the meaning of the word
' twire,' through our sense of the word twitter. To twire, so to say,
describes a larger zig-zag of motion than to twitter, and is imdoubtedly the
a. s. * thwyriim,' to wrest, to twist, to put out of a straight course, to
swerve from a straight line. Therefore I conclude that Shakspeare did not
write when ' sparkling stars twire not,' which, so far as ' t-^re ' means mo-
tion, would be saying 'when sparkling stars do not sparkle.' The word he
used would be sure to add to the line in another sense. And he does not
need a word to express movement at all, but a stiU splendour. * Thou
gikrd the even ! ' So I doubt not that he wrote ' when sparkling stars fire
not ;' i.e. when they adorn not. The tire-man and tire-voom made the phnise
familiar, and the act of tirinf/ or dressing for the night gave to it a natural
touch. He uses the same word in the same sense in ' Venus and Adonis,'
stanza 30 — * And Titan tired in the mid-day heat.'
3 ' Thou gild'st the Even,
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres tiU they return.'
This is spoken of a wotnati bxj a lover in the * Midsummer Night's Dream.'
182 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS. "!
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry.
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
Oh, no, thy love, tho' much, is not so great,
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake :
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat.
To play the watchman ever for thy sake :
For thee watch I whilst thou dost watch elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near !
(61.)
How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust.
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust :
But thou, to whom my jewels^ trifles are.
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief.
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief!
Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, tho' I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast.
From whence at pleasure thou may'st come and part ;
And even thence thou wilt be stolen, I fear.
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.
(48.)
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 altho' my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee,
» ' My jewels.' So Bertram, in ' All's Well lliat Ends Well,' when
preparing for a journey, says —
' I have writ my letters, casketed my trecmtre.'
It may be assumed that Sbakspeare's own jewels at the period of writing
were hardly worth mentioning to a nobleman.
2 i.e. I would be brought from 'limits far remote' where I am, on
distant shores, to where thou dost stay, at home.
MIND AND MATTER. 188
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 length of miles ^ when thou art gone.
But that so much of earth and water wrought
I must attend Time's leisure with my moan ;
Eeceiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of cither's woe.
2
(44.)
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 dowTi to death oppressed with melancholy.
Until life's composition be recured
By those swift messengers returned from thee,^
\Mio even but now come back again, assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me I
This told I joy, but then no longer glad,
I send them back again, and straight grow sad.
(45.)
So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet, uplocked treasure,
^ * To leap lai'ge lengths of miles.'
So in ' King Jolin ' —
* Large lengths of seas and shores
Between my father and my mother lay,'
2 < When thou sxt gone.' When her image, seen in vision, has vanished.
3 This line is usually and absui'dly printed —
' These present-absent with swift motion slide.'
Shakspeare never devised such a condition as ^present-absent ' ; what he
says is, ' These, when present, become instantly absent.'
* The tvrin-likeness of these lines may be found in Valentine's letter to
Sylvia {' Two Gentlemen of Verona '), beginning —
* My thoughts do harbour -with my Silvia nightly ' ;
which similiir strain is, of course, addressed from man to woman !
184 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
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 imprisoned pride :
Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had — to triumph ; being lacked — to hope !
(52.)
We have no grounds for supposing that Shakspeare ever
undertook a ' journey ' like this ; no conclusive reason to
believe that he was ever out of England. Here is a man
on his travels, performing a long and wearying journey
day by day on horseback. Day after day he toils on
farther and farther away from the person addressed. In
sonnet 27, he is so far distant as to speak of his thoughts
making a pilgrimage home again. In sonnet 44 he is at
limits far remote^ which must mean distant shores ; also
the sonnet suggests that both sea and land lie between the
two persons who are this perilous distance apart. It was
a journey, too, for wliich considerable preparation had to
be made ; long time of absence was contemplated, and
the speaker's property placed in ' sure wards of trust.'
There is a hint of banishment, of an enforced absence in : —
* I must attend Timers leisure with my moan.'
This cannot be Shakspeare on his way to Stratford. And
if it were possible for it to be him on his travels abroad,
then the person addressed, the stay-at-home, could not be
Southampton.
185
PERSONAL SONNETS.
1595.
SHAKSPEARE OF THE EARL IN HIS ABSENCE.
These three sonnets are spoken by Sliakspeare to the
Earl, during his absence from England. At first sight
they may appear to belong to those spoken by the Earl to
his mistress. They have the look of a lover fondhng the
miniature of his beloved, and rejoicing that in her absence
he has at least her portrait to dote on and dally with.
But lines 10 and 11 of the third sonnet, show that it is
the person addressed who is away, and on the move ; not
the speaker. He says Ms thoughts will follow his friend,
no matter how far. Also, with a closer look we may see
that the picture is not a real portrait. The poet says his
eye has played the painter and engraved the image in his
heart. The picture that can be seen in sleep must be
mental. It is this visionary portrait of the Earl for the
possession of which the eyes and heart contend. A picture
that hangs in his ' bosom's shop,' not at the print-seller's.
It is the banquet that {^painted, not the picture. All is air-
drawn and impalpable, or it would lack sufficient scope for
the play of fancy, the contention of heart and eye wdiich
ends in such a loving league of amity. The three sonnets
are obviously suggested by the 23rd of Drayton's Sonnets.'
1 ' Whilst yet mine eyo3 do sm-feit with delight,
My woful heart imprisoned in my hreast
Wigheth to be transformt^d to my sight,
That it, like those, by looking, might be blost ;
186 SHAIvSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Mine eye hath played the painter, and hath stell'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 thro' the painter must you see his skill.
To find where your true image pictured lies,
AVhich 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
Are windows to my breast, wherethro' 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.
(24.)
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war,
How to decide 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 'cide this title is impanelled
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 thine outward part :
And my heart's right thine inward love of heart.
' . . . ^"'-^
But, wliiJst mine eyes thus greedily do gaze,
Fiuding their objects evermore depart,
These now the other's happiness do praise,
Wishing themselves that they had been my heart :
That eyes were heart, or that the heart were eyes,
As covetous the others' use to have ;
But, finding Nature their request denies,
This to each other mutually they crave,
That since the one cannot the other be,
That eyes could think of that my heai-t coidd see.'
1 ' Stelled.' Probably hxed. In ' K^ing Lear ' the stars are called the
'stelled Ures.'
THE pr)irrRAiT seen in vision. 18/
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other ;
When that mine eye is famished for a look.
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then mine 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.
(47.)
188 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
XHE
DARK STORY OF THE SONNETS.
One of tlie decisive battles of the sonnets has to be
fouglit around the next gronp which I have entitled,
' Elizabeth Vernon's jealousy of the Earl and her friend
Lady Rich' It is here the personal theorists feel them-
selves most safely entrenched, and altogether unassailable.
It is here they so triumphantly lift the vulturine nose and
snuff the carrion that infects the air. They have no mis-
givings that the scent may be carried in their own nostrils.
And when one ventures to doubt whether the vulturine
nose be the best of all possible guides in a matter which
demands the most dehcate discrimination, the nicest
intuition, the vulturine nose is forthwith elevated in
disgust and scorn. Wliy, the facts are as plain, to them,
as the nose in their face. If there be one fact patent in
the sonnets, it is that Shakspeare was a scamp and a
blackguard, and that he told all the world so, only the
world has been too bigoted to beheve him. If you hint
that there may be another reading possible ; one that is
compatible with the poet's purity, they think you very
good to say so; very good indeed, excessively amiable;
but you are too youthful, too simple, and unripe. ' Such
a view is perfectly untenable to us who know the sonnets,'
By knowing the sonnets, they mean accepting aU the
squinting constructions which show the moral obliquity
of Shakspeare. The devil's own smile of paternal
SURMISES OF THE PERSONAL THEORISTS. 189
pity could not exceed tlieir look of kindly commiseration,
and superb patronage with wliicli they treat your want
of worldly wit:dom. 'Ah, you do not allow for human
nature's frailties. Prove or assume what you i)lease
of the other sonnets ; of one thing we are certain, and
whosoever does not see that Shakspeare, invisible as he
was on all other sides, has here given us a full view of his
baser part, knows nothing whatever about the subject.'
And so Shakspeare is to be made appear to the w^orld as
an unconscionable debauchee in his Ufe, a hypocrite in his
protestations of affection, and a stark fool in his confessions,
in order that these keen-eyed and keener-scented critics
may look wondrous wise. But, was our poet such a fool ?
Are these critics so wise ? They have no doubts on either
point ; I have more than misgivings on both. But to the
story.
It has been assumed, and unhesitatingly put forth, that
Shakspeare, having a wife at Stratford, kept a mistress in
London. The chief advocate of this theory gives a
finishing smack of satisfaction to his reading by remarkmg
thus : — ' May no person be incHued on this account to
condemn him with a bitterness equal to their own virtue.
For myself, I confess I have not the heart to blame him
at all — purely because he so keenly reproaches himself for
his own sin and folly.' This lady held the Poet captive
wdth all the fierce tjT^anny of Circe of old. It has even
been conjectured that she was an Italian, possibly the
wife of some merchant-prince of Venice, if not the wife
of the Venetian Ambassador. It is further supposed that
the Poet obtained his release from her inlkience when his
young friend Southampton or ' Mr. W. H.' became her
prey, and then the lady passed away into the realm of the
Poet's imagination, to become the ideal of his bolder
black-eyed beauties. For there is no doubt that tlie lady
was black-eyed and had black hair, with a most swarthy
complexion. The Poet, however, did not give her up to
190 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
liis friend without a fierce struo;ole for her, during which
he flung about him such wiklfire words as scarred the
guilty couple and his own fair fame for ever. Now, if
there were any sure grounds for such a story, I should
feel bound to face it. We ought not to lie about Shak-
speare because we love him. We should have no right to
alter any known fact of his life. And so anxious are we
to lay hold on him to look into his mortal face, that we
could almost gladly clutch any part of his human skirts,
even if the hem had trailed somewhat in the mire. It
might have been pleasant too could we have proved that
he had such failings and errors as afforded a satisfactory
set-off to his splendom^ — the foil which should render his
gloiy less dazzhng to weak eyes. There are tastes that
would have appreciated his fame all the more for a taint
in it ! Besides we all know what mad things Love has
done in this world ; that while he can see so clearly on
behalf of others, he is so often blind for self. We know
how this passion has coloured some lump of common earth
like the human clay fresh from Eden, bright with God's
latest touch ; how it has clothed spiritual deformity with
splendour and grace ; how it has discrowned the kingly
men and made fools of the wise ones ; covered a David
with shame ; snatched the empire of a world from
Anthony ; made great heroes lay down their heads and
leave their laurels in a wanton's lap ; set the wits of many
a poor poet dancing like those of a lunatic. Shakspeare
with his ripe physical nature, fine animal spirits, and mag-
nificent pulse of rich hfe, might have been one victim
more. He might have been ! But, was he ? And has
he written sonnets to record the mutual shame of himself
and that friend whom he professed to love with a love
' passing the love of woman,' and strove to image forth
for endless honour ?
There is pretty good proof that these sonnets and their
story were not personal to Shakspeare ; that they do not
CIIArvACTER OF OUR TOET. 101
relate to anything deeply and desperately guilty, or we
should hardly find one of them in print so early as 1599.
There could be no great reason why it should not have
gone out of our prudent Poet's hands, or he would not
have let it go. That we do fuid it in print shows it was
written for a purpose, having to do with the ' sonnets
among his private friends,' and that the secret was of no
great moment even to them, or they would have kept it
better. And once the sonnet was in print, if it had told
anything, as in a glass darkly, against the fair fame of
Sliakspeare — if there had been such a story as modern
ingenuity has discovered, we may be sure there were eyes
sharp enough amongst the Poet's contemporaries to have
spied it out, and made the most of it. His friendship
with Southampton was known. His sonnets were read
with interest. Yet there is not a whisper against him.
And why but because it was imderstood that they icere
somiets, not j^ersonal confessions, but sonnets on subjects
chosen or given? It was not strange in 1599 that a
great dramatic poet should write dramatically in his
sonnets. And there was nothing suspicious in the Poet's
life or personal bearing to cause the lynx-eyed to pry,
no summons issued for a feast of the vidtures ; neither
when this sonnet or the book of sonnets was printed, nor
when the writer himself was dead and his grave had be-
come the fair mark for a foul bird. No one rakes there
for rottenness ; no one ventures to deposit dirt there. No
doubt the Elizabethans had as keen a scent for a scandal
as the Victorians may have, and liked their game to be
as high ; such things as our Poet has been supposed to
charge himself with coidd not have escaped, unnoticed
and luiknowu. In this world it is easy enough at any
period of history, and in any station of life, for some of
the personal vu'tues to be overlooked by whole ' troops of
unrecording friends.' These may nestle and make sweet
some small breathing-space of life, and pass away without
192 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
being remembered in gilt letters. But the Vices ! That
is quite a different matter. And such vices too in such a
man as Shakspeare, who was watched by so many jealous
looks on the part of those who used the pen and could
prick sharply with it. His vices could not have nestled
out of sight quite so cleverly if he himself had taken
pams to endorse them publicly. But there is not an
ill-breatli breathed against the moral reputation of our
Poet, either from rival dramatist or chronicler of scandal,
in all the letters of the time. Now character is evidence
in any properly constituted court of justice. Not as
against facts, but as an element in the right interpretation
of them. Here, however, there are no facts to array
against the character, only inferences, whereas the cha-
racter stands irremoveably fixed, with all the facts for
buttresses around it.
But for the sake of argument, let us suppose the sonnets
to tell such a story : that the story was founded on a
reality in our Poet's life, and that his young friend did
really rob him of his Mistress. How are we to reconcile
the fact of Shakspeare having written sonnets on pm-pose
to proclaim the grievous errors of himself and his friend,
and given an eternal tarnish to that fair affection of theirs,
with the feeling that runs through all the personal son-
nets, the desire to paint this friend in the loveliest colours,
and set up an image of him that should win the world's
love and admiration for all time ?
Shakspeare's great object in composing the Southamp-
ton Sonnets, was to do honour to the Earl, to show him
gratitude, respect, love, and to embalm his beauty, moral
and physical, for posterity. Not to drag him in the dirt
and hold him up to infamy — himself to execration. In
every personal ghmpse we get, we see a man who feels a
most fatherly affection for his young friend. He counsels
like a father. He respects the marriage ties, and is
anxious to see his ' dear hoy ' throned in the purest seat
Till': POETS OBJECT IN WHITING. 193
of honour, the sanctity of a Home that is blessed with a
wife and cliildren. His spirit hovers about his ' dear
boy ' as on wings of love, in the most protecting way ; he
warns, he comforts, he cheers him. He begs that he will
be as wary for himself as he will be for him. The supreme
object of his writing is to win honour for the Earl. He
fondly hopes by-and-by to puhlichj show himself worthy
of the Earl's sweet respect. In his dedication to the first
poem he promises to honour him with some graver
labour. His verse is to exalt him in life, and in death it
shall be his ' gentle monument,' the ' living record ' of his
memory. It is meant to distill the sweetness of the
friend's life, worth, truth, and beauty ; not to surround hun
with an ill odour.
* To no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to telV
In these his monument shall ' shine more bright than
unswept stone,' and ' gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
shall you pace forth, your praise shall still find room,' as
the noble of nature's own crowning ; the man whom
Shakspeare deliglited to love and respect. These sonnets
are to stand to future times for the primal purpose of
showing the Earl's worth. And if his dear friend ever
looks at them after the Poet is gone, he is to fmd there
the very part, the ' better part,' of Shakspeare that was
consecrated to him. The object, I repeat, is to set the
Earl forth unparagoned, to consecrate not to desecrate
their affection, and the spirit of the writer is one of the
utmost purity and loving regard. To him the Earl is the
subject of kind thoughts, pure thoughts, high thoughts, a
hundred times proclaimed. And in sonnet 71 he says,
' I love you so that when I am gone I would have you
forget me altogether, rather than my death should cause
you a pang of sorrow.' Xot anything he had done or
said in his life I
194 SlIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
And, in the last of the personal sonnets addressed to
Southampton on his release from prison, there is no change
in his regards, except that the affection has increased and
ripened with time. Moreover, we see, right through the
sonnets, from the first to this latter one, that Shakspeare
has most absolutely kept the loftiest moral altitude. He
has preserved his own purity and integrity of soul to have
the right of speaking to the Earl as he does at times. For
example, in sonnet TO, where he defends the youth against
some slander, and bears testimony that his life presents a
' pm^e unstained prime.' He has kept sacred his right of
affection to express his sadness when the Earl does associate
witli evil companions, and allow ' sin to lace itself with his
society,' and he bewails most touchingly that his fame should
grow common, that evil tongues should be permitted to
wag at his name. Now, these sonnets which we speak of
are personal ; we know and can prove them to be so,
becaus-^ he who speaks in them can be identified as the
man who writes them. On this personal stand-point we
may take our ground, and we shall find that through all
tlie personal sonnets the character is one and self-con-
sistent, and the likest possible to that of the Shakspeare
whom we know by all other report of his contemporaries,
and through his works. Here we are able to identify the
Man Shakspeare by his own voice, and we can prove that
in these sonnets, which are personal, there is no hint, not
one word of suggestion that Shakspeare was, or could be,
guilty of any such sins as have been laid to his charge.
Not one self-reproach for being in any way the cause of
his friend's errors, or loss of reputation. He speaks of
his own death, but there is no regret for aught that he
has done in companionship with the Earl. When he is
dead he asks the Earl to forget him, and why ? Because
he is shamed by his writings, not by his life. If, he pleads,
the Earl should desert him for the rival poet, and he is
cast away, the worst is this, ' My love was my decay ' —
INCONGIU'ITIP^S OF THE DAIIK STOIiV. K)5
his love foi' the Earl, not for a bad woman. And it is
useless for any one to reply that tlie disreputable affair
may have occurred after some of tlie sonnets were written,
for this pure and lofty tone is the domhiant one up to the
sonnet of 1603. Whereas, if there had been any such
grievous error sliared in common by poet and peer, it
must have been in the earliest stage of their acquaintance-
ship, wlien, as the Poet would be made to say, his friend
had only been his for otie hour. In fact, the Poet -must
have been keeping a mistress at the very time he was
writing those beautiful sonnets in praise of marriage.
Yet we find there is not one word of contrition or self-
reproach ; no single reference to his own breach of the
moral law, or marriage tie, in all the sage and solemn
personal sonnets which show us Shakspeare's own soul.
IIow could our Poet, who had so warmly advocated ' hus-
bandry in honour ' for the Earl, have written sonnets for
the purpose of picturing tlie married man and his boy-
friend as rivals for the embrace of a mistress ; and thus
publicly proclaimed his own dishonour ? How could he
have been sensitive to the least whisper of ill-fame that
was breathed against the Earl, and bewail the pity of his
growing common in the mouths of men, if lie himself had
been in the stews with liim, and done his best to per-
petuate the fact by recording the most danuiing testi-
mony ? How could he have charged his young friend
Avith deception, baseness, and ill-deeds, when, if such
things had been true, he Avould have been first in doing
these very offences — ten-fold worse in doing them, and a
thousand-fold worse in writing of them? How could lie
remonstrate with the Earl on his evil courses, warn Juin
about his liealth, and charge him with gracing impiety
with his presence, if he had been the guilty partner in lu.s
fall? How could he think his beloved would show 'like
an Idol,' if lie had laboured so sedulously to flaw the
image he had set up, and so befouled it witli dirt? Hmv
o -J.
196 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
should he Hve in the eyes of posterity as the express image
of beauty, truth, and natural nobleness, if he had de-
nounced his moral deformity, reproached him bitterly for
his falsehood, and devoted passionate sonnets to register
his degradation ? Such a view of Shakspeare's character
is insanely absurd. It is not possible that he should have
shown his love, or sought to honour the Earl in any such
way. It would indeed have been embalming the life, in-
scribing the monument, and 'showing his head' worthily,
so as to prove his love, with a vengeance ! And from all
we know and hear of the man — gather from the aim and
object of the sonnets — see of his knowledge of human
nature, his instinct for law, his sincerity and fidehty to his
friends — we are compelled to indignantly spurn a theoiy
that demands such a sacrifice of truth and probability.
We would rather believe what Shakspeare himself has
said than what any of his commentators have surmised.
Any one who can think that our Poet would be guilty of
such a sacrilege to that sacred sweetness of friendship
which he had felt so intimately and brooded over so
lovingly, can never have drawn near to the spirit of Shak-
speare, and apprehended its uprightness and sincereness —
its lofty chivalry and sense of honour — the largeness and
clearness of his nature — the smiling serenity, as of the
fixed stars — the capacious calm that broods over the pro-
found depths of his soul — the abiding strength of his cha-
racter, which' embodies the idea of power in complaisant
plenitude — the infinite sweetness and peaceful self-posses-
sion — which are the express qualities of this man, whom
Nature bare with so great a love, and endowed with so
goodly a heritage. Such a reading would imply chaos
where all was order, stark madness in the sanest of men,
fearful folly in the wisest, worthlessness in the worthiest,
unnaturalness in the most natural, and be altogether truer
to Nat Lee at his maddest than to Shakspeare. It is the
very opposite of him in every respect. And not only is
PROOFS OF PUlilTY. 197
it opposed to all we believe, and all the testimony we may
call on the snbject, but the sonnets themselves will disprove
it. As we have said, if such an affair as has been imagined
had ever occurred, it would have been when their friend-
ship was in its budding-time. It is imaged in sonnet 33
as taking place in the dawn, when the Earl would have
been his friend but for ' one hour,' just when he had pro-
mised a ' beauteous day ! ' And, at least years afterwards,
the Poet is able to say, when speaking in his own proper
person, that —
' To no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.''
How could this be so if he and the Earl had been
actors in the dark drama conjectured, and the Poet had
written for the purpose of exposure ? And he can still
greet his friend with this remarkable sonnet —
' Let not my love be called Idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an Idol show ;
Since cdl cdike 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 cdl my argument,
P'air, kind and true, varying to other words ;
And in this change is my invention spent.
Three themes in one which wondrous scope affords:
Fair, kind and true, have often hved alone,
Which three till now never kept seat in one.*
Now if the sad story as against Shakspeare had been
true, this statement would be absolutely false in eveiy
particular. It would have been the grimmest mockery
for him to have pleaded against his Beloved looking like
an Idol if he had previously chronicled his fall into the
198 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
moral gutter where Shakspeare is supposed to have lain
wallowing. His songs could not have been ' all alike '
devoted to the praise of his unchangeable truth and won-
derful constancy, if he had denounced his deception and
raged in rhyme against his falsehood. It could not have
been ' all alike ' on either side if there had been so marked
a change in word and deed. The Earl could not have
been constant in his kindness if the reproaches had been
aimed at him by the Poet; nor would the verse have
been confined to expressing the constancy ; nor could
' fair, kind, and true ' be all his argument if he had pas-
sionately proclaimed the Earl as being foul, unkind, and
false. Tlie sonnet would contain a lie in each line, known
to the Earl as such, and be an astounding specimen of
stupendous effrontery. Again, if the dark story were true,
what are we to make of sonnet 70 ? If the Earl had
robbed the Poet of his Mistress and stung him to the
quick, causing him to denounce his friend's treachery in
a fury of ungovernable resentment, he could not have
told the Earl, that he presented a ' pure unstained
prime ' —
* Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,
Either not assailed^ or Victor being charged,^
when both of them would know so well that he had
been assailed, and that he was a Victor in a far different
sense. Which are we to believe, Shakspeare himself, or
those who have interpreted his sonnets witli such a wan-
ton profanity? One of two things — Either the story
Avas true, or it was not. If true, he could not directly
after have extolled this false friend for his truth (soimet
54), or given him the character which he has drawn in
sonnet 70. But to step in for a closer grapple. We will
once more suppose the story to be true. How then could
Shakspeare be the first to attack when he had been the
foremost to err ? How should he blame his young friend
THE AllGUMENT TERSONALLY IMPOSSIBLE. 199
for permitting the ' base clouds ' and ' rottoii smoke ' to
hide his morning briglitness, taunt liiiii with sneaking to
westward witli ' this disgrace,' hold liini responsible for
the ' base clouds,' overtaking himself and tell him that
tears of repentance would be of no avail, that his shame
could not 'give physic' to Shakspeare's grief, for no one
could speak well of such a ' salve ' as tliat which might
heal the wound l3ut could never ' cure the disgrace ? '
How could he thus throw such puerile and petulant ex-
clamations at the Earl, his young friend, had he been the
older sinner ? But for his own connexion with the woman,
the Earl would not have been brought witliiu reach of her
snares. It would be his own baseness that made the
Earl's deception possible. It was he who had let the base
clouds overtake both. The youth could only have loosely
' strayed ' where the man of years had first deliberately
gone. The Earl would see what a pretty comment it was
on the ' husbandry in honour,' which the Poet had urged
so eloquently, if he thus admitted that he was hving in
such dishonour. The falsehood of falsehoods was Shaks-
peare's own, his was the baseness, black beyond compari-
son, the disgrace that was past all cure.
After the deatli of Tybalt, Eomeo, fearing the effect
on Juliet, asks —
' Does sLe not thiuk me an old murderer.
Now I have stained the childhood of our joy? '
feeling that this blot of blood on the newly-turned leaf
of his life, lias soaked backwards through the whole book.
So must the Poet have felt if the Earl had discovered any
such black blot in his character ; if he liad found tliat all
the professions of love, sole and eternal, whispered in pri-
vate and proclaimed in public, were totally false ; if he
had proved his vaunted singleness in love to be a most
repulsive specimen of double-dealing. With wliat con-
science could the Poet turn round wlien cauglit by tlie
200 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
friend, who had only followed his footsteps, and upbraid
him for the disgrace to himself, the treachery to their
friendship ? If he had not had a mistress he would not
have lost a friend. Or how could he reproach his friend
with breaking a ' twofold-truth ? ' —
* Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee ;
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me,'
whilst ignoring his own breach of the moral law and the
marriage tie? The Earl would know what a double-
dyed sinner he was ; he would see through the moral
blasphemy of his solemn twaddle. He would appreciate
the value of his arguments for marriage, and his conse-
cration of their friendship, when thus illustrated. He
would see how apposite was the exclamation ' ah me, but
yet thou mightst, my Sweet, forbear,' and chide him for
the ' pretty Avrongs ' committed when he was ' sometime
absent ' from the Earl's heart, if this absence was for a
purpose so vile. If the story had been true, then the
position taken by the Poet would be utterly fatal, and the
arguments foolishly false. It would be the hardened
sinner obviously playing the part of the injured innocent;
every charge he makes against liis friend cuts double-
edged against himself. How could he dare to speak of
the Earl's ' sensual fault,' and talk of bringing in sense, to
look on this weakness of his friend's nature in a sensible
way, if he himself had been doing secret wrong to his
own reputation, his dear friendship, his wife, his little
ones? How could he thus patronise his frail friend who
knew that the speaker was far frailer ? How should he
say, ' no more be grieved at that which tliou hast done,'
and try to make excuses for Jiim, if he himself had done
that which was infinitely worse ? The Earl might Aveep,
and the Poet might speak of the tears as rich enough to
ransom all his ill-deeds ; but they would not redeem the
character of Shakspeare ; the friend, with all his repent-
THE DARK STORY IS FALSE. 201
ance, could never have cured the married man's disgrace.
He might affect to speak of the Earl's doings as ' pretty
wrongs ' that befitted his years, but his own sins could
not be looked on as ' pretty ; ' these could not in any
sense befit his own years.
How should Shakspeare ask —
' Why didst tliou promise such a beaiiteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloaks
It is not possible for any man to ask such a question
imder the circumstances supposed. It would be too bare-
faced a bit of hypocrisy ! His cloak ! Why, he would
have been travelling forth in the cloak of a most hideous
and discrustinu; disguise. He would be a base lecher
cloaking himself in a demure morality. Shakspeare, were
he the speaker, could not have travelled forth without his
cloak, it would have clung only too near to nature. Such
a method of treating the whole matter would be a blun-
der worse than the crime. And to imagine for an instant
that Shakspeare, the man who was all eye, could be blind
to so patent a fact is as foolish as the story is false. It
cannot be the Poet speaking, because the speaker must
be 2?ersonally blameless to have any warrant or justiji-
cation dramaticalbj or morally for awarding the blame.
Shakspeare could not say of his love for his friend, that
it was a love that might indeed be called true. It could
not be true if so false and full of lies. Shakspeare could
not say, and ' yet thou might'st my seat ' foi'bear,' and
still assume to have his sole seat only in the heart of his
friend^ and allude to the pretty wrongs connnitted when
absent from his heart. Nor could he sav ' If I lose thee
my loss is my love's gain,' when he had sworn a hundred
times that this friend was his only love. Furtlier, the
speaker is not a married man. If he had been, he could
* So road by the upholders of the Personal Theory.
202 SHAKSPEARE'S SOXXETS.
not but have blamed himself when Hinging reproaches
so recklessly at his friend, or in the lull tliat followed,
when he tried to find excuses for him. Had he been a
married man, there would have been no need of charging
himself with that one least fault in the world, an overmuch
charity in construing ; ' himself corrupting ' by his large
liberality towards his friend. He need not have sought
for so far-fetched a fault as that of straining a point in
excusing his friend's sins more ' than they are,' because
' all men make faults,' and ' even I in this,' that is in being
so very charitable ; the only fault of which the speaker
is conscious ! A married man could not charge the single
one with his shame for what he had done being inadequate
to give physic to his grief. Xor could he make that
appeal to the public, ' for 7io man well of such a salve can
speak,' if he were known to be a married man who had
been found out in keeping a Mistress. It would not be
the salve of which men would speak ; but the moral sore !
Lastly, the speaker is not a man at all. There is no men-
tion of the speaker's sex — the allusion to ' him ' in sonnet
34 being merely proverbial and perfectly general. This
suppression cannot be without meaning ; it makes greatly
for my reading, and I shall show that the speaker is a
woman addressing her lover and the woman-rival who
has drawn her lover away from her side ; a woman
whose love is pure and who being free from personal
blame has a right to reproach both the Earl and the
lady who had professed to be the friend of both, and
whom she suspects of having taken advantage of their
friendship to ensnare the Earl and keep him in the strong
toils of her wanton grace. The attitude, the arguments,
the personal consciousness, are all wrong when applied
to a guilty man ; they are only possible to an innocent
woman. Nowhere do we meet the blinking glance of
conscious guilt ; but at every turn of the subject the clear-
straight-forward look of honest love. The love and pos-
THE SrEAKER IS A WOMAN. 203
session are of that absolute kind wliicli only the woman
can claim. The ' loss in love ' would touch her inlinitely
more nearly than it could a man. Sucli a connexion as
is supposed need not, would not, take man from man in
any such way as is here spoken of. If the woman were
of such a character that both men could llnd her, there
need be no loss whatever. And if Southampton had
stolen Shakspeare's ISIistress and afterwards repented,
Shakspeare would not have had the loss (' Tlw' thou repe?it,
yet 1 have still the loss,' son. 34) — he might have had the
woman again. In the personal interpretation of the first
sonnet of this series we are positively asked to suppose
Shakspeare to be of such a character as, in the midst of
debauchery, to require his good saint and better angel
tlie Earl of Southampton, or the Earl of Pembroke (' a
more exquisite song than the other '), to keep him from
hell — toward which in the absence of this guardian-spirit
he inevitably tends. Yet he would maunder on the
subject hke one of his own characters, half-drunk, halt-
imbecile. For the speaker has no misgiving lest he may
be going to hell on his own account, or because of his
connexion with the bad angel — the worser spirit. Oh, no ;
the way, it seems, for this female Evil to draw him soon to
hell is not by drawing him to her, but to tempt his friend
to her side. One mioht have thought that would have
been one way of saving Shakspeare, but not the way to
win him soonest to hell. And if the woman would ' cor-
rupt his saint to be a devil,' had she not corrupted him to
be a devil ] And if so, could they not all three continue
in tlicir devilhood comfortably corrupt P And where
would have been the need of all this maudlin fuss ? For,
there is no hint that it would be the best course for
Shakspeare to ' clear out ' as quickly as possible : his sole
concern is lest his friend should be taken in. Is it not a
likely story ?
Then the personal reading docs not, cannot anywliore
204 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
touch the bottom and gauge the meaning of sonnets 133
and 134. 'Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his
guard.' Against what, if a man were the speaker ? And
how could a man use the expression ' for I being pent
in thee,' or ' thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,' when
the least sense of humour would suggest that his friend
had been all too free, if these complaints and charges had
been made by a man. And, what would be the ' bond '
alluded to, when sonnet 144, the darkest of all, shows the
case to be one of suspicion only, a jealousy on account
of the lady's character, not one of certainty, and the
most passionate sonnet of the whole series expresses no-
thing more than a doubt after all ? The most searching
investigation yet made will prove that there is not the
least foundation for the dark story as told against our
Poet, save that which has been laid in the prurient imagi-
nation of those who have so wantonly sought to defile the
memory of Shakspeare. And for the rest of our lives we
may safely and unreservedly hold of him, what Anthony
Bacon said of his brother Francis, that he was ' too ivise
to be abused ; too ho7iest to abuse.''
20o
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
ELIZABETH VERNON'S JEALOUSY OF HER LOVER,
LORD SOUTHAMPTON, AND HER FRIEND, LADY
RICH.
ELIZABETU VERNON S SOLILOQUY.
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 coloured ill :
To win me soon to hell, ray female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side, '
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil ;
"Wooing his purity with her fouP pride:
And whether that my angel be turned 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 I
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt.
Till my bad angel fire my good one out."*
(144.)
* * Tempteth »))/ better Angel from my side.^
So in Otliello, ' Yea, curse his better Angel from his side.'
^ * With hor foul pride.'
The copy of this sonnet in the ' Passionate Pilgrim ' reads ' M-ith her
fau- pride.'
3 ' Both to each friend.' Here is proof tliat the absent twain were
friends before this affair.
* * Till my bad Angel iire my good one out.'
We may perliaps get at the root idea of this line by aid of an expres.<i(in of
tragic intensity in ' King Lear' — * He that parts us shall bring a brand from
Heaven and fire us hence like foxes.' In the present inefanrp. I presume,
20C5 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
ELIZABETH VEflXOX TO THE EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON.
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-triuiuphant splendour on my brow,
But out, alack ! he was but one hour mine ;
The retjion-cloud hath masked him from me now :
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ;
Suns of the world may stain when Heaven's sun
staineth. (33.)
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day
And make me travel forth without my cloak.
To let base clouds o'ertake me on my way.
Hiding thy bravery in their rotton smoke ?
'Tis not enough that thro' 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;
Tho' thou repent, yet I have still the loss ;
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him' that bears the strong offence's cross:
Ah I but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.
(34.)
the fox who is in hiding,— the Earl who is foxing it — will have to be fired
out with a brand from the other place. The allusion — here humorously-
used — is to the bui-ning out of the fox with fire-brands, at which Shak-
epeare must have assisted when he was a country lad.
1 This ' him ' has misled readers into thinidng it characterised the
speaker's sex, but it is merely and obviously a general allusion to a well-
known proverbial truth. The speaker's sex is suppressed through the whole
of these sonnets. We have only the feeling, which in poetry is the greatest
fact of all, to guide us, and that indicates a woman, and proves the passion
to be one of winnowed purity.
THE LADY'S EXCUSE FOR IIEIl LOVER'S FAULTS. 207
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done :
Koses have thorns, aud silver fouutains mud ;
Clouds and eclipses stain both ^Nloon and Sun,
And loathsome cankers live 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 thy sins are ;
For to thv sensual fault I brincj 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.
(35.)
Those pretty* wrongs that libert}^ 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 ;
' ' Myself coi-rnpting.^ It has been supposed that the speaker of this
sonnet, being a man, finds a precedent for the fault of his friend by com-
paring it with his ojcn. A fair sample of the way in which these sonnets
have been unfairly read ! The sonnet contains nothing of the sort. The
speaker says, * All men make faults,' and on that account she has tried to
excuse him ; has excused him even more tlian his sins called for. Her fault
is that she has authorised his fault by inakiiH/ this comparison in his favour ;
corrupted herself in excusing him and ' salving' his misbehaviour. ^ Even I in
this am to blame, but such is my love I cannot help it.' Here is absolute
proof that the speaker is not and cannot be that corrupt married man sup-
posed. If he had been so corrupt it did not remain for liini to corrupt him-
self by being so charitable when salving the misbehaviour of his young friend.
" * To thy sensual fault I bring in sense.'
Something very like this in thought and expression is reversed in ' Measure
for Measure ' : Angelo says of Isabel —
' She speaks such sense that my sense breeds with it.'
* ' Needs must be.' That is an allusion to the powerful bond of sonnet 134.
4 < Pretty ' in the sense of ' little.'
' There is a saying old, but not so witty,
That when a thing is little it is pretty.'— rr/j/Zor, the Water Poet.
Also see the subject illustrated by ' Moth ' for the edification of Don .Armado.
208 SHAKSPEAPvE'S SONNETS.
And when a woman woos,' what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she^ have prevailed ?
Ay me ! but yet thou might'st, my Sweet 1^ forbear,
And chide tliy beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a two-fold truth, —
Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee ;
Thine, by thv beauty being false to me !
(41.)
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief ;
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly ;
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly :
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye !
Thou dost love her, because thou know'st I love her;"*
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her : ^
1 ' "SVheu a woman woos.'
* For wliy should others' false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood ? '
The Earl to Eliz. Vernon, Sonnet 121.
2 ' Till she have prevailed.' The Quarto reads, ' Till he have prevailed.'
An obvious misprint, corrected by Tyrwhitt.
3 My siveet, forbear.^ The Quarto reads, ' my scat, forbear,'' which has
been made the most of by the advocates of the Personal Theory. Malone held
that the context showed it to be a corruption ; this my reading proves ' My
Sweet ' micht fairly be accepted as the true text, if only on accoimt of the
' sourlv ' of the preceding line, — these are two of the poet's favourite twin-
terms, almost inseparable : e. g.
' That siocd thief which sorirly robs from mQ.'' — So^met 35.
' Were it not thy sour leisure gave stoeet leave.' — Sonnet 39.
sour offence.'
Troilus and Cressida, act iii. sc. 1.
' To make a siceet lady sad is a sour offence.'
' Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sotir.^
* ' Thou dost love her because thou knowest I love her ' is not an argu-
ment for a man to use. A man in such a case would not love the mistress
because he knew that she was his friend's. The philosophy is altogether
womanly and innocent, not impure and pimpish.
5 'To approve her.' To ' approve ' in Shakspeare's age signified to 7??flA:e
good, to establish, and is so defined in ' Cawdrey's Alphabetical Table of Hard
Euo-lish Words ' (lG04j. Thus the meaning here is, that the absent lady has
ELIZABETH VEKXOX'S REPROACH OF HER COUSIX. 200
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss ;
]ioth 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 I then she loves but me alone.
(42.)
ELIZABETH VERNON TO LADY RICH.
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep woimd 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 hira, myself, and thee, I am forsaken ;
A torment thrice three-fold 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 jail :
And yet thou wilt ; for T, being pent in thee,^
Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.
So, now I have confessed that he is thine.
And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,
Myself I'll 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 learned but surety-like to write for me
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind :
permitted the speaker's Lover to make good, or establi.-<li, or test her affec-
tion for the speaker's self. The thought is quite honest and innocent. In
no guilty sense could the trial be spoken of as imposed for the speaker's sake.
' So in the ' Arcadia,' book iii., Philoclea, a woman, prays on her lover's
behali" — 'Whatever becomes of me, preserve the virtuous Slusidorus."
- ' Being ^wjj; from liberty, as I am uo\y.'—JiicJiard III. act i. sc. 4.
P
(133.)
210 SUAESPEAPvE'S SONNETS,
The statute of tlay beauty thou wilt take.
Thou usurer that putt'st forth all to use.
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake ;
So him I lose thro' my uukiud abuse !
Him have I lost ; thou hast both him aud me ;
He pays the whole, and yet I am not free.
(134.)
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 may'st 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 thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest :
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,'
Altho' 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 Grrace, in whom all ill well shows, "^
Kill me with spites ! yet we must not be foes.
(40.)
Elizabeth Vernon's jealousy of her lover the Earl of
Southampton and her friend and cousin Lady Eich, is told
in these nine sonnets, which are now for the first time put
together : they go to Autolycus's tune of ' Two Maids woo-
ing a Man.' The first sonnet contains a soliloquy on the
subject, a form employed more than once in the dramatic
sonnets. Then we have five sonnets addressed to the
Earl, and three to the lady of whom Elizabeth Vernon
1 ' Gentle thief —
' You thief of love ! what, have you come by night,
And stolen my love's heart from him ? '
This is spoken hy a woman to a woman in the ' Midsummer Night's Dream.'
^ So in ' sonnet loO,' which is addressed to a woman,
' "NVhenr-e hast thou this hecotniinj of thinrjs ill? '
Also Cleopatra is called the
' Wrangling queen, whom cvcrytkmg becomes ! the vilest things become them-
selves in her.^
A CLOSER READING DEMANDED. 211
is jealous. The first, as we liave seen, has been held
to tell a tale most dark and damning to our poet's moral
character. But such an interpretation could only result
from the shallowest possible reading. The sound of the
sonnet has frightened readers from the sense. It is only-
tragic in terms. If the state of the case had been such
as some readers have accepted, the story dark as they
feared, it could scarcely have been so undecided. How-
ever positive they may have felt that Shakspeare had
lost his mistress and made a fool of himself, the speaker
in this sonnet is by no means so certain, but lives in
doubt how the matter may stand. The imagery, the
good and bad angel, is necessarily chosen on purpose to
indicate the uncertainty, the undetermined fate. Thus
the most desperate sonnet of the series is positively incon-
clusive of anything. Let us take it up for a much closer
look at it.
It must be borne in mind tliat we are endeuvourini;
to decipher a secret history of an imexampled kind.
We can get little help except from the written words
themselves. We must not be too confident of walkinsc
by our own light ; we must rely more implicitly on that
inner light of the sonnets, left like a lamp in a tomb of
old, which will lead us with the greater certainty to the
precise spot wdiere we shall touch the secret spring and
make clear the mystery. We must ponder any the
least minutias of thought, feeling, or expression, and not
pass over one mote of meaning because we do not easily
see its significance. Some little thing that we cannot
make fit with the old reading may be the key to the
right interpretation.
Elizabeth Vernon, I maintain, is the speaker of these
nine sonnets. She has two 'loves,' one that brin<i;s
comfort, the other causes a feeling of despair. The
words 'love' and 'friend' are terms mutually con-
vertible both to a woman speaker as well as to ii
212 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
man.' These ' loves' of hers are Hke two spnits which she
personifies as a good angel and a bad angel, and these
keep tempting or instigating her with their conflicting
snggestions of good and evil. The one, Southampton,
is a ' man right foir.' The ' worser spirit ' is a woman
' coloured ill.' This is her cousin, Lady Eich. Tlie
' coloured ill ' applies to that public report of her reputa-
tion, which in her later years grew worse and worse, until
with darkened fame she Avent down in a preternatural
night. This 'female evil' is trying, as Elizabeth Vernon
suspects, to tempt the Earl from her side. They are both
absent from her, and they are both friends to each other,
the intimacy being of tlie closest all round, for the sus-
pected lady is still a personal friend of Elizabeth Vernon's
— still one of her ' loves,' and still an angel, or the other
could not be the better angel — and she fears the worst ;
uncertainty always fearing the worst. She fears that the
lady will ' corrupt her saint to be a devil,' ' wooing his
purity with her foul pride,' that is, with her pride in the
power of her charms to do so foul a thing, and play so
uncousinly a part. But — and here comes an allusion of
the utmost importance, though seeming so casual, so care-
lessly made — this being the state of the case, her two
friends so thick with each other, she cannot help fearing
lest the present affair may turn out like one that has pre-
viously occurred. ' I guess one angel in another's hell ! '
Mark this. She does not guess one angel in the other's
hell, which would be the Earl in Lady Eich's hell — what-
ever that might mean- — but another s hell, which impUes
^ The motluT of Essex, in writing to her 'sweet TJohin,' habitually speaks
of Christopher liloimt, her third husband, as ' uiy friend.' So the Psalmist
— 'My lovers and my friends stand aloof from my soul.' — Psalm xxxviii. v. 11.
An original love-letter of Sir George Hay ward, written in 1650, begins 'My
dearest Friend.'' — Howards Colledhn, p. 521.
^ ' Hell ' is generally supposed to mean a place or state of punishment,
and it is used by this speaker in linej= 5 and G of the first sonnet to ex-
press great suffering.
another's sin and snO'ering. Tliis other's ' liell,' I take it,
is a thoufrht of another ladv, wlio was a friend of theirs,
and who caused and sufiered ' IwlV in a former transac-
tion. Lady Eich is the ' angel ' of this Hne, not the Earl.
She is one of the two angels of the whole soiniet, as afore-
said. Here she becomes the angel for the sake of an
allusion to another angel whom she seems likely to re-
semble in character. Elizabeth Vernon loves Lady Eicli
at first too much to believe her false ; therefore, so far,
she is one of her angels. And, even under the cir-
cumstances, black as they look, she only guesses one
(this) angel may be in the ' hell ' created by ' anotlier
angel,' one whom they botli knew, had faitli in, and
were deceived in ; one with wliom the Earl had given
cause for Elizabeth Vernon to speak-of him in this way.
If this were so, if this angel were to prove false as an-
other angel — satirically so called — had done, it would be a
' hell ; ' ^ hell to the speaker as well as to the fallen angel ;
* ' Hell.' It has been suggested that Shakspeare's frequent and peculiar
use of the word ' hell ' in his earlier writings may have arisen from the fact
that the lower part of the stage was called ' hell.' In the game of ' Barley-
break,' also, a player may get into ' hell.' But the hell of lovers was a com-
mon theme with the Elizabethan poets. One of Spenser's missing poems
bore that title. And in his ' Hymn in honour of Love," printed in 159<),
although not all new, but re-formed, the same writer has thus painted the
lover's hell : —
* The gnawing envy, the heart-fretting fear,
The vain sui-mises, the distrustful shows,
The false reports that flying talt^s do bear,
The doubts, the dangers, tliu delays, the woes,
The feined friends, the unassured foes,
With thousands more than any tongue may tell
Do make a lover's life a wretched hell.'
Shakspeare may luive had this sonnet in mind when he wrote his. There
is also something exceedingly suggestive of his sonnet in the idea and ex-
pression of one of Drayton's, the 20th: —
' An evil spirit, your beauty haimts me still,
"Which ceaseth not to tempt me to each ill ;
Thus am I still provoked to every evil
By this good-wicked spirit, sweet angel-devil.'
214 SHAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
and slie feels that this drawing away of her saint from
lier side is just the way to win her ' soon to hell ' — the
hell created by tlie false friend. But she is not sure, she
only lives in doubt —
* Till my bad angel fire my good one out.'
And the Earl, her lover and ' good angel,' shall come
back to her and smile away all uncertainty. She can
only guess that the present drawing away of the Earl
from her side may in effect be the same as occurred once
before ; she will not know until the bad angel shall start
her lover home again, as we say, with a ' flea in his ear,' or
as Garibaldi proposed serving the French Emperor. It
Avill be seen that the coming back does not imply an occa-
sional \nsit, but an absolute passing into another's posses-
sion, and the real state of matters is only to be fathomed
by his coming back to her once for all or never coming back
at all, not by his returning to say where he has been.
With reiiard to the otlier ' affair ' and another anijel
which this sonnet alludes to, that is corroborated in the
Earl's own confessions. Farther on, we shall find that he
does admit having been the victim of a woman's ' syren
tears,' the subject of a wretched delusion. He pleads
guilty to that ' sensual fault ' of his nature which he is
charged with in these sonnets, but not in this instance.
He emphatically denies that he was guilty in this sad
case. He says the lady wronged him by her unkindness.
He suffered in ' her crime.' And there is proof that she
had done so in the fact of her being first to ask forgive-
ness and tender the ' humble salve,' tlie healing balm
offered in a penitent attitude, which was most suited to
the heart she had so wounded. The humble salve shows
that the lady, on finding herself mistaken, her suspicions
wrongful, had eaten ' humble pie,' and eaten it with a
good grace.
In the next sonnet the lady reproaches the Earl for
TTTE fHY OF A WO.MAX. 210
liis having been led away lioni lier side wlien it was
yet the early dawn of their love. Her sun had l)ut shone
for ' one liour ' with ' all triumphant splendour ' on her
brow, when the ' region-cloud ' came over him, and hid
him from her. Still, she will think the best in his eclipse.
Her love shall not turn from liini. J'A'cu though darkly
hidden from her, she will have faith that he will shine
a<^ain w^itli all the early briii:htness. She will believe that
the sun in heaven will be sullied by the clouds that pass
over it soon as that her earthly sim can be stained by
the clouds which mask him from her now. But the fear
increases and the feeling deepens in the next sonnet, and
we hear the tremulous voice of virgin love, the low cry of
a shy loving nature, conscious that it has publicly let fall
a veil of maidenly reserve. She pleads, ' why didst thou
promise such a beauteous day, and make me travel forth
icithout my cloak. ? ' Trustingly, confidingly, she has left her
wonted place of shelter ; she has ventured all on this new
affection. The morning was so bright, the sun shone with
such promise of a glorious day, she has come forth unfit
to meet the storm wdiich the gathering clouds portend.
Her unprotected condition is pourtrayed most exquisitely
w^itli that natural touch and image, solely feminine, of
her having travelled forth ' icithout her cloak.' ^\liy did
her lover make her do this, and let ' base clouds ' over-
take her on her way ? It will not be enough for him to
break throuirh that ' rotten smoke ' of cloud to kiss the
tears off her storm-beaten face, because others have seen
how ho has treated her. Her maiden fame has been
injured, her maiden dignity wounded. Xo one can speak
well of such a ' salve ' as heals the personal wound and
cures not the public disgrace ; others are witnesses that
she has been mocked. Tliough he may repent, yet she
lias lost that which he cannot restore. The offender may
be sorry, yet, as every one knows, that lends but a weak re-
lief to the victim who has to bear the ' cross ' of a weighty
216 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
offence. There is an injury done which cannot so easily
be undone. Tlie sentiment is essentially womanly, purely
maidenly. It shows a sense of honour that has the
tremulous delicacy of a Perdita. Then comes the re-
vulsion of feeling, the relief of thought ; she pictures his
repentance —
' Ah, but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds ! '
Do not grieve any more, she continues in the next sonnet,
and in a most loving spirit, she will make all the excuses
she can for him. Sun and moon have their clouds and
eclipses, the sweetest buds their cankers, the roses their
thorns. All men have their faults, and even she will make
a fault in this, that she is authorising his fault or trans-
gression by comparison with the faults of others, corrupt-
ing herself, or herself sinning, in ' salving ' over his
misbehaviour, and in the largeness of her charity, excusing
his sins even more than they are, magnifying them for
more excuse. She will not only look on this fault of his
nature sensibly, but will also try and take part against
herself in favour of the 'sweet thief who has robbed her
of her lover's presence ; such ' civil war is in her love and
hate ' that she must needs be accessory to the theft. We
shall soon see the meanini2; of the line italicised. The ex-
cuses are still carried on in the fourth of the sonnets
spoken to the Earl. It is perfectly natural that he should
have this tendency to commit tliese pretty wrong>3 when
she is sometimes absent from his thoughts. It is a little
' out of sight, out of mind.' He is young and handsome,
and pursued by temptation. He is beautiful, therefore
sure to be assailed. He is kind and yielding, therefore
he may be won, especially, as in the present instance, when
a woman woos, and a woman like tliis cousin of hers,
who has such power in bearing men off their feet, once
she has fixed her fatal floating eyes upon them. In whose
A WOMAN'S SPECIAL PLEADING. 217
every (jvacc tliere ' lurks a still and duinb-discoursiiif^
devil that tempts most cunningly.'
* Ay me, but yet thou rtiighf st, my Siveet, forbear.
And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth.
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a two-fold truth ;
Hers, by thy beauty tempting her to thee ;
Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.'
Then follows a bit of special pleading, partly very natural
and partly sopliistical. With all the playfulness, however,
the earnestness is unmistakeable. Naturally enouo;h she
is sorry if she has lost her female friend, for she loved
her dearly ; but still more naturally she confesses that the
loss in love which would touch her most nearly would be
the loss of her lover. The rest of the sonnet is insrenious
for love and charity's sake. Surely her lover only loves
the lady because he knows she loves her, and the lady
loves him just for the speaker's sake. Both have com-
bined to lay this cross upon her ; they are just trying her ;
but —
' Here's the joy, my friend and I are one.
Sweet flattery I then she loves but me alone.'
This is the tone in which a woman laughs when her heart
wants to cry. In the next three sonnets the address is
direct from woman to woman, face to face, and the feel-
ing it.. more passionate, the language of more vital import.
Here are matters that have never been fathomed ; ex-
pressions that have no meaning if a man were speaking
to a man. These I interpret thus : —
Before the Earl of Southampton met with Mistress Ver-
non, and became enamoured of. her, he was somewhat at
variance with the Earl of Essex. In the declaration of the
treason of the Earl, signed D., and quoted by Chalmers in
his ' Suplimental Apology,' we are told that emulations (en-
218 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
vious rivalries) and differences at Court liad risen betwixt
Essex and Southampton, but the latter Earl's love for the
cousin of Essex came to heal all, and it bound the two up
in a bond, strong and long as life, which was only loosened
by death. Also, at the time of Southampton's marriage,
the Earl of Essex fell under her Majesty's displeasure for
furthering, and, as we learn by Mr. Standen, for '■gendering''
the matter. So that from the hour when Southampton and
Elizabeth Vernon became one in love, years before they
w^ere one in law, the Earl was committed in feeling, and, as
we now see, in fact to the fortunes of the Earl of Essex.
He followed him through good and evil report. He
held to him althousrh he had to share the frowns of Her
Majesty without sharing the smiles which fell on the
favourite. The influence of Essex was often more fatal
to friends than to foes, and in this respect the Earl of
Southampton was far more justly entitled to the epithet
' unfortunate ' than was Essex himself. He was most un-
fortunate in this friendship, for it seemed perfectly natural
when Essex got in the wrong, for all eyes to turn and
look at his friends to see wlio was the cause. Her Majesty
often offered up a scapegoat from amongst his friends in
this way. The worst of it being that these had to stand
in the shadow even when he v/as visited with a burst of
sunshine. In fact, liis friends were always in the shadow
which he cast. In these sonnets, Elizabeth Vernon feels
that she is responsible for bringing Southampton under
this 'bond' of friendship which binds him so fast through
her. She is bound to the ' slavery ' of the Essex cause by
family relationship, and through his love for her, South-
ampton has been brought under the influence of Lady
Eich's fascinating eyes, through which there looks alter-
nately an angel of darkness and an angel of light, accord-
ing to her mood of mind ; that fatal voice, made low and
soft to imitate modesty and draw the fluttering heart into
her snare, just as the fowler, with a low warble, tries to
THE ESSEX BOND. 219
lure the bird into his net ; tliat wanton l)caiity, wliirli can
make all ill look lovely, and whose every gesture is a
dumb-show that has but one interpretation for those who
are caught by her amorous arts and luring lapwing-wiles,
and also for those that watch and fear for tliem. Eliza-
beth Vernon feels that she is the innocent cause of bring-
ino- her dear friend the Earl into this double dantrer ; the
danger of too familiar an acquaintanceship with Lady
Eich, and the danger of a too-familiar friendship with
Essex, whose perturbed spirit and secret machinations
are known to her. She blames herself for her ' unkind
abuse ' in having brought them together. ' Evil befal
that lieart,' she exclaims to her lady cousin, ' for the deep
wound it gives to me and my friend. Is it not enough
for you to torture me alone in this way, I who am full of
timid fears, but you must also make my sweetest friend a
slave to this slavery which I suffer, and was content to
suffer whilst it only tormented me ? You held me in your
power by right of the strongest ; your proud cruel eye
could do w^th me almost as you pleased. I was your
prisoner whom you kept in confmement close pent. You
hold me by force, and I w^ill not complain of that if I can
only shield my lover from all danger ; let my heart be his
guard. I plead with you ; but, alas ! I know it is in
vain ; you will use rigour in our gaol, and torture your
poor prisoners. I confess he is yours, and I myself am
mortgaged to do your bidding. Now let me forfeit my-
self, and do you restore my lover to be my comfort. All,
you will not, and he will not be free. You are covetous
and he is kind. Poor fellow, he did but sign his name,
surety-like, for me under tliat bond that binds him as fast
as it binds me, and you will sue liiin. a friend, wlio has
only come to you as a debtor for my sake, and take tlie
statute of your beauty, the right of might, yt)u ' usurer
that put forth all to use ;' that is, she who takes advantage
of her lovehness to turn friends into lovers and lovers
220 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
into politiccal adherents to the Essex cause ; ' take all you
can, in virtue of your beauty and our bond. Ilini have I
lost ; you have us both. He pays all, yet I am not, can-
not be free.' The speaker acknowledges a power which
compels her submission. Then she tries a little coaxing.
' Take all my loves, my Love,' what then ? You have only
what you had before. All mine was yours in one sense,
but ' be blamed ' if you deceive yourself and take it in
another sense. If you would eat of the fruit of my love,
come to it fiiirly by the right gate ; do not climb over the
wall, as a thief and a hireling, to steal. Still, for his sake
I will forgive even robbery, although love knows it is
far harder to bear this wrong done secretly in the name
of love than it would be to suffer the injury of hatred
that was openly known.' And now we have the summing
up of the whole matter, the moral of the story. The
speaker makes her submission almost abject, in obedience
to a hidden cause, though the words are almost spitten
out by the force of suppressed feeling —
' Lascivious Grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.''
Admitting the speaker to be a woman, tliere must be
more than a story of rivalry in love implied in those
lines. Because if one woman be too friendly with an-
other woman's lover, the sufferer would arejue that the
sooner she and the one who robbed her mind of its peace
were foes the better for all parties. Eather than continue
to suffer and bear until quite 'killed with spites,' she
would say we must be foes, for I cannot, need not, will
not bear any longer. All the more that it is the woman
wdio pursues, an ordinary case would be simple enough.
But there is a secret and sufficiently potent cause why
these two should not become foes. The lady knows the
fierce vindictive nature of her cousin ; she fears lest the
black eyes should grow baleful, and would almost rather
THE DAKK STORY TOLD FOIl VJIE LAST TLML. Ji'l
they should be turned on tlie Earl in wanton love than in
bitter enmity. So deep is her dread of the one, so great
her aflfection for the other. For his sake she resolves to
bear all the ' spites ' which hci- cousin's conduct can in-
flict upon her. For his sake, she and this cousin must
not be foes. Such is the binding nature of their relation-
ship, tliat the speaker feels compelled t(^ be an accessory
to the 'sweet thief that 'sourly robs' from her. She
will be the slave of her higli imperious will, and bear the
tyranny that tortures her, rather than quarrel. She will
likewise be subtly politic with her love's profoundest cun-
ning. And this is why there is such ' civil war ' in her
' love and hate ; ' herein lies the covert meaning that has
for so long dwelt darkly in these Unes.
I think no one accustomed to judge of evidence in
poetry can fail to see that the old story of a man speaker
— a man who is married and keeps his mistress too — and
that man Shakspeare, has been told for the last time, so
soon as we have discovered a woman speaker, who is
thus identified by inner character and outward circum-
stances. The breath of pure love that breathes fresh as
one of those summer airs which are the messenirers of
morn, is enough to sweeten the imagination that has been
tainted by the vulgar story, whilst the look of injured in-
nocence and the absence of self-reproach, the chiding that
melts into forgiveness and which was only intended to
bring the truant back ; the feeling of being left uncovered
to the public gaze and cloakless to the threatening storm ;
the face in tears, the rain on the cheek, those 'women's
weapons, water-drops ; ' ^ the natural womanliness of the
expression, ' Wlioe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard,'
the lines —
* Myself I'll forfeit so that other mine
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still I '
* * Let uot women's weapons, water-drops,
Stain my man's cheeks.' — Lear, act ii. so. 4.
222 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
— the wrong done to love, which, though unknown, is
Avorse than the known injury of open hatred ; the motive,
feeling, and excusing words — all are exquisitely femi-
nine ; whilst the imagery and symbols correspond in the
thorough est way to the womanly nature of it all.
The expression " Lascivious Grace ^ in whom all ill well
shoics^ kill me with spites" as spoken from a woman to
a rival, and applied, according to the story now for the first
time told, is just one of those flashes of revelation by which
we see nature caught in the fact ! And by the same sudden
illumination w^e catch sight of that Elizabethan Helen,
the Lady Eich, seen and known in a moment, never to
be forgotten.
There is a letter written by Lord Eich to the Earl of
Essex, dated April 16th, 1597, which has been held to
be so dark in meaning, so enigmatical in expression, that
nothing has hitherto been made of its contents. Lady
Eich had just got out of danger from the small-pox. In
a letter dated three days later, Eowland White says, ' My
Lady Eich is recovered of her small-pox, without any
blemish to her beautiful face.' Lord Eich's letter refers
to this illness of his wife, and the consequent danger to
her fair face, but it also contained an enclosure touching
certain love-matters tlierein written of, to the perplexity
of his lordship, and relating to a ' fair Maid ' in whom the
Lady Eich was interested, of whose beauty she was so
careful as not to send the writing direct for fear of in-
fection : — ' My Lord, your Sister, being loth to send you
any of her infection, hath made me an instrument to send
you this enclosed epistle of Dutch true or false love ;
wherein, if I be not in the right, I may be judged more
infected than fitteth my profession, and to deserve worse
than the pox of the smallest size. If it fall out so, I dis-
burden myself, and am free from such treason, by my
disclosing it to a Councillor, who, as your Lordship well
knows, cannot be guilty of any such offence. Your Lord-
LORD RICH'S MYSTIPICATIOX. 223
ship sees, by tliis care of a fair maid's beauty, she doth
not altogether despair of recovery of her own again ;
which, if slie did, assured by envy of others' fairness,
would make her wilhngiy to send infection among them.
This banishment makes me that I cannot attend on you ;
and this wicked disease will cause your sister this next
week to be at more charge to buy a masker's visor to
meet you dancing in the fields than she would on [once ?]
hoped ever to have done. If you dare meet her, I beseech
you preach patience unto her, which is my only theme of
exhortation. Thus, over saucy to trouble your Lordship's
Aveightier aftairs, I take my leave, and ever remain your
Lordship's poor brother to command, Eo. liiCH,' Now,
to my thinking, there is no more natural explanation of
this mysterious letter than that the ' fair Maid ' of whose
beauty Lady Eich is so thoughtful a guardian, and to
whom the ' epistle of Dutch true or simulated love ' evi-
dently belongs, is Elizabeth Vernon, cousin both to Lady
Eich and to the Earl of Essex, and that we here catch a
glimpse of this very group of sonnets, or a part of them,
as they pass fi^om hand to hand. The ' Epistle ' over
which Lord Eich tries to shake his wise head jocosely, is
not sealed up from him. He lias read it, and linds it only
sealed in the sense ; it is, as the unlearned say, all Greek
to him, or, as he says, it is " Dutch." The subject, too,
is amatory, so much he perceives ; but whether it pertains
to real life or to fiction is beyond his reach ; he merely
hopes the brother, who is a Councillor of State, will dis-
cover no treason in it. If this love-epistle, the puiport of
which his Lordship failed to fathom, should have consisted
of the sonnets that Elizabeth Vernon speaks to Lady Eich
in her jealousy, it would fit the circumstances of th'e case
as nothing else could, and perfectly account for Lord
Eich's perplexity. We may imagine how little he would
make of them when their meaning has kept concealed
from so many other prying eyes for two centuries and a
224 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
half. If my suggestion be right, this letter gives us a
most interesting glimpse of the persons concerned, and
of the light in which they viewed the sonnets ; here con-
tributing to the private amusement of Lady Eich, her
brother Essex, and Elizabeth Vernon, whilst Lord Eich
is not in the secret.
This jealousy of Mistress Vernon does not appear to
have gone very deep or left any permanent impression.
It certainly did not part the fair cousins, for their intimacy
continued to be of the closest, at least up to the time of
Essex's death, as is shown by Eowland White's letters ;
and we find that the Earl of Southampton was one of the
chief mourners at the funeral of Mountjoy. Also it was
to Lady Eich's house that EUzabeth Vernon retired in
August, 1598, and there her babe was born, which she
named Penelope, after her cousin, Lady Eich. There
was only matter enough in it to supply one of the subjects
for Shakspeare's poetry ' among his private friends.'
I have not been able to date these sonnets ; they be-
long to the time at which the ' Midsummer Night's Dream'
was written, but that is not fixed with certainty. The
'jealousy ' may possibly have occurred before the 'jour-
ney,' but it suits best with my plan to print this group in
connexion with the lovers' bickerings and flirtations that
follow.
225
A PERSONAL SONNET.
SHAKSPEARE OX THE SLANDEK.
Tjiis sonnet I read as the Poet's comment on tlie fore-
going subject. It is written upon an occasion when the
luirl lias been suspected and shmdered, and Shakspeare
does not consider liim to bhmie. We shall see that the
Jvdil himself held that he was wronged by his lady in
some particular passage of their love affairs, which I take
to be her jealousy of Lady Eich. Shakspeare's treatment
of the matter in tliis sonnet goes far to identify it with the
story just told. Suspicion has been at work, and the
Poet tells his friend that for one like him to be suspected
and slandered is no marvel whatever. Suspicion is the
ornament of beauty, and is sure to be found in its near
neighbourhood : it is tlie crow that ilies in the upper air.
A handsome young fellow like the Earl is sure to be the
object of suspicion and envy. The Ivul has been sus-
pected, and the suspicion has given rise to a slander.
Therefore the Poet treats the charge of the jealousy son-
nets as a slander. If it had been true, it would not have
rested on suspicion. The lady herself was not sure if Ikt
suspicions were true — did not know if the absent ones
were triumphing in their treachery — and Shakspeare in
person implies that they were not. He speaks also to
226 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
the Earl's general character on the subject ; says his young
friend ' presents a pure unstained prime ' of life ; alludes
to his having been assailed by a woman, and come off a
' victor being charged.' In the previous sonnets, as we
saw, it was a woman who had wooed and tried to tempt
the Earl from his mistress. But, pure and good as he
may be, and blameless as his life has been, this is not
enough to tie up envy. This sonnet, then, illustrates the
story of Elizabeth Vernon's jealousy. It gives us the
Poet's own view of the affair, together with his personal
conclusions. Eead on any theory, and looked at in any
and every aspect, this must refute the scandalous interpre-
tation of the preceding sonnets, which have been made to
show that the Poet kept a mistress, and was robbed of
her by liis friend.
With the following sonnet we may take our leave of
the author of so follacious a discovery, so wanton a slander,
and sav, in the words of Count Gismond's innocent and
avenged lady : —
' North, South,
East, West, I looked. The Lie was dead
And damned, and Truth stood up instead ! '
SHAKSPEARE TO THE EARL.
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 wooed of Time ; ^
For canker Vice the sweetest buds doth love.
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime :
^ In sonnet 112, it is the speaker who is this mark of slander.
2 Steeyens, in a note to this sonnet, says he has shown, on the authority
of Ben Jonson, that ' of time ' means of the then present one. Examples of
this occur in these sonnets, hut generally ' time ' is the old personification ;
him of the scythe and hour-glass. It is so in sonnets 12, 15, 19, 65, 100, 116,
123, 124, 126, and there is every reason to believe that it is in the present
instance.
THE SLANDER ON SOUTHAMPTON. 227
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days.
Either not assailed, or victor Ijeing charged ;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise.
To tie up Envy evermore enhirged :
If some suspect of ill masked not thy show
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts should'st owe.
('to.;
228 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
THE EARL TO ELIZABETH VERNON AFTER THE
JEALOUSY.
In" the first of these two sonnets there is evidence of a
lovers' quarrel. Something has come between them and
put them apart for awhile. There has been a period of
suffering, a ' sad interim.' It is but reasonable to presume
that the coolness was caused by the jealousy of the Earl's
mistress ; and that this is the lover's plea for a full and
frank making up. The sonnet last quoted was a plea of
Shakspeare's on liis friend's behalf In tlie present in-
stance, the Earl pleads for liimself ; he seeks for a return
to the old pleasant intimacy ; he asks that the spirit of
love may not be killed with a '■ perjjetual dulness' Let
this ' sad interim, ' be like the ocean that n\ay roll its
world of waters between two lovers, newly affianced, who
stand watching on opposite shores for the return of love.
Or call it the long dreary time of winter, which makes
summer all the more wished for and all the more wel-
come. We shall see later on that the Earl, in sonnet 120,
speaks of a ' night of woe ' like this, occasioned by the
unkindness of his mistress. I doubt not tliat the ' sad
interim ' and the ' night of woe ' both meet in Elizabeth
Vernon's jealousy, and tliat Shakspeare wrote of the one
cause of trouble on both occasions. In the second of these
two sonnets the Earl goes on to protest his love and care
A LOVER '.^ AXXTETY. 220
for tlie lady. For hur peace lie is at .such .sliife with his
thoughts and feelings as may be found betwixt the miser
and his wealth. One moment he is ricli beyond every-
thing; as he looks at his treasure, and the next minute he
is doubting whether a '■jilching age ' may not steal it,
whilst he is not near enough for her protection. The
sonnet felicitously expresses the alternations of the lover's
feelings, the sudden change from glow to gloom, the tender
trouble that continually ripples over the smiling surface of
his inner life : —
Sweet love,' renew thy force ; be it not said.
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite.
Which but to-day by feeding is allayed.
To-morrow sliarpen'd in his former might :
So, love, be thou ; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes e'en till they wink with fulness.
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dulness :
Let this sad interim,- hke the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more bless'd may be the view :
Or call it winter, which, being full of care.
Makes summer's welcome thrice more wished, more
rare.
(.56.;
So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-seasoned 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 bettered that the world may see my pleasure :
' The ' love ' liere addressed is not a person, but a passion ; and it is dis-
tinctly enough stated to be the love that precedes marriage.
* This ' sad interim ' is marked in the original copy by italics,
^ * Doubting iho jUchiuy aye ■svill stval his treasure.'' The age of Elizabeth
230 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
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 be from you took :
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.
(75.)
■was not a man-stealing age, so far as histoiy records. Of necessity it must
be a woman here spoken of, and the jealous lover is fearful lest the * filch-
ing age ' should rob him of his mistress by that seduction which is only too
D
common.
231
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
o>»;c
ELIZABETH VERNON EEPAYS THE EARL BY A
FLIRTATION OF HER OWN: HIS REPROACH.
In these sonnets the Earl still pleads, but his mistress is
determined to vex him with her wilful humours and signs
of inconstancy. They continue the love-quarrel which,
as I suppose, followed the Earl's flirtation with Lady Eich.
The lady is bent on punishing her lover, apparently, by a
flirtation of her own. The speaker stands on the know-
ledge of his own desert, in spite of appearances that gave
rise to scandal. He says that if his lady shall frown on
the defects and faults of his character, if her love shall
have been tried to the uttermost — ' cast its utmost sum '
— and is called to a reckoning by wiser reflections and
warier considerations to find nothing further in liis favour,
and she shall strangely pass him by, and hardly give him
greeting, and love shall be converted from the thing it
once was, for reasons sulhciently grave — against that
time he will fortify himself with the knowledge that lie
does not deserve such treatment. He admits her right to
leave liim, for he can allege no cause why she should love
him. Aiid if she be really disposed to make light of his
love, and scorn his merit, he will light on her side against
himself, for he is best acquainted with liis own weaknesses
and the injuries wliich he does to himself. Such is liis
232 SfL\KSPEARE'S SONNETS.
love, and so much does he belong to her, that for her
right he will bear all wrong. Some glory in tlieir birth,
others in their skill, their wealth, their rich raiment. But
all such particulars of possession he betters in ' one general
best.' Her love is better tlian high birth, wealth, or
treasures. Having her, he has the sum total of all that
men are proud of. He is only wretched in the thought
that she may take all this away if she takes away herself
from him. But she may do her worst to steal herself
away from him : she is his for life. His life is bound up
with her love, and both will end together. Therefore he
need not trouble himself about other wrongs when, if he
loses her love, there is an end of all. On this fact he will
plant himself firmly, and not let her wilful humours and
signs of inconstancy vex him further. He is happy to
have her love, and will be happy to die should he lose her.
Tliat is the position he takes. Still, his philosophy does
not supply him with armour of proof. The darts of a
lover's jealousy will pierce. He cannot rest in his con-
clusions, however final. With a lover it is not only
Heaven or Hell ; there is the intermediate Purgatorial
state. After the magnanimity of feeling will intrude this
mean tliouglit ! —
' But what's so blessed fair that fears no Llot ?
Thou may'st be false, and yet I know it not.'
If she were false to him he could not know it, he should
live on like a deceived husband ; her looks might be with
him, her heart elsewhere. For Nature has so moulded
her, and given her such sweetness and grace that, whether
loving him or not, she must always look lovely, and her
looks would not show her thoughts, or set the secret of
her heart at gaze, even if both were false to him. Pray
God it be not so, liis feeling cries ! ' How like is thy
beauty to that Apple of Eve, smiling so ripely on the out-
side, and so rotten within, if thy sweet virtue correspond
SELF-ABNEGATION. 233
not to the promise of that fair face ! ' Ilis tlioughts have
the yellow tinge of a lover's jealousy. Apparently, he is
not yet ' paid out ' according to tlie lady's thinking. In
the last of these sonnets she has not ceased to punish liim.
And, just as apparently, her artifice is so far successful.
Tlie lover grows more earnest, more anxious than ever.
She has flirted enough to set the gossips gadding on the
subject. The story has been told to liim with ample ad-
ditions and coarse connnents. He concludes his reproach
to her with a heart-felt warning : —
Against that time — if ever that time come —
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
' When as thy love hath cast its utmost sum.
Called 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 —
Asrainst that time do I esconce me here
Within the knosvledge 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.
(49.)
WTien thou shalt feel disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn.
Upon tliy side against myself I'll fight
And prove thee virtuous, tho' thou art forsworn : ^
1 ' Advised respects ;' ' advised respect' occurs in ' King John/ act iv. sc. 2.
* 'And prove thee virtuous tho' thou art/orstror/t.'
Having broken her oath or troth-plight to be true to him. Thus in ' Venus
and Adonis': —
' So do thy lips
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
Lest she should steal a kiss, and die /orsJtWM.'
Having broken her oath of virginity. With Shakspeare, forsiccaniiff is
odth-brcakimj. But ^vhat oath could Southampton have taken to be true to
234 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted.
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults concealed wherein I am attainted,'
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory :
And I by this will be a gainer too :
For binding all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,^
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me —
Such is my love, to tliee I so belong
That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.
(88.)
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill.
Some in their wealth, some in their body'? force.
Some in their garments, tho' 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,^
Eicher than wealth, prouder than garments' cost ;
Of more delight than hawks or horses be ;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast ;
Wretched in this alone, that thou may'st take
All this away, and me most wretched make.
(91.)
him? The antithesis of the line is only possible when spoken to a woman.
In a previous sonnet we have two lovers newly affianced, which I take to be
a literal fact, not a mere image.
^ * I can set down a story,' &c. So Hamlet says, ' I could accuse me of
such things that it were better my mother had not borne me.'
' * The injuries that to myself I do.'
So in ' King Lear ' : —
' O, Sir, to wilful men,
The injuries that they themselves procure
Must be their schoolmasters.'
' Had Shakspeare been speaking, he would not have looked down upon
high birth whilst addressing a peer of the realm. The speaker is of
high birth, and possesses the ' particulars ' enumerated ; but they do not fill
the measure of his joy ; all these he betters in the best of all, his lady's love.
A LOVEir.S JKALOL'SY. 285
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 lecost 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 ;
0, 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 may'st be false, and yet I know it not !
(92)
So shall I live, supposing thou art true.
Like a deceived husband : so love's face
May still seem love to me, though altered new ;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place :
For there can live no hatred in thine eye.
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change :
In many's looks the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange.
But Heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell ;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell :
How like Eve's Apple doth thy beauty grow,
If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show I '
(«J3.)
* So in the ' Merchant of Venice,' act i. so. 3 : —
* A goodly apph> rotten at the heart :
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath.'
In a note on this sonnet, Malone wTites, ' Mr. Oldys observes, in one of his
manuscripts, that this and the preceding sonnet seem to have been addressed
by Shakspeare to his beautiful wife on some suspicion of her infidelity ! '
Poor Mi-s. Shakspeare 1 The Personal Theory has not even spared her !
23G SHAKSPE ARE'S SONNETS.
How sweet and lovely dost tlioii make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant Rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name !
0, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose !
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
jMaking lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise :
Naming thy name blesses an ill report :
0, what a mansion have those vices got,
Which for their habitation chose out thee !
^Yhere Beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all tilings turn to fair that eyes can see !
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege ;
The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.
(95.)
237
PERSONAL SONNETS.
— -f
shakspeare is sad for the earl's 'harmful
deeds:
Although Sliakspeare had, in a sonnet already quoted,
re})lied to a slander on the Earl, made tlie best of some
cause of quarrel betwixt the lover and his mistress, and
spoken handsomely of his young friend's cliaracter in
general, yet there came a time when tlie opposition to the
marriage, the bickerings with Elizabeth Vernon, and the
kindling temperament of the lieadstrong youth led to his
livinjT a somewhat loose life for a while. This we shall
find most penitently confessed in some later sonnets when
he comes to sue for pardon. In the present group of Per-
sonal Sonnets, Shakspeare mourns for the wild courses
of his friend. He would i-ather die than see it witli liis
eyes, only his heart is so nuich witli the Earl that he could
not leave him in such a world alone. The first sonnet is
somewhat general, but the others will point the meaning
:uid expound the feeling. He is sad for many things that
he sees, but most of all on account of his friend. Ah !
why should he live Avith persons who are morally infec-
tious, he asks, and with his presence grace the society of
the impious? Why dwell with sinners, and give them
the advantage of his company by allowing them to deco-
rate their foulness with his fairness? Why should he, as
it were, give colour to their faded complexion, freshness
to their pallor, and himself lose more in reality than he
238 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
can impart to others in appearance ? Every one is willing
to give his outward beauty its meed of praise, but they
are quick to judge of his mental gifts by these wild doings
of his, and though their eyes look kindly on him, yet they
smell the rankness of the weed, whilst seeing the fairness
of the flower. The odour does not match the show, be-
cause he has grown common ; the flower has been vul-
garly handled. In the next sonnet, the Earl is reminded
that the rotting lily smells far worse than the withering
weed ; the higher the organisation the deeper the degra-
dation. And if the beautiful flower meet with infection^
the basest weed is at once a worthier thing. The sonnet
implies that the Earl is not one of those who rightly in-
herit the graces of Heaven, husband Nature's gifts, and
are careful stewards of their ten talents, being slow to
temptation, and ' lords and owners of their faces ; ' on the
contrary, he is a prodigal spendthrift, and will do great
harm to himself because he has great power. Then, as it
seems to me, the Poet suggests that his friend should try
his hand at writing. Why not exercise his mind in that
way ? It would profit him and much enrich his book : —
* And of this book tltis learning may'st thou taste.'
That is, he will find in it many reflections and moralisings
on the subject of youth's transiency and Time's fleetness.
Readers who are troubled with any lingering misgivings
tliat the Poet had lived a loose life in the companionship
of his patron and friend should pause over these sonnets
imtil the mental mist passes away. The fifth, which sets
before the young lavish nature such a sensible sober ideal
of the wisely-ordered life and disciplined manhood, is a
remarkable study. It has been called ' the life without
passion,' and supposed to contain an ironical comment on
those whose blood is ' very snow-broth ' for coldness ! But
it is the simple earnest of a serious man, who offers the
laithfid admonition of an elder friend. A genuine man,
THE YOUNG EARL'S LAPSES. 239
sajzacious and sincere, and he who wrote these hnes must
have been known by the person addressed to liave kept
his own hfe sweet, his afTections higli and pure, for his
words to have had either weii^ht or warrant of authority.
As one of the hnes had appeared in a play in the year
150G, the sonnet to which it belongs, together with the
rest of the group, would not be written later, I think, than
1595, or early in the year following; but it is of course
impossible to date every one of the sonnets : —
Tired witli all these, for restful death I cry, —
As, to beliold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trinnn'd in jolHt}^
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, miscalled simplicity,
And captive Good attending captain 111 :
Tired with all these, from these I would be gone.
Save that to die, I leave my Love alone I
(66.)
Ah I wherefore with infection should he live,'
And with liis presence grace impiety,
That Sin by him advantage should achieve.
And lace itself witli his society ?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
And steal dead seeming of his living hue ?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of sliadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggared of blood to blush thro' lively veins ?
' ' All, wlierefore with wfecfiou should he live? '
In sonnet 1 1 1 , it is the speaker who oflers to drink ' potions of Kv.sill '
because of his ' stromj infection.^
240 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains :
I him she stores, to show what wealth she had
In days long since, before these last so bad.
(67.)
Thus is his cheek the map of days out-worn,
"WTien Beauty lived 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,
E'er Beauty's dead fleece made another gay :
In him those holy antique hours are seen.
Without all ornament, itself and true,
JNIakiog 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 !
(68.)
1 ' "VVithrmt all ornament itself and true.' Surely we ought to read
' /limsclf auii true,' says Malone. Surely not : If the eye be lifted one half
inch beyond the nose, it will perceive that the *]5eauty ' of the 2nd and Sth
lines governs the itticlf of the 10th. The Poet means Beauty, 'swqile, of itself,'
as W9,s Falstaft''s sack !
N.B. — A like case occurs in the ' Tempest,' and, if I do not greatly err, a
similar look backward will tend to simplify a perplexing passage : —
' My sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me toork, and says such baseness
Had ne'er like executor ! I forget —
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours —
Most busiless when I do it.'
