Chapter XXI: Section VIII: Moral and æsthetic Emblems (1)

REJOICING much if the end should crown the earlier portions of our work, we enter now on the last and most welcome section of this chapter,—on the Emblems which depict moral qualities and æsthetical properties,—the Emblems which concern the judgments and perceptions of the mind, and the conduct of the heart, the conscience, and the life.

_Quæ ante pedes._

We will initiate this division by the motto and device which Whitney (p. 64) adopts from Sambucus (edition 1564, p. 30),—“Things lying at our feet,”—that is, of immediate importance and urgency. The Emblems are warnings from the hen which is eating her own eggs, and from the cow which is drinking her own milk.

The Hungarian poet thus sets forth his theme,—

“The hen which had seen the eggs to her care entrusted,
Is here sucking them, and hope she holds forth by no pledge.
It is herself she serves and not others,—of future days heedless,
No sense of feeling has she for the good of posterity.
This a fault is in many,—things gained without labour
Thoughtless they waste, unmindful of times that are coming.
So cows suck their own udders,—the milk proper for milk pails
They pilfer away,—and why bear to them the rich fodder?
Not alone for ourselves do we live,—we live from the birth hour
For our friends and our country, and whom the ages shall bring.”

The sentiment is admirable, and well placed by Whitney in the foremost ground,—

“Not for our selues, alone wee are create,
But for our frendes, and for our countries good:
And those, that are vnto theire frendes ingrate,
And not regarde theire ofspringe, and theire blood,
Or hee, that wastes his substance till he begges,
Or selles his landes, which seru’de his parentes well:
Is like the henne, when shee hathe lay’de her egges,
That suckes them vp and leaues the emptie shell,
Euen so theire spoile, to theire reproche, and shame,
Vndoeth theire heire, and quite decayeth theire name.”

These two, Sambucus and Whitney, are the types, affirming that our powers and gifts and opportunities were all bestowed, not for mere selfish enjoyments, but to be improved for the general welfare; Shakespeare is the antitype: he amplifies, and exalts, and finishes; he carries out the thought to its completion, and thus attains absolute perfection; for in _Measure for Measure_ (act i. sc. 1, l. 28, vol. i. p. 296), Vincentio, the duke, addresses Angelo,—

“There is a kind of character in thy life,
That to th’ observer doth thy history
Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings
Are not thine own so proper, as to waste
Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,
Not light them for ourselves; for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch’d
But to fine issues; nor Nature never lends
The smallest scruple of her excellence,
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines
Herself the glory of a creditor,
Both thanks and use.”

Now, there is beauty in the types, brief though they be, and on a very lowly subject: but how admirable is the antitype! It entirely redeems the thought from any associated meanness, carries it out to its full excellence, and clothes it with vestments of inspiration. Such, in truth, is Shakespeare’s great praise;—he can lift another man’s thought out of the dust, and make it a fitting ornament even for an archangel’s diadem.

One of Whitney’s finest Emblems, in point of conception and treatment, and, I believe, peculiar to himself, one of those “newly devised,” is founded on the sentiment, “By help of God” (p. 203).

_Auxilio diuino._
_To_ RICHARDE DRAKE, _Eſquier, in praiſe of
Sir_ FRANCIS DRAKE _Knight._

The representation is that of the hand of Divine Providence issuing from a cloud and holding the girdle which encompasses the earth. With that girdle Sir Francis Drake’s ship, “the Golden Hind,” was drawn and guided round the globe.

The whole Emblem possesses considerable interest,—for it relates to the great national event of Shakespeare’s youth,—the first accomplishment by Englishmen of the earth’s circumnavigation. With no more than 164 able-bodied men, in five small ships, little superior to boats with a deck, the adventurous commander set sail 13th December, 1577; he went by the Straits of Magellan, and on his return doubled the Cape of Good Hope, the 15th of March, 1580, having then only fifty-seven men and three casks of water. The perilous voyage was ended at Plymouth, September the 26th, 1580, after an absence of two years and ten months.

