sity in Thou (Truth), as he says in the previous stanza, he will live supposing him to be true. His new position will seemingly, at least, have the same attraction for him, as, like a husband who knowing no wrong in his wife confides in her honesty, so he, seeing nothing in the office to prevent, will accept it, and find in the discharge of its duties much pleasure. In appearance Truth will be the same, though he may not display it in the same form. It is always the same, without change. There are many writers who in attempting its delination have strangely misconceived it. It was born of heaven pure and beautiful, and its appearance, whatever form it may assume, is full of beauty. If its influence is not equal to its appearance, it, like "Eve's apple," tempts but to destroy.

SONNET 94.

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 rightly 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 its dignity:

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds:
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

He describes a class of contemporary authors, whose writings are cold, impassive, and destitute of merit or influence. They possess ability, but do not display it; make great pretensions, but do not establish them; impart life to their personations, but are unfeeling themselves. Their finical sense of propriety overcomes their vigor of expression, and shields them from all temptation to delineate passion or character. They possess these virtues by inheritance, not labor. They have complete control of themselves, while others who write to some purpose are but "stewards of their excellence" (the authors who gather up, use, and display effectively those qualities of life and character that constitute the true merit of all composition, and which never enter into the conceptions of these fastidious writers). They, like a summer flower, sweet while the summer lasts, live and die to themselves. If they attempt more than they can do, their writings, like that flower whose fragrance is changed by infection to a fetid odor, and less attractive than the ugliest weed, are unhealthy and demoralizing. As the odor of the lily in its decay is more offensive than the odor of the weed, so these writings, how beautiful soever they may seem, if tainted with falsehood, are worse in their effects than the unreliable works of scrubs and hacks.

SONNET 95.

How sweet and lovely dost Thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,

Toth spot the beauty of Thy budding name!
O, in what sweets dost Thou Thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of Thy days,
Making lascivious comments on Thy sport,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;
Naminghy name blesses an ill report.
O, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out Thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!
Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
The hardest knife ill-us'd doth lose his edge.

In

In this stanza he tells us how effectually he has employed Truth in the delineation of error. his dramas Truth has made error charming, by clothing the sins he depicted in attractive words. His lascivious scenes have been so naturally unfolded, that censure for their immoralities was disarmed by the admiration evoked by their beauty. The name of any of his characters was an excuse with the public for any sin it specially portrayed. Everything he has written has received the fullest public approval. This wonderful power is to be used with care, as by improper usage it will lose its effect.

SONNET 96.

Some say Thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say Thy grace is youth and gentle sport:
Both grace and faults are lov'd 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 esteem'd,

So are those errors that in Thee are seen

To truths translated, and for trac things deem'd.

How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst Thou lead away,

If Thou wouldst use the strength of all Thy state!
But do not so; I love Thee in such sort,

As, Thou being Mine, Mine is Thy good report.

In this stanza he tells of the favorable welcome his dramas have received. Fault has been found by some with the licentious scenes he has written, but others have excused them as the product of youth and gayety. In both forms they have their admirers. He has been successful in converting faults into graces. As the worthless jewel on the finger of a powerful queen would be highly esteemed, so are the errors in his dramas, in the garb of Truth, received and adopted by the public as truth indeed. If the wolf could transform himself into the appearance of a lamb, it would add fearfully to his facilities for depredation. So if Thou (Truth) would give "the strength of all Thy state" (the name of Francis Bacon, instead of William Shakespeare, as the author of the dramas), he would add correspondingly to the number of his admirers. But this he must not do. His (Bacon's) love for "Thee" (his thoughts) is of a different sort. Thou (Truth) belongs to him as an author, and as the author (Shakespeare) only can he make report of his thoughts.

SONNET 97.

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!
And yet this time remov'd was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lord's decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit,
For summer and his pleasures wait on Thee,
And, Thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, 't is with so dull a cheer

That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

He makes observations in this stanza upon the change in his life since he quit writing, and the increase and character of the poetry of others.

Since he left writing time has passed heavily. It has been like winter. He has been treated with coldness by friends, and at times driven almost to despair; has had no congenial occupation, and his surroundings imparted a gloom to his mind, which might be fitly compared to the nakedness of a December landscape. Yet it was summer time and succeeded by a "teeming autumn." Poets had been busy, and greatly increased their labors. The world around him was full of poesy, but much of it was anonymous, and some unfather'd (the work of fugitive writers). It had no charm for him. The time was desolate, which his old pursuit would have made delightful. Thou (Truth) was not with him, and he could not write. When he attempted to do so, his writings were dull, cold, and checrless.