Here the labours are referred to parenthetically: the previous ' icork ' is the
' it ' of the last line. Ferdinand says, for his part he forgets, not only the
baseness of his Avork, but the work altogether ; is only reminded of it by
these sweet thoughts that ?6i7/ come and perforce refresh his labours. He
is least occupied with the work, least engaged in it as a matter of business,
most unbusied by it, or most hvdlens whilst doing it, because his thoughts
are with her who thus turns his consciousness into comlbrting. The subtle,
dreamy lover-like beauty of his ' I forget ' — he only thinking parenthetically,
and by reflex from his mistress even of how^ the labour is lost in the love ! —
is one of the poet's rarest effects. So rare and fine is it that the meaning —
bke the smitten harp-string— is almost rapt from sight to pass awa}- in sound.
'NOBLESSE or,] age: 241
Those parts of tJiee thcat the world's eye doth view
^^'.•^nt nothiuo; that the thought of hearts can mend :
All tongues — the voice of souls— give thee that due.
Uttering hare truth, even so as foes commend :
Thine outward thus with outward praise is crown'd ;
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 ; '
Then (churls) their thoughts, altho' their eyes were kind.
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds !
But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
The solve is this — that thou dost common grow.^
(69.)
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 riglitly 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 diirnitv !
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds ;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
(94.)
Thy Ghiss will show thee how thy beauties wear.
Thy Dial how the precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this Book this learning may'st thou taste !
1 ' TJiy (hcds: In Sonnet 11], it is the speaker who lewails his ' haiuiful
deeds:
• ' Thou doff commvn (jrcn-: In Sonnet 112, the speahcr hiis been the
mai'k of common scandal.
R
242 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
The wrinkles which thy Glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory ;
Thou by thy Dial's shady stealth may'st know
Time's thievish progress to eternity :
Look, what thy memory cannot contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed — delivered 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.
(77/)
243
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
1597—8.
A FAREWELL OF THE EARL'S TO ELIZABETH
VERNON.
It lias now come to a parting in downright earnest witli
Suuthanipton and Elizabeth Vernon. The lover speaks as
one who has an ' honourable grief lodged here, that burns
worse than tears can drown.' She is too dear for him to
possess. He has called her his for awhile, because she
o-ave herself to him, either not knowino; her wortli or his
imworthiness. She gave herself away upon a mistake, a
misconception, his patent having been granted in error;
and her better judgment recalls the gift. Farewell ! What-
soever reason she may assign for this course, he will sup-
])ort it, and make no defence on his own behalf. She
cannot disgrace him half so badly, whatever excuse she
may put forth for this ' desired change,' as he will disgrace
himself. Knowing her will, he will not claim her ac-
quaintance, but walk no more in the old accustomed
meeting-places ; and should they meet by chance, he will
look stran<:cc, see her as thouoh lie saw her not. He will
not name her name lest he — ' too much profane ' — should
soil it, and very possibly tell of their acquaintanceship.
He will fight against himself in every way for her ; he
must never love him whom she hates. ' Then hate me
R 2
244 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
when thou wilt ; let the worst come, if ever, noA\^, whilst
the world is bent upon crossing my deeds. Join with the
spite of Fortune, make me bow all at once. Do not wait
till I have surmounted my present sorrow. Give not a
night of sighs, a morrow of weeping, to lengthen out that
which you purpose doing. Do not come with the greater
trial wlien other petty griefs have wreaked their worst
upon me, but in the onset come and let me taste the worst
of Fortune's miciht at one blow. Then —
' Other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.'
This parting I conjecture to have occurred, or been thus
spoken of, after the disgraceful affair in Court, which is
chronicled by Eowland White. On the 19th of January,
1598 — to repeat the old gossip's words — he writes to Sir
Eobert Sidney : ' I hard of some unMndness should be
between 3000 (the No. in his cypher for Southampton)
and his Mistress, occasiojied by some i^eport of Mr. Ambrose
Willougliby. 3000 called hym to an account for yt, but
the matter was made knowen to my Lord of Essex, and my
Lord Chamberlain, who had them in Examinacion ; what
the cause is I could not learne, for yt was but new ; but
/ see 3000 full of discofitentments.^ Two days later he
records that Southampton was playing a game of cards
called Primero with Ealeigh and some other courtiers in
the presence-chamber. They continued their game after
the Queen had retired to rest. Ambrose Willougliby, the
officer in waiting, warned them that it was time to depart.
Ealeigh obeyed ; l)iit when Willougliby threatened to call
in the guard and ])ull down the board, Southampton took
offence and would not go. Words ensued, and a scuflle
followed ; blows were exchanged, and Willoughby tore
out some of Southampton's hair. When the Queen heard
of the affair next morning, she thanked Willoughby for his
part in it, and said, probably with a fierce glance at one
' UXKIXDNESS ' BETWEEN THE EARL AND fflS MISTRESS. 245
of Soutlimnpton's friends, ' he should have sent tlie Earl
to the porter's lodge to see icJio durst have fetched him out.''
The Queen ordered Soutlianipton to absent himself from
the Court. He was again in disgrace, with Mistress Vernon
as a grieved looker-on. Other circumstances tend to cor-
roborate my view, that this was the occasion on which tlie
foUowinir sonnets were written. Tlie mental condition of
Elizabeth Vernon, as described in White's letters, affords
good evidence. The Earl proposed leaving England for
Paris, to oflfer his sword to Henry IV. of France. And
' his fair Mistress doth wash her fairest face with too many
tears.' Also the allusions in the third sonnet identify the
time as beinij after the Earl's return from the ' Island
Voyage' in October 1597, when he received frowns in-
stead of thanks for what he had done, and found the world
bent upon crossing his deeds ; the ' spite of Fortune ' more
bitter than ever, because he had dared to pursue and sink
one of the enemy's vessels without Monson's orders : —
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 to me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving :
Thyself tliou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to w^hom thou gav'st it, else mistaking ;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing.
Comes home again, on better judgment making:
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter;
In sleep a king, but waking, no such matter.
(87.)
Say that thou did'st 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 :
246 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Thou canst not, Love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,'
As I'll myself disgrace ; knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange ;
Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue,
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And haply of our old acquaintance tell :
For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.
(89.)
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 I do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this sorrow.
Come in the rearward of a conquered woe :
Grive not a windy night a rainy morrow.
To linger out a purposed overthrow !
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last
When other petty grief:^ 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.
Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.
(90.)
1
* To set a form upon desired change.' So in ' King Jolin
' To set a form upon that indigest
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude.'
247
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
1598.
THE EARL TO ELIZABETH VERNON AFTER HIS
ABSENCE.
The last group has in it the pain of parting ; the present,
the rapture of return. Both are essentially amatory, and
this is full of the flowery tenderness of the grand passion.
How could any one think that the greatest of all drama-
tists would have lavished such imagery on the feehng
of man for man, devoted this dalliance with all the choice
beauties of external nature as the beloved's shadow and
looked upon the frailest flowers as the ' figures of delight,'
drawn after the pattern of a man ? As though our Poet
did not know the diflerence betwixt courting; a man and
wooino; a woman ! As thoui^^h he would have charged
the Violet, his own darling, witli stealing its sweetness
from a man's breatli, and its purple pride from the blood
of a man's veins ! Why, he had, in sonnet 21 (p. 132) pro-
tested most strenuously against any such interpretation.
He says it is not with him as witli those who make a
* couplement of proud compare.
With April's first-born flowers and all things rare,'
wdien writing to his friend in person. It is Shakspearian
sacrilege to suppose that the Poet ever condemned the
lily for daring to emulate the wliiteness of a warrior's
248 SriAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
hand. It is an insult ofFered to the ^ ichite wonder of
dear Juliet's hand,' that Eomeo adored; the ' snow-
u'hite hand of the most beauteous Lady Eosaline,' that
my Lord Biron addressed ; the 'princess oi pure white'
saluted by Demetrius; the 'ivhite hand of Eosalind,'
by which Orlando swore ; the ' white hand of a lady '
that Thyreus was soundly whipped for kissing ; the 2vhite
hand of Perdita that Florizel took, 'as soft as dove's
down and as ivhite as it,' and Cressid's hand, ' in whose
comparison all tvhites are ink.' This was a grace most
jealously preserved for the dainty hands of his women,
not thrown away on his fighting men !
The present return of the Earl I conjecture to be from
the journey which followed the parting in the last group.
The speaker says how like a winter has his absence been,
and yet it was the time of flowers and of fruit, summer
and autumn all the ^vdiile. Southampton left England
late in February of the year, and came home for good in
November. He paid a hasty secret visit in August to
marry Elizabeth Vernon, but the absence altogether cor-
responds to the one herein described. The third sonnet
contains fifteen lines. A variation which suggests that
some of the sonnets ran on as stanzas in a poem, and
that in the present instance this continuity was marked by
an extra hne.
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 I
And yet this time removed ^ was summer's time ;
The teeming autumn big with rich increase.
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime.
Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease :
^ ' TLis time removed/ i.e., the time while I was remote from you. So in
sonnet 116, Shakspcare calls the Earl the 'llemover' who lias -wandered far
away from his Mistress.
THE FLOWER OF FLOWEItS. 249
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans and unfathered fruit :
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute —
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
(97.)
From you I have been absent in the spring,
When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim.
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laught and leapt with him :
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew :
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white.
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose ;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those !
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away.
As with your shadow I with these did play.
(9S.)-
The forward Violet thus did I chide : —
' Svjeet thief! luhence didst thou steed thy svjeet that
smells
If not from my Love's breath? the purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion divells.
In my Love's veins thou, hast too grossly dyed /'
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stolen thy hair; '
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand.
One blushing shame, another white despair ;
1 Tbe likeness indicated by tliis comparison must be one of shape, not of
colour. The poet does not say the flower of tlie marjoram, which is purple
and white. Readers may seek in vain for any resemblance of the hair to
marjoram, shape or colour, in the portraits of Southampton and Herbert.
250 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
A third, nor red nor white, had stolen of both
And to his robbery had annexed thy breath ;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth,
A vengeful canker ate him up to death !
More flowers I noted, yet I none could see.
But sweet or colour it had stolen from thee.
(99.)
251
PERSONAL SONNETS.
1598—9.
SHAKSPEARE TO THE EARL AFTER SOME TIME
OF SILENCE.
In the hundredth sonnet, which, in Thorpe's collection,
follows the group on absence, there is curious proof of an
absence of the person addressed, and a silence on the part
of the speaker. Yet, the person who has been away
cannot have been Shakspeare, or tlie absence would be the
cause of the silence ! The speaker in the previous sonnets
says nothing coidd make him ' any summer's story tell,'
whereas the speaker in this sonnet has been telhng stories ;
has been at work on some worthless old story or other,
turning it into a play, during the absence of the previous
speaker. Hard work, in his friend's absence, is the cause
why he has forgotten so long to write of the Earl, and not
his own absence from England. The length of the absence
also is opposed to the idea of it being Shakspeare who was
away from his theatre all through the spring, summer and
autmnn ! These sonnets show [)lainly that the Earl, who
was the speaker in the preceding three sonnets, has now
returned from abroad, and the Poet stirs up his muse on
the subject of the Earl's sonnets. Eetiu-n, forgetfid nuise,
he says, and redeem the time that has been spent so idly
252 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
in darkening tliy power to lend base subjects light. Sing
to the ear that does esteem thy lays^ and gives thy pen
both skill and argument. Kise and see if, during his
absence, Time has engraven any wrinkle in his face. If so
be thou the satirist of Time's power, and make his spoils
despised, by retouching with tints of immortal youth this
portrait that shall be hung up beyond the reach of decay.
It will be seen that Shakspeare speaks of his friend with
a lighter heart, and once more exalts his virtues, truth and
constancy. The meaning of this may be found in the
fact that the Earl has now publicly crowned the secret
sovereign of his heart ; he has at last married Elizabeth
Vernon. This celebration of the Earl's constancy and truth
is not in relation to the Poet, but to the Earl's Mistress and
his marriage. He is ' constant in a wondrous excellence,'
and therefore Shakspeare's verse is still confined to the
praise of that constancy. These sonnets tell us that the
Earl and his love were yet the Poet's only argument. Up
to the present time he was writing to him and of him.
WTiere art thou, 31iise, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might ?
Spend'st tliou thy fury on some worthless song
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Eeturn, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent ; ^
Sing to the ear tliat doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument !
Rise, restive 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 everywhere !
Give my Love fame faster than Time wastes life :
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
(100.)
^ This lost time was redeemed not only by the writing of this group of
personal sonnets, hut also the dramatic series that follows them.
THE POET'S WELCOME HOME TO HIS FRIEND. -jr.fi
truant jMuse, what sLall 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 wltli Ids colour fixed ;
Beauty no pencil, beauti/s truth to lay :
But best is best if never inteimixedf '
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb ?
Excuse not silence so ; for it lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb.
And to be praised of ages yet to be !
Theji do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he is now.
(101.)
My love is strengthened, tho' more weak in seeming ;
1 love not less, tho' less the show appear;
That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere I
Our love was new and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays.
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days :
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night.
But that wild music burthens every bough
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight I
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.
(102.)
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 :
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 m}^ lines and doing me disgrace!
254 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
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.
(103.)
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-foimd 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 whence they did proceed ?
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.
(76.)
What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit ?
What's new to speak, what new to register,^
That may express my love, or thy dear merit ?
Nothing, sweet boy ! but yet like prayers divine,
I must each day say o'er the very same ;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name !
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age.
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred.
Where time and outward form would show it dead.
(108.)
1 < Wliat new to register.' The Quarto reads, ' What noio to register,'
hut the opposition intended is, I thinlf, hetween speaking and writing, and
' new ' is tlie more immediately applicable to rnjisUriiuj. Malone first made
the change.
THE EARL'S CONSTANCY IN L()\ E. 255
Let not my love be called 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 ;
And in this change is my invention spent.
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords !
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone.
Which three, till now, never kept seat in one.
(105.)
256 • SHAIiSPEARE'S SONNETS.
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
1598—9.
THE EARL TO ELIZABETH VERNON— TlfEIR FINAL
RECONCILIATION: WITH SHAKSPEARE'S SONNET
ON THEIR MARRIAGE.
Whatsoever Shakspeare intended to put into tlie sonnets
is there, and may be found in them. Whatsoever cha-
racter he meant to pourtray will be there depicted. Such
was the constitution of his mind that his work is sure to
be dramatically true ; no matter what the subject may be.
In the sonnets that are personal, there will be found
nothing opposed to what we know, and have reason to
beheve, of the Poet's character. Nothing but wdiat is
perfectly compatible with that wise prudence, careful
forethought, uprightness of dealing, stability of spirit,
contentedness with his own lot, proverbial sweetness and
loveableness of disposition which we know, not by con-
jecture, but because his possession of these virtues is the
most amply attested fact of his life. Moreover, the per-
sonal sonnets always illustrate that modesty of his nature
which was great as was his genius. But, in this group of
sonnets, the character delineated is the exact opposite in
every respect to that of Shakspeare ; separated from his
by a difference the most profound. This is a youth speak-
ing — as in sonnet the 2nd — wdiereas Shakspeare continually
harps on his riper age, or, as we have read it, his elder
brotherhood to the youth who is his friend. And this
SOUTIIAMITONS CIIAKACTEIIISTICS. 2r,7
youtli, who is the speaker here, has been headstrong and
wilful, imprudent and thoughtless ; unstable as wind and
wave, and easily made the sport of both ; he is choleric
and quickly stirred to breaking out and ilying off at
random. Again and again has he given pain to those
that loved him most, who have had to turn from his
doings witli averted eyes. Again and again has he left
the beloved, and gone away as far as wind and wave
would carry him. He has heedlessly done things which
have made him the mark of scandal —
' A fixed figure of the time,' for Scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at ;'
made a fool of himself, as we say, and as he also says,
publicly, to the view ; ' gored his own thoughts ' and made
the heart of others bleed for him. He has been forgetful
of that ' dearest love ' to which ' all bonds' draw him closer
and tie him tighter day by day ; he has been wanting in
those grateful offices of affection wherein he ought to have
repaid the ' great deserts ' of the person addressed.
These sonnets are very dramatic ; intensely personal to
the speaker ; the feeling goes deep enough to carry the
writer most near to nature, therefore they are certain to be
representatively true. They are pathetic with a passionate
pleading; filled with real confessions ; self-criminating, and
quick with repentance. But they are not true to the nature
of our Poet, they have no touch of kinship, no feature
of likeness to him. They are, I repeat, in all respects the
precise opposite to what we know of Shakspeare, and to all
that he says of himself, or others say of him. If ever there
was a soul of ripe serenity and capacious calm, of sweet
and large affections, wise orderliness of life, and an imac^ina-
tion that had the deep stillness of brooding love, it was the
soul of Shakspeare. His was not a mind to be troubled
> Surely this is the true reaflinfT of the above two lines— the ' of ' and
'■ for ' having changed places ? Othello cannot mean that he is made into a
clock or a dial, but the laughing-stock of the time ?
S
258 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
and tossed by every breeze that blew, and billow that
broke ; not a temperament to be ever in restless eddy and
ebb and flow ; not a nature that was fussy or fretful, but
steady and deep ; of massive mould, majestic motion and
smiHng spaciousness. He was a man who could possess
his soul in patience, and silently bide his time ; who did
not babble of his discontents with either tongue or pen.
Then, if Southampton be the friend who is addressed
when Shakspeare speaks personally, his character should
be to some extent reflected from Shakspeare's words ; we
should at least see his features, although in miniature, in
Shakspeare's eyes. We know his character. It can be traced
quite distinctly on the historic page. He was a brave and
bounteous peer. A noble of nature's own making, munifi-
cent, chivalrous, full of warlike and other fire. But he was
one of those who will have the flash and outbreak of the
passionate mind ; and when stirred, the quick fire was apt
to leap out into a world of dancing sparks. He w^as quick
and sudden in quarrel ; his hand flew as swiftly to his
swordhilt as the hot blood to his face ; lacking in prudence
and patience, and unstable in all things but his ardent
friendships. Even these he must have tried sorely. His
mounting valour was of the restless irrepressive kind
which, if it cannot find vent in battles abroad, is likely to
break out in broils at home. He was easily swayed, and
frequently swerved aside by the continual cross-currents
of his wilful wanton blood ; one of the chosen friends
and kindred spirits of the madcap and feather-triumph
Earl of Essex ! But he was also one of those generous,
self-forgetting foolish souls whose vices are often more
amiable than some people's virtues. All this we may read
in the records of the time. All this we may gather from
the sonnets which are addressed to him. And all this is
fif^ured in the liveliest form and colour in those sonnets
which I say are spoken by the Earl of Southampton.
These paint the past history of the speaker, and they
THE TERSON ADDRESSED IS A J.ADV. 2o9
render the Earl's character, actions, quarrels, wanderings,
to the life. But this is not the character of the person
here addressed, whoever the speaker may be, therefore
the person here addressed cannot be the Earl of South-
ani[)ton. This person is the quiet centre of the cyclone
of emotions, exclamations, pleadings, protestations. This
person is the stay-at-home — the ' home of love ' from
which the other has so often ranged. This person sits
enthroned God-like in love, ' enskied and sainted,' high
over the region of storm and strife, the wild whirl of re-
pentant words, having the prerogative to look down with
sad calm eyes ; the regal right to forgive ! The person
here addressed is of such purity and goodness that the
speaker feels he needs to be disinfected before he can come
near. This cannot be Southampton, as we know, by his
character and conduct. And if Southampton hz not the
person addressed then it follows that Shakspeare is not
the speaker ; this we know likewise from his character and
conduct. lie was a man too wise and prudent to have
done the foolish things that are here confessed. His
was : —
' The soul that gathers wealth ia still repose,
Not losing all that floats in overflows,'
but resting with a large content in the quiet brimfulness
of its force. His mind Avas too steadftistly anchored in the
firm ground of a stable character, for him to be con-
tinually going to and fro. He was not the wanderer over
the world, ranging time after time from his ' home of love '
far as fortune would let him ; hoisthig sail to every wind
that blew ; turning and tossing as it were iu the distrac-
tion of a * madding fever ' ; listening to the song of the
syrens ; not -bound on board w^itli ears safely stopped,
but landing to be flattered and fooled by their treacherous
tears. This speaker is a traveller who has often been
amonofst foreigners (' unknown minds ') which Shakspeare
certainly was not — even if he ever went out of England
d 2
260 SIL^KSPEARE'S SONNETS.
at all — any more than he could have been the man who
had so blamefuUy looked ' on truth askance and strangely '
to wilfully roam about the world, and make acquaintance
with all the error he could meet. And if the supposed
facts had been true ; if his had been the nature to have
these many mournful breakings-out and flyings-off at
random ; if his errors and mlfulness had been so grievous
to his friends ; if his hght love had been this plaything,
this weather-cock of change ; if he had so shamefully,
so disgracefully trampled his acknowledged sacred obliga-
tions under foot, and proved so faithless to his professed
friendship ; if he had committed these ' wretched errors '
of the heart ; why, then, the arguments would be all
fatally false. For it is not possible that Shakspeare should
confess all these sins and shames on his part, and afterwards
urge that all these ' worse essays ' were merely made to
try the Earl's affection, and prove him to be the ' best of
love;' that all the 'blenches' and ungratefulness and
w^anton inconstancy were only meant to test the virtue
and constancy of the Earl's friendship. He could not
urge that he had turned to vicious and immoral courses
on purpose to purge his stomach of the Earl's ' sweetness,'
on which he had overfed, and urge that the true way of
growing healthier was to become diseased. He could not
wilfully wander away from this dear friend — leave ' for
nothing ' all his ' sum of good ' and then ask him to
quarrel with Fortune as the cause of his i^oving on account
of his beimj a player or manager of a theatre^ whose
place and duty were to keep quietly at home and work
steadily ; as we know Shakspeare did. He could not
plead that these sad experiences had given his heart
another youth, for the one that had been let run to waste ;
he who was nearly ten years older than the Earl, and
always gives him the utmost benefit of the difference in
their years and personal appearance. All such excuses
from such a man who liad been such a sinner would be
REASONS TVIIY THE POET IS NOT THE SPEAKER. 201
insultingly absurd. And it is most grossly improbable
that Sliakspeare should have spoken to his noble friend, as
in sonnet 120, and had to regret that he had not been as
generous or quick in forgiveness as that friend had been
to him on a previous occasion, when we remember the
modesty of the man. Still more gross is the idea that
Shakspeare should offer to his patron and dear friend the
worn-out remnant of his affections, like the broken-down
rake in Burns's poem, who, having foundered his horse
among harlot:*, ' gave the auld nag to the Lord.' Telling
him that he w^ould 'never more grind his appetite on
newer proof, to try an older friend.' For, if Shakspeare
were speaking according to the personal interpretation,
that word could have but one meaning. And it is im-
possible to suppose that our Poet, who was so ahve to all
natural proprieties, could use it in addressing a male
friend. Equally impossible is it to think of Shakspeare,
the man of staid hal3it and grave mascuhne morahty ; the
husband of good repute and the father of a family ; the
shrewd man of the world, conversant wdth men and affairs ;
the man who speaks of himself not only as ripe in years,
but somewhat aged before his time ; who, when he catches
a glimpse of his own face, does so with an arch gravity or
a jocose remark on the signs of age and the wear and
tear of life ; who is w^eather-beaten, chapped and tan-
ned ; in sonnet 73, — it is impossible that this man, of
sober soul and grave wise speech, should afterwards be
found pleading with his boy-friend that the cause of his
lapses and frailties is that sportive wild blood of his which
will have its fi-isky leaps and lavoltos, and asking, with an
almost infantile innocence, ' why should false adulterate
eyes ' give it salutation ? Why should they shoot their
wicked lightnings to melt the sword of his naturally
virtuous soul in its sheath, leaving him so unarmed and
helpless to the wicked one who wants to take advantage
of his tender youth ? This is ineffably fooHsh to any
262 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
one M-ho is at all grounded in the qualities of Shaks-
peare's character, or acquainted with such of the son-
nets as are explicitly pei'sonal. Bad as they have tried
to make him, Shakspeare did not think adultery good, nor
lust altogether admirable — if we may trust the 129th
sonnet, which is somewhat empliatic on the point and very
much to our purpose. Yet such a theory, so blindly
misleading and perniciously false, has been accepted, or
allowed to pass almost unchallenged, by men who profess
to believe in Shakspeare !
One of these sonnets has been held to indicate Shak-
speare's disgust at his player's life. The image being
drawn from the stage gives some countenance to this view.
But it is not fitted to the relationship of poet and patron,
and it is quite opposed to all that we learn of Shakspeare's
character. It is not true that he had gone here and there
and everywliere to make a fool of himself, when he Avas
quietly getting a living for his wife and family in an up-
right, honest, prudent way. Nor could he with any the
least propriety speak of making a fool of himself on the
stage, which was the meeting-place of himself and the
Earl ; the fount of Shakspeare's honour, the spring of
his good fortune ; the known delight of Southampton,
who often spent his time in doing nothing but going
to plays. Nor have we ever heard of any ' harmfid
deeds,' or doings of Shakspeare, occasioned in conse-
quence of his connexion with the stage. Nor do we see
how his name could be branded, or ' receive a brand,' from
his connexion with the tlieatre, or from his acts in con-
sequence of his being a ])layer. What name ? He liad
no name apart from the theatre, and the friendships it had
brouglit liim. His name was created there. He had
no higher standard of appeal. He had not stooped to
authorship, or the player's life. His living depended on
the theatre ; he met and made his friends at the theatre ;
he was making his fortune by the theatre; how then
SHAKSPEARE'S ' WKLL-CO.XTKN'J'KlJ DAY.' 203
should he exclaim against the theatre? IIow could he
receive a brand on his name/rom the theatre ? Supposing
him to have had a great dislike to the life and work, it
would have been jierfectly out of place, unnatural, and
inartistic, to have thus expressed it point-blank to the
generous friend who had exalted the ' poor player ' and
overleaped the player's life and lot and character, to shake
him by the hand, and make him his bosom friend, however
much the world might have looked down upon him ! But
I altogether doubt that he had any such dishke to his lot.
I believe he neither pined in private nor complained in
public, but that his thrift and prosperity were in great
measure the result of content. John Davies might and
did regret that Fortune had not dealt better by Shakspeare
than in making him a player and playwright : but even
he held that the stage only stained ' pure and gentle blood,'
of which our Poet was not, althouf^h ' ij^enerous in mind
and mood,' and one that ' sowed honestly for others to
reap.' ^ Ben Jonson might kick against the ' loathed
stage,' and Marston complain, but Shakspeare's was a
career of triumph ; he was borne from the beginning on
a full tide of prosperity ; the stage gave him that which
he so obviously valued, worldly good fortune. He could
not have been querulously decrying that success which his
contemporaries were envying so much. Moreover, he was
at heart a player, and enjoyed the pastime; this is ap-
parent in his woi'ks, and according to evidence in sonnet
32 (p. 133), he lived a ' well-contented day.' Therefore he
could not despise the art in which he delighted, and which
was bringing him name, friends, and fortune. We have no
proof whatever that he felt degraded by treading the stage,
and we have proof that he did not forget or overlook his
old theatre friends. lie considered himself their ' fellow' in
1616, when he remembered them in his will. A kindlv
thought, and just like him, but quite opposed to the personal
' Scourge of Folli/,
264 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
interpretation of the sonnet. Besides which, if he had
looked upon himself as the victim of Fortune, if she were
responsible for his being a player, what motive would lie
have for self-reproach ? Why should he cry ' Alas ! ' and
ask to be pitied, and call for some moral disinfecting fluid,
no matter how bitter, and seek to do ' double penance '
when he was honestly getting his living according to the
lot which had befallen him ? He could not be the help-
less victim of Fortune, and the headstrong cause of his
own misfortune ; and that is the mixture of character im-
plied ! There is a strong sense of personal wilfulness in
doing ' harmful deeds.' Do you ' o'ergreen my bad,' and
pity me, and ' wish I were renewed,' not merely my means
of living !
I have no doubt that Shakspeare had been far more
intent on getting his theatre renewed, and if the Earl, as
has been suggested, gave our Poet assistance towards the
building of the ' Globe ' on Bankside, the personal interpre-
tation of this sonnet would afford a singular comment on
the Earl's generosity and Shakspeare's gratitude. Our
Poet, in all likelihood, was thinking how tolerably well
Fortune had so far provided for his life. And we may
consider it pretty certain that his name never did ' receive
a brand ' on account of his ' public manners ' bred in him
through being a player. His brow never was branded by
jjuhlic scandal. And so evidently public are the person,
the acts, the scandal of these sonnets, that we must have
heard of them had they been Shakspeare's, just as we
hear of the loose doings of Marlowe, Green, and the lesser
men. It is no answer to my argument for any one to urge
that Shakspeare may have done this or the other privately,
and we not have heard of it. These are not private mat-
ters. It is no secret confession of hidden frailty. The
subject is notorious ; the scandal is public ; and if
Shakspeare were speaking, he would have done something
for all the world to see branded on his brow. If his
THE rOET NOT A ' PIT.ETC ' MAX. 205
manners had been such as to warrant the tone of tliese
sonnets, his contemporaries must have seen them, and we
should have heard of them.
There is one expression in this sonnet which has been
identified as positively personal, because the speaker says
that Fortune did not better for his life provide than public
means. But that is the result of a preconceived hypo-
thesis. It never seems to have been questioned wlietlier
a player of Elizabeth's time would speak of living by
' public means,' when the highest thing aimed at by the
players was private patronage ! except where they hoped
to become the sworn servants of Eoyalty. If the Lord
Chamberlain's servants were accounted public, it would
be in a special sense, not merely because they were
players ; and certainly scandalous ^blic manners were
not likely to be any recommendation for such a position,
or necessary result of it ! ^ In our time the [)hrase would
apply, but the sense of the words, coupled with the theatre,
is a comparatively modern growth. Even if it had applied,
it was an impossible connnent for our Poet to make on
what he had been striving to do, and on what Southamp-
ton had in all probability lielped him to accomplish. For
the truth is, the ' Globe ' was built in order that the
players might reach a wider pubhc, and Shakspeare was
one of the first to create Avluit we call the play-going
public! The ' Blackfriars ' was a private theatre, chiefly
dependent on private patronage ; the nobility preferred
the private theatres ; the ' Globe ' was meant to appeal to
the lower orders — or, as we say, the general public. With
what conscience, then, could the successful imiovator in
search of the ' public ' complain of having to five by
' public means ' ? Here, however, the meaning, as illus-
trated in the context, is that the speaker has to live in the
public eye in a way that is apt to beget public manners.
' Tlie title of ' the Kinjr's Servants ' -was only conferred on Sliakspeare'a
company of players by the Privy Seal of 1(303.
266 . SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
He lives the public life which attracts public notice. The
opposition is between public and private life/ rather than
between riches and poverty, or modes of payment — the
public means of living his life, rather than the public
means of srettino- a living; — that he wishes ' renewed.' His
public is the only public of Shakspeare's time ; the Court
circle and public members of the state. And the person
of whom Shakspeare wrote thus must have been a public
character in such sense. He must have moved in that
circle, and been of far greater importance than a player
could possibly be, either in his own estim.ation or that of the
world at large. Such an one, for example, as is spoken
of in sonnet 9 (p. 113), whom, should he die single, the
' world will be his widow,' and bewail him ' like a make-
less wife.' That is t)ur poet's view of the ' public ' man.
And sonnet 25 will tell us exactly what Shakspeare did not
consider ' public,' for he therein expressly says that For-
tune has debarred him from '•public'' honours, and, as he
was a player then, the same fortune must have debarred him
from ' pubHc ' shame, resulting from living a player's life.
The innermost sense in which the Poet spoke of the
public man in sonnet 111 I take to be this. Shak-
speare's great anxiety was to get his dear friend married.
That is the Alpha and Omega of the Southampton sonnets.
He looked to the wedded life as a means of saving his
friend from many sad doings and fretful fooleries. But
he was a public person, whom a monarch could and did
forbid to marry ; who could not wed the wife of his heart
without a sort of public permission ; who had to get mar-
ried by pul^lic means.'"^ Shakspeare looked to this fact as
the cause of the Earl's public manners ; his broils in Court,
his breakings-out of temper, his getting into such bad
courses and lamentable scrapes, as made Mistress Vernon
^ In a letter written by the Earl of Southampton to Sir Thomas Roe,
December 24th, 1028, he expresses himself to be in love with a country life.
2 The affair with Willoughby would not have given rise io public scandal
but for its having occurred at Court,
Ills TERSOXAT. MANNERS. 207
and otlier friends of tlic Earl mourn. The l*oet considered
that his friend had been irritated and made reckless by
the obstinacy of Ehzabeth the Queen in opposing his mar-
riacre with Ehzabeth his love. And he holds Fortune to
be in a great measure responsible for the Earl's harmful
doino-s. This view is corroborated in sonnet 124, where
the Earl is made to speak of his love as having been the
' Child of State.' Shakspeare did not consider himself a
public man living by public means, nor fancy himself of
pubhc importance. Of this there is the most convincing
proof in many personal expressions. In these personal
sonnets, he does not propose to speak of himself as one of
the public performers on the stage of life, but like Eomeo
going to the feast at Capulet's house, he will be a torch-
bearer, and shed a lii>ht on the manv-coloured movinnj
scene rather than join in the dance. He'll be a 'candle-
holder and look on.' He will conceal himself as much as
possible under the light which he carries, and hold it so
that the lustre shall fall chiefly on the face of his friend
who is in public, and whom he seeks to illumine with his
love from the place where he stands in his privacy apart.
As for Shakspeare's ' manners,' we know httle of them in
2iwy public sense, but, from all printed report, we learn
that his manners were those of a natural gentleman of
divine descent, whose moral dignity and brave bearing
ennobled a lowly lot, and made a despised profession
honourable for ever. It was his manners quite as much
as his mental superiority that silenced his envious
rivals. It was liis ' manners ' especially that elicited the
apology from Chettle. It was his manners that inspired
Jonson with his full-hearted exclamation, ' He was
indeed honest, and of an open and free nature.' It
was his ' manners ' — his good reputation — that gave the
greatest emphasis to the pleading on behalf of the ' poor
players' in the letter ascribed to the Earl of Southampton.
And so far as the word public can be applied to Shak-
268 SHAKSPKVEE'S SONNETS.
speare und his ' manners,' so far J ohn Davies, in his ' Hu-
mour's Heaven on Earth ' (p. 215), speaks of him precisely
in that sense, for he speaks of Shakspeare as he saw him
before his own pubhc in the tlieatrical Avorld, and the
theatre, says Dekker's ' Gull's Horn-Book,' is ' your Poet's
Boyal Exchange.'' Davies compliments him, in the year
1605, as not being one of those who act badly ' by custom
of their manners^' not one of those whose ill-actions in life
make them ill- actors on the stage. He speaks of Shak-
speare as one who is of good wit, of good courage, of good
shape, of good parts, and good altogether ; consequently
his manners., public and private., must have been good.
We may conclude, then, that Shakspeare did not speak
of himself as a public man living by pubhc means, nor
bewail his public manners ; that he did not draw the
image from the stage, and thus mark the platform on
which he stood — the place where he was making his for-
tune — for the purpose of saying how degraded he felt
there, and of flinging his defiance at public opinion and
private malice ; scattering his scorn over critics and flat-
terers, and insulting his patron in the most reckless way ;
that he did not lower and abase his brow to receive the
brand of vulgar scandal, and then coolly ask his insulted
friend to efface the impression — the stamp of scandal and
dirt of degradation — with a kiss of loving pity ; that a
man who felt degraded by his calling, and branded on
the brow because of his being a player, could not have
occasion to stop his ears and be deaf as an adder to flat-
tery ; that the personal interpretation derived from the
expression ' public means ' is at war with the whole feeling
of these sonnets, and the feeling here, as elsewhere, is the
greatest fact of all ; that, in short, it is not Shakspeare who
is speaking ; and the personal theory puts everything into
confusion ; it is sufficient warrant for all that Steevens said
of the sonnets ; it leads people to think Shakspeare wrote
nonsense at times, and exaggerated continually. He did
THE LOVER CONFESSES HIS SINS, 2U0
nothing of the kind. I shall prove that he wrote these
sonnets with a perfect adherence to literal facts, and that
his art in doing so is exquisite, as in his plays. Also, the
personal rendering deepens and darkens the impression of
things which, when applied to the Earl and his Mistress,
do not mean much, and are merely matter for a sonnet,
not for the saddest of all Shakspearian tragedies : —
THE EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON TO ELIZABETH VERNON.
0, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seemed 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, tho' in my nature reigned
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stained,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good :
F'or nothing this wide universe I call.
Save thou, my Rose ! ^ in it thou art my All.
(l09.)
Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there
And made myself a motley to the view :
Gored ^ 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 !
* 'Like him that travels' — ho has ranged as a traveller.
2 * My rose.' ' O, Kuse of May ' — Laertes speaking of his sister Ophelia,
' Hamlet,' act iv. sc. 5.
' 'Gored mine own thoiiprhts.' So Achilles, in ' Troilus and Cressida,'
' My fame is shn^wdly gored ! '
270 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
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 Grod in love,^ to whom I am confined I
Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most, most loving breast.
(110.)
0, 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 :
1 * Now all is doue, have wliat shall Lave no end.'
Tbis Malone altered to —
' Now all is done, save what shall have no end,'
showing that he had altogether missed the meaning. The wanderings here
spoken of are not metaphorical, but the literal facts of the speaker's life.
He has been a great traveller. As a traveller he left the lady, as a traveller
he returns, and as a traveller he asks for his welcome home. His ranging
about tlie world has been more from necessity than choice, on account of
his being a public man, a servant of the State, a soldier — that is why Fortune
is held responsible. Now, all is done : the wanderings that were but tem-
porary are over ; accept the love, he pleads, whicli is eternal. In short, he
returns this time to marry his lady, and renew his life :
' Pity me, then, and %vish I were reneweiV
^ ' A God in love.' An expression beyond sex, indicating the strength of
feeling that needs the most masculine utterance, akin to that which made
Elizabeth a prince and a governor, and hailed Maria Theresa as a king in
the Magyar Assembly. So in the Bible, Man is used to express the sum
total of sex. A ' God in love ' is really only warranted by its being addressed
to a woman. Also, a ' Goddess in love ' would not have suited, because it is
the greatness, the divinity of the love, rather than of the person, that is
meant to be conveyed. The expression, applied to a woman, is suggestively
illustrated in the ' Comedj' of Errors.' Antipholus of Syracuse replies to
Luciana, ' Sweet mistress — what your name is else I know not,' and he asks —
* Are you a God? would you create me new?
Transform me then, and to your power Til yield.'
This is not the only instance of Shakspeare's audacity producing something
extraordinary by reversing the ordinary — a perilous process in lesser hands !
In ' Julius Caesar ' he thus intensifies the feeling of scorn : —
' His coward lips did/rowi their colours Jly.'
"Which dash of soldierly daring Warburton called a 'poor quibble ! ' •
^ In sonnet 69 fp. 241 j it was the ^;e/-sort addressed whose deeds had been
80 harmful ; whose name had grown so common.
THE LOVER PLEADS FOR PARDOX. 271
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And ahnost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the Dyer's hand;
Pity me then and wish I were renewed :
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eysell '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.
(111.)
Your love and pity doth the impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stampt upon my brow;'
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow :
You are my all-the-world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue ;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong —
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others' voices, that my adder's sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are :
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense —
You are so strongly in my purpose bred
That all the world besides methinks are dead.
(112.)
'Tis better to be vile than vile-esteemed,
"VVhen 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 :
In sonnet 70 (p. 22G) it was the peison addressed who had been tlie mark
of slander and subject of public scandal.
272 SIL\KSrEAEE'S SONNETS.
I may be straight tho' 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.
(121.)
Accuse me thus — that I have scanted all
Wherein I should your great deserts repay ;
Forgot upon your dearest love to call.
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day ; '
That I have frequent been with unknown minds
And given to Time your own dear-purchased right ;^
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight :
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise accumulate ;
Bring me within the level of your frown.
But shoot not at me in your wakened hate ;
Since my appeal says, I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.
(117.)
Like as, to make oar appetites more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge,
As, to prevent our maladies unseen.
We sicken, to shun sickness, when we purge ;
Even so, being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseased ere that there was true needing ;
Thus policy in love, to anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured ;
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.
(118.)
^ See the extract from Mr. Chamberlain's letter for a very natural gloss
on this line.
2 What dearly-purcha.sed right to Shakspeare's companionship could the
Earl of Southampton have had which the poet had ' given to Time ? ' The
speaker here is the person addressed by Shakspeare himself in sonnet 70
(p. 226), as "being wooed of Time.'
THE (iOOT) IX TfllXriS V.VU.. 273
What potions have I (Inink of Siren tears,
Distilled from lymbecks foul as hell within ; '
Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears.
Still loosing when I saw myself to win !
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it liath thought itself so blessed never !
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been flitted "^
In the distraction of this madding fever !
benefit of ill ! now I find true
That better is by evil made still better :
And ruined 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 ills thrice more than I have spent.
(119.)
^ In Sonnet 67 (p. 239) it was the person addressed who was dwelling
in infV'ctious society, and gracing irnpiety with his presence !
* ' I'litted.' The Quarto reads ' iitted,' but I cannot think that Shak-
speare's omnipresent vision and wakeful humour would allow him to say
the eyes had heen Jitted out of their spheres, when, if tliey had heen Jifted at
all, it would have been in their spheres. It must, I apprehend, be a mis-
print for ' Hitted,' the word that, above all others, signifies a ' moiiiuf ' or re-
moved to the Scotch mind. Spenser makes use of the word ' flit ' : —
' For on a sandy hill that still did^^V/,
And fall away, it mounted was full hie.'
Fairfax's ' Tasso ' (5, 58) has it—
* Alas, that cannot be, for he isjiit
Out of this camp.'
In Psalm 50 we find, ' Thou tellest my 'Jliitini/s.'' And Puttenham calls
the figure Metasfmis the ' Flitting Figure,' or the ' Remove.' The meaning
of the line is, hoiv have mine eyes been moved out of their spheres. It is sus-
ceptible of a double interpretation. Figuratively, how have mine eyes
wandered like those of Solomon's fool, that ' rounded about in the darkness,'
instead of wisely keeping watch in my head. But Shakspeare takes his
stand so firmly on the physical fact (want of faith in this characteristic of
his mind has prevented our understanding the sonnets, made it impossible
for us to follow, because we did not trust the element \), that 1 rather con-
clude he meant literally hoio have mine eyes been draicn imvard by the pain
I have suffered, until they are sunken in their sockets; they have been * flitted '
in the distraction of this maddening fever. A motion the exact opposite to
that of the eyes starii/if/ from their spheres, in ' Hamlet," under the influence
of gi'eat terror.
274 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
That 3-011 were once unkind ^ befriends me now.
And for that sorrow which I then did feel
Needs must I under m}'^ transgression bow,
Urfless my nerves were brass or hammered steel
For if you were by my unkindness shaken
As I by yours, you've passed a hell of time,
And I, a Tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime ;
0, that our night of woe might have remembered
INIy deepest sense how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you as you to me then tendered
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits !
But let ^ your trespass now become a fee :
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
(120.)
The speaker of these sonnets is one in character and
circnmstance with him who has left his Mistress for the
journey in the earlier pages, and whom we find on distant
shores (' limits far remote '), with ' injurious distance ' of
earth and sea between him and his beloved, to whom his
thoughts are sent in tender embassy of love. The same
speaker as hira of sonnet 97 (p. 248), who has again been
absent through the spring, summer, and autumn of the
3"ear. And here he speaks of those absences ; says Avhat a
traveller he has been ; acknowledges having hoisted sail
to every wind that would blow him farthest from her sight ;
been frequently with ^ unknown minds,' or in foreign coun-
tries, when he ought to have stayed with her at home. It
is the same person whom Shakspeare addresses in sonnet
70 (p. 226), as being the mark of slander and envy, one of
those who attract the breath of slander and scandal natu-
rally as flames draw air. In these sonnets he speaks of
being slandered, and of vulgar scandal as branding his
1 ' Once unlvind.' In the lady's jealousy of her cousin, Penelope Eich.
2 The Quarto reads, 'but that your trespass, which somewhat obscures
the meaning ; let is far more in accordance with the pleading tone of the
sonnet.
PREVIOUS CHARGES ADMITTED TO I'.E TRUE. 275
Ijruw. It is tlie same as him of wliom Shakspeare said —
'All, wliert'fore with infection should he hve (sonnet G7).
Also in sonnet 94 (p. 241) : —
' But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity.'
And here, in pleading with his Mistress, this ranging
sinning Lover is willing to drink ' potions of Eysell 'gainst
his " strong infection ! " ' The same as him of sonnet
69 (p. 241), whose mind the Poet said the world mea-
sured by his ill deeds, and who had grown common
in the mouths of men. Here he bewails those harmful
deeds of his which have made him grow common, or
the subject of \'u]gar scandal. This is the same victim
of his late as we have before met, who was in disgrace
Avith Fortune, sonnet 29 (p. 166); made lame by For-
tune's dearest spite, in sonnet 37 (p. 168) ; had suflfered
the spite of Fortune once more, in sonnet 90 (p. 246) ;
and he now pleads in mitigation- of his offences that
Fortune is the guilty goddess of his harmful doings ; she
who has so driven him about the world. He confesses
to all that Shakspeare had mourned in the personal son-
nets ; acknowledges that ' sensual fault ' of his nature
which Elizabeth Vernon had before spoken of (at p 207) ;
makes what excuses he can, and begs that all errors and
failings may be blotted from the book of her remembrance.
It is the plea of a penitent Lover prapng his Mistress to
forgive his sins against true love ; his full confession of all
that he has done, and his reply to what others have said
on the subject of his doings. He asks her not to say that
he was false at heart because of his absences from her,
thougli these may have made him seem indifferent, and
ai)[)eared to diminish his love. He could just as easily
part from himself as from his soul, whicli dwells in her
breast ; so deeply rooted in reality is his love, in despite
of surface appearances. Her bosom is his home of love,
27(; SIIAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
to wliicli he returns like a traveller ; tliat is the port of
his pleasure and soft rest of all his pain. He comes back,
too, true to the time appointed, and not changed with the
time. Moreover, he brings water for his stain ; comes
back to her in tears. But though he is stained or dis-
figured by many frailties, she must not believe that he
could be so stained, so disfigured from the shape she first
knew and loved, as to leave for notliing the sum of good
and summit of glory which he attains in her, for he counts
as nothing the whole w^de imiverse compared with her
Avho is creation's crown, his Eose ! his All ! Alas ! he
admits it is quite true what she says of his wanderings,
liis fl3nngs-ofi" at random, his making such a fool of himself
in public. He has gone here and there — a motley to the
view — made light of his love, and been an old ofiender to
his new affection. It is most true that he has shied at the
truth, flinched from it, looked at it coyly, reservedly, as
though it were a stranger, and has not made tlie beloved
his wife as he ought to have done ; but these starts and
far-flights from the path of right have given his heart
another youth, his affection a fresh beginning, and his
worse attempts have proved her to be his best of love.
Now all is done ; his wanderings and voyagings are over ;
lie begs her to accept what shall have no end, his de-
voted undivided love, which shall be henceforth lived in
lier presence. He has come home, as we say, for good
and all, and if she will but forgive him this one little last
time, he will never do so any more. He will not again
sharpen his old appetite for arms and adventure on any
newer further proof to try this dear friend, who was his
before his war-career and wanderings began — this ' God in
love ' to whom he is so bounden. ' Then give me welcome
to the best place next heaven, tliy pure and most, most
loving breast.' And ' do not think the worst of me ; quarrel
a httle with Fortune. She is guilty of mucli tliat I have
done. She placed me in a public position, in the power
THE TorCII OF TlilTil IS THE TOUCH OF LH-'E. i'77
ofa Queen \vli() so long tried to liinder me from making
you mine own ; made me live so much in the pubhc eye,
and drove me to do thinus which have been so talked
about by the public tongue.' Thence it arises tliat his
name has been made the mark of scandal, and liis nature
has- been almost subdued to ichat it ivorks in, like the
dyer's hand. And here we come upon a striking example
of the way in whicli the ' pith and puissance ' of the son-
nets have been unappreciated and unperceived. They have
been read as imagery alone, images painted on air and
not founded on facts, without any grasp of the meaning
which the images were only intended to convey and
heighten, whereas the value of Shakspeare's images lies
in their second self, and this has so often been invisible to
the reader. The image of the dyer's hand is well-known,
and considered to be fine, yet that which it symbols ha.s
never been seen. The perfection of its use, the very
clasp of the comparison, the touch which makes the image
absolutely alive, lie in tlie fact that the speaker is a man
of arms, a soldier, a fightei', apt to carry his public pro-
fession into the practice of his private life ; and thus he
speaks of his nature as subdued to what it works in, and
his hand as wearing the colour of blood — dyed in blood !
Therein lies the likeness to the dyer's hand! (In ' King
John ' we have the soldiers'
* Purpled bauds
Dyed in the dyeing sh^ughter of their foes.')
'Pity me then on this account, and wish me better
— my life renewed. I. would willingly drink "potions
of Eysell " for wliat I luiw wilfully done. I should
think no bitterness bitter that would disinfect me, no
penance too htird for my correction. But j^ity mi',
dear friend, and voui- iiity will be enouah to cure me.
Your love and pity sufHce to eflace the mark which
common talk stamped on my brow. What do I care
278 SIIAKSPEAllE'S SONNETS.
liow their tongues Avag, or reck what tliey say of me,
so that your tenderness folds up my faults as the green
grass hides the grave, or the ivy's embrace conceals the
scars of time. You are my all- the- world, the only voice
I listen to. To all others I turn a deaf ear, and in fact
all the rest of the world are dead to me.'
Then follows a bit of special pleading, only pardonable
to one who, in regard to the report of others, feels more
sinned against than sinning. Some ' carry-tale,' some
' putter-on,' some ' please-man,' has been busy with his
name and his amusements, or some babbling gossip of a
woman has falsely interpreted his doings. Against such
he can make a better defence. The spies on his frailties
are themselves frailer than he is. The Court lady who
has spoken of his loose conduct has herself looked on him
with wanton wooing eyes. The persons aimed at in this
sonnet may be Lady Eicli and Ambrose Willoughby.
Whoever they are, he scorns to be measured by their rule.
They desire to think bad and speak ill of that which he
thinks good. In speaking of him, they do but reckon up
their own abuses. He may be straight, though they be
crooked — that may be why the estimate is wrong ; the
measurement untrue — and his doings must not be judged
by their foul thoughts. The summing-up of his reply
says that he is not so bad as they would have him seem,
and no worse in a general way than others are. He goes
on to show her how she can put the case against him more
justly: 'Accuse me thus: that I have come short in all
I owe to your love and worth ; forgot to call upon your
most active *love, in the name of husband, to which all
bonds — especially that nearer tie of life-in-life — do bind
me closer daily ; that I have given to Time your rights,
which were purchased by you so dearly at the cost of
long-suffering and sore heart-ache and many tears ; that
I have hoisted sail to every wind that blew, which would
^vaft me tlie farthest away from you ; been abroad fre-
now ]!LIM) LOVE HAS 15EEN BEFOOLED. 270
qiiently, and spent my time amongst foreigners instead of
l3eing with you at liome ; book both my wilfulness and
errors down, all that you know and can suspect, and bring
me within sight of my doom ; take aim, but do not shoot
at me in your awakened hatred. My appeal says I only
did these things to prove your constancy, and test the
virtue of your love. As we whet the appetite and urge
the palate with " eager compounds," and " sicken to shun
sickness " when we purge, so did I turn to bitter things
because I was so filled with your sweetness. I was so well
that there was a sort of satisfaction in being ill.' The
lover finds a kind of fitness in ' behiu!; diseased ere that
there was true needing.' But this policy of his love, which
anticipated by inoculation the ills that were not, grew to
' faults assured.' There was something wrong in the vini.s
that he had not bargained for. And he suffered much
in recovering the healthy state, which ' rank of goodness '
nuist needs be cured by ill. His experience has taught
him that his medical course was not altoerether a success :
he finds the drugs poison him who had fallen sick of her.
But what doses he has swallowed in his circuitous course
in search of health ! He has sailed the seas, and listened
to the songs of the sirens, and been flattered and fooled
b}'' their tears ; he has drunk potions distilled from lyni-
becks foul as hell within ; set fears against hopes and
hopes against fears. He has played the game in which
the winner loses most. He has committed the most
wretched errors of the heart whilst he was thinkino:
himself never so blessed. What a blind fool he has
been! How his eves have l)een llittcd out of their
proper spheres in the distraction of this maddening
fever, engendered of war and wandering. lUit there is
this benefit in evil, that it serves to show the oood in a
clearer li<;ht ; makes the best thinij-s better. And love
that lias been rent asunder may be joined anew, like other
fractured articles, the newly soldered part becoming the
280 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
strontrest, even firmer than at first. So he returns from
his evil courses, his erratic wanderings, liis visionary pur-
suit of pleasure, his futile imitation of the boy and but-
terfly — humbled and sobered, to the home of his heart
and the seat of his content, a sadder and a wiser man ;
sufficiently so to gain by his experience three-fold more
llian he has spent in his folly, and to discover how sweet
are the uses of adversity.
The last argument urged for the making up of this love-
quarrel contains a reference to an old falling-out, in which
the lady had accused her lover wrongfully. ' That you
were once unkind to me is fortunate for me now ! When
I think of what I suffered on that occasion, it makes me
feel doubly what I have caused you to bear ; for if you
have been as much pained by my unkindness as I was by
youi's, then you have suffered a hell indeed ; and I, a
tyrant, did not for a moment think how you were suffer-
ing, even in remembering how I myself once suffered by
the wrong you did to me. I wish now that our dark niglit
of sadness had reminded me how hard ti'ue sorrow hits ;
what cruel blows the hand of love can give ; and that I
liad come to you as quickly and tendered to you as
frankly the balm that befits a wounded lieart, as you tlien
came to me with healing, reconcihation, and peace ! But
let } our fault of the Past now become a fee ; my wrong
ransoms your's ; your wrong must ransom me ! '
We shall see by referring to the life of Southampton
that lie went abroad three years running after meeting
with Mistress Vernon. In the year 1596, he hurriedly
left England to follow the Earl of Essex, who was gone
on the expedition to Cadiz, Being too late for the
lighting in that year, I conjecture that he joined his friend
lloger Manners, Eai-1 of liutlaiul, wlio was then making
a tour of France, Italy and Switzerland. In the year
1597 he was with Essex on the Island Voyage, in com-
mand of the ' Garland.' And in the following year he
THE ICARL HAS MADE A PUBLIC FOOL OF IILMSELF. 281
k'tt Eugiaud to uilbr his sword to Henry IV. of France,
and was main absent for some months. Ue liad thus been
in foreign countries, mixed witli 'unknown minds' — people
wlio do not speak our language — and to do this he had
taken advantage of every breeze that would fill his sail
wliich had flapped idly whilst his vessel lay lazily in har-
bour, and he eagerly waited the tide and whistled for a
wind. This he had done in a reckless mood, and ' given
to Time ; ' he had spent the time away from his mistress,
which was her's by right, and dearly purchased too.
It will be seen that the speaker of the second of these
sonnets has made himself a Motley to the view. If he
had been speaking of wearing the Fool's coat of many
colours, he would not have been necessarily making a fool
of himself. The ima2:e is not used in that sense. If he
had been playing the Fool's part on the stage, it would
be Fortune that had made him a Motley to the view ; not
himself. Here, however, the speaker has made a fool of
himself, not by wearing the player's motley. He does not
mean that he has played the Fool in jest, but that he has
been a fool in sad earnest, by his wanderings about the
Avorld, his absence from the dear bosom on wliich he yearns
to pillow his head at last, his manifold offences to this
affection ; his starts from rectitude ; his looking on truth
with a sidelong glance ; and, most of all, his quarrels in
public, in the camp, in the Court, in the street, whereby
he has made himself a Motley in public to the view, and
become the subject of a public scandal. He has been the
fool who had not the })rivilege of bearing the Clown's
bauble and wearing the many-coloured coat. ' I wear
not Motley in my brain,' says the Fool in ' Twelfth Night ;'
this was exactly how the young Earl had worn it. All the
literalness is in the fact, not in the image ; it is Southampton
to the life, not Shakspeare following his profession.
Then the confession of sonnet 110 can only have been
made to a woman. It would have no meaninuj from u
282 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
man to a man. It is a confession to a woman that the
speaker lias been beguiled by tlie siren tears of other
women, who were false and foul. He is penitent for those
wretched errors which he has thus committed, still losing
when he fancied he was the winner. He asks forgive-
ness for this among his other wanderings. He makes a
comparison, and appeals from the false love to the true,
which he now sees in the truer light, and vows to be
eternally true. It is out of nature for Shakspeare to
plead in this way. He could not have left the Earl, nor
come back to him ; could not protest the truth of his love
in any such sense as is here implied. Besides which, if
the dark story had been well-founded, he would not then
have left his friend to follow the sirens. His passionate
outpourings on that occasion would be in reproach of the
Earl for having left him, and for being lured away by the
woman. It was the Earl who was represented as going
astray, not the Poet. All that he wanted was to be left
in quiet possession of his cockatrice, and keep his friend
the Earl true to him. The falsehood as well as the wan-
dering was the friend's. Shakspeare showed no desire to
desert his friend for a mistress ; no wish to leave his mis-
tress for his friend. He was only anxious to keep both,
and to keep them apart from each other. His grief was
not that he loved the woman, but that his friend also loved
her ; not that the mistress had taken his heart from his
friend, but his friend from him to lierself Position and
effects are quite different to those supposed to have been
represented in those earlier sonnets, and the confession
here has no fitting relationsliip to the past in that way ;
no meaning as from man to man.
In the life and character of Soutliampton alone shall we
discover the subject of tliis group of sonnets, spoken by
the Earl to his much-enduring mistress, Elizabeth Yernon.
There only will be found the opposition of Fortune, the
breaking-out and ' blenches ' of rebellious blood, the
THE PUBLIC LIFE THAT MADE THE ' MANNERS.' PUBLIC 283
li armful doings that were the cause of common scandal,
tlie absences abroad, and all the trials of that true love here
addressed. Also, in the Earl's- case only are the excuses on
the score of Fortune at all admissible. Shakspearewas really
a favourite of Fortune, both in his life and friendship ; she
smiled on him graciously. Nor is there a single complaint
against her in the whole of the personal sonnets ; neither
can we see that he had any reason to complain. He does
not accredit Fortune with any spite towards him, nor
show any himself. But, as we have seen, Fortune Avas
against the Earl, his friend, in the person of the Queen,
and her opposition to his marriage ; and but for his being
a public man and so much in the power of the Court for
appointment and preferment, he would not have had so
long and trpng a fight with Fortune. He could have
carried off his love and lived a calmer hfe ; he would have
escaped many a scar that he received in the struggle with
such an untoward Fortune as at length landed him by the
side of Essex at the scaffold foot, although he had not to
mount the steps. He was also a soldier of Fortune, not
only fighting under the English Crown, but seeking ser-
vice and glad of any fighting that could be got. As a
soldier so circumstanced, and a man of so fiery a spirit
that it led him into brawls, he could fairly say —
' 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 / were renewed.^
Poor fellow! he was continually 'in for it.' No doubt
there were many things known to Shakspeare and Mrs.
Vernon that have not come down to us, besides the pro-
posed duels which tlie Queen had to prohibit, and the
hubbub in Court, for which ' vulgar scandal ' stamped the
Earl's brow, and Elizabeth Vernon effaced the impression
with her ' love and pity'; but we know quite enough.
L>84 SHAKSPEARES SONNETS.
Thus, in Southain})ton's life, we can identify every circmn-
stance touched upon in this group of sonnets ; veritable
facts that quicken every figure and make every line alive.
Eowland Whyte in his letters, and Shakspeare in these
lines, chronicle the same occurrences and paint companion
pictures of the same character, whilst the sonnets as
clearly and recognisably reflect the image and motion of
the young Earl's mind, the impetuous currents of his
nature, as any portrait could present to us the features of
his face. In all respects the opposite to the character in
whose presence we feel ourselves, when Shakspeare per-
sonally speaks, and we hear the ground- tone of a w^eightier
mind, and the feeling has a more sober certainty, the
thought a more quiet depth ; the music tells of no jarring
string.
Sonnet 116 is a personal one ; the speaker in it is the
writer of it. And it is sufficient evidence that the sonnets
which we have called confessional do not, cannot, refer to
Shakspeare's doings, pourtray his character, or express his
feelings. If they had, this sonnet would be an amazing
conclusion, and contain his own utter condemnation,
spoken with an unconscionable jauntiness of tone. He
would have been a sinner in each particular against the
law and gospel of true love, which he now expounds so em-
phatically. ' Love's not Time's fool ; ' yet, on his own
confession, he would have cruelly and continually made it
the fool of Time and sport of accident. Love is ' an ever-
fixed mark ; ' he says, and he would have wilfully and
wantonly cut himself adrift from its resting-place, ' Love
alters not ; ' but he would have been moved hghtly as a
feather with every breath of change. If he had been
the speaker in the foregoing sonnets, he could not now
say : ' Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit
impediments.' He could not call himself true, if no false.
He could not have uttered his own condemnation with so
airy and joyous a swing ; so lusty a sense of freedom.
SOFT] 1AM ITOX MAKIMKI) AT LAST. 28.',
He could not thus exult iu the genuine attributes of ti'ue
love, and say, ' if tliis he error and upon me proved, I
never writ, noi" no man ever loved.' It would have been
proved only t(jo clearly that he was in error, or else that
he was a bold hypocrite — if he were the guilty one who
had before confessed ! But the line, ' I never writ, nor no
man ever loved,' almost divides the subject into its two
parts, and points out the two speakers. It shows Shak-
speare to be the writer on a subject extraneous to him-
self except as writer. And here the poet is commenting
upon a matter quite external, the particulars of which do
not, and the generalities cannot, apply to him personally.
The comment, too, is on the very facts confessed by the
scapegrace of the previous sonnets. Those were the con-
fessions of a love that had not been altogether true ; this
is the exaltation of the highest, holiest love. It is Shak-
speare's own voice heard in conclusion of the quarrelling
and unkindness ; his summing-up of the whole matter.
His own spirit shines through this sonnet. It is a perfectly
apposite discourse on the loves of Southampton and Eliza-
beth Vernon. The confessional sonnets were written in
illustration of the last full reconciliation of this couple,
whose love did not run smooth outwardly, which is so apt
to beget ripples inwardly. They were married in the year
following that in wliich the hubbub in Court and the con-
sequent scandal had occurred, and this sonnet is in
celebration of the happy event.
SIIAKSPEARE OX THE EARL's MARRIAGE.
Let me not to the marriage of true miuds
Admit impediments: Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds.
Or bends with the remover to remove !
Oh, no ; it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken !
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken :
i'80 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Love's not Time's fool, tho' rosy lipS and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come ;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom : '
If this be error and upon me proved
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
(llG.)
This is a marriage service of tlie Poet's own, witli an
obvious reference to the marriatxe service of the Eni>lisli
Church. He gives his answer, he who knows all the cir-
cumstances of the case and is acquainted wdth all his
friend's failings, to the appeal as to whether any witness
knows of sufficient cause or impediment why these two
should not be joined together in the holy matrimonial
bond. The Poet knows of their quarrels and of the
Earl's wild or Avanton courses ; but he says firmly, let me
not admit these as impediments to tlie marriage of true
minds. If my friend has done all these sad things which
have been confessed, yet is it not the nature of true love
to alter and change when it finds change in another;
because one has wandered and removed hterally that is
not sufficient reason wjiy the other should waver and liy
oir in spirit. Appearances themselves are false where
hearts are true.
The supreme object of Shakspeare's sonnets was to aid
in getting the Earl, liis friend, married, and see him safe
in JMistress Vernon's arms, encompassed with content.
This is the be-all and end-all of his song ; his one theme
with many variations. He woos liim towards the door
of the sanctuary with the most amorous diligence and
coaxing words. He tries by many winning ways to get
tlie youth to enter. He rebukes him when he fiinches
from it ; and the last effort he makes for the consumma-
1 'Even to the edge of doom ;' so in ^Ml's Well that Ends Well/ to the
' extreme edge of hazard,' and in ' Macbeth/ the ' crack of doom/ i.e., the
breaking up of nature.
THE POET CROWNS ELIZABETH VERNON'S ' TRUE LOVE.' 287
tion so devoutly wished almost amounts to a visible p?As7i
from behind. He has attacked all tlie obstacles that
stood in the way ; scolded the Earl for his ' blenches '
from the right path ; no mother ever more anxious about
some wild slip of rebelHous blood ; and now, when he is
safe at last, with tlie rosy fetters round his neck, and the
srolden rino- is on the finger of the wife, their Poet grows
jubilant with delight; a great weight is off his heart, and
he breathes freely on the subject of the Earl's courtship
for tlie first time ; can even speak with a dash of joyful
abandon. The writer is in his cheeriest mood and the
sonnet has a festal style. The true love that is apotheo-
sized in this Aveddino- strain is not the affection of Shak-
speare ; not the love of the Earl, his friend ; but the
steadfast, pure and lofty love of Elizabeth Vernon ! Tliis
is the love that has not been the fool or slave of Time ;
that has altered not with his brief hours and weeks, but
has borne all the trials ; been true to the very ' edge of
doom ' and kept her heart iirmly fixed even wdien, as
Eowland Whyte hints, her mind threatened to waver and
trive way. She did not alter when she found an alteration
in him ; did not ' bend w^ith the remover (the traveller and
wanderer) to remove.' She was ' the ever-fixed mark ; '
the liglithouse in the storm, that ' looked on tempests and
Avas never shaken,' but held up its lamp across the gloom.
Her true love was the fixed star of his wandering bark,
that shone when tlie sun went down ; this was his glory
in disgrace ; his fount of healing when wounded by tlie
world, or his own self-inflicted injuries ; the bright, still
blessedness tliat touched his troubled tlioughts ; his resting-
place, where the Poet hoped he would at last find peace,
and hear in his household love, the murmurs of a dearer
music than any he could make in a sonneteering strain.
There is in this sonnet one of those instances of Shak-
speare's mode of vivifying by means of an image, whicli
are a never-ending surprise to his readers. But it takes
288 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
all its life from the love-story now unfolded. It is tlie
astronomical allusion to Elizabeth Vernon as the -star
whose worth was unknown although its height was
measured — meaning that there yet remained the unex-
plored world of wedded love ; the inidiscovered riches of
the wedded life. Althouo-h the distance between them
had been taken, the best could not be known until he has
made that star his dwelling-place and home of love ;
knt)ws its hidden worth as well as he knew its brightness
and its faithfulness as a guiding light in the distance.
The Queen's opposition to the marriage of Southampton
and Ehzabeth Vernon is apparent all through these sonnets
devoted to them. The burden of the whole story is an
opposition wliich has to be borne awhile. This is figured
as the spite of Fortune and the tyranny of Time. In
sonnet 36 (p. 176) the spite begins by separating the two
lovers, and stealing sweet hours from love's delight ; this
enforced parting is the first shape taken by Time's tyranny.
In his absence the lover speaks of liis mistress as his
locked-up treasure kept by Time. Sonnet 70 (p. 226)
recognises how much the Earl is tried by this waiting
imposed upon him by Time. Moreover, the promises of
immortality are expressly made to right this wrong of
Time. Against all the powers of Time and 'Death and
all-oblivious Enmity' shall he 'pace forth,' wearing an
eternal crown which he has won by his steadfastness in
love. And in this marriage sonnet the true love is
crowned by the Poet because it has not been the fool or
slave of Time ; has not given in to the adverse circum-
stances, or succumbed to the opposition, but ' borne it out
even to the edge of doom.'
289
PERSONAL SONNETS.
1599 1600.
SlIAKSPEARE TO THE EARL, CHIEFLY OX HIS OWN
DEATH.
This is a group of very touching sonnets. Nowhere
else shall we draw more near to the poet in his own per-
son. They look as if written in contemplation of death.
They have a touch of physical languor : the tinge of
solemn thought. And if they were composed at such a
time, they show us how limitedly autobiographic the
sonnets were intended to be. Shakspeare never speaks
of himself except in relation to the Earl. Here his request
is that, should he die, his friend is not to mourn for him
any longer even than the death-bell tolls. He Avoiild
rather be forgotten by the Earl than that his friend should
grieve for him when he is gone. Also, he begs that the
Earl will not so much as mention his name, lest the keen
hard world should see the disparity betwixt what the friend
in his kindness may have thought of the Poet and its own
shrewder estimate ; for if the world should task the living
to tell Avhat merit there was in him that is dead, the
Earl will be put to shame, or be driven to speak falsely of
one whom he loved truly.
The third sonnet appears to me to have in it more of
u
290 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
illness than of age. The Poet is urging excuses : and, in
case he should die, he is making the best of it for his
friend. Tlien he is decrying his own appearance as one
that sees himself in the glass when worn and broken by
suffering. He feels his life to be in the sere and yellow
leaf The boughs are growing bare where the sweet birds
lately sang. The twilight is creeping over all, cold and
grey. The fire that he has warmed himself by is sinking
low ; there is more white ash than ruddy glow. All this
he urges in case the flame should go out suddenly. The
sonnet concludes with another excuse. Because this is
so, and the Earl sees it, that is why liis love grows stronger,
fearing lest it should lose him. ' But do not mind,' he
says, ' though I should die, yet sliall I be with you ; I
shall live on in tlie lines which I leave ; these shall stay
with you as a memorial of our love. When you look at
these sonnets, you will see the very part of me that was
consecrated to you. Earth can but take its own as food
for the worms. My spirit is yours, and that remains with
you.' ' Against the time shall come,' he continues, ' when
my friend shall be, as I am now, bowed down and crushed
by "Time's injurious hand," when the blood runs thin, and
tlie brow is as a map filled with the lines and crosses of
care ; his day is approaching " age's steepy night," and his
beauty is vanishing — against such a time as this have I
written these sonnets, (which are to remain with him), so
that when he dies his beauty may live on in enduring
youth.' ' Either I shall live to write your epitaph, or
you will survive long after me ; be this as it may. Death
sliall not take hence the memory of you, although I shall
be quite forgotten. Your name shall have immortal life
from tliese lines, although I, once gone, shall be gone for
ever. The earth will yield me but a common grave ; your
grave shall be in the eyes of men, and my verse shall
build, your gentle monument.'
■ I am by no means sure that the first two lines of the
THE POET FEELS SOMEWHAT BROKEN IX SPIPJT. 201
5th sonnet do not indicate more than age or ilhiess.
Wlien we consider Sliakspeare's reticence on the subject of
self, they look particularly pointed for a passing allusion.
Time is not used for age m these two lines ; tliat follows
in the next line; these contain their own particulars. The
Poet is crushed and overworn by Time's injurious hand.
Here is the same personification of Time, the ruling
tyrant, as we fuid in the sonnets spoken by Southampton.
It is time present, not time in general. Then ' injurious'
is an appellation of reproach, meaning that from the pre-
sent time, or at tlie present moment, Shakspeare is suf-
fering some wrong which is unjustly hurtful. Time's
hand is here injurious in a moral rather than physical
sense. And this wrong, whether of detraction or perse-
cution, he feels to be so great, that he is quite ' crushed
and overworn.' Steevens remarked of this expression, that
to say first he was crushed and then overworn, was little
better than to say of a man that he w^as first killed and
then wounded. But it is perfectly right, and much like
the Poet's inclusive way of speaking, if he felt crushed in
the moral sense, as well as worn down in physical health.
And that there was such an accumulation of affliction is
shown by the emphatic ' As I am now ! ' What was this
heavy injustice which so bowed the Poet's spirit at the
time, and caused the nearest approach to a personal cry
in the whole of the sonnets? As the sonnet is addressed
to Southampton, the subject will be one that he is cogni-
sant of, and in which he is interested, or even this little
allusion to himself would hardly have been permitted by
the Poet. It may have to do with Shakspeare's having
fallen under the suspicion of those in authority, possibly
of Majesty itself, on accoiuit of Southampton's friendly
intimacy and his appearance of being bound up with the
cause of Essex. Had he not said something very flatter-
ing of the Earl in his Henry V. ? This may have been
reported to the iiijuiy of the Poet, and resented by Her
u 2
292 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Majesty. It was something very important, or it would
not have been chronicled in a personal sonnet.
No longer mourn for me, when I am dead.
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warninu' 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 :
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.
(71.)
0, 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 :
lest your true love may seem false in this.
That you for love speak well of me imtrue.
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.
(72.)
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 ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang I
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
' So ' Hamlet,' when a-sked what he has done with the dead body of
Polonius, replies, ' Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin.'
THE PROMISED IMMORTALITY. 293
Which by and l)y black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest !
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by :
This thou perceiv'st, which mak'st thy love more strong
To love that well which thou must lose ere long.
(73.)
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 I
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.
(74.)
Against my Love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn ;
When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
With lines and wrinkles ; when his youthful morn
Hath travelled on to Age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing or vanished 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, tho' my Lover's life :
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.
(63.)
294 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Or I shall live your Epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten ;
From hence your memory Death cannot take,
Altho' in me each part will be forgotten :
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Tho' I, once gone, to all the world must die :
The earth can yield me but a common grave.
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie :
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read ;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse.
When all the breathers of this world are dead ;
You still shall live — such virtue hath my Pen —
Where breath most breathes — even in the mouths of
men. (8i.)
Thus the Poet speaks of his own death and the death
of his friend, with a soul brimful of tender love as the
summer dew-drop is of morning sun. No image of dis-
grace darkens the retrospect of life ; all is purity and
peace. The sonnets treasure up his better part, and they
are to ' blossom in the dust ' with a breath of sweetness
and memorial fragrance, when he lies in the ground.
Here also is proof, I think, that he did not contemplate
being known to the world as the writer of these sonnets
when he composed this group. The work was a cherished
love-secret on his part, all the dearer for the privacy.
He thought of doing it, and he believed it would live,
and that his friend and all the love between them should
live on in it, but he himself ivas to steal of unidentified.
In tlie last sonnet, he says : —
* Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Tho' I, once gone, to all the world must die :
The earth can yield me hut a common fjrave,
When you entombed in men^s eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my (jentle versed
Clearly the sonnets were to be nameless, so far as the
author was concerned, or Shakspeare must have been a
NOT TO BE PUBLISHED AS SIIAK.SPEAliES. 295
sharer with his friend in both the immortal hfe and monu-
ment ! Again, he says, when he is dead —
* Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,
My name be buried where my body is.'
And in Sonnet 76 (p. 254), there is a kind of 'liush !' He
speaks of his friend so i)lainly, tliat ' every word doth
ahnost tell un/ name,' and from whom the Sonnets pro-
ceeded, as if that were self-forbidden. He assures his
friend of immortality, he speaks of having an interest in
tlie verses, for they contain the 'better part' of himself
consecrated to his friend, but he does not contemplate
living in them by name.
These sonnets have the authority of parting words, and
tliat in a double sense ; for not only arc they written
when Shakspeare was ill, as I understand him, but they
are written when he fancied the Southampton series was
just upon finished. How, then, was the immortality to
be conferred ? How was tlie monument erected Ijy
Shakspeare to be known as the Earl of Southampton's ?
How were the many proud boasts to be fidfiUed ? In this
way I imagine. Sidney had called his prose work ' The
Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia,' and in all likelihood,
when these sonnets were written, it was Shakspeare's
intention, if they ever were published, to print them as
the Earl of Southampton's. The fiict of his having written
in the Earl's name points to such a conclusion. This view
serves to explain how it was tluit the Poet could care
so little for fame ; seem so unconscious of the value of his
own work, and yet make so many proud boasts of im-
mortality. It is whilst fighting for his friend that we
have this escape of consciousness, if it amounts to that,
not whilst speaking of himself, nor whilst contemplating
living by name, and the sonnets are to be immortal
because they are the Earl of Southampton's, rather than
on account of their being William Shakspeare's.
296 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
1601 — 1603.
SOUTHAMPTON, IN THE TOWER, TO HIS COUNTESS.
ALSO
SHAKSPEARE TO THE EARL IN PRISON, AND UPON
HIS RELEASE.
This is the story of the next group of sonnets : — The
Earl of Southampton was, as is well known, tried for
treason, along with the Earl of Essex, and condemned
to die. His share in the wild attempt at rebelhon was
undoubtedly owing to his kinship, and to his friendship
for the Earl. His youth, his friends, pleaded for him, and
his hfe was spared. He was respited during the Queen's
pleasure, after having been left for some weeks under
sentence of execution. The sentence beinof at length
commuted, he was kept a close prisoner until her Majesty's
death. These three sonnets give us a dramatic represen-
tation of the situation. They are spoken by the Earl to
his Countess ; and they illustrate the facts and circum-
stances of the time with the most literal exactness, the
utmost truth of detail. The Earl is in the Tower, and the
shadow of the prison-house creeps darkly over the page
as we read. The imprisonment is personified as Time.
Time holds the Earl tightly in his grip. Time has the
THE TOWER OF T/)Xnr)\. 207
speaker in his keeping for a while — is absolute master for
the moment. This is a very perfect image of imprison-
ment. But, safely as Time holds him, surely as he has
got him, the Earl defies Time still, and says, in spite of
this newest, latest, strongest proof of his power, Time
shall not boast that he changes. He will still be true to
his love, ' Tliy pyramids built up with newer rni<jht^ to
me are nothing novel, nothing strange!' That is, this
latest proof of Time's power — he has had many in the
course of his love — shall not impose on him in spite of
its new shape and its arguments drawn from remote
antiquity.
'Thy pyramids' — the various towers of which the
Tower is composed — ' built-up anew over my head, with
this display of might which has shut me up within them,
are only a former siglit freshly dressed : I recognise my old
foe in a novel mask. You are my old enemy, Time, the
tyrant ! You have given me many a shrewd fall ; you
have chafed my spirit sorely; but I still defy your worst.
In vain you hold me as in a chamber of torture, and show
me the works you have done, the ruin you have wrought.
In vain you point with lean finger to all these emblems of
mortality and proofs of change, and foist upon me these
signs of age. I see the place is rich in Records of times
past, and the Registers of bygone things, I know our
dates are brief compared with these of yours, but your
shows and shadows do not intimidate me ; they will not
make my spirit quail, I shall not waver or change in my
love, however long my imprisonment may last. I defy
both yourself and your taunts of triumph. I am not the
slave of Time, and it is useless to show me your dates. I
wonder neither at the present nor the past. I stand with
a firm foot on that which is eternal, and can look calmly
on these dissolving views of time. Whatsoever you may
cut down, I shall be true, despite thy scythe and thee !'
Thus the Earl meditates, shut up in the Tower of London^
298 SHAKSPEAKE'S SONNETS.
the grey gloom and ghostly atmosphere of whicli may be
felt in the first sonnet. The reader will perceive how
perfect is this interior of the prison-house — this garner of
Time's gleanings — if it be remembered tliat the Tower was
then the great depository of the public Records and
national Registers ; the Statute EoUs, Patent Eolls, Parlia-
ment Polls, Bulls, Pardons, Ordinances, Grants, Privy Seals,
and antique Charters, dating back to the time of Wilham
the Norman. In no place could Time look more imposing
and venerable, or be dressed with a greater show of autho-
rity, than in the old Tower, standing up grey against the
sky ; full of strange human relics, and guilty secrets, and
awfid memories, and the dust of some who are noblest,
some who are vilest among our England's dead.
The Poet makes only a stroke or two — the ' pyramids '
or turrets without ; the ' Eegisters,' ' Eecords,' and
ancient dates within ; but there we have the Tower, and
no picture could possess more truth of local hoary colour.
It will give an added force to the speaker's tone of
defiance if we remember what a grim reahtv the Tower
was in those days, and what a lively terror to the
Elizabethan imagination. A personification of living death !
The meditation of the next sonnet is very express.
The Earl had endeavoured to marry Elizabeth Vernon
for some years before he succeeded. He was compelled
to marry her secretly at last. And in this sonnet he
rejoices that they were married before his imprisonment
occurred. If, he says, he had not effected his purpose in
spite of the Queen, and his beloved were now unmarried
to him, if his ' love ' had remained merely the ' child of
state,' the creature of a Court, subject to its policy or the
Queen's intention, it would, now he is taken away, have
been the veriest bastard of Fortune — a child witliout a
father. If we bear in mind the condition of Elizabeth
Vernon previous to the stolen marriage, we shall see the
dual meaning of this illustration ! Ilad it been so, he
THE IRISH REBELLION. 209
says, it would have continued subject to Time's love or
hate, and might have fallen under his scythe in the most
hap-hazard way ; a flower amongst flowers, or a weed
among weeds, just as chance might have determined.
But no, he has secured it from scorn and insult. lie has
built beyond the reach of accident. His beloved may be
out in the world alone, but she wears the name of wife —
nay, she is gathered up into his bosom by that grand in-
clusive way in which the sonnet personifies the ' love ' in
its oneness. ' It was builded far from accident ' — the
marriage made that sure ! and now, as things are, it ' suf-
fers not ' in the falsely ' smiling pomp ' of Court favour ; is
not compelled to seek Court preferment, is no more ex-
posed to the changeful weathei', the sun and shower of
royal caprice ; nor does it fall imder — cannot come within
reach of — that ' blow of thralled discontent ' to which the
' inviting time ' calls ' our fashion ' ; the young nobles,
England's chivalry, who at that moment were being
summoned to the aid of Mountjoy in Ireland.
No apter image of Ireland in the year IGUl could be
conceived than this ' thralled discontent ' gives us.
Camden says the affairs of that country were in a ' lean-
ing posture,' tending to a ' dejection,' and the Spaniard
seized the occasion to make one more push, and if pos-
sible, topple over English rule in Ireland. It was pro-
claimed that Ehzabeth was, by several censures of the
Bishop of Eome, deprived of her crown. The spirit of
rebellion sprang u[) fuU-statured at tlie promise of help
from Spain ; and ' thralled discontent ' once more wel-
comed tlie deliverer. Rumour came flying in all haste,
and babbling with all her tongues. It was an ' inviting
time' indeed to the younggallants — the Earl's old comrades
— who were fast taking horse and ship once more. The
prose parallel to tlie sonnet will be found in a letter to Mr.