These few particulars give more meaning to the Poet’s description,—

“Throvghe scorchinge heate, throughe coulde, in stormes, and tempests force, By ragged rocks, by shelfes, & sandes: this Knighte did keepe his course. By gapinge gulfes hee pass’d, by monsters of the flood, By pirattes, theeues, and cruell foes, that long’d to spill his blood. That wonder greate to scape: but, GOD was on his side, And throughe them all, in spite of all, his shaken shippe did guide. And, to requite his paines: _By helpe of Power deuine._ His happe, at lengthe did aunswere hope, to finde the goulden mine. Let GRÆCIA then forbeare, to praise her IASON boulde? Who throughe the watchfull dragons pass’d, to win the fleece of goulde. Since by MEDEAS helpe, they weare inchaunted all, And IASON without perrilles, pass’de: the conqueste therefore small? But, hee, of whome I write, this noble minded DRAKE, Did bringe away his goulden fleece, when thousand eies did wake. Wherefore, yee woorthie wightes, that seeke for forreine landes: Yf that you can, come alwaise home, by GANGES goulden sandes. And you, that liue at home, and can not brooke the flood, Geue praise to them, that passe the waues, to doe their countrie good. Before which sorte, as chiefe: in tempeste, and in calme, Sir FRANCIS DRAKE, by due deserte, may weare the goulden palme.”

How similar, in part at least, is the sentiment in _Hamlet_ (act v. sc. 2, l. 8, vol. viii. p. 164),—

“Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well
When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us
There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Rough-hew them how we will.”

In the Emblem we may note the girdle by which Drake’s ship is guided; may it not have been the origin of Puck’s fancy in the _Midsummer Night’s Dream_ (act ii. sc. 1, l. 173, vol. ii. p. 216), when he answers Oberon’s strict command,—

“And be thou here again
Ere the Leviathan can swim a league.

_Puck._ I’ll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.”

Besides, may it not have been from this voyage of Sir Francis Drake, and the accounts which were published respecting it, that the correct knowledge of physical geography was derived which Richard II. displays (act iii. sc. 2, l. 37, &c. vol. iv. p. 165)? as in the lines,—

“when the searching eye of heaven is hid,
Behind the globe, that lights the lower world.
. . . . . .
when from under this terrestrial ball
He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines
And darts his light through every guilty hole.
. . . . . .
revell’d in the night
Whilst we were wandering with the antipodes.”

A mere passing allusion to the same sentiment, a hint respecting it, a single line expressing it, or only a word or two relating to it, may sometimes very decidedly indicate an acquaintance with the author by whom the sentiment has been enunciated in all its fulness. Thus, Shakespeare, in speaking of Benedick, in _Much Ado about Nothing_ (act v. sc. 1, l. 170, vol. ii. p. 75), makes Don Pedro say,—

“An if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly: the
old man’s daughter told us all.”

To which Claudius replies,—

“All, all; and, moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the
garden.”

Now, Whitney (p. 229) has an Emblem on this very subject; the motto, “God lives and sees.” It depicts Adam concealing himself, and a divine light circling the words, “VBI ES?”—_Where art thou?_

_Dominus viuit & videt._

“Behinde a figtree great, him selfe did ADAM hide:
And thought from GOD hee there might lurke, and should not bee espide.
Oh foole, no corners seeke, thoughe thou a sinner bee;
For none but GOD can thee forgiue, who all thy ~waies~ doth
see.”[172]

With the same motto, “VBI ES?” and a similar device, Georgette de Montenay (editions 1584 and 1620) carries out the same thought,—

“_Adam pensoit estre fort bien caché,
Quand il se meit ainsi souz le figuier.
Mais il n’y a cachett[e/] où le peché
Aux yeux de Dieu se puisse desnier.
Se vante donc, qui voudra s’oublier,
Que Dieu ne void des hommes la meschance,
Je croy qu’ à rien ne sert tout ce mestier
Qu’ à se donner à tout peché licence._”

The similarity is too great to be named on Shakespeare’s part an accidental coincidence; it may surely be set down as a direct allusion, not indeed of the mere copyist, but of the writer, who, having in his mind another’s thought, does not quote it literally, but gives no uncertain indication that he gathered it up he cannot tell where, yet has incorporated it among his own treasures, and makes use of it as entirely his own.

