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fore. The author means, Speak of my occupation as a player, and straight I will acknowledge it, as just cause for your forsaking me. In the 48th the meaning is less obscure, and is clearly pointed out in the 44th.

Not only was the position of a 'poor player' in the social scale essentially 'low caste,' but in those times there was a general belief, a deep-rooted prejudice, that a player must necessarily be a bad man, of irreligious and licentious habits; and Shakspere, being of a kind and genial disposition, was just the very subject, a rich prey for misrepresentations; how deeply he suffered at this period from these malignant scandalmongers may be seen in various sonnets. It has been well observed by Mr. C. Knight, that "the friendship of Southampton in all likelihood raised the humble actor to that just appreciation of himself, which could alone prevent his nature from being subdued to what it worked in." So disreputable was it to have any connection with the stage, that he says in the 94th, "I am shamed by that which I bring forth;" even the productions of him and his compeers, being addressed to the million, were looked down upon by the classicists and scholars of the day, as not belonging to the legitimate drama, but as something gross and barbarous—a Ragged School of poetry.

Sonnet 96.-It has been observed, that in one passage, Shakspere appears to speak of committing suicide; this suspicion has arisen from a misconception of this line, "the coward conquest of a wretch's knife;" but the whole context of the two sonnets, 95 and 96, forbids the application of the term wretch to the writer himself; the meaning of the passage is, "this body, the coward conquest of death's knife and in the first line, "that fell arrest without all bail," surely means the hand of death.

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Sonnet 105.-Seconds.-There has been much discussion about the meaning of this word, &c. Seconds is an inferior kind of flour, second-best; the poet means, my oblation, my love is pure, and not mixed up with any inferior matter or base motive; it is not given to the Earl, high in favour at

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Court, nor to the rich and bounteous patron, but to Henry Wriothesley, "mutual render, only me for thee"; and it was on these terms, that years afterwards, the Earl spoke of him as "his especial friend"; the preceding stanza shows the meaning distinctly.

Sonnet 125.-"My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue." Untrue is said to be here used as a substantive ; but "my most true mind thus maketh my untruth," has no sense, or very little; there is evidently an error in the text; that

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My most true mind thus maketh m' eye (or m' eyne) untrue," is the correct reading, is clearly shown by the first six lines of the sonnet, and by two lines in the next,

"Or whether shall I say mine eye saith true,

And that your love taught it this alchymy."

Sonnet 134.-By regarding the sonnets as isolated, the 74th has been erroneously considered as addressed to a female; and that exquisite sonnet, the 134th, has been quite misunderstood, since the expression, save in thy deeds," refers to "tyrannous," and "slander” has reference to the sixth line. Sonnet 155.—

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"Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array,"

in the Pictorial Shakspere, is the following note :—“In the original copy we have the following reading :

'Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

My sinful earth these rebel powers that thee array.'

The received reading is a conjectural emendation by Malone. When the change in the text must rest wholly on conjecture, and some change is absolutely necessary, it appears to us that the change which has been established is in most cases better than any improvement."

It appears, however, to me, that Malone's emendation is contrary to the spirit and pathos of the whole sonnet; the

1 Edition 1609.

soul is not made a fool of, but makes itself a slave to the body, as we say, such a man is the slave of his passions; I have, therefore, ventured to make another emendation, and respectfully lay it before the critical public :

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Slave of these rebel powers that thee 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 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.

A

SONNET S.

PART FIRST.

I.

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, mak'st waste in niggarding.

Pity the world, or else this glutton be,

To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

II.

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,

Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held :
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,

Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,

Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,

If thou could'st answer-This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse 'Proving his beauty by succession thine! This were to be new-made when thou art old, And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

III.

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest,
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,

Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair, whose un-ear'd1 womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

Or who is he so fond,2 will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime :
So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

1 'Un-car'd:' unploughed.—2 Fond:' foolish.

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