the superintending genius of all his writings, is likened to a careful housewife, who is regardful of all matters appertaining to the household. Her babe bears the same relation to her that the author of Othello bears to Thou. The doubt is illustrated by the chicken that has escaped. Thou (Truth), who forsakes the author, like the mother who leaves her child to reclaim the chicken, is in hot pursuit after the doubt. The author, like the babe, loudly crying, follows Thee (his own thoughts) far behind. Which is right? This is the question. Thee (his own thoughts) suggests that the scene will be more effective if worked up slowly, but Thou (Truth) thinks it should be rapid. Should Othello, in his anger, hate, and jealousy, have slain Desdemona on the instant, after being convinced of her guilt? or was it natural for him to wait, and do it deliberately after his passion had cooled? Truth favors the former view, and would satisfy the doubt at once, but the author selects the latter, and is represented as crying for truth to return; in other words, by arousing pity for Othello, he makes the scene conformable to nature, and thus "Thy Will" (Shakespeare, the imputed author, the only author known to the world) is reinstated in Thou's favor.

SONNET 144.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest Me still;
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman color'd ill.

To win Me soon to hell, My female evil
Tempteth My better angel from My side,
And would corrupt My saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that My angel be turn'd fiend
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;

But being both from Me, both to each friend,

I guess one angel in another's hell:

Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
Till My bad angel fire My good one out.

The two angels in this stanza are Macbeth and his wife. Macbeth is the "better angel," and Lady Macbeth the "woman color'd ill." Lady Macbeth is the tempter. By her influence Macbeth is corrupted and led into crime. The natural goodness of his nature is overcome by her pride and strength of character, and the evil ambition of both. The Tragedy is not advanced sufficiently to enable the author to forecast the fate of Macbeth. He suspects what it may be, but is yet uncertain. As the creation is his own, and the two angels are friends, he guesses that one is enmeshed in the toils of the other. Of this, however, he will not be positive until the tragedy is completed.

SONNET 145.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said "I hate"
To Me that languish'd for her sake;

But when she saw My woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

Was us'd in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet.
"I hate" she altered with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day

Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;

"I hate " from hate away she threw,
And sav'd My life, saying "not you."

The hatred excited by the crimes of Macbeth and his wife is portrayed by the whisper of Love in his (the author's) ear of the words "I hate," in the midst of his work. She is moved with pity at the sight of woe and horror he is depicting. Having been kind and gentle on former visits. when he was writing, she greets him anew with the same words in milder tone, which dispels all dread of her displeasure when he hears the qualification, "not you." Being exonerated, his "life" (Macbeth) is saved, and the tragedy continued.

SONNET 146.

Poor soul, the centre of My sinful earth,
Press'd by 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.

The literal meaning of the first line of this stanza is, "Macbeth, the central figure in my tragedy." He is represented at that stage of the drama where his castle is invested by the army of Malcolm and Macduff. He is suffering within from fear, and making a show of ability to resist, by the display of his banners on the outward walls. This show and bravado will avail nothing, and the thought of death and its consequences afflicts him. Aggravated by his servant's report of the enemy's force, he gathers fresh courage by recalling the "terms divine," the promise of the witches that he need not fear till Birnam Wood do come to Dunsinane, and that he should not yield to one of woman born (the previous promises of the same witches, foretelling his greatness, which had been confirmed). He ceases to have faith in human power, and relies entirely upon the witches' prophecy, which he deems of divine origin. He slays young Siward, which strengthens his faith in his invulnerability. The picture is the same as the one more fully detailed in the tragedy.

SONNET 147.

My Love is as a fever, longing still

For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to My Love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left Me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire is death, which physic did except.

Past cure I am, now reason is past care,

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

My thoughts and My discourse as madmen's are,

At random from the truth vainly express'd;

For I have sworn Thee fair and thought Thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

His Love (the Tragedy) is yet in progress. The death of Lady Macbeth must furnish some counterpoise to the crimes that have stained her life. He likens his Love (the Tragedy) to a fever still in progress, feeding upon all the disturbances which aggravate its intensity. He is depicting Lady Macbeth. Her reason has fled. Her physician can be of no service, death, which defies medicine, being near. She is frantic for want of rest. She talks madly of her life, referring in random expressions to her foul and bloody crimes. Without exciting some pity for her in the audience that witness the performance, nothing can make her realize the personal attractions of beauty and intellect with which he intended to endow her. She will be only black in crime and dark in delirium, without sympathy, and detested for her infamy.

SONNET 148.

O Me, what eyes hath love put in My head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is My judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon My false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?