From Corrozet, Georgette de Montenay, Le Bey de Batilly, and others their contemporaries, we might adduce various Moral and Æsthetical Emblems to which there are similarities of thought or of expression in Shakespeare’s Dramas, but too slight to deserve special notice. For instance, there are ingratitude, the instability of the world, faith and charity and hope, calumny, adversity, friendship, fearlessness,—but to dwell upon them would lengthen our statements and remarks more than is necessary.

We will, however, make one more extract from Corrozet’s “HECATOMGRAPHIE” (Emb. 83); to the motto, _Beauty the companion of goodness_; which might have been in Duke Vincentio’s mind (_Measure for Measure_, act iii. sc. 1, l. 175, vol. i. p. 340) when he addressed Isabel,—

“The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good; the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair.”

Beautlé compaigne de bonté.

Comme la pierre precieuſe
Eſt à l’anneau d’or bien conioncte,
Ainſi la beaulté gracieuſe
Doibt eſtr[e/] auecq la bonté ioincte.

La pierre bonne
A l’homme donne
Ioyeuseté,
Quand la personne
A voir ſ’adonne
Sa grand clarté,
Mais ſa beaulté
Et dignité
Augmente quand l’or l’enuironne
Que ie compar[e/] à la bonté
Pour ſa treſgrande vtilité
Qui à telle vertu conſonne.

* Form[e/] elegante
Beaulté patente
De personnage
Du tout augmente
Se rend luyſante
Quand il est ſage
Non au viſage,
Mais au courage
Reluyct la bonté excellente
Et alors c’eſt vng chef d’ouurage
Quand on eſt tresbeau de corſage
Et qu’au cueur eſt vertu latente.

The French verse which immediately follows the Emblem well describes it,—

“As, for the precious stone
The ring of gold is coin’d;
So, beauty in its grace
Should be to goodness join’d.”

The dramas we have liberty to select from furnish several instances of the same thought. First, from the _Two Gentlemen of Verona_ (act iv. sc. 2, l. 38, vol. i. p. 135), in that exquisitely beautiful little song which answers the question, “Who is Silvia?”—

“Who is Silvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair, and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her,
That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness,
And, being help’d, inhabits there.

Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling:
To her let us garlands bring.”

But a closer parallelism to Corrozet’s Emblem of beauty joined to goodness occurs in _Henry VIII._ (act ii. sc. 3, lines 60 and 75, vol. vi. pp. 45, 46); it is in the soliloquy or _aside_ speech of the Lord Chamberlain, who had been saying to Anne Bullen,—

“The king’s majesty
Commends his good opinion of you, and
Does purpose honour to you no less flowing
Than Marchioness of Pembroke.”

With perfect tact Anne meets the flowing honours, and says,—

“Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,
As from a blushing handmaid to his highness,
Whose health and royalty I pray for.”

In an _aside_ the Chamberlain owns,—

“I have perused her well;
Beauty and honour in her are so mingled
That they have caught the king: and who knows yet
But from this lady may proceed a gem
To lighten all this isle?”

So on Romeo’s first sight of Juliet _(Romeo and Juliet_, act i. sc. 5, l. 41, vol. vii. p. 30), her beauty and inner worth called forth the confession,—

“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.”

And the Sonnet (CV. vol. ix. p. 603, l. 4) that represents love,—

“Still constant in a wondrous excellence;”

also tells us of the abiding beauty of the soul,—

“‘Fair, kind, and true,’ is all my argument,
‘Fair, kind, and true,’ varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
‘Fair, kind, and true,’ have often lived alone,
Which three till now never kept seat in one.”