Winwood from Mr. Secretary Cecil, Oct. 4, IGOl ^ He
' iri/i wood's Memorials, vol. i. p. 35 L
300 STIAKSPEAKE-S SONNETS.
writes, ' on the 25th of last moiitli there landed between
five and six thousand Spaniards in the province of Munster,
commanded by Don Juan d'Aguila, who was general of
the Spanish army at Bluett. The Lord Deputy (Mountjoy)
is hasting, with the best power he can make, and her Ma-
jesty is sending over six thousand men, with all things
thereto belonging, which, being added to eighteen thou-
sand already in that kingdom, you must think do put
this realm to a wanton charge.' Of course the sonnet
does not make the Earl exult that he cannot follow to join
his old friends in the two campaigns which ended in
Mountjoy's leading captive the rebel Tyrone to the feet
of Elizabeth. That would have been undramatic, un-
natural. He only says that, shut up in prison as he is,
his love does not '■fall under the hloiv' whereto the time
calls so inviiingly. It has no fear of policy, that heretic
in love and love-matters ! which, after all — and here is an
ominous hint, perhaps of the Queen's age — works on a
short lease, or a lease of short-numbered hours. No ! it
stands all alone — completely isolated from the strokes and
shocks of time and change in the outer world. He sits
at the centre of the wild whirl — or rather he is just where
things stand still — and ' hugely politic,' it is too ! His love
' nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers ' of the
Court world. But it has an inward life of its own ; is
firm as the centre ; steadfast and true to the end. To the
truth of his assertions he calls his witnesses, and weird
witnesses they are ; for, being where the speaker is, we
get a glimpse of Tower Hill through the window bars, and
see the solemn procession ; the sawdusted stage with its
black velvet drapery of death ; the headsman in his black
mask, his axe in his hand, and all the scenery and cir-
cumstance of that grim way they had of going up to God.
The speaker calls for witnesses, the spirits of those political
plotters, whose heads fell from the block, and whose bodies
moulder witliin the old walls. The ' fools ' who had been
TIIK fT.orn DF WITNESSES. 301
the sport of the time, lie calls them, who lived to commit
Clime, but died nobly at last — made a pious end, as we say.
Shakspeare had evidently remarked that, as a rule,
those who were condemned to die on the scaffold died
' good,' no matter what the Ufe had been : it was the custom
for them to make an edifying end. Stowe relates how
Sir Charles Danvers mounted the scaffold and ' put off his
gown and doublet in a most cheerful manner, rather like
a bridegroom than a prisoner appointed for death, and he
then prayed very devoutly.' The allusion is no doubt more
particularly directed to Essex and his companions, who
had died so recently ; Essex having been executed on the
inner hill of the Tower. The ' fools of time ' may give
us the Poet's estimate of Essex's attempt. He w^as one of
those who had lived to reach the criminal's end, but who
' died for goodness' in the sense that he, like Danvers, died
devoutly, and took leave of life with a redeeming touch
of nobleness. But the manner of the death is still more
obviously aimed at — the dying in public, lifted up for the
view of the gaping crowd, and making sport for the time,
by giving a bloody zest to a popular holiday.
The next sonnet still carries on tlie idea of imprison-
ment, and the external image of bearing the canopy is in
opposition to his present limitation in the Tower. Con-
fined as he is, and limited to so narrow a space for hving,
he asks, were it anything to him if he bore the whole
canopy of the heavens outside, ' honouring the outward '
with his externals, filled the world with the fame of his
doings, made the heavens, as it were, his arch of triumph,
or ' laid great bases for eternity,' as some do, and prove
tliem to be ' more short than Avaste or ruining ? ' Has he
not seen how it went with many who sought Court favour
and fickle fortune — Essex, for example — the ' dwellers on
form and fiivour ' — has he not seen how they lost all, and
more — this life, perhaps next — by paying down their veiy
souls for glittering need-nots ; foregoing all the simple
302 SHAIvSPEAKE'S SONNETS.
savour of life for a ' compound sweet,' adulterated with
poison ?
These are the Avords of one standing apart, thrust
aside, who can now watch how the game goes, with its
tricks and intrigues ; its fervours and failures. He can
see how much reality the players forego for the sake of
their illusions ; see what they trample under foot in their
visionary pursuit, and how they stumble into the ditch,
with foolish eyes fixed on their stars ! The pitiful
thrivers in their gazing spent ! No. He is ambitious for
none of these things. Let his beloved but accept the
humble offerings of his love, he cares for no other
success. His love for her is mixed with no secondary
ambition. Cooped up as he is, thrust out of service, he
has all if he have her safely folded up in his heart : she is
his all-in-all, and he asks for a ' mutual render, only me
for thee ! ' The sonnet ends with a defiance which, I
think, clenches my conclusion. Camden tells us that
amongst the confederates of Essex, one of them, whilst
in prison, turned informer, and revealed what had taken
place at the meetings held in the Earl of Southampton's
house, though he, the historian, could never learn who
it w^as. In the last two fines of the sonnet, the Earl
flings his disdain at the ' suborned Informer^' and com-
paring himself with so base a knave, he feels that he is
truer than such a fellow, althouiih the world calls him a
traitor ; and when most impeached (for treason), he is
least in such a loyalist's control. The difference betwixt
their two natures is so vast, not to be bridged in life or
death. We have only to remember how recently the
Earl of Southampton had been impeached as a traitor,
and those two lines must speak to us with the power of
his living voice ! He concludes his prison-thoughts by
hurling his defiance at the man whose treachery led to
this imprisonment.
L()^•K DEFIES TIME OR IMPRISONMENT. 303
THF: earl IX TRISOX ADDRESSES ELIZABETH VERXOX,
NOW LADY SOUTHAMPTON.
No ; Time, thou shall not boast that I do change !
Thy pyramids, built up with newer might,
To me are nothing novel — nothing strange —
They are but dressings of a former sight :
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old.
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told :
Thy Kegisters and thee I both defy.
Not wondering at the present, nor the past,
P'or 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.
(123.)
If my dear love were but the child of State,
It might for Fortune's bastard ' be unfathered
As subject to Time's love, or to Time's hate ;
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered :
No, it was builded far from accident !
It suffers not in smiling pomp,^ nor fixlls
Under the blow of thralled Discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our Fashion calls :
• ' Foiiioivs Bastard,' in the sense of being nameless ; an illegitimat« child
having no name by inheritance. The Poet speaks of ' nameless bastardy ' in
* Lucreece,' and in the * Two Gentlemen of Verona,' * That's as much as to
sny hastaril virtues, that indeed know not thfir father's name, and therefore
have no name." If the Earl's ' love ' lutd only been the child of State, the
marriage would not have taken place at all, and it would now have been a
nameless bastard of Fortune. And, as such, his love would have remained
subject to ' Time's love or to Time's hate,' as it was before his man-iage.
' It suffers not in the smiliiif/ jyouip of the Court at home, nor falls under
the blow of rebellion abroad. So the Duke in ' As You Like It,' speaks of
his court life as a life of 'pai>if)'d pomp.'' Also Anne Bullen, in ' Henry VIII.,
says of Queen Katheriue, ' Much better she ne'er had known pomp,' mean-
ing royalty and its immediate surroundings. 'See Ca'sar! 0, behold how
pomp is followed/ exclaims Cleopatra ; and Lear cries, ' Take physic,
pomp ! '
304 SHAKSPEARE'S SON>"ETS.
It fears not Policy' — that Heretic
Which works on leases of short-numbered 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 lived for crime.
(124.)
Were it ought to me I bore the canopy.
With my extern the outward honouring ?
Or laid great bases for eternity.
Which prove more short than waste or ruining ?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all and more by paying too much rent ?
For compound sweet foregoing simple savor ;
Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent !
No ! let me be obsequious in thy heart,^
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
^ ' It fears not policy.^ It had been the Queen'' s 2}olici/, piu'siied for years, to
prevent the marriage of Southampton and Elizabeth Vernon.
^ ' That it nor groios with heat nor drowns with showers,'
Steevens's comment on this line is, ' Though a huildhig may be drowned, i.e.
deluged with rain, it can hardly grow under the influence of heat. I would
read c/lows.'' The Earl was not speaking of a building, but of his ' dear love,'
which had been builded or cemented by his marriage. So, in ' Antony
and Cleopatra, ' the cement of our love, to keep it builded.' He did not
mean that his love had become a building. We speak of the bees building
their cells, and of the comb growing in size, but we do not call the honey a
building. The building up of love is a favourite expression of Shakspeare's :
' And ruined love, when it is hiilt anew.
Grows fairer than at first.' — Sonnet 119.
* Shall love in building grow so ruinate.'
Ttvo Gentle7nen of Verona.
' But the strong base and building of my love
Is as the very centre to the earth.' — TroilKs and Cressida.
The obtuseness and impertinence of this critic are at times insufferable. To
see him in Shakspeare's company at aU causes a general sense of uncomfort-
ableness, such as Laiuice may have felt respecting the manners of his dog Crab.
3 So Falstaff" to 3Irs. Ford, in the ' Merry Wives,' ' I see you are obse-
quious in your love.'
SOUTHAMPTON'S 'LOVE' THE 'CHILD OF STATE.' 305
Which is not niixM with .st-ctjiuls,' knows no art.
But mutual render, only me for thee !
Hence, thou suborned Informer, a true soul
When most impeached stands least in thy control !
(125.)
Shakspeare might have been the speaker in the three
foregoing sonnets witliont any conflict with some of the
historic ch'cumstances to which they refer — such as the
Earl's imprisonment and the Irish war. But had he been
the speaker in those sonnets which confess a changing,
ranging, false and fickle spirit, that had so often and so
sadly tried the person addressed, he could scarcely have
been as heroic in asscrtinG^ his unswerving steadfastness
of affection, and hurled at Time his defiant determination
to be eternally true. Time might not ' boast,' but Shak-
speare would be boasting with huge swagger at a most
sorrowful unseasonable period. He might fairly enough
defy Time, and all State-policy, to alienate him from his
friend. But his ' dear love,' his friendship, was not the
' child of State ' in any shape, therefore he could not speak
of its being only the ' child of State.' Shakspeare gene-
rally uses State in the most regal sense. Hamlet the
Prince was the first hope and foremost flower of the State.
So, in ' King Henry YIH.,' we have ' an old man broken
by the storms of State.' Nor was State-policy likely to be
exerted for any such purpose in his case. He miglit, as
most probably he did, have visited the Earl in the Tower,
and there moralized on the doings of Time, and told him,
to his face, he was an old impostor, after all, who tried to
play tricks with appearances on those who were close
prisoners there in his keeping. But his ' love ' could not
be an 'unfathered bastard of Fortune' in consequence
of being onli/ the ' Child of State.' It cotdd not have
* Mi.v'<I ivith seconds.'' So in 'King Lear,' 'No seconds? all myself?'
Act iv. sc. 0.
X
SOG SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
been buikled far from 'accident' when so terrible a one
liad just occurred to the EarL He might have been in-
wardly glad that his friend could not get away to the Irish
wars, and within range of the impending blow of ' thralled
Discontent.' But he could not have congratulated the
Earl on his imprisonment being the cause why the friend-
ship did not come under that blow. It will be observed
that there is a self-gratulatory tone in the sonnets. Nor
could his love, his friendship have suffered in ' smiling
pomp ;' and if it might, it was not for Shakspeare to say
such a thing to his fettered friend, doomed to a life-long
imprisonment. Nor could he, by his own showing, have
said that his love feared not Policy, the Heretic, for in the
107th sonnet he tells us how much he had feared. He
was filled with fears for the Earl in prison, and trembled
for the life supposed to be forfeited to a ' confined doom.'
Clearly, then, he could not be thus loftily defiant of the
worst that had happened, or could happen, on behalf of
another, and that other his dear friend who was sitting in
the very shadow of death ! The defiance and the boasts
would have been altogether imnatural from Shakspeare's
mouth. How could his love stand 'all alone' and be
' hugely politic?' One would have thought, too, that his
love would have been ready enough to 'drown with showers,'
had he been speaking of his beloved friend in such perilous
circumstances. Moreover, it would be exceedingly strange
for Shakspeare to call the 'fools of Time' as his witnesses.
Wliat for ? Save to show what a fool he was in makins;
such a singular declaration of his enduring love. He
could have made no such vast and vague a public appeal
to prove the truth of his private affection. Then, with
the Earl bound hand and foot and in great mental agony,
as he must have been, is it to be supposed that Shak-
speare would fix his gaze on himself and his own limiting
circumstances ? ' Were it ought to me I bore the canopy.'
Why, what would it be to his friend, the Earl ? Such
SOUTIIAMIT'ON'S FIGHT WITH TIME AND FORTUNE. P,07
reference to himself — sucli a '■ look at me' ■would have
been tlie veriest mockery to his poor friend ; such a dis-
course on the benefits of being without a tail would have
been a vulgar insult. If Shakspeare were speaking thus
of himself, tlie reader's concern would be for Southampton !
But enough said : it is not Shakspeare wlio speaks in
these sonnets. It is the same speaker who has so long
sustained the fight with ' Time' and 'Fortune,' which have
overthrown him at last, although when prostrate on the
ground, he will not yield. The speaker, who, in sonnet 29
(p. 166), feels himself to be in ' disgrace with Fortune,' and
men's eyes are turned from him. In sonnet 37 (p. 168) he is
made lame, is disabled, or shut out of service, by Fortune's
' dearest' or most excessive spite. In sonnet 90 (p. 246), the
same person is still pursued by the malice of Fortune,
which is bent on crossing liis deeds. It is the same
speaker, the unlucky scapegrace, the noble ' ne'er-do-
weel,' who, in sonnet 111 (p. 270), asks his much-suffering,
more-loving friend to chide this ' Fortune' that has
been to so great an extent the guilty goddess, the cause
of his harmful doings and his 'blenches,' or starts from
rectitude. It is the same person on whose behalf
Shakspeare makes sucli a ])i-olonged fight with Time
and evil Fortune, and in .some of the personal sonnets
speaks so proudly of the power of his verse to give him
an immortality to right tliis wi'ong of time. At first
sight a reader might fancy some of those sonnets to
have been written after a visit to the Tavern, when the
canary had added a cubit to the Poet's stature, and he
talked loftily for so modest a man. But he had a stronger
incentive; a wilder wine was awork within him when
he made these sounding promises of immortalit}^ Not
fiattery nor the s])irit of tlie grape were his inspiration, but
a passionate feeling of injustice and wrong, and a determi-
nation to make his ' love ' triumph over time and enmity,
and all the oj)position of a malevolent fortune. This is
x-2
308 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
the man who speaks in the foregoing sonnets, and it
will be seen that the personal theory has not the shadow
of a chance when compared with the dramatic one. It
cannot gauge these sonnets ; does not go to the bottom
in any one of the deeper places. The dramatic version,
with Southampton for speaker, alone will sound the
depths, and make out the sense. It penetrates, informs,
and iUumines the dimmest nook with a light that we
can see by, whereas the personal rendering, in aU its ex-
plorations, only leads us into the middle of a maze, and
there leaves us in the dark.
If we would listen to the words of Shakspeare himself
speaking to the Earl of Southampton in prison, we shall
hear him in the 115th sonnet : —
SHAKSPEARE TO THE EAEL IN PEISON.
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 the course of altering things ;
Alas ! why, fearing of Time's tyranny.
Might I not then say, ' Now I love you best ? '
When r 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.
(11.5.)
These lines tell us that Shakspeare had before said
he loved his friend so much it was impossible for him to
love the Earl more dearly. Because, at the time of saying
so, he could neither see nor foresee reason why that flame
of his love should afterwards burn clearer, or soar up
more strongly. But this new and more perilous position
A NEW APPEAL TO THE POET'S LOVE. 300
of his friend serves to make him pour fortli liis love in a
larger measure, and he now sees why lie ought not to
have said he could not love him more. The shadow has
fallen on his friend ; the waters of affliction have gone
over him, and he loves him more than ever in his latest
calamity. He feels that he ouglit not to have boasted of
his love even when he felt most certain over uncertainty,
because the Earl has been so marked a victim of ' Time's
tyranny.' Even when *tlie present was crowned in the
Earl's marriage, he ought still to have doubted of the
rest, and not made any such assertion. The lines have an
appearance of Shakspeare's taking up the pen once more
after he had looked upon the expression of his affection
in sonnets as finished when he celebrated the marriage of
Southampton. Now he has found a fresh cause for speaking
of that love, to which a stronger appeal has been made.
The reason, as here stated, ' love is a babe,' sounds some-
what puerile, but it is the Poet's way of making light of
himself; the personal sonnet being sent merely in attend-
ance on the three dramatic ones, which were the messen-
gers of importance, whilst this was only their servant.
It is a part of my theory that Shakspeare did not mean
to write passionate personal sonnets, and that the dra-
matic method was adopted partly for the suppression of
himself. He does not seek to make the most of this
occasion, and give adequate expression to such feelings as
he must have had when the Earl was condemned to die.
His friend in relation to his Countess, not himself, was his
object. Thus, while he makes many of his personal sonnets
into pretty patterns of ingenious thought, the others are
all aglow with dramatic fire and feeling, only to be
fully felt when we have learned who the speakers are.
Here his own warmth of heart is suppressed, to be put
into cordial loving words, for the forlorn and desolate
wife of his dear friend.
It is one of Boaden'sarsunients tliat these sonnets cannot
310 SHAKSPK-^RE'S SONNETS.
have been addressed to the Earl of Southampton, because
the Poet has not written in the direct personal way on the
passing events of the Earl's life. He asks, with a taunt,
how did the Poet feel upon the rash daring of Essex ?
Had he no soothing balm to shed upon the agonies of his
trial, liis sentence, his imprisonment, bitter as death ?
Could his eulogist fmd no call upon him for secure con-
gratulation when James had restored him to hberty ? 'We
should expect Shahspeare to tell him, in a masterly tone,
that calamity was the nurse of great spirits ; that his afflic-
tions had been the source of his fame ; that mankind never
could have known the resources of his mighty mind, if he
had not been summoned to endure disgrace, and to gaze
undauntedly on death itself Here, however, the critic
has only copied Daniel. These are that Poet's sentiments
expressed in the direct personal v/ay. Shakspeare being a
great Dramatic Poet, and a close personal friend of the
Earl, wrote in his own way, or according to that friend's
wish, expressed years before. It did not suit him, nor the
plan of his work, to wail and weep personally. Was he
not the man of men, who always kept himself out of sight ?
And is not tlie closest touch of hearts where none can see ?
It suited all the persons concerned that he should use the
Earl's name, and try to infuse into the Earl's nature some-
thing of his own impassioned majesty of soul, so that the
Earl might unconsciously feel strengthened in Shak-
speare's strength, and be able to look on life through his
eyes who saw with so lustrous a clearness. Thus, the Poet
could instruct his friend, and stand over him as an invisible
teacher, when the Earl only saw the writer of sonnets
labouring for his amusement; and to us he speaks over the
shoulder of his friend. This was Shakspeare's dramatic
way with all whom he has taught — all whom heyet teaches.
There are, however, some important allusions in this
sonnet ! Tlie reference to Time changing ' decrees of
Kings' no doubt includes the change in that decree
souTiiAMrrox i.s set free. 311
wliicli had doomed tlie Earl to deatli. And I think the
attempt of Essex to create a revolution, or some great
change, is immistakeably meant in the line that speaks of
Time diverting ' strong minds to the course of altering
things V If so, it also shows something of the amaze-
ment witli wliich Shakspeare had witnessed so futile a
diversion on tlie ])art of a strong — possibly he thought
head-strong — mind to the course of altering things that
were so firmly fixed. He looks upon the futile, foolish
assault as a mental aberration, and one of the accidents —
not to say wonders — of Time ! This hne is one of those
personal and precious particulars witli which the sonnets
abound, and for which all the rest were written. They
are too solid to be dissipated into that vapour of vague ge-
neralities which some of the interpreters so much delight
in, but in which thin air the rich poetic life of Shakspeare
could not have breathed.
Sonnet 1U7 will show us that, in spite of the dramatic
method adopted by Shakspeare in writing of the Earl, he
did jind a call for secure congratulation ivhen James had
restored the Earl to his liberty.
shakspeare's greeting to the earl ox his release
from the to aver.
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 Echpse endured.
And the sad Augurs mock their own presage ;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured.
And Peace proclaims olives of endless age ; '
^ 'Confined doom/ i.e., a doom defined by boundaries. In 'King Lear'
we have the ' confined deep.'
"^ * Mortal Moon.' The Queen is personified as the moon, cold and chaste,
in the allegon' of a ' Midsummer Night's Dream.' Our poet calls the eyes
of his Lucrece ' imvial /:tar.<,'
^ ' "When King James came to be King of England, the kingdom was in entire
312 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes.
Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes,
And thou in this shalt find thy monument.
When T^'rants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. •
(107.)
There can be no mistake, doul)t, or misgiving here !
This sonnet contains evidence beyond question — proof
positive and unimpeachable — that the man addressed by
Shakspeare in his personal sonnets has been condemned in
the first instance to death, and afterwards to imprisonment
for life, and escaped his doom through the death of the
Queen.
It tells us that the Poet had been filled with fears for
the fate of his friend, and that his instinct, as well as the
presentiment of the world in general, had foreshadowed
the worst for the Earl, as it dreamed on things to come.
He sadly feared the life of his friend — the Poet's lease of
his true love — was forfeited, if not to immediate death,
to a 'confined doom,' or a definite, a life-long imprisonment.
The painful uncertainty is over now. The Queen is dead
— the ' Mortal Moon hath her echpse endured.' ^ Cynthia
was one of Elizabeth's most popular poetical names.
peace within, and in martial state and full of honour and reputation abroad.'
A Detection of the Court mid State of Emjland, by Roger Coke, vol. i. p. 29.
Likewise Cranmer, in 'Henry VIII. / points out the/jeoce for James I., which
is one of the assured blessings of Elizabeth's reign, ' Peace, Plenty, Love
shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him.'
^ This is the last of the Southampton Sonnets, as they have come to iis.
Shakspeare's warfare with Time and Fortune on his friend's behalf is ended ;
the victory is won, he has found peace at last. There is a final farewell touch
in the concluding iteration of the immortality so often promised. The Earl
shall have a monument in the sonnets now finished, when the Abbey tombs
have crumbled into dust. When he wrote these last lines, the Poet could
not have contemplated leaving the monument without a name. Hitherto,
however, the Earl ha.s only found a tomlj.
* So Antony says of Cleopatra, ' Alack, our terrene Mocm is now
eclipsed.'
THE DEATH OF QUEEX ELIZABETH. 313
An image of maiden purity to lier Majesty, in which
some of the Wits also saw the symbol of changefulness.
Change of moon brings change of weather, too ! His love
is refreshed by tlie drops of this most balmy time, the
tears of joy ; his lease of love is renewed. Those who
had propliesied the worst can now laugh at tlieir own
fears and mock their urifLdfilled predictions. The new
King calls the Earl from a prison to a seat of honour.
As Wilson words it, ' the Earl of Southampton, covered
long witli the ashes of great Essex his ruins, was sent
for from the tower, and the King looked upon him with
a smiling countenance.' ' Peace proclaims olives of end-
less age.' Our Poet evidently hopes that the Earl's hfe
will share in this new dawn of gladness and promised
peace of the nation. lie can exult over death this time.
It is his turn to triumph now. And his friend shall find
a monument in his verse which shall exist when the
crests of tyrants have crumbled and their brass-mounted
tombs have passed from sight.
This sonnet is a pregnant instance of Shakspeare's twin-
bearing thought, his inclusive way of writing, which
could not have been appreciated in the sonnets hitherto,
because they have never been ' made flesh ' for us to
grasp. The sonnet carries double. It blends the Poet's
private feeling for his friend with the public fear for the
death of the Queen. The ' Augurs ' had contemplated
that event with mournful forebodings, and propliesied
changes and disasters. The natural fact, of which this
mortal ^eclipse' is the image, is illustrated in 'King Lear.'
■•I am thinking, brother,' says Edmund, '0/ a prediction
I read the other dnij what should follow these eclipses.'
The prediction having been made by his father, Gloster ;
' These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no
good to us,' &c. (act i. sc. ii.)
But it has passed over happily for the nation as joy-
fully for the Poet. Instead of his friend yielding to Death,
314 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Death — surel}^ in the death of the Queen ? — ' subscribes,'
that is, submits to the spealcer.
Shakspeare himself gives us a hint, in his dramatic way,
that he was present at the trial of the Earl, for he has, in
a well-known speech of Othello's, adopted the manner and
almost the words with which Bacon opened his address
on that memorable occasion : — ' I speak not to simple
men,' said Bacon, but to 'prudent, grave, and wise peers.'
And this is obviously echoed in Othello's ' Most potent,
grave, and reverend signiors.' The manner of address
and the rhythm of the words are the same ; the emphasis
has in it more likeness to personal character than to an
accident. And we may be sure that our Poet was one
of the first to greet his friend at the open door of his pri-
son > with that welcoming smile of pure sunshine, all the
sweeter for the sadness past, and press his hand with all
his heart in the touch. In this sonnet we have his written
gratulation of the Earl on his release. It proves his sym-
pathy with him in misfortune, and it proves also that he
iiad been writing about the Earl. For we cannot suppose
' this poor rhyme ' to mean this single sonnet, but the
series which this sonnet concluded.
It maybe asked, did Shakspeare rejoice in the death of
the Queen ? I do not say that he did, in any personal
sense. His exultation was for his friend's freedom.
Had he summed up on the subject in a balance-sheet,
as Chatterton did on the death of Lord Mayor Beckford,
he would have been glad the Queen was dead, by the
gain of Soutliampton. But I do think Shakspeare looked
upon her as a tyrant in all marriage matters, and not
witliout cause. Her Majesty appears not only to have
made up her mind to remain single herself, when getting on
^ We may likewise be sure that Shakspeare had Southampton's good
word in securing ihe patronage of James, and the privilege accorded by
liCtters Patent to his own theatrical company, directly after the King had
reached London.
^r.vTDs ()]• iToxorn tx love. .315
for sixty, but also to prevent her maids I'ruin being married.
What the Queen's treatment was of lier maids that wished
to marry, we may gather from tlie letter of Mr. Fenton to
John Ilarington,^ in wljich, speaking of the Lady Mary
Howard, he tells us tliat the Queen will not let her be
married, saying, ' I have made her my servant, and she
will make herself my mistress,' which she shall not. More-
over, she 'must not entertain ' her lover in any conversation,
but shun his company, and be careful how she attires her
person, not to attract my Lord the Earl. The story runs
that the Lady Mary had a gorgeous velvet dress, sprinkled
with gold and pearl. The Queen thought it richer than her
own. One day she sent privately for the dress, put it on, and
appeared wearing it before her ladies in waiting. It was
too short for her Majesty, and looked exceedingly unsuited
to her. She asked the ladies how they liked her new-
fiingled dress, and they had to get out of their difficulty
as Ijest they could. Then she asked Lady Mary if she
did not think it was too short and unbecoming. The poor
girl agreed with her Majesty that it was. Wliereupon the
Queen said if it was too short for her, it was too line for
the owner, and the dress was accordingly put out of sight.
Sir J. Harington relates how the Queen, when in a
pleasant mood, would ask the ladies around her chamber
if they loved to think of marriage ? The wisely-wary
ones would discreetly conceal their liking in the matter.
The simple ones would unwittingly rise at the bait, and
were caught and cruelly dangling on the hook the mo-
ment after, at which her Majesty enjo^^ed fine sport. We
might cite other instances in which the attendants con-
gratulated themselves in the words of Mr, John Stanhope,
who, in writing to Lord Talbot^ on the subject of Essex's
mariiage, and the Queen's consequent fuiy, says, ' God be
thanked, she does not strike all she threats ! ' Mr. Fenton
' Ilavington's jXiu/fr Antiqutr, vol. i. p. 2:^3.
"^ Loch/cs lUudrations, 1838, ii. 422.
316 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
tells us that her Majesty ' chides in small matters, in
such wise as to make these fair maids often cry and
bewail in piteous sort.' The fair Mrs. Bridges, the lady
at Comt with ^vhom the Earl of Essex was said to be in
love, is reported to have felt the weight of her Majesty's
displeasure, not only in words of anger, but in double-fisted
blows. Elizabeth Vernon appears to have been driven
nearly to the verge of madness, and a good deal of South-
ampton's trouble arose from the Queen's persistent opposi-
tion to their mari'iage. Some recent writers seem to think
that there ought to have been neither marrying nor giving in
marriage, if such was her Majesty's virgin pleasure. Shak-
speare did not think so ; he looked on life in a more na-
tural light. It was his most cherished wish to get the earl
married, and the Queen had been implacable in thwarting
it ; this made tliem take opposite sides. I hke to find the
Poet standing by the side of his friend, even though he
speaks bitterly of the Queen as a 'heretic' to love, does
not express one word of sorrow when the ' mortal moon '
suffers final eclipse, and lets fly his last arrow in the air
over the old Abbey where the royal tyrants lie low, with
a twang on the bow-string unmistakeably vengeful.
We know that the poet was reproached for his silence
on the death of the Queen. In Chettle's ' Enarlande's
Mourning Garment' (1603), he is taken to task under the
name of 'Mehcert.'
*Nor doth the silver-tonged Melicert
Drop from his honied Muse one sable teare
To mourn her death tltat graced Ids desert,
And to his laies opened her royall eare.
Shepheard, remember our Elizabeth,
And sing her rape done by that Tarquin, Death.'
But the shepherd had his own private reasons for being
deaf and dumb ; he remembered anotlier Ehzabeth.
;J17
THE
MSS. BOOK OF THP: SOUTHAMPTON
SONNETS.
If the reader will refer back to sonnet 77 (p. 241),
and study it awhile, he will see how a large number of
the sonnets were written for Southampton. Hitherto
the commentators have assumed that Shakspeare's friend
had presented him with a table-book ! But the sonnet is
not composed either on receiving or making a gift ; no
such motive or stand-point can possibly be found m it. The
subject is the old one of warring against Time, and the
writer is at the moment Avriting in a book from w^hich he
draws one of a series of reflections in illustration of his
thought. The mirror, he says, will tell the Earl how his
'beauties wear ; ' and the dial w^ill show him Time's stealthy
progress to eternity. ' This book ' will also teach its lesson.
Its vacant leaves will take the mind's imprint ; and he ad-
vises his friend to write down his own thouijhts in these
' waste blanks,' and they will be a living memoiy of the
past, one day — just as the mirror is a reflector to-day. If
he Avill do this, the habit — ' these offices ' — will profit him
mentally, and much enrich the book.
Evidently this is a book for writing in, and as e\idently
Shakspeare is then writing in it. Moreover it lias ' vacant
leaves ' — ' Avaste blanks ; ' therefore it has pages that have
been filled. And to the contents of these written pages
318 SHAIiSPEARE'S SONNETS.
the Poet alludes : ' Of this book this learning may'st
thou taste ; ' that is, the Earl will find in it other illustra-
tions of the writer's present theme, which is youth's
transiency and life's lleetness. This book, then, has
been enriched by the Poet's writing ; but if Southampton
Avill take the pen in hand, and also write in the book,
it will become much richer than it is now. ' This
book ' shows that it is in Shakspeare's hand, but it
does not belong to him. ' Jliy book ' proves that it is
the Earl's property. In this book, I doubt not, most
of the Southampton sonnets were written, just as contri-
butions may be made to an album, and in this particular
sonnet we find the Poet actually writing in it. Now, there
is every reason to conclude that this book is the same as
the Earl has parted w^ith in the following sonnet, and so I
print the sonnet by itself, although it belongs, by its plead-
ing and defensive tone, to tliose which treat of the last re-
conciliation of tlie lovers. It is of more value in another
aspect, should it be the MS. book of the Southampton
series, for it may have important bearings on the publi-
cation of Shakspeare's sonnets. It is in reply to an
expostulation. The Earl, for he is the speaker, has given
away a book. This book was, in the first place, a gift
from his mistress, and, in the second place, it has been used
as a record of her, for the purpose of scoring and keeping
count, as it were, of his love — hence the comparison of
it with ' tallies,' which were used for scoring accounts.
This book, given to the speaker by the person addressed,
and used as a record of his love, a retainer of her image,
has been parted with ; perhaps, the lady thought, foolishly.
The Earl makes his most complimentary defence, or the
Poet does so for him. Her true tables are within his
brain, she is there written, or engraved to all eternity ;
or, at least — here the writer was recalled by the physical
fact — until brain and heart shall crumble into dust, her
real record will remain there ; a something that can never
]:L1ZABETII VERNON'S SIIAKSPEAUE-ALJiL'M. 319
be effaced, never given away. The gift of gifts was her-
self, not her gift-book, and the true tables are not that
book, but his living l)rain. That 'poor retention' could not
hold his love for her, nor does he need ' tallies,' her ' dear
love to score,' therefore he made bold to give away the
book, the tallies which contained his love-reckonings,
the memorandum-book which retained her, as is cun-
ningly suggested, on purpose to trust his memory and
mental record all the more. If he had kept such a thing
to remind him of her, it would have been a kind of re-
proach to himself, as it would charge him with being
forgetful, so he has just dispensed with this artificial
memoiy, and henceforth will depend on his natural one
alone ! Besides, it was altogether incapable of holding
his large love !
This book was something very special for a sonnet
to be written on the subject of its having been given
away. The purpose to which it had been devoted is
likewise as choice and particular. Shakspeare was not
in the least likely to fill a book with sonnets about the
Earl and then give it away, when they had been written
for the Earl, nor did he keep ' tallies ' to score the Earl's
dear love for himself. The sonnet supports my reading
in each single point, and by its total weight of evidence.
The ' tallies, thy dear love to score,' were none other than
the leaves of this gift-book, in which the Poet wrote his
dramatic sonnets on the love of his friend for EHzabeth
Vernon. The book had been a present from IMistress
Vernon to the Earl of Southampton ; his parting with it
was one of her grievances ; and Shakspeare had enriched
its value with sonnets in his own hand-writinsf.
It may have been a table-book, such as were then in use,
elegantly bound for a dainty hand. Aubrey, speaking of
Sir Philip Sidney, says, ' my great uncle, Mr. T. Browne,
remembered him ; and said tliat he was wont to take his
table-book out of his pocket and write down his notions
820 SILVKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
as they came into liis head, wlicii he was writing his
" Arcadia," as he was hnnting on our pleasant plains.' But
' thy gift — thy Tables,' does not necessarily mean the
Table-hook which you gave me. What the gift was has
to be inferred from its use and by comparison. ' Thy
Tables ' signifies the most sensitive receiver of her true im-
pression. Shakspeare is writing in his inclusive and, we
may add, infusive way ; he speaks of two things, and
the larojer contains the lesser.
This book, then, in Avhicli Shakspeare wrote sonnet
77, and which has been given away by the Earl in
sonnet 122, must, Southampton being the speaker, have
been the record of his love written, the tally that was
kept by Shakspeare, the ' poor retention' of Elizabeth
Vernon's beauty and goodness, which the Poet had held
up so steadily in view of his friend, by means of the
dramatic sonnets written in it ! The lady has felt exceed-
ingly annoyed that he should have held her gift and its
contents so lightly, and this sonnet Avas written to soothe
her all it could.
The reader will recollect that, in my reading of sonnet
38 (p. 157), I proposed to unclasp a secret book. This was
not merely a metaphor ; it was a veritable fact, but I have
till now reserved my concluding argument and crowning
illustration. In that sonnet, as we saw, the Poet was
about to adopt a new argument, at the Earl's own sugges-
tion, and a new method of writing which was of the Earl's
own invention. This new argument is something too
secretly precious to be written in the ordinary way, or
even on the ordinary paper luhich the Poet has been ac-
customed to use. It is ' too excellent,' he says, for ' every
vulgar paper to rehearse.'' That is, the new subject of
the Earl's suG^f^estin^ and the new form of the Earl's in-
CO o
venting are too choice to be committed to common paper :
which means that Shakspeare had until then written his
personal sonnets on slips of paper provided by himself.
THE 1500K PROBABLY GIVEN TO WILLIAM HERBERT. 321
and now tlie excelling argument of the Earl's love is to
be written in Southampton's own l)ook — the book which
was given to him by his Mistress for our Poet to write in.
Thus, in sonnet 38, we see tliat Sliakspeare is beginning
to write in the book, which in sonnet 77 he is positively
writinsx in ; and tliat in tlic following; sonnet this same
book has been given away by the Earl of Soutliampton.
In sonnet 38 it was to be devoted to the Earl's love, and
in sonnet 122 it has been devoted to tlie celebration
of his love for Elizabetli Vernon. There is a reference
to the circle of ' private friends,' who -were to read
the sonnets in this book. ' If my slight Muse do please
tliese curious days ' must mean the private friends of the
Earl and his Mistress, as the sonnets were not for public
readers. It points to the privileged ones who were in the
secret, and who were permitted to look at Mistress Vernon's
gift-book. I further hold that the Earl of Soutliampton
gave these MSS. to William Herbert, and that tlie first
cause why Shakspeare's sonnets came into the world in so
mysterious a manner, may be legitimately supposed to
originate in tliis fact, that the Earl liad given tliem away
privately on his own account, and thus forestalled tlie
Poet in the right to possess or print them ; in all proba-
])ility frustrating any such intentions of publishing, as he
may at one time liave entertained.
THE EARL TO ELIZABETH VERXOX OX rARTlXd WITIF A
BOOK WHICH SHE HAD GIVEX TO HIM.
Thy gift — thy tables — are within my brain
Full-charactered witli la.sting 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,
^ ' That idle nmli.' The sonnets were the work of Shalispearc's ' idle
hours ! '
Y
322 SILiKSPEAKE'S SONNETS.
Till each to raised oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can he missed :
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. ('22.)
^ ' That poor retention is the tahle-hook (jivcn to him hy his friend.'' — Malone.
Nothing of the kind. The book spoken of in sonnet 77 is not Shakspeare's.
It belongs to the person addi'essed. The speaker is writing in it, and he
asks the Earl to commit his own thoughts to the waste blanks, the vacant
leaves, of tliis book, which he calls ^ thy booh,'' just as he says ^thy ylass,'
and ' thy dial.^ So that it is impossible for the Earl's book of sonnet 77 to
be given away by Shakspeare in sonnet 122. It is a^jf(/Kv book having some
leaves written on, others blank. The speaker does not, in either case, say
thy ' table-book.' He says in etFect the gift-book which contained the lady's
tables. Table being the ancient term for a picture, Shakspeare uses it in
the pictorial, rather than in the note-book sense. This book, which was the
lady's gift, contained pictures of her, charactered by the Pen. The Earl has
parted with the book, but he says her tables, not her book, are within his
brain, her truest picture-place, not to be parted with and never to be eliaced.
y23
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
THE 'DAKK' LADY OF THE LATTER SONNETS.
* Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.'
We now come to the last group of Sliakspeare's son-
nets — a series that tells a somewhat doubtful story ;
doubtful, that is, in regard to the speaker and the person
addressed ; otherwise, the story is uncommonly plain, and
the speaker is infatuated with a Mistress whose character
is not in the least doubtful. The passion is one of those
which Horace calls ' the tortures that urge men to confess
tlieir secret.' Others wonder what lie sees in her to
compel his worship with such fire-oiTerings of love. They
cannot find anytliing in her face or featm'es tliat should
make ' love groan.' Nor can he, when he comes to look
closely at her. He is astonished that it should be so ; he
linds no warrant for lier Avonderful sway over his foolisli
heart, and he asks : ' Oh, from what power hast tliou this
powerful miglit witli insufficiency my heart to sway, to
make me give the lie to my true siglit, so that in tlie very
refuse of thy deeds thou canst so inlhience my mind that
I think thy worst exceeds the best of all others?' He is
told, and he himself sees, her moral deformity ; her cha-
racter is quite plain to him, it lies before his eyes, bare and
black as the harbour-mouth at the lowest ebb o^ tide, and
t2
324 SHAKSPE ARE'S SONNETS.
yet his foolish heart dotes on her, loves her the more, the
more he hears and sees just cause of hate, and, in spite
of himself, he is compelled to follow the footprints of a
beauty gone by. Unaccountable as is the charm of her
presence, her tjrranny over him is fierce as could be that
of those Avhose beauties proudly make them cruel, and
whose sway would be explicable and natural. She has
glorious black eyes, but then her deeds are as black.
He knows that his own eyes are corrupted by over-partial
looks, and that he vainly seeks to enclose in the embrace
of his love one of the ' wide world's common places,' but
this knowledge does not help him to his deliverance. It
is not easy to convert such knowledge into wisdom.
The story is grimly real ; the nature and strength of the
passion are prominent as a wrestler's muscles : the sonnets
differ from the others as dark from day. And it is the
passion of a youth, that devouring flame which a dallying,
dangerous woman of years knows so well how to fan with
a whisper, setting the blood all ablaze witli a subtle smile.
In sonnet 143, it is youth in the pathos of its plea ; in
sonnet 147, it is youth in the fever of its passion, and in
sonnet 151, youth in the grossness of ebuhant blood. The
feeling is absolutely that of youth ; the arguments are
youthful, and youthfulness is the sole excuse of the son-
nets. That the woman is much older than the speaker
is conclusively shown by the whole feeling, thought, and
imagery of sonnet 143, in which the lover calls liimself
her Babe !
But there is nothing to connect them with Shakspeare's
youth ! They are printed as though they were the latest
written, and we have no right, no reason to distmb that
arrangement. Moreover, there is evidence to prove that
they were written late, the same as there is to show that
the earlier ones were written before certain plays, viz. in
the thought, image or expression being used first in the
sonnet, and repeated soon afterwards in the di'ama. On
PARALLEL PROGRESS OF SONNETS AND PLAYS. 325
this ground alone we may trace the parallel progress of
the sonnets and plays. For example, to refer back to the
Southampton series, the Une in sonnet 89, (p. 246) —
*For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate,'
reappears in ' Much Ado about Nothing,' as —
* For I will never love that which my friend hates.'
Also the thought of these Hues from sonnet 122, p. 321 —
* Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full charactered 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 ' —
is reproduced in ' Hamlet' ; —
* From the table of my memory
I'll wipe away all trivial fond records.
And thy commandment all alone shall live
Within the book and volume of my brain.
Kemember thee?
Ay, thou poor ghost while memory holds a seat
In this distracted globe.' Act. i. Sc. 5.
Again, in sonnet 88 (p. 234) —
' With mine own weakness being best acquainted.
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults concealed wherein I am attainted.'
So Hamlet —
* I could accuse me of such things, that it were better my
mother had not borne me.'
In sonnet 116 (p. 285), which was written about the
time of the Earl's marriage, we read : —
' Love's not love
That alters when it alteration finds.'
And in ' King Lear ' —
' Love's not love
When it is mingled witli regards that stand
Aloof from the entire point.'
326 SHAKSPE ARE'S SONNETS.
But the greatest proof of all that there is some guidance
iu this method of following Shakspeare occurs in the son-
net of 1G03, on the death of the Queen and the libera-
tion of Soutliampton (p. 311). In this we have —
' The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured.'
and in ' Antony and Cleopatra ' —
* Alack, our terrene moon is now eclipsed.'
Again, in the same sonnet —
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
And in the same play —
'Prove this a prosperous day the three-nooked world shall
bear the olive freely.'
The chief resemblances betwixt these latter sonnets and
the plays occur in ' King Lear,' ' Othello,' ' Macbeth,' and
' Antony and Cleopatra.'
Here are a few lines paralleled : —
* Robbed other's beds' revenues of their rents.'
Sonnet 142.
* And pour our treasures into foreign laps.'
Otliello.
' Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee.'
Sonnet 142.
* Be it lawful I take up what's cast away.'
King Lear.
' And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check.'
Sonnet 58.
' A most poor man, made tame to fortune's blows.'
Edgar, in King Lear.
' Commanded by the motion of tliine eyes.'
Sonnet 149.
THE SPEAKER NOT A MARIIIED MAN. 327
* He waged me with his countenance.'
Coriolanus.
Also —
* Her gentlewomen like the Nereides
So many mermaids tended her i' the eyes.'
Antony and Cleopcdra.
' If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchored in the bay,' &c.
Sonnet 173.
* Then should he anchor his aspect and die
With looking on his life.'
Antony and Cleopatra.
* To put fair truth upon so foul a face.'
Sonnet 137.
* False face must hide what the false heart doth know.'
Macbeth.
' Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill ? '
Sonnet 150.
* Vilest things become themselves in her.'
Antony and Cleopatra.
We find the greatest number of resemblances in ' Antony
and Cleopatra.' Here, however, as in the more striking
features of the earlier sonnets, the likeness is a personal
one. We may safely conclude, from internal evidence,
that the present group was written after those sonnets
which are devoted to the courtship of Southampton ; and it
is enough to know that the speaker in these sonnets is far
too young for it to have been Sliakspeare himself at the
time when they must have been ^witten.
Further, to my thinking, sonnet 152 contains indubitable
proof that the speaker is not a married man. It brings
the question to an issue. He distinctly charges the lady
with being married and untrue to her wedding bed and
bond. Then he admits that he, too, is foresworn, and that
she knows him to be so. liut he says she is twice fore-
328 SHAKSPE ARE'S SONNETS,
sworn, in being false to her husband and false to him.
And, having said the worst of her, hurled at her the most
damning charges, he turns on liimself with a revulsion of
feeling, determined to show himself as the most perjured
oath-breaker of the two. Now, surely, we shall have it !
He is about to prove, in bitterness of heart, that he is more
perjured than she, and that his sins are of a deeper dye
than hers. Therefore, one would have thought that, if a
married man and anxious for self-condemnation, desirous
of showing himself in a still lower gulf of guilt, the first
thing he would have done would be, to point out that he
was as bad as her in kind, being iiimself married, and,
possibly, worse than her in an indefinite degree, because he
was the father of a family. Instead of this — instead of a
manly voice heavy with ]:)assion or dogged witli determi-
nation to say the worst, we hear the treble of a youth,
asking, ' l^ut why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
when I break twenty?' And what are the twenty oaths
sworn and vows broken by liim ? Why, he has sworn
that she was kind, loving, trutliful, and fifty other
pretty things, which are all lovers' lies ; liis perjury
consists of oatlis in her praise. And this has been imagined
to be Shakspeare speaking of himself, under the most self-
culpatory circumstances. The married man who has
cruelly charged her with her crime, Avhich would appear
to have been committed for his sake, and then tried to
turn the reproach from his cowardly self by a playful
handling of the subject !
The thing is simply inconceivable ; totally incapable of
a positive image, as the metaphysicians say. So is it with
sonnet 143, of which Steevens has remarked ' the begin-
ning is at once pleasing and natural, but the conclusion of
it is lame and impotent indeed. We attend to the cries
of the infant, but Ave laugli at tlie loud blubbering of the
great boy. Will.' And well we might, if Shakspeare, who,
in an earlier sonnet, has painted the leaf of liis life in
THE SUBJECT NOT PERSONAL TO THE POET. 329
autumnal tint, and appeared to liave felt the evening of
his day folding about liim, and seen its sliadows length-
ening' in the sunset, had here represented himself in love
with, and stark mad for, a bold had woman — by the
ima^'eof a poor little infant, a tender child, toddling after
its mammy, and crying for her apron-corner to hold by,
and her kiss to still its whimpering discontent. This would
be laughable, if not too lamentable. But Siiakspeare did
not ^¥Y\te to be laughed at, nor did he in his riper years,
put forth what woukl, if lie were the speaker, be pure
maudliu, and the very degi^adation of pathos. The blun-
der of the imagery would have been almost worse than the
criminal infatuation. But this is not the personal wooing
of the man who carried within him the furnace of passion,
in which the swart lineaments and orient gorgeousness of
Cleopatra glow superbly, — the lightnings that leap from
out the huge cloudy sorrows of old Lear, — the awful
power that in Lady Macbeth can darken the moral
atmosphere, past the seeing of the colour of blood, — the
flashes of nether flame, which play like serpent tongues
about Othello's love, till they have licked up its life-springs !
Again, we are asked to believe that, after Shakspeare
had written to be laughed at, after he had published his
private shame in so hideous a self-exposure, for the
amusement of his patron and friends, he addressed that
solemn 14Gth sonnet to his soul, by way of self-admonition !
We are to suppose this and the 129th sonnet to contain
comments on his own degradation — a sermon to himself;
which, if the rest of the tale were true, would be a
mocker)'' indeed. The 129th sonnet is obviously written
for a purpose, but that piu'pose is to knit and strengthen
another against the sin which is his special shame. The
generalised excuse of the last lines shows that it is not
personal to the writer —
' All this the world well kuowt;, yet none knows well,
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.'
330 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS,
That is neither Shakspeare's own morahty nor his own
personal excuse for a criminal relationship. It is the same
as with the closing argmnent of sonnet 121 (p. 272) —
only possible on behalf of another person than the writer,
and only springing from an exigency of private friendship.
These two sonnets, 24th and 25th of the present series,
contain matter enough, properly morahsed, to convince all
who have ever approached the real soul of Shakspeare,
that the latter sonnets were not written on an amour of
his own. They ought to be sufficient to set us right on the
subject, even if we had for awhile done him the injustice
of thinking he could have been so bad, and babbled about
it so foolishly. On the score of personal character alone,
we should be entitled to assume tliat the subject of these
sonnets was not of Shakspeare's own choosing, but im-
posed on him by one of the ' private friends ' for whom he
wrote. It has no touch of his quality. In his dramas he
abets no intrigues of the kind ; encourages no treacheries
to the marriage bed ; is no dealer in adulteries. His
wholesomeness in this respect is unimpeachable, and it is
unparalleled amongst the dramatists of his or the following
age. My interpretation is, that these sonnets were written
for WiUiam Herbert ; that the ' Will,' of this series is the
' Mr. W. H.' of the Dedication, and that they were written
whilst his name was Herbert.
It will not be necessary for me to enter much into
detail to prove that this young nobleman was a personal
friend of Shakspeare. The advocates of the theory that
Herbert was the ' Only Begetter ' of the sonnets, have
laboured utterly in vain if they failed to show thus much !
Whilst those who hold Herbert to be the sole begetter
of the sonnets cannot, for the time being, become my
opponents, whilst I show how he was one of the begetters.
It is a fact of much significance, that the first play pre-
sented to King James in England was performed by
Shakspeare's company in Herbert's house at Wilton. Also
WILLIAM HERBERT. 331
the empliasis of the players' words, hears far more on a
private friendshij) titan upon any facts that have been made
jyublic : they carry the imaghiation behind tlie scenes. In
their dedication to the first foho they tell us the Earl of
Pembroke h^d prosecuted the Poet with so much favour that
they venture to hope for the same indulgence towards the
icorks as was shown to the parent of them. Herljert was
an intimate friend of Shakspeare's friends Southampton
and Essex. He was too young or too indifferent to become
a prominent partisan of Essex, or, rather as I read it, he
was more in love with the Earl's sister than with his cause.
When he first came to Court, as we learn by Eowland
White's Letters,^ of the year 1599, Lord Herbert was
greatly beloved by everyone ; and the kindly old gossip
hopes he will prove a great man there. He is highly
favoured by the Queen, who is very gracious to the young
Lord. He is of sufficient mark and likelihood in 1599
for White to wish that Sir Eobert Sidney may be lucky
enough to find in him a ' ladder to go up to that honour,'
White holds his master to be so worthy of. Still, he
does not care to climb the steep and slippery ascent up
which so many crawl, or become the petted lap-dog of
Majesty, and is inclined to make way for others who pur-
sue the matter with more persistency ; he does not follow
the Courtier's business with the necessary care and caution.
We find that ' My Lord Herbert is much blamed for his
cold and weak manner of pursuing her Majesty's favour.,
having so good steps to lead him unto it.' Evidently his
heart as a Courtier is elsewhere than v/ith her Majesty.
August 18th, 1599, White says, 'My Lord Herbert hath
been from Court these seven days in London, swafrfjerinsf
it amongst the men of war, and viewing the manner of
the musters.''^ September 8th,same year, 'My Lord Herbert
^ Si/diici/ JMemnirs, vol. ii.
2 There had been a sudden alarm of the Spaniards comin<r. Order was
given for a camp to be raised, and ships were preparing in all haste.
332 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
is a continual Courtier, but doth not follow his business with
that care as is Jit; he is too cold a courtier in a ^natter of
such greatness.' He is charged witli a want of spirit and
courage, and is said to be a ' melancholy young man.'' Also,
' it is muttered that young Sir Henry Carey stands to he
a Favourite^' and White appears to be jealous of ' young
Carey ' who folloivs it — the prize of favourites — ' ivith
more care and boldness.' White does not account for the
young Lord's listlessness as a Courtier, his indifference to
the Eoyal caresses, jior for his melancholy as a man. It
is not that he wants a wife, for, when the subject of his
marriage is mooted, White says, ' I don't find any dis-
position in this gallant young lord to marry.' He has a
continual pain in the head, for which he finds no relief
except in smoking tobacco. More than once White hints
that the young Lord is greatly in want of advice. He is a
very gallant gentleman, but he needs such a friend as Sir
E. Sidney to be near liim. My interpretation of Lord
Herbert's symptoms, as detailed by Eowland White, is
that he was in love, but not as his friends would have
wished ; he was then nursing a secret flame for the Lady
Eich, the woman of various lovers. My immediate object,
however, is to show from White's Letters that in the
years 1599 and IGOO William Herbert was received at
Court by Her Majesty in the most friendly manner, and
might have hcen favourite 'an he would.' ISText, to point
out that during the two years following a great change
took place in the Queen's personal regards toward him. I
doubt not there is more evidence extant than I have been
able to collect, but some lines by John Davies will suffice
for my purpose. In his ode of rejoicing upon the acces-
sion of James to the EngHsli throne, Davies congratulates
the Earl of Pembroke, amongst others, upon the change
that has taken place, and his prospect of a more inviting
future at Court. He says —
LADY RICH. 333
* Pembroke to Court, to v:hu-k thou iveH made strange,
Go ! do thine homage to thy Sovereign :
Weep and rejoice for this sad joyful change.
Then weep for joy : thou neecVst not tears to fain,
Slth late thine eyes did nought else entertain.^
We see by this tliat tlie Earl Jiad, before the death of
Elizabeth, been looked on eoldly at Court ; that he had
kept or been kept from it, and suffered some bitterness
of feehng which had filled his eyes with tears. My ex-
planation is, that the estrangement arose from his being the
personal friend of Essex and Southampton — the over- warm
admirer of Lady Eich. We may learn how suspiciously
tlie Queen had eyed any friend of theirs after their Trial,
by a Letter of Cecil's to Winwood,^ wherein he speaks of
Sir Henry Danvers, whom Lord Moimtjoy had employed
to bring the report of his success in L^eland as a good op-
portunity to lielp him to kiss her Majesty's hands : ' in
whose good opinio?! he hath been a good while suspended,
being known to be more devoted to the late Earl than be-
came him.' We may also see, by a letter from the Earl
of Nottingham to Lord Mountjoy, to be quoted later, how
closely and jealously the Queen was accustomed to watch
the bearing of those for whom tlie Lady Eich had superior
charms, and to Avhom her eyes were lodestars. I suspect,
lujwever, that Herbert was drawn towards Essex and away
from the Court by an infkience that was amatory rather
tlian political. Late in the year 1599 Lady Eich had left
tlie Court, as is reported, on account of her character, never
to recover her lost place in the Queen's favour wdiilst
Elizabeth lived ; and in the September of tliis year ' My
Lord Mountjoy, with the Lord Ilerbert and Sir Charles
Danvers, have been at Wanstead these four days.' Again,
in the ^[ay of the next year we find tliat Herbert was
paying a visit of three days' length to Lady Eich and
Lady Southampton, in company with tlie same trusty friend
' ll'imcuiHrs Moiioridk, \o\. i. p. 070.
334 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
of Soutliaiiiptoii, who laid down his hfe for hiiii and Essex
on Tower-hill. In a letter dated May 2Gth, 1600, White
says : —
' This Morning (Monday) my Lord Herbert and Sir
Charles Danvers have taken water and gone to see my
Lady Eich and Lady Southampton, almost as far as
Gravesend ; it will be Thursday ere they return.' This
plainly enough strikes the trail of my subject : it shows the
intimacy of the persons with whom my theory is concerned,
and it gives a possible clue to the meaning which Eowland
White's letters only hint at darkly. Herbert was ' greatly
in need of advice,' questionless because of the friendships
he cultivated and the company he kept — these being most
unpleasing in her Majesty's sight, for the Earl of Essex and
his sister, Lady Eich, were now both out of favour ; the
Essex fortunes were falling, their star was fading, and the
dark end was coming fast. We may judge how her Ma-
jesty would resent this wandering away of Lord Herbert
in such a pursuit by another Letter of Eowland White's,^
dated December 28th, 1602, in which he speaks of some-
thing that concerns the fortunes of the Sidney family, and
says — ' The storm continues now and then ; but all de-
pends upon my Lady Bich's being or not being amongst
you^ Evidently hers was at that time a perilous acquaint-
anceship. The Earl of Southampton and his Countess
were also in the deepest shadow of her Majesty's dis-
pleasure.
Thus, I conclude that the young Lord Herbert's coldness
as a Courtier was owing to his warmth elsewhere, and that
it was mainly by the influence of Lady Eich he was drawn
from the path whicli Eowland White was so anxious for
him to follow, and fmally caused him to lose the favour
of the Queen altogether. There is in sonnet 149 a touching
allusion to the estrangements which the lady has occa-
sioned, and apparently to the loss of friends for her sake —
1 Sydney rapers, vol. ii. p. 262.
LORD lUanJERT. yy5
* Who hateth thee that I do call my friend ?
On whom IVown'st thou that I do fawn upon ? '
These latter sonnets, then, I hold to be written dramati-
cally by Sliakspcare to express William Herbert's passion
for Lady Eich.
As we have seen, the Southampton sonnets almost
ceased with the Earl's marriaQ;e in 1598 — their chief
end and aim being then accomplished. In the year
1598, William Herbert had come to Hve in London/ and
possibly through his intimacy with Lord Southampton,
had met with Shakspeare and soon acquired some personal
inlluence over our Poet. Tlie time was most opportune.
The young Lord could not take the warm place in his heart
which had been consecrated to Southampton ; he did not
call forth any such fragrance of affection as breathes
through the sonnets devoted to the earlier, dearer friend
of Shakspeare. But he had winning ways, was a lover
of poets, and something of a poet himself. As a friend
of Southampton, and of Lady Eich, he would be early
acquainted with the ' sugred sonnets ' of tlie Southampton
series.
I have suggested that he was the friend, the young
enthusiastic seeker of Shakspeare's ' sonnets among his
private friends,' to whom Southampton had given the
book in sonnet 122 (p. 321) which book had been a present
from Elizabeth Vernon to the Earl, and contained most
of their .sonnets ! It followed, as a matter of course, that
Herbert should be ambitious of having sonnets by Shak-
speare devoted to himself. Eut how was this to be done ?
Shakspeare was now getting past liis sonneteering time.
He could never renew for Herbert the old affection which
had set him singing for Southampton in the spring-tide.
Before the first cycle of sonnets was completed, he had felt
' Lord Herbert was in Loiuluu, April Sn\, 1597, on a visit to the Sitloeys,
as we leani by White's letter of that ilatc (' Sydney Memoirs,' vol. ii. p. 35),
and ' by mij Lord Jlcrbcrt's comituj into the (jankn.'
336 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
the autumnal iniliience touching his riper manhood and
luishing that burst of music whicli once set all the green
thickets of young Hfe thrilling, and he had pleaded
* Our love was new and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays.
As Philomel in summer's front doth sin or
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days.'
This spring, this love, these songs could not be repeated
for another. I imagine Shakspeare was not seriously
inclined to write at all for Herbert. He must have felt
it tended to make common the mould of expression which
had been hallowed by real love for Southampton, made
sacred for ever by the privacy of their personal friendship
and the tender uses for which many of the sonnets had
been written. But Herbert, as the players tell us, ' piir-
sued him with so inuch favour^ was very urgent in his
sohcitations, and Shakspeare good-naturedly wilhng to
oblige. Being, as he fancied, deeply and desperately in
love with Lady Eich, a friend of his family, a companion
beauty to his mother, a lady who must have entered the
young lord's heart by the way of his imagination, as the
object of Sidney's poetry and prose, there is nothing more
natural than that Herbert should have sought to get his
passion besung by Shakspeare. The Poet enters into the
humour of tlie thing so far as to laugh at the disparity of
their ages. He rallies his friend on the absurdity of his
passion ; fights all he may against his infatuation ; renders
with all possible plainness the lady's well-known character,
and once (jr twice grows very serious on the subject, and
as in sonnets 129 and 14G, administers a tonic to tlie
frantic inamorato, wrapt up and gilded in the gold leaf
of the poetry.
It is apparent tiiat if ' Master W. H.' be meant for
Wilham Herl)ert, Earl of Pembroke, lie must have had
something to do with the sonnets, not only as the collector
THE LOVETl'S YOUTH AND TIIE LADY'S AGE, 837
and oljtainer of them for the press, but as a party to the
private mystery out of which the pubUc one arose, to
have had the right to give them to Th(jrpe. I say wliat
his part in the imbraiu/lemeiit was, and tliere is httle
need for me to argue the possibihty of that which is
capable of demonstration.
Shakspeare, as we have seen, had written dramati-
cally for Southampton, therefore it was most likely that
if he wrote at all for Herbert he would use the same
form, and my argument that Herbert himself supplied
his own sentiments and subject, as Southampton had
done, is suggested by the familiar use of his name in
the puns upon the word 'Will.' I assume that Herbert
used the sonnets as though they had been written by
himself.
At first sight, it looks as if sonnet 138 was against my
view of the speaker's youth, but a little more study will
enable us to see how this sonnet will supply such proof
of his youth and the lady's age as will serve to clench
my conclusion on this head. We must bear in mind
that a new element enters into the composition of these
latter sonnets. They become playful and ironic at times.
In sonnet 96, there is irony of a most bitter Idnd. The
speaker assumes to be concerned for the 'good report'
of the lady who, in sonnet 131, is black in her deeds — in
137, is the 'wide world's commonplace' — in sonnet 1-12,
has profaned her lips by sealing false bonds of love, and
in sonnet 147, is 'black as hell, as dark as night.' In
sonnet 138 the irony is of a smiling kind, the meaning
altogether covert. The writer here uses the form ' Noema,'
or, as ruttcnham has it, the figure of ' Close Conceit.''
The subject really is not the age in the usual sense,
but the extreme youth of the speaker. Tlie word ' age'
conveys a double-pointed joke !
This sonnet was printed in 1599, therefore it must have
been written when William Herbert was in hi? nineteenth
z
338 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS,
or twentieth year.^ It is spoken in merry mockery, half
on account of his youth, and half on account of the lady's
age, for she is seventeen years older than him and getting
on towards forty ! Tlie facts are partly reversed, the
explanation is wrong by intention, on purpose to increase
the jest. The ^ simple truth.' certainly was suppressed on
both sides, and thereby fini was made in the demm-est
fashion. The young rogue knew well enough that his
days were not past the best, and so did the lady ; both
also knew whose days were ! But the lady's age being a
tickhsh point, that point is here used to produce the
greatest amount of tickling. As the sonnet says, with a
sly simphcity, ' age in love loves not to have years told.'
It is not necessary, however, to personify ' Age,' as readers
have done, though the printers did not. This explana-
tion looked so natural that its sedateness has never been
suspected. No one has seen how this might apply equally
to youth in love ; the quip has never been descried. To
prove that my reading is right, we have only to compare
this sonnet with the copy printed in the ' Passionate Pil-
grim,' which would be the version made use of in sending
to the lady ! In that the lady's lies turn on her own age,
and the ninth line asks —
' But wherefore says my Love that she is young V
Wliich gives us the clue to the true interpretation of the
sonnet, supphes the necessary opposition betwixt age
and youth, adjusts the right relationship of the persons,
shows how and why there are lies on both sides, and
thus reveals the humour of the treatment. The youth's
manner of speaking of himself and his years is partly a
pleasant bit of satire on the lady's habit of not acknow-
ledging her own age ! She swears she is not more
than thirty or so, and that she tells truth ; he smilingly
credits ' her false-speaking tongue,' although he knows
well enough tliat she tells lies.
» ]?orn Fobruary 8tli, ]r>80.
TWO VERSIONS OF SONNET 138, 339
* But wherefore says my Love that she is young ?
And wherefore say not I tliat / a^n old ?
I love's best habit is a soothing tongue,
And age, in love, loves not to have years told.''
Therefore he lies on the score of his age, because she does,
and so they disguise the disparity by lying together. The
meeting-point of both, in the last line quoted, being that the
lady objects to the truth on account of her many years ;
the youth because his years are so few, and he has the
desire to be thought more of a man than his years warrant.
The 'Passionate Pilgrim' has 'Smiling I credit her
false-speaking tongue,' which was altered in the later
copy to ' simply I credit' — the smihng being too conscious
an expression for a youth ; the other more appropriately
demure and tending to point the play on ' sinqjle truth,'
which has to be suppressed in the next line. The sim-
plicity here has a touch of Shakspcare in liis Autolycus
mood : ' Ha, ha ! what a fool Honesty is, and Trust, his
sworn brother, a very simple gentleman !' Even so has
it been with the simplicity and trust of the readers of
these sonnets, who have been completely deceived by the
merry masker's serious face. This interpretation of sonnet
138 helps to prove that the 96th of necessity belongs to
the Herbert series, with its opening innuendo, ' Some say
thy fault is youth.'
But we have not quite done with the two versions of
this sonnet. It was most lucky that Jaggard did get hold
of the earher copy, for witliout it we could not have
seen on what the lady's lying turned, when she swore
that she told the truth, nor coidd we have detected the
speaker's youth, or perceived how the ' simple truth ' was
suppressed on both sides, if we had not known what the
l3'ing was about. The earher copy proves that her lies
were on the score of her age. It also serves to make us
curious respecting the alteration. Why should the sonnet
have been corrected so carefully, and for the worse? As
Z 'I
340 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
in making the change tlie Poet loses the antithesis between
young and old — tlie grain of salt that he liked to see
sparkle in his lines ; and the real subject of the lady's lies
disappears altogether. There must have been private
and particular reasons for generahsing thus vaguely.
It must have been apprehended that the hne —
* But wherefore says my Love that she is young ? '
might excite suspicion, and the whole story be got at ;
another touch was needed to perfect the disguise. And
so we catch the Poet, unless the change was made by
Herbert himself, doing a bit of work analogous to that
which has to be performed by the stealers of marked
linen, viz, picking out the proof of ownership.
This speaker then is so young that his years, in contrast
with the lady's age, can be treated as matter for a laugh
in the sleeve ; he is unmarried, and his Christian name is
' Will.' All the testimony on the score of character
unites with tlie other evidence in proof that this is young
William Herbert, not WiUiam Sliakspeare ; he was a
spirit of a different complexion, a man of another mould,
and, at the time neither young enough to he the speaker
v'ith the humorous reading, nor old enough for the serious
interpretation hitherto accepted, he being just 35, exactly
' midway in this our mortal life.' At which period of
perfect manhood and ripened power, his days could not
possibly have been 'past the best.' If he were the
speaker, the sonnet would have no meaning. For he
would not be lying in saying that he was not old, and
the ' simple truth ' could not have been suppressed by his
not admitting that he was old.
When Shakspeare described himself as older-looking
than his years justified in the Southampton sonnets, he
had an object ; here, however, such a policy in love
would have been fatally opposed to his object. It is not
the wont of men at 35 years of age, who are passionately
pursuing a woman, to talk of their days being ' past the
HERBERT'S TOETRY. 311
best,' or assume, in "vvTiting to tlie lady, that they per-
sonify ' Age in love.' But it seems that nothing was
too unnatural to be committed by this writer, who of all
men came the nearest to nature ! The ' simple truth'
for us is just this: Shakspeare is not the speaker of this
sonnet. It is tlie youth who is imaged in sonnet 143 as
running after the lady, like a little child following and
crying for its mother, and who pleads, in sonnet 151, that
' love is too young to know what conscience is.'
It is likewise my settled conviction, not only that these
sonnets were written for Wilham Herbert upon subjects
given by him for the Poet to work out, but tliat Herbert
himself had a hand in their composition. They are
frequently much less perfect than the earlier ones. Hence
it has been conjectured that, although they are the last
printed, they were earlier written, bearing, as they do,
some unmistakeable marks of youth. But the youthfulness
I hold to be not that of Shakspeare 's early writing. The
' Will,' whose name is played upon, and to whom they
are inscribed, had sufficient to do with tlie printing to
ensure that the series devoted to him came into its
proper place, just as the first and the last groups of the
Southampton cycle are in their right position. And he
also, I doubt not, had sometliing to do witli the writing of
these latter sonnets. Herbert was himself a poet, with a
lively sparkle of fmcy, but too much given to grossness.
He, and not William Hunyis, who died in 1597, is the
' W. IL' of England's HeUcon, and this is one of his
pleasant conceits.
• How shall I her pretty tread
Express
When she doth walk ?
Scarce she does the primrose head
Depress
Or tender stalk
Of hlue-veined violets,
Whereon her foot she sets.'
342 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Again, lie makes a lover ask, prettily enough. —
* Wliat voice is this, I prithee mark,
With so much music in it !
Too sweet methinks to be a lark,
Too loud to be a linnet.'
In these we find the precise play of fancy, amount of
mind, and sort of poetry that go to the making of the
following canzonet : —
* Those lips that Love's own hand did miahe
Breathed forth the sound that said " 7 hate,''''
To me that languished for her sake :
But, when she saw my woful 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 :
" I hate " she altered with an end
That followed it as gentle Day
Doth follow Night who, like a. fiend,
From heaven to hell is flown away :
" I hate " — from hate away she threiv.
And saved my life, saying — " not you ! " '
(145.)
Any, the slightest, examination of these hues must tend
to a conviction that this is not one of Shakspeare's sonnets.
It is not in his measure,' but in the very verse which
one feels he disliked,''^ the kind of which Touchstone
says, ' I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and
^ That the lines are not in our Poet's measure is some evidence against
their being of his writing. In sonnet 7G (p. 254) he had excused himself for
always using the same measure, never changing the familiar dress of his
thought, ' Keeping Invention in a noted weed.'
* A measure that he has travestied for the purpose of mockery. See the
song of Peter in ' Homeo and Juliet,' act iv. so. 4 :—
' When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress ; '
which mimics an old song beginning —
' When griping griefes do grieve the mind,'
HERBERT'S IIAXD IN TIIEM. 343
suppers and sleeping-hours excepted ; it is the right butter-
woman's rank to market, the veiy false gallop of verses.'
The Hnes start with a false note in the sound of the four
first endings. Our Poet's ear would not have tolerated so
uncertain a difference in the sound as exists between the
words 'make' and 'hate,' 'sake' and 'state.' Shakspeare's
lines go off with a hearty smack of difference which brings
them out full and satisfying to the ear, so that the rhymes
percuss with no uncertain sound. Next, there are three
imperfect rhymes in ' come ' and ' doom,' ' end ' and
' fiend,' ' threw ' and ' you,' All of which Shakspeare
may have used at times, but he never crowded them into
so small a space. The hnes have nothing of our Poet's ;
matter or manner ; neither his kind of playful conceit nor
Ills musical gravity ; they no more possess his mental sta-
ture than they do his length of line ; they are a bit of
pretty apprentice work, and have no touch of the Master's
hand. I hold them to be William Herbert's. Sonnet 130,
likewise, is as palpably different from the others near it
as it would appear if printed in red uik whilst the rest
were all printed in black. It does not wear the vestiu'e of
Shakspeare's mind ; has neither the dark depth of his
thought nor the smihng surface of his expression. It is
in fact an imitation of sonnet 21, p. 132, wdiich says : —
' ! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then, believe me, my Love is as fair
As any mother's child, tho' not so bright
As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air.'
The early sonnet is a protest against the use of false
comparisons for the purpose of flattery, and the latter con-
cludes with the hnes : —
' And yet, by heaven, I think my Love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.'
to be found in the ' Forest of Fancy,' a very rare and interesting old col-
lection, 'Imprinted by Thos. Purfoote, dwelling in Newgate Market, within
the New Reut;s, at the sign of ' Lucrece/ London, lo7i).
344 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
It is also a tliird address to the Mistress's eyes ; moreover
I do not think Shakspeare woukl liave made ivires grow !
A different kind of repetition occurs in sonnet 9G, one that
it is impossible to explain on the personal theory : —
* But do not so, I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.'
Tliese lines have been used once before in sonnet 3C (p. 177),
where the feeling has the eagerness and purity of truest
love, and they are repeated in a spirit of sheer mockery ;
the comparisons are sarcastic, and the plea of the repeated
hues is intentionally and utterly ironic. My explanation
of this is that the sonnet is one of Herbert's ; that he being,
possibly in the way 1 have shown, in possession of a copy
of the Southampton Sonnets, took the liberty of quoting
two lines of one of them, which were very suitable to
his purpose, because susceptible of a double meaning.
I find it next to impossible to read as Shakspeare's the
lumbering line —
' Thou mah^st faults graces that to thee resort.'
He does not stumble amongst the consonants in that way ;
Ills sense of accent and the rehef of alliteration were too
true.
The curious in such matters may find in Herbert's own
Poems ^ proof that the writer of them is one in nature,
age and taste with the speaker of these sonnets. There is
proof in his own handwriting, so to say, that he was per-
sonally a sufferer from exactly such a passion as is here
painted, and that he addressed a lady, the very same in
character and kind of charm, as is here imaged by Shak-
speare — not as an object of worship, but for the purpose
1 Poems, written by William, Eari of Pembroke, many of wbich are
answered by Sir "William liudyard ; with otber poems written by them,
occasionally and apart. lOoO. Of these poems Mr. Ilallam observes:
* Some are grossly indecent, but they throw no light whatever on the
Sonnets of Shakspeare.'
THE SAME L.ADY .VBDEESSED BY IIEI^BERT. 845
of disparagement and depreciation, Tliis was not tlie lady
who afterwards became the celebrated Countess of Devon-
shire. That lady, we are told, was the object of Herbert's
'chaste idolatry;' this lady of whom we speak was just
the reverse. He has presented her pictiu-e in some lines
replying to a friend avIio had flatly given his opuiion of the
lady, and wondered what the young Earl could see in her
to admire : —
' One with admiration' told me,
He did wouder much and marvel,
(As, hy chance, he did behold ye)
How I could become so servile
To thy beauty, which he swears
Every alehouse lattice wears.
' Then he frames a second motion,
From thy revoluting eyes.
Saying — such a wanton motion
From their lustre did arise.
That of force thou could'st not be
From the shame of women free ! '
This is the lady of the latter sonnets, feature by feature ;
her whole character summed up briefly with a perfect
tally. Sonnet 131 says —
' So77ie say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the jpower to make love groan.'
Here is the same servility to the beauty that is quite m-
commensurate in appearance to the efiects which it pro-
duces — the beauty so accosting that it is merely a sign hke
that of an alehouse, which aptly expresses the ' wide
world's connnonplace ' of sonnet 137 — the servility felt
by the ' proud heart's slave and vassal wretch ' of sonnet
141. Then there is the very motion of those eyes so
often dwelt on in the sonnets, and, looking in at their
windows, we see the same interior, the same fire aglow.
I <
Vduiii-aliou,' i.e. Surprise.
346 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
the same picture of Paplios. One of Herbert's poems, com-
mencing ' Oh, do not tax me with a brutish love,' is aUke
in argument with sonnet 141 ; and all through there is
the same inexphcable infatuation, though this is rendered
so much more powerfully by the hand of Shakspeare.
Havimx reached the conclusion, then, that William Herbert
is the ' Will ' of these latter sonnets, it further appears to
me that aU the probabilities point to one person, and all
the evidence tends to the identification of Penelope Eich
as the lady addressed.
We might fairly enough assume that these sonnets
were in some way an issue of the earher ones ; or that
the same friends and acquaintances are bound up by some
personal link of connection in the Book as they were
in hfe and in their relation to the Poet. However diverse
in subject they may be, we cannot but infer that there is
some meetmg-place of the same persons from the fact, that
the sonnets come to us as Shakspeare's Sonnets, un-
doubtedly gathered up by one of the friends who knew
of their unity. Then the way in which they are mixed
most curiously illustrates the intimacy of the persons,
and the interchange of the sonnets. Thus we find some of
Elizabeth Vernon's in company with those addressed
to the other lady, and some of the ' dark ' lady's mixed
up with Elizabeth Vernon's. Also the two sonnets which
were printed in the ' Passionate Pilgrim ' were single
sonnets belonging to two separate stories, and yet they
come into print together, which has a look of their
having met in the hands of one and the same person, who
was tlie ol:)ject of both. If it be Lady Eich in the one
sonnet, it will be in the other.
The testimony of character, too, is very conclusive.
Even with the personal interpretation, it has been taken
for granted that the lady whom Shakspeare is supposed
to have loved so madly in these latter sonnets was one
with the Mistress of whom the friend was supposed to
LADY RICH THE ' LASCR'IOUS GRACE.' 347
have robbed the Poet in the earUer ones, and this proba-
])ility is vastly increased by the present reading. The
lady of whom Elizabeth Vernon is jealous and afraid
possesses the closest natural affinity to the Circe of these
latter sonnets. We have only to allow for the deeper
hues into which such a cliaracter rapidly darkens for the
likeness to be dramatically perfect. In sonnets 40 and 41
(pp. 208 and 210) she is the wanton wooer of another wo-
man's lover, and the ' Lascivious Grace,' with such power
in transforming evil into an appearance of good that all ill
shows well in her ; and in sonnet 150, there is the same
'■becoming of things ill.'' In the Jealousy sonnets her '■foul
pride^' her ' steel bosom,' and her ' cruel eye' are dwelt
upon by one victim of her iron rule and imperious
will. The same character, the precise characteristics,
are reproduced here, where another victim is made bitterly
to feel her tyrannizing power ; there is the same command-
ing motion of the pecuhar eyes, the same cruel pride in
their power to enthrall ; the same matters for that public
gossip which has grown bolder with her name, as her
reputation has become worse. Matters are now more
serious, and the language has gro^vn more emphatic,
but the lady is one with the ' woman coloured ill,' in
sonnet 144 (p. 205), and hkely enough to lead souls to
hell — the same as her of whose ' false adulterate eyes '
we catch a glance in sonnet 121 (p, 271); the same
person as is mocldngly addressed in the seventh sonnet
of the present group : —
* Thou maFst faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a tlironeJ Queen,
The basest jewel will be well-esteemed :
So are those errors that in thee are seen.
To truths translated and for true things deemed.
With this evidence alone I could venture to submit my
case, whether the object of Elizabeth Vernon's Jealousy
and the so-called ' dark lady ' of these sonnets be not one
348 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONXETS.
and the same person, because of my great reliance on
Shakspeare's dramatic perception, and truth to nature in
all that he paints, whether manipidating minutely or only
giving an apparently careless stroke. But I shall be able
to produce the most satisfactory proof that this is the same
lady, and that she is none other than the Cleopatra of the
Elizabethan Court, Lady Penelope Eich !
When once we have discovered a speaker for these
sonnets who is in every way a more befitting person than
the Poet himself, and we couple with them the name of
Lady Eich, a whole host of suggestions and illustrations
start up to enforce the conjecture that she is the lady
addressed ; the object of this blind and frantic passion.
Her coarser character in later hfe could not have been
more exactly rendered than it is in these sonnets. They
read hke the plainest comments on the well-known facts
of her career. Li the year 1600 she had lost the Queen's
favour, says the historian Camden, because she was more
than suspected of being false to her husband's bed. And
sonnets 142 and 152, written about the same time, contain
the bluntest statement of this precise charge.
King James told Mountjoy that he had '-purchased a
fair woman ivith a black soul.' So the lover in these sonnets
denounces the lady as having a heart black enough to be
the devil's looking-glass, but full of fatal witchery herself.
In sonnet 131 he says : —
' In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds.'
And in sonnet 147 —
' I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright.
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.'
The Ijlack eyes of Lady Eich were a subject of constant
comment in her time, and frequently was their colour
associated with another kind of blackness. It was divined
that her startling combination of fair and dark was in
some degree the outward symbol of her curious moral
SIDNEY'S STELLA. 349
mixture. There is a liiiit of tliis in a letter of the Earl
of Nottingham, who, in writing to Lord Moimtjoy, twits
him respecting these same black eyes. He says, ' I think
her Majesty would be most glad to see and look upon
your black eyes here, so she were sure you icould not look
with too much respect of other black eyes.' ' But for that,'
sa3's the old gallant past sixty, 'if the Admiral (him-
self) were but thirty years old, I think he would not differ
in opinion from the Lord Mountjoy.'^ The lady of these
sonnets is one in pride of spirit with her to whose power
Essex paid unconscious tribute when he spoke of his
sister's strength of mind and force of character, and proved
his own miserable weakness : ' She must be looked to, for
she has a proud spirit.' This was cowardly on the part
of a brother, but he spoke the bitter truth of her who had
been the master spirit of his intrigues with James of Scot-
land, and who helped to hurry on his own weakness until
his folly met its fate.
Not only have we the nature, the age, the eyes, of
Lady Eicli accurately dehneated, but sonnet 135 contains
a play upon her name, and this occurs in a manner too
remarkable for it to have been mere coincidence. The
sonnet is an echo to one of Sidney's — his 37th, in which
the name of ' Rich^ is played upon throughout : —
' Towards Aurora's Court a nymph doth dwell,
Rich iu all beauties which man's eye can see ;
Beauties so far from reach of words that we
Abase her praise, saying she doth excel :
Rich in the treasure of deserved renown,
Rich in the riches of a royal heart.
Rich in those gifts Avhich give the eternal cro^vn,
Who, thotigh most Rich in these and every part
Which makes the patents of true earthly bliss,
llath no misfortune but that Rich she is.'
Shaks])eare's 135th sonnet (the 8tli here) is a manifest
imitation of this : —
' Brewer, 14— IS.
350 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
' Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ivill,
And luill to boot, and tvill in over-plus ;
INIore 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 ivill in thine ?
Shall luill in others seem right gracious.
And in my ivill no fair acceptance shine?
The sea, all water, yet receives rain still.
And in abundance addeth to his store ;
So thou, being EiCH in ivill, add to thy ivill
One ivill of mine, to make thy large ivill more :
Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill.
