THE FLOWER OF FLOWERS.

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.

(98.)

249

The forward Violet thus did I chide :

Sweet thief! whence didst thou steal thy sweet that

smells

If not from my Love's breath? the purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells,
In my Love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed!'
The lily I condemnéd 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 The likeness indicated by this comparison must be one of shape, not of colour. The poet does not say the flower of the 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.

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.)

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 the absence would be the cause of the silence! The speaker in the previous sonnets says nothing could make him any summer's story tell,' whereas the speaker in this sonnet has been telling 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 autumn! These sonnets show plainly 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. Return, forgetful muse, he says, and redeem the time that has been spent so idly

in darkening thy power to lend base subjects light. Sing to the ear that does esteem thy lays, and gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise 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 or him.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent ;1
Sing to the ear that 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 despiséd everywhere!

Give my Love fame faster than Time wastes life:
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.

(100.)

1 This lost time was redeemed not only by the writing of this personal sonnets, but also the dramatic series that follows them.

THE POET'S WELCOME HOME TO HIS FRIEND. 253

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my Love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified:
Make answer, Muse! wilt thou not haply say,
Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay:
But best is best if never intermixed?'

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!

Then 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;
I love not less, tho' less the show appear;
That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere!
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!
Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song.

Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside:
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace!

(102.)