The power of Conscience, as the soul’s bulwark against adversities, has been sung from the time when Horace wrote (_Epist._ i. 1. 60),—

“Hic murus aëneus esto,
Nil conscire sibi, nulla pallescere culpa,”—

“This be thy wall of brass, to be conscious to thyself of no shame,
to become pale at no crime.”

Or, in the still more popular ode (_Carm._ i. 22), which being of old recited in the palaces of Mæcenas and Augustus at Rome, has, after the flow of nearly nineteen centuries, been revived in the drawing rooms of Paris and London, and of the whole civilized world;—

“Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus,
Non eget Mauris jaculis, neque arcu,
Non venenatis gravida sagittis,
Fusce, pharetra,”—

“He, sound in his life, from all transgression free,
Doth need no Moorish javelins, nor bended bow,
Nor of arrows winged with poisons a quiver-tree,
Fuscus, to strike his foe.”[173]

Both these sentiments of the lyric poet have been imitated or adapted by the dramatic; as in _2 Henry VI._ (act iii. sc. 2, l. 232, vol. v. p. 171), where the good king exclaims,—

“What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted!
Thrice is he arm’d, that hath his quarrel just,
And he but naked, though lock’d up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.”

And again, in _Titus Andronicus_ (act iv. sc. 2, l. 18, vol. vi. p. 492), in the words of the original, on the scroll which Demetrius picks up,—

“_Dem._ What’s here? A scroll, and written round about!
Let’s see:
[_Reads._] ‘Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus,
Non eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu.’
_Chi._ O, ’tis a verse in Horace; I know it well:
I read it in the grammar long ago.
_Aar._ Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, you have it.
[_Aside._] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!
Here’s no sound jest: the old man hath found their guilt,
And sends them weapons wrapp’d about with lines,
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick.”

Several of the Emblem writers, however, propound a sentiment not so generally known, in which Apollo’s favourite tree, the Laurel, is the token of a soul unalarmed by threatening evils. Sambucus and Whitney so consider it, and illustrate it with the motto,—_The pure conscience is man’s laurel tree._

Conſcientia integra, laurus.

The saying rests on the ancient persuasion that the laurel is the sign of joy, victory and safety, and that it is never struck even by the bolts of Jove. Sambucus, personifying the laurel, celebrates its praise in sixteen elegiac lines beginning,—

“PRONA _virens cælum ſpecto, nec fulmina terrent,
Ob ſcelus excelſa quæ iacit arce pater,” &c._

“Spread out flourishing heaven I survey, nor do lightnings terrify,
Though for crime’s sake the father hurls them from citadels on high,
Yea even with my leaves I crackle, and although burnt
Daphne I name, whom the master’s love so importuned.
So conscious virtue strengthens, and placed far from destruction
Pleasing my state is to powers above, and long time is flourishing.
Men’s voices he never fears, nor the weapons of fire,
Who hath girded his mind round with snow-bright love.
This mind the raging Eumenides will not distress, nor the home
For the sad and the guiltless overturn’d without cause.
Even the hoary swan worn out in inactive old age
Gives forth admonitions, as it sings from a stifling throat;
Pure of heart with its mate conversing, it washes in water,
And morals of clearest hue in due form rehearses.
Who repents of unlawful life, and whom conscious errors
Do not oppress,—that man sings forth hymns everlasting.”

These thoughts in briefer and more nervous style Whitney rehearses to the old theme, _A brazen wall, a sound conscience_ (p. 67),—

_Murus æneus, ſana conſcientia._
_To_ MILES HOBART _Eſquier_.

“BOTHE freshe, and greene, the Laurell standeth sounde,
Thoughe lightninges flasshe, and thunderboltes do flie:
Where, other trees are blasted to the grounde,
Yet, not one leafe of it, is withered drie:
Euen so, the man that hathe a conscience cleare.
When wicked men, doe quake at euerie blaste,
Doth constant stande, and dothe no perrilles feare,
When tempestes rage, doe make the worlde agaste:
Suche men are like vnto the Laurell tree,
The others, like the blasted boughes that die.”