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.^
The point of this is that the speaker is ' Will' by name,
and the lady by nature ; and the lover playfully proposes
to add the two ' Wills' together ; her ivill, or wilful tem-
per, is so large that it cannot be much if she will make
' addition thus' to that ' sweet will' of her own by adding
him ! In the next sonnet he pleads that, as she is so fond
of having her ivill, she should make ' his name her love,'
and have her will in the shape of him whose name is
' Will.' In this personification of ivill or wilfulness, we
again meet the rival lady to whose high imperious ' will'
the speaker in sonnet 133 (p. 209) is a prisoner, and it
likewise features the wilful Lady Eich, the breakings-out
of whose will were perpetual, and dashed with the true
Cleopatra-like audacity,
Shakspeare's sonnet touches Sidney's most nearly in the
eleventh line, which I contend names the object of both.
Here the secret is let out quite as palpably as the circum-
stances would permit. It teUs the lady's name in a way
to make the mind conceive and the eye quicken, if not
so emphatically as the speaker announces his own. There
is an antithesis suggested which positively proves the in-
tention of playing upon the name of 'Eich' in necessary
opposition to the name of ' Will.'
THE LADY IS NOT A 'BLACK BEAUTY.' 351
But there is still further proof of tlie trutli of my inter-
j)retation.
Hitherto it has been assumed that the lady of these
sonnets was a black-eyed, black-haired beauty, with a
complexion of the swarthiest hue. This must result
from her black eyes having unduly influenced the reader's
imagination. In the old age, says the first of these sonnets,
' black was not counted fair.' But the Poet is not speak-
ing of women whose faces are black ; when he says that
black is now your only true beauty, he does not mean
' Blacks,' It is the lady's eyes, not her complexion, that is
black. Her character may be black, but her countenance
is not : she is neither a blackamoor nor a ' black beauty.'
Lady Eicli did appear in one of the Court masques,
called the '•Masque of Blackness,' as an Ethiop beauty,
with her hands, arms, and face blackened to the required
tint, whilst her naked white feet dazzled the eyes as they
dalhed Avitli a running stream ; but this cannot be the
complexion celebrated. Nor did it need Shakspeare
to tell us that the negro complexion was not wont to
be admired in the antique time. The subject touches in
a most particular way the old poetic quarrel respecting
the rival charms of black eyes and blue. In the old
time the frank eye of bonny Englisli blue, or good honest
grey, bore away the palm as the favourite of our Poets.
Black eyes were alien to the Northern ideal of beauty.
But here is such a triumph of this colour that black
is Beauty's only wear. Black eyes and black eyebrows,
not a black face nor a dark complexion ! It is the
eyes alone that have put on mourning, and become
' pretty mourners.' Now, the eyes would not have j)^^^
on mourning if the face had been very swarth}- ; the hair
black; and it is the eyes alone that are 'c<fo suited' in
mourning hue. There are two distinct excuses why the
eyes should have assumed this mourning and jmt on this
black ; neither of which would have had a starting-point
352 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
if the lady had been altogether dark ; tlien it would have
been her beauty that was dressed in the mourning-robe,
not her eyes and brows alone.
It Avill be seen tliat there is something very special
about these black eyes — in opposition to which some-
thing fair is required and implied, or where is the mo-
tive? — and when we have lifted tlie veil of mystery
through which they have glittered, and behind wdiich
the face has been so long concealed, we shall, I think,
find that the supposed dark lady of Shakspeare's Sonnets
is the famous golden-haired and black-eyed beauty
Penelope Eich, the first love of Philip Sidney, the cousin
of Ehzabeth Vernon, tlie sister of Essex, the Helen of the
Ehzabethan poets.
She was ' a most triumphant lady, if report be square
to her,' whose Hvely blood ran blush-full of the summer
in her veins. As wonderful a piece of work as ever
Nature cunningly compounded, and her beauty was of the
rarest kind known in the North. Sidney, who proclaimed
his love for her and his joy therein, ' tho' nations might
count it sliame ' and in the heavens set her starry name,
has left vivid Venetian paintings of her as the ' Stella '
of his Sonnets, the ' Philoclea ' of his Arcadia — whereby
the lady glows in the mind, warm with life once more.
She had hair of tawny gold, witli tresses lustrous as those
of the Greek day-god. Sidney described them as beams
of gold caught in a net. In complexion of face she was
nearly a brunette. Her Poet has exactly marked the
colour of her cheek as a ' kindly claret,' which is defi-
nite as the tint described by Dante as being ' less than
that of the rose, but more than that of the violets ;' it is
the ripe red that has the purple of peacli-bloom in its dye,
and is only seen in tlie deep complexion — hardly ever
found with golden hair.
' Of all complexions the culled .sovereignty
Did meet as at a fair in her fair cheek.'
A TIED BEAUTY. 353
And lier eyes were black — 'black stars,' Sidney calls them.
l\lsew]iere they are twin-r-hildrcn of the Sun, begotten
black in the fervour of his aflection. So black were the
eyes that those who have attempted to depict them seem
to have felt, as they say of their very dark women in
Angoulcme, they were ' born when coal was in blossom.''
Sidney calls them eyes ' of touch,' tliat is, of black marble.
This opposition of blonde and brunette w^as striking as is
the rich gold and the gorgeous black of the humble-bee.
Thus her beauty had the utmost contrast and chiaroscuro
with which Nature paints the human face. Day, with its
golden lights may be said to have dwelt in her hair : Xight
and starlight, in her eyes. The light above and the dark
below — the fair hair with its Xorthern frankness of smile
. and the black burning eyes of the South glittering deadly-
brilliant under black velvet eyebrows, with what Keats
might have called their fi6>?z diamonding, gave that piquancy
of character to her appearance on which the poets loved
to dwell.
An aufjel of liirht at the first ulance : a ' precious visitant,'
looking as though just stepped down from heaven, but
with Proserpine-like eyes of such mystery you could not
tell whether the indwelUng divinity might not be an angel
of darkness ; could not get at the spirit in the black mask !
And so she walked as a wonder among men, gathering
liearts by impressment under the banner of her strange
beauty, and winning such worsliip as foils to but few ;
one of those ' earth-ti'eading stars,' as Shakspeare calls
them, that come and light up our old world awliile, it may
be, on their downward wayfrom that pure heaven in whicli
they will shine no more ; one of the women who are just
angels falling !
The poetry of Sidney is a good deal like a gorgeous
Court dress of his time, seamed so stiffly with precious
stones and pearls of price that it can almost stand alone,
without being used for human wear. But to Lady Eich
A A
354 SIIAKSPEARFS SONNETS.
it is indebted for its most life-like breathings of nature
and its most visible beatings of a heart beneath. To her
beauty we owe those delicious descriptions in which poetry
grows divinely dainty, celebrating the outward graces of
a woman and consecrating her physical charms. It was
Stella's beauty, seen through Philoclea's transparent veil,
that inspired some of the loveliest, most movingly delicate
things ever said or sung of bodily beauty. This was
Stella's hair —
* Her hair fine threads of finest gold
In curled knots man's thought to hold.'
These were Stella's eyes, the 'matchless pair of black
stars' —
' Their arches be two heavenly lids
Whose wink each bold attempt forbids.'
These were Stella's cheeks —
* Her cheeks with kindly claret spread,
Aurora-like new out of bed.'
These were Stella's lips —
* But who those ruddy lips can miss.
Which blessed still themselves do kiss ? '
These were Stella's pretty pearly ear-tips —
' The tip no jewel needs to wear ;
The tip is jewel to the ear.'
It was of Stella that Sidney said —
* Her shoulders be like two white Doves
Perching ! '
And of Stella's hand —
' Where whiteness doth for ever sit.
And there with strange compact do lie
Warm snow, moist pearl, soft ivory.'
And of her foot —
* In shew and scent, pale Violets
Whose step on earth all beauty sets.'
IDEXTIFICATIOX OF THE 'MOURNING EYES.' ;}."j
And after recounting her outer ])erfections with the purity
of a spirit wliose "warmest tliouglits walk naturally in
white, he tells how all this beauty is l)ut
*the fair Inn
Of fairer guests which dwell witliiu.'
There is a lovely description of the same lady weeping
in the thii'd book of the 'Arcadia.' ' Her tears came
dropping down like rain in sunshine, and she, not taking
heed to wipe the tears, they hung upon her cheeks and
lips as upon cherries wdiicli the dropping tree bedeweth.'
But the chief point of attraction now, as in her life-time,
is the lady's eyes. It was the wonder of Sidney why,
with such light hair and face so fair that the roses blushed
and drooped half-dotingly, half-enviously to see the deeper
bloom in her cheek, these eyes should have been so black !
He asks did Nature make them so, like a cunning painter,
on purpose to produce the utmost effect of light and
shade !
' When Nature made her chief work, Stella's eyes,
In colour black why wrapt she beams so bright?
Would she in beam}' black, like painter wise,
Frame daintiest lustre, mi.xed of shades and liorht ?
Or did she, else, that sober hue devise.
In object best to knit and strength our sight.
Lest, if no veil those Lrave gleams did disguise,
They, sunlike, should more dazzle than delight ?
Or, would she Iter niimculuus pmcer show.
That luhcrcas black seems Beauty's contrary^
She even in black doth make all beaut ij flow,
Both so, and thus, she, minding Love should be
Placed ever there, gave him his mourning weed,
To honour all their deaths who for him bleed.'
These same )nouruing l'Jcs hvq ihoso of • riiiloclea,' and
the Poet has the very thought in prose ('Arcadia' p. 95),
' Her black eyes, black indeed, whether Aature so made
them that ice might be the more able to behold and bear
A A '.i
356 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
their iconderful shininq, or that she, goddess-hke, would
woi'k this miracle with herself^ in giving blackness the
price above all beauty !' And these are the eyes of Pene-
lope Eich, tlie 'only Philoclea!' The eyes that consti-
tuted the feature on which her singers always settled as
they ranged over her beauties with the honeyed murmurs
of bees busy in a world of flowers ! And in tlieir dark
depths lies the imfatliomed secret of these latter sonnets.
Here are the mourning eyes, and the very miracle which
Nature wrought in one particular person to set blackness
above all beauty. Shakspeare adopts and expands the
ingenious idea used twice by Sidney : he adds other reasons
for the eyes appearing in mourning, but the elfin-bright
black eyes are the same ! In fact, suggestions from
Sidney are the germ of these latter sonnets, just as with
the earliest ones !
The lady of Sidney's description, then, is not a person of
the ordinary dark and swarthy complexion, with hair of
blue-black lustre, although he speaks of Kature setting
blackness above all beauty ; nor is the lady of Shakspeare's
Sonnets ; the blackness which he also celebrates as the
only beauty is of the eyes, not of the face and hair. But
the blackness of tlie eyes and the blackness of her cha-
racter have blended to dye these sonnets and made the
lady look dark indeed.
Tlie opening sonnet is of necessity founded on such a
contrast as was only to be met in the complexion of Lady
Piich. The argument is that since the painting of faces
and dyeing of hair have become so common, here, in this
peculiar combination of black and fair, this triumph of
Nature's most cunning workmanship is Beauty's only j^lace
of worship.
The fashion at Elizabeth's Court was to imitate the
hair of the Queen. If the painter of an early portrait of
her Majesty is to be trusted, her hair must have been of
a ruddy gold, somewhat like the bark of the Scotch fir
WE MUST READ BETWEICX THE LINES. 357
seen in the glow of sunset. Tliis natural hue was after-
wards mahitained by artifice. The practice of dyeing
hair became as prevalent as it is to-day in Paris. The
dead were robbed of tlieir tresses, and, as we are told by
Stubbes, ladies were accustomed to allure children into
private places to snatch a grace from Nature by stealing
their fair locks. Therefore, because of this,^ ' my Mistress'
eyes are raven black,' says the speaker, tliey have gone
into mourning on this account, and so well does this black
become them in spite of the implied contrast, that every
tongue says ' Beauty should look so ! '— should appear in
this pattern which owes nothing to Art and cannot be
imitated.
If these be the jetty eyes of Lady Rich, wliere then are
the tresses of the Su'en's own colour, tlie Mermaid's
yellow, which the Poets so harped upon? Sonnet 130 says,
' if hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head ;' but I
have said enou^di to indicate that these sonnets are not
to be fathomed by- the careless, casual glance with which
they have as yet been read. They have many covert
meanings that have hitherto lurked privily. AVe nuist
learn to read between the lines. They tell a secret history
in cypher of which we have never before possessed the key.
I repeat, the element of irony enters into tlieir composition.
In sonnet 1 88 it is irony in a smiling mood ; in 9G, it
grows bitter, it jests with the lady's age — ' some say thy
lault is youth" — it pleads with her not to play the part
of Wolf in Sheep's clothing — woi to assume a lamb like
innocence of look on pm'pose to lead the gazers astray.
' Do not so I love thee in such sort
A.s tlioii, being mine, mine is thy yood report.'
And this sonnet 130 is full of irony of the subtlest kind —
that which makes its mock in smootli words of smiliiiu'
' Our Poet's dis<,'Uhit nuitft luivo been very strong on the subject ot" these
practices, frequent expressions of which escape botli in the sonnets and
plays. ' Excellently done, »/ God did idl,' exclaims ^■iola at first sight of
Olivia's luiveiled beautv.
853 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
dissimulation — wins the ear of tlie person addressed witli
a low loving whisper, and makes her lean expectant of some-
thing sweet in her commendation, to find that the word
of promise is craftily qualified — breathed to the ear and
broken to the heart. This is what Puttenham calls giving
the ' privy nippe,' the sly pinch of disparagement under the
pretended fondling of praise ; it is serving up the honey
with a sting in it. ' There's no such sport as sport by sport
o'erthrown,' says the Princess in ' Love's Labour's Lost ; '
and tliis is the sort of sport which the speaker here makes
■with the lady who has made sport of him, and pastime of his
passion. He is showing that he can ' gleek upon occasion.'
The ultention of the sonnet is to decry and depreciate under
an assumed guise of praise. Ko one can suppose, for ex-
ample, if the lady's breasts were dun-coloured, that the fact
was mentioned for the sake of flattery, or that the description
of the breath reeMng from her indicates any niceness of
feeling ! Tlie apparent frankness of statement is not meant
to please, but to take in and entrap the unwary seeker of
flattery. It is a bit of malicious subtlety to call the lady's hair
' black wires,' which was so often be-sung as golden hair ;
and she had been so vain of its mellow splendour — so proud
of its repute ! The use of tlie word ' wires' points to this
ironic reading, for the primary comparison of hair with
'wnre ' is when it is golden — tlie golden wire which was made
when Apollo's lute was strung with his sunny hair. It is
always golden wires that hair is likened to in our poetry.
It is not tlie quality of the hair, not the wiryness^ as we
say, l)ut the colour that is meant to he decried, and the ex-
pression is ' hlach wires,' whicli, by implication, points to
a far dlfleront colour. If it were necessary I might parry
this expression with another which was made equally at
random, and not meant to be a statement of fact —
* In nothing art thou hlach, save in thy deeds.'
13ut there is the '?/' to be considered — 'much virtue in
THE SAME LADY, THOUGH SOMEWHAT CHANGED. 3o9
ail " if! " ' — ' If liairs be ^vires,' says tlie speaker, ' black
wires grow on her head.' So that the 'black' is only used
conditionally, and the ftict remains that 'hairs' are not
' wires.' The lady's hair was just as much black as her
breasts were ' diui^ ' and no more. It is the eyes alone
that have put on black — that ' sweet black which veib
her heavenly eye,' as Sidney describes it in his 20th sonnet.
This is proved by sonnet 132, where the eyes only are in
mourning, and the speaker says how well this mournnig,
wliicli the eyes have put on, becomes her, in spite of the
admitted incongruity, and lie continues —
* let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning- doth thee grace.
And suit iJty pity like in every 'part I'
Tliere is no mention of black hair or swarthy skin, but if she
will do this and go into mourning altogetlier, then he will
* Swear Beauty herself is black.
And all they foul that thy complexion lack.'
This 130th sonnet is not intended as a true description of
the lady, but such a deprecation as shall serve to confess
the speaker's fatuity, and mock a coquette's vanity.
Of course if Penelope Eich be the lady of these sonnets,
she is not the Lady Eich of Sidney's love. Time and the
turn of things have had their way. She is now getting on
for forty, althougli one of those who never do feel forty. Tlie
lustres of youtli have somewhat dimmed ; the splendour
of her beauty has been doubly tarnished. Besides, it is
not the wiiter's cue to praise, the description is not in-
tended to flatter. He never meant to laud tlie golden
garniture of her sunshiny head — the ' yellow locks that
shone so bright and long ' in Spenser's verse, and glowed
so in Sidney's eyes. (Moreover, I hold this 130th sonnet to
be Herbert's and lacking Shakspeare's certainty of touch !)
Iler cheeks also are compared to the ' grey cheeks of the
cast,' and the 'sober west' in their faded paleness, lia\iiig
360 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
lost the 5'Oimg red that used to flush up wlien the smile
took its rosy rise from the cupid-coriiered moutli, and
spread over them in a soft auroral bloom, ' as of rose-
leaves a little stirred ' with the warm breath of Sidney's
love. This is Lady liicli with the spring-freshness gone,
the blusliing graces withdrawn. Lady Eich in the rem-
nant of her loveliness and I'cfuse of her deeds ! But
chansfinoj as she is, there is all the old fire, and in her
plainness she is proudly cruel as those who are in the
first blush of their budding-time. And the black eyes
remain imperial as of old in their infatuating charm ;
cunning as ever in the black art of their beauty — full of
the old spells, with a power to haunt like the weird
eyes of a dream. There is a reminder too of Stella's eyes
in ' tliat full Star that ushers in the Even.'
Tlie nature of Herbert's passion, and the deepening
shadows of Lady Eich's character made it impossible, had
he been so minded, for Shakspeare to laud her like
Sidney liad done, as ' that virtuous soul, sure heir of
heavenly bliss V and '■rich in those gifts which give the
eternal crown.'' Nor did he look on her through Sidney's
eyes. He had seen and heard of her later gifts and
graces. Yet, in spite of tlie toucli of time, and the waste
of a passionate life in her intense face — in spite of the
descriptions wliicii so tend to defeature the image set up
by Sidney — we recognise the lady of the mourning eyes,
the complexion beyond the reach of Art, whose blackness
was above all otlier beauty, and know her by the original
likeness that passes all likeness of imitation.
Apart from otlier evidence, there must be some })ar-
ticular meaning in Sliakspeare's repeated description of
the eyes having put on mourning, and tlie arguments
being so perfectly those of Sidney, when the peculiarity
Avas so singular, the complexion so rare and without
rival as to constitute a title to fame, for the first poitrait
f)f Lady Eich, wc must r('meml)er, appears in tlie work
VERY UNUSUAL IXDIVIDUALISATIOX. 301
that was -written for William llci'bert's inotlier, and it
reappears in tliese sonnets written for the son. Besides
which this dwelling upon a featm'e is so thoroughly
opposed to Shakspeare's usual way of Avorking. Ex-
cept for a humorous purpose, as in the case of Bar-
dolph's firebrand of a nose, and FalstaflTs mountain of a
belly, it is not his habit to mnke featureli/ remarks, or to
map out his characters by any of their particular physical
signs. We do not remember Shakspeare's men and wo-
men, as a rule, by their personal featiu'es. Not that the
poet generalises them into vagueness, but the instinct of
the Actor was alive to the fact that any stereotyped set of
features would have interfered Avitli the ])erfect pourtrayal
in action. The girth of Falstaff is always a difficulty, be-
cause the idea which has been given to the spectators
must be acted up to ! And Shakspeare wisely abstained
from giving liis own set of faces and features, which must
have left but little or no latitude in playing. He gives us
the spirit of the character minutely fuiished, but leaves the
])hysical face a good deal to the actor, and thus alloA\'s
scope to the imagination, and a great possible variety
of ' filling in' ; this he does wdth so careless an air, but
such cunning of hand, that he is gone before we have
noted it ! So that there must be some very uncom-
mon cau>^e for these repetitions of the ' mourning eyes,'
and this frequent looking into their unfiithomable dark-
ness. For I shall show that these eyes haunted the im-
agination of Shakspeare as much as they did that of any
other Ehzabethan poet. There is notliing like it in the South-
ampton sonnets ; no such dwelling on a j^articular feature.
Therefore the explanation must be sought in the nature of
the object, and there is snllicient internal evidence to
show tluit in the })res(.'nt instance Shakspeare and Sidney
both drew from one original, and that the one poet re-
peated the other's description because he was a})plying it
to the same ladv.
502 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
The sentiment in these sonnets of the eyes in mourning
and of hlach being the sole beauty, together with the
argument for the eyes and brows being black, when,
according to the other parts, they ought not to he so^ is
only a repetition, curiously complete, from the play of
' Love's Labour's Lost.' It is there applied to ' Eosaline'
by Lord Biron. Again the same mistake has occurred.
Eosaline is not a dark lady in the ordinary sense. It is the
remarka])le complexion of Lady Eich once more. It is
the peerless eyes of 'Stella' that have burned on Lord Biron
and made his temperament all tinder to their sparks —
' Oh, but her eye ! by this light, but for her eye, I would
not love her : yes, but for her two eyes ' — tlie startling
strangeness of her black eyes and eyebrows, under the
tawny yellow hair, that excites the jesting comments of tlie
merry mocking lords. The peculiarity of wdiich they make
fun is something beyond a dark skin : that would not ex-
plain the pleasant conceit wliich moves their mirth. Lord
Biron only defends the lady's eyes and brows, on account
of blackness, and Sliakspeare would not have written in
this manner had tlie case been simple as supposed.
* 0, who can give an oath ? where is a book ?
That I may swear Beauty doth beauty lack,
If that she learn not of her eye to look :
No face is fair that is not full so black.
0, 'if in black my lady''s brow be decked
It TYiourns that painting and usurping hair.
Should ravish doters with a false aspect.
And therefore is she born to make black fair.
Her favour turns tJte fashion of these days,
For native blood is counted painting now ;
And therefore red that would avoid dispraise
Paints itself black to imitate her brow.'
It is the eyes and brows that are black, not the hair,
nor the swarthiness of skin.
' No face is fair that is not full so black.'
ONLY ONE LADY OF TIIE ' MOURNING EYES.' 303
It is the red eyebrow that Avas bhickenetl to avoid dis-
praise, not the red head of hair. Xow, as ruddy golden
hair was tlie fasliioii of Elizabeth's days, if Eosaline's hair
had been black, the others ought to have dyed their hair
as well as their eyebrows. The statement carefully
confines the comparison to the lady's eyes and brow.
Evidently her hair was in fashion. The eyes and the
brow alone mourned over the falsehood of other com-
plexions, with which tricks were pla3^ed artificially. The
perfect contrast of her complexion was a trick of Nature's
own ; not to be approached by any cunningnesses of Art.
Elsewhere Biron calls the lady
' A witty' wanton with a velvet brow,
AVitli two jjitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes.'
The eyes are ' stuck in,' not as naturally belojiging. The
description is the same as that of the sonnets : ' Those
two mourning eyes!' it is also one with Sidney's, and the
sole meeting-place of all three is the person and com-
l)lexion of Lady Rich. Biron's indication of Rosaline's
character is also full of likeness. There is, moreover, the
same personification of that will to which Elizabeth Ver-
non was ' mortgaged \'' the Will that is so punned upon.
' Biron. Is she wedded or no ?
Boyet. To her will, sir, or so.'
And anotlier resemblance in colour. Tlie Kinu- in the
Play exclaims
'l>l;u-k is the Ixulge of he!I,
The hue of dungeons, and the scoivl^ of night.'
' I ciuiiiot tliink Shalvspeare wrote n ' whitehj wanton ; ' he certainly could
not in the .sense of a sjiUow luce or ' cheek of cream,' because Biron savs :
* Of all complpxions the culled sovereignty
J)o moot as at a fair in her fair chock,
"NMiere several worthies make one dijrnitv,
"Where nothing wants that Want itself doth seek.'
"^ Here, I think, my interpretation will determine a disputed reading-.
The king is deciung those brows which have ptd on blackness as the night
364 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
The lady of tlie sonnets is called
* As black as hell, as dark as night.'
This repetition in the latter sonnets from an early play
is the most remarkable in all Shakspeare's writings, and it
reverses his usual custom, which is to repeat in the play,
from the sonnet wlienever he quotes himself The only
satisfactory solution is that the description was written
and repeated for the same person, and all the evidence
concurs, all the points converge in the inevitable conclu-
sion that this was Lady Eich. There was but one Lady
Eich ; a woman who bad no living likeness, and her lady-
ship is the only possible '•she' of these. descriptions which
are not presentments of an ordinary dark complexion, but
of a complexion that was the most extraordinary.
Thus we have Penelope Eich identified as the lady of
the latter sonnets, by the portrait which Sidney drew and
Shakspeare copied. She is identified as the cousm of
Ehzabeth Vernon — the 'Lascivious Grace' that intrigued
for purposes amatory and political — the witch-woman
who had strange cunning in quickening men's pulses — the
tyrant in her capricious power of plaguing. ^Ve have
her identified by the very facts of her married life, her age
in contrast with Herbert's youth, her ill deeds and darken-
ing reputation ; by tlie mysterious union of opposites in her
complexion — the 'light condition in a beauty dark,' and
by the starry immortality of her strange black eyes ; in
short, we have tlie Lady Eich, in feature, and in fame ;
the Lady Eich by nature, and by name.
The Historian Clarendon, in liis portrait of the Earl of
Pembroke, makes a statement very much akin to my
reading of these latter sonnets as spoken by Wilham Her-
bert to Lady Eich. He remarks 'the Earl was immode-
rately given up to women. But, tlierein lie Ukewise
puts on its scowl. In the kings eyes the black brows .are repulsive, on ac-
count of the contrast implied, and he likens their colour to the scowl on the
brow of Night.
CLAr.ENDON'SDESCIJIITION' OK IIKUBEnTS PASSION. .305
retained such a power and jurisdiction over his appetite
that lie was not so much transported with l^eauty and
outward aUurements as with those advantages of tlie
mind, as manifested an extraordinary wit, and spirit,
and knowledge, and administered great pleasure in the
conversation. To these he sacrificed himself, his precious
time, and mucli of his fortune ; and some, who icere
nearest his trust and friendship, were not without appre-
hension that his natural vivacity and vigour of mind
began to lessen and decline by those excessive in-
dulgences.' Tliis is the exact replica of the character
and taste of Shakspeare's speaker. It is a perfect parallel
to the 141st sonnet. Throughout the sonnets, the
speaker keeps saying it is not the outward allure-
ments of the lady's loveliness, that hold his foolish heart
captive : not her hair, nor her complexion, nor her face —
these have not sufiicient beauty to account for his subser-
viency. The eyes, of course, have their charm ; they
are the windows from whence looks a spirit wonderful in
wit and wantoness, and in its ripest age of power; the
potent spirit that by word or look can bind him fast in
strong invisible toils. lie protests he is not the slave
of his senses, but that neither senses nor wits can dissuade
him from loving her. Then, if the character of the speaker
in tliese sonnets is true to the one portrayed by Clarendon,
the character of the Earl's ' particular vanities' is precisely
that of the lady here addressed and of the Lady Eich,
about the vear IGOO. Tlie o;losses of her vouth were
going ; the flower had shed its purest perfume ; those that
once ' kneeled to the rose-bud ' might ' stop their noses '
against the rose over-blown. But, her mauic in workiu"-
on the heart, and Hinging a glamour over the eyes of a
youth, must have attained its supremest sulitlety. She
had a keen wit ; was sprightly in conversation, and could
say things full of salt and sjxirkle as a wave of the sea.
Iler hardened feelings had taken a diamond-like point.
3G6 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Her natural simplicities of the early time were now craftily
turned into conscious art. Practice had made her perfect
in the use of those conquering eyes when they took aim
with their deadly level in the dark. She was mistress of a
combination of forces most fatal to a young and fervent
admirer ; knew well liow to feed liis flame, and could
turn her own years into a maturer charm for his youth.
And as the Herbert of Clarendon's portrait is one in
character with the speaker of these sonnets, and as the
lady of the sonnets is the fittest of types for the females
quoted by the Historian as being so victorious over
the Earl, it is but reasonable to suj^pose that Lady Eicli
may have sat for Clarendon's description as well as for
Shakspeare's. The Poet would not be tlie only person
conversant witli the Earl's passion for this lady. The
knowledge would be extant, the fiict would still live on
in the memory of Clarendon's older friends — one or more
of whom may have been the very friends of Herbert re-
ferred to — when he wrote his history. It is obvious that
he had in mind particular instances from whicli he gene-
ralised his description, and it is certain that no more per-
fect illustration of his meaning could have existed than in
tlie person and character of Lady Eich.
nn?
DRAMATIC SONNETS.
1599-1600.
WILLIAM HERBERT'S PASSION FOR LADY RICH.
In the old age black was not counted fiiir,
Or if it were, it bore not Beauty's name ;
But now is black Beauty's successive heir,
And Beaut V slandered with a bastard shame :
For since each hand hath put on Nature's power,
Fairing the foul with Art's false-borrowed face.
Sweet Beauty hath no name, no holy hour,^
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.
Slandering creation with a false esteem :
Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe.
That every tongue savs, ' Beauty should look so I'
(127.)
' ' No holy hour. The Quarto reads ' bower.' >ralone made tlie altera-
tion, whicli is very happy. The idea is of the hour of worship : this is shown
by the 'profaned' of the next line. Also see sonnet 68 : —
' In him those holy antique hours (of beauty) are seen.'
' * ^fy mistress' eyes,' These eyes are .so dwelt upon, and the lady's hair
is .so obviously omitted as to suggest a something qxiito miaccouiilable.
Walker fancied the ' eyes ' of this line might have been a misprint for
* hairs.' The editors of the * Globe ' and ' Gem ' editions, acting on this
hint, have taken a leap in the dark, and printed * brows.' By ' her eyes so
suited,' Shakspeare did not mean also, but her eyes thus dressed in black.
A repetition which lays a double stress upon the eyes.
308 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing- thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black, and loving mourners be,
liOoking 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 moiu-ning 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. (i32.)
How oft when thou, my Music, music playest
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently swayest
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds.
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand I
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er wiiom 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.'^ (i-^-)
When my Love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, tho' I know she lies :
That slio migljt think me some untutored youth.
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties !
' So in the ' Taming of the Shrew :' —
* Wliat stars do spangle heaven with such beauty
As those two eyes become that heavenly face ? '
2 This is the only sonnet about which I have any lasting misgivings. I
think it may be one of the Southampton series. To me it mirrors the face
of Mistress Yemon rather than that of her cousin. But as it does not neces-
sarily belong to any one of the stories, and as I wish to alter no more than
I am compelled;! have left it witli Herbert's sonnets.
COMPLIMEXTAL IIIONY. 369
Thus vainly thinking- that she thinks me young,
Altho' she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue :
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed :
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that 1 am old ?
0, 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.'
(ms.)
My Mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun ;
Coral is far n\ore 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 damasked, 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."'^
' In the ' Passionate Pilgiiui,' this sonnet reads thus : —
Wlien my Love swears that she is made of trutli,
[ do holiove hpr, tliougli I Imow she lies,
That she mi|-'ht think me some untutored youtli,
UnskilfitU hi the workl's false forf/eries :
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although I kiioir my i/ear.'^ be past the hest,
/ s>nili>i(f credit her false-spealdng tongue,
Out-favitKj fauUn in love with loves ill rest :
But wherefore says m;/ Love that she is i/oioig ?
And wlierefuro say \U)i I tluit I am old ?
(), love's hi'f't hahit is a mothiiuj touyite,
And ago in love loves not to have years told :
Therefore I'll lie with love, and love witli me,
Since that our faults in love thus smothered be.
" ' The hreath that from my Mistress 7-eeks.'' This expression is very
gross to apply to n lady's hreath. When Rliakspeare makes use of it as
* reek,' ' reekv," or ' reochV,' it is meant to bo repulsive, and convoys a coarse
idea, as in Hamlet's description of the King's dalliance with his mother, and
Juliet's shrinking from the hones in the sopuhlne. Here it would have
been stning enough if the Indy had been a Blade.
B B
370 SIIAKSPEAr.E'S SONNETS.
I love to bear 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.
(l30.)
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou. art.
As those whose beaiities 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,
Altho' 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 judgement's place !
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.
(131.)
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport ;
Both grace and faidts are loved 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-esteemed.
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deemed :
How many lambs might the stern Wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate !
How many gazers might'st thou lead away
If thou would'st use the strength of all thy state I
' Bvt do not so : I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.'' '
(96.)
1 The sonnets are so essentially self-contained in subject, so limited in tlio
range of their reference to matters concerning- the private friends, that we
THE TWO WILLS. 371
\Mioever hath her wisli, 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 KICH 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/ '
(135.)
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 I
Thus far, for love, my lovesuit. Sweet I fulfil :
Lave but a small circle to traverse for the purpose of identification, whether
of person or circumstance. Thus we may conclude that the past love-
quarrel and its consequent ' night of woe ' referred to by Southampton
in sonnet 120, is the same as we saw taking place in ' Elizabeth Vernon's
Jealousy ; ' that being the very reason why it was referred to ! So of the
gift-book which has been parted with in sonnet 122. It is the same as Shak-
speare was about to write in in sonnet 38 ; the same as he was writing in when
he composed sonnet 77, and that again is the reason why a soimet is devoted
to its being given away. So of the lady of these latter sonnets, whose wan-
ton graces have ' such becoming of things ill.' She is here written of be-
cause she was the siren addressed in tlie earlier ones as that * Lascivious
Grace in whom all ill well shows!' Following this clue, I must believe
that these lines were repeated to one who was acquainted with them in
the Southampton sonnets, for therein lies the very point of their sting,
and I candisciiver no other motive for the repetition. But, then, Shakspeare
could not have repeated his own well-known lines for the purpose of scathing
Lady llich with scorn ! I see no other feasible or possible conclusion than
that Herbert repeated two of Shakspeare's lines in a sonnet of his own, be-
cause the lady wa.* already familiar with tlicm.
' The lady's Will is a personitication of her wilfulness; the speaker's
* Will ' is his name ; these I have tried to distinguish. His plea is that the
lady should love his ' Will ' — him.self — rather than hers, and have his
' Will ' instead of her own, by making him her 'Will.'
n I! 2
372 SIL\.KSPEARE'S SONNETS.
AVill 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 reckoned none :
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Tho' in thy store's account I one must be.
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something. Sweet ! to thee :
Make but iny name thy love, and love that still.
And then thou lov'st me, for my name is ' WilU
(l36.)
Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate !
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
0, 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 sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine ;
Robbed 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 :
Boot pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be :
If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
By self-example may est thou be denied !
(142.)
Lo ! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feathered 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 chace.
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 may'st have thy ' Will,'
Jf thou turn l>ack, and my loud crying still.
(143.)
LOVING ELSEWHERE. 373
Being your slave, wliat should I do Init tend
I'pon 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 Sovereigii, 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,' '^
Tho' you do anything, he thinks no ill.
(57.)
That god forbid that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure ;
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave.
Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure !
let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprisoned 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 ;
Do what you will ; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime I
I am to wait, tho' waiting so be hell ;
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.'
(58.)
• ^ Your 'Servant.'' ' Servant ' iiiipHed the ' Mistress ' in the frallantry of
the time. In the ' Two Gentlemen of Verona' (act ii., sc. 4 ), Mistress and
Servant occur three times over in ei^ht lines. In other sonnets the * Mis-
tress ' is spoken of, and in this the rehitionship of the Cavalier Serveufe is
described with marked emphasis.
* ' JJ'ilC This 'Will,' which links sonnet 57 to the Herbert series, ha-s
been quite lost sitrht of ever since the Book of Sonnets was tirst printed.
See remarks in a later chapter.
3 Here is the obverse side of this Coin of Character, with the lady's fea-
tures stamped upon it large as life ! Accordinji: to my interpretation it is
the person addressed in these sonnets, the Lady llich, who, as INisaline,
374 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
0, call me not to justify the wrong
That thy imkindDess lays upon my heart ;
Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue ;
Use power with power and slay me not by art :
Tell me thou lov'st elsewhere, but in my sight
Dear heart ! forbear to glance thine eye aside :
What need'st thou wound with cunning, when thy might
Is more than my o'erpressed defence can bide ?
Let me excuse thee : ah ! my Love well knows
Her pretty looks have been my enemies ;
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
Tliat 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.
(139.)
Be wise as thou art cruel I do not press
jNIy 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,
Tho' not to love, yet, Love, to tell me so ;
tlius threatens that treatment and torture which Ilerhert aclcnowledges in
the heaiitiful tyrant's own words, and humbly accepts in veiy deed.
' IIow I would make him fawn, and he<j, and seek,
And 7vait the season, and observe the times,
And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes,
And shaiK his service wholly to mxj hests,
And make him proud to make mc j)rond, that jests!
So potently* would 1 o'ersway his state
That he shoidd be my fool, and / his fate.''
Lovers Labour's Lost, act v., so. 2.
■ I elect to use this word in place of the ' peiitannt like,^ or 'pniazint like,''
of Quarto and Folio. It may have been ' potent like,' meaning like a poten-
tate ; but I more than doubt if Sliakspeare an'ested his thought niid-swing,
lamed his expression, and checked the coming climax of the lines by a simile
conveyed in that way. Neither do I think the Poet wrote 'you equal po-
tenta ' in ' King .John,' but ' you equal-potent, fieiy-kindled' spirits,' as he
used 'subtle-potent ' in ' Troihis and Crossida.' ' Potently ' points the emplia-
sis on the ' so ' with far more simple force. The whole word was bungled by
the printers, who would find it equally easy to make the ' lie ' into ' like,'
as to convert ' jmtent ' into ' perttaunt.' That it was not ' portent-like,' may
be gathered from a line in ' Coriolanus : ' —
' Arriving,
A place of potency, and sway o' the state.'
Thus read and illustrated, the lines quoted prove the^ chanrjcful potency' of
' Troilus and Cressida' (act ii., sc. 2; to be the right lection.
BLINDFOLD LOVE. 375
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their Physicians know ;
For if I should despair, I sliould grow mad.
And in my madness might speak ill of thee :
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
]Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be :
That I may not be so, nor tljou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, tho' thy proud heart go wide.
(140.)
Cans't thou, 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 mv friend ?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon ?
Nay, if thou lower'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan ?
What merit do I in myself respect.
That is so proud thy service to despise.
When all my best doth worship thy defect.
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes ?
But Love, hate on, for now I know thy mind ;
Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.
(149.)
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.
Be anchored in the bay where all men ride.
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgement 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.
To put fair truth upon so foid a face ?
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
And to this false plague are they now transferred.
(137.)
370 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS,
me I what eyes hath love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight ?
Or if they have, where is my judgement fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright ?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
^Vhat 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 I ' no.
How can it ? 0, how can love's eye be true.
That is so vext with watching and with tears ?
No marvel then, tho' I mistake my view ;
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears :
cunning Love I with tears thou keep'st me blind,
Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find !
(148.)
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 pleased to dote :
Nor are my ears with thy tongue's tune delighted ;
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone :
But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee.
Who leaves, unswayed, 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.
(141.)
' 'Love's eye is not so true as all meu's.' It lias been suggested by the
Editor of ' Walker's Examination,' that a pun was intended in this line on
the ' eye ' and I, i e. ' ay.' And the editors of the ' Globe ' and ' Gem '
editions have adopted it, and read * Love's " eye " is not so true as all men's
" No." ' 13ut I cannot bring myself to believe that Shakspeare thus snapped
tbe continuity and maimed the sense to catch at a quibbling soimd. His point
is that the eye of one cannot see so truly as the eye of all men, and this is
lost if we accept the pun and alter the punctuation. Singleness of expression
is absolutely demanded by the nature of the thought, and for the carrying on
of the argument. Shakspeare did not make all the puns that were possible
to him.
PAST CURfi— PAST CARE! 377
(), fioia wliat power has tliuii this powerful might
\\'ith 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 ?
Wlio taught thee how to make me love thee more
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
0, tho' I love what others do abhor,
With others thou should'st not abhor my state !
If thy unsvorthiness raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.
(l50.)
My love is as a fevei", longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease ;
Feeding on that which dotli preserve the ill.
The uncertain sickly appetite to please :
My lieason, the Physician to my love.
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which Physic did except :
Past cure I am, now reason is past care.
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse, as madmen's, are
At random from the truth vainly expressed ;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright.
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
(^147.)
In lovinii' thee thou know'st I am forsworn.
But thi)-i art twice forsworn, to me love swearing.
In act tliy 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 perjured most ;
For all my vowb are oaths but to misuse thee.
And .-ill inv honest faith in tliee is lost :
378 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
For I have sworn deep oatlis 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.
(152.)
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.
(151.)
The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action ; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame.
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust ;
Enjoyed 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 ;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe ;
Before, a joy proposed ! behind, a tb'eam !
All this the world well knows, yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to thLs hell.
(129.)
FINAL AEPEAT. TO THE LOVER'S MANHOOD. 379
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,
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 aggi-avate thy store ;
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.'
(l4C.)
' The firat two lines of this sonnet in the Quarto read —
' Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Mtj sinful earth these i-cbel poivers that thee mray.^
There being two syllables too many in the second line, Malone thought the
printers had inadvertently repeated ' my sinful eai-th/ and proposed to read,
' Fooled by these rebel powers that thee array.'
Steevens would read, ' Starved by the rebel powers.' It has been sug-
gested that we should read, ' Foiled by these rebel powers.' Also, * Slave to
these rebel powers, &c.' I have simply taken out two superfluous words,
which the printers stuck in, and the result is perfect sense, without losing
the added touch of solemnity that is given, and obviously intended, bv tlie
repetition of * my siii/td earth.'' The sonnet is in Shakspeare's largest, sim-
plest style, and lie would not have cramped his second line bv such an expres-
sion as ' that thoe array.' Not only would not, he could uot, for there is no
Hhee' to address in this line. These ^ rebel powers^ do not array the soid;
they are of the flesh ; they array his sinful earth. ' Array,' here, does not
only mean dross, I think it also signifies that in the flesh these rebel powers
set their battle in array against the soul.
380 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
LADY PENELOPE RICH.
Penelope Devereux was a daughter of one of those proud
old Eiighsh houses, whose descendants love to dwell on
the fact that they came in with the Norman Conquest.
The progenitor of the English branch of the Devereux'
bore high rank in Normandy before he carved out a larger
space for himself on English soil at the battle of Hastings
as one of Duke William's ii^htiuo- men. He became the
founder of an illustrious H(juse that was destined to match
four times with the royal Plan tagenets, and to be enriched
with the blood and inherit tlie honours of the Bohuns and
Pitzpierces, Mandevilles and Bouchiers. On the father's
side, Penelope Devereux descended from Edward HI., and
her mother, Lettice Knollys, was cousin, once removed, to
Queen Elizabeth. Thus a dash of blood doubly-royal ran
in her veins, and in her own pei^sonal beauty this noble
sap of the family tree appears by all i-eport to have put
forth a worthy blossom.
Her father was that good Earl Walter whom Elizabeth
called ' a rare jewel of her realm and an ornament of her
nobility,' whose character was altogether of a loftier kind
than that of his more famous son Eobert, the royal Fa-
vourite. His story is one of tlie most toucliing — he
having, as it was suspected, had to change worlds in order
that Leicester might change women.
Penelope was four years older than hvr brother liobcrt.
DEATH OF THE GOOD EAIIL WALTER. 381
She was born at Cliartley in 15G3. Very little is known
of Iier chilclhood. She was but thirteen years of age, the
oldest of five children, at the time of her father's early
death, and the bitterest pang felt by the brave and gentle
Earl was caused at his parting from the little ones that
were being left so young when they so muoh needed his
fatherly forethought and protecting care.
There are few stories more pathetic than that told of
this Earl's beaiingon his death-bed, by the faithful pen of
some affectionate soul, said to have been one of his two
chaplains, Thomas Knell by name. lie suffered terribly
and was grievously tormented, says the narrator, for the
space of twenty-two days. He was dying far from liis poor
children, who were about to be left fatherless, w4th almost
worse than no mother. He may have had a dark thought
that he had been sent away by one of his enemy's cunning
Court-tricks to be stricken and to die — ' nothinf^ was
omitted,' says Camden, ' whereby to break his mild spirit
with continual crosses one in the neck of another' — that
Leicester was secretly taking his life preliminary to the
taking of his wife ; but he bore his affliction with a most
valiant mind, and, ' although he felt intolerable pain, yet
he had so cheerful and noble a countenance that he seemed
to suffer none at all, or very little,' nor did he mur-
mur through all the time and all the torture. He is
described as speaking ' more like a divine preacher and
heavenly prophet' than a mortal man, lying or kneeling
with a light soft as the light of a mother's blessing, smiling
down from her place in heaven, on his fine face, which
was moulded by Xature in her noblest mood, and finished
by suffering with its keenest chisel. ' What he spoke,'
says the narrator, ' brake our very liearts, and forced out
abundant tears, partly for joy of his godly mind, partly
for the doctrine and comfort we had of his words. But,
chiefly I blurred the paper with tears as I writ." Ilis
only care in worldly matters was for his children, to
382 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
whom often lie commended liis love and blessing, and
yielded many times, even with great sighs, most devout
prayers to God that he would bless them and give them
his grace to fear him. For his daughters also he prayed,
lamenting the time, which is so vain and ungodly, as he
said, considering the frailness of women, lest they should
learn of the vile world. He never seemed to sorrow but
for his children. ' Oh, my poor children,' often would he
say, ' God bless you, and give you his grace.' Many times
begging mercy at the hands of God, and forgiveness of
his sins, he cried out unto God, ' Lord forgive me, and
forgive all the world. Lord, from the bottom of my heart,
from the bottom of my heart, even all the injuries and
wrongs. Lord, that any have done unto me. Lord, for-
give them, as I forgive them from the bottom of my
heart.' He was anxious that Philip Sidney should marry
his daughter Penelope, and in feeling he bequeathed her
to him. Speaking of Sidney, two nights before he died
he said, ' Oh, that good gentleman ! have me commended
unto him, and tell liim I send him nothing, but I wish
him well, and so well that if God so move both their
liearts, I wish that he might match with my daughter. I
call him son. He is wise, virtuous and godly ; and if he
go on in the course he hath begun, he will be as famous
and worthy a gentleman as England ever bred.' Two
days before his death he wrote his last letter to the Queen,
in wdiich he huml)ly commits his poor children to her
Majesty, and her Majesty to the keeping of God. ' My
humble suit must yet extend itself further into many
branches, for the behoof of my poor children, that since
God doth now make them fatherless, yet it will please
your Majesty to be a mother unto them, at the least by
your gracious countenance and care of tlieir education,
and their matches.' The night before he died ' he called
William Hewes, which was his musician, to play upon the
virginals and to sing. Play, said he, my song, Will Hewes,
SIDNEY'S LOVE FOR PEXELOPE DEVEREUX. 883
and I will sing it myself. So lie did it most joyfully, not
as the liowling swan, which, still looking down, wailetli
her end, but as a sweet lark, lifting u\) his hands and
casting up his eyes to his God, with this moinited the
crystal skies and reached with his imwearied tongue the
top of the highest heavens. Who could have heard and seen
this violent conflict, having not a stonied heart, without
innumerable tears and watery plaints F' Unhappil}^ the
dying father's Avish on the subject of his daughter's mar-
riasfc was not to be fidfilled. Waterhouse, in his letter
to Sir H. Sidney,' unconsciously uttered a prophecy
when he said, ' Truly, my lord, I must say to your lord-
ship, as I have said to my Lord of Leicester and Mr.
Philip, the breaking off from this match will turn to more
dishonour than can be repaired with any other marriage
in England ! ' The marriage did not take place, and in
many wa5"s the predicted dishonour came.
It has been conjectured that Sidney alluded to Lady
Penelope in a letter to his friend, Languet, who, in the
course of their correspondence, had exhorted him to marry.
lie says, ' Respecting her of whom I readily acknowledge
how unworthy I am, I have written you my reasons long
since, briefly indeed, but yet as well as I was able.'^ If
Sidney spoke of Lady Penelope Devereux in this letter,
his reasons for not marrying just then may have been that
he thought her too young at that time, for she was but
fifteen years old, the date of his letter being March 1578.
In his 33rd sonnet he reproaches himself for not being able
to see by the ' rising moon' what a 'fair day' was about
to unfold. It is not probable that the two lovers were
already apart three years before the lady's marriage with
Lord Pioh. The time came, however, when, from some
fatal cause or other, they were sundered, although there
' Si/(lnri/ McnioirSy i. 147.
^ CoiTo.'^poiuU'nce of Siduey and Languet, translated by S. A. Pears,
1845: p. 144.
384 SH.\KSPIL\r.E'S SOXyETS.
is proof that tliey had been drawn together by very
tender ties.
Lady Penelope Devereiix in her eighteenth year, had
bloomed into such a rose of beautv, as would have found
(we like to think,) a fit nestling place for giving forth its
sweetness in the bosom of Philip Sidney I And it seems
one of those sad inevitable things which make so much
of the tragedy of the human lot, that these two should
not have come together. If they liad married, how
different it all micrht have Ijeen !
Heylin describes Penelope Devereux as being • a lady
in whom lodged all attractive graces of beauty, wit, and
sweetness of beha\'iour. which miirht render lier the
absolute mistress of all eyes and hearts.' '\V]iat Sidney
was, the world has gathered from the glimpse we get
of him, in his brief beautiful life, and saintly death. In
his nature, humanitv nearlv touched the summit of its
nobleness. And, from him, Penelope was taken to be
given to a man whose character as nearly sounded the
deptlis of human baseness. Thus the radiance of her
tender romance died out, and tiie hues of love's young
dawn all faded into the hght of common day I
Sidney has told the stoiy of his love foi- Lady Iciuh
under the title of ' A.strophel and Stella.' in 108 sonnets,
which were first printed in quarto. L501. He asks us to
hsteu to him, because he must iiufuld a riddle of his OAvn
life. It was of this personal passion of his, that the Muse
said to him : ' Fool I look in thy heart and write.'' The
object of his writing, he tells us, w^as that the ' dear she,'
whom he had lost for ever through her jnarriajre with
Lord Piich, might ' take some pleasure of his pain ; ' a
sentiment that springs straight from the deepest root of
the feeling of whicli it has been .said, ' All other pleasures
are not w^orth its pains ! '
We have seen something of Penelope Devereux's per-
sonal graces as pictured by her lover in the ' Arcadia.'
THE LOVERS PARTED. 385
lu these sonnets he again describes lier as liaving ' black
eyes,' and ' golden hair,' and he dwells mucli upon those
' black stars,' and ' black beams ' of her eyes. He illus-
trates the peculiarity of her complexion, and the ' kindly
claret' of her cheek, by a story. The 22nd sonnet
relates how on a hot summer's day he met ' Stella ' with
some other fair ladies. They were on horse-back, with a
burning sun in the cloudless blue. The other Ladies were
compelled to shade their faces with their fans to preserve
their fairness; 'Stella' alone rode with her beauty bare,
and she the daintiest of all, went openly free from harm,
whilst the ' hid and meaner beauties,' were parched.
* The cause was this ;
The Sun which others hurned, did her but kiss.'
It is of Lady Eich that Sidney speaks, when in sonnet
39, he uiakes his enchanting promise to Sleep, in that
most charming of invocations. —
' make in me these civil wars to cease !
I will good tribute pay if thou do so ;
Take thou of me, sweet pillows, sweetest bed ;
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to Hght ;
A rosy garland and a weary head :
And if these things, as being thine by right.
Move not thy heavy grace, tlwu shall in mc^
Livelier than elseivhere, S fella's image seel '
Not only is she 'rich in all beauties' thai man's eye can
look on, but she is likewise, —
' Kicli in tlie treasnre of deserved renown;
Kiili in tli(^ riches of a royal heart;
Kich in those gifts whicli give the Eternal Crown ;
Wlio, tho' most Eich in these and every part
Wliich make the patents of true earthly bliss,
llatli no misfortune, l)ut, that Rich she is.'
This lady so rich by nature is cursed in being Rich by
cc
386 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
name. The 33rd sonnet appears to tell iis liow the Poet
lost her. —
' I might, unhappy word I me ! I might,
And then would not, or could not see my bliss ;
Till now, wrapt in a most infernal night,
I find how heavenly day, Wretch ! I did miss.
Heart ! rend thyself, thou dost thyself but right ;
No lovely Paris made thy Helen his !
No force, no fraud, robbed thee of thy delight.
Nor Fortune of thy fortune author is :
But to myself, myself did give the blow.
While too much wit (forsooth) ! so troubled me.
That I respects for both our sakes must show :
And yet could not, by rising Morn foresee
How fair a day was near ! punished eyes !
That I had been more foolish, or more wise.'
He might have called her his own, but he must needs
show Ills ■wisdom by waiting a little longer. He was
troubled in the matter with too many thoughts, and too
much wit forsooth. He stood upon respects for both
their sakes, which kept them asunder until it was too
late. For wdhlst he would, and would not ; looked and
longed, and shyly shilly-shallied, other influences were
brought to bear. The lady's friends were anxious that
she should wed a wealthy fool, and possibly the proud
impetuous beauty of sixteen or seventeen may have felt
piqued at Sidney's delay, and wilfully played into the
hands of an evil fortune. How Sidney was aroused from
his dream, and awoke to the fact that he had lost his
day, and might now stretch forth liis empty arms till
they ached, and call in vain upon those eyes that were
far from him as the stars, is told in his sonnets ; how
the reckless lady found that she had dashed away the
sweetest, purest cup of noble love ever proffered to her
hps, is" written in her after-life, and in the useless search
for that which she had missed once and for ever. Tlie
two were doomed to walk on the opposite banks, with
CHARACTER OF LORD RICH. 387
yearnings toward eacli otlicr, wliile tlie river of life kept
broadening on between them, pusliing tliem farther and
farther apart, who were sundered for all time, possibly
for eternity.
The character of Lord Rich as a husband is painted
by Sidney in sonnet 22. The description agrees with
others in representing him to have been a poor, vulgar
Lord with a very sordid soul.
' Rich fools there be, whose base and filthy heart
Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow
And damning their own selves to Tantal's smart;
Wealth breeding want; more blest, more wretched grow:
Yet to those fools Heaven doth such wit impart.
As ivhat their hands do hold their heads do krunv.
And knowing love, and, loving, lay apart
As sacred things, far from all Danger's show !
But tliat rich Fool who, by blind Fortune's lot.
The richest gem of love and life enjoys,
And can with foul abuse such beauties blot;
Let him, deprived of sweet but unfelt joys,
(Exiled for aye from those high treasures, which
He knows not) grow in only folly rich.'
The sonnets lead us to think that the lady's heart
remained with Sidney ; although or because he depicts the
passion as being kept sacred chielly tlirough her o^vn
strength of character. In sonnet 11 he treats the subject
in an elegantly quaint manner. ' In trutli, love,' he
exclaims, ' with what a boyish mind thou dost proceed in
thy most serious ways ! Here is heaven displaying its
best to thee. Yet of that best tliou leavest the best behind.'
For like a child that has found some pretty picture-book
with gilded leaves, and is content with the glitter and
the outside show, and does not care for the written riches,
so love is content to play at ' looking babies ' in Stella's
eyes, and at bo-peep in her bosom.
* Sliining in each outward part,
But, fool ! seeks not to get into her heart.'
c c 2
388 SHAIvSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Then the lover's pleadings grow more in earnest.
* Soul's joy ! bend not those morning stars from me,
Where virtue is made strong by beauty's might ;
Where love is chasteness, pain doth learn delight.
And humbleness grows on -with majesty:
Whatever may ensue, oh let me be
Copartner of the riches of that sight :
Let not mine eyes be hell-driven from that light ;
Oh look ! oh shine ! oh let me die, and see ! '
In sonnet 73, the Poet has dared to steal a kiss whilst
the lady was sleeping, and the aspect of her beauty, when
ruddy mth wrath, causes him to exclaim
* heavenly fool ! thy most kiss-worthy face.
Anger invests with such a lovely grace.
That Anger's self I needs must kiss again ! '
This stolen kiss was the one immortalized in his famous
81st sonnet, commencing
' kiss I which dost those ruddy gems impart.'
In one of the songs interspersed among the sonnets, the
Poet also tells us of a stolen interview on the part of the
two Lovers.
' In a grove most rich with shade.
Where birds wanton music made ;
Astrophel with Stella sweet,
Did for mutual comfort meet ;
Both within themselves oppressed.
Both each in the other blest,
llirn great harms had taught much care;
Her fair neck a foul yoke bare :
Wept they had ; alas the while I
But now tears themselves did smile.'
Here they had met, with eager eyes and hungry ears,
asking to know all about eacdi otlier in absence.
A STOLEN LOVE-TnYST. 389
* Rut, their tongues restrained from walking,
Till their hearts had ended talking I '
At length the lover pleads —
* Stella, sovereign of my joy.
Fair triumpher of annoy ;
Stella, star of heavenly fire,
Stella, loadstar of desire :
Stella, in whose shining eyes,
Are the lights of Cupid's skies :
Stella, whose voice when it speaks.
Senses all asunder breaks ;
Stella, whose voice when it singeth,
Angels to acquaintance bringeth ;
Stella, in whose body is
Writ each character of bliss,
WTiose face all, all beauty passeth
Save thy mind, which it surpasseth,
Grant, grant — but speech alas !
Fails me, fearing on to pass ;
Grant — oh me, what am I saying ?
But no fault there is in praying !
Stella replies, and
* In such wise she love denied
As yet love it signified.'
For whilst telling him to cease to sue, she says his grief
doth grieve her worse than death, and
* If that any thought in me
Can taste comfort but of thee.
Let me feed, with hellish anguish
Joyless, helpless, endless languish !
Therefore, Dear, this no more move
Lest, tho' I leave not thy love.
Which too deep in me is framed,
I should blush when thou art named.'
Thus we have it upon Sidney's testimony, that the lady
triumphed in her purity, Avhilst acknowledging him to be
390 SHAIvSPExVRE'S SONNETS.
the natural lord of her love. The conditions on which
she was his, are stated in sonnet 69.
* joy too high for my low style to show,
bliss fit for a nohler state than me !
Envy put out thine eyes, lest thou do see
What oceans of delight in me do flow.
My friend that oft saw'st thro' all masks of woe.
Come, come, and let me pour myself on thee.
Gone is the winter of my misery ;
My Spring appears ; see what here doth grow !
For Stella hath, with words where faith doth shine.
Of her high heart given me the monarchy :
I, I, oh ! I may say that she is mine :
And tho' she give but thus conditionly
This realm of bliss, while virtuous course I take.
No kings be crown'd but they some covenants make.'
The marriage of Penelope Devereux with Lord Kich,
appears to have been promoted by the Earl of Huntingxlon,
then Lord President of the North, who was a great friend of
the hunily, a relative also, and one of the guardians of the
young Earl of Essex. The sisters, Penelope and Dorothy,
sometimes resided in his house. In a letter addressed to
Lord Burghley, the other guardian, March 10th, 1580,
the Earl of Huntingdon proposed that a match should be
made between the Lady Penelope and the young Lord
Eich, he ' being a proper gentleman, and in years very
suitable.' ^ In August of the same year, Essex informs
Burghley that he is about to leave Cambridge for a time,
on purpose to accompany Lord Eich, 'who, for many
causes not unknown ' to the guardian, was very dear to
him. The handing over of the Lady Penelope to* this
Lord Cloten, was then about to be completed.
In his ' Epistle to the King,' with which the Earl of
Devonshire accompanied the ' Discourse ' wTitten by him
in defence of his marriage with Lady Eich, the case is
1 Lanscl MSS., 31, f. 40.
STELLA'S FORCED MARRLVGE. 391
thus put on behalf of the ' poor lost sheep,' shut out of the
fold, as he calls his wife. 'A lady of great birth and
virtue, being in the power of her friends, was by them
married against her will unto one against whom she did
protest at the* very solemnity, and ever after ; between
whom, from the first day, there ensued continual discord,
altho' the same fears that forced her to marry, constrained
her to live with him. Instead of a comforter, he did
study in all things to torment her ; and by fear and fraud
did practise to deceive her of her dowry ; and tho' he
forbore to offer her any open -wrong, restrained with the
awe of her Brother's powerfulness, yet as he had not in
long time before (the death of Essex) in the chiefest
duty of a husband used her as his wife, so presently after
his death, he did put her to a stipend, and abandoned her
without pretence of any cause, but his own desire to live
without her.' It was, says Mountjoy, after Lord Eich had
withdrawn himself from her bed for the space of twelve
years, that he did ' by persuasions and threatenings, move
her to consent unto a divorce, and to confess a ftiult with
a nameless stranger ! '
Two years after the marriage of Penelope Devereux
witli Lord Eich, Phihp Sidney married the daughter of
Sir Francis Walsingliam, but if we are to trust the son-
nets, and poetry is often true to the deepest trutli, his
love for Lady Eich, and her love for him, must have sur-
vived the marriage of both. Sidney was struck do\vn with
liis mortal wound at Zutphen, on the 22nd of September,
1586, and he died on the 17th of the October foUowinir.
His Avidow was again married, this time to the Earl of
Essex, in the year 1590. She thus became sister to Lady
Eich, Sidney's first love. The sonnets in which Sidney
had proclaimed his passion were first pubhshed in the
next yeai\ And, as a curious illustration of the mannei's
of the time, Spenser in a new Volume of Poems printed
in 1505, also celebrated the loves of 'Astrophel and
392 SIIAKSrEAEE'S SONNETS.
Stella,' and inscribed the poem ' to the most beautiful
and virtuous Lady, the Countess of Essex.' Thus Sidney,
having lost his first love, and being in all likelihood mar-
ried at the time, was not only deeply in love with the wife
of another man, but sang of it in fervent verse, and rejoiced
in it, ' tho' nations might count it shame,' and, after his
death, liis friend, the Poet Spenser, publishes an apotheosis
of this passion, and respectfully dedicates his poem to
Sidney's widow, who had now become LadyEich's sister!
In applying the latter sonnets of Shakspeare to the
character of Lady Eich, it will be well to recall this
puzzling state of things, in relation to the sonnets of Sid-
ney and the poetry of Spenser. Spenser introduces Lady
Eich as ' Stella' in his ' Colin Clout's come home again' —
' Ne less praiseworthy Stella, do I read,
Tho' nought my praises of her needed are.
Whom verse of noLlest Shepherd, lately dead.
Hath praised and raised above each other star.'
And in his ' Astrophel ; a pastoral Elegy upon the Death
of the most noble and valourous Knight, Sir Philip Sidney,'
lie has caught up for immortality that early love of Sidney's
for Lady Eich, with the tenderness of its clewy dawn about
it, and the purple bloom of young desire. Many maidens,
says the Poet, would have delighted in his love, but
* For one alone he cared, for one he sigh't.
His life's desire, and his dear love's delidit.
Stella the fair, the fairest star in sky.
As fair as Venus or the fairest fair ;
A fairer star saw never living eye
Shoot her sharp-pointed beams thro' purest air:
Her he did love, her he alone did honour.
His thouglits, his rhymes, his songs were all upon her.
To her ho vowed the service of his days,
On her lie spent the riches of his wit,
For her he made hymns of immortal praise,
Of only her he sung, he thought, he writ.'
SPENSER'S ' ASTROPIIEL AND STELLA.' 393
Tliis 'gentle Shepherd born in Arcady,' was engaged in
luinting, on foreign soil, in a forest \vide and waste, where
he was wounded by a wild beast. There he lay bleeding
to death,
* While none was nigh his eyelids up to close,
And kiss his lips like faded leaves of rose.'
At length he was found by some shepherds, who stopped
liis wound, though too late, and bore him to his ' dearest
love,' his Stella, who, when she saw the sorry sight,
' Her yellow locks, that shone so bright and long,
As sunny beams in fairest summer's day,
She fiercely tore, and with outrageous wrong
From her red cheeks the roses rent away.
His pallid face impictured with death.
She bathed oft with tears and dried oft ;
And with sweet kisses sucked the wasting breath
Out of his lips, like lilies, pale and soft.'
He dies, and her spirit at once follows his !
* To prove that death their hearts cannot divide.
Which living were in love so firmly tied.'
* The Gods, which all things see, this same beheld.
And pitying this pair of lovers true.
Transformed them there lying on the field
Into one flower that is both red and blue ;
It first grows red, and then to blue doth fade.
Like Astrophel, which thereinto was made.
' And in the midst thereof a star appears,
As fairly formed as any star in skies,
Resembling .Stella in her freshest years.
Forth-darting beams of beauty from her eyes ;
And all the day it standeth full of dew.
Which is the tears that from her eyes did flow.
' That herb of some Starlight is called by name,
Of others Penthia, tho' not so well ;
But thou, wherever thou dost find the same.
From this day forth do call it Astrophel :
And whensoever thou it up dost take,
Do pluck it softly, for that shepherd's sake.'
394 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
This representation was most unfair to Sidney's wife,
who followed him to the Netherlands in June or July ;
was near him in his pain, to soothe him and kiss the fixding
hps, and when the knitted brows smoothed out nobly into
rest, she was there ' his eyelids up to close.' This thought,
however, did not trouble the serene Spenser.
We are not told in prose how Lady Eich felt and bore
the death of Sidney, but Lodowick Bryskett, in his
' Mourning Muse of Thestylis ' ^ professes to give an ac-
count of her bearing and appearance under the affliction.
He says 'twas piteous to hear her plaints, and see her
' heavy mourning cheere,' while from ' those two bright
stars, to him sometime so dear, her heart sent drops of
pearl.' He continues in some quotable lines—
* If Venus when she wailed her dear Adonis slain,
Aught moved in thy fierce heart compassion of her woe,
Her noble Sister's plaints, her sighs and tears among,
Would sure have made thee mild, and inly rue her pain :
Aurora half so fair herself did never show.
When, from old Tython's bed, she weeping did arise.
The blinded archer-boy, like lark in shower of rain,
Sat bathing of his wings, and glad the time did spend
Under those crystal drops, which fell from her fair eyes ;
And at their brightest beams him proyned in lovely wise.
Yet sorry for her grief, which he could not amend.
The gentle boy 'gan wipe her eyes, and clear those lights,
Those lights thro' which his glory and his conquest shines.'
We shall not find a prettier picture of Love and Lady
Eich !
Spenser, in his poem on the death of Astrophel,
makes Stella follow ' her mate like turtle chaste.' Lady
Eich did nothing of the kind in reality ; it might
1 ' Thestylis ' says the Countess of Pembroke in her * doleful Lay of
Clarinda,' written on Sidney's death, was
' A swain
Of gentle wit, and dainty-sweet de\ace,
Whom Astrophel full dear did entertain
Whilst here he lived, and held in passing price/
LADY RICH'S TROUD SPIRIT, 395
liavc been better for her if she had. Her position was
now most perilous ; one that made her beauty a fatal
gift. Much that was noble in her nature seems to have
passed away with the noble Sidney. In this sense
there may have been some allegorical shadow of the
truth in the Poet's representation. There was no love in
her own home to kindle at the heart of her life, and
touch the face of it with happy health, and hallow her
superb outward beauty with the light that shines sacredly
witliin, or gives the expression from above, whilst the
well-known fact of Sidney's love for her, and the halo of
romance which his poetry had created round her name,
were but too likely to expose her more than ever to fresh
temptations. To these sooner or later she undoubtedly
yielded ; and ' not finding that satisfaction at home she
ought to have received, she looked for it abroad, where
she ought not to find it.' Wliether Mountjoy was the
first cause of serious quarrel betwixt her and Lord Eich,
is not on record. But according to his statement, it
must have been as early as 1592 or 1598, that Lord
Eich, either with or without just cause, withdrew himself
from liis marriage bed. lie soon found that tlie wife he
had bought had to be paid for. Her friends had forced
her to the altar, but there was the after-life to be lived
with her, liice to face, when the same friends could not
help him. She was not the kind of woman to bear her
sorrow proudly silent, or receive his imkindness meekly.
His morose sellishness was not calculated to draw out her
better part. Iler's was not the nature from which the
sweetness is to be crushed by treading on ; not the spirit
to submit to a passive degradation.
• He dreamed a bonny blooming Rose to wed ;
He woke to find a briar in his bed.'
He caught at the flower of which he had obtained legal
possession, and he fell among the thorns. These must
39G SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
have pricked him unmercifully at times with the finger
pointings of scorn, the darts of her wild wit, and the
sharp thrusts of the veiy sting of bitterness.
In a letter written by tliis poor Lord to Essex, Sept. 11th,
1595, we perceive how uneasily he wriggles on one of his
thorns! He is suspicious of the contents of his wife's
letters, which he dares not intercept or open.
'My Lord, — I acknowledge with all thankfulness, your
Lordship's favour, signified by your letters, which I received
yesterday by my man ; entreating leave also to put you in mind
to remember your letters into Staffordshire to your sister, and to
the other ijarty. I met this messenger from thence, but durst not
intercept the letters he brings, for fear these troublesome times
Avill bring forth shortly a parliament, and so perhaps a law to
make it treason to break open letters written to any my lords
of the Council, whereby they are freely privileged to receive
writings from other men's wives without any further question,
and have full authority to see every man's wife at their
pleasure. A lamentable thing, that this injustice should thus
reign in this wicked age. I only entreat your Lordship, that
as you hear anything farther of that matter I wrote to you of,
I may have your pleasure and farther directions. And so, com-
mending your Lordship to the blessed tuition of the Almighty,
I remain your Lordship's poor brother to command in all
honesty.
Ko. KiCH.'*
It is possible that the ' other party ' of this letter may
have been Mountjoy, and ' that matter' referred to the
beginning of his liaison with Lady Eich. If so, Essex
did not trouble himself much in the matter, he rather
winked at the freedom of his sister in trying to exchange
the ' foul yoke her fair neck bore,' for the solace of her
lover's arm. He had his own designs upon Mountjoy.
He could have cared little for the lady's morals, to have
brought home to her close acquaintanceship, and placed
on the most famihar footing, the sparlding, clever, vain,
* Among Anthony £acon^s Papers.
SIGNOR ANTONIO PEREZ. 397
and presumptuous Antonio Perez, tlie Spanisli renegade,
whose intimacy with lier son Francis made good old
Lady Bacon hold up her liands in horror. * Though I
pity your brother,' she Amtes in a letter to Antliony
Bacon, ^ ' yet so long as he pities not himself, but keepeth
that bloody Perez, yea, as a coach companion and bed
companion ; a proud, profane, costly fellow, whose being
about him I verily fear the Lord God doth mislike, and
doth less bless your brother in credit and otherwise in his
health ; surely I am utterly discouraged, and make con-
science furtlier to undo myself to maintain such wretches
as he is, that never loved your brother but for his own
credit, living upon him.' Lady Bacon felt more care for
her son than Essex did for his sister.
A ])retty fellow was this Perez to fdl the situation as-
sicrned to him, in the following letter from Mr. Standen to
Mr. Bacon, which also serves to show us something of the
uncertain temperament and incalculable turns of the Lady
llich. Tlie letter was written in March or April, 1595.
* Riglit Worshipful, — As we were at supper, my Lady
Rich, Signer Perez, Sir Nicholas Clyfford, and myself; there
came upon a sudden into the chamher, ray Lord and Sir Rohert
Sidney, and there was it resolved that Signer Perez must be,
to-morrow morning at eiglit of the clock, with my Lord in
Court ; after which my Lord means to dine at Walsingliam
House, and in the way, to visit Mr. Anthony Bacon ; which, my
Lady Ricli understanding, said she would go also to dine with
them at Walsingham's. And my Lord, asking how she would
be conveyed thither, she answered, that she would go in their
companies, and in coach with them, and, arrived at Mr. ISacon's
house, and there disembarked my Lord, her brother. Sir Robert
should bring her to Walsingham's, and return back with the coach
for my Lord, her brother. All which I write unto you. Sir, by
way of advice, to the end you be not taken unarmed. Women's
discretions being uncertain, it may be she will not dismount,
and the contrary also will fall out. Koiv, it is resolved, that
» Birch, i. 143.
398 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Mr. Perez shall not depart, for that my Lord hath provided
him here ivith the same office those eunuchs have in Turkey,
ivhich is to have the custody of the fairest dames ; so that he
wills me to write, that for the bond he hath with my Lord, he
cannot refuse that office.'^
Ill a postscript to one of her letters to Anthony Bacon,
dated May 3rd, 159G, Lady Eich being at the time in a
' solitary place where no sound of any news can come,'
entreats him to let her know something of tlie world.
Amongst other things, she would fain hear what has
become of liis wandering neighbour, Signor Perez, This
flattering knave and charming hypocrite, who had the
insinuating grace of the serpent, the subtilty and impu-
dence of Lacliimo, was on such familiar terms Avith Lady
Eich as to write the following letter to her, March 26th,
1595.
'Signer Wilson hath given me news of the health of your
Ladyships, the three sisters and goddesses, as in particular, that
all three have amongst yourselves drunk and caroused unto
Nature, in thankfulness of what you owe unto her, in that she
gave 3^ou not those delicate shapes to keep them idle, but rather
that you should push forth unto tis here many buds of those divine
beauties. To these gardeners I wish all happiness for so good
tillage of their grounds. Sweet ladies mine, many of these
carouses ! what a bower I have full of sweets of the like
tillage and trimmage of gardens.' ^
Tlie clever scamp goes on to say thn.t he has written a
book full of such secrets as some persons would not like
to have known. lie appears to intimate that on his re-
turn to England, these people must pay or he shall pub-
lish, so that with the one means or the other, he will live
by his book. 'My Book,' he says, 'will serve my turn.
But I will not be so good cheap this second time. My
receipts will cost dearer, wherefore let every one provide!'
» iJirch, vol. i. p. 229. 2 ^7^^,^^^ ^^.^.^ 4225
LADY RTCII AND LORD MOUNTJOY. nno
111 tlie December of this year 1595, we learn by Row-
land White's Letters tliat there was to be a christening at
Sir Robert Sidney's, to wliich Lady Rich and Lord Mount-
joy were both invited. ' I went to Holborn,' says White,
' and found my Lord Mountjoy at his house. I said my
lady sent me unto him, to desire him, both in your name
and her's, to christen your son tliat was newly born, which
he very honourably promised to do ; and when I told him
my Lady Rich was godmother, he was much pleased at
it!'
Lady Rich had willingly agreed to be a godmother.
White told her that both the mother and child had the
measles, ' to which she suddenly replied, that after eight
days there was no danger to be feared, and therefore it
shall be no occasion to keep me from doing Sir Robert
Sidney and my lady a greater kindness. When I saw her
so desperate, I huniljly besought her Ladyship to take a
longer time to think upon the danger, which she did till
that afternoon, and then coming to her to Essex House,
she told me she was resolved.' Her ladyship was not
afraid of tlie measles. And yet the christening was de-
ferred. Writing later in the month, White reports Lady
Rich to be in Town, but ' the christening is put off till Wed-
nesday, New Year's Eve. She says that my Lord Comp-
ton desired her to defer it till then, because of some urgent
business he hath in the country, that will keep him away
till Tuesday niglit ; but I do rather think it to he a tetter that
suddenly broke out in her fair white forehead^ which will
not he icell in Jive or six days, that keeps your son from
heing christened. Rut my Lady Rich's desires are obeyed
as commandments by my Lady.'' Evidently the lady
wished to look lier best, and show no spot on the face of
her beauty, in the presence of my Lord Mountjoy. The
interest whicli these two mutually inspired kept increasing,
until at length their criminal intercourse was publicly
' Si/dney Memoirs, vol. i. p. 385.
400 SHAKSPEARE'S SOJ^NETS.
kno^^^l; the husband being looked upon as no impedi-
ment. Johnstone intimates tliat the patience of Lord
Eich as a husband was more wondered at than admired ;
and that his strange conduct in retaining his wife, after
being perfectly Avell aware of her connection with Lord
Mountjoy, was thought anj^thing but prudent. But the
morality of the time does not appear to have been greatly
outraged. The Queen showed the first sign of disapproval.
Camden records the fact, that in IGOO, Lady Eich 'had
lost the Queen's favour for abusing her husband's bed.'
This he softened, on revision of his work, to ' Quae, mariti
thorum violare suspecta.'
Let us now glance for a moment at the Lady Eich in
another of the many-coloured lights in which she was seen
by her contemporaries. In November, 1598, Bartholomew
. Young, a poet of the time, — he who is the largest con-
tributor to England's Helicon, — inscribed to her his Trans-
lation of the Diana of George of Montemayor, with tlie
foUoAving dedication, —
* To the Right Honourable and my very good lady, the Lady
Eich.
* Right Honourable, such are the apparent defects of art and
judgement in this new pourtraied Diana, that their discovery
must needs make me blush, and abase the work, unless with
undeserved favour erected upon the high and shining pillar
of your honourable protection, they may seem to the beholder
less or none at all. The glory whereof as with reason it can
no ways be thought worthy, but by boldly adventuring upon
the apparent demonstration of your magnificent mind, wherein
all virtues have their proper seat, and on that singular desire,
knowledge, and delight, wlierewith your Ladyship entertaineth,
embracetb, and affecteth honest endeavours, learned languages,
and this particular subject of Diana,* warranted by all virtue
and modesty, as Collin, in his French dedicatory to the illus-
trious Prince Lewis of Lorraine, at large sotteth down and com-
mandeth ; now presenting it to so sovereign a light, and relying
^ From wliicLi Sidney Jiad made some translations.
LADY lUCirS LOVE OF LITERATURE. 4ul
on a gracious acceptance, what can 1)6 added more to the full
content, desire, and perfection of Diana, and of her unworthy
interpreter, (that liath in English here exposed her to the view
of strangers), than for their comfort and defence to be armed
with the honourable titles and countenance of so hi^h and ex-
cellent a Patroness. But as, certain years past, my honourable
good Lady, in a public show at the jNIiddle Temple, where your
honourable presence, with many noble Lords and fair Ladies,
graced and beautified those sports, it befel to my lot, in that
worthy assembly, unworthily to perform the part of a French
orator, by a dedicated speech in the same tongue, and that
amongst so many good conceits, and such general skill in
tongues, all the while I was rehearsing it, there was not kny
whose nature, judgment and censure in that language I feared
and suspected more than your Ladyship's, whose attentive ear
and eye daunted my imagination with the apprehension of my
disabilities, and your Ladyship's perfect knowledge in the same.
Now, once again, in this Translation out of Spanish (which
language also with the present matter being so well known to
your Ladyship), whose reprehension and severe sentence of all
others may I more justly fear, than that which. Honourable
Madame, at election you may herein duly give or with favour
take away? 1 have no other means, than the humble insinua-
tion of it to your most Honourable name and clemency, most
humbly beseeching the same pardon to all those faults, which
to your learned and judicious views shall occur. Since then,
for pledge of the dutiful and zealous desire I liave to serve your
Ladyship, the great disproportion of your most noble estate to
the quality of my poor condition, can afford nothing else but
this small present, my prayer shall always importune the hea-
vens for the hajipy increase of your high and worthy degree,
and for the full accomplishment of your most honourable
desires.
' Your Honour's
* Most humbly devoted,
' Bartiiol. Young.'
Such "was tlie language of literature addressing Lady
-Kich, ill the year 1508.
Troubled times ^vere now eoming for the house of
D D
402 SIIAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
Essex ; the clouds were oratherins: fost in which the star
of Lady Eich was to suffer temporary echpse.
We may be satisfied that both Essex and his ambitious
sister were continually haunted with the thought of his
relationship to Elizabeth being as near as that of Queen
Mary Stuart's son, and that their blood would be running
too red and high with this royal reminder, which begat
the most tantalizing hopes ; sang Avith insidious sug-
gestion in his oar, and secretly undermined his whole
life, and that Lady Eich fanned tliis fire in her brother's
blood, and fed the foolish aspirations of his perturbed
spirit. Possibly the early intrigue of Essex and his sister
with James in 1589,^ in which the 'Weary Knight' ex-
pressed himself as so tired of the ' thrall he now lives in,'
so desirous of a change, and offered himself, his sister, and
all their friends in anything he (James) had to ' do against
the Queen,' arose in great part from their thinking that
a change, if brought about turbulently, would give Essex
a chance of taking the throne. Quite as unlikely things
had occurred in the national History. Stowe remarks on
the tendency of the Kentish Men to be swayed lightly at
the change of Princes.
It is certain that Essex's sister was with him in his
schemes, although she personally escaped the conse-
quences. The sonnets of Shakspeare hint as much. And
on the morning of the fatal Sunday, when Essex and his
armed followers rushed through the streets on their mad
mission, she was moving about like the very bird of the
storm : her spirit hovers visibly above the coming wave
of commotion. The Earl of Bedford (Edward the 3rd
Earl) in liis letter of exculpation to the Lords of the
^ In a communication to Burgliley, made by Mr. Tliomas Fowler from
Edinburgh, October 7th, lo89, he says of Lady Hich, ' Slie is very pleasant
in her letters, and writes the most part thereof in her brother's behalf.
"He," the King, "commended much the fineness of her wit, the invention,
and well-writing." ' Murdin, niO.
LADY rtlCII AS REBEL. 40:3
Council,' relates how Lady liich ramc to his house in the
midst of the sermon, and told him that the Eaii of Essex
desired to speak with him. Wlien he got to Essex House,
lie found out how he was caught, and he declares that
when the sally was made, he secretly escaped down a
cross street, and made his way home agam. There can
be no doubt that her ladysliip was a clever, determined
Avhipper-in for the Essex cause. The Earl of Nottingham
writing to Lord Mountjoy on the behaviour of Essex after
the trial, tells how he spared none in 'letting us know
how continually they laboured him about it.' And now,
said he, I must accuse one wlio is most nearest to me, my
sister wito did continually urge me on with telling me how
all my friends and followers thought me a coward^ and
that 1 had lost my valour} Truly his sister had loved
him not wisely, but too well, 'It is well known,' she
said, ' that I have been more like a slave than a sister ;
which proceeded out of my exceeding love, rather than
his authority.'^ This occurs in her letter of defence,
written to the Earl of Nottingham, in the postscript of
which there is a natural touch. ' Your Lordship's noble
disposition forceth me to deliver my grief unto you, hear-
ing a report that some of these malicious tongues have
sought to wrong a icorthy friend of yours. I know the
most of them did hate him for his zealous followinir the
service of her ]\Iajesty, and beseech you to pardon my
})resuming thus mucli, though I hope his enemies have
no power to harm him.' This worthy friend of the Earl's,
about wh(^ni the lady is so anxious, was Lord Mountjo)^
On the accession of James to the English throne, the
sl;u- of Lndy liich shi)ne once more in the Court horizon.
