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peculiar charm, of which their best productions are entirely destitute; and to insinuate that any of his contemporaries ever produced a play worthy of being ranked with his happiest efforts, with Othello for instance, Macbeth, Lear, or Hamlet,seems to me an absurdity almost unpardonable in any critic.98

Though Venus and Adonis, The Rape of Lucrece, and the Sonnets of Shakespeare have been cast into the shade by his dramas, and are familiar to few readers, they nevertheless deserve to be numbered among the finest compositions of

the golden age of our literature.

Both Venus and Adonis, and The Rape of Lucrece, abound in elaborate descriptions, as vivid as language has ever conveyed, in striking thoughts, expressed with uncommon terseness, and in similes of perfect originality; while both, in accordance with the taste of the period at which they were written, are occasionally soiled by quaintness and conceit. It is to be regretted, that, for the sake of affording a contrast to the coldness of Adonis, Shakespeare should have so over-painted the passion of the Goddess, as to render several portions of the former production equally offensive to decency and good taste. The "first heir of his

93 Weber, in the Introduction to his edition of Beaumont and Fletcher's Works, expressly tells us, that Philaster "possesses excellencies little inferior" to those of Macbeth and

Lear, p. xiv.

invention," (as he terms Venus and Adonis) appears to me, however, more full of the ethereal spirit of poesy than The Rape of Lucrece; though it wants the pathos, the energy, and the moral grandeur, of that painful tale.

In order to show what progress had been made by Englishmen in the cultivation of the Sonnet, before it engaged the pen of Shakespeare, I shall now proceed to extract some pieces from different writers, who had attempted it anterior to the year 1609.94

Among the Songes and Sonnettes, 1557, of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, is this pleasing Description of Spring, wherein each thing renews, save only the Lover:

"The soote 95 season, that bud and bloom forth brings,
With green hath clad the hill, and eke the vale;

The nightingale with feathers new she sings;
The turtle to her make 96 hath told her tale.
Summer is come, for every spray now springs;
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale;
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings;

The fishes flete with new repaired scale;
The adder all her, slough away she flings;
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale;
The busy bee her honey now she mings; 97
Winter is worn that was the flowers' bale.
And thus I see, among these pleasant things,
Each care decays, and yet my sorrow springs!"

94 It has been already mentioned that though Shakespeare's Sonnets were not published till 1609, some of them were written as early as 1598; see p. lvi.

95 Sweet.

96 Mate.

97 Mingles.

It is well known that Steevens pronounced Thomas Watson to be "a more elegant Sonnetteer than Shakespeare:" the following effusion (which is a fair specimen of Watson's talents) from the EKATOMIAеIA, or Passionate Centurie of Love, printed without date, but entered on the Stationers' Books, 1581, will show how preposterous was the decision of the commentator; who, after all, perhaps, did not declare his real opinion on the subject, as sincerity was not among his virtues :

"When May is in his prime, and youthfu. Spring 98
Doth clothe the tree with leaves, and ground with flowers,
And time of year reviveth every thing,

And lovely nature smiles, and nothing lours;
Then Philomela most doth strain her breast,

With night complaints, and sits in little rest.
The bird's estate I may compare with mine,

To whom fond love doth work such wrongs by day,
That in the night my heart must needs repine,
And storm with sighs, to ease me as I may,
Whilst others are becalm'd, or lie them still,
Or sail secure, with tide and wind at will.
And as all those which hear this bird complain,
Conceive in all her tunes a sweet delight,
Without remorse, or pitying her pain;
So she, for whom I wail both day and night,
Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint:
A just reward for serving such a saint!"

A Vision upon this conceipt of the Faery Queen, attributed to Sir Walter Raleigh, is appended to

98 Watson's Sonnets all consist of eighteen, instead of fourteen, lines.

the three first books of Spenser's great poem which were printed in 1590:

"Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Within that temple where the vestal flame
Was wont to burn; and passing by that way,
To see that buried dust of living fame,
Whose tomb fair Love and fairer Virtue kept;
All suddenly I saw the Faery Queen:

At whose approach the soul of Petrarch wept,
And from thenceforth those Graces were not seen;
For they this Queen attended; in whose stead
Oblivion laid him down on Laura's hearse:
Hereat the hardest stones were seen to bleed,
And groans of buried ghosts the heavens did pierce,
Where Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief,
And curs'd th' access of that celestial thief."

Sir Philip Sidney, who died in 1586, was the wonder of his own age, and his laurels as a warrior and a poet are yet unwithered. One of the best portions of his Astrophel and Stella, which was not published till 1591, is this:

"With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the skies,
How silently, and with how wan a face!
What, may it be, that even in heavenly place
That busy archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace,
To me that feel the like, thy state descries.
Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
Are beauties there as proud as here they be?
Do they above love to be lov'd, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

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The two next pieces are from the Delia of Samuel Daniel, 1592, a writer remarkable for propriety of thought, and purity of diction, though his peculiar beauties are, I think, less conspicuous in his Sonnets than in his other works:

"I once may see when years shall wreck my wrong,
When golden hairs shall change to silver wire,
And those bright rays that kindle all this fire
Shall fail in force, their working not so strong.
Then beauty (now the burden of my song)
Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,
Must yield up all to tyrant time's desire;

Then fade those flowers which deck'd her pride so long.
When if she grieve to gaze her in her glass,
Which then presents her winter-wither'd hue,
Go you, my verse, go tell her what she was;
For what she was, she best shall find in you:
Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass,
But Phoenix-like shall make her live anew."

"Look, Delia, how we 'steem the half-blown rose,
The image of thy blush and summer's honour;
Whilst in her tender green she doth inclose
That pure sweet beauty, time bestows upon her.
No sooner spreads her glory in the air,
But straight her full-blown pride is in declining;
She then is scorn'd, that late adorn'd the fair;
So clouds thy beauty after fairest shining.
No April can revive thy wither'd flowers,
Whose blooming grace adorns thy glory now;
Swift speedy time, feather'd with flying hours,
Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow.
O, let not then such riches waste in vain,
But love, whilst that thou may'st be lov'd again."

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