But a much fuller agreement with the above motto does Whitney express in the last stanza of Emblem 32,—

“A conscience cleare, is like a wall of brasse,
That dothe not shake, with euerie shotte that hittes;
Eauen soe there by, our liues wee quiet passe,
When guiltie mindes, are rack’de with fearful fittes:
Then keepe thee pure, and soile thee not with sinne,
For after guilte, thine inwarde greifes beginne.”

The same property is assigned to the Laurel by Joachim Camerarius (“EX RE HERBARIA,” p. 35, edition 1590). He quotes several authorities, or opinions for supposing that the laurel was not injured by lightning. Pliny, he says, supported the notion; the Emperor Tiberius in thunder storms betook himself to the shelter of the laurel; and Augustus before him did the same thing, adding as a further protection a girdle made from the skin of a sea-calf. Our modern authorities give no countenance to either of these fancies.

Now, combining the thoughts on Conscience presented by the Emblems on the subject which have been quoted, can we fail to perceive in Shakespeare, when he speaks of Conscience and its qualities, a general agreement with Sambucus, and more especially with Whitney?

How finely, in _Henry VIII._ (act iii. sc. 2, l. 372, vol. vi. p. 76), do the old Cardinal and his faithful Cromwell converse,—

“_Enter_ CROMWELL, _and stands amazed._
_Wol._ Why, how now, Cromwell!
_Crom._ I have no power to speak, sir.
_Wol._ What, amazed
At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
I am fall’n indeed.
_Crom._ How does your grace?
_Wol._ Why, well:
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now; and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience.
. . . . . . . .
I am able now, methinks,
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,
To endure more miseries and greater far
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.”

And, on the other hand, the stings of Conscience, the deep remorse for iniquities, the self-condemnation which lights upon the sinful, never had expounder so forcible and true to nature. When Alonso, as portrayed in the _Tempest_ (act iii. sc. 3, l. 95, vol. i. p. 53), thought of his cruel treachery to his brother Prospero, he says,—

“O, it is monstrous, monstrous!
Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it:
The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder.
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced
The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.”

And the King’s dream, on the eve of Bosworth battle (_Richard III._, act v. sc. 3, lines 179, 193, and 200, vol. v. p. 625), what a picture it gives of the tumult of his soul!—

“O coward conscience, how dost thou affright me!
. . . . . . . .
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
. . . . . . . .
There is no creature loves me;
And, if I die, no soul shall pity me:—
Nay, wherefore should they? since that I myself,
Find in myself no pity to myself.
Methought, the souls of all that I had murder’d
Came to my tent; and everyone did threat
To-morrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard.”

Various expressions of the dramatist may end this notice of the Judge within us,—

“The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul.”

“Every man’s conscience is a thousand swords
To fight against that bloody homicide.”

“I’ll haunt thee, like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy thought.”

“Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all.”

In some degree allied to the power of conscience is the retribution for sin ordained by the Divine Wisdom. We have not an Emblem to present in illustration, but the lines from _King Lear_ (act v. sc. 3. l. 171, vol. viii. p. 416),—

“The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us,”—

are so co-incident with a sentiment in the _Confessions_ (bk. i. c. 12, § 19) of the great Augustine that they deserve at least to be set in juxta-position. The Bishop is addressing the Supreme in prayer, and naming the sins and follies of his youth, says,—

“_De peccanti meipso justè retribuebas mihi._ JUSISTI _enim, & sic
est, ut pœna sua sibi sit omnis inordinatus animis._”

_i.e._ “By my own sin Thou didst justly punish me. For thou hast commanded, and so it is, that every inordinate affection should bear its own punishment.”[174]

“_Timon of Athens_,” we are informed by Dr. Drake (vol. ii. p. 447), “is an admirable satire on the folly and ingratitude of mankind; the former exemplified in the thoughtless profusion of Timon, the latter in the conduct of his pretended friends; it is, as Dr. Johnson observes,—

“‘A very powerful warning against that ostentatious liberality, which scatters bounty, but confers no benefits, and buys flattery but not friendship.’”