We iind pompous John Florio among the first to hail its
re-arising. She was one of the live noble ladies to whom
he erected his five altars, and burnt incense, when he in-
scribed to them his Translation of Montaigne's Essays, in
» Birch Add. MSS., 4100. = Ji,.^i-cr, p. 17. ^ Brewer, 20.
D D 2
404 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
1G03 ; her ladyship being one of those from whom he
had received countenance and favour ; ' one of those
whose magnanimity and magnificent franlv nature have
so Ivindly bedewed my earth when it was sunburnt ; so
gently thawed it when frost-bound, that I were even more
senseless than earth, if I returned not some fruit in good
measure.'
The new reign opened with a general restoration of
Essex's fiiends. Lady Eicii was one of the six noble per-
sonages chosen to proceed to the Scottish border for the
purpose of meeting and conducting the new Queen to the
English Capital. Lady Anne Cliirord, in a note to her
narrative, says the Queen showed no favour to the elderly
ladies, Avhen the meeting took place, but to my Lady Eich
and such like company. The new Queen was in some
respects a kindred spirit, and made a favourite companion
of Lady Eich. She was, says the French Ambassador
Eosni, afterwards Duke de Sully, of a bold and enter-
prising nature ; loved pomp and splendour, tumult and
intrigue. With such a Queen, and in such a Court, Lady
Eich was again in lier glory. Her status in the new
Court was defined by special license. On the occasion of
the Eoyal procession from the Tower to WJiitehall, March
15th, 1604, her place was appointed at the head of four-
teen Countesses, who all bore most noble names.
The King granted to Lady Eich ' the place and rank of
the ancientest Earl of Essex, called Bouchier, whose heir
her fatlier was, she having by her marriage, accorchng to
the customs of the laws of honour, ranked herself accord-
ing to her husband's barony. By this gracious grant, she
took rank of all the Baronesses of the kingdom, and of all
Earls' daughters, except Anmdel, Oxford, JSTorthumber-
land, and Shrewsbury.' The Earl of Worcester, writing
to tlie Earl of Slirewsbury in 1003,^ says, in reporting
news of the Court, ' Tliis day the King dined abroad with
^ Lodijes Illudratlons, vol. iii.
LADY lacil AdALN AT CUUliT. 400
tlie Florentine Ambassador, who taketh now Ids leave
very shortly. He was with tlie King at the Play at night,
and si4)ped with my Lady Hitcliic in her chamber
We have ladies of divers degrees of i'avour ; some for the
]:)rivate chamber, some for the bed-chamber, and some for
neither certain. The plotting and malice among them is
such, that I think Envy hath tied an invisible snake about
most of their necks, to sting one another to death.'
The Lady Eicli would be able to hold her own, and feel
perfectly at home in the Court of James and Oriana, where
the morals were loose, and the manners free, and her sin-
gular beauty shone nightly iniparagoned as Stella Veneris.
' The Court,' Wilson says, ' being a continued Ma.skerado,
wliere she, the Queen, and her ladies, like so many sea-
nymphs or Nereides, appeared often in various dresses, to
the ravishment of the beholders ; the King himself being
not a little delighted with such fluent elegancies as made
the night more glorious than the day.' ' Their apparel
was rich,' says Carleton, speaking of the ladies in one of
these masques, ' but too light and courtezan-like for such
great ones.' At the masque which followed the marriage of
l^ir riiilip Herbert, Ave learn by Winwood's Memorials,^
that ' there was no small loss that night of chains and
jewels, and many great ladies were made shorter bj^ the
skirts, and were very well served that they could keep cut
no better.' Also, Carleton, in his letter to Mr. Winwood,
giving an account of the marriage, supplies us with a
curious picture of the Court and King, and the manners
of both. He says, 'the Bride and Bridegroom were
L^lLTcd in the Council Chamber, where the Kinir, in liis
shirt and night-gown, gave them a reveille-matin,, before
they were up, and spent a good time in or iq)()n the bed,
choose which you will believe.'
And all went merrilv for the lady Eich. So lonfj as
she only lived in adultery with Mountjoy, her honoured
' Vol. ii. p. 43.
406 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
position in Court and society was unquestioned. But
Mountjoy was conscientious enough to wish to make her
liis wife, and obtain the Church's blessing on tlie bond
which had held tlieni together so long, if so loosely. He
desired to make his wife an honest woman, and liis
chiklren legitimate. By an agreement among the several
parties a judgment was obtained fiom the Ecclesiastical
Court. Lady Eich was divorced from her husband, and
the Earl of Devonshire immediately married her. But,
the divorce proved to be only a legal separation ; not a
sufficient warrant for a subsequent marriage. The mo-
tives of Mountjoy were of the purest and most manly,
but an oversight had assuredly been made in interpreting
the law. This attempt to make the Lady Eich his own
lawful wife, drew down on the head of Mountjoy a burst-
ing thunder-cloud. The Court world which had looked
on so complacently whilst the law of God was broken full
in its slight, was horrified at this violation of the law of
man, even though it were done unwittingly. The King was
moved to such anger that lie told Mountjoy he had ' pur-
chased a fair woman with a black soul ! ' others chimed
in, most indignantly rejecting the lady's right to become
private propert}^ ! Yet, this ' fair woman with a black
soul,' had, whilst merely living in open criminal inter-
course, been accepted as the light and glory of the Court.
Mountjoy pleaded with manly tenderness and Christian
charity for his wife, and tried to justify his act, but
in vain. He told the King that ' the laws of moral
honesty, which in things not proliibited by God, I have
ever held inviolable, do only move me now to prefer
my own conscience before the opinion of the world.' In
spite of which noble sentiment, his heart broke, trying to
bear the sad lot that had befallen him. ' Grief of unsuc-
cessful love,' says his secretary Moryson, ' brought him to
his last end.' He died within four months of his marriage
April 3, 1606.
b'^'
EARL OF DEVOXSIIirtE'S DEATH. 407
Sir Dudley Carleton, writing to Mr. J. Cliaml)erlain, at
Ware Park, on Gcjod Friday, A] )i-il 17, IGOG, says : —
'My L. of Devonshire's funeral will be performed in West-
minster, about three weeks hence. There is much dispute
among the heralds, whether his lady's arms should be impaled
with his, which brings in question the lawfulness of the marriage,
and that is said to depend on the manner of the divorce. Her
estate is much threatened with the King's account, but it is
thought she will find good friends, for she is visited daily by
the greatest, who profess much love to her for her Earl's sake;
meantime, amongst the meaner sort you may guess in what
credit she is, when Mrs. Bluenson complains that she had m^ide
her cousin of Devonshire shame her and her whole kindred.
2nd May. — It is determined that his arms shall be set up
sin£>:le, without his wife's.' ^
o
The first publication of the dramatic poet, John Ford,
was a poem on the death of the Earl of Devonshire,
])rinted in 1606, entitled ' Fame's Memorial,' and dedi-
cated ' To the rightly Eight Honourable Lady, the Lady
Penelope, Countess of Devonshire.' Some of the lines are
interestinii: : —
' Tvinked in the graceful bonds of dearest life,
Unjustly termed disgraceful, he enjoyed
Content's abundance ; happiness was rife.
Pleasure secure; no troubled thought annoj^ed
His comforts sweet ; toil was in toil destroyed ;
]Nh\ugre the throat of malice, spite of spite,
He lived united to his heart's delii>ht:
' His heart's delight, who was the beauteous Star
Which l)eautified the value of our land ;
The lights of whose perfections brighter are
Than all the lamps which in the lustre stand
Of heaven's forehead by Discretion scanned ;
Wit's ornanient I Earth's love ! liove's paradise !
A saint divine, a beauty fairly wise:
' S. r. O.
408 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
' A beauty fairly wise, wisely discreet
In winking mildly at the tongue of rumour ;
A saint merely divine, divinely sweet
In banishing the pride of idle humour :
Not relishing the vanity of tumour,
More than to a female of so high a race ;
With meekness bearing sorrow's sad disgrace.'
It is clifFiGiilt to resist smiling at the idea of making the
Lady Eich a sort of icinking saint. The Poet is nearer
the mark when he likens her, in another stanza, as a wit
among women, to a nightingale amidst a quire of com-
mon song birds.
Poor Lady Piicli ! Her fate was as full of contrast as
the moral mixture of her nature, or the outward show of
her twilight beauty. The most striking opposites met in
lier complexion, her character, and her life ; as though the
parental elements in her were not well or kindly mixed.
Like Beatrice, slie seems to have been born in ' a merry-
hour when a star danced,' over her father's house ; born
to be clothed in the purple of choicest speech a poet's love
can lavish ; to sit as a proud queen in the hearts of some
wlio were among the kingiiest of men, and be crowned
with such a wreath of amaranth as descends upon the
brow of but few amoncr women. One of the bright
a
particular stars of two Courts ; the beloved idol of two
heroes; one of the proudest, wittiest, most fascinating
women of her time ; the Beauty, in singing of whom, the
poets vied like rival lovers, as they strung their harps
with ' Stella's ' golden hair, and strove together in praise of
the starry midnight of those eyes that were so darkly lus-
trous with their rich eastern look. And her day of
stormy splendour appears to have ended in the saddest
way imaginable ; closmg in impenetrable night : all the
pride of life suddenly laid low in the dust of death, and so
dense a darkness aljout her grave, that wc cannot make
out her name.
A STAR SUDDENLY GONE OUT. 40U
Her mother, tlie ' little Western Flower,' lively-
blooded Lettice Kuollys, ' She that did supply the wars
with thunder and the Court with stars,' lived on in
her lustiliood to a green and grey old age, walking
erectly, to appearance, after all the crookednesses of lier
career ; her smiset going down with a melloAV and tran-
quil shine, and dying at last amidst her momiiers in
tlie very odour of sanctity. But the daughter vanishes
from view in a moment, while yet the star of her life rode
high, and we are left in the darkness all the blinder
for the late dazzle of her splendour. Slie who luul been
the cynosure of all eyes, passes out of siglit idmost un-
noticed, and one who was among the first in fame becomes
suddenly imknown. Of all who were so well known in
their life-time, she surely must have been the least re-
membered in her death. It looks as though the disap-
pearance had been intentional ; as though she had taken
the black death-veil, and drawn tlie dark curtains about
her, and that by a tacit agreement betwixt her and the
world, her name and reputation should be buried with
her body, as one of those, of whom the Poet sings, wdio
were
* 3Ierely born to bloom and drop ;
Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly
were the crop :
\N'hat of soul was left I wonder, when the kissing had to
stop ?
" Dast and as/tes" so you creak it, and I want the heart to
scold.
Dear, dead women, witli sucli liair, too — what's become
of all the gold
Used to hang and brush their bosoms ? I feel chilly ;uul
grown old.' '
So com[)letely did Ladj" Eich pass out of siglit that not a
portrait of lier remains. Yet she was often painted, and
^ 'A Toccata of Galupjn's.^ Robert Browning.
410 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
there must ]iave been various pictures of her extant at
the time of her death. One of Burghley's secret agents,
wlio writes to the Enghsli Minister from the Scottisli
Court, informs him on the 20th of October, 1589, that
Eialta (Lady Eicli) has sent the King her portrait. There
is also a portrait of her mentioned, among the goods and
chattels at Wanstead, in the inventory taken of Leicester's
property after his death. But I have failed to trace
either painting or engraving of Lody Bicli at present
in existence. ^ It is also most difficult to find any
record of her out of poetry and the Sydney Memoirs. I
know of but one mention of her death : it was disin-
terred by Professor Craik only a few years ago from the
Latin History of Eobert Johnstone (Historia Eerum Bri-
tannicarum), published at Amsterdam in 1655. At page
420, the writer relates that Devonshire, stung by the
reproaches of the King, who told him he had purchased
a fair woman witli a black soid, broke down altogether
and breathed his last in the arms of Lady Eich, passing
away in the midst of lier adorations, tears and kisses.
And he adds that the lady, worn out with grief and
lamentation, did not long survive him, but, laden with
the robes and decorations of mourning, lay night and day
stretched on the floor in a corner of her bed-chamber,
refusing to be comforted, except by death. ' Happy pair,'
he says, ' had but a legal union sanctified their glowing
and constant love.' This- is the only ray of liglit that
])ierces the gloom ; the only word that breaks the silence.
In tliis dearth of recorded facts relating to the close of
Lady Eich's life it is little marvel that a secret intrigue,
such as I deduce from Sliakspeare's Sonnets, should not
have been elsewhere chronicled for posterity ; especially
^ Her Ladyship must have boon painted in some of the Court processions
as one of the principal Maids of Honour. I'ossibly her Portrait may turn up
at tlie forthcoming Exliibitiou of National Portraits^ amongst those that are
anonymous or misnamed.
A SECRET IXTKIGUE. 411
as it was a secret history. The liaison witli Lord IMoiintjoy
attracted all the public attention at the time. But it may
be remembered tliat although Lady Ixicli was more closely
attaclied to Lord Mountjoy m the j^ears 150U and IGOO,
for instance, than to her husband wlio, according to Mount-
joy, had kept her from his bed for the space of twelve
years before they finally and absolutely parted ; yet there
was no bond that bound her to Mountjoy with inviolable
ties when he was away, for example, with his army in
Ireland ; nothing to hinder such an intrigue, if we consider
the manners of the time and the morals of the lady.
Mountjoy, we may be sure, was not the only 'noble ruin of
her ma<T;ic.' At the most he could but claim a share in her
until he had made her his own, after her divorce from Lord
Eich. This, indeed, he acknowledges by his diifidence on
the score of paternity, for, out of the five children assigned
to him by Lady Eich, he only recognised and provided for
three of them as his own. These five children were all
born after the Lord Eich (on Mountjoy's own showing)
had withdrawn himself from his lady's bed, and at least
four of the five were born before the re-marriacje of her
Ladyship with Mountjoy. Here, then, is a father wanted.
One of the two thus left unacknowledi^'ed was a dauiihter
named Isabella. And curiously enough we find l)y let-
ters in the State Papers Ofiice, that in the year 16 18 Wil-
liam Eiirl of Pembroke, then Lord Chamberlain, is one of
the persons most anxiously interested in tlie marriage of
Liidy Isabella Eich with Sir Thomas Smythe's son, Avhicli
marriage, for reasons best known to the parties concerned,
was eflected without the knowledge of the young man's
fother. Mr. Chamberlain to Carleton, November 28th,
1018, writes tiiat 'tlieLord Chamberlain and others have
forwarded the marriage of Sir Thomas Smythe's son of
eighteen, to Ladv Isabella Eich, without knowledire of the
father wlio, at their entreaty, has consented to receive
her.' The Eev. Thomas Lorkinji; iiives an account of the
412 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
affair in his letter of January 5th, 1618-19, 'I forgot to
acquaint you, in my former letter, "vvith a matter that hath
been here sim/fled uj? between Sir Thomas Smythe's son and
Mrs. Isabella Eich ; who, finding themselves both together
at Sir Udal's, some few days since, and liking well
enough either the other, my Lord Chamberlain, who was
there present, sent for his own Chaplain, to Barnard Castle,
to make the matter sure by marrying them : icho, making
some difficulty, for that they had no license, his Lordship
encouraged him, upon assurance of savi?ig him harmless.
So they w^ere presently married ; and, from thence con-
ducted to my Lord Southampton s to dinner, and to my Lady
Bedford's to bed. But the father is a heavy man to see his
son bestowed without his privity and consent.' Camden says
that young Smythe left England about eight months after
the marriage, without takinj]!; leave of either Father or Mo-
ther ; and Wood further afiirms that he did so ' upon some
discontent.' My inference is that the Lord Cliamberlain
had veiy private personal reasons for the interest he felt
and showed in the marriage of Lady Isabella Eicli.
It is with a feeling of sadness that I have come to break
that silence which Wordsworth has called a privilege of
the grave, a right of the departed, and disturb the repose
of Lady Eich, or wake the sleeping echoes of her name by
reviving the errors that were laid in dark foro;etfulness, all
the more that the result is to prove another blot upon her
fame as a woman. I would much rather have had to re-
]ial)ihtate her character ; re-set her image in the likeness
of that Stella who glowed in Sidney's eyes as ' that virtuous
soul, sure lieir of heavenly bliss ; ' this would liave been
far pleasanter than having to rake, as it were, in the dust
of death for this fresh frailty of her life, and stir the cold
quiet aslies for some cunningly- concealed spark of tlie old
])assionate fire. For no one can put together what is known
of tiie lady's life, or see how it got all wrong at the begin-
ning, liow she missed her chance Avhen she lost lier first
A CIIARACTEIi OF MANY COLOURS. 413
love — the liu^baiiel on whom heri'atlier had .set liis he;irt —
the man who was to become tlie flower of English nobility,
and give to the national chivalry its crowning grace —
' The Courtier's, Soldier's, Scholar's eye, tongue, sword,
The expectancy and rose of the fair state,
The glass of fashion, and the mould of form,
The observed of all observers' —
gentle and beloved Philip Sidney, and was handed over
at so early an age to one of the most ignoble and sordid
of men, withont a feeling of pity for her unfortunate lot
and mournfid fate. One woidd not bear hardly on the poor,
passionate, warmdiearted lady, who was thus wedded by
family necessities to a cold-blooded brute, that had not
soul enough to be sensible of his own disgrace, nor con-
science enough to fight for his honour, but kept his wife
because she was convenient to liim, although he well knew
of her leanings out of his house, and tortured her for years
before he let her leave him altogether.
And it is but right that I should point out ho^v my
reading of the latter sonnets does bear hardly on her
by making so real and intensely personal that ANhicli
was never meant to be identified. The sonnets I hold
to have been written for the purpose of giving utterance
to a youtli's passion for a woman whose fame was such
as to permit great latitude in speaking of her character
in genend. But it was never contemplated that they
should be read as Shakspcare's own arraignment of
Lady Eich on the score of immoral conduct. Somethiii<v
of tliis shape they assume : now we have the lady unveiled
in public court tmd Shakspeare, as it were, in thcAvitness-
box. The lady nuist not be judged, however, without
remembering who the speaker really is, how the sonnets
were written, and that when the blackest changes were
made, it was never thought she Avould be requested
to lift her veil and have her face known as that of
414 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Penelope Eich. In the other novel readings, such as
EUzabeth Vernon's Jealousy, I liave been able to do
justice to Shakspeare and free his character from some
very vile imputations without doing injustice to anyone
else. The latter sonnets will not permit such a pleasant
solution of their poetic pioblem. But, in seeking to take
the weight off tlie broad slioulders of our great Poet, one
does not want it to fall witli unnecessary force on the
woman who already had more than enough to bear.
Sidney has painted the Lady Ptich as an Angel of Light.
My reading, and the exigencies of William Herbert's case,
make Shakspeare represent her as an Angel of Darkness.
]3ut the living woman in whom these two alternated, and
out of which her nature was compounded — the woman
Avho, with lier tropical temperament and bleak lot in
marriage, could yet remain the conqueror of .Sidney and
herself in such circumstances of peril as he has depicted
in liis confessions — the woman who would fi2;ht for her
husband through thick and thin, and hurry back to him
if she heard he was ill, wait upon liim and watch over
him day and night from a sense of duty ratlier than a
necessity of affection — the woman who was passionately
fond of her children, and so devoted to her brother Eo-
bert that she would have bartered body and soul for him,
and gone through liell-hre for his sake — ^^vho v/as always
ready to help a friend when her influence was of value at
Court — ^this woman has never been pourtrayed for us,
unless some approach to her picture under other names
has been made by the one great master, solely capable, in
his dramatic works.
It is difficult, as Fuller has said, to draw those to the
life who never sit still. The Lady Eich is one of these
subjects, all sparkle and splendour, and the radiance as of
rain which continual motion keeps a-twinkle, so various
in their humours and sudden in their change. In her the
most perplexing opposites intermixed with a subtle play
A .AirXGLED YATJX OF noop AND EVIL. tlo
jind ciuUfSS shiftings of light and sliade, many-coloured
tuid evanescent as the breeze-tinted ripples of a summer
sea. No two portraits of her could possibly be alike.
In some respects she was one of those generous sinners
that Christ himself was very kind to, with a heart that
was bountiful or pitiful and always ready to do a kindly
action for those who were distressed. For example —
In March 150C, she writes to Essex : — ' Worthy Brother, I
was so loth to importune you for this poor gentlewoman,
as I took this petition from her the last time I was at the
Court, and yesterday I sent her Avord by her man that I
would not trouble you Avith it, but wished her to make
some other friends. Upon which message, her husband,
that hath been subject to franticness through his troubles,
gi-ew in such despair as his wife's infinite sorrow makes
me satisfy her again, who thinks that none will pity her
misery and her children if you do not ; since, if he cannot
have pardon, he must iiy, and leave them in ver}^ poor
estate. Dear brother, let me know your pleasure; and
believe that I endlessly remain your most faithful sister,
Penelope Rich.' And Eowland White gives us a pleasant
glimpse of her ladyship in this aspect —
In IMarch 1597, he had occasion to seek her aid for
the purpose of getting presented to the Queen a very
earnest petition of Sir Eobert Sidney's. He says, ' I took
this opportunity to beseech her to do you one favour,
which was to deliver this letter (and shewed it to her) to
the Queen ; she kissed it and took it, and told me that
you had never a fiiend in Court who would be more ready
than herself to do you any pleasure ; I besought her, in
the love I found she bore you, to take sometime thisniglit
to do it ; and, withcnit asking anything at all of the con-
tents of it, she put it in her bosom and assured me tliat
this niiiht, or to-morrow morniuLT, it would be read, and
bid me attend her.' Which makes us feel a waft of
cordial warmth breathed from a kindly-aflectioned heart,
as the letter disappears in its temporary resting-place.
410 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
THOMAS THORPE.
AND HIS
*ONLIE BEGETTEE' OF THE SONNETS.
We are now able to deal with tlie Inscription written by
Thomas Thorpe, and bring it within the domain of positive
facts, instead of leaving its meaning to remain any longer
a matter of opinion. I am not sure that it is without a
touch of malicious satisfaction that I place Thorpe after
the Sonnets for the first time ! Whilst standing full in
front of them, darkening the doorway, and almost shutting
Sliakspeare out of sight, he has given me a great deal of
trouble. And yet, he is not so much to blame for the
perplexity, as others are. I venture to doubt that the
Ehzabethans, who knew their man, ever mistook his mean-
ing, or were misled by his ' onlie begetter.'' This was left
to the discoverers of later times, in which Thorpe's Inscrip-
tion, rather than Shakspeare's Sonnets, has become the
main object of critical interest and ingenuity, and Thorpe's
shallowness not Shakspeare's depth has received all the
attention of eiTorts wliicli have been vain as it would be
to try and gauge tlie deptlis of azure heaven in the reflex
of a road-side puddle. So completely has this inscription
on the outside been interposed betwixt us and the Poet's
own writing, that the only aim of the efforts hitherto
made to decipher the secret history of the sonnets does
TIIOKPE'S IXSCKII'TION. 417
l)iit amount to an attempt at discovering a man who
sliould be yoinig in years, handsome in person, loose in
cliaracter ; the initials of whose name must be ' W. //.'
The discoverers being quite ignoi'ant at the outset of their
enterprise as to what Thorpe himself knew of the soimets ;
what he really meant by his ' 07ilie begetter,'' and liable,
after all, to be met with the fotal fact that he used the
word ' begetter ' in its more remote, its original sense, and
thus inscribed tlie sonnets, with his l)est wishes, to the
person Avho might be legitimately called the *" ojily ob-
tainer' of tliem for him to print. We are now in a position
to grapple with Thorpe's Inscription —
TO . THE . ONLIE . BEGETTER . OF .
THESE . INSVING . SONNETS .
M"" . W . II . ALL . IIAPPINESSE .
AND . THAT • ETERNITIE .
PROMISED .
BY .
OVH . EYER-LIVING . TOET .
WISUETH .
THE . "\YELL-AVISHING .
ADYENTYRER . IN .
SETTING .
FORTH . T. T.
A Shakspcare scholar who had read my Article on
' Shakspeare and liis Sonnets ' in the ' Quarterly Eeview,'
admitted that he cnuld not answer my arguments, wliich
li;id l)L'en urged to show tliat if tlie sonnets ever had
an ' only begetter ' in the creative sense, the Earl of Soutli-
amptnn must have been the man, but he utterly refused,
lie said, to believe that the Earl of Southampton was
Sliakspeare's Master W. IT. Thus missing the very obvious
point, tliat there is no such person as Shakspeare's 'Mr.
W. II.!' This mistake has been common witli most who
liave touched the subject. If the Poet himself had penned
the dedication, then no amount of labour could have been
E E
418 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
wasted in fatlioiniiig its import. The word ' begetter '
would then, however, have had but one possible meaning.
But the Inscription is not Shakspeare's ; the ' only begetter'
and the 'Mr. W. H.' are not his; tliey are only Thomas
Thorpe's ! He, the Bookseller, having got the sonnets into
his hands, wishes ' Mr. W. H.,' whom he calls the ' only
begetter,' all happiness and that eternity promised by
Shakspeare in the sonnets. He does not say that the Poet
promised immortalit}^ to Mr. W. H. ; but he, Thomas
Thorpe, wishes it to him, in setting forth the sonnets.
From this inscription it has been assumed that Thorpe dedi-
cated the sonnets to their only objective creator — the man
who begot them in Shakspeare's mi?''d, and that this Mas-
ter W. H. was William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke. Not
that any worthy attempt has been made to solve a problem
or grapple with a great difficulty ! Nor has Herbert ever
been wedded to the sonnets by any identification of facts ;
no single proof ha\dng been produced ! We have had an
inference drawn from Thorpe's Inscription, not in the least
a result of reading the Sonnets of Shakspeare ! A closer
study has led the French Critic, M. Chasles, to per-
ceive how untenable is the hypothesis that WiUiam
Herbert was the ' only Begetter ' of the sonnets in the
sense now commonly supposed, and he has tried to make
extremes meet by a new reading of Thorpe's dedication,
earnestly as though tliere Avere but one use of the word
' begetter^' and as though Thorpe must of necessity have
known all about the sonnets, and the secret relationship
of the persons concerned ! His new interpretation may
be given in his own series of conclusions : — ' 1. Tliat we
have here no dedication, properly so called, at all, but a
kind of monumental inscription. 2. That this inscription
has not one continuous sense, but is broken up into two
distinct sentences. 3. That the former sentence contains
the real inscription, wliich is addressed by and not to W. H.
4. That the person to whom the inscription is addressed
M. CIIASLES' RENDEKING. 410
is, for some reasons, not directly named, but described by
what the learned call an Autonomasia (the only begetter
of these ensuing sonnets), 5. That the latter sentence is
only an appendage to the real inscription. G. That the
publisher, in the latter sentence, is allowed to express his
own good wishes, not for an eternity of fame to the beget-
ter of the sonnets, which would be an impertinence on his
part, but for the success of the undertaking in which he,
the adventurer, has embarked his capital.'
Tlie critic aro-ues that William Herbert is the writer of
the inscription, and that he dedicates the sonnets to their
' only begetter,' the Earl of Southampton. This reading
looks like a discovery at first sight, but it will not bear a
second thought. It seeks to surmount one obstacle by
another still tj-reater. To have to wrench the word
' icisheth ' from its present place in tliat wnld way is a
violation of ;dl probability more patent than anything
hitlierto proposed in regard to the dedication. What
makes M. Chasles' interjiretation appear feasible on a first
glance is that it somewliat illustrates the underlying facts
of the case. If any man in this world did set Shakspeare
writing sonnets, and call forth our Poet's love in that
form, it certainly must have been the Earl of Southamp-
ton. But it is difiicult to see why it should have been
assumed that Thorpe knew of an 'only begetter' in the
creative sense, and who he was, or what would be the ad-
vantage of proving that the inscription did dedicate to such
an ' only Begetter' wlien the sonnets themselves would dis-
prove it again by telhng us in Shakspeare's own words,
that there was no sole begetter in any such sense ? It is
only a later endeavour to set Thorpe above Shakspeare.
The inscription, however, will not bear such a division ; it
is essentially one. If the Printers had made a mistake and
run it on, Thorpe was there to correct it. But his own
phraseology makes that impossible, and carries us over
any break or division. Mr. Corney thinks it was an over-
£ £ 2
420 SIIAKSrEAIiE'S SONNETS.
sight on tlie part of Thorpe to add his \\^(i\\-wishing Ad-
venturer so close to the wishetli. This is a strange obser-
vation to make, and most unfortunate in relation to his
adopted theory, for it must be obvious to all who consider
how fond were the Elizabethan sonneteers, Shakspeare
especially, of the figures Anadiplosis, or the Redouble, and
Epanelepsis, or the Echo-sound, that Thorpe has been
trying to imitate the poetic figure, and managed to pro-
duce a double of his own, an alliteration in sound and sense
which has in it tlie very smack of his self-L?atisfaction, and
which certainly proves the Inscription to be all one. If
this had been the solution of the great Shakspeare prob-
lem oiu^ 'homely wits' were not in the least likely to accom-
plish it, for assuredly no Englishman could have made
the discovery.
Not only is M. Chasles' reading impossible in the latter
part of the Inscription ; it was doomed in the beginning if
Thorpe meant the only Obtainer of the sonnets for his
' only Begetter.'
In dealing with tliis dedication we must take it as it
stands, remembering always tliat it is Q'liorpe's inscrip-
tion; not Shakspeare's. And first, what did Thorpe mean
by his ' onlie begetter of the ensuing sonnets?' There
could liave been no ' only begetter,' in the creative sense,
as is amply proved by the sonnets. There must have
been more than one person concerned in their begettal
because the two sexes are directly addressed ; a variet)^
of character is implied, and dramatically evolved, and
Avhere there are two or more Inspirers, there cannot be
an' ordy begetter,' except it were Shakspeare. There being
no ' only begetter ' in that sense, Mr. W. H. could not
be rightly addressed, as the sole begetter in such sense.
Besides, if there had been an. ' only l^egetter,' wdiom
Shakspeare loved so much, it is imi)ossible to conceive
that he could have left the dedication of so nuich love,
to the wdiimsical wording of a bookseller, who had a
strong spice of buffoonery in his nature ; this being totally
THE ' BEGETTER' ONLY THE OI'.TAIXER. 421
opposed towliat ]u' ]i;i(l (lone in puhlisliing his poems, and
to the promises lie tlieii recorded, and as utterly opposed
to the spirit of all the personal sonnets. There is no ' only
l)egetter,' then inscribed to by Shakspeare himself, and
the sonnets tell us that no such person begot them, how
then should Thorpe dedicate to an ' only begetter ? '
Some of the earlier commentators, as Chalmers and
Boswell, have suggested that by his ' only begetter,' Thorpe
might have meant the ^ only obtamer,' the only person who,
so far as Thorpe was concerned, had power to procure the
sonnets for him to publish. And this is the original signifi-
cation of the word. ' Beget,' is derived by Skinner from the
Anglo-Saxon begettan or begyten — ' obtinere.' The Glos-
sary to Thorpe's ' Analecta Anglo-Saxonica ' renders ' be-
gytan ' to beget — obtain. Johnson derives ' beget,' from the
Anglo-Saxon 'begettan,' to obtain. Webster gives the
Avord 'begetter' from ' begetan,' of 'be,' and 'getan' to get.
An Anglo-Saxon Glossary of Latin words, apparently of the
ninth century,^ renders ' Adquiri,' beo7i be-gyten. In the
Proverbs of King Alfred, we find the word ' beget,' used
tor obtain. ' Thus quoth Alfred : If thou a liiend bi-gete,'
i. e. if you be-get or get a friend. In Chaucer we have
' getten,' for obtained with the ' y,' as prefix ' y-getten.'
'J'hus the original sense of the word be<jet was possessive,
not creative ! I believe the word to be used Avith this
primary meaning in ' Titus Andronicus,' ' Till time bi'get
some easeful remedy.' It certainly is so used by Dekkar
in his ' Satiromastix' which was printed seven years
before the sonnets. lie writes — ' I liave some cousin-
germans at court shall biu/et you (that is, obtain for
vou) tlie reversion of the Master of the Kind's Iievels.'
In this sense the ' begetter,' is merely the person v/ho
acts, or obtains a thinLT. We have divided the word
and doubled the use of it, but Dekkar employs it in
the simjjle Anglo-Saxon sense. And this is the sense in
* See ReUqufp Antiquce, vol. i. ]i. II.
422 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
ichich Thorpe inscribed Shakspeare's sonnets to the ' only
begetter.' Such at least, is my interpretation ; and it is
demanded by all the necessities, illustrated by all the cir-
cumstances, enforced by all the facts of the case. In
Minsheu's Dictionary (1617), the verb to beget is given
to b)'i)ig forth. So that Thorpe in dedicating to the
' begetter,' for the ' obtainer,' had really a double choice
of meanings when he inscribed to the only ' obtainer',
or ' bringer-forth.' My reading will show tliat there
■was no only begetter in any other sense. . And, if there
had been, we may rest assured that Mr. Thorpe would
not have been delegated to explain a mystery which
Shakspeare had not thought fit to make clear ; he would
not be empowered to address the very person whom
the Poet has left nameless, with regard to the sonnets.
Besides which, if Shakspeare had purposed naming his
begetter of the sonnets, and intended to dedicate the
individual affection, and the promised immortality to
liis friend, this was the vaguest way of conferring name
and fiune ever yet adopted, for there is no name and con-
sequently there could follow no fame. Thorpe was not
in the least concerned ^\\i\\ the person or persons wlio
* begot ' the sonnets, only in the person who 'got,' obtained
them for him to print, and it is not in the remotest degree
likely that hcwas made a party to the mystery in any shape.
What the three friends did not choose to reveal, they
could not permit a bookseller to know, much less to pub-
lisli abroad. It is the begetter for him that he addresses
Avitli compliments, not the begetter from Shakspeare.
The begetter of the sonnets ; not tlieir begetter. This
' only begetter,' therefore, is Thorpe's not Shakspeare's.
And as Thorpe w^as only too glad to obtain the sonnets
for printing, he would be too fearful of olTence to commit
himself rashly by any unadvised dedication. Not bemg
commissioned to speak for others, he would be discreet
enough to speak only for liimself.
TIIOP.PE'S AFFECTATION. 423
111 a matter so delicate lie would put forth nothing
without some warrant for its appropriateness and accept-
ance ; his setting-forth would be done on a safe footing ;
and 'Mr. W. H.' knew right well that he was not the ' only
begetter,' save in the sense of ' obtamer.' Therefore ^\■e
may infer that the same power which suppressed the full
title of •• Mr. \Y. H.' would be exerted to prevent any such
mistake on the part of Thorpe, whose w^ords would be
thus rendered reliable and trustworthy for us.
Thorpe had undoubtedly peeped at his treasure when
the sonnets came into his possession, and he knew there
was a promise of immortality often re]:)eated in them, but
lie did not know to whom ! He could not know the
hidden history, or life-relationships that my reading
unfolds. He only approached the sonnets on the book-
seller's side. He could only dedicate them to the person
who obtained them for printing ; could only thank the
getter of them.
But there is no need to take advantage of my reading,
and prove the inscription by the sonnets. The Inscription
alone may be made to supply adequate demonstration that
Thorpe inscribed to the ' only ohtainei\' when he dedicated
to the ' only begetter.' And first of its Avriter : Thorpe
publi>^lied Lucan's hrst book, which was translated by ]\hir-
lowe. In doing so, he dedicated the work ' To his kind
and true friend, Edward Blunt,' in the following conceited
and fantastical fashion.
' Hli)unt : I purpose to Le blunt with you, and out of my
(luhu'ss to encounter you with a Dedication in the memory
of that pure element all wit C'hr. ]\hirlow ; whose ghost or
Genius is to he seen walk the Churchyard in (at least) three
or fdur sheets. jNIethinks 3'ou should presently look wild now,
and grow humourously frantic upon the taste of it. Wi-ll,
lest you shouUl, let me tell you : This spirit was some-
time a familiar of your own, Lucan's first Book translated :
which (in regard of yi.iur old rights in it) I have raised
in the circle of your patronage. But stay now Edward (if I
424 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
mistake not) you are to accomodate yourself with some few
instructions, touching the property of a Patron, that you are
not yet possest of; and to study them for your better grace as
our Gallants do fashions. First you must be proud and think
you have merit enough in you, tlio' you are nere so empty,
then when I bring you the book take physic and keep state,
assign me a time by your man to come again, and, afore the
day, be sure to have changed your lodging; in the meantime
sleep little, and sweat with the invention of some pitiful dry
jest or two which you may happen to utter, with some little
(or not at all) marking of your friends when you have found
a place for them to come in at : or if by chance something has
dropt from you worth the taking up weary all that come to
you with the often repetition of it: censure scornfully enough,
and somewhat like a travailer ; commend nothing lest you dis-
credit your (that which 3^ou would seem to have) judgement.
These things if you can mould yourself to them, Ned, I make
no question but they will not become you. One special virtue
in your patrons of these days I have promised myself you shall
fit excellently, which is to give nothing. Yes, thy love I will
challenge as my peculiar object both in this, and (I hope)
many more succeeding offices : Farewell, I affect not the world
should measure my thoughts to thee by a scale of this nature;
leave to think good of me when I fall from thee.
* Thine in all rights
* of perfect friendship,
' Thom. Thorpe.'
This will afTord us a crucial test of the literary taste of
the man Thorpe, and Ave may gather from it the sense in
which he would use the word 'be«;etter.' He affected a
rather Pistol-like phraseology, and loved to catch au ' ink-
horn term by the tail.' To be cjuaint in his meaning and
far-fetched in his words was the ' lunnour of it' with him ;
he sought to be uncommon with a learned look. His ' wish-
eth the well-wishing ' shows tluit lu; affected the phrase,
the learned style, consequently, he would be quite certain to
use the word ' begetter' in its remoter sense ; that which
lay nearest to its Saxon derivation, and was then passing
THE ONLY ONE RESPOXSinLE FOR PUBLISHING. 4i>.-,
into obsoleteness. Now, till tlie quaintnes.-!, nil the af-
fectedness, all the remoteness, all tijat was most uncom-
mon and therefore characteristic of Thorpe, lies in the use
of the word 'begetter' for ' obtainer,' and that was why-
he chose it to express his meaning. He used the prefix
'be' to ' getter' just as Spenser affected ihc'y'in such
words as 'yclad' or ' ycleped' — to give an antique tuuch.
Also, the word only is to me as determinate of his
meaning as the word ' begetter.' It must be plainly
apparent that the emphasis on this ' onhj ' is most incom-
patible with tlie tone of the latter portion of the inscrip-
tion, if we suppose Thorpe to have used the 'begetter' in
the creative sense. To the only begetter he says, with all
the authority in the world ! Yet, later on, he does not
know who it was to whom Shakspeare had promised
immortality. If he were sure of the onhi one he would
not have been thus weak and waverino-. He Avould not
have skirted the edge of the subject if he had struck to
the heart of the matter in his ' only begetter.' Had Mr,
W. H. been the ' only begetter' as the objective creator
of the sonnets, and Thorpe had known this, and said it,
and used the word only with such certitude, then it was
the idlest impertinence for him to have weakly whhed
Mr. W. II. tlidt ' eternity promised by our everliving
Poet.' Had he been in possession of the fact supposed,
he would have followed up the bold note of his ' only
be<xetter' with words more definite and sure. He would
have said to whom the innnortality had been promised,
and congratulated the person addressed, if he had known,
as he must have known if he inscribed to the ' only be-
getter' of the sonnets in Shakspeare's mind; the sole
object of Shakspeare's love, l^ut whatever else may be
obscure, it is luminously self-evident that Thorpe does not
say, and did not know to Avhom the innnortality was
promised. He does not knoAV, does not pretend to know,
he only alludes to a known fact in a general Avay, and
426 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
this after being so pointed and particular in his ' only
begetter.' He cannot speak for Shakspeare here ; only
for himself ; if he could, he certainly would have said the
most because he is anxious to say the most in a compli-
mentary strain. And, as he does not speak for Shak-
speare in the latter words of the dedication, but only for
himself, he cannot speak for Shakspeare when using the
' only begetter,' consequently, the ' only begetter' must
be Tliorpe's — that is the person who was really the ' only
obtainer' of the sonnets for printing — and he can address
him with confidence as such whilst compelled to wish and
hint so vaguely in regard to the immortality.
This weight of emphasis on the word ' only' not only
serves to turn the scale in favour of the 'obtainer' for
the ' begetter,' but it has another signification. It has the
look of Thorpe taking position behind what he considers
a safe defence, as though the matter stood thus in his
mind — ' I, Thomas Thorpe, am pushing a transaction that
has an equivocal look. Shakspeare is not publishing his
own sonnets, and I have no direct warrant from him to
publish them, some of which are rather queer in texture.
]3ut I did not steal them. I have ample warrant for
their appearance. I inscribe them to the only person who
had sufiicient power to authorise their going to press, and
who is responsible for their appearance. Mr. W. H. is
well known to Shakspeare, and he can bear all blame
should any offence be taken, and efiectually shield me.
My inscription shall serve to saddle the right horse.'
There is still another stress of which the words are sus-
ceptible ; one peculiarly appropriate to the circumstances.
The sonnets must have been a publisher's prize and much
sought after. In dedicating to the 07ily person who had
power to obtain tliem, Mr. Thorpe was proud to call
attention to the fact that he was the only receiver, the
only [)ublislier fortmiate enough to secure the coveted
sonnets.
SUMMARY OF CONCLUSIONS. 427
Thus he inscribed tliem to ' :Mr. W. 11.' as the only
getter, or, as he chose allectedly to say, ' onhj 6<.^-getter'
of them for pubUshing purposes. lu' doing this he tries
to add sometliing comphmentary, and likes to sliow that
he has read the sonnets, so he wishes ' Mr. W. II.' all
happiness and eternal life, connecting the latter idea witli
Shakspeare's promises of immortality.
Allowing for Mr. Thorpe's touch of affectation in the use
of the word ' begetter,' it is all perfectly natural, and the
inscription no longer deepens the mystery of the sonnets.
We can now afford to be honest and confess that it was
our suspicion that Shakspeare had something to conceal
which gave the shadowy terror to, and made a bugbear of
Thomas Thorpe's curious inscription !
These are my conclusions on the whole matter. There
are properly but two series of the sonnets. The first was
written for the Earl of Southampton ; the latter for Wil-
liam Herbert. Shakspeare was sought out by the young
Earl of Southampton about the year 1591 — unexpectedly
by the Poet, as is intimated in sonnet 25, (p. 118). The
acquaintanceship soon ripened into persoiud friendship.
The youth was generous and loveable, but apt to squander
the treasures of his dawning manhood. Shakspeare began
to write the sonnets by advising his young friend to get
married ; thus, from the first, his object was his friend, not
himself; the sonnets were not intended to be autobiogra-
phic. When the Earl met with the ' faire ]Mistress Vernon '
and fell in love with her, Eomeo-like, at first sight, a
change of subject and treatment was suggested by the
Earl himself, as is indicated in sonnet 38, (p. 157) ; and
the Poet commenced writing dramatically on his friend's
new affection, in Southampton's own book. He went
deeper and deeper into his subject, sometimes treating
it playfully, sometimes in sad earnest, as the feelings
were more intensified by time and trial. This continued,
in the various ways illustrated by my reading, up to the
428 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
year 1G03, when the Earl of Soutliamptoii was released
from prison, the dramatic sonnets being interspersed with
personal ones written from time to time ; although the
sonnets had nearly ceased when the Earl was married to
Elizabeth Vernon in 1598. His purpose in beginning the
sonnets was to induce liis friend to marry, and when the
Earl has fallen in love with Elizabeth Vernon, he devotes
tliem chiefly to the practical purpose of carrying on the
courtship, and they nearly end with the marriage.
In the spring of 1598 William Lord Herbert came to
live in London, and formed a personal friendship with
Shakspeare. Southampton was away from England almost
the whole of this year, and Herbert possibly drew nigher
to the Poet on that account. He succeeded in getting;
Shakspeare to write some sonnets for him, and by doing so
became the cause of all the mystery.
Shakspeare most certainly never wrote the Southampton
Sonnets with any intention of their coming before the
public by such a bye-way under his own name. When
he began to write the sonnets it was with no thought of
their being printed. In sonnet 17 he looks forward to
their remaiidng in jMS., and the paper on which he writes
growing yellow witli age. Nor is it easy to see how he
could have published the sonnets as his own, or have been
connected with the selling of them, as they were at first so
sacred a memorial of private friendship that the Poet must
have felt it a sort of sacrilege to take them to market.
In this respect his intention is proclaimed in sonnets 21,
(p. 132), and 102, (p. 253), where he tells us that he pur-
posed not to sell, and ' that love is merchandised whose
rich esteeming the owner's tongue doth publish every-
where.' Still, he may at one time have meant to print
them without his name in the manner previously sugo-ested ;
and his intentions have been frustrated by an act of the
Earl, such as giving away the copy of his sonnets to Her-
bert, who thus stepped into possession, and tlie matter was
THE IIEAKT OF THE MYSTERY. Ji'!»
thereby taken out of Shakspeare's hands. As my reading
sliows, neither of tliese two friends liad auglit to conceal ;
there is nothing in the nature of the Southampton Sonnets
to cause tlie mysterious pubhcation oftliem.
The Earl's love and fortuiu's liad prospered. The Queen
was dead, and all her tempers over. Clearly there were
no reasons here for any further concealment had Shak-
speare chosen to fulfil his own promises in his own way,
and dedicate the Southampton Sonnets to their ' begetter.'
We must look to the Herbert Series for an explanation.
Here we discover something to conceal ; and, in his infa-
t nation for a woman of loose character, not in Shakspeare's
moral delinquencies shall we find the predominate reason
why the sonnets were ushered into" the world in such a
second-hand manner. It suited Herbert — and even he could
have entertained no thought of printing the latter sonnets
so long as Lady Rieh was alive — that if the sonnets were
])rinted they should go forth veiled in their own mystery,
and not tell the various love-stories publicly Avhich they
had told privately to the initiated friends. He would be
pleased to have his sonnets included with the rest of Shak-
speare's, and desirous that they should go forth without
explanation of facts or identification of persons. Shakspeare,
I imao-ine, must have felt some dislike of the Herbert
Series being included, for he could not but have seen that,
liowever read, they did not reflect any credit on himself.
Not that he supposed they would ever be interpreted as
personal confessions, so thoroughly would the ''sonnets
amonq his prirate friends ' be understood to mean sonnets
written for his private friends, but although he was so
indifll'rent to fame he could not have been indifTerent to
tlie fate of his sonnets which were so expressive of his
love for Soutluunpton. Still, if Herbert obtained that Eai'l's
consent for the whole of them to go forth together, just
as sonnets, there remained nothing for Shaks})eare to do but
to give his consent also. If Southampton did not object,
430 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
did not seek to have his sonnets kept apart from others,
Sliakspeare would naturally feel it was not for him to resist
on his own behalf, if he had been so inclined. I do not
argue, however, that the sonnets were put forth by Thomas
Thorpe instead of Shakspeare because there was need of
any kind of concealment. There was no necessity of con-
cealing that which readers were not in the least likely to
discover. After all, the sonnets were composed for pri-
vate purposes — the work of 'idle hours' — and were a
sort of private property. Shakspeare had given them
away to the private friends, who were in a position to do
as they pleased with their own. This idea of concealment
has resulted from the subject of some of the sonnets being
coupled with Thorpe's seemingly singular inscription. The
friends were not putting on the mask against detection in
permitting a dedication of any kind to one of themselves !
It Avas never contemplated that the sonnets would re-tell
their own secret histories ; therefore such a possibility was
not sought to be provided against, by what would have been
a most shallow device. I look upon the affair as a private
confidence with which Thorpe had nothing whatever to
do, and it has been a stupid mistake to expect the Book-
seller to explain that which the Poet and his friends never
thought of explaining, never meant to be explained,
never dreamed that the world would not rest on the
subject until their secret should be explained. Herbert,
having a personal interest then in the sonnets, and
influence with the writer of them, would obtain from
Shakspeare — before he left London for Stratford — some
such permission as that they might be printed at a future
day if in a form Southampton would not object to.
And the Poet, after giving up all his ' pretty ones,' proba-
bly gave a promise that the whole should be left a mys-
tery as to their precise nature. So Shakspeare, in his
easy way, let the matter slide, and Herbert acquired the
right to give away the sonnets. Thorpe, then, dedicated
TIIE RIDDLE READ. 431
them to the only Obtainer, and the inscription was left to
him with the injunction thattlie present title of Pem])roke
should be suppressed and initials alone be used. In ac-
cordance with which hint, and to follow suit, Mr. Thorpe
as setter forth, and contrary to his usual custom, only
prmts his own Initials. And thus was Shakspeare's in-
tended but unfinished Monument to Southam]:)ton crowned
and completed with the head and inscrutable face of a
Sphinx, upon which, to perfect the riddle, Thorpe inscribed
his hieroglyphics. It suited the publisher's purpose and
was consonant with his character to make the thimr look
as mysterious as possible, to provoke curiosity and in-
crease his importance. The transaction was most likely
effected by an intermediate person, who was also anxious
for the sonnets to be secured in print. I do not think
Herbert had any direct dealings with the printers. The
arrangement would have been somewhat more perfect,
and the press better corrected if anyone so intimately ac-
quainted witli tlieir secret history had read the proofs of
the sonnets. Luckily, certain batches of the sonnets must
have been so written, or fastened together, as to cohere in
spite of the printers' or other handling, and the Herbert
Series did secure some sort of markinir-off'into its distinct
position.
My greatest difficulty has been with the many loose
single sonnets which had got out of position and mixed
the various strata of the whole book in a most perplexing
manner. It has been my endeavour to restore each to its
own place according to its kind and the law of formation.
iMiially, I conclude that no one but the person for whom
the latter sonnets were written would or could have given
the whole of them to the press ; that they are not personal
to tlie Poet whose wise reticence and shrinkinii; from ojivino;
publicity to personal affairs — one of the most marked
characteristics of our race — must have been a ruling power
of his English nature ; that the sonnets icere inscribed by
432 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
Tliorpe totlieir ' only begetter ' as the only ohtainer ; that
they had no onli/ begetter in any other sense ; that this
only ohtainer was William Herbert, who obtained the
Southampton Sonnets together with such other odds and
ends of Shakspeare's poetry as the Poet had given to
him ; that he added to these the sonnets which had been
written for himself at his OAvn suggestion ; he giving the
subject and having a hand in their composition; that his
own series was written for him in the years 1599 and
1600 — when the Southampton Sonnets ceased for a time —
before Herbert became Earl of Pembroke — which is implied
in the permitted inscription to ' Mr. W. H. ; ' that he ob-
tained a general permission from Shakspeare respecting
their being given to the press on account of his personal
interest in the sonnets, in consequence of which interest he
collected the sonnets, and thus they were inscribed to
him so curiously by Thomas Thorpe !
I also conclude that Herbert took advantasje of the
Poet's general permission, and that he alone is re-
sponsible for bringing up the rear of the sonnets with
the Black-Guard. In my own mind I am perfectly sure
that there are some sonnets included which Shak-
speare never meant to be printed, even if he ever saw
them all. I can imagine him writing most of these for
a purpose, but that purpose was altogether private, and
fully served when the sonnets were sent to the person
addressed, especially if they were sent as Herbert's. And
I cannot imagine Shakspeare giving his consent for the
sonnets to appear exactly as they come to us. There are
some here, I think, that made the Poet look amazed when
he saw the printed copy. It is certain he never had proof-
sheets for correction, and the fact has to be accounted for!
If it had been all square and above-board, as we say, why
should not Herbert or Tliorpe have secured the Author's
finishing touch ?
It is to me a matter of moral certainty that Sliakspeare
ADDITIONS MADE BY IIEI{15EIiT. 433
(lid not write the 151st sonnet, wliicli is irrecogni sable as
his by any light flashed from his spirit, or reflected in
his works ; it has no likeness to the other sonnets ; it
is opposed by sonnet 141 — utterly diverse in spirit and
tendency ; quite incompatible witli his treatment whctlier
smiling or serious, and absolutely repudiated by tlie
rebidving gravity and solemn significance of the two
last sonnets.^ Thus, for the various reasons assigned, I
hold that at least four of these pieces were written by Wil-
liam Herbert. What warrant he may liave had for ])rinting
lines of his own I cannot judge; there is no evidence.''^
ButJJdo feel satisfied that there are pieces to the pul)lica-
tion of which Shakspeare never gave his sanction. I have
shown that these things were not written upon a passion
of his own, and I hold him to have been as incapable of
giving his leave for the whole of them to become public
])roperty, more especially when they had been written for a
private purpose — at the suggestion of another. lie could
' Since writing the foregoing, I find by the 'Gem Edition' that an Editor
of delicate taste has singled out this sonnet, to reject it from the Herbert
series. The instinct may be safeh^ trusted a little farther.
Mr. Palgrave accepts the Personal Theory, and, on his own admis-
sinn, can make but little of it. Although each sonnet ' is an Autoliior/raphic
Confession,' he remarks, we are completely foiled in getting at Shaks}it>aro
himself, and these 'revelations of the Poet's innermost nature^ appear to
* teach us less of the man ' than the tone of mind which we trace or seem to
trace in his Dramas. The ' strange imagery of passion which passes over the
mugic mirror has no tangible existence hefore or behind if.' And yet these son-
nets are, every one of them, ' Autobioi/raphic .' ' It is Shakspeare shoiciny
himself to us, not only in person, for he has revealed to us. so th«>y keep say-
ing, the * depths of his heart, in a drama more traffic thmi the madness of
Lear, or the atjonies of Othello.' "Would it not be wiser and more prudent to
suspect such a Theon,', than to suppose that Shakspeare, the great master of
expression, the man whose art of saying just what he meant is incomparable,
supremely potent, and of infinite felicity, should have written an Autobio-
graphy that is Impersonal — a Subjective Revelation wliich reveals nothing ?
The thing is a barefaced impossibility ! You cannot cross the sea by land.
' In sonnet 77 (p. 241), Shalcspeare most assuredly offers tlie pen to
Southampton, and asks him to fill some of the vacant leaves of the book in
which he is then writing one of the sonnets.
F F
434 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
not liave permitted all of these lattei' sonnets to accompany
the Southampton ones and thus defde the sanctities of
love and friendship. ' Is it not most damnable in us,'
says one of his characters, ' to he trumpeters of our
unlaivful intents ? ' And is it to be credited that lie
would not feel and act up to the level of that thought in
such a matter of personal import as this ? he who must
have had the supremest sense of fair fame and unstained
reputation, a perfect loatliing of that which should bear a
' hateful memory upon record,' ' The purest treasure
mortal times afford is spotless reputation,' says Mowbray.
' Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, is the im-
mediate jewel of their souls,' says lago. Prince Harry
prays over his slain enemy Hotspur, that his praise may
ascend to heaven, his ignominy sleep in the grave, and not
be remembered in his Epitaph. ' I have offended repu-
tation,' exclaims Antony, ' a most unnoble swerving.'
The thought of his lost reputation sobers Cassio on the
instant, and the remembrance of his infamy gives the
death-sting to Enobarbus. ' But, if it be a sin to covet
Honour, I am the most offending soul alive ! ' cries his
darling hero, Hariy V.
A most sensitive feeling of honour is associated with
all his nearest touches of nature, — his greatest moments
of action — his proudest thoughts of life — his deepest
apprehensions of death, — and I will not believe that in
this regard he was careless for himself alone in a work
which was to be published with his name. It is not
possible to think that a man who cared so little about
gathering up his best works could have been party to
the careful treasuring up of his worst ! With Herbert
the sonnets were left : from Herbert they were obtained
by Thorpe, and to Herbert belongs the responsibility of
printing all that we find under the title of Shakspeare's
Sonnets, and the onus of their being inscribed to himself
as ' Mr. W, H.' This is to all intents and purposes ac-
THE OXUS OF nUXTING RESTS WITH HERBERT. Vio
kuowledged, luid even pointed uul by Tliorpe. If the Poet
expressed any wishes ou tlie subject they were not impli-
citly obeyed ; more was included as ' SItakspeares Sonnet's'
than had been authorised. Tiiis is shown in an artistic
j)oint of view by the insertion of three pieces which are not
' sonnets^' and two fragment'^ on a subject that has notJiinij
to do with the work. And in the moral aspect it is as-
suredly the most just to conclude that a want of discretion
was far more in keeping with the character of Herbert
than with that of a man who was so full of self-res})ect,
domestic prudence, practical sagacity, wise reserve, and
canny discreetness as was our Shakspeare ; he who had
passed his London-life ^vithout blemish of his honour, stain
on his reputation, or suspicion of his morahty, and who,
when the sonnets were prmted, had more incentives than
ever for observing the decencies of life, and the respecta-
bilities of personal character. -~
F F 2
430 SILVKSrEAEE'S SONNETS.
OF THE NEW READING
AND
ARRANGEMENT.
The reading of Shakspeare's Sonnets now presented af-
fords the only theory yet adventured that is not full of
perplexity and bewilderment. It is the only one that
surmounts the obstacles, disentangles the complications,
resolves the discords, and out of various voices draws the
one harmony. It ignores no difficulty, violates no fact,
strains no point for the sake of making extremes meet ; it
gathers up every possibility, and is consistent from begin-
ning to end. AVe cannot but feel a degree of certitude that
the central magnet of the meaning must be grasped when
all things surrounding thus fall into place, and obey their
compelling law of gravitation ; cannot but think we have
reached the heart of the Maze when standing where so
many probabilities converge, and we see, as in a map, the
beginning of each ; the blending of all.
The personal interpretation is a real rendering of dark-
ness visible. The story breaks off suddenly after the first
twenty-six sonnets : it will not run or unravel autobiogra-
phically. To borrow an illustration from the silkwinders,
it takes a world of trouble to find the ' end ' each time
there is a snap ; and, when found, it is continually a start
and then a stand-still.
It is utter fcjlly to talk of a self-revelation made by
Shakspeare so inward that we cannot reach it. There are
CURRENT TIIEOniES. 437
fifty^ })lain facts to be met — facts of outer life, of cliaractei',
of sex, — oil tlie surftice of the sonnets, all opposed to the
Autol^iographic view, before anyone need have dived into
the deeps of their own subjectivity for the suj)posed
dreadful secrets of the Poet's heart. Nor will the theory
work which holds that the sonnets are mere fantastic ex-
ercises of ingenuity, having no root in reality — no relation
to Sliakspeare's own life. They are intensely real from
first to last through a wide range of varying feelings,
whatsoever their meaning. Although they were pubhshed
as sonnets, and the stories they once told have pa.ssed out
of sight when the Poet withdrew into his cloud, they
refuse to be read singly, even if we give separate titles to
every one. The life cannot be pulverised out of them by
any such process. The story will not come to a full stop
at the sonnet's end. It will continue its course out of
sight, lurking underground, hke the river Mole, where it
cannot run visibly on the siu-face, and reappear a little
farther on. Those who take so shallow a view must, of
necessity, be exceedingly dull readers of poetry, or very
^ ' Fifty ? ' In one sonnet alone, the 124th, there are at least a dozen : —
1. The speaker's affection has been the * Child of State.'
2. It is no loii<jer the ' Child of State.'
3. Had it continued to be merely so it would now have likewise become
the ' unfathered ba.-^tard ' of Fortune !
4. It no more suffers in the ' smiling pomp ' of a Coui-t.
5. It has heretofore so suffered.
G. The {speaker is hindered by what has occurred from joining the young
men of his own rank (* OXJR Fashion ') who are going to help put down
Rebellion, or facing the threatened blow of ' thralled Discontent.'
7. Such speaker must be a possible servant of the State ; obviously a
Soldier.
8. He fears not 'Policy ' the heretic ! which has worked against him.
0. His alVection now stands all alone in its own policy of independence.
10. Something has occurred which dignities the speaker with danger, ami
makes fresh appeal to his steadfastness.
11. He rejoices in having beforehand broken the power of accident by
making his ' love ' secure, come what might.
12. To the truth of his assertions he calls as present witnesses the spirits
of those that sutlered an ignominious death in connexion with athurs of State.
438 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
often startled by the strange passion in the expression, tlie
unaccountable force of the pleadings, the depths of feeling
sounded which make the sonnets perplexing as a dance of
many figures to a spectator who is so deaf that he does not
hear the music to which the motions are timed. Keats
found the sonnets to be full of fine things said uninten-
tionally, in the intensity of working out conceits.^ It
must be felt that the writer has a singular way of saying
nothing. Of the two readings this is the shallowest.
Shakspeare could write nonsense ; no man better ; but it
was the rich overflow of an irrepressible humour, never
the sheddings of a maudlin sentimentality. He never
wept on the tearful pretence of a sham sorrow. He was
not the man to ' discourse fustian with his own shadow.'
The other theory does rest on some natural ground — a
belief in his earnestness when he was writing — this theory
is absolutely baseless. It is hkewise in direct contradiction
to his own assertion, for he tells us, with all emphasis, that
it is not with him as with ' that Muse — stirred by a
painted beauty to his verse.' Not a creation of fancy, but
creatures of flesh and blood are his objects ; his reliance
is on truth and reality ; he is no mere fancy-monger or ven-
der of similes ! But the crowning absurdity that tops
extremity is the third theory, which holds the sonnets to be
symbohc;^ a mere bubble-world of transcendentahsm, in
which the most richly objective of poets is the most
mystically subjective.
' Life, vol. i. p. 70.
^ When -miting of the German-su'bjective-tran.scendental-symbolic view
of the sonnets m the first chapter of tliis work, I did not know that it had
"been out-IIerauded in our country by a writer in 'Temple Bar.' (See No. 17
for ' A neiv Vieiv of Shakspeare^ s sonnets.'') Had this been written as a bur-
lesque ontheCTerman book, it would have made an excellent jest. But Mr.He-
raud is as absurdly serious as his cou&iu-German. ' After a careful rvpcrusal
(he remarks), I have come to the conclusion that there is not a sinyle sonnet which
is addressed to any individual at all/ He maintains that the ' Two Loves '
of sonnet 144 are ' the C'elihate Church on the one hand, and the lieformed
Clmrch on the other.'' And in the latter sonnets, our poet is reading his
ONLY TIIEOKY BY WlilCll TIIKV (AX BE READ. l.'K)
The present tlieory, wliicli is really an appeal to common
sense on belialt" of the most practical of men and poets,
alone enables us to see how it is that Shakspeare can be at
the same time the Friend who loves and is blessed, and the
Lover who doats and is disconsolate ; how tlie great calm
man of the sweetest blood, the smoothest temper, and most
cheery soul can be the anxious, jealous, fretful wooer who
has been pursued by the ' slings and arrows of outrageous
Fortune,' and di-iven from his heart's home to drift about
tlie world as a wanderer, who, in his weakness, has said
and done things for which he prays forgiveness, and wliicli
ill him are not hard to forgive, because he is a lover who
has been much tried, and amidst all the shiftin2;s of life
and slidings of fortune has been true at heart and stead-
fast in his love. Here we can see how the Poet has been
the Player still, in his ' idle hours,' and how he can person-
ate a passion to the life, and disguise his face past our recog-
nition, and change the dramatic mask at will for the amuse-
ment of his ''private friends : ' at one moment rendering
the pretty petulance and tender reproaches of a jealous
lady who grows desperate because she does not know the
worst, but is fully inclined to tliink it ; at another breathing
all his heart into the protestations of a ranging lover who
has been here and there, and whose love has appeared to
be the slave of Time and the sport of wind and wave, and
l»ible — ^ Has the vcnj Book open before him,'' Mr. Iloraud says, 'lie is in
fact reading the Canticles ; and there lie finds the Bride, who is " h/trek but
comely " — at once the bride of his Celestial Friend and his own ' ! I ! Oh, »ii/
Lady Ikich how art thou translated ! I think this too good to omit, although
I can only make a note of it : good enough surely, if boundless ft)llv ciin
reach so far, to tickle Shakspeare in eternity and make him feel a canial
gush of the old human jollity ! Verily, he might say of his expounders, a.s
Sterne said of the asses in his * Sentimental Journey,' ' How they viewed
AND KEVIKWED TS ! '
Ikit why recognise such rootless and literally groundless imaginings as
these ? "Wherefore notice such vain shadows at all in the presence of reali-
ties firm and fast as the centre ? "What says Deilus in Randolph's ' Muses'
Looking-Glass' when he has been cen;?ured for his fear of Sliadows? TfV/o
J,nows but they come leering after us to steal array the subMance.'"
440 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS,
yet no distance could sever it from its true resting-place.
Then lie can lay aside tlie mask and sliow his own face
calm and noble, and wearing a look of smiling cheer for
his friend ; or, if there be a shadow on it, this does not
darken from within — comes from no selfish pang — no
personal compunction of conscience — it only reflects that
cloud wliich is passing over the fortunes of his ' dear Boy.''
Thus we may understand how he can be modest for him-
self and shrinking out of all notice, yet grow defiant and
dazzling as a ' mailed angel on a battle-day ' when he is
fi oh ting for this friend, and the sword o;litters, the shield
glows, the valour mounts, and the trumpet rings. These
sounding promises and lofty boasts of immortality are only
the echoes and reverberations in the upper air of the
battle Avith Time and Fortune, and 'all-oblivious Enmity '
which is going on below. Thus we may comprehend how
Shakspeare can rejoice in this friend who is all the world
to him, when his own life-battle may have been going hard
against him, and, directly after, depict the feeling of for-
lorn friendlessness of that friend who is 'in disgrace with
Fortune and Men's eyes,' and who looks on himself as an
outcast, and wishes he were as those who have friends and
sit within the warm and rosy inner circle of happiness ;
how the spirit, that in motion was at rest, can appear full
of all unrest and disquietude ; how the love that is such a
still blessedness to the one can be to the other like the
fabled thorn in the heart of the Nightingale which she
presses and sings ' sweet ! sweet ! sweet ! ' bleeding all the
while she turns her sorrow into song ; how one sonnet
can tell of the speaker's ' ivell-conterited day,' and show that
meek spirit of content which really and rightly mherits
the earth, and has the richest of all possessions in its
own self-possession, wliilst its neighbouring plaint em-
bodies a spirit that is perturbed and full of discontent ;
changeful as a day in April. IIow he can deal ])]ayfully
on one side of the same theme, and be deei)ly, painfully in
THE DUALITY. 4Jl
earnest on the otlier. Thus, on the subject of parting he
can liimselt" afford to seek a somewliat fantastic and son-
neteering kind of excuse — 'Even for tliis — that \^,fov me
to write about you — let us separate (39), and render tliat
friend's parting from his mistress (to go abroad) witli a
most dramatic fire and smoke of torment. He can assert
liis own steadfastness of unwavering affection, and with an
ahnost monotonous iteration protest its unchangeableness
now and for ever, whilst, at the same time, he continues the
story : the quarrels, the llirtations, partings and greetings of
a pah' of lovers the course of whose love did not run smooth,
but was full of ups and downs, tests and trials, leavetakings
and makings-up. And wdien he has done ample justice
poetically to the character of the Earl, and ' confessed ' him
with all his unfolded faults and penitent tears, he can, in
his own person, give him absolution and, wdth the lustiest
sense of his oAvn liberty to do so, celebrate that ' marriage
of true minds' in sonnet IIG — assert emphatically the
truth of the whole matter, and challenge all the w^orld with
the airiest, cheeriest defiance to prove any error on him.
He writes playful, punning sonnets for William Herbert,
and some that paint the youngster's passion in fiery hues,
but showing that he presides over his own work ; gives
his own summing up and last word, we hear his real self,
speaking out finally in characterization of the subject, with
a judicial solemnity of tone which goes fiirthest, sinks
deepest, and tells us ])lainly enough when his own spirit
touches us to call our attention so that we may look and
see his own thought and understand his words. All
the secret lies in the simple fact that the ' sweet swan
of Avon,' hke Wordsworth's swan upon St. Mary's Lake —
' ' Fliiats nouBLE, swan and shadow.'
No other theory can pretend to reconcile the conflicting
dillerences and prickly points of opposition with which
the sonnets have so bristled all over that many persons,
442 SHAKSPILVRE'S SONNETS.
seeing the host of difhculties, liave shut their eyes and
closed the book. This, alone, takes the sonnets almost as
they stand ; tells their various stones, identifies the differ-
ent characters ; matches these with their expression ;
calls them by name and they answer, proves many of
the inner facts by events, and dates, and illustrations
i'vcmi the outer life of the persons and the historic sur-
roundings of the period. It shows that many of these
sonnets are sliaped by the spirit of the age ; how they wear
its ' form and pressure,' and liave its circumstances figured
in their imao-erv. It tells us how tlie things here written
w^ere once lived by Shakspeare and his friends. It shows
us the concealed half of the Man ; the other side of the
luminary, and does more than anything hitherto accom-
plished to connect him with the life of his time ; makes him
touch earth again ; brings him back to us in his habit and
affection as he lived. It is the most authentic revelation
ever given of his own inner life, for some twelve years
of his sojourn on this earth ; affords the most private peep
into the sanctuary of his soul that was kept so closely cur-
tained to the gaze of his contemporaries, and tells us more
about his own self than all that has been gathered of him
since the day of his death. By its help we may enter the
early garden of his dramatic mind — the very site whereof
seemed lost — and trace certain tap-roots of his nature ; see
how they first put forth their feelers to take hold of
that human world which they were to ramify through and
through, and embrace all round. These life-roots of his,
that germinated in the Sonnets to flower at their fullest in
the Dramas, we can now hold up to the light as we might
contemplate the hyacinth in its water-glass, with its fine
fibres below, and its consummate flower above.
Hitherto half the matter and all the most precious part
of the meaning have been lost sight of. We have missed
the points that toucli life tlie nearest, and the traits tliat
bring us the closest to Shakspeare. The light of nature
THE ENKICII.MENT FlIOM 1;]:AE1TV. 413
]ias been put out, and the sonnets have lacked the living
glow. We have been shamefully cheated by impoverish-
ing impositions. The images that are figured facts
coloured from the life, have hitherto been mere phantoms,
making a dumb show of poetry. But once we can see
and believe that our Poet is dealinii; with realities, the
rekindled light illumines everything. The sonnets are ;dl
astir Avith a more vital existence. The dust of words is
all a-sparkle, the wayside common-places flower again ;
the world of fancy grows summer-green and golden ; a
new soul has come into the sonnets ! They gain im-
mensely in beauty, gravity, and fitness to subject, when
Ave have reached their underlying realities, and are won-
drously enriched when ranged in contrast and set jewel-
like, ' each other's beams to share,' wearing the diverse
colours of the various characteristics. All their poetic quali-
ties are enhanced by our getting at the right relationship
of persons. Truth is ever the eternal basis of the highest
beauty, and as we reach tlie truth here the meaning
deepens indefinitely, the poetry brightens in a loftier light.
The solemn thought is more sagely fine, the tenderness
more pathetic, the feeling more significant, the fancy more
felicitous, the strength more potent, the sweetness more
virginal, the illustration more appropriate. We are no
longer hindered in our enjoyment of the divinely-dainty
love-poetrj', that could only have been offered to a
woman, and which seems to flush the page with the
vernal tints of spring and the purple light of love, by the
feelinfi; that makes Englishmen ' scunner ' to see two men
kiss each other, or hear them woo one another in amorous
words.
We now see that these sonnets transcend all others
as much as his plays are above those of his contem-
poraries. ' Shakspeare's divine Sonnets,' they were
nobly named by Elizabetli Barrett Browning ; but how
intensely human they are, how exquisitely natural,
4i4 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
could not be known till now, when, for the first time,
the real heart-beat of them may l)e felt. And by
as much as they grow in meaning, in vivid life, in
morality, does their writer gain in manliness. Hitherto
they have been read in sad uncertainty of Shakspeare's
drift, or with sadder certainty of his moral delin-
quency. For the first time we can read them without
fear or trembling lest some apparition of the Poet's
guilt shoidd rise up vast and shadowy, and as we might
try to stammer excusingly, much larger than life. We
can now sit down to their banquet of beauty without
being nervously apprehensive about the ghost rising. We
may see that tlie most passionate of the sonnets are not ne-
cessarily the travail of his own soul and sweat- drops of his
own agony , all the more perplexing to us, because he had
apparently put himself and us to the torture when there
was no need. We can breathe more freely, feel a little
calmer, when we do comprehend that he did not crucify
himself for the whole world to see his shame ; did not make
all the poetic capital possible out of his friend ; and, hav-
ing handed liim over to his enemies, hang himself publicly,
Judas-like, in a fit of repentance. And we shall soon
feel that it is not so very marvellous a thing that
the most dramatic of poets should have at times employed
the dramatic method in his sonnets. Especially when his
subject was real life — the life and the loves of those who
were so ■ dear to him — in singing of which some disguise
was demanded by the nature of the case ; the marked
position of his friends.
The sonnets have had many readers who felt there
was much more in them than had yet been foimd, and
who would have been only too glad if they could have
got to the root of the matter by means of such a theory
as is now propounded. Charles Lamb, for instance.
He was a reader of the sonnets. One who would have
brooded over them till his heart ran over in the quaintest
THE PRIVACY OF LO\EIiS AND FRIENDS. 445
babblement of loving words, if he might only have grasped
the revelation that flashed out of them by evanescent
gleams, and left the darkness more bewildering than ever.
But to catch the Protean spirit, and liold it, and compel it
to declare itself in a recognisable shape, was as tantalizing
and provoking a task as trying to arrest the reflection of
a f\ice in water all in motion, with the sunbeams dancin":
on it, and the eyes completely dazzled. This will explain
why the sonnets have had so few commentators, when the
other works of Shakspeare have collected such a host.
The wisest readers have been content to rest with Mr.
Dyce in his declaration, that after repeated perusals, he
was convinced that the greater number of them was com-
posed in an assumed character, on different subjects, and
at diiTerent times, for the amusement, and probably at
the sufjfirestion of the author's intimate associates. And
CD
having cracked the nut, as I think, we hud this to be the
very kernel of it ; only my theory inimasks the characters
assumed, unfolds the "nature of the various subjects,
traces the different times at which they were composed,
and identifies those intimate associates of Shakspeare who
supplied both suggestion and subjects for his sonnets. It
brings us, like the Prince in search of his Sleeping Beauty,
to the inmost nook of Shakspeare's poetry ; the magic
hermitage to which the invention of Southampton ' gave
light,' and which was locked up and the key given to
Herbert two centuries and a half ago. We shall find
eveiything nearly as the Poet left it, for the place is
sacred from the touch of Time. The friends and lovers
are here pictured as in life, wearing the dresses they wore
of old, and looking for us as they looked in the eyes of
each other. As we break the stillness the life seems to
begin again, the colour comes back to the fiices, and the
sound of breathing is heard in the charmed chamber of
imageiy which has been sealed in silence for so long. "We
have come secretly into the presence of Shakspeare him-
446 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
self. Does lie resent this intrusion ? Do tlie srailinii;
brows darken at our coming ? I trust not, I think not.
If I liave rightly interpreted the feeling of our Poet
for his friend Southampton, he would willingly reach
a hand from heaven to place the rightful wreath on Ins
brow. So fully did he once mean to set a crown of im-
mortal flowers where Fortune had bound her thorns, only
he was hindered by one of those complications of life
that perplex human nature, with circumstances absurdly
insufficient, and so often foil intention, and drag down
the lifted hand.
Although I maintain that our Poet wrote dramatic
sonnets for the Earl of Southampton at his own request,
and that, in these, much of the Earl's character is caught
and reflected, as Shakspeare could not fail to touch
nature whatsoever his standpoint, yet I do not say he
undertook to complete the circle of that character in the
compass of a certain number of sonnets. It is the court-
ship rather than the character which is Shakspeare's sub-
ject, only character will be visible in courtship as in other
things, and so we get glimpses of the Earl's. But our
Poet uses the dramatic method with subtle art in these
poems, for purposes of his own, in the way he makes the
Earl speak of himself and his doings, hoping, no doubt,
that the silent eloquence of certain lines might prove
their best. He had pleaded in the earlier sonnets —
* 0, learn to read what silent love hath writ,
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit ! '
And at times I think he inserts something scarcely war-
ranted, if he were bound by the strictest dramatic pro-
priety. He suggests more to the Earl than might be
absolutely conveyed in the sound of the sonnet. He seeks
an echo from the inner sense. In the confessional sonnets,
as we may call them, after so strong a self-condemnation,
so long a Hst of wilful errors and wanton sins against true
THE ESSEX INFLUENX'E. 4-17
love, the excuses ure certainly very weak and puerile, even
for a lover to wiiom much is to be pard(jned. If Shak-
s])eare were the speaker, they would be despicable, but for
Southampton they are trivial and poor. lie himself must
have seen how shallow after the admissions of such deep
wrong. If he felt guilty when reading the confessions,
the consciousness must have increased when he saw the
excuses. The case would look bad if these were the best
that Shakspeare could make for his dear friend.
' Nevertheless,' the Poet would seem to say, ' these are
the best I can find for you ; I know they are poor indeed,
but that is no fault of mine. I have always done my
utmost to make you look in the eyes of others as you
show to me at heart. Indeed, I rather strained a point,
you know, for a particular occasion, (in sonnet 70 p. 22G).
I have excused your follies, and your treatment of Mistress
Vernon ingeniously as I could, but you see how httle,
really, there is to be said.'
In the same way I find evidence that his own feeling
fii^hts, all it can under the conditions, airainst the influence
of Essex over the Earl of Southam})ton. It w^as purely
owing to this infiuence which sprang out of his love for
the Earl of Essex's cousin, that Southampton came so near
to losing his head ; this he confessed on his Trial. His
share in the guilt arose from his personal affection rather
than from any rebel ambition. And, I doubt not that
Sliakspearc, the peerless reader of character, the friend
who had such 'precious seeing' in his eye — who loved
the Earl of Southampton with such a manly tenderness,
liad his boding dread and prophesying fear of this in-
fiuence proving fatal in the end. He must have caught
hints, heard whispers of the Earl of Essex and the Lady
Ivich's intrigue with the Scots' King ; it was a family
alfair, and Southampton had become as one of the family ;
ailianced in friendship and bound in love. He himself
was induced to lend his pen once or twice in the Essex
448 SIIAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
service. But I am sure that he did not hke tlie look of
things, and he divined that bad would come of the con-
nexion for the Earl, his friend. This is the fear, this is
the bitterness of the sonnets spoken by Elizabeth Vernon
to Lady Eich. Her great grief is not only that the lady
has stolen or tried to steal her lover, but that she herself
should be the cause of his having been brought within
range of an influence from which she anticipates dan-
ger to the Earl. She is bound to the Lady Eich per-
force — she is a prisoner in her power — ' pent in thee,'
and 'mortgaged' to her will — that is understood — that,
she thinks, ought to be enough, without the Earl being
made a slave to such a slavery. And she speaks stingingiy
of the ' bond' which binds them all up together ; a 'bond'
w^hich is not one of love : says she was cruel herself to
briuGi; the Earl into such an entan^^lement, and it is mean
of her cousin, the Lady Eich, to take advantage of what
she has unwittingly done — to sue him, distress to the
uttermost, him who only became a debtor — placed him-
self in Lady Eich's power — amatory or political — for Eliza-
beth Vernon's sake ! Here, I think, Shakspeare's own
personal feeling recognisably peeps out. The earnest
expression, ' let my heart be his guard,' lias in it the
yearning desire of our Poet to shield his friend from the
danger which his quick instinct foreboded. Thus I account
for the expression in which Shakspeare calls those who
have died on the block the ' fools of Time.' This, if
Essex were included, would be unfriendly on the part of
his friend, Southampton, who is the speaker in that son-
net. I take it that Essex is included, so far as the writer
is concerned, but that the writer's feeling shapes the
speaker's expression. The dramatic mask slips aside for
a moment, or Shakspeare takes the liberty of telhng the
Earl what his own estimate of Essex's character and con-
duct really is. He looked upon him as one of the fools
of Time, the restless, iinpatient, fretful fool — the ' weary
DOUBTFUL RE.U)INGS DETl^RMINED. 440
knight,' he called lihnself — who would not wait for the
eternal audit but must force affairs or hurry himself to
the last account, and died to make sport for the time.
Of course we do not know but what this may have been
Southampton's opinion of the man who so foolishly thought
to shake a throne which was so firmly founded in the
affection, and smilingly surrounded with the strength of
a great-hearted people.
The present interpretation will give a verdict against
wdiich there is no appeal in the case of some readings
that have been hitherto disputed and doubtful. The most
ob\dous way of trying to get out of a difficulty has been
to suspect that the printers have given us a corrupt
text, but there are many instances in which this method
is not at all satisfactory. For example, in the lines of
sonnet 70 —
' So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being wooed of Time.'
^[alone and Steevens both fail to make out the meanins^.
The former asks, ' What idea does icorth wooed of, that is
by. Time present ? ' and says, ' Perhaps the Poet means that
however slandered his friend may be at present, his w^orth
shall be celebrated in all future time.' Steevens replies
that he has already shown, on the authority of Ben Jon-
son, that 'of Time' means of the then present one, and
says, ' Perhaps we are to disentangle the transposition of
the passage thus — " So thou be good, slander being Avoo'd
of Time, doth but approve thy worth the greater "' — i.e., if
you are virtuous, dander, being the favourite of the age,
only stamps the stronger mark of approbation on your
merit.' Another commentator asks, 'May we not read,
"being icood of Time?" taking wood for an epithet applieil
to slander, signifying frantic, doing mischief at random.
I can make no other sense of the Avords as printed.' The
present reading alone solves the difficulty. The person
G G
450 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
addressed being that Earl of Southampton whose marriage
with Ehzabeth Vernon was forbidden by Queen Ehzabeth,
who hindered their coming together for some years after
the Earl began to court his Mistress. He is spoken of as
'wooed by Time' — not the worth — because he is kept
waiting. And whilst waiting, and having to hold the
bridle-hand over the impetuous passion of love, the Poet
says, ' So you be good and keep pure, Slander shall only
serve to prove your worth the greater because of the
position in which you are placed, having thus to wait ;
being thus " wooed of Time !" ' We see by sonnet 115
how fearful the writer had been of ' Time's tyranny ' over
his friend.
