DEDICATORY.

1

As an unperfect Actor on the stage

Who 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:
O, let my books be then the eloquence 1

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast;
Who plead for love and look for recompence,

More than that tongue that more hath more expressed :
O 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:
O, carve not with thy hours my Love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow,

For Beauty's pattern to succeeding men!

Yet, do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong,
My Love shall in my verse live ever young.

'O, let my books be then the eloquence.'

(19.)

Steevens gives a decided preference to 'looks' instead of books, 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 books-i.e. the Earl of Southampton.

LOVE'S TRIUMPH OVER TIME.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,

Each changing place with that which goes before
In sequent toil all forwards do contend:
Nativity, once in the main of light,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound:
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels on Beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of Nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

(60.)

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich, proud cost of outworn buried age:
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That time will come, and take my Love away:
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

(61.)

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?
O, how shall Summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?

125

O fearful meditation! where, alack!

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?

But

O none, unless this miracle have might,

That in black ink my Love may still shine bright.
(65.)

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of Princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme ;
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.)

PERSONAL SONNETS.

1592-3.

SHAKSPEARE TO THE EARL, CHIEFLY CONCERNING A RIVAL POET, ADJUDGED TO BE MARLOWE.

I HAVE grouped these 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, progress, 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 admiration 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 Earl'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

not only taught the dumb to sing, but have made Ignorance 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, because 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 singles 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 well 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. 'Respect 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