There is some doubt whether Shakespeare derived his idea of this play from the notices of Timon which appear in Lucian, or from those given by Plutarch. The fact, however, that the very excellent work by Sir Thomas North, Knight, _The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romaines, &c._, was published in 1579,—and that Shakespeare copies it very closely in the account of Timon’s sepulchre and epitaph, show, I think, Plutarch to have been the source of his knowledge of Timon’s character and life.

One of the Emblem writers, Sambucus, treated of the same subject in eighteen Latin elegiacs, and expressly named it, _Timon the Misanthrope_. The scene, too, which the device represents, is in a garden, and we can very readily fancy that the figure on the left is the old steward Flavius come to reason with his master,—

Μισάνθρωπ!ος! Τίμων.
_Ad Hieron. Cardanum._

ODERAT _hic cunctos, nec ſe, nec amabat amicos,
Μισῶν ἀνθρώπους nomina digna gerens.
Hoc vitium, & morbus de bili naſcitur atra,
Anxiat hæc, curas ſuppeditatque graues.
Quapropter cecidiſſe piro, fregiſſeque crura
Fertur, & auxilium non petiiſſe malo.
Suauibus à sociis, & conſuetudine dulci
Qui se ſubducunt, vulnera ſæua ferunt.
Conditio hæc miſera eſt, triſtes ſuſpiria ducunt,
Cumque nihil cauſæ eſt, occubuiſſe velint.
At tu dum poteris, noto ſociere ſodali,
Subleuet vt preſſum, corque dolore vacet.
Quos nulla attingunt prorſus commercia grato
Atque ſodalitio, ſubſidiisque carent:
Aut Dij ſunt proprij, aut falſus peruertit inanes
Senſus, vt hos ſtolidos, vanaque corda putes.
Tu verò tandem nobis dialectica ſponte
Donata, in lucem mittito, ſi memor es._

In this case we have given the Latin of Sambucus in full, and append a nearly literal translation,—

“All men did he hate, nor loved himself, nor his kindred,—
One hating mankind was the name, worthy of him, he bore.
This faultiness and disease from the black bile arise,
When freely it flows heavy cares it increases.
Wherefore from a pear tree he is said to have fallen,
To have broken his legs, nor help to have sought for the evil.
From pleasant companions, and sweet conversation
They who withdraw themselves, cruel wounds have to bear.
Wretched this state of theirs, sorrowful what sighs they draw,
And though never a cause arise, ’tis their wish to have died.
But thou, while the power remains, join thy well-known companion,
Thee overwhelmed he strengthens, and free sets the heart from its
grief.
Whom, with a friend that is pleasing, never intercourse touches,
Without companionship, long without assistance they remain.
Either the gods are our own, or false feeling perverteth the soul,
And you fancy men stupid, and their hearts all are vain.
To us at length reasoning power freely being granted,
Into light do thou send them, if of light thou art mindful.”

The character here sketched is deficient in the thorough heartiness of hatred for which Shakespeare’s Timon is distinguished, yet may it have served him for the primal material out of which to create the drama. In Sambucus there is a mistiness of thought and language which might be said almost to prefigure the doubtful utterances of some of our modern philosophers, but in Shakespeare the master himself takes in hand the pencil of true genius, and by the contrasts and harmonies, the unmistakeable delineations and portraitures, lays on the canvas a picture as rich in its colouring as it is constant in its fidelity to nature, and as perfect in its finish as it is bold in its conceptions.

The extravagance of Timon’s hatred may be gathered from only a few of his expressions,—

“Burn, house! sink, Athens! henceforth hated be
Of Timon man and all humanity.”
_Timon of Athens_, act iii. sc. 6, l. 103

“Timon will to the woods, where he shall find
The unkindest beast more kinder than mankind
The gods confound—hear me, you good gods all!—
The Athenians both within and out that wall!
And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow
To the whole race of mankind, high and low!
Amen.”
Act iv. sc. 1, l. 35.