Again, in sonnet 75, the speaker says —
* And for the "peace of you I hold such strife
As twixt a miser and his wealth is found.'
Malone remarks, ' the context seems to require that we
should rather read, " for the price of you," or, " for the
sake of you." The conflicting passions described by the
Poet were not produced by a regard to the ease or quiet
of his friend, but by the high value he set on his esteem ;
yet, as there seems to have been an opposition intended
between peace and strife, I do not suspect any corruption
in the text.' This is an acute observation. The critic
perceives there is something wrong; the character of
the conflicting feelings is not suitable to Shakspeare as
the speaker, yet he suspects that it goes too deep for a
mere change of phrase. He saw as profoundly as could
be seen on the personal interpretation. But we shall
fatliom a little deeper and find a firmer bottom when we
have got such a speaker as Southampton addressing his
Mistress, and when we grasp his character and the conflict
of his affection with the outward circumstances of his Hfe,
and see him holding such strife with himself for the peace
of his beloved.
PRESENT THEORY A TOUCHSTONE OF TRUTH. 4ol
Tliere is a story -which tells how a girl had to nin a
race Avith a vase of water on her head and was not to
oversi)ill a drop of it if she wonld win her lover. Tliis
would nj)tly symbol the lot of the Earl in Iji-aring his
love and trying to keep it steady through the strife
within and the storms without. Tliat is what Shak-
speare's Hne expresses as the pith of his meaning. In this,
as in the previous instance, we may see how the Poet has
crowded a world of specialty — of human character and
external condition — into a single phrase ! Nothing could
be so perfect for their purpose, — no other words could
say so much, — as these which are the perplexities of criti-
cism until we get the right theory of interpretation, and
then for the first time we see how procreant, how inclu-
sive, how Shakspearian they are. The touches whicli
are nearest to Nature are just those that make the matter
the most remote from us luitil we have got the proper
clue to their meaning.
One conjectural emendation made by Malonc is ren-
dered invincible l)y my theory. Line 9, sonnet 41
(p. 207), reads in the Quarto: * Ah, me, but yet thou
mightst my seat forbear.' Malone suggested and printed
' my Sweet ' instead of ' ray seat,' an expression much
more appropriate to the tender appeal of the woman
speaker in my interpretation of the sonnet, and still
more in the spirit and manner of Shakspearc who would
surely not have talked of ^ forbearuuj a seat ! ' Mr.
Dyce thinks the Quarto reading well supported by a
quotation from 'Othello' made by Boaden, in which,
however, there is no likeness to forbearing a seat. The
inner feeling of the sonnet goes to prove more than
any outside comparison, else it might be shown ad infi-
nitum what a fond and favourite expression of the Poet's
this Siceet is. In tlio 'Lover's Complaint' we find ' 0,
my Sweet.' In the ' Two Gentlemen of Verona,' ' Sweet !
except not any.' In the 'Tempest,' ' Sweet, now silence.'
G c. 2
462 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
In ' Othello,' ' The sooner Sweet ! for you.' In ' Love's
Labour's Lost,' ' Take thou this, my Sweet.' In ' Troilus
and Cressida,' ' Sweety bid me hold my tongue !' In the
' Comedy of Errors,' ' Sweet, now make haste.' And in
' Eomeo and Juliet,' ' Do so, and bid my Sweet prepare to
chide.'
I might give further examples, but these will suffice to
show what I mean by saying that the present reading of
the sonnets settles various moot questions once for all.
Having got the key to the inmost character, the shaping
spirit of the sonnets, we can now judge of their external
characteristics and distinguish betwixt the essential and
tlie accidental ; the master-touch of Shakspeare and the
bungling of the printers.
My reading owes but little to my arrangement of the
sonnets. I have not had to pull the book to pieces and
put the sonnets together as the letters of a name might
l3e transposed, until a pretty anagram was formed. The
theory necessitated no such ingenious puzzle-work. I
did not bring the theory to the sonnets, but the sonnets
supplied the theory. They confessed their own secret,
though somewhat coyly. They told their own series of
stories, and once I had got hold of a story, the sub-
ject gathered up its own proper parts. So naturally
did the mutually dependent portions draw together and
reveal their shai'e of the secret that at times I could
only wait and see how things were going, only ob-
serve whilst they combined, as one might watch some
chemical experiment which should produce a result half
expected and half unexpected, the unforseen portion be-
ing by far the most important. Looking back now at the
making out, it does not appear like restoring a statue
piecemeal, after long search for the scattered fragments,
so much as getting a glimpse of something buried, dig-
ging away the earth, and coming upon the statue perfect
almost as it came from the liand of the master. So pal-
THE OrJGINAL COPY. 453
pably are the facts necessary to my reading all there, and
so little does the reading depend on the arrangement of
the sonnets !
It will be seen that one of the two greatest changes
made occurs in restoring three of the sonnets that have
been heretofore printed among the first series. These have
been incorporated with the Herbert group ; not witli-
out sufficient sanction. In the old arrangement, they
are numbered 57, 58, and 96 ; in the present, they Avill
be found the 7th, 12tli, and 13tli of the Herbert group.
If the first copy had been followed exactly, and had not
been altered to suit a theory, however silently it was
working in the corrector's mind, it must have been per-
ceived ere now that sonnet 57 was one of those that contain
puns on the name of ' Will.' The last two lines of this
sonnet, as first printed, run thus : —
' So true a fool is love, that, in your Will,
Tho' you do anything, he thinks no ill.' '
This at once raised a doubt whether the sonnet ouQ;lit
not to have been placed with the later ones. And further
looking into the matter, convinced me that this and the
other two sonnets mentioned belong, by the natiu-e and
phrasing of the passion they express, to the sonnets which
I hold to have been written for Wilham Herbert. They
are too unmanly in their extravagant protestations to be
worthy of the character and the affection of Southampton,
as Shakspeare has mirrored them both for us. He knew
the value of all such vows.'-' If we trace the Earl right
* Various unwnrrnntable alteration.s having been made in these sonnets, it
becomes necessary to go back to the early copy. Fortunately this has been
admirably reprinted from an unrivalled original, by means of photo-zinco-
graphy. It has been of inestimable use to me.
" * Vows were ever brokers to defiling.'
A Lover's Lament,
' Do not believe his vows, for they are brokers ; mere imphiratora of unholy
suits.' Hiiiulet.
454 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
through the sonnets devoted to him we sliall find the
passion is pure ; the man is manly. In the first of these,
(29 — p. 166), we see a noble spirit almost despising itself for
having misgiving moods of mind, which are very natural
to his condition. The note struck is essentially manly ;
the love expressed is warm and deep, but it has no whine
of sentiment ; no abjectness of spirit. His bearing is no
more lowered because of his fervour of feehne, than it is
because of Fortune's mahce. In sonnet 36 (p. 176) he has
done something which makes it necessary that for his
Mistress's sake he should leave her, lest the ' guilt ' which
he bewails, and is sorry for, should bring her shame.
Here there is the touch of magnanimity in his repentance ;
nothing weak or grovelling. On the journey, and dm^ing
his absence, amidst all the loving conceits and tender home-
ward yearnings, the quaint expression of fond fancies, the
touches of jealous thought, the speaker never abases his
manliood, and the love is crystal-clear in its depths of
purity — shining most clearly when the mind is most dis-
turbed. All through, the passion is of the kmd that exalts
a man ; it tends upward. The manliness of sonnet 49
(p. 233), mixed with the conflicting feelings and domi-
nating over them, is especially fine. So is the self-abne-
gation and sacrifice of sonnet 88 (p. 233). It is the voice
of a true man, and noble lover, even though the dress be
a caprice of fashion or of fondness. The love may be like
devouring flame, as in sonnet 75 (p. 229), but there is no
tendency to eat dirt and delight in it. The lover keeps
the attitude and aspect of manhood, and does not wallow.
If we would learn how naturally noble is the Earl's love
for Elizabeth Vernon, we may feel it in sonnet 95 (p. 236),
where it is tried terribly by the 'ill-report' that has reached
' Well, do not swear ! '
Juliet to liomeo.
' No, not an oath !
Swear Priests and cowards and men t;autelous.'
Bkuits. in Julius Ccesar.
THE TWO LADY-COUSINS ADDRESSED. 4r>5
his ears, witli regard to her beliavioiir at Court. How
iarge-hearted and ahnost parental is tlie cautioning ten-
derness! IIow firm also the belief in the diamond-like
nature of his lady's purity, in spite of what the busy tongues
have whispered — Only ' take heed^ dear heart, of the large
privilege which your beauty and your position confer on
you ! ' In his most piteous pleadings, and most humili-
ating confessions, it is a noble fellow at heart ; whatsoever
buffetings of fortune and slips of the foot he may have
had, he has borne high that torch of his love, and tried to
keep it burning pure and bright. BQs love has ennobled
his manhood — straightened it upward — makes it dilate to
a prouder height, as in the farewell sonnet 90, (p. 240),
where the poetry is quick with the feehng of a Avronged,
heroic soul ; written in the very life-blood that runs from
wounds unjustly given, and lia\ang the pathetic force of
a strong man in tears.
All through, the passion is perfectly pure, and the
sonnets are spoken to a perfectly pure woman by him
who has the sole right to caution her when she ' flirts '
with others, as we may understand it, and the Court gos-
sips make ' lascivious comments ' on what she has been
doing in ' sport ' — half spite, half fun — when the two
lovers were on tiff, Southampton would not have called
himself a ' slave,' a ' sad slave ' to tlie woman he loved,
lie would not have prostrated himself in any unmanly way
at her feet like the speaker in sonnets 57-8, (p. 373). His
was the love in honour which demanded the ' mutual ren-
der, only me for thee.' We know tliat he did think the
' bitterness of absence soiu-^' — did dare to ' question with
his jealous thought' where she was, and what she was
doing. He did think ill, and warn her when he heard a
c'ertain report of her doings. He was no fool in love, and
did not tolerate being befooled. Nor was his the patience
' So did Shakspeare in one of his pei-soual sonnets (oO — p. 171).
456 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
that, ' tame to sufferance,' would ' bide each check' and put
up with all kinds of trifling. Nor did he consider that it
belonged to his lady to pardon herself for her ' self-doing
crimes.' Southampton rightfully held his lady responsible
to him for what she had done when he reproached her.
Nor did he think that errors were translated to truths
when seen in her !
The spirit of these sonnets is one with the rest of
Herbert's. The 'sad slave' and wretched vassal of son-
nets 57-8, (p. 373), is the ' proud heart's slave ' and ' vassal
wretch' of sonnet 141, (p. 376). The passion in both is
a fire that crumbles the manhood from within. The
hectic hue of its lower nature is lurid in every hue. The
apparent magnanimity is only prostration for a selfish
purpose. And the lady's character also is as distinctly
seen by the same light. The lover protests too much,
offers too much — would fling himself into any puddle, like
Kaleigh's cloak, for the lady to step on. Then he has no
sole right to address her amorously — he must be content
to take his place with the rest of Circe's suitors, and his
turn in winning her smile ! —
' I am to wait, tho' waiting so be bell,
Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.'
And—
* So true a fool is love, that in your * Will,'
Tho' you do anything, he thinks no ill.'
It is the same lady who inspired sonnet 96 (p. 370) ; all
the images are stamped in her likeness. Southampton
did not think the faults of his lady were graces in her.
His jealous thought was for the lady herself, and not on
behalf of the innocent 'gazers' whom she might lead
astray. Such a suggestion would be utter profanity ; the
comparison implied, in the ' stern wolf,' an insult ! Tlie feel-
ing of sonnet 95 (p. 236), is filled with most anxious love —
jealous of 'trifles light as air.' The jealousy of the other is
altogether ironical ; this is proved by the repetition of the
OLD AND NEW AIlItANGEMENT. 457
two lines which were used with so difTerent a meaning in
sonnet 36 (p. 170). In every respect the spirit and look of
the two sonnets are the perfect opposite of each other ; the
object of the illustration is exactly reversed. The one lady
is learned against those vices that lead astray^ the other
is asked not to use all her strength to lead others astray.
One is all innocence and budding beauty cautioned against
her ' sport ' on which the gossips talk freely. The other
is pleaded with not to play the part of Wolf by trying to
look as innocent as the Lamb. Of the one lady we may
say, in the words of Lear, ' her eyes are fierce,' but the
eyes of the other ' do comfort and not burn ! ' Of the one
sonnet that it has an unhallowed glow, of the other tliat it
wears the wdiite halo of purity.
Next, I have taken three sonnets from tlie latter, or
Herbert series, and restored them to those that illustrate
Elizabeth Vernon's jealousy of Lady Eich. And here I
may reiterate how satisfactorily this mixture of the sonnets
illustrates my reading. Because the sonnets spoken to
Lady Eich by her cousin were sent to her as well as those
spoken by Wilham LTerbert, and they come back to us
mixed up together, both in the 'Passionate Pilgrim' and
in Thorpe's Book ! That some of Herbert's should be
mixed up with Elizabeth Vernon's, points to the proba-
bility that the woman addi'essed so warmly by that lady
and William Herbert is one and the same — Ehzabeth
Vernon's cousin, Lady Eich. In each case, too, the num-
ber of sonnets that have changed places is the same.
For the rest, tliere is proof of the intent to keep the
Herbert scries apart at the end of the book, the odd son-
nets which were written for Southampton still later having
been intermediately inserted with the others of his series.
The last of these, written in 1603, on the Earl's re-
lease from the Tower, was composed after ' Mr. W. H,
became Earl of Pembroke,' therefore, according to my
' lie succeeded to the title on the 10th of Jaiiuarv, 1001.
458 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS,
view, after the Herbert sonnets were written. It has
been thrust in quite at random, still it is with the South-
ampton sonnets. Then the 126th (p. 170) is a fragment ;
it is printed in the quarto, with brackets to indicate the
missing lines. It was unfinished, ergo, never sent, there-
fore it would be amongst the loose papers of Shakspeare,
and this, which belongs by tone and tint to a much
earlier period, has been placed last of the Southampton
series, and by its aid the Herbert group is marked off into
its place apart.
Some of the other batches of sonnets have shifted
places, the Marlowe group is one of these. But in each
case a dropped sonnet or two remains to indicate the
right position and tell us where the others should have
been. The greatest confusion has been caused by the odd
sonnets that have been let loose like riderless horses in the
ranks to come in anywhere hap-hazard. I venture, how-
ever, to affirm that I have got them approximately right,
both in date and subject, and they will be found arranged
in natural sequence with the help of such hints as they
contain, so that each group shall best evolve its story.
I now claim for my interpretation that it corrects the
errors which have been made by superficial research,
and clears up tlie mystery of Thorpe's inscription ; that
it recovers for us the long-lost key wherewith Shakspeare
unlocked his heart to his ' private friends ;' that it
fathoms and unfolds the secret histories which have been
a sealed book for two centuries and a half and solves one
of the most piquant and important of all literary pro-
blems ; makes the life-spirit that once breathed in these
fragments stir and knit themselves together again to be-
come a living body of facts, shaped objectively in some near
likeness to the form originally worn in Shakspeare's mind
— a veritable presence before which all the phantom
falsehoods must fade, and all ' such exsufllicate and blown
THE PROBLEM SOLVED AT LAST. 459
surmises ' as have attainted the sonnets and wronged the
Poet must for ever pass away.
I also claim for my Theory that it is proved by the ut-
most evidence the nature of the case admits ; that the
j)robabilities alone are such as to inspire a feehng of cer-
tainty, — tliat these clothe themselves in a mail of poetic
proof, a panoply of circumstantial evidence and confirma-
tory facts. Attempting so much, it must be very assailable
if wrong, only tliose who think me wrong must be able
to set me riglit. Mere professions of unbelief or non-
behef will be valueless ; their expression idle. My facts
must be satisfactorily refuted, my Theory disproved
simply and entirely, or, in the end, both will be accepted.
I cannot expect the result of my explorations to be
taken in at first sight, for I myself best appreciate all the
intricacies of the process,^ and the many surprises of my
discovery. Some readers will find it hard to beUeve tliat
a thing like tliis has been left for me to accomplish.
Nevertheless, the thing is done ; I can trust a certain
spirit in the sonnets, that will go on pleading when my
words cease ; and, as Shakspeare has written, the ' silence
often of pure Innocence persuades when speaking fails.'
Even so will his own innocence prevail, and with a per-
fect trust in tlie soundness of my conclusions, I leave tlie
matter for tlie judgement of that great soul of the world
which is just.
• * Had we a full biography of the Poet M-ith <all his surroundings, we
might explain much that is ukscure in these remiirkahle etlusidns, hut bi/ no
pmcTss that I can convcive, inaij xce hope to seize the yenuine allusioiDi to facts
thut they contain, and succeed therefrom to iUudratc and reanimate the life.'
Life of Shakitpeare, by William "Watkiss Lloyd.
460 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
'HIS SUGRED SONNETS
AMONG HIS PRIVATE FRIENDS.'
Meres.
My reading of the sonnets gives new meaning to the
words of Meres. It makes definite a somewhat vague
though sure description. In 1598 he could have spoken
only of the Southampton series, but he must have had an
inkling of their true nature to have generalized thus
successfully. He does not say Shakspeare's personal
sonnets to a friend or a Patron. And we have only to
substitute the dramatic for the fugitive character that has
been ascribed to the sonnets, and his words admit all that
my interpretation substantiates. They are ' sugred son-
nets,' too, which means love-sonnets ; known to a circle
of private friends, various of whom were concerned in
their begettal, and all of whom could be appealed to in
witness of their worth. In short Meres identifies the son-
nets, up to 1598, as the love-sonnets of Shakspeare written
for his private friends. The critic wrote with an eye to
these friends. And who were they ?
His words mark the very time at which William Her-
bert had joined the group and become one of those who
took an interest in the sonnets. This young lord, from his
love of poetry, was probably the one who talked most about
tlie sonnets and made them known. Unquestionably he
was one of the ' ])rivate friends ' referred U) in connection
THE PRIVATI': FRIENDS. 461
witli Shakspeare's sonnets ; thus Meres puts us on tlie
track pursued in a previous chapter. Tlie Earl of Soutli-
ampton was of course the chief of these private friends
])ubh('ly recognised. That fact is estabUslied on tlie
Toet's own personal testimony, independently of the son-
nets, although it could not be known apart from tlie
present interpretation of them how secret a bosom-friend
lie was, how closely linked in habits of intimacy as those
' whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love.'
Southampton being so near and dear a friend of our
Poet, it is only the most natural thing in the world that
Elizabeth Vernon should be one of his friends also. How
could she help being interested in one who had addressed
those earher sonnets to Southampton, urging him to
marry, and sought to twine about him so many flowery
bands, lead hira to the shrine of wedded love, and bring
under a nobler direction the riotous energies of youth, so
apt to break out of bounds, and run to waste ? She must
have loved Shakspeare for his fotherly watchfulness of the
young Earl's career and conduct, his anxious jealousy of
all immoral companions ; and it is only natural to con-
clude that she was one of the ' private friends ' of whom
Meres makes mention.
So much might have been assumed, if the sonnets had
told us no more.
The Lady Eich's link of relationship, as illustrated by
Elizabeth Vernon's jealousy is very obvious and imme-
diate. She being Mistress Vernon's cousin ; her com-
panion in childhood and at Court ; the starry object of
Sidney's sonnets, having herself acquired a taste for
poetry, it was not possible that the sonnets in celebration
of Elizabeth Vernon's love and lover could have been un-
known to her. According to the abstract reason of things,
were there no other evidence, she must have been one of
the group alluded to by Meres as acquainted with the
sonnets.
4G2 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
It is almost as impossible that the Earl of Essex
should not have been one of the friends in the critic's
mind when he \vrote of those amongst whom the sonnets
privately circulated. Essex was something of a poet : he
possessed the kindling poetic temperament and was
fond of making verses ; a lover of literature, and the
ffiend of poets. It was he who sought out Spenser when
in great distress and relieved him, and, when that poet
died, Essex buried him in Westminster Abbey. Being,
as he was, so near a friend of Southampton, it could
scarcely be otherwise than that he sliould have been a
personal friend of Shakspeare. It is highly probable that
some of the Poet's dramas were first performed at Essex
House. In the chorus at the end of Henry V., Shak-
speare introduces a prophecy of the Earl's expected suc-
cesses in Ireland :
' Were now the general of our gracious Empress
(As in good time he may) from Ireland coming,
Bringing Eebellion broached upon his sword,
How many would the peaceful city quit
To welcome him ?'
Also, one of the grounds upon which Essex was beheaded
was the play which had been performed after it was al-
tered for the purpose of adding the Deposition Scene.
This alteration was in point of fact adduced by Coke as
proof of the intentions of the conspirators to dethrone the
Queen. It has been felt ere now that Shakspeare was in
some way and to some extent implicated in the Essex
attempt. The sonnets with the present rendering will
supply the missing link of connection. He was known
to Essex as the personal friend of Southampton and as
the writer of sonnets on the affection of that Earl for
Essex's cousin, Elizabeth Vernon ; in this Avise Essex
became one of the private friends to whom the sonnets
were known in MS., as mentioned by Meres, and the
Poet was induced to lend his pen at Southampton's re-
KING JAMES'S LETTER TO SIUKSPEARE. 403
quest to serve the Essex cause. John Davies, in liis
'Scourge of Folly,' speaks of Shakspeare as having lost
some chance of being promoted to the companionship of
princes, mider the reign of King James : —
' Some say, good Will, which I in sport do sing,
Hadst thou not played some parts in kingly sport,
Thou hadst bin a companion for Ti King,
And been a King among the meaner sort.'
Now, although it is proved by entries in the ' Accoiuits
of tlie Eevels ' and by the testimony of Ben Jonson, that
Shakspeare's plays were in great favour at the Court of
James, yet, it was not as a player and playwright that he
would have been welcomed at Court so much as because
he was the friend of the late Essex and the living South-
ampton. James had the warmest greeting for the friends
and partisans of Essex and honours were showered upon
them. Davies's allusion accords with the tradition that
James ' was pleased with his own hand to write an ami-
cable letter to W. Shakspeare, which letter, though now
lost, remained long in the hands of Sir William Dave-
nant,' respecting which, Oldys, in a MS. note on his copy
of Fuller's Worthies, states that the Duke of Buckingham
(John Sheffield, that 'high-reaching Buckingham' who
aspired to improve Shakspeare's ' Jidius Ca3sar ' in his
' Death of Marcus ]3rutus ') told Lintot that he had seen
it in the possession of Davenant. This consideration
respecting Shakspeare's private friends makes the letter a
far greater likelihood. Sad to say, the Poet does not seem
to have taken much to our Solomon^ of Eoyal fools, but to
have taken liberties with his character instead.
It will be remembered that tlie queer love-epistle, over
which Lord Rich shook his puzzled head, and which I con-
jecture may have been the group of sonnets relating to his
wife, was being sent by Lady Eicli to her brother, the Earl
* 'Soloninn, the son of David (Rizzio),' he was called hy Tlenrv IV. of
Franco.
464 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
•
of Essex, on its way in all probability, back to Elizabeth
Vernon. And in the letters and verses of Essex will
be found thoughts and expressions which ahiiost prove
his acquaintance with the sonnets in MS. In a letter to
the Queen, written from Croydon, in the year 1595
or 159G, there occurs a likeness remarkable enough to
suggest that Essex \vas a reader of the sonnets as they
were written. The Earl speaks, in absence from the
Queen, when he is about to mount his horse for a gallop.
He writes : ' The delights of this place cannot make me
unmindful of one in whose sweet company I have joyed
so much as the happiest man doth in his highest content-
ment, and if my liorse could rim as fast as nty thoughts
do fly, I iL'Ould as often make mme eyes rich in beholding
the treasure of my love.^^ It is superfluous to point out
the resemblance to the thought in two of the sonnets
spoken by theEarl of Southampton, when on horseback, and
in absence from his Mistress. In Essex's letter of advice
to the young Earl of Rutland, 1595, there are one or two
touches that look like reminiscences of the early sonnets.
Shakspeare says to his young friend, sonnet 54, after
speaking of his outward graces :
' Oh hoiv much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By tlcat siveet ornaraent that truth doth give,' &c.
Essex tells his young friend — ' Some of these things may
serve for ornaments, and all of them for delights, but the
greatest ornament is the inward beauty of the mind.'
Again, in a letter to the Queen, dated May, 1600, Essex
writes : ' Four whole days have I meditated, most dear
and most admired Sovereign, on these ivords that there
are two kinds of angels — the one good, the other evil ;
and that your Majesty wishes your servant to be accom-
panied with the good ;'''^ which sounds very like an echo
to the 144th sonnet, beginning —
^ Lives of the Deverevx Earls of Essex, vol. i. p. 292.
^ Birch's Memoirs of Elizabeth, vol. ii. p, 445.
PROOFS OF ESSEX'S PEKSOXAL INTIMACY. JG5
' Two loves I have of comfort and despair.
Which like two spirits do sut^gest me still ;
The better an<i^ol is a man ri<^ht fair,
The worser spirit a Woman, coloured ill.'
Of course the Earl iniulit liave seen tliis sonnet in tlie
'■Passionate Pilgrim,' tlie year before, Ijut T liold that his
acquaintancesliip was nuich closer tlian that ; here is yet
stronger proof !
In Shakspeare's 35th sonnet, the speaker excuses the
])erson adtkessed, because '■all men make faults ■' and in a
sonnet written hy the Earl of Essex, ' in his trouble,' ' the
speaker says ' all men's faults do teach her to suspect.'
Thus Essex says the faults of all men teach the Queen to
suspect, and Shakspeare's speaker says the faults of all
men teach her to forgive. The thought and expression of
Sliakspeare must have been in the mind of Essex, to have
been so curiously turned. The likeness in the two last
instances occurs in sonnets belonging to the group devoted,
to Elizabetli Vernon's jealousy of her cousin, Avhich I
sup])ose to be the epistle of ' Dutch love,' sent by Lady
Eicli to her brother Eobert.
In adducing evidence that Essex was one of Shakspeare's
])nvate friends, we have seen that the Poet lent his pen on
two occasions for the Earl's service. I have now to sug-
gest another instance. There is a copy of verses in ' Eng-
land's Helicon,' (IGOO), reprinted from John Douland's
' First Book of Songs ; or, Ayres of four parts, with a
Tableture for tlie Lute.'- It is an address to 'Cvntliia.'
' My tlioughts are winged with hopes, my hopes with love:
Mount love unto the Moon in clearest night !
And say as she doth in the heavens move.
In earth so wanes and waxeth my delight.
And whisper this — but softly — in her ears,
How oft Doubt hangs the head, and Trust sheds tears.
' JiiU. lic</. .V.S'. , I^iitisli Musouni. 17, J5. 1>.
* 1?>- IVtcr Short, \o\)l, folio.
II H
466 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
* And you, my thoughts that seem mistrust to carry.
If for mistrust my Mistress you do blame ;
Say, tho' you alter, yet, you do not vary,
As she doth change, and yet remain the same.
Distrust doth enter hearts, but not infect,
And love is sweetest seasoned with suspect.
*If she for this with clouds do mask her eyes,
And make the heavens dark with her disdain ;
With windy sighs disperse them in the skies.
Or with thy tears derobe ' them into rain.
Thoughts, hopes, and love return to me no more,
Till Cynthia shine as she hath shone before.'
These verses have been ascribed to Shakspeare on the
authority of a common-place book, which is preserved in
the Hamburgh city library. In this the lines are subscribed
W. S., and the copy is dated IGOG. The little poem is
quite worthy of Shakspeare's sonneteering pen and period.
And the internal evidence is sufficient to stamp it as
Shakspeare's, for the manner and the music, with their
respective fehcities, are altogether Shakspearian, of the
earlier time. The alliteration in sound and sense ; the
aerial fancy moving with such a gravity of motion ; the
peculiar corruscation that makes it hard to determine
Avhether the flash be a sparkle of fancy or the twinkle of
Avit, are all characteristic proofs of its authorship. No
other poet of the period save Spenser could have been
thus measuredly extravagant, and he would not have
dared the perilous turn on ' mistress ' and ' mistrust.'
Steevens pencilled the initials of Fulke Greville (Lord
Brooke) against these lines. But we have no warrant for
supposing them his, or tliat his poetic capacity was equal
to them.
^ ' Derohe.^ This fine expression, so illustrative of Shakspeare's art of
saying a thing in the happiest way at a word, Mr. Collier suspects ought to
be ' dissolve ' ! ! Even so, if they were allowed, would some of his Critics
dissolve Shakspeare out of his poetry.
A KECOVEIIKJ) LYinc. 4G7
The line,
' And love is sweetest seasoned with suspect '
surely comes from the same mint as
' The ornament of beauty is suspect.' Sonnet :o.
Also the line,
' And make the heavens dark with her disdain'
is cssentiall}' Shakspearian ; one of those which occur at
times, after threading the way daintily through intricate
windings, swee]:)ing out into the broader current with a
l"idl stroke of music and imagination, such as this from
the 18th sonnet :
' But thy eternal sinnmer shall not fade.''
Then the ' windy sighs,' and the tears for rain are just
as recognisable as a bit of the Greek mytliology. Here is
one of the Poet's pet trinkets of fancy. With him sighs
and tears, ' poor fiincy's followers I ' are sorrow's icind
and rain}
I have not the least doubt of the poem being Shak-
speare's own, and my suggestion is that it was written for
the Earl of Essex, at a time when the Queen, ' Ci/nthia,''
was not shining on him with her favouring smile, and
* * Storming her w(nld with sorroid's wind and rain.''
A Lover'' s Lament.
' Tilt' winds thij siijlis.''
liomeo and Juliet. Act iii. 8C. 5.
' Wc cannot call her winds and waters, siyhs and tears.''
Anton}/ and Cleojmtra.
'Where are my tears? liain, rain, to lay this wind.'
Troilits and Cressida.
' Give not a wind;/ night a rainy morrow.' Sonnet 90. («'. e. give not a
iii"-lit of sighs a morning of tears).
' The sun not yet thy si(/hs from heaven clears.'
Romeo and Juliet. Act ii. sc. 3.
In these last the mental likeness is y&ry strildng.
II 11 2
4G8 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
that Essex had it set to music, by Douland, to be sung
at Court.
Tlie group of Shakspeare's private friends, for whom
the sonnets were written, being thus far identified, it re-
mains to be seen whether, by way of further corroboration,
we can follow any trace of their characters in the plays.
We may be quite sure that Shakspeare was hard at work,
whilst, to all appearance, merely at play in the sonnets.
He would mark the workings of Time and Fortune on
those in whom he took so tender an interest, wistfully as
a bird watches the mould upturned by the plough, and
pick up the least germs of fact fresh from life, and treasure
lip the traits of his friends for a life beyond life in his
dramas. He had followed Southampton's course year
after year anxiously as Goethe watched his cherry-tree
in patient hope of seeing fruit at last ; and one season the
spring-frosts killed the blossom, another year the birds ate
the buds, then the caterpillars destroyed the green leaves,
and next there came a bli^jht, and still he watched and
hoped to see the ripened fruit !
Shakspeare's finest and most impressive characters are
so real and profound, because of the amount of real life at
the heart of them, that breathes beneath the robe of other
times ; the mask of other names. Living men and women
move and have their being in his dramas. And the great-
est of all reasons why his characters exist for all time is,
because he so closely studied the men and women of his
own time, and wrote with one hand touching; warm
reality, the other on the pen. Some of those who must
have come the nearest home to him, would be the 'private
friends ' of his ' sugred sonnets.'
For example, we might assume without further proof
that if the Lady Pdch sat to Shakspeare for some of his
sonnet-sketches, she would be certain to reappear, full-
picture, in some of his plays. She was too rare a product
of IS'ature not to leave an impress on the mould of his
WORKING FRO^I THE LIFE. 409
iinagiiiation tliat would- not easily pass away — an image
that would give its similitude to cliaracters afterwards
lashioned by the Poet. If he wrote about her on account
of otliers, we maybe sure he did on his own. Sidney
liad thus challenged the poets of his age —
' But if (both for your love and skill) your name
You seek to nurse at fullest breasts of Fame,
Stella behold I and then begin to indite.' Sonnet 15.
And Shakspeare was not in the least likely to neglect the
hint.
Where the character was less marked, it would still
l)t' sufficient for suggestion, and with him initials were
cnou»di ; from a small seed he could rear the consummate
llower. His promises of immortality made to the Earl of
Southampton in the sonnets, have had such fulfdment in
the plays as the world but little dreams of. Every heroic
tiait and cliivalric touch in the Earl's nature would be
carefully gathered up to reappear enriched in some such
favourite type of English character as King Henry V.
Who but Henry Wriothesley, the gay young gallant, the
chivalrous soldier, the beau sahreur and dashing leader of
horse, could have lived in the mind's eye of Shakspeare
when he wrote —
* I saw young Harry with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his tliighs, gallantly armed,
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury !
He vaulted with such ease into his seat,
As if an angel dropped down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a tiery Pegasus
And witch the world with noble horsemanship.'
Here we have the very man to the life, named by name,
just as the Poet had seen him mount horse for the wars
when he bade him farewell and trium})lied in his pride.
Tiie words are ]nit into Sir Eichard Vernon's mouth, Init
it is Shakspeare's heart that speaks in them. Camden
470 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
relates that about the end of March (1599) Essex set
forward for Ireland, and was ' accompanied out of
London with a fine appearance of nobility and the
most cheerful huzzas of the common people.' And,
seemg that Shakspeare in Heiny V. makes his allusion to
Essex's coming home, I infer that in Henry IV. he
pictures Southampton as he saw him at starting, on a
simihir occasion, dressed in heroic splendours, to his proud
loving eyes ; the noblest, the fieriest of the troop of yoimg
gallants, aU noble, aU on fire, ' all clinquant, all in gold ! '
When Eowland White saw Southampton off for teland,
in 1600, he could not help exclaiming, ' He is a very fine
gentleman, and loves yon (Sir Eobert Sidney) well.'
Also, the troubled history of Southampton's love for
Elizabeth Vernon, and the opposition of Fortune, much
dwelt upon in the sonnets, could not fail to give a more
tragic touch to the play, a more purple bloom to the poetry,
when the subject was the sorrow of true but thwarted love.
I fancy that Shakspeare was working a good deal from the
life and tlie love of his friends when he wrote his 'Eomeo
and Juliet ;' the Queen's opposition to their marriage stand-
ing in the place of that ancient enmity of the two Houses.
There is much of Southampton's character and fate in
Eomeo the unlucky, doomed to be crossed in his dearest
wishes, whose name was writ in sour Misfortune's book.
The Poet must have often preached patience to his
friend, like the good Friar Lawrence, and at the same
time apprehended w^ith foreboding feeling and presaging
fear some tragic issue from the clashing of such a tem-
perament with so trying a fortune. There are expressions
pointing to the lady of the early sonnets as being in the
Poet's mind when he was thinkino; of Juliet. A remarkable
image in the 27 th sonnet is also made use of in Eomeo's
first exclamation on seeing Juliet for the first time. In
tlie sonnet the lady's remembered beauty is said to be
' like a jewel hung in ghastly night,' which
THE POET'S BYPLAY. 471
' Makes black Night beauteous, and her old face new.'
Rouieo says —
' Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of Night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear.'
ConsideriiifT wlio tlie sonnets were written for, tliis fifinre
rea])pears in too pointed a way not to have some sugges-
tive significance. Looked at in this light, the question of
Juliet —
* Art thou not Eonieo and a Montague ? '
comes upon us witli luminous force ; for the fact is, that
Southampton was a Montague by the mother's side, she
being Mary, daughter of Anthony Browne, fair Viscount
Montague, which fact calls to mind wliat has always seemed
a little bit of the Nurse's nonsense in the fourth scene of
the Second Act of this drama : —
'Nurse. — Doth not rosemary and Eomeo both begin luith a
letter ?
Romeo. — Ay, Nurse ; what of that ? both with an E.
Nurse. — Ah, mocker I that's the dog's name: E is for the —
No — / know it begins with some other letter : and site hath the
'prettiest sententious of it, of you and Rosemary, that it would
do you good to hear it.
Romeo. — Commend me to thy lady.'
Now, here is more meant than meets the eye. The Nurse
is bein^ used. There is something that she does not
quite fathom, yet her lady does. She is prettily wise over
a pleasant conceit. Eomeo understands it too, if we
may judge by his judicious answer. The Nurse, however,
knows there is another letter involved. There is a name
that beijins witli a dillereut letter to the one sounded,
but this name is not in the Play, therefore it cannot be
Eoseniary which the Nurse knows does not begin with an
' R.' Name and letter have to do with Ixomeo, the lady
472 SIIAKSrEAEE'S SONNETS.
sees how, but tlie Nurse, wlio started to tell the lover a
good joke about Juliet's playing with his name, is puzzled
in the midst of it ; can't make it out exactly, but it's a
capital joke, and it would do his heart good to see how
it pleases the lady, who is learned in the matter, though
she, the Nurse, be no scholar ! We shall find a meaning
for the first time if Southampton be the original of Eonieo,
and make sense of the Nurse's nonsense by supposing, as
we well may, that here is an aside on the part of the Poet
to his friends, and that the name which begins with another
letter than the one first sounded is Wriothesley !
This bit of Shakspeare's fun has perplexed his commenta-
tors most amusingly ; their hunt after the Dog and the
' dog's letter E' being the best fun of all. The only ' dog' in
the Nurse's mind is that ' mocker' of herself, the audacious
lover of her young lady. Eoraeo has put her out of
reckoning by saying ' both witli an E.' And the Nurse,
with the familiarity of an old household favourite, and a
chuckle of her amorous old heart, says, 'Ah, you dog,
you, 'E' is for ' Eosemary,' and also for — no, there's
some other letter, and my lady knows all about it ; only
she says this half to herself, as she tries to catch the miss-
ing meaning of her speech, the very point of her story.
'Eosemary' is merely the herb of that name. ' Thafs
for remembrance' with Juliet, not for the name of a dog !
The second Dog is Tyrwhitt's, not Shakspeare's.
In the present instance the Poet is using the Nurse for
the amusement of his friends, just as he uses Mrs. Quickly
and Dogberry for ours ; that is, by making ignorance a
dark reflector of light for us ; causing them to hit the
mark of his meaning for us whilst missing it for them-
selves ; tlius we are flattered and they are Ijefooled.
It is also exceedingly probable that in the previous scene
of this same act we have anotlier aside which glances at
my reading of the sonnets, if only for a moment, the
twinkling of an eye, yet full of merry meaning.
A MIDSUMMER NIOIITS DREAM. 473
Merciitio says of Romeo in love, 'Now is he for the
numbers Petriircli flowed in : Laiiia Id his lady was but a
kitcheii-weneh ; marry, tske had a better love {ur friend)
to be-rhyr)ie her' Supposing my theory to be the right
one, the perfection of the banter here — as between Shak-
speare and Southampton — would He in an allusion imper-
ceived by the audience, but well known to poet and patron,
as relating to the sonnets which were then being written.
This would be no more than his making a public allusion
to the sonnets, as work in hand, when he dedicated the
poem of 'Lucrece.' Besides, Shakspeare may be the original
of Mercutio, (see Ben Jon son's description of his hveli-
ness !) he may even be playing the part on the stage to
Burbage's Eomeo, and the joke at his own and his friend's
expence would be greatly heightened by an arch look at
Southampton sitting on the stage in ' the Lords' places, on
the very rushes where the Comedy is to dance.' ^ Many
things would be conveyed to the initiated friends by the
Poet's humour thus slyly playing bo-peep from behind
the dramatic mask.
I have already suggested that the Eosaline of 'Love's
Labour's Lost,' and the lady of the latter sonnets are
both drawn from the same original ; the Lady Eich.
And I believe that to the jealousy of Elizabeth Vernon,
as pourtrayed in the sonnets, we owe one of the loveliest
concei)tions that ever sprang on wings of splendour
from the brain of man, the ' MidsunnnerXight's Dream ; '
dreamed by the potent magician, when he lay down as
it v/ere apai't from the stir and the strife of realit}^ imder
the boughs of that Athenian wood ; a region full of
li\ntasy ! and in the mystic time, and on the borderland
of life, the lairies came floating to him under the moon-
light, over the moss, on divers-coloured, dew-besilvered
})lumes, lighting up the leafy coverts with their glow-
worm lamps, moving about him in tiny attendance,, to do
474 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
his spiritings as they filled the sleeping forest with the
richness of a dream.
The play and the bye-play are the ver}^ forgery of Jea-
lousy; the jealousy of mortals mirrored with most exquisite
mockery in fairy world.
In the sonnets we have two women wooing one man,
and in the play two men are made to pursue the love of
one woman. Puck, speaking of the eifect of the flower-
juice squeezed on the eyes, says,
* Then will two at once woo one.'
Only the parts being reversed, the two that were wooing
Hermia, so passionately, are compelled to follow Helena
as persistently. The object too of Oberon's sending for
the magic flower, was, in its human aspect, to turn a false
love into true, but by a mistake on the part of Puck, that
was intentional on the part of the Poet, a true love is sub-
jected to a false glamour, through the ' misprision ' that
ensues. A sweet Athenian lady is in love with a disdainful
youth, wdio has capriciously left her to pursue the
betrothed of another, and thus gives the leading move-
ment to the [ove-fiigue. ' Anoint his eyes,' says Oberon ,
that he, in fact,
' May be as he was wont to be,
And see as he was wont to see.'
And Helena, groping through the glimmering night, half-
blind with tears, in pursuit of her truant lover, chides al-
most in the same language as the lady of the sonnets —
*Fie, Demetrius !
Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex ;
We cannot fight for love as men may do ;
We should be wooed, and were not made to woo.'
The Poet having written sonnets upon Elizabeth Vernon's
jealousy of her cousin Lady Eich, found enough reality,
and no more, in it to play with the subject. So the pain
and the petulance, the pleadings and reproaches, all passed
THE TABLES TURNED. 47n
away into tliis liaiiiitcd realm of his imagination. Tie
dreamed about it, and the fact of tlie day ])ecame the
fiction of the night ; tliis being the tian^^figured sliape it
took in the spirit-world of things — a rainbow of most
ethereal beauty, that rose up in wonder-land, after the
April storm of smiles and tears had passed from the ftice
of real love, in the human world! — an arch of triunijih,
under which tlie friends were to pass, on their way into
the world of wedded life. All fairy-land is lit up for the
illustration of jealousj^ and we have the love-tifTs, fallings-
out, and makings-up of the Poet's friends, represented in
the most delicate disguise.
His fancy has been tickled, and his humour is all alive
with an elfish sparkle. He will make the wee folk mimic
the quarrels of these human mortals ; the fairy jealousy
shall be just theirs, translated to the realm of the quaint
spnits, who are a masked humanity in miniature. In
dream-land, too, the Poet can have his own way, and turn
the tables on the facts of real life. He will play Oberon,
and use the charmed juice for a ' fair maid's sake.' The
lover shall be punished, that was of late so mad for
Hermia, and have his eyes opened by a truer love-sight,
and be rejected by Helena, as the breather of false vows.
The lady that drew all hearts and eyes shall be forsaken
and left forlorn. In the sonnets, poor Helena has to
reproach her cousin for stealing her lover from her side ;
Hermia is there, the ' gentle thief.' In the play this is
reversed, and Hermia charges Helena for the theft.
' me ! you juggler! you canker-worm !
You thief of love! Wh.it ! have you come hy night
And stoleu my Love's heart from hitn ? '
Midsummer NighVs Dream, act i. so. 2.
jMany touches tend to show that Hermia is Lady Pich,
and Helena, Elizabeth Vernon. The complexion of Her-
mia is again tiinud at, in her being called a * laven ; '
complexion and spirit both, in the ' tawny Tartar.' The
476 SILVKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
eyes of Stella are likewise distinguishable in. ' Hermia's
sphery ejiie,' and in 'your eyes hyq lodestars F also in
these hues :
' Happy is Hermia, vvheresoe'er she lies ;
For she hath blessed and attractive eyes ;
How came her eyes so bright ? Not with salt tears :
If so, my eyes are oftener washed than hers.
Hers too, I think, was the black brow of which we
have heard so much, the ' brow of Egypt,' in wliicli ' the
Lover ' could see ' Helen's beauty.'
The difference in character and in height of person
agTces with all we know, and can fairly guess, of the two
cousins. Elizabeth Vernon — Helena — is the taller of the
two ; she is also the most timid, and, as in the sonnets,
fearful of her cousin, who 'was a vixen when she went to
school,' and who is fierce for her size. In the 28th sonnet,
Elizabetli Vernon is thus addressed :
' I tell the Day, to please him thou art bright,
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven ;
So flatter I the swart-complexioned Night ;
When sparJding stars tire not, thou gUd'st the even.^
In the drama, Lysander exclaims,
' Fair Helena, ivho more engilds the Night,
Than all tJte fiery oes and eyes of light ! '
Again, in sonnet 109, Southampton says, on the subject
of his wanderings in the past, and with a special allusion
to some particular occasion, when the two lovers had
suffered a ' night of woe ' — this Play being a Dream of
that 'Night' in which the Poet held the lovers to have
been touched witli a Midsummer madness ! —
' As easy might I from myself depart.
As from my soul, ivhich in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love : if I have ranged.
Like him that travels, I return again.''
THE 'LITTLE WESTEIIX FLOWER.' 477
And ill t]ic Drama the rcpuutaiit lover, asIicu the
glaniour has gone from his eyes, says of the Lady wlioin he
has been following fancy-sick —
* Lysander keep thy Heriiiia. I will none :
If e'er I loved her, all that love is gone.
My heart to her bat as c/icest-ivise sojoiirnedy
And liovj to Helen it is home returned^
There to remain.''
Lastly, the early and familiar acquaintanceship of the two
cousins, Lady liicli and Elizabeth Vernon, is })erfectly
pourtrayed in these lines. Helena is expostulating on
the cruel bearing of Hermia towards her —
' 0, is it all forgot ?
All school-days' friendship, childhood-innocence ?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods.
Have with our needles created both one flower.
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion.
Both warbling of one song, both in one key.
As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds,
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double-cherry, seeming parted,
But yet an union in partition ;
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem,
So with two seeming bodies hut one heart.'
Midsummer NicjhVs Dream, act iii. sc. 2.
Mr. Ilalpin, in ' Oberon's Vision, illustrated,'^ has con-
clusively shown the ' little western fiow^er ' of the AUe-
gor}'' to be the representative of Lettice Knollys, Countess
of Essex, whom the Earl of Leicester married after he had
shot his bolt with her Majesty and missed his mark of a
royal marriage.^ My reading dovetails Avitli his, to the
• Sfiakupcnre Sociiii/'s Papers, 184^1.
- My iiitiTpr(>tation of Oboron's reinark —
' That very time I saw, but thou cotdcVst not ' —
is to this effect: —
Shakspoiire is treating Puck for the moniont, a.? a personificatidn of liis
own biiyliood. ' Thim rcitwinhered the rare vision wo saw at the " IMnoely
Pleasures" of Kenilworth!' *I remember/ replies Puck. So that he wa;j
478 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
strengtliening of botli. But, Mr. Ilalpiii does not cxplaiii
ichy tliis ' little flower ' should play so important a
part ; why it should be the chief object and final cause
of the whole allegory, so that the royal range of the
imagery is but the mere setting ; why it should be the
only link of connexion betwixt the allegory and the play.
This must be because it has more relationship to charac-
ters in the ' drama ' than to persons out of it. My ren-
dering alone will show why and how. The allegory was
introduced on account of these two cousins ; the 'little
western flower ' being mother to Lady Eich, and aunt to
Elizabeth Vernon. The Poet pays the Queen a com})li-
ment by the way, but, his allusion to the love-shaft loosed
so impetuously by Cupid is only for the sake of marking
Avhere it fell, and brino-ing; in the Flower.
It is the little flower alone that is necessary to his
present purpose, for he is entertaining his ' private
friends ' more than catering for the amusement of the
Court. This personal consideration will explain the ten-
derness of the treatment. Such delicate dealino; with
such a subject was not likely to win the royal favour ;
the ' imperial votaress ' never forgave the ' little western
flower ' and only permitted her to come to Court once,
and then for a private interview, after her Majesty
learned that Lettice Knollys was really Countess of Lei-
cester. Shakspeare himself must have had sterner
thoughts about the lady, but this was not the time to
show them : he had introduced the subject for poetic
beauty, not for poetic justice. He brings in his allegory,
then, on account of those who are related to the ' little
then present, and saw the; siglits and all tlie outer realities of the pageant.
But the Boy of eleven could not see what ( )heron saw, the matrimonial mys-
teries of Leicester : the lofty aim of the Earl at a Royal prize, and the secret
intrigue then pursued by him and the Countess of ]<lssex. Whereupon the
Fairy King unfolds in Allegory what he before saw in vision, and clothes
the naked skeleton of fact in tlie very bloom of beauty, with touches and
tints delicate as those of Spring, embroidering a grave with flowers.
LOVK-IX-IDLEXESS AND LOVK-IX-KAIJNEST. 170
western flower,' and in his use of the llower he is playfully
tracinj^ up an effect to its natural cause. The mother of
Lady liich is typified as the flower called ' Love-in-idle-
ness,' the power of which is so potent that —
' The juice of it on sleeping eyeliils laid,
Will make a man or woman madly doat
Upon the next live creature that it sees.'
And the daucrhter was like the mother. ' It comes from
his mother,' said the Queen, with a sigh, speaking of the
dash of wilful devilry and the Will-o'-the-wisp fire in the
Earl of Essex's blood ! Shakspeare, in a smiling mood,
says the very same of Lady Eich and her love-in-idleness.
' It comes from her mother !' She, too, was a genuine
' light-o'-love ' and possessed the qualities attributed to
the ' little western llower ' — the vicious virtue of its
juice, the power of glamourie by communicating the
poison with which Cupid's arrow was touched when
dipped for deadliest work.
These she derives by inheritance ; and these she has
exercised in real life on the lover of her cousin. The
juice of ' love-in-idleness ' has been dropped into South-
ampton's eyes, and in the play its enchantment has to be
counteracted. Here I part company with Mr. IIal})in.
' D'uuis bud^' the ' other herb,'' does not represent h{i>
Elizabeth, the Queen, but mij Elizabeth, the ' laire Ver-
non.' It cannot be made to lit the Queen in any shape.
If the herb of more potential spell, 'whose liquor hath
this virtaoits property ' that it can correct all errors of
sight, and ' undo this hateful imperfection ' of the ena-
moured eyes —
' Dian's bud, o'er Cupid's flower.
Hath such force and hlessed power.'
were meant for the Queen ; it would have no application
whatever in life, and the allegory would not impinge o\\
the play, ^^'hose eyes did this virtue of the Queen purge
480 SILVKSPEAEES SONNETS.
from the grossness of "wanton love ? Assuredly not Lei-
cester's, and as certainly not those of the Lady Lettice.
Indeed, if these had been so changed, why, their eyes
could not have ' rolled with wonted si^ht.' The facts of
real life would have made the allusion a sarcasm on the
Queen's virgin force and ' blessed power,' such as would
have warranted lago's expression, ' blessed jicfs-end /' If
it be ap})lied to Titania- and Lysander, Avhat had the
Queen to do with them, or they with her ? The allegory
will not go thus far ; the link is missing that should con-
nect it with the drama. No. ' Dian's bud ' is not the
Queen. It is the emblem of Elizabeth Vernon's true love
and its virtue in restoring the ' precious seeing ' to her
lover's eyes which had in the human world been doating
wrongly. It symbols the triumph of love-in-earnest over
love-in-idleness ; the influence of that purity which is
here represented as the offspring of Dian.
Only thus can we find tliat meeting-point of Queen
and Countess, of Cupid's Hower and Dian's bud, in the
play which is absolutely essential to the existence and the
oneness of the work ; only thus can Ave connect tlie cause
of the mischief Avith its cure. The aUusion to the Queen
Avas but a passing compliment ; tlie influence of the ''little
western flower ' and its necessary connection Avith persons
in the drama are as much the sine qua non of the play's
continuity and development as A\^as the jealousy of Eliza-
beth Vernon a motive-incident in the poetic creation.
Such, I believe, is the Genesis of this exquisite Dramatic
Dream ; the little grub of fact out of Avhich tlie wonder rose
on rainboAV Avings ; an instance of the Avay in Avhich
Shakspeare effected his marvellous transformations and
made the mortal put on immortality. For a moment Ave
have caught the Avizard at his Avork and seen how he at-
tained that remoteness Avhen dealino; Avith familiar thinj?s
Avhich can invest mere earth, so common to us in its near-
ness, Avith a lustre in the distance as of a lighted star.
LADY TtlCII AS CLEOPATRA. 481
I do not doubt that tliis dainty drama was ^vritteii with
tlie view of celobratin<,^ the marriage of Soutliampton and
EHzabetli Vernon ; for tliem liis Muse put on the wed-
ding raiment of sucli richness ; theirs was the bickering of
jealousy so magically mirrored, the nuptial path so be-
strewn with the choicest of our Poet's Howers, the wed-
ding bond that he so fervently blest in fairy guise. He is,
as it were, the familiar friend at the marriage-feast who
gossips cheerily to the company of a perplexing passage
in the lovers' courtship, which tliey can afford to smile at
now !
The play was probably composed some time before
the marriage took place, at a period when it may have been
thought the (Jucen's consent could be obtained, but not
so early as the commentators have imagined. I have
ventured the date of 1595.^
'Of all Shakspeare's historical plays,' says Coleridge,
' " Antony and Cleopatra " is the most wonderful. Not
one in Avhicli he has followed history so minutely, and
yet there are few in which he impresses the notion of
angelic strength so much — perhaps none in which he im-
presses it more strongly. This is greatly o"\\nng to the
manner in wliich the fiery force is sustained throughout,
owing to the numerous momentary flashes of nature coim-
leracting the liistoric abstraction.'
Thei-e were reasons for this vivid look of life and
warmth of colour unknown to Coleridge. It is not merely
' Perhaps it was one of the Plays presented before Mr. Secretary Cecil
and Lord Southampton, wlien they were leaving London for Paris, in Ja-
nuary, WM, at wliich time, as Kowland White relates, the Earl's marriage
was secretly talked of. The same writer tells us, that on the 14th uf the
next month, there was a g-raud entertainment given at I'^ssex House. Thei-e
were present, the Ladies Leicester, Northumberland, Bedford, Essex, tind
Rich; also Lords Essex, Rutland, Mountjoy, and others. 'They had two
Plays, which kept them up till One o'clock after Midnight." {6'ultiei/
Memoirs, vol. ii p. 01). Southampton was nway, but this brings us upon
the gi'oup of ' Private Friends ' gathered, in all likelihood, to witness a pri-
vate performance of two of our Poet's Plays.
I i
482 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
life-like, but real life itself. The model from which
Shakspeare drew his Cleopatra was, like his statue of
Hermione, a very real woman all a-thrill with life : ' The
fixure of her eye liath motion in't !' Eipe life is ruddy
on the lip ; life stirs in the breath. A little closer, and
we exclaim with Leonatus, ' Oh ; she's warm /'
There was a woman in the North, whom Shakspeare
had known, quite ready to become his life-figure, for this
siren of the east ; her name was Lady Eich. A few
touches to make the hair dark, and give the cheek a browner
tint, and the change w^as wrought. The soul was already
there, apparelled in befitting bodily splendour. She had
the tropical exuberance, the rich passionate hfe, and
reckless impetuous spirit ; tiie towering audacity of will,
and breakings-out of wilfuhiess; the sudden change
from stillness to storm, from storm to calm, whicli kept
her life in billowy motion, on which her spirit loved
to ride triumphing, although others went to WTCck;
the cunning — past man's thought — to play as she pleased
upon man's pulses ; the infinite variety that custom could
not stale ; the freshness of feeling that age could not
whither ; the magic to turn the heads of young and old,
the wanton and the wise ! Her ' flashes of nature ' were
lightning-flashes ! A fitting type for the witch-woman,
who kissed away kingdoms, and melted down those im-
mortah pearls of price — the souls of men — to enrich the
wine of her luxurious life ! The very ' model for the devil
to build mischief on,' or for Shakspeare to work by, when
setting that ' historic abstraction' all aglow with a confla-
gration of passionate life, and making old Nile's swart
image of beauty in bronze breathe in flesh and blood and
sensuous shape once more to personify eternal torment
in the most pleasurable guise. The hand of the Enghsh-
woraan flashes its wdiiteness, too, in witness, when she
offers to give her ' bluest veins to kiss,' forgetful that
it was black with ' Phcebus' amorous pinches.' The
ESSEX AS HAMLET. 483
' lascivious Grace, in irlumi alt ill irell shows.' Sonnet 40,
(p. 210), is that 'serpent of old Nile,' who was 'cunning,
past man's thoiifiht ;' she who is asked hi sonnet 150,
(p. 377)-
' Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill
That in tlie very refuse of thy deeds,
There is such strength and warrantise of skill
That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds ? '
is the same person, of whom it is said in the tragedy,
'the vilest things become themselves in her;' the lady
addressed in sonnet 9G, (p. 370) —
' Thou mak'st faults graces that to thee resort,
As on the finger of a throned Queen,
The basest jewel will be well-esteemed ;
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To trutlis translated, and for true things deeme<l — '
is one with the
' Wrangling Queen,
Whom everything becomes, to chide, to laugh,
To weep : whose every passion fully strives
To make itself, in thee, fair, and admired ! '
This veri-similitude is not casual, it comes from no in-
advertence of ex])ressi(ni, but goes to the life-roots of a
personal character, so unique, that the Poet on various
occasions drew from one originrd — the Ladj' Rich.
In the same way I think Shakspeare wrought from the
character of Lady Rich's brother, in creating one of his
most perplexing personages. The puzzle of history, called
' Essex,' was well calculated to become that problem of
the critic, called 'Hamlet.' This has been before sug-
gested.' The characters and circumstances of both have
much in common. The fixther of Essex was [)opularly
' In ' L'ourt and Snciffi/ froni Ellzahi-th to Aiuii:'
11 2
484 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
believed to have been poisoned by the man who after-
wards married the widow. Tlien the burden of action
imposed on a nature divided against itself, the restlessness
of spirit, the wayward melancholy, the fantastic sadness,
the disposition to look on life as a sucked orange, — all point
to such a possibility. We can match Hamlet's shifting
moods of mind with those of the ' weary knight,' heart-
sore and fancy-sick, as revealed in letters to his sister,
Lady liich. In one of these he writes —
' This lady hath entreated me to write a fantastical ....
but I am so ill with my pains, and some other secret causes, as
I will rather choose to dispraise those affections with which
none but women apes and lovers are delighted. To hope for
that which I have not, is a vain expectation, to delight in that
which I have, is a deceiving pleasure : to wish the return of that
which is gone from me, is womanish inconstancy. Those
things which fly me I will not lose labour to follow. Those
that meet me I esteem as they are worth, and leave when they
are nought worth. I will neither brag of my good-hap nor
complain of my ill ; for secrecy makes joys more sweet, and I
am then most unhappy, when another knows that I am un-
happy. I do not env}', because I will do no man that honour
to think he hath that which I want ; nor yet am I not con-
tented, because I know some things that I have not. Love, I
confess to be a bHnd god. Ambition, fit for hearts that already
confess themselves to be base. Envy is the humour of him
that will be glad of the reversion of another man's fortune ; and
revenge the remedy of such fools as in injuries, know not how
to keep themselves aforehand. Jealous I am not, for I will be
glad to lose that which I am not sure to keep. If to be of this
mind be to be fantastical, then join me with the three that I
first reckoned, but if they be young and handsome, with the
first.
Your brother that loves you dearly.' '
Again he writes to his ' dear sister : '
' I am melancholy-merry ; sometimes happy, and often dis-
contented. The Court is of as many humours as the rainbow
1 Court and Society frinn E/iziihefh to Anne, vol. i. p. 299.
LIKENESS OF ESSEX JO HA.MLKT. -itto
hatb colours. The time wliereiu \V(.- live is more inconstant
than woman's thoughts, more miserable than old age itself, and
breedeth both people and occasions like itself, that is, violent,
desperate, and fantastical. Myself, for wondering at other
men's strange adventures, have not leisure to follow the
ways of mine own heart, but by still resolving not to be proud of
any good that can come, because it is but the favour of chance ;
nor do I throw down my mind a whit for any ill that shall
happen, because I see that all fortunes are good or evil as they
are esteemed.' '
These read exactly like expressions of Hamlet's weari-
ness, indifference and doubt, as for example, this sighing
utterance, ' How weary, flat, stale and unprofitable, seem
to me all the uses of this world ! ' And this :
' Indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition, that this
goodly frame, the earth, seems to me as a sterile promontory,
this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'er-
hanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire ;
why, it appears no other-thing to me than a foul and pestilent
congregation of vapours .... Man delights not me ; no
nor woman neither.'
There is the same worm at the root, the same fatal
fractm^e running through the character, the same vacci-
lation and glancing aside the mark, that tendency to zig-
zaa: which made Coleridgje swerve from side to side of his
wd\k in the Garden, because he never could make up his
mind to go direct. It strikes me tliat the subject of
' Hamlet ' was forced on Shakspeare as a curious study
from the hfe of his own time, rather than chosen from a
rude remote age for its dramatic aptitude. For the
character is undramatic in its very nature ; a passive,
contemplative part, rather than an acting one. It has
no native hue of Norse resolution, but is sicklied over
with the ' jxile cast ' of modern thought. As witli
Essex, the life is hollow at heart ; dramatic only in
1 Court and SocUii/ from Elizahcth to Anne, vol. i. p. 207.
486 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
externals It is tragic periiiissively, not conipiilsorily.
The Drama does not solve any riddle of life for us, it is
the represented riddle of a life that to this day remains
unread. Doubtless, it Avould be the death of many fine-
spun theories and rare subtleties of insight regarding
Shakspeare's intentions, if we could only see how contented
he was to let Nature have her way, and trusted the
realities which she had provided ; steadily keeping to his
terra Jinna, and letting his followers seek after him all
through cloudland.
Wlien the Poet put tliese words into the mouth of
Ophelia — ' Bonnie Sweet Eobin is all my joy,' they did
not mean, I think, to refer merely to the tune of that
name. ' Sweet Eobin ' was the pet name by which the
Mother of Essex addressed him in her letters. One
wonders whether either of the Court ladies — Elizabeth
Southwell, Mary Howard, Mrs. Eussell, or the ' fairest
Brydges' — whose names have been, coupled Avith that of
Essex, gave any hint of ' Ophelia ' to Shakspeare ?
There is no hkeness, however, betwixt Horatio and the
Earl of Southampton ; the philosophic calm of the one is
totally opposed to the other's natural fervency of tem-
perament, and the dear friend of Essex cannot possibly
be one with the friend of Hamlet. The Prince's descrip-
tion of Horatio determines that !
' Thou hast been
As one in suffering all, that suffers nothing ;
A Man, that Fortune's buffets and rewards
Hast ta'en with equal thanks !
And blest are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well comniiugled
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger.
To sound what stop she please. '-
Malone supposed that our Poet, in writing the last
Avords of Horatio —
ESSEX'S LAST PI{AYEIJ.
487
* Now cracks a nohlc lieart — good night, sweet prince,
Aud flights uf angels sing thee to thy rest I'
liad in mind the last words of Essex in his prayer on tlie
scafFold — ' And wlien my sold and body sliall part, aend
thy blessed angels^ to he near unto me, which may convey
it to the joys of heaven'
But ' Hamlet ' is a somewhat earlier play than Malone
supposed. It must have been the last words of Horatio
that were in tlie last thoughts of Essex, or else they w^ere
so familiar to him for personal reasons, as to shape his
last expressions imconsciously to himself.
It is in the play of King Henry VHI. tliat w^e may
find the last words of Essex worked up by the dramatist,
and with great fulness of detail. Tlie speech of Bucking-
ham on his way to execution, includes almost every
point of Essex's address on the scaffold, as may be seen
by the following comparison.
Essex.
' I pray you all to pray with
me and for me,'
Buckingham.
' All good people pray for
me.
Essex.
'I beseech you and the
world to have a charitable
opinion of me, for my inten-
tion towards her ]\Iajesty,
whose death, ujpon my s(dva-
tion, and before God, I protest
I never meant, nor violence to
her person.'
Buckingham.
' I have this day received a
Traitor's judgment,
And by that name must
die : yet heaven hear wit-
ness',
And, if I have a conscience,
let it sink me.
Even as the axe falls, if I
he not faithful.''
Essex. Buckingham.
' Yet I confess I have re- ' I had my trial, and must
ceived an hououral)le trial, and needs say a noble one.'
am justly condemned.'
48d
SHAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
Essex.
* I beseech you all to join
yourselves -svith me in prayer,
not with eyes and lips only,
but with lifted up hearts and
minds to the Lord for me . .
Grod, grant me the inward
comfort of Thy Spirit. Lift
my soul above all earthly
cogitations, and when ray soul
and- body shall part, send Thy
blessed angels to be near unto
me, which may convey it to
the joys of heaven.'
Essex.
' I desire all the world to
forgive me, even as I do freely
and from my heart forgive all
the world.'
Essex.
' The Lord grant her Ma-
jesty a prosperous reign, and a
long, if it be his will. O Lord,
grant her a wise and under-
standing head ! Lord, bless
Her I'
Buckingham.
* You few that loved me,
And dare be bold to weep
for Buckingham,
His noble friends and fel-
lows, whom to leave
Is only bitter to him ; the
only dying ;
Gro with me like good angels
to the end;
And as the long divorce of
steel falls on me,
INlake of your prayers one
sweet sacrifice.
And lift m/y soul to heaven.'
Buckingham.
' I as free forgive you.
As I would be forgiven : I
forgive all.'
Buckingham.
* Commend me to his grace.
My vows and prayers
Yet are the King's ; and, till
m}'' soul forsake,
Shall cry for blessings on
him ! may he live.
Longer than I have time to
tell his years !
Ever beloved and loving-
may his rule be.'
Even so did he who held that the players were the
' abstract and brief chronicles of the time,' and that the
dramatist should show the ' veiy age and body of the
time, its form and pressure,' deal with the reahties around
him ; the men whom he knew, the scenes which he saw,
the events as they occurred ; although these, when seen
THE COMPARISON CONTINUED. 489
through the himiiious ether of his poetry, and heard in
liis hum'r utterance, are often so olian^ed in their
translated sliape, tliat they are as difFicuU to identify as it
may be to recognise in anotlier world many glorified
spirits that once dwelt obscure and dim in this. Also the
personages live so intensely in his Poetrj^ who have only
come to us as phantoms in histoiy, that it is no marvel
we should have lost their likeness. In the present
instance, the identification of the fact in the fiction is
easy, for not only has the Poet used the thoughts and ex-
pressions of Essex pnd dramatised his death-scene, but he
has also rendered the very incidents of Essex's trial, his
bearing before his Peers, and given an estimate of
persons and circumstances exact in application.
First Gent. ' To his accusations
He pleaded still not guilty, and alleged
Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.
The King's Attorney on the contrary,
Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions
Of divers witnesses ; which the Duke desired
To have hroufjht vivco voce to his face :
At which appeared against him his surveyor ;
Sir Gilbert Peck, his chancellor ; and John Carr,
Confessor to him ; with that devil-monk,
Hopkins, that made this mischief.'
Second Gent. ' That was he
That fed him with his prophecies?'
First Gent. ' The same.'
Here is obvious reference to the brutal vehemence of
Coke, the Attorney-General, to the private examinations
of the confederates, wdiose depositions were taken the
day before the trial of Essex and Southampton ; to the
confession of Sir Christopher Blount, wdio had been Essex's
right-hand man in his fatal afUdr ; to the treachery of
Mr. Ashton, Essex's confessor ; and a most marked and
underlined allusion to Cufle, the Jesuitical plotter of
490 SHAKSPE ARE'S SONNETS.
treason, the chief instigator and evil tempter of Essex ;
the man that 'made this mischief.'
A closer scrutiny would yield further proof, that in this
scene our Poet was working directly from the life of his
own time. The hues —
' Nor will I sue, altho' the king have mercies,
More than I dare make faults — '
give utterance to a prominent fact in Essex's case. And
the allusions to the Irish Depiityship and the ' trick of
state,' whicli was ' a deep envious one,' most probably
liave personal application to Essex, and Mountjoy, and
possibly to Cecil.
For myself, I feel half ashamed to be decomposing
Shakspeare's poetry in this way ; taking the instrument
in pieces to see whence the music came. It looks like
filching a light for the purpose of plajdng the detective's
part. And yet, every touch of his personal relation-
ships, and every authentic footprint are precious to
me and important to my subject. Also, this identifica-
tion unites with the other internal evidence in proof that
' King Henry WII.' was written during the life of
Elizabeth. The fate of Essex must have profoundly
affected Sliakspeare, and I feel tliat it was yet fresh in
his memory when he wrote the ' Prologue,' witli its
iteration of tlie truth of the scenes represented. The play
was composed quite in time to be that ' Enterlude of
King Henry VIII.' which was entered in the Stationers'
Books under date Feb. 12th, 1604-5 ; but not performed,
I think, until after the accession of James. The allusions
to him and the glories of his reign, I hold to be an after-
thought, interpolated to meet the players' exigency. But
surely not by Shakspeare ? How could liis dramatic
instinct liave tolerated the proclamation of James as
Elizabeth's heir in a Prophecy ?
■H»i
THE MAN SHAKSPEARE
KE-TOUCHED POKTKAIT.
In retelling an old story, my plea is that I adduce fresh
evidence ; novel facts ; and bring new witnesses into the
Court of Criticism. We are now able for the first time to
see round the character of Shakspeare in its completeness,
witliout misgivings respecting those back slums of his
London life, in which he has been supposed to have got
so sadly bemired. We no longer need fear lest he should
have cast and fixed a black shadow of himself as his sole
personal portrait bequeathed to us. We can look him
full ill the face in clear honest daylight, untroubled
by the moody mists and fantastic shadows, and bat-like
suspicions that liave so long haunted the twilight uncer-
tiiinty, to learn at last that our man of men wlio seemed
something more than human in his wisdom of life was not
miserably unwise in his own life ; did not wantonly
profane the beauty of his work, nor wilfully flaw and
stain one of our loftiest statues of humanity. Once for
all we are now able to silence those who fancied that
they had gotten on the blind side of the great seer, and,
at least, caught the god ' kissing carrion,' whilst on his
visit to our oartli.
Three hundred years liavc passed by <'mcQ tlie little
402 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
cliild opened its eyes on the low ceiling and bare walls of
the poor birth-place at Stratford-on-Avon, to grow up
into that immortal god-send of a man wdiom we call
William Shakspeare. In all this long procession of years
we meet wdth no other such face looking out on us ;
the eyes rainy or sunny w^ith the tears and laughters of
all time ! No other such genius has come to trans-
fi2;ure Eno-Hsh literature. All tliis while the world has
been getting hints of what the man Shakspeare was,
and how infinitely wonderful and precious was the
work he did ; how richly ennobling to us Avas the
legacy of his name ! Innumerable writers have thrown
Avhat light they could upon his page to help the
world on its way ; but, as Coleridge says, no compre-
hension has yet been able to draw the line of circum-
scription round this mighty mind so as to say to itself
' I have seen the whole.' And, how few of aU
who read his works, or continually repeat his name,
have any adequate or even shapeable conception of the
man ! He who, of all poets, comes nearest home to us
with his myriad touches of nature, is the most remote
in his own personality. We only reach him figuratively
at best. We think of him as the chief star of the
Elizabethan group, large and luminous above the rest ;
but we do not get at the man in that way, however we
may stand on tiptoe with longing, having no glass to
draw the planet Shakspeare sufficiently close to us, so
that we might make out the human features amid the
dazzle of his glory, and see his ' visage in his mind.' We
know that somewhere at the centre sits the spuit of all
this bricrhtness, however veiled in lioht. Throbs of real
mortal life, pulses of pleasure and pain, first made the
light with their motion, and stiU shoot forth every sparkle
of splendour — every evanescence of lovely colom^ — every
gleam of grace. Shakspeare's own life — Shakspeare him-
self — is at the heart of it all ! Although a miracle of a
THE ENGLAND OF HIS infE. 493
man, and, as a creative artist, just the nearest to an
cartlily representative of tliat Creator wlio is ever}'where
felt in His works, nowliere visible ; yet he Avas a man,
and one of the most intensely human that ever walked
our world. And it is my present purpose to try briefly
to get at the man himself, and make out his features so
far as our means will allow, by extracting what spirit of
Shakspeare we can from his works, taking advantage of
the fresh facts to be derived from this reading of the
sonnets, and clothing that spirit as best we may : a grain
of human colour, a touch of real life being of more value
for my purpose than all the husks of Antiquarianism.
That Spanish Emperor who fancied he could have
improved the plan of creation if he had been consulted,
would hardly have managed to better the time, and place,
and circinnstances of Shakspeare's birth. The world
could not have been more ripe, or England more re^idy —
the stage of the national life more nobly peopled — the
scenes more fittingly draped — than they were for his
reception. It was a time when souls were made in
earnest, and life grew quick uithin and large without.
The full-statured spirit of the nation had just found its
sea-legs and was clothing itself with wings. Shakspeare's
starting-place for his victorious career was the fine
\antage ground which England had won when she had.
broken the strength of the Spaniard, burst the girdle they
had sought to put round her, and sat enthroned higher
than ever in her sea-sovereignty — breathing an ampler
air of liberty, strong in the sense of a lustier life, and glad
in the great dawn of a future new and limitless.
Into a mixed, multiform, many-coloured -world was
William Shakspeare born, three hundred years ago. Old
times and an old faith had been passing away, like the
leaves of autumn wearing their richest colours, and eveiy
rent of old ruin was the rift of a new life. England was
])icturcsque to look on in hci" changing tints, as is
494 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
tlie woodland tit the turn of tlie year, wlieii winter still
lingers in the bare dark bonghs above, and the young
spring comes up in a burst of song and a mist of tender
green below. In the year of our Poet's birth we learn
that the sum of two shillings was paid by the Corporation
of Stratford for defacinii' an imacce of the ancient faith in
the chapel. The fires of Smithlield had but recently
smouldered down, leaving a smoke in the souls of
Englishmen that should yet burst into a flame of noble
spiritual life, and fierce in their minds was the memory
of ' Bloody Mary.' The stage of political hfe was
crowded with magnificent men and women, heroes and
poets, statesmen and sea-kings ; men who, like Drake,
won their victories with such a dash, and others who,
like Sidney, won their glory with such a grace. A rare
group it was that gathered round Elizabeth and spread
their sumptuous braveries in her presence, as in the very
sun of pageantry. The citizens of London were yet
accustomed to go forth on a May-morning to gather
hawthorn-bloom in the village of Charing, and the prim-
roses grew where the Nelson Monument is planted, if not
growing, now. Coaches were apt to break down or stick
in the deep ruts of rural Drury Lane. In country places
like Stratford the old times lingered and the old customs
clung. The Cucking-stool was still used as a warning to
wives of a termagant tongue. Apprentices and servants
who stayed out of their masters' houses after nine o'clock
at night were liable to be fined twenty shillings, and have
three nights and three days in the open stocks. Brewers
were legally compelled to brew a good and wholesome
' small drink ' for a halfpenny a gallon ; but no one was
allowed to be a ' Typlar ' unless appointed by the king's
justices. Troops of strolling players had now taken the
place of the wandering friars of old, and won a warmer
welcome up and down the country-side. And in the
midst of this time of change, of stirring life, of hopeful
OUH I'OET'S CHILDHOOD. 49o
lliiiigs, wlieii tlie eager national sjnrit stood <»ii lli" voiy
threshold of expectation, our Sliakspeare was born, lite-
rally in the heart of England.
Nearness to Nature we may l(jok on as the great
desideratum for the nurture of a national poet, and this
was secured to Shakspeare. He came of good healthy
yeoman blood, he belonged to a race that has always
been heartily national, and clung to their bit of soil from
generation to generation — ploughed a good deal of their
life into it, and fought for it, too, in the day of theii-
country's need. No doubt Nature stores up much healtli
and freshness of feehng, love of green things, and songs
of birds and quiet appreciation of all out-of-door sights
and sounds in men like these — carefully hoarding it until
one day it all finds expression, and the long and slowly-
gathered result breaks into immortal flower, when, in the
fulness of time, the Burns or Shakspeare is born.
We know but little of the childhood of our greatest
Englishman. Curiously enough, whilst seeking for the
facts of liis early life, we find it recorded, as if in smiling
mockery of our endeavours, that in the year 1558 the
father of Shakspeare was fined fourpence for not keeping
his gutters clean. We learn that in the year 1552 he was
certainly doing business as a glover, and in 155G he
brought an action against Henry Field for imjustly
detaining eighteen quarters of barley, which looks as
though he were then a maltster or farmer. In 15G5 he was
chosen an alderman; in 15G5) he was high-bailiff; and
in 15Tl-'2 chief alderman. In 1570 he is styled a
yeoman. He was in pretty good circumstances when the
Poet was born, having a small landed estate near
Stratford and some property in the town. It appears as
though he met with a great and sudden reverse of fortune
about the year 1578, whereby he became no longer
worshipful ; Avhat or how we are unable to conjecluro.
In 1587 wo lind liini in prison for dc'I>l. and in 15'.)'2 his
400 SIIAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
name is in a list of persons wlio are supposed to stay
away from cliurch througli fear of a process of debt.
It is pleasant to know that Shakspeare could have
his fair sliare of a mother's tenderness, and was not
compelled too early to fall into the ranks by his father's
side and fight the grim battle against poverty, with
childhood's small hands and weary feet.
When the boy Shakspeare was five years of age, his
fiither, as high-bailifT, entertained the players. This is the
earliest notice we have of theatrical performances in the
town. And in all likelihood the child caught his first
o;limpse in the Stratford Guildhall of that fairy realm in
which he was to become the mightiest magician that ever
waved the enchanter's wand, and, as the trumpet sounded
for the third time and the dramatic vision was unveiled, we
may imagine how the yearnings of a new life stirred within
him, and he would be dreamingly drawn toward those
rare creatures that seemed to have no touch of common
earthiness as they walked so radiant in such a world of
wonder. It would be an event, indeed — that first sight of
the Players !
In the summer of 1575, when Shakspeare was eleven
years of age, there were brave doings and princely
pageants at Kenilworth, where the Earl of Leicester gave
royal entertainment to Queen Elizabeth. The superb affair
was continued eighteen days. That Sliakspeare was
there is beyond any reasonable doubt, and a vision of its
' princely pleasures ' and pyrotechnic displays rises on his
memory in the ' Midsummer Night's Dream.' This we
know is his way of telling us many facts of his own life !
When our Poet was sixteen years of age there was a
William Shakspeare drowned in the Avon, near Stratford.
How impossible to sum the difference to the world, to
human thought, liad it been our William Shakspeare !
He was in all likelihood educated at the Free-school so
long as the ftither could spare liim from work. Possibly
IWTllElt AMj SOX. 407
he may liave become wliat we sliould now call a pupil-
teacher, and this have given rise to the tradition tliat
Shakspeare was once a country schoohnaster. We cannot
infer what. he was from what he knew, for he seems to
have known everything. But we do not doubt that he
helped his father in his business, and that sorry mixture
probably included looking after sheep on the bit of land
they possessed or hired, killing the sheep and selling the
meat, dealing in the wool that grew on the sheep and in
the gloves made from the wool. Labour was not so
minutely divided in those days as it now is, besides
which, we know how men in the circumstances of Shak-
speare's ftither will try to live by a multiplicity of means
in a small way, and grasp at any chance of staying the
down-hill tendency.
One feels that there is a considerable basis of truth in
the traditions whicli have reached us, telling that the
young Shakspeare was somewhat wild, and joined with
other young fellows and let his spirits overflow at times in
their boisterous country way. Hence we hear of the drink-
ing bouts and poaching freaks. We may depend on it
there was nothing prim and priggish about Willie Shak-
speare ; for 'Willie' he would be to his youthful compa-
nions as Avcll as to his ' pla^'-fel lows' of later days! lie
must have been a fine youth. And if he had anything
like the physique that glows through the ' Venus and
Adonis ' there must also have been wild leaps of ebulliant
blood, difficult to rei)ress, and the youth, Avith all his
powers at play, in the lustihood of animal spirits — the
senses hungry with an out-of-door zest, and few refining
influences at work about him, may have broken out of
bounds. If the sedate Goethe with his stately reserves of
ripened age had his luu'estful youth and frolic devih'ies,
Shakspeare may surely be accredited v/ith his extrava-
gances and runnini2;s riot, before the buovant air-bubbling
nature was calmi'd and crystallized into its noble man-
K K
493 SIIAKSrEAEE'S SONNETS.
hood. Not that there was any great harm in liis frohcs,
only they may have been too expensive for the father's
position. He may not have been able to afford what the
youth was spending with a lavish hand. Possibly he kept
the worst as long as he could from his son's knowledge.
Suddenly there came a change. The young man looked on
life witli more serious eyes. He would see his father, as
it were, coming down the hill, beaten and broken-spirited,
as he was mounting full of hope and exulting vigour.
He would have sad thoughts, such as gradually steadied
the wild spirits within him, and malce resolves that we
know he fulfilled as soon as possible in after-life. Gentle
Willie would not be without self-reproach if he was
in the least a cause of his father's declining fortunes. This
thought we may surmise was one of the strongest incen-
tives to that prudence which became proverbial in after-
years, and one of the quickest feelings working within
him, as he strove so strenuously to make his father a gen-
tleman, was that he had once helped to make him poor. It
may be a worthless fancy, but I cannot help thinking that
oiu" Poet's great thrift and his undoubted grijy in money
matters had such an unselfish awakenment.