“All is oblique;
There’s nothing level in our cursed natures
But direct villany. Therefore be abhorr’d
All feasts, societies and throngs of men.”
Act iv. sc. 3, l. 18

“I am misanthropos, and hate mankind.
For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.”
Act iv. sc. 3, l. 51

“I never had honest man about me, I; all
I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains.”
Act iv. sc. 3, l. 475

And so his ungoverned passion of hatred goes on until it culminates in the epitaph placed on his tomb, which he names his “everlasting mansion,”—

“Upon the beached verge of the salt flood.”

That epitaph as given by Shakespeare, from North’s _Plutarch_ (edition 1579, p. 1003), is almost a literal rendering from the real epitaph recorded in the Greek Anthology (Jacobs, vol. i. p. 86),—

“Ἐνθάδ’ ἀποῤῥηξας ψυχὴν βαρυδαίμονα κεῖμαι,
Τοὔνομα δ’ οὐ πεύσεσθε, κακοὶ δὲ κακῶς ἀπόλοισθε.”

Of which a very close translation will be,—

“Here, having rent asunder a dæmon oppressed soul, I lie;
The name ye shall not inquire, but ye bad ones badly shall perish.”

The epitaph of the drama (_Timon of Athens_, act v. sc. 4, l. 69, vol. vii. p. 305) is thus read by Alcibiades from the wax impression taken at the tomb,—

“Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft:
Seek not my name: a plague consume you wicked caitiffs left!
Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate:
Pass by and curse thy fill: but pass and stay not here thy gait.”

Plutarch[175] introduces a mention of Timon into the life of Marc Antony, whom he compares in some respects to the misanthrope of Athens. He gives the same epitaph as that of the Anthology above quoted, except a letter or two,—

“Ἐνθαδ’ ἀποῤῥήξας ψυχὴν βαρυδαίμονα κεῖμαι,
Τοὔνομα δ’ οὐ πευσοισθε, κακοὶ δὲ κακῶς ἀπόλοισθε.”

Plutarch avers, “καὶ τοὺτο μὲν αὐτὸν ἔτιζῶντα πεποιηκέναι λέγουσι,”—“And people say that during his life he himself made this epitaph.” The narrator then adds, “τοὺτο δε περιφερόμενον, Καλλιμάχου εστι,”—“But this round the margin is by Callimachus,”—

“Τίμων μισάνθρωπος ἐσοικέω· ἀλλα πάρελθε
Οἰμώζειν εἴπας πολλὰ, πάρελθε μόνον.”

“I, Timon the manhater dwell within: but pass by,
To bewail _me_ thou hast spoken many things;—only pass by.“

The two epitaphs Shakespeare has combined into one, showing indeed his acquaintance with the above passage through North’s _Plutarch_, but not discriminating the authorship of the two parts. North’s translation of the epitaphs is simple and expressive, but the Langhornes, in 1770, vulgarise the lines into,—

“At last I’ve bid the knaves farewell
Ask not my name, but go to hell.”

“My name is Timon: knaves begone,
Curse me, but come not near my stone.”

How Wrangham, in his edition of the Langhornes, 1826, could without notice let this pass for a translation, is altogether unaccountable!

Shakespeare’s, adapted as it is by Sir Thomas North in 1612, may certainly be regarded as a direct version from the Greek, and might reasonably be adduced to prove that he possessed some knowledge of that language. Probably, however, he collected, as he could, the general particulars respecting the veritable and historical Timon, and obtained the help of some man of learning so as to give the very epitaph which in the time of the Peloponnesian war had been placed on the thorn-surrounded sepulchre of the Athenian misanthrope.

To conclude this notice we may observe that the breaking of the legs, which Sambucus mentions, is said to have been the actual cause of the real Timon’s death; for that in his hatred of mankind he even hated himself, and would not allow a surgeon to attempt his cure.