Anotlier fixed belief of mine is that the youth and the
' fickle maid' of the ' Lover's Complaint ' are none other
than William Shakspeare and Anne Hathaway. In this
poem the Poet is, I think, making fim of their own early
troubles. There is a pleasant exaggeration throughout botli
in his description of her, and her description of him. The
humour is very pawky. Some people, he suggests, might
have thought her old in her ancient large straw -bonnet, or
hat. But he assures us. Time had not cut down all that
youth began, nor had j^outh quite left her ; some of her
beauty yet peeped through tlie lattice of age! The
lady is anxious for us to think that she is old in sorrow,
not in years. Tlie description of liim is pointed by
the author with the most provoking slyness, and used
POriTlLVIT OF YOUNG WILT,. STIAKSPEARE. 409
ill lier defence for tlie loss of lier ' wliite stole.' ' I
eiitertiiin not the sliglitest doubt tluit we have here
the most life-like portrait of Shakspeare extant, drawn
by liimself under the freest, happiest condition for en-
suring a true likeness — that is, whilst humourously
pretending to look at himself through the eyes of Anne
Hathaway, luider cuxumstances the most sentimental.
A more perfect or beautifid portrait was never finished.
The frolic life looks out of the eyes, the red is ripe
on the cheek, the maiden manhood soft on the chin,
the breatli moist on the lip that has the glow of the garnet,
the bonny smile that ' gilded his deceit ' so bewitchingly.
He is —
* One by nature's outwards so commended,
That maiden eyes stuck over all his face ;
Love lacked a dwelling and made him her place,
And when in his fair parts she did abide,
She was new-lodged and newly Deified.
* His browny locks did hang in crooked curls.
And every light occasion of the wind
Upon his hps their silken parcel hurls ;
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind.
For on his visage was in little drawn.
What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.
' Small show of man was yet upon his chin ;
His phoenix-down began but to appear,
Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin,
Whose bare out-bragged the web it seemed to wear,
Yet showed his visage by that cost more dear ;
And nice affection wavering, stood in doubt,
If best were as it was, or best without.'
The very hair, in shape and hue, that Sliakspcare must
have had when young, to judge by the bust and the de-
scription of it as left, coloured from life ! The inner man,
^ There is the suhtle Sliakspearian smile at human nature's frailties in
the suggestion of stanza 2."i, that in like circunistanei's w.- s.ld.im let the bt/-
past perik of others stand iu our future waj'.
K K 2
500 SIIAKSPEAKE'S SO^^NETS.
too, was beauteous as tlie outer : gentle until greatly
moved, and then liis spiiit was a storm personified — but
only such a storm
* As oft twixt May and April is to see.
When luinds breathe sweet, unruly though they be.''
lie was universally beloved, and then, what a winning
toniiiie he had ! —
* So on the tip of his suhduing tongue,
All kinds of arguments and questions deep,
All replication prompt and reason strong.
For his advantage still did wake and sleep,
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep.'
And he was such an actor too ! —
* He had the dialect and different skill,
Catching all passions in his craft at will ;
In him a plenitude of subtle matter.
Applied to Cautills, all strange forms receives,
Of burning blushes, or of weeping water.
Or swooning paleness ; and he takes and leaves,
In cither's aptness, as it best deceives.
To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes.
Or to turn white and swoon at tragfic shows.'
*&'
And to think
' What a hell of witchcraft lay
In the small orb of one particular tear '
when wept by him ! Poor Anne ! No marvel that
* My woeful self —
What with his Art in Youth, and Youth in art —
Threw my affections in his charmed power ;
Keserved the stalk, and gave him all the flower.' '
We learn by the IGth stanza that he was also a capital
^ Thus prettily anticipating an illustration in Burns' ' Bonny Doon ! '
HIS FROLIC 1IL.M0UR. oOl
rider ; murli admired when lie followed tlie hounds across
couutiy with a daiing dash, or came cantering over to
Shottery with a lover's sideling grace.
Who can doubt that this is ' Will. Shakspeare,' the
handsome young fellow of splendid capacity, so shaped
and graced by nature as to play the very devil with the
hearts of the Warwickshire lasses? The poem is founded
on a circumstance that preceded the marriage of the Poet
and Anne Hathaway ; the ' lover ' being one who hath
wept away a jewel in her tears, and who is described as
older than her sweetheart. His own gifts and graces are
purposely made the most of in humouring the necessities of
poor Anne's case — the helplessness of his own. These
things which she points to in exteiniation also serve him for
excuse, as if he said, ' being so handsome and so clever,
how can I help being so beloved and run after ? You see,
it is not my fault ! ' This smiling mood has given free play
to his pencil, and the poem brings us nearer to the radiant
personal humour of the man, I believe, than all his plays,
especially that story of the Nun —
His ' parts had power to charm a sacred Nun ' —
a lady whose beauty made the young nobles of the Court
dote on her, who was wooed by the loftiest in the land
but kept them all at distance, and retired into a nunnery,
to 'spend her living in eternal love.' Yet, pardon liini
for telling it ; he confesses the fact with an ///?-' pudency
so rosy ! ' No sooner had she set eyes on him, by accident,
than she too fell in love. In a moment had ' religious love
put out religion's eye.' I think this a glorious outbreak
of his spirit of fun !
If I am right then in my conjecture that 'gentle Willie'
was the beguiling lover of this forlorn lady of the 'Com-
plaint,' we shall lind a remark of his to the point on which
I have tcniched. In n-plv to some of the charges brought
aufainst him, he s:ivs,
502 SIIAKSPE ARE'S SONNETS.
* All my offences that abroad you see, •
Are errors of tlie blood ; none of the mincV
When lie wanted four months of nineteen years of age,
Shakspeare was married to Anne Hathaway, the daughter
of a yeoman, at Shottery. We read that Eve was formed
from one of Adam's ribs, taken from him during a deep
sleep. And it has been suspected that our gentle Willie's
Eve was formed for him by the hand of Love during a
deep sleep of the soul ; that he threw the hues of his young-
imagination round her, and got married before he well
knew where he was. There is not much however to give
countenance or colour to the theory, which has sprung
from reading the sonnets as true to tlie Poet's own per-
sonal experience. Certainly she was getting on for eight
years older than himself, and he has in his works left a
warning to others against their doing as he did.' But
^ At least so say the Critics. Thougli it would be difficult to find au}^ sign of
Sbalcspeare's own personality in the words. Mr. Grant White, in his recent
work, cannot forgive Anne Hathaway for marrying Shakspeare. He thinks
the second-best bed too good for hei', and if he could have had his will, she
would never have had her's. He contends that if Shakspeare had loved and
honoured his wife, he would not have written those passages, which must
have been ' ffall and iconnwood to his sold.'' That is good argument then
that he did love her, and that they were not quite so bitter to him. Surely
it is the more mean and unmanly to suppose that he wrote them because lie
did not love and honour his wife ! It is sad indeed to learn that Anne Hath-
away brought the Poet to such ' sorrow and shame/ as Mr. White says is
frequently expressed in the plays and the sonnets. This Critic takes the mat-
ter of Anne's age so much to heart, that one would be glad to suggest any
source of consolation. Possibly Mrs. William Shakspeare may have been
one of those fine healthy Englishwomen — [ have a sovereign sample in my
mind's eye now — in whose presence we never think of age or reckon years ;
whose tender spring is followed by a long and glorious summer, an autumn
fruitful and golden. These do not attain their perfection in April ; they
ripen longer and hoard up a maturer fragrance for the fall o' the year, a
mellower sweetness for the winter, and about mid-season they often pause,
wearing the bud, fiower, and fruit of human beauty all at once. Time does
not tell on these] as we are told he does on the American sisterhood.
Anne outlived her husband many years, and tradition says she earnestly
desired to be laid in the same grave vrith him, but that no one, for fear
of the curse on it, dared touch the gravestone. Mr. White should have seen
in this the object for which the lines were written!
LEAVING STPtATFORD. .003
there is no reason to suppose tliat lie ran away from home
Ijecause he did not hkc his wife.
Another su])position obtains — that lie was compelled
to quit Stratford on account of his ])ropensity for deer-
stojilino;. I do not in the least doubt his liking for venison,
still the poor fellow did not need Sir Thomas Lucy's deer
to drive him forth into the world in search of a living.
We must remember that his wife had very recently
presented him with twin children, and at this hint of his
better half, he may have thought it quite time to look out
for better quarters. The increasing poverty of his father
would be another incentive to his leaving the old place.
This must have many a time made him look wistfully up
that London road at the top of Henley street, and long
for the great city, which loomed far in the distance, and
rose up so golden through the mist that would be filhng
his eyes.
In all probability our Poet went to London to be a
player. He must have been a born actor ; a dramatist,
in that shape, before he became one in writing. This was
the constitution of his nature ; the very mould of his mind.
The strongest proof to me that the ' Lover's Lament '
is personal to Shakspeare, is the description of his exqui-
site art and abundant subtlety as an actor. His tendency
and inclination, if not his capability as such, must have
been known to some of his fellow townsmen, and he would
easily secure a good introduction to the theatre. That he
served an apprenticeship to the law I do not beUeve. To
say that he has a wider acquaintance with law — uses legal
forms and phrases more freely and unerringly than any
other poet, is only to say that we are speaking of Shak-
speare in one of the many departments of knowledge
where, as a poet, he is unparalleled ; he is not a wliit
more wonderful in this than in so many other things.
I think he obtained his insight through a personal con-
nexion with some live spirit of a fiiend, who could throw a
504 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
light into tlie dark intricacies and cobwcbbed corners of tlie
law, rather than from any dead drudgery in an attorney's
office. Nor have we far to seek for such a possible
friend. There was Greene, the attorney, a Stratford man,
and a cousin of the Poet, whose brain and books may have
been at his service, and Shakspeare was the man who
could make more use of other men's knowledge than they
could themselves. The worst of it for the theory of his
having been an attorney's clerk is that it will not account
for his insight into Law. His knowledge is not office-
sweepings, but ripe fruits, mature as though he had spent
his life in their growth. The law stood high in Elizabeth's
estimation, and the Poet had his own private interest in
mastering its details so far as was possible.
After he entered the Blackfriars Theatre, we lose
sight of him altogether for some years. These years,
doubtless, include the hardest part of our Poet's struggle
for fame and fortune, which was at that time really
a struggle for his living. Our ' gentle ' Shakspeare
had his sufferings, and it may be especially at this time.
Not that I imagine personal suffering to have been his
incentive to song. He was not one of the subjective
brood, who find their inspiration in such a source. Large-
ness of sympathy with others, rather than intensity of
sympathy with self, was Shakspeare's poetic motive. His
soul was not a self-reflecting one, but a large mirror, that
gave back images of other lives ; absence of self being an
essential, and calmness a necessary condition of clearness.
This capacious mirror of his mind, and his sublimest mood,
are best indicated by his own words, in the poem of
' Lucrece,' where, he speaks of the ' bottomless conceit that
comprehends in still imagination.' It is from a false view
of the sonnets that it has been supposed he lived his
tragedies before he wrote them. It is in natures of the
Byronic kind that tlie amount of force heaving below,
images itself permanently above in a mountain of visible
EARLY STllUOfJLES. r,05
personality. Shakspeare's truer image would be the ocean
tluit can mould mountains into sha[)e, yet keep its own
level; and grow clear and calm as ever, with all heaven
smiling in its depths, after the wildest storm, the most
heart-breaking Tragedy.
His was not one of your ' sufTering souls.' These are
wrung and pinched, gnarled and knotted into a more em-
phatic form of personality than he wears for us. He
could keep a calm ' sough ; ' convert his surplus steam
into force ; consume his own smoke, and make his devil
draw for him. He gathered all the sunshine he could and
ripened on it, and his spirit enlarged and mellowed in
content.
This, however, we may safely infer ; his circumstances
were not very flourishing at first, or we should hardly
hear of his Either being in prison for debt, where we find
him in 1587, when Shakspeare has been in London two
years. His strong sense of family pride would have
prevented such a thing if possible. We hear of him
again in 1589, when he has been four years in London,
and, if apocryphally, it must be near the mark.
Mr. lirowning tells us there are two points in the
adventure of the diver —
' One — when, a Beggar, he prepares to plunge !
One — when, a Prince, he rises with his pearl I'
Our Poet had now made his plunge, and emerged into
daylight once more. If we could have asked him what
he had grasped in the gloom, he might probably have
told us a handful of mud, having experienced the worst
of his theatrical Hfe. He had become a player and a
part proprietor of the lilackfriars Theatre. But he had
also found his pearl. They had set him to vamp up old
plays, put llesh on skeletons, and adapt new ones ; and
he had discovered that he also could make as well as
mend. Durin^^ this time he had been workins; invisible
to us, at tlie foundations of his future fame ; like the
506 STIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
trees and plants, he had been clutching his rootage in the
nioht time.
Here again let me remark on the influence wliicli a
personal theory of the sonnets has unconsciously liad in
making the commentators ignore the extreme probability
that, as soon as he was able, our Poet would naturally
have his wife and family to live with him in London.
It has been discovered that he paid rates, and why on
earth should he not have received his wife and children at
his home near the Bear-garden, in Southwark,or St. Helen's,
Bishopsgate ? He was by nature a family man ; true to our
most English instincts; his heart must have had its sweet
domesticities of home-feeling nestling very deep in it — our
love of privacy and our enjoyment of that ' safe, sweet
corner of the household fire, behind the heads of children.'
The letter attributed to Southampton records that he was a
married man, of good repute as such, and implies that the
wife and family lived with him in London. The true read-
ing of Betterton's story told through Eowe, is that Shak-
speare left his wife and family temporarily, and, as he
could not have returned to them after the short time of
parting to live at Stratford, they, of course, rejoined him
in London. Besides which, the mention of his going to
Stratford once a year suggests that his home was in
London, and this was a holiday visit. And, if the wife is
to be thrust aside, on account of her age, can we imagine
that Shakspeare's home would be in London, and his
daughter Susannah and his boy Hamnet, in whom lay his
cherished hope of succession, at Stratford? Again, if
he had left Anne Hathaway in dishke, why should he
have been in such apparent haste to go back to live with
his rustic wife, and buy for her the best house — the Great
House — in Stratford ? We may rest satisfied that Shak-
speare did just the most natural thing — which was to
have a home of his own, with his wife and family in it:
that he dwelt, as Wisdom dwells, with children round his
HIS HOME IX LOXDOX. o()7
knees. And in this privaoy lie was hidden, when others of
his contemporaries were visible about town ; liere it Avas
that so much of liis work was done ; here 'his silence
would sit brooding ;' so many of liis days Avere passed
unnoticed, and he could hve the quiet happy life that
leaves the least record.
We should have still fewer facts of Shakspeare's life
than we have, were it not for his evident ambition to
make money, and become a man of property. Whatso-
ever feeling for fame and immortality he may have had,
he assuredly possessed a great sense of mortal needs. He
never forgot those little moutlis waiting to be fed by his
hand ; and we may believe him to have been as frugal in
his life as he was indefatigable in his work. He had seen
enough of the ills and felt enough of the stings of poverty
in liis father's home. So he sets about gaining what
money he can by unwearied diligence in working, and
grasps it firmly when he has it.
As a proof of his prosperity it may be noted that his
father had applied to the Heralds' College, in 1596, for
a grant of coat-armour ; and, in 1597, a suit in Chancery
was commenced on the part of John and Mary Shak-
speare, for the recovery of an estate which had been
mortgaged by them. In the year 1597 he is able to buy
the best house in Stratford, called Xew Place. In the
next year he sells a load of stone to the Corporation for
10(1. Fioni this little fact we may infer that alterations
were going on at New Place. He had Avorked hard for
some years, and made a nest, and was, as vve say,
'feathering' it ready for the time when he could quit
the stacre, and retire to Stratford, He is also doina- a
stroke of business as a maltster, or, rather, is not this the
likeliest reading of facts ? In the year 1598 he was
assessed on property in St. Helen's, Bishopsgate. Two
years later his name has dropped out of the list. Now,
as New I'lare was bouuht and made readv by that time, the
508 STIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
most probable conjecture is that his wife and family left the
house in London and went back to Stratford to live in their
new home. And, instead of the ten quarters of corn then
at New Place implying that he was trading as a maltster, it
may have been that Shakspeare had provisioned the little
garrison, in the matter of baking and brewing, against
famine ; for there was a great dearth of corn in the land
at the time, and sucli a careful forethought would be
exceedingly like him ? His circumstances had so far
improved that he could now look forward to longer visits
to Stratford, and, as he wrote more he would undoubtedly
begin to play less. London may not have agreed with
his children. Had not his boy Hamnet died in 1596?
He not only makes money, but he invests it, and turns it
over. The fame of his wealth soon spreads, and he is
looked up to in the Golden City. Some of his country
friends want liirn to buy, and he does buy ; others want
liim to lend, and he is able to lend. He lends to liichard
Quiney, the father of his future son-in-law, the sum of
30/. We are not sure that he did not take interest for it.
The transaction has a smack of percentage about it. Of
this w^e may be sure, that if Shakspeare did not take
interest /(9r his money, he took a most lively interest mit.
Li May, 1602, his brother Gilbert completed for him the
purchase of 107 acres of arable land, from William and
John Comb. In September of the same year, he bought
other property in his native town. In 1604 he brought an
action against Philip Eogers, in the Court of Eecord, at
Stratford, to recover a debt of 11. 16s. 10 d. In July,
1605, he makes liis largest investment. He purchases for
the sum of 440/. more than 2000/. of our money — half of
the lease of tithes, to be collected in Stratford and other
places, which has some thirty-one years to run.
He is now trying to leave the stage as player and
manager, and live at Stratford, where he can look after
his tithes, which we lind he does pretty sharply. He
THE OIIB ON THE IIOIIIZUX. 009
has acquired lioiiscs and lands, and obtained a grant of
arms, and shown every desire to found a county family;
to possess a bit of this dear England in Avhicli he
could plant the family tree, and go down to posterity that
way. He appears to have been truly thoughtless and
careless of fame, and to have flung off his works to find
their own way as best they could to immortality. Pub-
lishers might print or misprint his poems, and he seems
to have taken no public notice of it. It is possible that
he had some large and lazy idea of one day collecting and
correcting an edition for .the press. If so, it passed into
that Colerid2;ian Limbo of unfulfilled intentions where so
many others have gone, or else death overtook him all
too swiftly. It is quite as possible that he may have
thought Puritanism was about to sweep the land clear of
plays and play-goers. But that he was ambitious of
founding a local family house, which should have sucli
foundations in the soil of England as he could broaden
out Avith his own toil, is one of the most palpable facts of
his life, enforced again and again, a fact most absolutely
opposed to the fancy that lie lived apart from his wife —
and it brings the man home to us with his own private
tastes and national feelings, plainly as though he had lived
but the other day, as Walter Scott.
We now turn to his life in London and what is said of
him there. His first rising is sun-like, with the mists
about him — the mists of malice and envy. The earlier
writers for the sta^e are jealous and diso-usted that a
mere plaj'cr, a factotum for tlie theatre, should enter the
arena with ' college pens ' and classical scholars. But
for these mists, the breatli of slander, and for the visible
blinking of tlie little lights at the glory of great sunrise,
we should lu^t know when or where the new orb was first
visible on the horizon. Our Poet, however, takes little
notice of them, but ascends serenely on his upward wny.
Most assuredly he had to fight for his place, and struggle
510 SHAKSPEARE'S SOXXETS.
arduously at starting to win it. This cliiki of Nature would
be looked upon as a bastard by the learned, with no Greek
or Eoman godfather to stand sponsor for him. He tried
his best at times, as we may see, to be classical, and stuck
into his work all the mythologic allusions and Latin
words he could get together ; at which his enemies
laughed and made fun — thus forcing him more and more
to that reliance on Nature which was to raise him so high
above all his artificial, euphuistic, over-classical contempo-
raries. They might laugh, without^ — Nature was too
strong within him. He, too, had dallied with the old
Greek lyre in a dilettante fashion in his poems — the only
pcetry of his almost that his contemporaries praise. But
he was now fast growing into the human personification
of that legendary Israfel whose lyre was his own heart-
strings, not a pretty instrument to be held in the hand.
Moreover, the audience at the Blackfriars was unsophis-
ticated enough to prefer Shakspeare's more natural
drama to the learning and classicism of others, wdiich was
annoying, indeed, to all second-hand poets. ^ This strife
betwixt the natural and what was thought the true art
runs through all we hear of Shakspeare. There was
many a gird at him and his want of learning, and his
wit as not beino; colleo;e-bred. Bacon we know thouoht
Latin the only language for immortality. Luckily Shak-
speare found English sufficient. This strife would be bitter
at first. It mellowed afterwards into the humour of the
' wit-combats,' but it reappears all through. We get a hint
of it from Shakspeare himself in sonnet 78 :
* But thou art all my Art, and dost advance
As high as Learning, my rude ignorance.'
We doubt not that our Poet in his quiet way gave his
opponents as good as they sent. We know how he
^ 'Few of tlio Uiiivorsity pen plays -well. Why, here's our fellow Shak-
speare puts them all down.' The Return from I'arnassus.
EARLIEST RECOGNITION, •'511
mimicked and mocked tlieir ufTectations. We sliould
prefer to tliiiik the anecdote true that tells of one of Shak-
speare's replies to Jonson, it looks so representative. It
is said our Poet was godfather to one of Ben's children.
After the christening Ben found liim in a deep study, and
asked him what he was thinking about. He replied that
he had been considering what woidd be the most fitting
gift for him to bestow on his god-child, and he had
resolved at last. ' I pry thee what ? ' says the father.
' I'faith, Ben,' (fancy the rare smile of our gentle WiUie !)
' I'll e'en give him a dowzen good Lattin spoones, and thou
sJialt translate them.'
I do not share the belief that Spenser's well-known
description in his ' Teares of the Muses ' was meant for
Shaks]ieare. Here the representation is so according to our
present view of the Poet that it has been caught at and
identified. But we may safely say that no man living in
1590 (the year in which the poem w^as really printed,
possibly for the second time,) ever saw Shakspeare as the
' man whom Nature's self had made to mock herself, and
truth to imitate.' Todd's conjecture that Philip Sidney
was the ' Willy ' ^ meant is borne out by the whole of
the facts, internal and external. Todd supposes the poem
with all likelihood to have been written in 1580 ; and in
1580 we find Sidney had retired into the country dis-
gusted with the court. It is the man, much more than
the autlior, that Spenser celebrates. But he evidently
alludes to the 'Arcadia' in the 'kindly counter under
mimic shade' He also refers to the distaste of Sidney for
printing what he had written, when he speaks of those
who ' dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe.' His
' choosing to sit in idle cell ' most probably refers to
Sidney's retirement, which lasted for some years, during
which time he would neither take public employment nor
publish what he had written. We need not scruple to
• ' ^^'illy ' was a general name for a Shepherd, i. e. Poet.
512 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
say that Shakspeare's art could not at that time have been
thus recognised. Sidney's ' Arcadia ' and ' Masques '
furnished the kind of art that Spenser meant ; such art
as has a lurking consciousness of doing its work a little
better than nature coidd. The person aimed at is like-
wise one of the ' learned,' whereas Shakspeare was not.
If Sidney be not the writer alluded to, I am perfectly
satisfied that it could not have been Shakspeare.
The lines in ' Colin Clout's come home again,' sup-
posed to point out our Poet, are in every way more
likely —
' And there, though last not least, is ^tion ;
A gentler Shepherd may no-where be found ;
Whose Muse, full of high thoughts' invention.
Doth, like himself, heroically sound.'
These suit the Poet's name, his nature and his histories.
If this be Shakspeare so modestly placed by Spenser
it could hardly have been the same Poet as lie who was
so enthusiastically besung by him years before !
It was two years later that Greene gave expression to
his splenetic attack upon the new and rising Dramatist,
and spoke of him as the upstart crow of a Player who was
beginning to dress in the feathers of braver birds, and sup-
posed that he could ' bombast out a blank verse' with the
best of them.^ There is personal character in Greene's
description. He calls the Poet ' an Absolute Johannes
Fac-iotum,' or Jack-of-all-trades for his Theatre, who could
tmni his hand to whatsoever work had to be done and do
it with aU his might. It gives us a lusty sense of Shak-
speare's activity, and shows that he had to play many
parts. The ' Tiger's heart' is also significant. As though
the fellow had apprehended dimly the coming earthquake
' In spite of Nash's disclaimer, and Chettle's testimony as to the hand-
writing of Greene, there is some ground for suspicion that Nash had to do
with the ' Groat's-worth of wit.' In his epistle prefixed to Greene's ' Mcnn-
plion^ this writer speaks of tbose '■who think to outbrave better pens ivith the
sivellmg bojnbast of bruyyiny blank verse,^
IIAliVEY'S DEFENCE. .013
of tlie great '•Shake-scene' andcaiiglit a glimpse of the cou-
chaiit strengtli and stealtliy might of tiie man Shakspeare,
and turned liis own inward fears iiitu outward bravado of
abuse, just as tlie savage will taunt ihc Jni])risoned or
wounded king of beasts when he hiin-eU' is out of harm's
way.
In September of the same year Gabriel Harvey took
II]) the cudgels on beludf of liimself and otliers who
had been attacked and outrageously abused by the Greene
' set,' and rephed to ' Woeful Greene and beggarly Pierce
Penniless, as it were a Grasshopper and a Cricket, two
pretty Musicians but silly creatures ; tlie Grasshopper
imaged would be nothing less than a Green Dragon, and
the Cricket raalcontented the only Unicorn of the Muses.'
The letters are ' especialhj touching parties abused by Robert
Greene — incidentally of divers excellent persons, and some
matters of note.' In tlie tliiid of tliese we have what I be-
lieve to be the most appreciative of all contemporary notices
of Sliakspeare : the only intimation that anyone then living
liad caught the splendid sparkle of the jewel that was yet
to 'lighten all the isle.' It is surprising to me that no
more attention sliould liave been attracted to this very
obvious recognition of the rising genius of Shakspeare.
Harvey is partly pleading, partly ex})ostulating with Xash.
I spi^ak, he says, to a Poet, but ' good sweet orator, bi-: a
divine Poet indeed.' He urges him to employ his golden
talent to lionoui- \irtue and valour with ' lieroical cantos,'
as ' noble Sir I'hilip Sidney and gentle Maister Spenser
have done, with inunortal fame.' He is pleading for more
nature in poetry. ' liight Artificiality,' he urges, 'is not
mad-brained, or ridiculous, or absurd, or blasphemous, or
monstrous ; but deep-conceited, but pleasurable, but deli-
cate, but exquisite, but gracious, but admirable.' He
points out what he considers the finest models, the iruest
poetry of the past, and, turning to the Elizabethan time,
he names some dear lovers of the i\[uses whom he admires
L L
514 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
and cordially recommends, making mention of Spenser,
Watson, Daniel, Nasli and otliers. These he thanks affec-
tionately for tlieir studious endeavours to })olis]i and enricli
their native tongue. He tells tlie poets of the day that he
ap{)reciates their elegant fancy, their excellent wit, tlieir
classical learnino:, their efforts to snatch a errace from the
antique, but he has discovered the bird of a new dawn,
with a burst of music fresh from the heart of Nature,
and its prelusive warblings have made his spirits dance
witliin him ; his words mount upon a rapture, as he ' rises
on the toe.' He will not call this new Poet by name, be-
cause, were he to say what he feels, he should be suspected
of exaggeration, over-praise, or unworthy motive. But he
says it is the ' sweetest and divinest Muse that ever sang
171 English or oilier language f
Now this cannot be either Spenser or Sidney ; these he
has named. It cannot be Drayton, for it is a new man,
and this is a plea for a new Poet, one of those whom
Greene has abused. The writer is bespeaking the atten-
tion of Poets and Critics, more especially of Thomas Nash,
to the writings of this new Poet, and he pleads with
those who flatter themselves on being learned not to sneer
at or neglect this ^fine handiwork of Nature and excel-
lenter Art combined. Gentle minds and flourishinsj wits
were infinitely to blame if they should not also, for curious
imitation, propose unto themselves such fair types of re-
fined and engraced eloquence. The right novice of preg-
nant and aspiring conceit will not outskip any precious
gem of invention, or any beautiful flower of elocution that
may richly adorn or gallantly bedeck the trim garland of
his l)udding style. I speak generally to every springing
wit ; but more especially to a few, and at this instant sin-
gularly to one, wdioni I salute with a hundred blessings,
and entreat., with as many prayers., to love them that love
all good wits., and hate none., hut the Devil and his incarnate
imps notoriously professed' This was published by
TUE NEW POET AXXOT-XPED. 515
Gabriel Harvey late in the year 1592, in answer to the
attacks of Nash and Greene. Every particular points to
Shakspeare as tlie Poet meant. Marlowe certainly is not
named in the list of poets mentioned, though lie may be
liinted at as one of tl k )se ' notoriously professed.' He, how-
ever, was one that had been to college. This is a plea on
behalf of some one who has not, but who has been at-
tacked by the classic pen of ' young Juvenal' Nash. It is
a reply to the petulance and bitterness of Greene, and his
friend, the ' byting satyrist.' It is addressed to Thomas
Nash who, it must be remembered, was Shakspeare's ' old
sweet enemy ;' about the earliest to sneer at the player
who w^as gradually becoming a Poet, in his 'Anatomic of
Absurditie' printed in 1500, two years before he was
pelted with the wild ;iiul stupid abuse of the ' Groat's-
worth of Wit ' — in which, if Nash had no hand, we have
only too true a reflex of his spirit. If Nash and Greene
aimed at Shakspeare in their attacks, assuredly it is Shak-
speare whom Gabriel Harvey defends. The evidence is
conclusive. In effect Harvey replies to Nash, ' You are
infinitely to blame m the course you are pursuing with
regard to this new writer. Do not, I beseech you, wilfully
blind your eyes to so much beauty.' This he does in a
gentle conciliatory spirit, not wishing to stir up strife.
' Love them that love all good wits,' he says, ' and hate
none.'
Thus to HarvL'y belongs the honour of first proclaim-
ing the sunrise. Others may have perceived the orient
colours, but this writer first said it was so, and cried aloud
the new dawn in English Poetr}- — had the intuition neces-
sary for seeing that the nature of Shakspeare's work w^as
incomparablyhigher than all the Art of the Classical School,
and uttered his feeling with a forthright, frank honesty, in
a strain so lofty, that it found no echo in that age until Ben
Jonson gave the rebound in his noble lines to Shaks]')eare's
memory. ])Ut Jonson then stood in the after-glow Uiat
L L 2
516 SriAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
followed the sunset. Harvey penned his eulogy in the liglit
of the early sunrise. He pointed out the hrst springing
beams, and called upon all who were true worshippers
of tlie sacred fire. He alone dared to speak such a lusty
panegyric of the new Poet's natural graces, and exalt his
art above that of his most learned rivals with their fantas-
tic conceits, then" euphuistic follies, and ' Aretinish moun-
tains of huge exaggeration.' He alone called upon those
who Avere decrying Shakspeare so coarsely, to study
his works, and try to imitate his style ; this he did in words
which have the heart-warmth of personal friendship trying
to make friends for a friend out of the bitterest enemies : ^
words which were, no doubt, lauglied at uproariously.
This early recognition of Shakspeare arises out of the
old quarrel of Learning versus the natui^al brain, which
appears and reappears in all we hear of Shakspeare's literary
life. In this quarrel Nash made the first onset, conthuied the
battle along with the Greene clique, until awed into silence
by the majestic rise and dilation of Shakspeare's genius,
or forced to lay his hand on his mouth because, as Cliettle
confessed, ' divers of worship have reported his upright-
ness of dealing, which argues his honesty and his facetious
grace in writing, that approves his Art.' And because
some influence had been brousfht to bear on Nash to make
him so quickly follow the ' Groat'sworth of Wit ' with a
Private 'Epistle to the Printer' prefixed to the 2nd edi-
tion of his ' Pierce Penniless his Supplication to the Divell '
(1592) in which he repudiates having had anything to do
^ In most of the comments on tlie Nash and Ilarvej' quarrel, Nash wins
all the sympatliy, and Harvey all the ridicule. The I'rofcssor was a ver^'
pompous writer, but Greene was an indefensible blackguard, as bitter after
his conversion as before, and Nash was a thorough mud-lark of literature,
dearly delighting in the dirt he iiung. Harvey certainly did one good
thing when he proclaimed tliat this new genius flashed the authentic fire,
and he said one good thing when he called Greene's 'Arcadia ' the very
funeral of Sidney's! lie was probably on such a footing with some of
Shakspeare's 'private friends,' as to get a look at the earliest sonnets, and
the ' Venus and Adonis/ then in MS.
TIU: 'LKVILNKJ)' AM) .SKlJ-'-KDLL'ATlJD. -jI'
with Greene's pamplilct, in such furious words as these : —
' Other news I am advertised of, that a scald, trivial, lying
pamphlet, called " Greene's Groat'sworth of Wit," is giveu
out to be of my doing. God never have care of my soul,
but utterly renounce me, if the least word or sillible in it
proceeded from my pen, or if I were any way privie to
the writing or })rinting of it.' I have accounted for the
change in Nash by su])posing him to have found a patron
in the Earl of Southampton.
There are signs, I think, that Shakspcare grew sick of
hearing so much said about learning by those who
showed so little wisdom in their lives. There seems to
be a hint of this in the ' Taming of the Shrew ' : Gremio
exclaims,
' this Learning ; what a thing it is ! '
and Grumio replies,
' this Woodcock ; what an ass it is I '
He had the self-mastery that could keep quietly cool
in front of the most wrathful fire which his success had
kindled in others, but he sometimes smote them with his
humour as with a sun-stroke. For instance, in the case
of those ' feathers ' Greene had charged him with steal-
ing — a charge that was re-echoed in 1504. l)y the
author of ' Greene's Funerals ' ;
' Nay more, the men that so eclipsed his fame
Purloined his plumes I Can they deny the same?'
Shakspeare assuredly makes private reference to these hi
sonnet 78, and a public one in ' Hamlet.' AVhcn the
prince grows exultant over the marked success of the
speech which he had set down for the players — he
remarks to Horatio, ' Would not this Sir, and a forest of
feathers — if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk, with me —
with two Provenyal Eoses on my razed shoes, get me a
518 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
fellowship in a cry of players?' Plainly enough this in-
dicates the way in which Shakspeare took his place in the
Blackfriars Company, and also contains a smiling allusion
to Greene's charo'e as to the manner of featherin^i; his nest
there.
There is more, however, in Hamlet's words than this
making fun of the ' feathers ; ' something covertly con-
cealed under the I'ose that no one has yet espied. If we
look intently we shall see the snake stir beneath the
flowers ; a subtle snake of irony Avith the most wicked
glittei- in its eye !
I do not know the origin of the legend, but reference
is frequently made by the Elizabethan dramatists to the
devil hiding his cloven hoof under a rose stuck on the
shoe. Webster alludes to it in his ' White Devil,'
' Why 'tis the Devil !
I know liim hy a great rose he wears on 's shoe,
To hide his cloven foot.'
And Ben Jonson has a character ' Fitzdottrel ' in ' The
Devil is an Ass,' who has long been desirous of meetino:
with Satan ; so long that he begins to think there is no
devil at all but what the painters have made. On sud-
denly seeing 'Pug' he is startled into fearing that his
great wdsh may be at last realised, and he exclaims —
'fore hell, my heart was at ray mouth,
Till I had viewed his shoes well ; for those Roses
Were big enough to hide a cloven hoof I '
Hamlet's puzzling remark assuredly glances at this legend
of the Devil hiding his cloven hoof under the rose. The
poet has a double intention in making such an allusion. On
the surface it may be interpreted as pointing to the trick
played on the King and Court, by Hamlet's having so
cunningly used the players for his purpose in touching
upon the matter of the murder — thus hiding the cloven
SUB liOSA. .'>19
hoof ill the buskhi. l^ut it goes deeper, and means
more. It is the private hiiigli about tlie ' feathers ' con-
tinued. The poet is still jesting at the consternation
and amazement wliich his presence and his success liad
created amongst his learned rivals and the outcry tliey
made, as though the very devil had broken loose in the
theatre, and was hiding his cloven foot in a player's shoe !
This reading will determine two thhigs. First, that
' razed shoes ' signifies shoes cut or cloven, corresponding
to the cloven hoof. In Jonson's play ' Fitzdottrel' says —
' Your shoe 's not cloven^ Sir.'
Secondly, the roses intended are Proven9al roses, not
Provincial. The Eose of Provence was a splendid large
rose, and it is here chosen on account of its size and the
shelter it affords the cloven hoof, or (as the Wit renders
it) ' razed shoe. ' In Webster's drama the devil wears a
' great rose,' and in Jonson's the rose is ' big enough to
liide a cloven hoof.' So Shakspeare, in his way of using
a word that will burst into bloom, and make a picture of
his meaning, selects the Provencal Eose.
Again, in this same play he pokes fun at Master Nash !
He has taken the identical subject treated by Marlowe and
Nash in their ' Dido, Queen of Carthage,' for the purpose
of mockinj]: the rant and bombast of these learned writers,
the speech chosen, most probably, being the w^ork of
Nash. 'One speech in it I chiefly loved,' says Hamlet
' 'twas iEneas' tale to Dido ; and thereabout of it espe-
cially, where he speaks of Priam's slaughter.' He then
proceeds to outdo the said speech, which in ' Dido '
begins —
' At wliich the frantic Queen leap'd on his face.
And in liis eyelids lianging by the nails,
A little while prolonged her husband's life — '
the ' frantic Queen ' is turned into the ' mobled Queen,' and
620 SIL\IvSrEAEF;S SONNETS.
in both speeches poor old Priain is struck down with the
wind of Pyrrhus' sword. Tlie burlesque is most patent
and complete ; the Poet's face is all one radiant broad
grin underneath the gravest of tragic masks. The Critics
have discovered I know not what concealed artistic pur-
pose in this bit of Shakspeare's natural and irrepressible
fun !
Jonson spoke the last word in tins quaiTel, now grown
kindly, when he said that Shakspeare had little Latin and
less Greek.
In Marston's ' Scourge of Villanie,' satire 11, entitled
' Humours,' there is a description which most unmistake-
ably points to Shakspeare, and no one else —
'Liiscus, what's plaid to-day? Faith, noiv I know
I set thy lips abroach, from ivhence dothfloio
Naiiglit hut pure Juliet and Romeo !
Say who acts best ? Drusus or Eoscio ?
Kow I have him, that nere of ought did speal;
But when of Playes or Players lie did treat —
Hath made a Gommonplace-Book out of Playes,
And speaks in print : at least what ere he sales
Is warranted by curtain plaudites,
If ere you heard him courting Lesbia'^s eyes !
Say (courteous Sir), speaks he not movingly.
From out some new pathetique Tragedy?
He writes, he rails, he jests, he courts (what not) ?
And all from out his huge. Ion g-scrapjed stock
Of ivell-penned Plays.''
Marston has in a previous satire (tlie Ttli), parodied the
exclamation of Richard in ' A Man ! a Man ! a Kingdom
for a Man !' And in tliis he repeats the expressions and
parodies the speech of Capulet when calling upon his
company for a dance —
' A hall ! a liaU I give room and foot it girls.
More light ye knaves, &c.'
This Marston mocks thus —
MAUSTON'S CilKDS. r,2\
'A hall! a hall !
Koom for the spheres, the orbs celestial!
Will dance Kemp's jigge ; they'll revel with neat jumps ;
A worthy Poet hath put on their pumps.'
This will show how visibly Sliakspeare was in the writer's
mind. Next 'Eoscius' was the name b}^ which Burbage
was everywhere known : he was called by that name in
his lifetime, and Camden uses it in chronicling the player's
death. And then we have Sliakspeare con})led with him
as 'Drusns,' either after the eloquent Eoman Tribune or
some character in a ])lay now lost. The two are named
together as the chief men of the company that played
' Komeo and Juliet.' So these two, Shakspeare and Biu'-
bage, are afterwards named together by John Davies in
his ' Microcosmos.' Shakspeare is also identified by the
allusion to ' Komeo and Juliet.' This Luscus is a wor-
shipper of the new dramatic poet, who speaks so movingly
from out each new pathetic tragedy. lie talks of little
else than Shakspeare, and is infected by the ebulliant
passion of this wonderful drama that has taken the town
by storm. At tlie mention of a theatre, Shakspeare's is
first in the satirist's mind, and at the mention of plays he
says, ' Now, I know you are off ! nothing goes down with
you but Shakspeare's plays ; you can talk of nothing but
Sliaks])eare.' This notice is intensely interesting. It is
the gird of an envious rival, who pays luiwilling tribute
to our poet's increasing popularity, and at the same time
gives us the most perfect little sketch of the man and his
manners, as Marston saw him ! He has marked his reti-
cence in such company as that of Playwrights and Players ;
only speaking upon what to tliem would be the subject of
subjects ; and he feels well enough that he has never got
at him. Now, he says, ' I have him who is so difhcult to
get at.' He is knoAvn also as a great maker of extracts ;
he keeps a common-place book filled from out his huge
long-accumulating stock of plays. So that he has been
522 SlIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
a diligent collector of dramas, or maker of notes, and a
great student of his special art. It has been his custom
to copy the best things he met with into his scrap-book.
The satirist almost repeats Greene's ' Johannes Fac-totum '
in his description of our Poet's varied ability, his aptness
in doing many things with as much earnestness as though
each were the one thing he came into this world to do. He
writes, he rails, he jests, he courts (what not?). And all
— this is how the malev^olent rival accounts for the abound-
ing genius ! — and all from out his collection of plays and
the scraps hoarded in his common-place book. Marston's
'satyres' were published in 1598, and this is evidently
written at the moment when 'Eomeo and Juliet' is in the
height of its success. It is tlie new pathetic tragedy of
these lines. Also, the image of the love-poet courting
Lesbia's eyes is obviously suggested by the balcony scene
of this play.
It is curious, too, that he should ask which of the
two is the better actor — Shakspeare or Burbage ? ' He
speaks in prinf reminds us of Hamlet's speech to the
players. According to this witness, it would look as
though the Poet had there figured himself for us some-
wdiat as his contemporaries saw him amongst his own
company of players. It makes one wonder how much he
had to do personally with the great acting of Burbage,
ni moulding such an embodiment of his own conceptions,
and inspiring the player when spirit sharpened spirit and
face kindled face. He was six years older than Burbage,
and the great Master of his Art. Of course, Marston's
notice is meant to be satirical, although he wriggles in
vain to raise a smile at his subject. This writer has
another mean ' gird ' at our Poet in his ' What you Will'
(art ii. sc. 1) —
' Ha ! he mounts Cliirall on the wings of fame,
Ahorse! ahorse! ray kingdom for a horse !
Look thee, / sjjcak play scraps !^
DA VIES' IkLVP OF THE 1'0I:T\S MICl;r)C()SM. 52.i
Avliicli still luiilier lu'lps to identify Sliakspeare by a
double allusion.
I have previously remarked that no doubt Shak-
speare gave his contemporaries as good as tliey sent,
and although ^ve may be able to decipher but few of
his rephes, one at least is very definite. We have seen
that John Davies of Hereford made various allusions to
Shakspeare. We are very glad of these now in the dearth
of information. But we may well imagine that if any-
thing was particularly unbearable to our Poet, it must
have been the pat of approbation bestowed on him by
this garrulous old gentleman and persevering poetiser.
Accordingly, as I conjecture, Shakspeare does flash lire
and lighten from his cloud upon him and his descriptions
in the person of ' Menenius.'* Thrice had Davies tried to
compliment our Poet at the expense of his profession, and
pitied him that Fortune had not put him to better uses.
This he has done most noticeably in his poem entitled
' Microcosmus.' He had also addressed Shakspeare as
' our Enirlish Terence ' thus —
* Some say good Will, which I in sport do sing,
Hadst thou not plaid some kingly parts in sport.
Thou hadst bin a companion for a King,
And been a king among the meaner sort.
Some others rail ; hut rail as they think fit.
Thou hast no railin<>-, but a reinrninir wit :
And honesty thou sow'st, which they do reape.
So to increase their stocke, which they do keepe.'
The Poet replies : — ' I am known to be a humourous
jmtrickm, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not
a drop of allaying Tyber in't ; said to be somethimj imper-
fect-, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion. What
I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath,
&^c. . . . if you see this in i\\Q Map of my Microcosm,
1 (
Coriolauus,' act ii. sc. 1.
624 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
follows it that I am known well enough too ? What harm
can your hisson conspectuities gleafi out of this character, if
I be known well enough too ? ' Not only does Sliakspeare
take him by the beard to smite him thus and give him, as
Hood says, two black eyes for being blind, but he has plii-
ralised the old schoolmaster for the pleasure of thrash-
ing him double. ' I cannot say your worships have de-
livered the matter ivell, when I find the ass in compound
with the major part of your syllables, and though I must
be content to bear with those that say you are reverend
grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good
faces. You know neither me, yourselves, nor anything ! '
Our Poet had a double reason for his retort. lie resents
what Davies had said of the stase as well as of himself and
Burbage. He speaks for the Company in general. He
says in eifect — ' You have sat in judgement, you ridiculous
old ass, but you have not handled the matter wisely or
well. And as for the railing that we are charged with,
Avhy, our very priests iniist become mockers if they shall
encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you
speak best unto the purpose it is not worth the wagging of
your beard.'
It will not be easy to detect any dramatic motive in
these replies of Menenius ; there was no sufficient cause
in the words of the Tribunes : they had not drawn the
map of his Microcosm ; liad not characterised him at all,
but merely remarked ' you are well enougli known, too ! '
Ko one can, I think, compare what Davies wrote of our
Poet in his three different poems with this outburst of
Menenius' without seeing that the Poet has here ex-
pressed the personal annoyance of liimself and fellows.
We may, perhaps, take it as a slight additional indication
of Shakspeare's liaving John Davies in mind that nearly
tlie next words spoken by Menenius on hearing that Cori-
olanus is returning home are, ' Take my cap, Jupiter,
and I ihajik thee ; ' and poor John had, in lines already
THE 'IIELICONIA.' 525
qiKitetl, greeted Southampton on liis release from tlio
Tower, with ' Southampton, u}) tliy cap to lieaven iling ! '
We shall get a curious side- glimpse, and, to some ex-
tent, gauge how far Shakspeare was known to his contem-
poraries generally in the year IGOO, by turning over the
pages of ' England's Parnassus,' in the ' Heliconia.' Here
we come upon numerous quotations from the ' Lucrece '
and ' Venus and Adonis,' but the extracts from the Plays
nre most insignificant. Yet at the time mentioned he had
in all probability produced some twenty of his dramas,
including the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' 'Merchant of
Venice,' ' Taming of the Shrew,' ' Eomeo and Juliet,' with
other fine works of his early and middle periods.
A breath of the passionate fragrance of the last-named
dainty drama had reached beyond the stage. But how
could the editor make so few extracts from such a mine of
wealth, and snatch no more from its ' dark of diamonds ? '
He is in search of illustrations for given subjects, each of
which Shakspeare has enriched with pictures beyond tliose
of all other writers. He possesses taste enough to quote
many of the choicest passages from Spenser's poetry. The
inference is inevitable that the Poet and the poetry re-
vealed to us in Shakspeare's Plays were unknown to
Robert Allot, and possibly he only quoted at second-hand.
A playwright was not looked upon as a poet, so nmch as
a worker for the theatre. Spenser was the great Apollo of
his ao-e. He had the true mvthological touch and classical
tread. Accordingly the 'Heliconia' contains some 370
quotations from Spenser and only TO from Shakspeare ;
these mainly from his two poems. As late as 1605
Richard Barnefield, in his ' Lady Pecunia,' praises Shak-
speare for his Poems, but has not a word for the Plays.
It was impossible for Shakspeare's contemporaries to
know what there was in his works as we know them.
They could not help knowing of his dramatic successes,
and vrould often feel these to be unaccountable. Put there
526 SIIAKSPEArtE'S SONNETS.
was no great reading public — no criticism to bring out tlie
liidden secrets of his genius. And if there had been, the
drama was comparatively an unpublished literature. In
this fact we may perceive one great reason why a man like
Bacon, for example, lived so long in the same city as
Shakspeare without discovering him, and possibly left
the world without knowing what he had missed on the
passage.
(It seems impossible that they should not have met
personally in the company of Essex and Southampton, but
Bacon makes no mention of Shakspeare, and in all likeli-
hood never penetrated the Player's mask.)
The early poems were well known, and some of the
sonnets were in circulation, but no one could predicate
from these the stupendous genius that orbed out and
reached its full circle in ' Lear,' and the other great
Trao-edies.
He was better known within the Theatre, and there
Ben Jonson being himself a player and playwright, pro-
bably got the truest glimpse of Shakspeare's mental sta-
ture, although I doubt not he fancied himself by much
the better writer. Ben could supply a ' tag ' to the end of
a hfe as well as to the end of a play, and, when in the
mood, sweat sincerity with all his bodily bulk. But, what
are we to think of his compliment to the ' true-filed line '
when it is on record that he did not think the lines ' well-
liled,' for when the Players boasted that Shakspeare wrote
so easily he never blotted out a line, Ben wished he had
blotted out a thousand. And if we are to believe Drum-
mond, Jonson thought Shakspeare ' wanted art, and some-
times sense;' which is countenanced by his own words —
' he redeemed his vices by his virtues. Tiiere was ever
more in him to be praised than to be pardoned.' If Jonson
had really known what Shakspeare had done for the stage,
for dramatic poetry, for Englisli Literature, how could he
afterwards boast tliat he himself would yet ' raise the
BEN JONSON. ry27
despised head of Poetry ; stripping lier out of those rotten
:iii(l base rags wherewith the times have adulterated lier
i'orni and restore her to her primitive use and majesty, and
render her worthy to be embraced and kissed of all the
great and master spirits of the world.' Tliis, after Shak-
speare had found Poetry on the stage the slave of drudger}^
tiie menial of the mob, and took her by the hand, like
his own Marina, and led her forth apparelled in all fresh-
ness of the spring ; fairer to look on than the ' evening
air, clad in the beauty of ten thousand stars,' and made
her the nursing mother of children strong and splendid ;
set her on a throne and crowned her as a queen whose
subjects are wide humanity; whose realm is the Avorld.
Ben's mind was not of a kind to jump with that of
Shakspeare in its largest leaps. He was the genuine pro-
totype of the critical kind that has yet a few living speci-
mens, in tliose persons who still persist in looking upon
Shakspeare as a writer far too redundant in expression.
They appear to think the foliage waving above too
lusty and large for the sustaining rootage below. They
have a feeling that Shakspeare was a Poet marvellously
endowed by Nature, but deficient in Art, the truth being,
that what they mean by Art is the smack of conscious-
ness in the finish left so apparent that the poetry is,
as it were, stereotyped, and the linisli gives to it a kind of
metallic foce ; something on the surface fiim to the touch,
and liatterino^ to a certain critical sense.
They like their poetry to be fossilised and wear a recog-
nisable pattern. Whereas Shakspeare's is all alive, and
illuminated from within ; as full of Xature in a book as
the flowers are in the field.
The secret which, in Shakspeare, is unfathomable can
be found out in the works of more self-conscious men. In
them Nature is subordinate to Art. But this is not the
greatest Art ; it is the lesser Ait, made more striking l)e-
cause there is less Xature.
528 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
His is not the serene art of So]:)liocIes ; it does not
always smile severely on the surface. Then he has —
' Such miracles performed in play.
Such letting Nature have its way ! '
and the Nature is so boundless, we have to traverse such
an infinity of suggestiveness, that it is not easy for us to
beat the bounds. But the Art of Shakspeare transcends
all other Art in kind as much as the inscrutable beauty of
soul transcends the apparent beauty of form and feature ;
and his judgment is as sure as his genius is capacious.
Judge him not by Greek Drama or French Art, but accept
the conditions under which he wrought, the national
nature with which he dealt, and he has reached the pure
simplicity of utter perfection fifty times over to any other
Poet's once ! In all Shafepeare's great Plays his Art is
even more consummate, though less apparent, than that of
Milton, and it holds the infinitely larger system of human
world and starry brood of mind in its wider revolutions,
with as safe a tug of gravitation. It is the testimony of all
the greatest and most modest men that the longer they
read his works the more reasons they find to admire his
marvellous wisdom, and his transcendent intuition in all
mysteries of Law as well as knowledge of life.
Harvey's lusty reveille and Ben Jonson's eulogy not-
withstanding, it is quite demonstrable that Shakspeare's
contemporaries had no adequate conception of what man-
ner of man or majesty of mind were amongst them. We
know him better than they did ! He came upon the stage
of his century like the merest lighter of a theatre. He
kindled there such a splendour and jetted such ' brave fire'
as the world never before saw. He did his work so silently,
greeted his fellows so pleasantly, and retired so quietly,
that the men whose faces now shine for us, chiefly from
his reflected light, did not notice him suflficiently to tell us
wliat he was like; did not see that this man Shakspeare
III8 UNKNOWN GREATNESS. 520
liad come to bring a new soul into the land — that in his
plays the spirit of a new faith was to obtain magnificent
embodiment — that here was the spontaneous effort of the
national spirit to assert itself in our hterature, and stand
forth free from the old Greek tyranny which might other-
^vise have continued to crush our drama, as it seems to
liave crippled our sculpture to this day — that in these plays
all the rills of lann;uaQ;e and knowledcre runninc; from other
lands were to be merged and made one in this great ocean
of English life. Not one of them saw clearly as we do
that whereas Homer was the poet of Greece, and Dante
the poet of Italy, this gentle Willie Shakspeare, player and
playwright, was destined to be the Poet of a World !
His real gloiy was unguessed at ! They could have
given him no assurance of the 'all-hail hereafter;' the lofty
expansion of his fame that now fills the great Globe Theatre
of our world! They never di^eamed of the imperial way
in which the Player should ascend his throne, to set the
wide round rin<2;in2j whose vast arch reverberates his voice
from side to side, whilst wave on wave, age after age,
the piean of applause is caught up and continued and
rolled on for ever by the passing Generations !
I often think that one reason why he left no greater per-
sonal impression on them was because he was so much of
a good fellow in general ; his nature was so commonly
human and perfect all roimd, as to seem to them nothing
remarkable in particular. His greatness of soul was not
of a kind to pufl' out any personal pecuharities, or manners
' hisli fantastical.' He did not take his seat in a crowdinii*
company with the bodily bulge of big lien, or tread on
their toes with the vast weight of his 'mountain belly ' and
hodman's shoulders, nor come in contact with them as Ben
^vould, with the full force of his hard head and ' rocky
face.' Shakspeare's personal influence was not of the sort
that is so palpably felt at all times, and often most politely
uoknowlodu-od. He must have moved amongst them more
530 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
like an Immortal invisible ; the deity being liidden in the
humanity. There was room in his serene and spacious
soul for the whole of his stage-contemporaries to sit at
feast. His influence embraced them, lifted them out of
themselves, floated them up from earth ; and while their
veins ran quicksilver, and the life within them lightened,
they would shout w^ith Jlatheo, 'Do we not fly high?'
Are we not amazingly clever fellows? Don't we astonish
ourselves? — How little they knew what they owed to
the mighty one in their midst ! How little coidd they
gauge the virtue of his presence which wrapped them in a
diviner ether ! When we breathe in a larger life, and
a ruddier health from the atmosphere that surrounds us
and sets us swimming in a sea of heart's-ease, we sel-
dom pause to estimate how much in weight the atmo-
sphere presses to the square inch ! So was it with the
personal influence of Shakspeare upon his fellows. They
felt the exaltation, the invisible radiation of health, the
flowing humanity that filled their felicity to the brim ; but
did not think of the weiorht of crreatness that he brouo-ht
to bear on every square inch of them. The Spirit of the
Age sat in their very midst, but it moved them so natu-
rally they forgot to note its personal features, and he was
not the man to be flashing his immortal jewel in their eyes
on purpose to call attention to it.
Big Ben took care to bequeath his body as well as his
mind to us. We know how much flesh he carried. We
know his love of good eating and strong drink ; his self
assertiveness and lust of power. We know that he
required a high tide of drink before he could launch
himself and get well afloat, and that amongst the Ehza-
bethan song-birds he was named, after his beloved liquor,
a ' Canary ' bird. One cannot help fancying that Shak-
speare, as he sat quietly listening to Ben's brag, got many
a hint for the fattening and glorifpng of his own Fal-
stafF. How different it is with our Poet ! We get no
THE PRINCE OF ALL GOOD FELLOWS. .5.U
glimpse of him in his cups. The uumes ihey give him,
Jiowever, are significant. Tliey call him the 'gentle
Willie,' the ' beloved,' the • honey-tongucd.' Fuller's
description gives us an impression that Ben Jonsun
was no match for Shakspeare in mental quickness when
they met in their ^vit-combats at the ' Mermaid.' Ben
carried most in sight ; Shakspeare more out of sight.
For the rest, there is not much to show us what the
man Shakspeare was, or to tell us that his fellows knew
what he was. Vmt their silence is full of meaning. It
tells that he was not an extraordinary man in the vulgar
sense, which means something peculiar, and startling at
first sight. He must have been too complete a man to
be marked out by that which implies incompleteness —
some special faculty held up for wonder, and half picked
out by disparity on the otlier side ; as the valley's depth
becomes a portion of the mountain's height. There was
nothing of this about Shakspeare. And his completeness,
his ripeness all round, his level height, his subtle serenity,
would all tend to hide his greatness from them. They
can tell us the shape of Greene's beard, which he
'cherished continually, without cutting; a jolly long red
peak, like the spire of a steeple, whereat a man might
hang a jewel, it was so sharp and pendant;' his 'con-
tinual shifting of lodgings^' the nasal sound of Ben Jon-
son's voice, and his face 'punched full of eyelet holes
like the lid of a warming-pan.' But they tell us nothing
in this kind about Shakspeare, man or manner, and
this tells us much. There was that in him which over-
flowed all externals.
We know they thought him a man of sweet temper
and read}' wit, honest and frank, of an open and free
nature, very gentle and loveable, and as sociable a good
fellow as ever lived. And, indeed, he must have been
the best of all good fellows that ever was so wise a
man. He could make merry with those roystering
M M 2
532 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
madcaps at tlie Mermaid, Avho heard the ' chimes at
midnight ' but did not heed tliem, and lie could pre-
serve the eternal rights of his o^vu soul, and keep sacred
its brooding solitude. He coidd be the tricksy spirit
of mad whim and waggery ; the very soul of solemn
thought ; one of the sprightliest maskers at the carnival
of high spirits he could go home majestic in his sad-
ness as he had been glorious in his gladness, and brood
over what he had seen of life with a mild melan-
choly such as made his own life bloom more inwardly,
and put forth those loveliest creations of his wdiich seem
to have unfolded in the still and balmy night-time when
men slept, and the flowers in his soul's garden were fed
with gracious dews from heaven.
He had his enemies, but no man in Shakspeare's life-
time ever ventured to assail his reputation. Greene
makes no such charge as that which has been gathered
from the sonnets. The only thing he can show is that
Shakspeare was growing too successful for him. Our
great Poet enters into none of their little quarrels. When
they work themselves up into a passion with him, he
takes no notice, or, if he does, it is to silently work them
up into his next play. Whilst men like Marlowe drive
furiously down the broad road to destruction, with passions
four abreast, he passes quietly on his watchful way with
serene hal)it and face erect, respected and self-respecting.
He must have had his temptations to wave off or wdiistle
down, and pick his way through the mire of our world ;
but this he does most happily and cleanly, and he comes
forth with no visible stains, or mud, clinging to him. JSTot
from any sediment of vice and folly did he gather all those
precious grains of golden wisdom. Not from his sowing
a bountiful crop of wild oats do we reap that rich harvest
of his works. He must have been a good man to have
been so loveable and to have had the health that resisted
so w^ell the infection of his time and place.
UNX'ON.SCIOUSNESS OF SELF. 0.33
One great cause of Shakspeare's contemporaries telling
lis no more about him is still operant against our making
him out iu his works. He was one of the least self-con-
scious men, and so he is the least personally visible in his
writings. This was the condition of his greatness. lie
was to be so unsconscious of self as to be purely reflective
of all passing forms. If he had been a lesser man, he
would have shown us more of himself. If more imper-
fect, he would have revealed more idiosyncracy. We
should have caught him taking a peep at liimself in the
dramatic mirror. But Shakspeare's nature is all mirror
to the world around him. A more conscious man would
have managed to make the darkness that hides him from
us a sort of lamp-shade which should concentrate the
light on his own features, when he looked up in some
self-complaisant pause. Not so Shakspeare : he throws
all the light on his work, and bends over it so intently
that it is most difficult to get a glimpse of his face. Our
sole chance is to watch him at his work, and note his
human leanings and personal relationships.
In his first poem, ' the first heir of my invention,'
' Venus and Adonis,' we may learn one or two out-of-door
facts of the Poet's life. "V\^iether he was a deer-stealer
or not, it is certain he had been on the track of a hare.
He knew poor puss's form, and had often seen her pow-
deiing the dew-drops into mist as she ran. He is inti-
mately acquainted with her habits. At the mention of
her name his thouglits are all off a-coursing at once, and
his feehng is in full cry. He had the Enghsh spirit of
sport in his blood, such as runs through the whole race
from peer to poacher. He was likewise a genuine lover
of horses, and could show off the 'points' of a thorough-
bred in a description that would tell at Newmarket. In
these early poems, which were most probably written iu
the country, we find the youth of Shakspeare all in flower
and full of colour. It was the hey-day in wliich it looks as
534 SHAKSPEARE'S SON^■ETS.
though the battlements of heaven may be scaled by sheer
leaps of the young blood, the senses are so keenly alive.
The delighted spirit is in its first love with life, and Venus
is the goddess of the youthful fancy. The outer world is
all picture to the eye, the inner world all music and danc-
ing. External nature makes tlie deepest, though often
unconscious, impression at this time, when love works
within and beauty without at the making of a boy into a
poet.
The sonnets of Shakspeare afford us the most certain
means whereby we can get at the man. Nothing else
except the two prose dedications speaks to us so as-
suredly with liis own voice, or tells us so unmistakably
what were his own feelings and thoughts under various
interesting circumstances of his o^\m life. Our difficulty
has been to get the right interpretation of the sonnets,
and know Avhen Shakspeare is really speaking in his own
person, and wliere lie gives utterance to the thoughts and
feelings of another. We often heard tlie voice of Shak-
speare ; we knew the voice, and yet we did not get at the
man. It was as though he were speaking in the next
room ; tliere was a partition-wall between us. We fol-
lowed the voice, according to some theory of interpreting
the sonnet^, but Avhen we got into the next room Shak-
speare Avas not there. Still, tlie A^oice, hke that of the
ghost of Hamlet's father, kept breaking in, compelling us
to folloAV it. The clhef cause of this mtangibility, and the
main reason Avhy so many of these sonnets, seemingly
personal, did not strike straight home to us, with the full
force that is coiled up in their lines, Avill be found in the
conditions under Avhich they Avere Avritten, and in the fact
that the personal and dramatic ones have been mixed up,
to all appearance, inextricably. Shakspeare was not the
man to miss his mark, AA'hatever that may have been,
only we were not exactly the objects of liis aim. We
are noAV able for the first time since the poetry AA^as
THE REAL MAX INSTEAD OF A MYTH. 535 '
written to make the mystery clear ; stand in the right
position to judge of wliat is going on, get the relation-
ship of writer and reader rightly adjusted, fathom the
secret history and know how mudi and what part of
Shakspeare's character is visible in the sonnets. Unfor-
tunately he wrote them under a very limited liability law
of relationship. It was not his intention to write of him-
self, but of his friend. And liere, as elsewhere, that
amazing negative capacity of his has suppressed so much
that we would have given anything to know. They have
no introspection. In the most personal of them the eye
is outward-looking ; it does not brood within for any self
revelation.
It must not be thought, however, that we are losinc^ sic^ht
of Shakspeare's personality whilst eliminating the imper-
sonal somiets. We are drawing all the more closely to
himself. We are getting at him in another way. We
do not find him quite so melancholy, discontented, and
morbidly sensitive as many have imagined him, but much
more like what he is imaged in his other works, and
pourtrayed in that picture of hilarious health and consti-
tutional jocinidity — the Stratford bust. Our Shakspeare
of the Sonnets has no reason to plead guilty to abuses of
kindness and all sorts of inexplicable wilfulness and ingra-
titude, or to make continual appeal to the loving charity
which has been drawn upon to the utmost.
In our reading we find that Shakspeare, in Avhicli the
just sold of the world believes, in spite of appearances
having been so wrongly interpreted. The Shakspeare
of those manly qualities to which all the contemj)orary
testimony pays tribute. The Shakspeare of whom Chettle
begs pardon, for the Avords of Greene, because he has
found that 'divers of worship,' many of worth, have
' reported his uprightness.' The Shaks])eare of whom
Southampton testifies that he is of good reputation,
deserving of favour, and his especial friend.
o36 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
What we lose sight of is the phantom Shakspeare who
could ungraciously forget his early friend, to whom he
had made public promises, given hostages for the future,
and dedicated love without end : who could sins: of his
friend's eternal truth, after passionately denouncing his
falsehood, and talk of locking up his jewel lest it should
be stolen after it had been filched from him ; who could
slavishly prostrate himself at the feet of a boy ; who
could liypocritically reprove his friend for his loose con-
duct and lament his immoralities, whilst he himself, a
married man of ripe age, was partner with the boy in an
intrigue with some married woman ; wdio could accuse
himself of all sorts of inconsistent things, grow querulous
at the slightest cause, and ask pity on all kinds of false
pretences ; who could write sonnets on his own and his
friend's disgraceful amours, and supply copies to their
friends for the purpose of raising a laugh at their mutual
frailty — for such^ in defiance of dates, facts^ and all that
we know of our Poet's life and character, or gather
from his loorJcs, is the Shakspeare of Messrs. Boaden and
Brown's theory of the Sonnets — and we have found the
real man as he once lived, and loved his friend South-
ampton, and showed an interest in his passion for
Elizabetli Vernon ; took sides with them when they were
thwarted by the caprice of the Queen, and resented it
very strongly ; made the most ingenious defence, in play
and in earnest, for his friend ; fought for him against
' old Time,' and ' evil Fortune,' and ' all-oblivious en-
mity ;' laboured to polish his virtues when they rusted,
and lifted them \\\) shiningly in the eyes of his beloved,
and strove to shield them from the tarnishinoj breath of
scandal ; probably seeing many sad things and having
many sad thoughts, JDut holding on to him faithful and
loving to tlie end. There is nothing to show that
his moral supremacy was not absolute as his mental ;
no grovelhng humility of the slavish sort, nothing but
THE IlECOVERED LIKENESS. 537
that sim}>lc modesty wliich is tlie natural and perfect
grace of greatness. Sucli is the restored hkeness of our
Shakspeare-Portrait wliich lias been shamefully abused
and far worse daubed over than his bust at Stratf(jrd.
The world will not fail to recognise the truer resem-
blance and the purer life-colour of this portrait. I
have also the pleasure of doing justice to the robbed
and much-wronged Earl of Southampton, the only man
whom Shakspeare ever inscribed to publicly, and the
man who really begot the Sonnets of Shakspeare,
although William Herbert became the ' only obtainer '
of them, the ' bringer-forth' for the pubhshing purpose of
Thorpe.
To come to the personal features of our newly-dis-
covered likeness, we see that the Shakspeare of the Sonnets
is as wise and practical a man as him of the Globe
Theatre and the Plays. He did not set out to write son-
nets on purpose to tell his friend about himself and his
doings and miss his mark by forgetting to write those
things which we are aU most anxious to know !
Incidentally and indirectly he tells us a good deal about
himself ; and at times we see his very face wearing a
startling; look of life. lie tells us how much the friend-
ship of Southampton was to him during the earlier period
when he stood in the twilight and could hardly see his
w^ay clearly. We see how modestly he looked upon his
own works ; how little he thought of wearing such a
halo of renown. Whilst making promises of immortality
for his friend in the sonnets he expresses no hope, no
consciousness of living on either in them or the plays.
There is one glance at the Theatre in sonnet 100 (p. 252),
and he there speaks of his Muse as spending her fury on
some worthless song, or ballad subject, and darkening her
power to give the base matter light, instead of writing
about his friend.
Once or twice we see him face to face with grief; lie
538 SIIAKSPE AIDE'S SONNETS.
comes nestling into our hearts in the lowhest attitude, and
asserts our common human relationship in the most
touching way. But, he did not seek to pierce us with
his own sharp and thorny thoughts ; his object was to
offer his friend their bloom and fragrancy. And the
sonnets afford us tliis self-luminous certainty. Shakspeare
could not have reproached and reproved Southampton for
his moral laxity if he had not iiimself walked uprightly
imder 'awful rule and right supremacy:' could not have
bewailed the Earl's dwelling in infectious society if his
own moral health had not been sound. His personal
bearing must have been blameless for him to express his
jealousy of evil companions. He could not have dared to
intimate that his young friend was not one of those who
are ' lords and owners of their faces ' unless he were
known to be ' king over himself.'
Also we have done for ever with ' William the Melan-
choly.'' Only a very false view of the sonnets could have led
any one to imagine that Shakspeare was a melancholy
man. Such a phantasm was begotten on a cloud of the
brain, and has no existence in reality. It may not always
have been honestly spoken out, yet it has been inwardly
believed that liia sins confessed in the sonnets were the
chief cause of his supposed sadness : that the moping,
abject condition in which he is assumed to have been at
times, was owing to liis misplaced affections and the
avenging Nemesis that, no doubt, pursued him and
whipped him back to the wife whom he liad deserted.
This personal interpretation of the sonnets has deepened
the character of Shakspeare in the mind of many to a
Eembrandtish depth of sliadow, and made Schlegel amongst
others tliink tliat these glimpses of the internal workings
of the Poet's spirit show it to liave been of all others the
most deeply sorrowful and tragic ! And the critic con-
cludes that the inmost feelings of the Poet's heart, the
deptlis of his peculiar, concentrated and solitar}^ spirit,
rAL.SE \11':WS DEKIVKI) i'ltU.M TIU: .SONNETS. .0.39
could be agitated only by the mourn ful voice of nature.
No view could be lalser. His soid was not like a star
that dwelt apart in lonely majesty and cold splendour
remote from men. Impersonal as he is, Ave do not feel
tliat to be the result of remoteness. Someway we lose
him from very nearness rather than because of his dis-
tance from us. Not in isolation, but by a dehghtful in-
terfusion does he really pass into invisibility.
It was said by Mr. Hallam, ' Tliere .seems to have
been a period of Shakspeare's life when his heart was
ill at ease, and ill content Avith the world or his own
conscience : the memory of hours mis-spent, the pang
of affection misplaced or unrequited, the experience of
man's worser nature, which intercourse with ill-chosen
associates, by choice or circumstance, peculiarly teaches
— these, as they sank down into the depths of his great
mind, seem not only to have inspired into it the con-
ception of " Lear " and " Timon," but that of one primary
character, the censurer of mankind.' So it may have
seemed^ but so it is not in fact. This is but an illusion of
those who have accepted the sonnets as autobiographic
revelations. All that is observable is that the great stream
of his expanding power runs darker with deptli, and if
the searchino-s into the human heart 2:row more curious
and profound, and the tragedy is palled in more awful som-
breness, and the poetry draws our pleasure with approving
tears out of deeper soundings of pain, the comedy is also
richer and more real, the humour is as smilinij as the
terror is sublime ; there is no unhappy laughter in it, no
iestini]!: with a sad brow ; whilst the tender imasies of orace
and purity are bodied forth more movingly attired than
ever. We can match ' Hamlet' with the ' Merry Wives,'
' Lear' witli ' Twelfth Niglit,' and ])air off Timon, the hater
of men, with Cressida and Cleopatra, who were as great
lovers of them; and his later, most precious creations, Des-
demona, Cordelia, Yirgilia,rerdita, Miranda, Imogen, give
540 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
no liint of any unsoundness in the Poet's moral nature.
If lie wrote more tragedy as lie grew older, tliat was but
the natural result of his growing wiser, liis meditations on
life were graver ; the sad-looking bloom had gathered on
the fuller-ripened life-fruit. What says the prologue to
King Henry VIII. ? —
* I come no more to make you laugh ; things now
That hear a weighty and a serious brow,
Sad, high and working, full of state and woe,
Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,
We now present.'
It is impossible to commune with the spirit of Shakspeare
in his works and not feel that he was essentially a cheerful
man and full of healthy gladness, that his royal soul was
magnificently lodged in a fine physique, and looked out
on life with a large contentment ; that his conscience was
clear and his spiritual pulse sober. This is manifest in his
poems written at an age when most youngsters are wanton
with sadness. There is no sadness in his first song ; he
sustains a merry note lustily ; the ' Venus and Adonis,'
the ' Lover's Complaint,' are brim-full of healtli ; they
bespeak the ruddy English heart, the sunbrowned mirth,
' countiy quicksilver,' and country cheer. The royal
blood of his happy health runs and riots in their rural vein.
It is shown in his hearty and continuous way of working.
It is proved by his great delight in common human nature,
and his full satisfaction in the world as he found it. It
is supremely shown in the nature of his whole work. A
reigning cheerfulness was the sovereign quality of the man,
and his art is dedicated to Joy. ISTo one ever did so much
in the poetic sphere to make men nobly happy. A
most profound and perennial cheerfulness of soul he must
have had to bring so bright a smile to the surface, and put
so pleasurable a colour into the face of liuinan life, wliich
never shone more round and rosy than it does in his eyes
at times ; he who so well knew what an infinite of sorrow
NOT A MEL.VNX'IIOLY MAN. rAl
may brood beneath ; what .sunless (le[)ths of sadness and
lonely leafless wastes of misery ; who felt so intimately its
old heartache and pain ; its mystery of evil and all the
pathetic pangs witli wliich Nature gives birth to Good !
The dramatic mood could be troubled, contemplative,
melancholy, according to his purpose, but the man himself
was of a happy temperament. A melancholy man must
have been more self-conscious, and shut up within limits
indefmitely narrower.
We may depend upon it that such sunny smiling fruits
of living as his works offer to us did not spring out of any
root of bitterness in his own experience ; they are ripe on
the lower branches as well as on the highest ; are sound
and sweet to the core, and show no least sign of having
been gnawn or pierced by the worm that dies not. Had
he felt sad for himself it would have broken out, if at all,
not lugubriously, but in a very lumiorous sadness — the
diamond-point of wit pricking the gathering tear before it
was fairly formed, or the drops would have been shaken
down in a sun-shower. The true Shakspearian sadness is
more nearly expressed in Mercutio and some of the clowns,
like the 'fool' in 'Lear,' for which he had a special fondness
and, I fancy, often played the part with zest. Hence the
lunnour is just sadness grown honey-ripe ! Beside which,
we get no suggestion from his contemporaries of a melan-
choly man. They never saw him in the dumps like John
Ford. So far as h<! left any impression on tliem it was
that of a gracious and pleasant man, fidl of good spirits,
equable at a cheerful height. They certainly saw nothing
of the social ' outcast ' or the friendless, melancholy man.
They caught no writhing of tlie face that indicated the
devouring secret within his breast ! They never suspected
that he had gone about ' frantic-mad with evermore un-
rest.' If so miserable a sinner in private, he must have
been in public a sad rogue, a nire hypocrite! Lastly, it
is impossible to study the bust at Stratford and think of
542 SIIAKSPEAllE'S SONNETS.
it as the image of a melancholy man. It is the dropped
mask of a liappy-wise spirit, whose pleasantry was so in-
grained that the mask keeps on smiling after death in
merry memory of a smiling soul. Looking on this Bust,
we feel that he must have been a glorious jolly ])ersonage,
in whom tlie national spirit was most Englishly embodied,
just as ]iis Works most fully embody the national s])irit.
Thus all tlie evidence of personal testimony, of work, of
character, and disposition is arrayed against this modern
inference that is as false as the sands on which it was
founded, and we may now let it pass away for ever.
The sadness of the early sonnets is on behalf of the
friend for whom he utters so many complaints against
unkindly Fortune.
The true personal apphcation of the latter sonnets is,
not that Shakspeare was gloomy and guilty enough to
write them for himself, but that he had the exuberant
jollit}^ the lax gaiety to write them for the young gallant,
Herbert.
There is one thini»" in tlie sonnets that brinn;s the man
very closely houK^ to me. This is his glancing in the
glass at times to compare his age and looks with those of
his young friend. No doubt he purposely gives the Earl
the full difference in opposing Autumn with April, but I
fancy there was considerable truth in it. So great is my
belief in the Poet's truth to Nature that I feel he had a
rough skin and was jocose on the subject — stroking his
chin in a hmnorous way, as who should say look at my
old wreath er-beaten brown face — ' my glass shows me
myself indeed, beaten and chapped with tanned anti-
quity!' And, if as an actor, he kept the chin shaved
and tlie beard grew strong and stubby, it would add to
the roughness. There seems to be a look of this in the
Droeshout Etching. The 73rd sonnet, which is very
pathetic, would lead us to suspect that the Poet not only
thought himself old-looking, but that he also felt prema-
rEUSOXAI. TIIAITS. o43
turely aged before he left London for liis own native air.
He had done so much work, and drawn ^^o niucli on liis
own hfe ; such ardours had gone out of liini. lie could
not have been forty years old, and yet the sonnet paints
the black bars of the coming night as falling across his
early sunset patli. It is very touching, if we think of it
as pourtraying our own Shakspeare : —
' The 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, ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest 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 in rest ;
In me thou seest the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of my youth doth lie
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.'
This has a touch of the yellowish tinge that will come
over the literary vision at times, when a bit of the best
Avork has been lately done. But, as I have before said,
the tone is as much that of illness as of age. He must
liave recovered health again, and his life put forth a new
leaf in its Stratford privacy, for he grew some of his
lustiest evergreens there ; did some of his best work,
briizht Avith health, and created two of his most loveablc
women, ' Imogen ' and ' Perdita,' full of English sweet-
ness to the core, with the pure breath of his country life
breathing fragrantly through them.
From his dramas we may obtain some traits of person-
ality, and a few facts of Shaks])eare's own life. It is very
interesting to watch the growth of his mind. We can get
no right estimate of the man unless we do this, and see how
he worked, and how he waxed in energy and capacity ;
how, as the stream of his life flowed on, the poetry grows
544 SIIAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
clearer and is purified by time and travel. Shakspeare
did not come into the world ready-made, nor bringing
his poetry ready written. Nor does his supereminence
he in some unknown, abnormal power of creating poetry
and addino- it to life and nature. He was one of the
greatest Eeahsts that ever wrote. He got his poetry out
of life, and had to begin at the beginning. He must have
converted everything into force for that rare motion of
inner life which made the outer music of his poetry. Of
course he had a most marvellous illumination of the
seeing eye, a power unparagoned for absorbing know-
ledge, a nature rich and vital for all the hard actualities
of fact to unfold in and put forth their lovehest flower ; a
large and loving spirit that would brood over the meanest
materials until the influence had passed hito them and
transfigured them past our finding out. And yet this
man of magnificent resources, so lavish of his wealth,
must have been a very miser in hoarding up the least
fruits of life and experience. All life was picture and all
persons portraiture to him ; every liint would be full of
meaning, if not to-day, then he would garner it up for
seed in its season. Dull bits of fact would lie by in the
grub until he could warm them into life and give them
wings. When he wrote — ' Let us cast away nothing, for
we may live to have need of such a verse,' he gave ex-
pression to a personal trait.
He relies on reality as the engineer on the rock, but
his cunning in transforming matter into spirit is alike
subtle with his art of vanishing from view in his own
person. When the infinite spaces of his thought are
spanned and the scaflblding disappears as though all fairy
world had lent a hand to the labour, and the creation is
finished like an air-hung work of wonder, it is almost as
dlfiicult to connect it with the real earth whereon he
built as it would l)e to find the bases of the rainbow. The
way in wliich he creates for immortahty out of the
EARI.Y WORK. 045
veriest dust of the earth, deals divinely witli things most
grossly mortal, and conjures the loftiest su!)limities from
the homehest realities, is one of the great Sliakspearian
secrets. As a slight example, see the hues in Macbeth —
' The wine of life is drawu, and the mere lees
Is left this vault to hrag of I'
Here are Earth and Heaven, Wine-cellar and the concave
Vast wedded in a word, with one fusing flash of his
imaii:ination ! But who thinks or dares to think of the
idea, as first conceived, in the august presence of its
after-shape ?
Then, the early works are full of puns and comparisons,
and overrun with imagery. Here he plays more with
the shadows of things, and does not reach the utmost
reality. He played with words, says Eobert Gould, in
his satire of the 'Playhouse,' to 'please a quibbhng age.'
And we feel that he despised himself for doing so. He
had no heart in it. The clown, in ' Twelfth Night,' says
' a sentence is but a Cheveril glove to a good vdt ; how
quick the wrong side maybe turned outward!' The
reply of Viola shows that Shakspeare felt the habit of
punning degrading, and that all singleness of language is
lost in this aiming at witty double meaning : ' Nay, that's
certain ; they that dally nicely with words, may quickly
make them wanton.' No bitterer comment was ever
made on the confirmed habit of jesting with meanings
and playing with words than he himself supplies m one
of his early plays, ' Love's Labour's Lost,' where ' my Lord
Biron ' is told to practise his witticisms for twelve months
upon the sick and dying in an hospital, and make the
'pained impotent to smile.'
The early plays contain the ' spring and foison ' of
Shakspeare's poetic life, overrunning with leafy richness
and the luxuriant undergrowth of his poetry. And how
the stature and strength of his work increases year by
N N
540 SHAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
year, striking root yet deeper and broader in Englisli
earth, but lifting up its stately branches into airy regions.
What a growth from the ' Two Gentlemen of Verona '
to ' Lear ; ' from the slender saphng to the tree whose
girth we may not span ! We can see how his expression
chastens and grows subUme with simplicity ; rich with the
most precious plainness of speech. We may see also in
his early plays what were his personal relations to the
England of that memorable time which helped to mould
him : see how the war stirred his nature to its roots, and
made them clasp England with all tlieir fibres : we may
see how he fought the Spaniard in feeling, and helped to
shatter their armadas. We learn how these things made
him turn to his country's history, and pourtray its past
and exalt its heroes in the eyes of Englishmen. How
often does he show them the curse of civil strife, and read
them the lesson that England is safe so long as she is
united ! Thus he lets us know how true an Englishman
he was ; how full of patriotic fire and communicative
warmth.
The rest of the world are welcome to prove him a
cosmopolitan ; but we know where his nationality lies.
He was a dear lover of this dear land of ours. He
loved her homely face, and took to his heart her 'tight
little ' form, that is so embraceable ! He loved her
tender glory of green grass, her grey skies, her miles on
miles of apple-bloom in spring time, her valleys brim-full
of the rich harvest-gold in autumn ; her leafy lanes and
' field-paths, and lazy, loitermg river-reaches ; her hamlets
nestling in the quiet heart of rural hfe ', her scarred old
Gothic towers and mellow red-brick chimneys with their
Tudor twist, and white cottages peeping through the
roses and honeysuckles. We know how he loved his
own native woods and wild flowers, the daisy, the prim-
rose, the wild honeysuckle, the cowslip, and most of all,
the violet. This was his darhng of our field flowers.
HIS PATRIOTISM, r>47
And most lovingly has lie distilled or expressed the spirit
of the violet into one of his sweetest women, and called hv.v
Viola ! His favourite birds also are the common homely
Enfrlish sinfrino; birds, the lark and ni<rlitin2;ale, the
cuckoo and blackbird that sang to Shakspeare in his
childhood and still sing to-day in the pleasant woods of
Warwickshire. He loved all that we call and })rize as
' so English.' He loved the heroes whom he saw round
him in eveiy-day hfe, the hardy, bronzed mariners that
he saw go sailing 'Westward, Ho :' Indeed, the mention
of England's name offers one of our best opportunities for
a personal recognition ; when an English thought has
struck him, how he brands the ' mark of the hon ' on his
lines !
There are times when he quite overruns the speech of
a character with the fulness of his own Enghsh feeling.
In one or two instances this is very striking ; for example,
in that speech of old Gaunt's in 'Eichard H.,' at the
name of England the writer is off, and cannot stop. His
own young blood leaps along the shrunken veins of grave
and aged Gaunt ; Shakspeare's own heart throbs througli
the whole speech ; the clramatic mask grows transparent
with the light of his own kindled face, and you know it
is Shakspeare's own features behind ; his own voice that
is speaking. A fact that he had forgotten for the
moment, because Nature was sometimes too strong for
his earlier art. Again, we have but to read the speech
of King Harry V., on the night, or rather the dawn,
of Agincourt, to feel how keen w-as the thrill of Shak-
speare's proud patriotism. Harry was a hero after our
Poet's own English heart, and he takes great delight in
such a character. His thoughts grow proud and jolly ;
his eyes fdl, his soul overflow's, and there is a riot of life
which takes a large number of lines to quell! That
' little touch of Harry in the night ' gives us a flash of
Shakspeare in the light.
N N 2
548 SHAKSPEARES SONNETS.
As he gets older and more perfect in his way of
workiuo- either his unconsciousness of self increases or
else he crows more cunning in his concealment.
He was a sturdy out-spoken Englishman, too. See the
character he draws of Henry VIH. ; and hear him plead
the cause of Catlierine, when thinking that the King's
daughter Elizabetli was to be one of the listeners, and
knowing that it was her mother who had taken the poor
Queen's place whilst it was yet warm with her late presence.
He had an eye very keenly alive to the least movement
of the national life. When the new map of England is
published he takes immediate note of it. Maria, in
' Twelfth Night,' says, ' He does smile his face into more
lines than are in the new map with the augmentation of
the Indies^ And when the two crowns of England and
Scotland are united in the person of James, Shakspeare
alters the old doggrel, —
' Fi, fo ! fum !
I smell the blood of an Englishman,'
into
' I smell the blood of a British man.' ^
for which the Scotch take him closer to heart, and give
him an additional hug !
He was undoubtedly monarchical in feeling, and had
great loyalty to what we call the Constitution. But he
looked more to the joints of the armour of our national
life than to any special piece of it. He was a great
upholder of the country's honour, and seems to have sus-
pected that the trading classes might not prove the truest
bearers of the banner. He may have foreseen the modern
tendency to a dry-rot in tlie commercial spirit. Wliat
he thought of the mob we may read in Jack Cade's
rising. He treats it rather like Marshal Lobau with his
fire-engine. He has especial delight in all the nobilities
1 His friend the Earl of Southampton had been one of the Commissioners
appointed in 1G03 for an Union betwixt England and Scotland.
mS CHRISTIAN CHARITY. 649
of nature and tlie ]:)ersonal influence of aristocracy. He
may not liave been what is called a ' professing ' Chris-
tian, but lie was a most practical one. He had the root
of the matter in him. We miglit aj)i)ly to him his own
descri])tion of Benedick — 'The man doth fear God,
howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will
make.'
Coleridge says rightly there is not one really vicious
passage in all Shakspeare. There are coarse things, for
the customs and lano-uaf^e of the time were coarse. But
there is nothing; rotten at the root, nothinj^ insidious in
the suixg-estion. Vice never walks abroad in the mental
twilight wearing the garb of virtue. You hear the voices
of Wrong and Eight, Truth and Error in his works, but
there is no confusion of tongues for the confounding of
the sense. He has no softness for sentimental sinners,
lets down no drawbridge at the last moment to help them
over the dark gulf. His lines are drawn as sharply as
the scriptural decree that the tree shall lie where it falls.
He has infinite pity for the suffering and strugghng and
wounded by the way. The most powerful and pathetic
pleadings on behalf of Christian charity out of the New
Testament have been spoken by Shakspeare. He takes
to his large, warm heart much that the world usually casts
out to perish in the cold. There is nothing too poor or
too mean to be embraced within the circle of his sym-
pathies. He sees the germ of good in that which looks
all evil to the careless passers-by, for his eyes are large
with love and have its ' precious seeing.' If there be only
the least little redeeming touch in the most abandoned cha-
racter he is sure to point it out ; he recognises the slightest
glimpse of the Divine Image in the rudest human clay-
cast. If there is one word to be said for some poor,
helpless wretch, he urges it to arrest the harsh judgment
and waken a kindly thought. If there be but one sohtary
spark of virtue in the dark heart of the world's worst
550 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
outcast, he reveals it with such a sigh of pity as seems
to kindle it into larger hfe. He must have been a
good man to have mirrored this round of human life so
ftiitlifully and yet so kindly. After all, it is the best
hearts that are the truest muTors even of this world,
for it is God's world, bad as we have managed to
make it. The worst men give forth an image distorted
into the devil's likeness. Shakspeare does not believe
that it is the devil's world. In spite of the many sad and
sorry sights that we have to look on, with human soids
so often weltering in the mire, and ApoUyon driving over
them with the wheels of his triumphal car, he knows that
the devil is not going to win the final victory.
What a large and all-including kindliness of soul he has !
His charity is like the sun that smiles on the just and the
luijust. His luminous smile falls on the weed as well as
the flower, the thistle as well as the palm-tree, the poor
hovel as well as the palace-home. It lights the jewels of
tlie hero's crown, and it lets the veriest motes dance in its
sunbeams. He does not Hy into a passion with stupidity,
or ignorance, or pretention. He knows how large a part
these play in the natural scheme of things ; that they are
fathers of famihes and respectable householders, and get
represented in parliament. He looks on many sights
which put the little ardent folk out of temper with his
calm, slow, wise smile, as though he would say, ' If God
can put up with all these queer creatures and ignoramuses,
and simulations of human beings in his scheme of creation,
there is no reason why I should fume and fret, or denounce
them, or argue with them. Pie finds room for them aU
in his plan ; I'll make a place for them in mine.' And no
botanist ever culled his rarest specimens more lovingly
than Shakspeare his samples of what some might Pharisai-
cally call ' God's own unaccountables.' How he listens
to the long-winded garndousness of the ignorant, whether
smiple or knowing. Pearls might be dropping from its
IITS r.AROE TOLERATION. 551
lips, or about to drop from tliem. lie does not say let no
dog bark, or donkey bray in my presence. Contrariwise,
he likes to hear what they have to say for themselves,
draws them out, and sometimes fools them t(j the top of
their bent. It is as though he tliought Nature had her
precious secrets hidden here as elsewhere, and with suffi-
cient patience we should find it all out, if we only watched
and waited impartially. See the generous encouragement
he gives to Dogberry ! How he draws him out, and makes
much of him. You would say he was ' enamoured of an
ass.' But perhaps the glory of all his large toleration
shines out in his treatment of that 'sweet bully' Bottom.
Observe how he heaps the choicest gifts and showers the
rarest freaks of Fortune around that ass's head. All the
wonders of fairy-land are revealed, all that is most ex-
quisitely dainty and sweet in poetry is scattered about his
feet. Airy spirits of the most delicate loveliness are his
ministers. The Queen of Fairy is in love with him. He
is told how beautiful he is in person, how angehc is his
voice. And Bottom accepts it all with the most sublime
stolidity of conceit. There is a self-possession of ignor-
ance that Shakspeare himself could not upset, although
he seems to delight in seeing how far it could go. Nick
Bottom has no start of surprise, no misgiving of sensitive-
ness, no gush of gratitude, no burst of praise. He is as
calm in his Ass-head as Jove in his Godhead. Shak-
speare knew how often blind Foitune will play the part
of Titania, and lavish all her treasures and graces on some
poor conceited fool, and feed him with the honey-bag of
the bee, and fan him with the wings of butterliies, and
light him to bed with glow-worm lamps, and the Ass
will still be true to his nature, and require his ' peck of
provender.'
If ever old Time had a conqueror in this world, or
found a match in mortal mind, it is in William Shakspeare;
and it is exceedingly interesting to notice what a sense
552 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS,
our Poet has of the power of his grim antagonist. He
appears to watch him at his work, he measures his prowess,
lie taunts him, and flinos hard names at him. Allied to
this feeling of Shakspeare's is a profound sense of mortality.
Not only has he the natural shrinking of ripe physical life
from the cold clutch of the bony skeleton, and the wormy
embrace of the grave, but he has been accused of a ten-
dency to consider the secrets of the grave and of decay
' too curiously ; ' to moralize over a mouldering bone until
he is compelled to fling it down with the revulsion of
feeling. This is remarkable in so healthy a man. I can-
not help coupling with it the fact that Shakspeare was
born in the 'year of the plague' at Stratford : he must,
therefore, have sucked in a strange influence with his
mother's milk — a kuid of mysterious sense of death, and
danger, and pestilence. And, no doubt, the tales of terror
which would be told to the child would create an unde-
linable horror in his mind — ' Things,' as he says, ' that to
hear them told have made me tremble.' Besides which,
the heap of bones that was piled so high in the charnel-
house at Stratford would be sure to draw the boy to look
in upon it with a fearful fascination. Some such ghostly
memory seems to haunt him at times when he stands
near the grave or speaks of the charnel. This reaches its
climax in those hues written for his tombstone, which lines
Avere possibly written on account of their local application.
' Grood friend, for Jesu's sake forbear
To dig the dust enclosed here :
Blest be the man that spares these stones.
And curst be he that moves my bones.'
This, however, which does not amount to a tendency, has
been vastly exaggerated by the personal theory of the
sonnets. After all, it is Hamlet who discourses in the
graveyard, not Shakspeare.
We may also find in our Poet an appalling sense of
Ills SENSE OF THE SUPERNATURAL. 5o3
tlie supernatural, the nearness of the spirit world, and
its power to break in on the world of flesh when
nature prays for help, or darkly conspires to let it in !
Ills working province was the world of human life.
His was the ' sphere of humanity ; ' tlie real work-a-day
world. As a dramatist he had to give that life a
])alpable embodiment in flesh and blood, and endow
it with speech and action. But he knew that human
nature was made of spirit as well as flesh, and that it is
imder the ' skiey influences.' What an illustration of this
is the teaching of Eomeo's life and death ! It is a perfect
dramatising of St. Paul's saying, ' the good which I would,
I do not ! and the evil which I would not, that I do,'
When he is the cause of his friend Mercutio's death, he
' thought all for the best ; ' he meant well, and such is the
end of our well-meaning so often !
It seems to me that one great reason why ' Hamlet '
will always remain so perplexing a study to those who
seek to divine Shakspeare's intentions, is because his
characters are so much a part of nature as to include the
supernatural ; and, in this case, whatsoever ' Hamlet' pro-
poses, Shakspeare shows us it is Fate, as we say, which
disposes. It is not Hamlet who finds the solution of his
problem of life and death : it is Fate that catches him up
in its surer grasp and swifter execution, so that when the
final crash comes, Hamlet is one of the most weak and
helpless victims in the higher hands. Divine laws over-
ride our human wishes. The innocent suffer alike with
the guilty, and things do not come about as they were
forecast. Thus it is in life ! And so it is in Shakspeare.
Tliis makes the tragedy. He knew that there was a
Divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them as we may.
He feels that this human hfe is all very wonderful in its
play of passions, its pleasures and its pains, with all their
' crossings and conflicting lights and shadows, and he does
what he can to shed a httle light on the vast mystery.
554 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
But he feels how small is this httle island of our human
life, set in the surrounding ocean of eternity, and how
limited is the light tliat he can throw upon it and upon
the darkness that hems us in ! He knows there is an
imfathomable sea where Ave can find no footing. We
must swim if we are to keep up at all. In common with
tlie rest of tlie universe, we have to repose upon unseen
foundations. We cannot ignore the spirit-world, and if
we do not get Jielp from it, we are pretty sure to get
hindrance. For example, in ' Macbeth,' Shakspeare shows
us that looking, longing, irresolute mood of mind, which
is the Devil's especial delight, because with such he is
quite sure of a nibble for his bait. Here we have the
perfect type of the wavering, undecided soul that will
peer, very cautiously of course, over the perilous precipice
in such a way, that the Weird Sisters are evoked from the
shadowy gulf below, and in sucli a tempting, balancing
attitude, that it is much more easy for the Devil to steal
behind and topple the peering spirit over. Nor did he
create and people his world of spirits by merely collecting
the shreds and patches of tradition, but from the vita-
lizing life of his own belief ; the faith that is an effluent
shaping power.
The more we study the works of Shakspeare, the more
we shall feel how natural piety made a large part of the
cheerful sunshine that smiles out in his philosophy of Hfe.
And in great emergencies we may see the flash of a re-
ligious feeling large enough for life, and deep enough for
death. How frank and bold, for example, is that expres-
sion of trust in the Divine when Banquo, encompassed by
dangers, exclaims —
' In the great hand of God 1 stand ! '
And when the fatal presentiment, wliich Shakspeare so
often recognises, comes over Hamlet, *what does he say ?
' Thou knowest not Horatio, how iU all is here about my
HIS NATURAL I'lETY. 055
heart : bat there is a special Providence even in tlie fall
of a sparrow.' What a world of meaning there is in the
confession of that rogue ' Autolycus' — giving us his view
of spiritual matters ! — ' as for the life to come, I sleej) out
the thouglit of it.' Frequent and fervent is the appeal to
tlie world hereafter, that is to make the 'odds' of this
' all even,' and to Ilim who is the 'top of justice,' and his
' eternal justicers.' lleverence, he calls ' that Angel of
tlie world.' How tender, gracious, reverential, grows his
language in Hamlet at the mention of our Saviour's birth ;
enough to show that he had the true flavour of that quaint
Elizabethan piety and touching sense of the human per-
sonahty of our Saviour, which led Dekkar to describe him
as the ' first true gentleman that ever breathed,' and old
Sylvanus Morgan to give coat armour to * gentleman
Jesus,' as he called him in his ' Sphere of Gentry.' ^
Let us turn once more to that noble somiet (146), in
which he gives the gay young gallant the solemn address
to his soul, and which really is the writer's own comment
on the subject, embodying the essence of a thousand ser-
mons in a work only meant for amusement, conveying, at
the same time, the loftiest rebuke to those who have in-
sulted the great spirit with their gross sense.
* Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth —
My sinful earth these rebel powers array —
Why dost thou pine witliin and suffer dearth ;
Paintinof thy outward walls so costly gay ?
' Morgan, however, is indebted to Dame Juliana Berners for the expres-
sion. In her Treatise on Coat Amiour she calls the ' gentyl Jesus Cryst '
a 'gentleman of his mother's belialf.' According to this authority, ' Seth,'
the son of Adam, was a gentleman born, ' through his Father's and Mother's
blessing,' which is a departure from the code of the ' Book of Honour '
(loOO, quarto), wherein a Gentleman means one who has descended from
three degrees of (ientr\', both on the Father's and ^Mother's side. Sliak-
speare has his joke on this subject. There is an allusion in 'King Lear' to
a * Yeoman who has a Gentleman to his son,' almost unintelligible except on
personal grounds ; and another in the * Winter's Tale,' where the Clown says
he wa-5 'a Gentleman before his father.' It looks as though Shakspeare did
5oG SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?'
Sliall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge ? Is this the body's end ?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss.
And let that pine to aggravate thy store ;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross ;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
So shalt thou feed on Death that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.' '
But, it is not in hints and allusions like these that I
would seek for evidence of Shakspeare's rehgious feehiig,
or we might multiply them, so much as in his dumb
appeal to such feelings as are left vibrating when some
great tragedy of his is over. It plainly appears to me
that amidst all the storms of life in which humanity may
be wrecked, the horror of great darkness in which the
powers of evil prevail, the misery and madness and mid-
night homelessness of poor, witless, white-headed old
Lear, with his blindness of trust and broken-heartedness
of love, Shakspeare knows right well where there is peace
beyond the tempest. Strange glimpses lighten through
the rents of ruin. He sees the waves roll on, and life
buffeted and tossed with the turmoil, and all the agony of
sinking hearts and outstretched hands ; but he also sees
the unmoving Eternity, and the 'so long impossible' rest.
He knows well enough where the compensations lie for
the great dumb love of Cordelia, which could not get
expression in life. He knew of aU the love in the hearts
of father and child, which would take an eternity to fully
unfold ; and where could he pillow it with more infinite
suggestiveness than beside the grave ? It is for us to see
refer to his 'beiiig a Gentleman on the Mother's side, whereas his Father was
only a Franklin. Very possibly this was a standing joke in the Shakspeare
family.
' 'Neither can thoy die any more. For Death, the last enemy, is
destroyed.'
FINAL APPEAL OF HIS TRAGEDY. 557
what is dimly visible through that dark window of the
other world ! He has said his say — let the rest be told
in silence ! And the soul must be dull indeed whose
sight has not been purged and feeling purified for the
loftier vision on the spiritual stage. Our interest does
not cease when the drama is ended. ' To be continued '
is plainly written at the close of its fifth act. The heart-
ache which he has given us demands and draws the other
world near for very pity and comfort. You cannot help
looking up from amid the shadows of the dark valley to
where the lii>lit is breakinoj overhead, and feel a touch of
those immortal relationships which live beyond the
human. Let no one suppose that Shakspeare's genius,
being of such stature as it was, could not rise up and
'take the morning' that Hes beyond this night of time
where bewildered souls so often get beclouded. The fixed
calm of his eye, and the patient smile almost hovering
about his lips, with which he is able to contemplate the
workings of error and evil, and the victories of adverse
fate, imply his trust in that revelation which has called in
the New World of Christianity to redress the wrong mea-
sures and false balances of the Old. Thus all the action
of his tragedy, though confined to human life and this
round of time, has a reacting and em^iching influence
from the touch of other worlds. The sea of life and its
tides of passion, moved to the depths, do not merely
throw two dead bodies on the shore ; there are also
soids at rest, with a radiance on the ripple such as makes
the dark deeps beautifid. All this is natural result. It
was not Shakspeare's place as a writer of tragedj- to
frighten us and then say something for our comfort. lie
points no moral, winds up with no sermon. It is his
work to create interest, to quicken sympathy and enlarge
Hfe ; the rest follows. He knew how much Nature wiU
work for her favourites, and he was her own best
favourite, so he has only to set her well at work and
558 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
quietly steal away, leaving Nature to finish. In this re-
spect his negative power is as great and surprising as the
positive capacity : what he does not do is often as
remarkable and effective as what he does !
Great tragedy works some of its deepest effects
dumbly. It gives us a more significant version of that
sentiment —
' Silence in love bewrays more woe
Than words tho' ne'er so witty ;
A beggar that is dumb, you know,
May challenge double pity.'
So is it with the final appeal of Shakspeare's ; and though
it leaves you gazing with streaming eyes on those two
dead lovers in the dim vault at Verona, yet has he suc-
ceeded in creating such a swelling spirit within you, put
such a breath of the eternal into your sad sigli that the
soul mounts into majesty and reigns and rules high above
the region of storms, where the spirits of those immortal
lovers shaU live their married life and part no more.
He was indeed the 'priest to all time of the wonder
and bloom of the world which he saw with his eyes and
was glad.' By all the forces of inner nature and outer
circumstance he was broadened to embrace human life
rather than narrowed to strike up keenly into the region
of abstract speculation. The fruit himself of a ripe time,
in him general humanity reaches its ripeness. 'Eipe-
ness is all,' he says, in ' Lear,' and in a sense this ripeness
was all to him ; he leaves the fruit where it falls. But,
he knew, none better, that the ripeness contained the seed
of life hereafter ; and ' ripeness ' with him means readi-
ness. He was the very spirit of the sense personified, but
no positive philosopher who is put out by a Providence
— the incalculable force that for ever expands dead law
with breathing life ! And he always makes room for
this in his dramatic arrangements ; catches the awful
Ills RETIREMENT FROM THE STAGE. 559
Avliispcr of the Iiifiiiito ; is conscious of its weird watching
eyes, and its liorizon of mystery. If we cannot get at tlie
Man Shakspeare then, we can get at the Philosoplier, and
tliis was just the most natural of philoso[)liers ; the spirit
of the man shines through all his philosopliy. It is a
folly to talk al^out tlie little we know of Shakspeare,
wlien with a vitalizing spirit of research we might learn
so much !
It is pleasant to think of our great Poet so amply reap-
ing the fruits of his industry and prudence early in hfe, and
spending his calm latter days in the old home of his boy-
hood wliich he had left a-foot and come back to in the
saddle. The date of his retirement from London cannot
be determined. I am decidedly of opinion that it was
before the publication of the sonnets, in 1609, and other
circumstances seem to indicate that he was living at Strat-
ford, in 1G08, in the August of which year he sued
Addenbroke ; on the Gth of September, his Mother was
buried ; and, on the 16th of October, he w^as sponsor at
the baptism of Henry Walker's son. Here, again, the
Southampton letter agrees exactly with the other evi-
dence in pointing out the year 1608 as the time at which
the Poet finally ceased to be an actor.
He had the feeling, inexpressibly strong with English-
men, for owning a bit of this dear land of ours and hving in
one's own house ; paying rent to no man. We know how
he clung to his native place all througli his London hfe,
strenixtheninix his rootasje there all the while. We learn
how he went back once a year to the field-flowers of
his childhood to hear in the leaves the whispers of
Long-Ago and ' get some green ' — as Chaucer says —
where the overflowing treasure of youth had, dew-like,
given its glory to the gi'ass, its freshness to the flower,
and climb the liills up which the boy had rmi, and loiter
along the lanes where he had courted his wife as they
two went slowly on the way to Shottciy, and the boy
5G0 SI-LUvSPEARE'S SOXXETS.
tliouglit Anne Hathaway very fair whilst hngering in the
tender twilight, and the honeysuckles smelled sweet in
the dusk, and the star of love shone and shook with
tremulous splendour, and Wilhe's arm was round her,
and in their eyes would glisten the dews of that most
balmy time.
We might fancy, too, that on the stage, when he was
playing some comparatively silent part, his heart would
steal away and the audience melt from before his face, as he
wandered back to where the reeds were sighing by Avon
stream, and the Nightingale was singing in the Wier-brake
just below Stratford Churcli, and the fond fatherly heart
took another look at the grave of little Hamnet — patting it,
as it were, ^vitli an affectionate '■Come to you, little one^ by
and by,' and the play was like an unsubstantial pageant
faded in the presence of that scenery of his soul.
Only we know what a practical fellow he was, and if
any such thought came into his mind it would be put
back with a ' lie thou there, Sweetheart,' and he would
have addressed himself more sturdily than ever to the
business in hand.
At last he had come back to hve and write ; die and
be buried at home. He had returned to the old place
laden with honours and bearing his sheaves with him ;
wearing the cro^vn invisible to most of his neighbours,
but having also such possessions as they could appreciate.
They looked up to him now, for the son of poor John
Shakspeare, the despised deer-stealer and player, had
become a most respectable man, able to spend 500/. or
so a year amongst them. He could sit under his own
vine, and watch the ongoings of country life whilst
waiting for the sunset of his own ; nestle in the bosom of
his own family, walk forth in his own fields, plant his
mulberry-tree, compose several of his noblest dramas, and
ripen for his rest in the place where he had climbed for
birds'-nests, and, as they say, poached for deer by moon-
FELLOW TOWNSMEN. •'''>!
light. I think ha must have enjoyed it all vastlj^ lie
entered into local plans, and astonished his fellow-towns-
men by his business habits. And they would hkc
him too, if only because he was so practical by habit, so
English in feeling. We know that he fought on their
side in resisting an encroachment upon Welcomb Com-
mon. He 'could not bear the enclosing of Welcomlj,'
he said. We feel, however, that as he moved amongst
these honest, unsuspecting folk, with so grave and douce
a fiice, he must have had internal ticklings at times, and
quite enough to do to keep quiet those sprites of mirth
and mischief lurkinj^ in the corners of his mouth and in
the twinlvle of his eyes as he thought how much ca]:)ital
he had made out of them, and how he had taken their
traits of character to market, and turned them into the
very money to which his fellow-townsmen were so
respectfid now.
The few fiicts that we get of Shakspeare's life at Strat-
ford are very homely, and one or two of his footprints
there are very earthy ; but they tell us it was the foot of
a sturdy, upright, matter-of-fact Englishman, such as will
find a firm standing-place even in the dirt, and it corre-
sponds to the bust in the Church at Stratford. Both
represent, though coarsely, that yeoman side of liis natiu'e
which would be most visible in his everyday deaUngs
with men. For example, we learn that in August, 1608,
he brought an action against John Addenbroke for the
recovery of a debt. The verdict was in his favour, but
the defendant had no effects. Shakspeare then proceeded
against Thomas Horneby, who had been bail for Adden-
broke. We cannot judge of the humanity of the case.
The law says the Poet was right. But, by this we may infer
that Shakspeare had learned to look on the world in tt)o
practical a way to stand any nonsense. He woidd be
abused, no doubt, for making anybody cash up that owed
him money. There would be people who had come to
562 SHAKSPEARE'S SOXA'ETS.
argiie that a player had no prescriptive or natural right to
be prudent and thrifty, or exact in money transactions.
Shakspeare thought differently. He had to deal with
many coarse and pitiful facts of human life ; and this he
had learned to do in a strong, effectual way. There
would be a good deal of coarse, honest prose even in
Shakspeare, but no sham poetry of false sentimentality.
What he had made up his mind to do, he would do
thoroughly. He was a man of business, and why should
he not apply their own laws to the Medes and Persians of
money ?
We get a fact curiously illustrative of Shakspeare's
domestic life from the Chamberlain's accounts of the year
1614 :— .
* Item, for one quart of sack, and one quart of clarett winne,
given to a preacher at the New Place, XXcZ.'
It has been suggested, that the Poet may have lent his
house for the occasion, as he himself could have had little
sympathy with a Puritan preacher. But it would be very
ungracious, not to say unflxir, to suppose that Shakspeare
lent his house for the entertainment, and took himself off
whilst the wine was drinking. This entry affords a most
interesting subject for conjecture. If we take it in another
aspect, is it not strange that the Puritan preacher should
have been located at the house of a player and playwright.^
Por this, I think, is one of the earliest, if not the first,
instances of such an entry. Possibly the connexion was
through Shaks]ieare's daughter, Susanna, who may have
lived at New Place. Her epitaph tells of her being ' wise
to salvation,' and a good Christian. I do not suppose that
the Poet took much personal interest in the matter, doc-
trinally. He was not the man to be lightly caught up and
his wits set waltzing by every or any circling cyclone that
might gyrate over a small tract of the national mind. But
he was the kindly Christian to opon jiis house to a man
I'LAVWKIGIIT AND I'lKlTAN". .'.•;.!
wJiom otliers of his local standing niiglit feel sliy of. It
is my belief however, that Shakspeare entertained the
preacher just for the fun of the thing; a great part of
the fun being the serious interest sliown hy liis good
daugliter, the best of it all being Susanna's consternation
when the Poet had drawn out the old Adam of the
Preacher's carnal man, with his own cliirrupiug canaiy
wine, and charming talk, and roguisli twinkle of wit, and
she was called upon to lend a hand in lielping to gather
up the fragments of her broken idol, by getting him off
to bed. For it is my settled conviction, that those two
quarts of wine and sack were not the only ones drank in
'New Place,' that niglit. If that Puritan were not one of
the sourest-blooded then going, we may conclude tliat lie
ripened in the sunny presence of his host ; and the godly
man never knew how much wine he had taken, if the
Corporation knew what they had to pay for. Shakspeare
must have had the very soul of hospitahty. He kept open
house and open heart for troops of friends, and loved to
enfranchise and set flying the ' dear prisoned spirits of the
impassioned grape ; ' many a time was his broad silver
and gilt bowl set steaming ; his smile of welcome beamed
like the sun throufrh mist ; liis laro-e heart welled with
humanity, and overflowed with good fellowship ; his talk
brightened the social circle with ripple after ripple of
radiant humour. And who can doubt that he was 'at
home ' to a friend of Mistress Hall ; sat in his own seat,
and presided at his own board and bowl ?
The tradition runs, that he caught liis death throudi
leaving his bed when ill, because some of his old fi-iends
and playfellows had called upon liim for a carouse. He
was quite unselfish enough for that; also too wise. The
probability is that he died very suddenly of a fever.
And what was this man like in person when ho walked
our world ? Thackeray has said that he would have liked
to have blaeked Sliakspeare's shoes, just to have looked
o o 2
5G4 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
up into his face. We would give a great deal for a genuine
carte of his visit here ! Next to looking on the face of
him who spake ' as never man spake,' one would like to
have seen the living Uneanients of him who wrote as
never man wrote ; who contained such huge intellectual
forces, and vast possibilities of being ; so prodigal a fulness
of life, and so Protean a plasticity of power, that he could
body forth in liis works, characters enough to people a
world, and render a fair representation of our race : the man
who made the Map of Humanity — he whose nature con-
tained the awful rage of such a tempest of power as that
in which the reason of old Lear is wrecked, on such a niglit
of storm — the pathos of Lear's poor loveable, fond Fool —
the grace of Ariel, and grotesqueness of Caliban — the chi-
valry of Henry Y., the wit of Mercutio, the sweetbriar
pungency of pretty peerless Perdita — and all those ' gra-
cious silences,' and low-voiced loveable Avomen, few of
whom we shall meet upon our pilgrimage here, but whicli
will be preserved, we may well imagine, as patterns to be
copied from in other lives to come, and yet untrodden
worlds, with tlie chance of our meeting them hereafter !
What a life it must have been, when all his characters
only reveal something of it in shadowy imagery, the pic-
tures on the walls ! What a Spirit ! When the ' Works of
Shakspeare ' are but the leafage and bloom it shed during
its season of time on earth ! if such be the foliage and
bloom til at have fallen from it, what must the fruit be
that still ripens on for eternity?
I take it that the Droeshout Etching roughly gives us
the Poet in his mid-manhood, and the Stratford Bust the
grander man, who created Lady Macbeth, Lear, Timon,
Othello, and Prospero, but smacking more of the jollity
of his country life. Mr. Dyce observes that the Bust ex-
hibits the Poet in the act of composition, and enjoying, as
it were, the richness of his own conceptions.
A happy remark in illustration of Shakspeare's smile
THE STRATFOrtD BUST. r/jo
was made by R. B. Ilaydon in a note of his, written
June IStli, 1828, in the album kept at Stratford Church.
Sj)eaking of the bust, he says, ' TJie foreliead is fine as
Ivapliael's or Bacon's, and the form of the nose and ex-
quisite refinement of the mouth, witli its amiable, genial
hilarity of wit and good nature, so characteristic, imidea/,
bearing truth in every curve, with a Utile bit of the teeth
showing at the moment of smiling, ichich must have been
often seen by those who had the Jiappiness to kiuno Shak-
speare, and must have been pointed out to the sculptor as
necessary to likeness ivhen he icas dead.'^
These two, the etching and bust, are sufficient for us to
re-create our Shakspeare as a man of sturdy build, with a
royal head and large lineaments. The hair of a warm
brown, and the beard somewhat more golden ; a man,
not made out of cheeseparings and heeltaps, but lull of
ripe life and cordial spirits and concentrated energy ; with
eyes to be felt by those whom they looked on ; such eyes
as see most thincjs without the head tm-nino; about ; a full
mouth, frank and brave, and richly humorous, capable
of giving free utterance to the laugh that would ring out
of the manly chest with all liis heart in it. But there are
lines in the face, and the forehead is not quite so smooth
as we have been accustomed to see in his portraits ; the
hair is waxing thinner; the beard growing grizzled. It is a
face that would look weather-beaten in the country, and
dusky in London ; being something coarse in the grain.
Not without bodily waste have the wear of life and work,
and the touch of time, shaped out the statue of such a
mighty soul ! And, on the whole, we imagine that liad it
been possible to have met our Poet in the streets of Strat-
ford, and looked on him as he lived, aged about fifty, we
should have been disappointed with his general appear-
ance. To us he is all immortal now ; and we shoidd be
looking for the halo, the garland, and the singing-robes
' Shak-<pearc Society's Paj)c>s, vol. ii. p. 10.
50G SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
about liim, but we should find a man who wore good
sound boots on his feet — not sandals — and a hat pnlled
rather tightly down over his magnificent brow. He would
not hold the lyre in his hand, and no wings would have
sprung at his shoulders. lie might be carrying samples
of corn, and meditating the price current, or congratula-
ting himseh" on having sold his shares before the Globe
Theatre was burned down. We must have attained a
most uncommon mastery of the sordid and fleshly facts of
human existence before we could possibly recognise our
Poet. If told that this was the man, he would not be our
Shakspeare. Him we should still have to seek in his
works.
His sudden death after so recent a record of his ' per-
fect health,' is quite in keeping with our idea of the man
Shakspeare, who was the very image of Life incarnate.
Such a death best embodies such an immortal spirit of
Hfe ; gives the finishing touch, and leaves us an image
in the mortal sphere, almost as consummate and un-
decaying as is the shape of immortality put on by him
in the realm of ]\iind. He went with his powers fuU-
summed ; his faculties in full lustre ; his fires unquenched,
his sympathies unsubdued. There was no returning tide
of an ebbing manhood, but the great ocean of his life,
that had gathered its wealth from a thousand springs, rose
to the perfect height, touched the complete circle, and
in its spacious fulness was still.
APPENDIX.
nr.o
APPENDIX A.
CUPID'S BRAND : TWO ODD SONNETS,
These two fragments or exercises have no necessary rela-
tion to either of the series of sonnets written for the Earl of
Southampton and William Herbert. I only include tliem
in my work, for the sake of making my reprint of Shak-
speare's Sonnets complete. These essays prove that the
Poet had nothing to do with making up the collection for
the Press. He w^oidd not have published a double treat-
ment of one idea hke this ; it could have no meaning,
save to show his cleverness. They, together witli the
' Lover's Lament,' also prove that extraneous things were
gathered into Thorpe's Book, by William Herbert.
Cupid laid by bis 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 borrowed 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 ' eyes Love's brand new-fired.
The Boy for trial needs would touch my breast ;
I, sick withal, the help o' the bath desired.
And thither hied a sad distempered guest.
But found no cure : The bath for my help Ues
Where Cupid got new tire— my Misties^s" eycf:.
670 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
The little Love-God lying once asleep,
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste lives to keep,
Came tripping by ; but in her maiden-hand
The faii-est votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warmed.
And so the General of hot desire
Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarmed :
This brand she quenched in a cool well by.
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual.
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased : but I, my Mistress' thrall.
Came there for cure, and this by that I prove —
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
(154.)
0/ I
APPENDIX B.
DKAYTON AND SHAKSPEARE.
It is understood that we have no contemporary notice of
the sonnets in MS., other than that of Meres. I cannot,
however, get rid of the idea that Drayton makes a re-
markable aUusion to them in some hnes of his Epistle on
' Poets and Poesy.' He has spoken of Shakspeare by
name as a Comedian in whom the player predominates ;
considers him as good a Poet in the smooth comic vein,
as any that liad trafficked with the stage in his time ;
reserving his fire for Marlowe and Ben Jonson. Later
on in the poem are these remarkable Hnes !
' For such whose poems be they ne'er so rare.
In private chambers that encloistered are,
Aud bu transcription daintily must go
As tho' the ivorld umvorthy were to know
Their rich composures, let those men who keep
These wondrous relics in their judgement deep,
And cry them up so let such pieces be
Spoke of by those that shall come after me.'
Questionless Shakspearc's sonnets were not the only
poetry then lianded about in MS. amongst private friends,
aud spoken of as being rich as it was rare. Still there is
something very special in this description. It does not
apply to any known poetry of the kind, nor liit the exact
circumstantial conchtions, a« it does to the sonnets of
572 SHAIvSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
Shakspeare. \Ye have nothing of the sort identified as the
sonnets are by the mention of Meres. In truth the hnes
seem to reply to Meres as consciously as does the title in
Thorpe's Book. Here are the ' rare poems ' for ' sugred son-
nets,' the 'private chambers' for 'private friends,' the friends
who keep the sonnets, for the friends among whom Shak-
speare's sonnets are, and the men who cry up these relics
in their judgement deejj ! The critic Meres for example.
Tliere is a feeling of annoyance expressed, a sneer at the
poetry that is too rare for the common hght of day, but
must go daintily in delicate handwriting, be kept en-
cloistered in a sumptuous privacy, read by the coloured
hght of friendship, and exalted so to those on the out-
side who are not permitted to judge if the report be
true. All this is far too exphcit to be general, and must
have had a particular aim. It smacks of a personal pique.
And the author of these lines, we infer, had some such
feeling towards Shakspeare, or there was a coolness be-
tween them, from the fact that Drayton printed an eulogy
of Shakspeare, as the Poet of Lucrece, in his ' Matilda the
Fair and Chaste Daughter of Lord Eobert Eitzwater,'
wdiich complimentary reference to
' Lucrece, of whom proud Eome hath boasted long,
Lately revived to live another age !'
was allowed to stand in the second edition of the poem
(L59G), but was omitted from aU subsequent editions.
What was the cause we know not. It may be that the
Poet was piqued at Shakspeare's not reciprocating his
praise. Whatever it was, some slight ill-feeling underlay
the act of Drayton, and if these lines do apply to Shak-
speare's Sonnets the expression is most apposite under the
circumstances.
Mr. Collier states that the Epistle appeared in print for
the first time in the year 1627, but tliat affords no clue to
the date at which it was written. Drayton had been pub-
DRAYTON'S SUPPOSED UEFEnENCE TO Tin:.M IN MS. .073
lisliing little ; he did not ])riiit anytliing betwixt his
* Legend of Great Cromwell' (1G07) and his ' Toly-
olbion (1613-22), as his poetry had no great success. It
may be that the publication of the sonnets in 1009 was
one cause why these hues were so long kept back. It was
a private Epistle, and the great probabiUty is that some
lines of it, early written, were afterwards added to when
the poem was published. I am unable to persuade myself
that the lines quoted do not refer to Shakspeare's Sonnets
in MS., or tliat tiiey were not written during the earlier
period of Shakspeare's career. Surely it w^ould have been
too absurd on the part of Michael Drayton, who had the
Poet's rage but mildly, to have merely praised Shakspeare
for his ' smooth comic vein ' if the hues had been composed
after 'Othello,' 'Lear,' and ' Macbeth' had been produced!
Shakspeare unquestionably borrowed from Drayton's
' Nymphidia ' to set forth his ' Queen Mab,' and enrich his
fairy world of the ' Midsummer Night's Dream.' Possibly
Drayton resented this.
It has been held difficult to determine which was the
borrower in another instance. In his poem of the ' Barons'
Wars ' (1603), Drayton has these Hues —
' Such one he was (of him we boldly sa}")
In whose rich soul all sovereign powers did suit,
In whom in peace the elements all lay
So mixt as none could sovereignty impute.
As all did govern yet all did obey :
His lively temper was so absolute.
That it seemed, when Heaven his model first began.
In him it showed perfection in a Man !'
Everyone remembers Antony's description of Brutus : —
* This was the noblest Eoman of them all !
His life was gentle : and the elements
So mixed in him that Nature miglit stand up
And say to all the world " Tkis was a Man.'" '
574 SHAKSPEARE'S SOXNETS.
This looks remarkably like one of Shakspeare's cases of
compression ; his stamp on another man's material.
I do not think 'Julius Cajsar' was written before 1608-9,
after ' Antony and Cleopatra,' and my impression is that
it was followed by ' Coriolanus ' about 1611. One reason
being that in the latter play Shakspeare replies to Davies'
lines, which appear not to have been published before
1610 or 1611. Be this as it may, it is noticeable that in a
later edition of his poem (1619) Drayton has returned to
his description, and retouched it into a still nearer like-
ness to that of Shakspeare. The last two lines are altered
thus : —
' As that it seemed when Nature him began,
She meant to shoio all that might he in man.'
It certainly has every appearance of Drayton's hues having
been first written, and of his returning to them, after Shak-
speare had taken the thought to reclaim his own, improved
by the added touch of the greater Poet, only there is at
least one more fact in the case to be taken into account.
In ' Hamlet ' Shakspeare liad first of all written of tlie
Prince's dead father —
' A combination and a form indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assm'ance of a Man.'
Thus the first appearance of the thouglit is, so far as the
evidence goes, in Shakspeare's work, but the after-con-
tention for it is curious.
675
APPENDIX C.
QUEEN ELIZABETH'S FAVOUPtlTES.
Two of the persons with whom my Theory is concerned
having been spoken of in this work as Favourites Apparent
to Queen Ehzabeth, I should like to ask, for tlie sake of
information, what we are to understand by the term ' Fa-
vourite ? ' What in the minds of our modern Elizabethans
does it mean ? What was that relationship to Elizabeth
with the one name and so many persons, including Leices-
ter, Hatton, Ealeigh, Essex, Southampton, Herbert, Carey
and others?
' I have learnt,' says De Quadra, the Spanish Ambas-
sador, writing in 1559, according to ]\Ir. Froude, 'I have
learnt also certain otlier tilings as to the terms on wliich
the Queen and Lord Eobert stand toward each other,
which I could not have believed.' These terms are written
in the next year to the Duchess of Parma thus : — ' The
Lord Eobert hath made himself master of the business of
the state and the person of the Queen ; ' and again lie
says, ' this woman is likely to go to sleep in the palace and
wake with her Lover in tlie Tower.'
In allusion to the current talk on the subject of the
Dudley amom- De Quadra also reports that the Queen
said she 'was afraid the Archduke Chnrlos miirht take
f)76 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
advantage of the scandal which could not foil to reach his
ears on his arrival in England, and should he not marry
her (in consequence) her honour might suffer.' Should
not innocence have remained proudly silent ? Why should
her Majesty have met scandal one half-way if she had not
previously advanced the other half?
Then, there is the letter of expostulation and advice,
addressed to Sir Christopher Hatton (Harin.MSS. 787. f.88)
by Sir Edward Dyer, printed in Davison's Poetical Ehap-
sody, by Nicholas Harris Nicolas (1826). In the year
1572 the dancing Chancellor had incurred the Queen's
displeasure, and this letter of Dyer's reads as though it
were a persuasion for Hatton not to follow a course pri-
vately spoken of, and he uses these extraordinary words :
' Though she do descend very much in her sex as a woman^
yet we may not forget her place, and the 7iature of it ; ' and
' For though in the beginning when her Majesty sought you
[after her good manner\ she did bear with rugged dealing
of yours, until she had what she fancied, yet now, after
satiety and fulness, it (such mode of action as Hatton had
contemplated) will rather hurt titan help you^ If this
letter be genuine my question regarding the meaning of
the word ' Favourite ' is answered. But, is it a forgery ?
Sir Edward Dyer appears to have been looked up to by
the Eoyal Favom^ites at times as a Mentor in certam pri-
vate matters pertaining to the Court. He had himself
hovered on the borderland, and once caught a glimpse of
the Delectable Mountains of Favouritism. Curiously
enough Essex writes to him when in a like fix and with a
similar feeling to Hatton — if Hatton really wrote the letter
which Dyer is presumed to answer. Essex writes to Dyer
July 31st, 1587. Two months before, he was first in favour;
Mr. Antliony Bagot writing to his father in May of the
same year, says: — 'When she (the Queen) is abroad,,
nobody near her but my Lord of Essex ; and at night
my Lord is at cards, or one game or another ^vith her,
MYSTERIOUS AT.LCSIONS. o77
that lie Cometh not to his own lo(.lirin<r till birds sinf' in
the morning.' ' But now he has liad a quarrel with the
Queen and is starting off for the siege of vSluys.
Essex tells Dyer that he has been ' this morning at
Winchester House ' to seek him, and he continues, ' /
would have given a thousand pounds 1o have had one
hours speech with you ; so much I would liearken to your
counsel^ and so greatly do I esteem your friendship.' -
The cause of quarrel is the Earl's rivalry with Ealeigh
in Elizabeth's favour. And Essex says, ' I did let her
know whether I had cause to disdain his competition of
love, or whether I could have comfort to give myself over
to the service of a Mistress that was in awe of such a man ! '
What can Eowland White have aimed at in his letter
of October 1st, 1595, when he writes
' My Lord of Essex kept his bed all yesterda3\ Ilis
favour continues quam diu se bene gesserit. Yet my
Lord of Southampton is a careful waiter here, and sede
vacante, doth receive favours at her Majesty's hands ; all
this without breach of amity between them ? '
One would also like to know what Avas the precise
meaning of Fidke Greville's proposition to make South-
ampton tlie Favourite in place of Essex, as related by
Wotton ?
And what are we to luiderstand from certain hints of
Eowland White, such as these : —
'It is nuittered that youufi Sir lien. Carey stands to be
a Favourite ; that his lady mother and my Lady Hunsdon
do further it and grace it.'
' Now that my Lord Herbert is gone he is veiy much
blamed for his cold and weak manner of pursuing her
Majesty's favour. Young Carey foll(^ws it with more
care, and boldness. Some jealousy T had that you weie
sent away because you should not be here to advise and
1 JJlif/iJiM MSS. • liodkum. Tiuiiur M^>). 7(-i. 4(J.
r p
578 SHAKSPK\RE'S SONNETS.
counsel liim (Herbert) in a matter of such greatness ; for
surely it would be to your good to see him a Favourite'
Again, we read in the Life of Edward Herbert, Lord
Cherbury, that when he first appeared at Court, he was
kneeling with the rest in the presence chamber, as the
Queen passed by to the Chapel at Whitehall, and, seeing
him, her Majesty stopped to ask who he was. On being
told that he was married, she, swearing her ordinary
oath, said, ' It is a pity he was married so young,' and
thereupon gave him her hand to kiss twice, both times
clapping him on the cheek. Various such illustrations of
character and conduct call to mind the coarse charge of
Cardinal Allen, in his 'Admonition to the people of
England,' which states that the Queen ' made her Coiu"t
as a trap to entangle in sin, and overthrow the younger
sort of the nobility and gentry of the land,' and make one
wonder more and more what feelino; it was that stirred
the virgin breast so strongly toward the comely young
courtiers, to the marriage of whom she had such insuper-
able objections.
It does not in the least help to fathom the secret of
this Favouriteship, through which Hatton, Leicester, and
Essex passed ; for which Southampton was proposed, and
to which honour Herbert might have aspired if he would,
but was out-distanced by ' young Carey,' to point to the
age of the Queen and the youth of the young nobles.
Many aged persons have had extremely youthful tastes.
It was a characteristic of the Tudor tooth. Besides the
Queen prided herself on not looking or growing old as
other women did. And according to unsuspected contem-
porary testimony, she must have borne her years very
youthfully. Jacob Eathgeb, wlio wrote the story of
Duke Frederick of Wirtemburgh, in ' England as seen by
Foreigners,' saw her Majesty in her 59th year, and, think-
ing; she was 67 at the time, he records that, although
she had borne the heavy burthen of ruhng a kingdom
QUEEX ELIZAI'.KTir. 579
for 34 years, she need not indeed — to judge both from
her person and appearance — yield much to a young girl of
sixteen !
My chief interest at present in the subject mooted, is in
relation to the Earl of Southampton and Elizabeth Ver-
non, and her Majesty's persistent opposition to then'
marriac^e. This led me to note other curious circum-
stances. Will some devout Elizabethan help me out of
my doubt and difficulty ? Will Mr. Kingsley, who, in his
paper on lialeigh, vouches with so much certitude for
the Queen's virtue ? Perhaps Mr. Froude will produce
a satisfiictory explanation? Meantime I am at liberty to
maintain that it is not necessary to possess a monkish
imao-ination not to be able to chime in with Fuller's em-
phatic cry of ' Virginissima,' where he calls Elizabeth
ivhen living, tlie first Maid on Earth, and when dead, the
second in heaven.
I* p -1
580 SIIAKSrEARE'S SONNETS.
APPENDIX D.
TITUS ANDRONICUS.
This drama has been ascribed to the pen of Shak-
speare on the authority of Meres and tlie first foho ; all
the other evidence tends to show that Meres made a mis-
take which was afterwards repeated.
I cannot imagine how anyone who has intimately felt
the soul of Shakspeare can possibly countenance such a
mistake. For tlie play has none of the Shakspearian
condensation of thought which, in liis earhest work, is
loosed in the most utter sweetnesses and felicities of ex-
pression. None of the Shakspearian gusto of language
which makes many of his cordial words as it were the
audible kiss of sound and sense. None of the Shakspearian
' flowing continuity of interchangeable pauses : ' there is
nothing of the vital glow or ' natural ruby ' of the Shak-
spearian hfe, and can be none of the usual signs of its
presence. In the wliole play, there is no single touch
that his closest acquaintances instantly and for ever recog-
nise as the master's; not one of those nearnesses to nature
that we knoAV as Shakspearian ; and yet he could not
write thirty lines without emitting an authentic flash of
such revelation.
In short, those who accept ' Titus Andronicus ' as
Shakspeare's work cannot only not have followed out his
nearness to nature in the more delicate touches and opal-
'TITUS ANDRONICUS' NOT SIIAKSPEARE'S. C81
escent graces of his poetry, but tlicy totally iiiisapprehciid
the quality of his coarseness ; the signs of his inmuituiily.
' Pericles ' is an early play. Drytlen calls it the earliest,
and I see no cause for doubting the tradition, but many
reasons for accepting it. And this play contains the un-
mistakeable Shakspcarian touch of life, of prompt and
pregnant thought, of phrase that glows hke the serene
fire in a gem. But it is impossible to find any proof of
Shakspeare's presence from beginning to end of the ' Titus
Andronicus.'
Shakspeare's is the tragedy of Terror ; this is the
tragedy of Horror. His tragedy is never bloodily sen-
sual ; his genius has ever a spiritualising influence. Blood
may flow, but he is dealing with more than l^lood. This
play is a perfect slaughter-house, and the blood makes
appeal to- all the senses. The murder is committed in
the very gateways of the sense. It reeks blood, it smells
of blood, we almost feel that we have handled blood ; it
is so gross. The mental stain is not whitened by Shak-
speare's sweet springs of pity ; the horror is not hallowed
by that appalling sublimity with which he invested his
chosen ministers of death. It is tragedy only in the
coarsest material relationships-; the tragedy of Horror,
Mr. Knight whose views on the subject of our
poet's earliest work, compel his arguments to straddle
over impossible spaces past all power of standing, en-
deavours to show that this play was written by Shaksi)eare
in some period of ' storm and stress' when he was in the
throes and acironies of labourins; mi^ht too bis; for birth,
and had not yet attained to his repose of power.
Yet, directly after, he remarks that from the first,
Shakspeare, ' with that consummate judgment which gave
fitness to eveiything he did or proposed to do, held his
genius in subjection to the apprehension of the people till
he felt secure of their capability to appreciate the highest
excellence.' But this equally implies his power to stand
582 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
over his work and liold his genius in sucli subjection as
should effectually prevent its breaking out in the wild way
it must have done supposing him to be the author of
'Titus Andronicus.' It is demonstrable however that
Shakspeare did not pass through any such period of agita-
tion or mental green-sickness. His work is healthy from
the first. He makes no absurd endeavours to embrace im-
mensity ; had no assumptions of strength that collapse in
spasm. No tearing of things to pieces tooth and nail.
No blind haste or threatening rant. But everywhere the
ease, the depth, the fulness, the poise of a rich genius
flowering in joy, whose power was from the visible begin-
ning supreme in its range and according to its theme.
We shall best apprehend the superb and happy health
of the man by entering into the hum,oui' of his ' Venus
and Adonis.' His merry motive all through is to tantalize
the passion with which he plays so provokingly. And
this he does with the large ease, the sure touch, the
ripe humour of human nature's great master. The man
who could so early take such an attitude of assured
sovereignty could not liave afterwards become the fretting
fuming slave of ' Storm and Stress.' Besides which w^e
may learn from the Marlowe group of Sonnets that as
early as 1592 or 1593 Shakspeare was fully conscious of
the gross faults and defects, the surfeiting comparisons,
the Brobdignagian bombast that Marlowe and others
revelled in, who, as Nash told them, would 'embowel the
clouds in a speech of comparison ; thinking themselves
more than initiated in Poets' immortality if they but once
get Boreas by the beard and the Heavenly Bull by the
dewlap.' Shakspeare assures us that he does not do this,
and in spite of the handsome Avay in which he spoke of
his rival, his finer ear and truer taste must have detected a
good deal of bombast in the mighty line. He would see
that the glow of Marlowe's imagination had in it a sw^arthy
smoke, so that the poetry never attained the true regulus
A MISTAKE RECTIFIED. 583
of colour, but came fortli from the furnace as bronze,
not liaving tlie mellow splendour of pure gold. He knew
well enough that Marlowe had not quite found the way
to the noble in poetry, and that he strove all the harder
to reach the grim heights Avhere frowns the terrible.
One of the greatest differences betwixt Sliakspeare
and jMarlowe was that the latter poet had not sufficient
humour to hinder his taking the step from the sub-
lime to the ridiculous, whereas Shakspeare had a most
active and ticklish sense of the absurd. This must have
been one of his quickest, keenest, most self-preser\'ing
instincts ! — the liveliest part of his self-consciousness.
This alone would have prevented his following in the track
of Marlowe save for the purpose of sketching on the back
of the other poet as it were, a portrait in caricatiu'c of his
more prominent features — making a face for the fun of the
thing, such as setting Pistol to parod}'' Tamburlane, and
devoting some of his earliest merriest satire to mock those
who talked unlike men of God's making. And yet
Shaksjieare is supposed to have written or re-written a
drama which contains many of Marlowe's worst charac-
teristics, the unnatural spirit of which is far worse than
anything in the expression.
Had this play been our Poet's it could not have been
very early work. It is assumed to liave been produced as
a new Play at Henslow^e's Theatre on the 23rd of January
1593. This however is a mistake. ' Titus Andronicus'
was not produced until January 2ord 1594.
At page 31 of the Diary Henslowe begins his dates
with the 2Tth of December 1593, and continues with that
year up to December 31st. Kext day January 1st shoidd
be dated 1594 or 159^, their New Year's day being March
25th. But the j'car has been left unchanged, and it
continues unchanged up to April 6th in the entiy apper-
taining to the Duke of Sussex's men and tlie Queen's
men, who were then playing together, or else Henslowe
584 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
lumped his receipts together having a share in botli.
April 6th is dated 1593 and the following night, April
7th is dated 1594, for the first time in that year the recti-
fication of the dating is made. So that from January 1st
to April 7th the year according to our reckoning, is dated
Avrongly. During this time '' Titus Andronicus' was pro-
duced as a new p)l(^y on the 22nd of January 1593 as
dated, which means January 22nd 1594. This makes
it still more improbable that it was Shakspeare's Tragedy.
Malone supposes the play brought out at Henslowe's
Theatre to be the same as that included in Shakspeare's
Works as ' Titus Andronicus.' No doubt the play is the
same but it -is simply inconceivable that it should have
been a new work of our Poet's brought out at a rival
theatre in 1594. The play was probably founded ou the
older ' Titus and Vespasian ' of the same theatre but, as
Hallam judges, it is not Shakspeare's in any sense. It
seems to me that Ben Jonson's sneer at it is good evidence
that the play of which he speaks was not Shakspeare's.
Also, he may have classed it with the old ' Jeronimo ' on
account of its quality without implying that both were of
the same date. My conviction is that the play was
mapped out and partly written by Marlowe who was the
great poet at Henslowe's Theatre. His ' Jew of Malta,'
p,nd the ' Titus Andronicus' were running there alternately
and to judge by Henslowe's receipts the latter play was a
success. Marlowe's death in June 1593 would prevent his
finishing the play and be the chief cause why his name
slipped out of sight. It was entered in the Stationers'
Eegisters 1593 but not completed for performance till
early in the next year. And whose was the hand that
finished the play ? Whose should it be but Nash's ? he
who was united wdth Marlowe in the production of
' Queen Dido.' It appears to me that no great amount
of insight is necessary to discover the same workmanship
in both plays. The Drama may have been removed to
A MISTAKE lilX'TlFiKD. 585
Sliakspearc's Theatre on account of Nasli's part in it and
because both Nash and Marlowe were under tlie patronage
of Shakspeare's friend, Southampton, in whose interest
the play may have been completed and at whose request
it may have been adopted by the Blacklriars Company.
It was published without a name in 1504. And if our
Poet made a copy in his own hand-writing that may have
misled the Editors of tlie first folio. As for Meres, it is
lar easier to believe that he made one mistake in his list
of an unpublished literature than it is to accept ' Titus
Andronicus' as Shakspeare's work in any sense.
'58G - SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
APPENDIX E.
' EYSELL.'
SONNET 111.
'Evsell' is Vinegar, says Steevens, and lie quotes a
colourable illustration from ' A mery Geste of the Frere
and the Boye.'
* God that dyed for us all
And drank both eysell and gall.'
Vinegar, says Malone, is esteemed very efficacious in
preventing the communication of the plague and other
contagious distempers, which is quite true and yet not ap-
plicable ; for the lover in the sonnet has no contagious
distemper, his infection was not physical, he did not require
to be fumigated ; his stomach was not literally a sick cham-
ber ; and our Social Science, as yet, has failed to show that
vinegar can contend successfully with immoral influences.
I cannot rest satisfied that the Eysell of the old ballad
was not more than an equivalent for vinegar ; I suspect
it of a much more subtle meaning. In the Salisbury
Primer (1555), the eighth prayer of the Fifteen O's be-
gins thus : — ' Blessed Jesu ! sweetness of heart and
ghostly pleasure of souls, I beseech thee, for the bitterness
of the Eysell and gall that thou tasted and suffered
for me in thy passion, &c.,' which seems to imply more
than is expressed by vinegar. No doubt we have inter-
[)reted the old ' EyseU ' as vinegar, but that is not tlie
'EYSELL- MEANS MOIIE THAN VIXErJAlI. 587
question. My feeling is tliat when tlie word was used to
express tlie potion drunk by the Son of God on the cross,
it signified far more than vinegar. I do not think Shak-
speare coukl have chosen vinegar as the express juice of
all bitterness, seeing that bitterness is not only not its
dominant character ; it is not even a charafteristic ;
neither could it apply to a moral infection. Surely the
lady would have looked to see if her lover were ' snigger-
ing,' had he offered to swallow draughts of vinegar before
he ventured to kiss her ? And surely ' Eysell ' was used
because it had some moral signification ? My query is
whether ' Eysell ' may not have been a word in the vulgar
tongue, the exact meaning of which is now lost to the
Etymologists? May not it have once signified tears,
tears of sorrow, tears of repentance, tears of such pre-
ciousness and power, that the sight of the eye is as it
were, bartered for bitterness, its life and strength sold to
produce them ; thus, in brief, ' Eysell ' would be the life
and ' precious seeing ' of the eye sold in tears ? And the
lover would offer to drink potions of this, as the extract
of all bitterness, a water of the most potent efficacy in
washing a soul white, and cleansing it from moral im-
purity. Strange things were drunk, and strange offers
made by the lovers of the time, in amorous bravado.
But this lover was intensely in earnest, and the word is
chosen for some transcendant worth. There was no bit-
terness to be expressed beyond it, and so he has to follow
it with 'No bitterness that I will bitter tJiink.' Now
vinegar is altogether inadequate for the purpose, either in
Shakspeare's or the popular imagination.
There is, I think, some slight authority for my con-
jecture in the sense our Poet has of the virtue of tears,
and the way in which he speaks of drinking them.
In sonnet 34 the speaker says : —
'Ah ! hut those tears are pearl, wliicli tliy love slieds,
And tliey are rich and ransom all ill deeds.'
688 SHAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
Here is the equivalent of ' Eysell ' as regards the precioiis-
ness of the tears, only translated more gaily. In the
' Venus and Adonis,' Venus asks Death, ' Dost thou drink
tears, that thou provokest such weeping ? ' In part iii, of
King Henry VI. we have ' for every word I speak, ye see
1 drink the water of mine eyes!' And in sonnet 119
' What potions have I drunk of siren tears ! '
Here the speaker has drunk potions of tears of the wrong
sort. Moreover he pleads that in coming back to his
Mistress, he has brought water for his stain. I doubt if
' Vinegar' c.n be traced etymologically to 'Eyesell.' On
the other hand, ' Eh-scen,' or ' Eoeh-sen,' is semi-Saxon for
eye-sight. Also we have the eye-water, Euphrasy, to
brighten and make clear. Why not the eye-water,
' EyseU,' or Eye-sell, which is so precious a thing morally
when wept in bitterness of soul, as to be considered of
incomparable virtue in cleansing, and potent against
infection ?
niE 'TAMING OF THE SHREW NOT SO EARLY A PLAY. o80
APPENDIX F.
SONNET 132, AND
THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
' 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 I '
Sonnet 132.
* What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty.
As those two eyes become that heavenly face ! '
Taming of the Skreiu, Act iv. sc. 5.
At first sight it will a})pear from the above coiuparisoii
that Shakspeare in this instance used the thought first in
the drama, the ' Taming of the Shrew ' being generally
considered a somewliat early phiy. But so far as my
insight into his working goes, and it can be corroborated
by intrinsic evidence, I more tlian doubt whether he did
reverse his usual practice even in this case. Unless with
a very personal [)urpose, as in the description of Lady
Rich's mourning eyes, it is positively the rule with
him for the thought or expression to appear iir^<t in
the sonnets. In the present instance, there is nothing
sufficiently personal to account for any departure
from his ordinary method. A question arir^es as to
590 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
whether this repetition may not tlu'ow a little light on
the chronology of the play. The ' Taming of the Shrew'
is not mentioned by Meres in his hst of 1598, and if the
work be studied afresh Avith the foresi'oino; suo"2:estion in
mind, which is at least equal in authority to any tradi-
tional belief, I think it will be evident that the play is a
much later production than the critics have supposed.
It contains no signs of early woikmanship. All through
there is the most concentrated attention to business. The
direct simplicity, the certainty of touch, the self-control, are
quite worthy of Shakspeare's ripened art. The poetry has
that smack of cordiality in the ring of certain words, hearty
as the crack of Petruchio's whip, yet denoting the most
mature nicety of choice. The humour is quick of touch
and exquisite as his best. Moreover, the play has the
mastery to achieve in verse the same result as the Poet's
other comedy attains by prose. He has clothed farce
sumptuously as he apparelled his own Christopher Sly.
Never was farce so wealthily married to immortal verse.
It seems to me that the character of Petruchio belongs to
the same class of dramatic perceptions as that of Hamlet,
inasmuch as both characters play an assumed part ; and
that the comedy of the one may have been the natural
balance to the tragedy of the other — the other pennon,
so to say, on which the Poet's mind moved at the time.
It tends somewhat to the illustration of this view that
Shakspeare should, in both comedy and tragedy, have
made the same stage use of the ' players.' It is just possible
that the Herbert sonnet above quoted may have been
written in 1598. The younger the speaker was at the time,
the more effective would be the jest on the subject of age in
sonnet 138. Be this as it may, I hold that the Poet
woidd certainly use the thought in the sonnet before
applying it in the play.
THE REPLY TO MAIILOWE'S • PASSIONATE SIIEPIIERI).' oOl
APPENDIX G.
WILLIAM HEKBERT AND SHAK-
SPEARE'S MINOR PIECES.
I SUSPECT ^ve owe to Herbert mucli of tlie confu.sion
that exists with regard to Shakspeare's minor pieces. In
the first place our Poet could not have written some of
the things ascribed to his pen. Nor could he have in-
tended the four fragments on the one subject, 'Venus
and Adonis ' — if they are all his — to appear in print as
we find them in the ' Passionate Pilgrim.' I think it
must have been from Herbert that Jacsard ol^tained the
two sonnets with other odds and ends of Shakspeare's
writing, mixed up with some of Herbert's own, all of
which Jaggard put forth as Shakspeare's.
So with the communications to ' England's Helicon.'
I believe that Herbert supplied the Editor with the copy
of Marlowe's ' Passionate Sheplierd ' and Shakspeare's
reply, now composed in full, willi a third poem on the
same subject written by Himself ! The signature of
' Ignoto ' has simply, no meaning whatever for us. If it
had any when used, that is now identifiable, it nuist
surely have indicated the Editor's ignorance of the author-
ship !
592 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
Pieces by a dozen different writers were subscribed
' Ignoto.' Therefore the reply to Marlowe's ' Passion-
ate Shepherd ' cannot be ascribed to Sir Walter Ealeigh
on the strength of that signature. Ellis gave the reply to
Ealeigh because in one of the copies of 'England's Helicon,'
the intials W. E. were said to have been at first appended
to the earliest complete copy of the verses. But Ellis dis-
tinctly referred to Steevens's copy which is now among
Malone's books in the Bodleian (No. 27 S), and, as Mr.
Hannah states, he must have been mistaken, for, in that
copy the signature is simply ' Ignoto,' and has never
been disturbed. So that Ealeigh's claim to the poem
rests on the authority of Walton, which is not of the
slightest value. The old Angler's account is just the
vaguest hearsay, as wide of the mark as was Lamb's ran-
dom shot at the man whom he did not know, but
damned at a venture ! The first edition of Walton's book
was published in 1653. In this the writer speaks of ' that
smooth song which was made hy Kit Marlowe now at least
fifty years ago ! ' A very safe assertion for Marlowe had
then been dead precisely sixty years ! But Isaac's famili-
arity with the facts was not equal to his familiarity with
the Poet's name ! He further states that the reply was
written by Sir Walter Ealeigh ^in his yoimger days.' Now,
as Ealeigh was born in 1552 he was about half a century
old at the time when, according to Walton, the ' Passion-
ate Shepherd ' was written ! There needs no further
proof that the ' Angler ' had no personal knowledge
of the subject and is merely twaddling. The genuine
clue to the unravelment of the case appears to be given
in the ' Passionate Pilgrim,' where one stanza only of
the ' reply ' is printed. Tracing backward by such light
as my reading of the sonnets throws on the subject, I
should interpret the matter thus — Marlowe wrote his
song for Southampton, to which Shakspeare appended at
first four lines in reply. Southampton having given the
'PASSIONATE PILGRIM' WRITTEN' I5Y SHAKSPEAKE. 503
paper to Herbert, it appeared witli otlier tilings in the
' Passionate Pilgrim.' Al'terwards Sliakspeare wrote his
reply in full, Herbert composed a second reply, and all
tliree pieces came into print together in ' England's
Helicon.' Internal evidence stamps the first reply as
Shakspeare's. As his I reprint it here —
' If all the world and love were j'oung
And truth in every Shepherd's tougiie,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy Love.
* But Time drives flocks from field to fuM,
\Mien rivers rage and rocks grow cold :
And Philomel becometh dumb ;
The rest complain of cares to come I
' The Flowers do ftide, and wanton fields
To wayward Winter's reckoning yields :
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's Spring, but sorrow's Fall.
' Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies.
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotton ;
In folly ripe, in reason rotton !
' Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs —
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.
' But could youth last and love still breed —
Had joy no date, had age no need;
Then those delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy Love.'
How like our practical Poet it is! and how Shak-
spearianly sensible are some of the expressions ! • In
folly ripe, in reason rotton,' is a line we may swear by.
Q Q
594 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
APPENDIX H.
THE SILENT LOVER.
There is a lyric generally known by this name ; one of
the loveliest among Elizabethan love-lyrics. Its authorship
has been disputed. The latest editor of Ealeigh's poems
thinks Sir Walter's claim to it is ' supported by so many
independent testimonies, that we need not hesitate to
regard him as the author.' I beg leave to suggest a re-
consideration of the subj ect ; and submit one or two
items that have been overlooked in the evidence. The
poem is here printed with slight variations from the MS.
copy in the Ashmole Museum.'
' Wrong not, dear Mistress of my heart,
The merits of true passion,
By thinking that he feels no smart
"Who sues for no compassion :
' Though that my thoughts do not approve
The conquest of your beauty —
It comes not from defect of love,
But from excess of duty !
' For knowing that I sue to serve
A saint of such perfection.
As all desire, hut none deserve
A place in her affection —
1 MSS., Ashmole, 781. p. 143.
THE 'SILENT LOVRR ' WRITTEN P.Y HEURERT. r.n.j
* I rather choose to want relief,
Than venture the revealing ;
Though glory recommends the grief,
Despair dissuades the healing :
' Thus tlie desires that aim so high
Of any mortal lover,
When reason cannot make them die.
Discretion doth them cover :
' Yet, when discretion doth bereave
The plaints that I should utter.
Then your discretion may perceive
That Silence is a suitor :
'Silence in love doth sliow more woe
Til an words tho' ne'er so witty :
The Beggar that is dvunl), you know.
May challenge double pity.'
The poem is wrouglit with great skill ; it has tlie linked
strength and graceful movement of a coat of chain-mail ;
the verses in this copy having no full stop until the lyric
has reached its climax in that most ndiiie of all conceits
in the last stanza. I do not think the mind of Ealeigh
moved thus lightly and naturally in verse. Such of his
poetry as can be identified, is altogether wanting in the
winsome grace of this song, and has no such quick spirit
of fancy. Ilis manner is more set and formal as though
the dress of his thought were stilHy brocaded. Tlie poem
is ascribed to Ealeigh in some of the old MS. collections
in which his name has been so often misapplied. In one
of the Eawl. MSS. the piece is entitled ' aSV;* Walter
Raleigh to Queen Elizabeth ; ' another instance, says the
Eev. Mr. Hannali, where a right name is coupled with a
wrong legend. I suspect the copyist may have been as
right with the name, as with the legend, and no more.
The copy in the MS. Ashm. is signed ' Lo. Walden ; "
oOti SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
which is accepted as ' Lord Warden,' and assumed to
mean Sir W. Ealeidi as Lord Warden of the Stannaries.
o
This signature is eqally favourable however, to the other
claimant William, Earl of Pembroke, who was also Lord
Warden of the Stannaries, under James. Next the poem
is printed as Herbert's in the poems collected by the
younger Donne. Here, to say the least, is quite as good
authority as any on which the poem is ascribed to
Ealeioh.
It is almost the sole piece in the collection dedicated
by that editor to the Countess of Devonshire, to which
his words apply. ' Whatever was excellently said to any
lady in all these poems was meant for you.' Lastly, the
germ idea belongs to Shakspeare — he who wrote the
tenderest things touching silence in love. Li Sonnet 26
the Poet pleads —
' 0, let my books he then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast ;
Who plead for love and look for recompence,
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed !
learn to read what silent love hath writ :
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.'
Again, in Sonnet 85 he says —
* Then others for the breath of words respect ;
Me, for my dumb thoughts speaking in effect.'
NoAV, if there be any value in the authority which assigns
the poem to Pialeigh, as one addi'essed by him to the
Queen, it goes to prove that the poem was written during
the life of her Majesty, or else the subject could not have
been given. And I think that whoever wrote the ' Silent
Lover' must have been acquainted with Shakspeare's
Sonnets so that if it was written before the Queen's death,
the acquaintanceship must have been with the Sonnets in
MS. Thus there would be three points in favour of Herbert
TTIE 'SILENT LOVI'.II/ 507
— the borrowing of tJie thought from the ISouiiets, wliicli
the Earl held in MS. — the signature of ' Lord Warden,' in
the Ashniole MS. copy — and the fact of its appearance in
Herbert's collected poems. When we add to this the
hiternal evidence wliich is stronji ao;ainst Raleigh's claim,
I think the poem may be, with tlie greater probability,
assigned to Herbert. For, not only is Shakspeare's idea
the root of it, but I suspect the great Poet retouched it
for his young friend, and linished it with that last stanza
which is the 'captain jewel in the carcanet,' and has the
flash of our Poet's mind ; a thought that he set in many
lights. In ' Much Ado about Nothing' we fmd ' silence
is the perfcctest herald of joy.' In ' Troilus and Crcssida,'
' See your silence, cunning in dumbness ! '
Mr. Hannah prints these additional lines :
' Passions are likened best to floods aud streams ;
The shallow murmur, hut the deep are dumb :
So when affections yield discourse, it seenis
The bottom is hut shallow whence they come.
They that are rich in words, in words discover
I'hat they are poor in that which makes a Lover' —
and seems to think the copy in Herbert's poems imperfect,
because the above lines are wanting. As one accustomed
to WTite lyrics, I should say that the man wdio "wrote the
' Silent Lover,' an essential lyric, could by no means have
added the above lines. They are a tawdry bit of second-
hand trash that has been tagged on ! Any J/aS'*S'. which
included them could have no oritjinal authority. I shoidd
judge that the Ashmole copy contains the original poem,
and that the one in 'Herbert's Poems' was retouched
from it. For illustration, the word ' utter'' occurs twice
in the first-named copy, and it has been taken out of the
4tli stanza of the later version and the word' venture'
substituted, because ' utter ' was used in a rhyme of
stiinza 6. Also, in ' Herbert's Poems' the first stanza has
been repeated for a refrain at the end.
598 SHAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
APPENDIX I.
KING JOHN.
' We will uot line bis thin bestained cloak
Witb our pure bonors.'
Act. iv. sc. 3.
The present reading of the sonnets will shed many little
glancing hghts on the plays. It will open up a richer
vein of commentary which I have not been able to work
fuhy for want of space. I beheve, for example, that
sonnet 67 illustrates tile above quotation and compara-
tively proves ' thin bestained cloak' to be the wrong
reading.
' Ah wherefore with infection should he live.
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve.
And lace itself witb his society ? '
Here sin lacing or decorating itself assuredly suggests
that tbe cloak to be, or not to be, Hned ' with our pure
honors' was sm-bestained, not thin bestained. The cloak
might require new lining, either because it was very thm,
or much soiled, but Shakspeare would hardly have put
forth such a double reason for a single hning. Lastly,
' our pure honours' necessarily impHes ''his sin bestained
cloak.'
TWO OH THREE DISPUTED HEADINGS. C9U
MACBETH.
' I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls o' the other.'
Act i. so. 7.
As the text stands above we have iu shadowy imagery a
most extraordinary liorse and rider. Macbeth was no more
likely to wear a single spur that luould strike on both sides
than the Irishman was to discover the much-coveted gun
that would shoot round a corner. Moreover his hoi^e
must have had three sides to it at the least. Now, a horse
may have four sides, right and left, inside and outside, and
the street gamins will at times advise an awkward horse-
man to ride inside for safety, but it cannot have three sides.
And if the single spur had pricked two sides there could
have been no other left for ' vaulting ambition ' to fall on.
The truth is that ' sides ' is a misprint. The single spur of
course implies a single side — the side of Macbeth's intent,
which leaves ' the other ' for the ' vaulting ambition ' to
alicflit on in case of a somersault — the side of Macbeth's
unintent. The passage comes perfectly right if we read —
' I have no spur
To prick the side of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls o' the otlier.'
000 SIIAKSPEAEE'S SONNETS.
MACBETH.
' Wliat beast was 't then.
That made you break this enterprise to me ? '
Act i. sc. 7.
That ' beast ' and not ' boast ' is the genuine lection here
may be inustrated comparatively, by referring to ' King
Eichard II.,' act iii. scene 4, where the Queen asks the re-
ilective Gardener —
' What Eve, what Serpent hath suggested thee ? '
The Sequent was sliding through the mind of Lady Mac-
beth just before, when she bade her husband to
' look like the innocent flower
But be the serjpent under 't ' —
and no doubt she afterwards alludes to the Serpent as the
beast of the field and the tempter that beguiled Eve ;
' What beast, what serpent was it that tempted you ? '
CYMBELINE,
* some jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting.'
Act iii. sc. 4.
Here is one of those instantaneous Shakspearian flashes
which smelt the meaning of many words into one with a
lightning-like power. It is the strip of colour on the wing
of the jay that causes that bird to be commonly called the
painted jay ; this creates its popular character. And the
woman here spoken of is a jay ' whose mother was her
•painting ' because her beauty was a false creation ; her
painting made her, or mothered her, or was her Mother.
Her maker is the sense of the passage, but ' mother ' was
the nearest word that could be consistently used.
AX ()\.D IJEADIXr; DRAMATIC ALLY TUnHT. 001
ROMEO AND JULIET.
' Spread thy close curtain love-perf(jrming liight,
2'hat Runawat/s eyes may ivink and Komeo
Leap to tbese arms untalked-of and unseen.'
Act iii. sc. 2.
1 do not understand why there should have been such
an absurd dance of the Commentators after the ' runn-
awayes ' of the old editions, or such a wild-goose chase in
search of unnecessary substitutes, like ' Eumour's ' ' Eu-
mourer's,' ' Eenomy's ' ' unawares,' ' enemies ' eyes,' &c.
To my thinking the old reading, with Juliet as llunaway,
is a most golden one ; subtly Shakspearian ; the passage
poetically playfully perfect. Jidiet is the Eunaway ! She
has run away from tlie parental authority and from her
duty as a daughter. She has run away from the arms of
fatlier and mother to the bosom of her lover. She has run
away to be secretly married, and is now waiting to run
into the embrace of her Imsband. No word could be
more characteristic than this, when applied by Juhet to
herself. Mr. Dyce has printed ' rude day's eyes,' whicli
may easily be shown to be an impossible reading. Juliet
would not wish the eyes of day to wink if she wanted them
to close altogether. Besides, the closing of day's eyes
would, of course, be included hi the coming of night, and
it is not Shakspeare's habit to state that which is ah'cady
implied. This rejection of Juliet as ' Eunaway ' and the
vulgar public a])peal to the day, &c. show that the Critics
have totally misapprehended the whole speech and grossly
misinterpreted the character of the speaker. They have
assumed that the sole incentive of this appeal for night to
come was Jidiet's eagerness for the perfecting of her mar-
riage. It is not so. That woidd make of Juliet a forward
wanton, and of her speech an invocation most immodest,
whereas her appeal to Night is for protection, for its dark-
ness to drop a veil that will, as it were, hide lu r fioin her-
G02 SIIAKSPEARE'S SONNETS.
self. She is naturally desirous for Eomeo's coming, but
her great anxiety for the night's coming is the sensitiveness
of modesty. The appeal is for Kight to curtain round the
bridal bed — for the Nisfht to teach her how to lose a winninor
match — for the night to ' hood her unmanned blood ' as
the eyes of the falcon are covered up. This is the govern-
ing thought of the speech, therefore it was of the first
dramatic necessity that an early cue should be given. And
so, after the first passionate outburst the Poet makes Juliet
vdsh. the night to come that her eyes may ' wink ; ' i.e.
may be bashfully veiled in the shadow of the darkness
so that slie can modestly countenance her husband's
coming. The Critics would deprive the speech of its
mood indicative, the character of a suggestion which was
meant to guard it ; a thought that acts hke a bridal veil —
a touch that gives to the invocation the tint of virgin
crimson without which the speech would be positively
barefaced. They have been looking too outwardly ; dwell-
ing too much on the assumed context of night and day, and
have missed the dramatic motive and the more precious
personal context. Juliet was not looking quite so much
abroad as they have been ; her thought was more inward
and had a more private appropriateness ; her feeling is
altogether more maidenly than has been supposed. Other
reasons and illustrations might be adduced to show that
the old editions have given us Shakspeare's meaning, which
cannot be mended. After what the Niu-se tells us of her
young Lady's pleasant conceit in coupling the names of
' Eosemary ' and ' Eomeo,' it is very characteristic for Juliet
to match the names of Eunaway and Eomeo in loving aUi-
teration. Also the coupling of her name in some shape
or other with ' Eomeo ' in the lines quoted is of infinitely
the greater necessity. She wants the night to fold in the
pair of lovers, and would not leave herself out. The ' and
Eomeo ' is of itself sufficient to tell us that Eunaway must
be Juliet. Lastly, to come to that surface comparison be-
AN OIJ> READING DRAMATICA rj,V UJCUT. 003
youd which the Critics liave so seldom gone lor illustration,
the thought in the Poet's mind respecting maiden motlesty
ivinking at marriage may be proved conclusively Ijy refer-
ence to the play of Henry V. : —
* Bur(jundy. Can you blame her then, being a maid
yet rosed over with the virgin crimson of
modesty, if she deny the appearance of a
naked blind boy.
' Kinrj Henry. Yet they do luink and yield,— as love is blind
and enforces Good my lord, teach
your cousin to consent ivinking.''
Act V. sc. 2.
Here is a sufficient exempUfication of Shakspeare's mean-
ing in making the appeal for Xiglit to come that Juhet's
(the naughty Runaway's) eyes may iviiik under the cover
of its darkness as well as Borneo's visit be perfectly secret.
The Commentators had no warrant whatever for suspecting
the old reading, and have shown an utter lack of insight in
their attempts to alter it, which have been quite destruc-
tive of the dramatic intention and injurious to the character
of Juliet.
l.O!»pnx
PBIN'TBD BT S PO TT I i W OO D F. i >" D CO.
KKW-STKHKT S^Ol'iKli
cAWUNIVE
AR
''%0illV3
, (\f-r\u?
v<
•y
University of California
SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY
305 De Neve Drive - Parking Lot 17 • Box 951388
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 90095-1388
Return this material to the library from which it was borrowed.
OCT ' ^ ""^?
JUL ■ '
,-: ' 1,->'T9
^.ur-.
5:
ii;
r^
If
%
AA oouo
1 4ob
.11 '
In
^
<y
r
I ir>r\ 1 i^\'