Envy and Hatred may be considered as nearly allied, the latter too often springing from the former. Alciat, in his 71st Emblem, gives a brief description of Envy,—

“SQVALLIDA _vipereas manducans femina carnes,
Cuiq. dolent oculi, quæq. suum cor edit,
Quam macies & pallor habent, spinosaq. gestat
Tela manu: talis pingitur Inuidia._”

Thus amplified with considerable force of expression by Whitney (p. 94),[176]—

_Inuidiæ deſcriptio._

“WHAT hideous hagge with visage sterne appeares?
Whose feeble limmes, can scarce the bodie staie:
This, Enuie is: leane, pale, and full of yeares,
Who with the blisse of other pines awaie.
And what declares, her eating vipers broode?
That poysoned thoughtes, bee euermore her foode.

What meanes her eies? so bleared, sore, and redd:
Her mourninge still, to see an others gaine.
And what is mente by snakes vpon her head?
The fruite that springes, of such a venomed braine.
But whie, her harte shee rentes within her brest?
It shewes her selfe, doth worke her owne vnrest.

Whie lookes shee wronge? bicause shee woulde not see,
An happie wight, which is to her a hell:
What other partes within this furie bee?
Her harte, with gall: her tonge, with stinges doth swell.
And laste of all, her staffe with prickes aboundes:
Which showes her wordes, wherewith the good shee woundes.”

The dramatist speaks of the horrid creature with equal power. Among his phrases are,—

“Thou makest thy knife keen; but no metal can,
No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness
Of thy sharp envy.”
_Merchant of Venice_, act iv. sc. 1, l. 124

“And for we think the eagle-winged pride
Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,
With rival-hating envy, set on you
To wake our peace.”
_Richard II._, act i. sc. 3, l. 129

“Would curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s groan,
I would invent as bitter-searching terms,
As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear,
Deliver’d strongly through my fixed teeth,
With full as many signs of deadly hate,
As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave.”
_2 Hen. VI._, act iii. sc. 2, l. 310

“’tis greater skill
In a true hate, to pray they have their will:
The very devils cannot plague them better.”
_Cymbeline_, act ii. sc. 5, l. 33

“Men that make
Envy and crooked malice nourishment
Dare bite the best.”
_Hen. VIII._, act v. sc. 3, l. 43

“That monster envy.”
_Pericles_, act iv. _Introd._, l. 12

The ill-famed Thersites, that railer of the Grecian camp, may close the array against “the hideous hagge with visage sterne” (_Troilus and Cressida_, act ii. sc. 3, l. 18, vol. vi. p. 169),—

“I have said my prayers; and devil Envy say Amen.”

The wrong done to the soul, through denying it at the last hour the consolations of religion, or through negligence in not informing it of its danger when severe illness arises, is set forth with true Shakespearean power in Holbein’s _Simulachres & Historiees faces de la Mort_ (Lyons, 1538), on sign. Nij,—

“O si ceulx, qui font telles choses, scauoient le mal qu’ilz font, ilz ne cõmettroient iamais vne si grande faulte. Car de me oster mes biens, persecuter ma personne, denigrer ma renommée, ruyner ma maison, destruire mõ parẽtaige, scãdalizer ma famille, criminer ma vie, ces ouures sõt dũg cruel ennemy. Mais d’estre occasion, q̃ ie perde mõ ame, pour nõ la cõseiller au besoing, c’est vne oeuure dũg diable d’Enfer. Car pire est q̃ vng diable l’hõme, qui trompe le malade.”

It is in a similar strain that Shakespeare in _Othello_ (act iii. sc. 3, lines 145 and 159, vol. viii. pp. 512, 513) speaks of the wrong done by keeping back confidence, and by countenancing calumny,—

“_Oth._ Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago,
If thou but think’st him wrong’d and mak’st his ear
A stranger to thy thoughts.
. . . . . . . .
_Iago._ It were not for your quiet nor your good,
Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom,
To let you know my thoughts.
_Oth._ What dost thou mean?
_Iago._ Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; ’tis something, nothing;
’Twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him
And makes me poor indeed.”

The gallant ship, courageously handled and with high soul of perseverance and fearlessness guided through adverse waves, has for long ages been the type of brave men and brave women struggling against difficulties, or of states and nations amid opposing influences battling for deliverance and victory. Even if that gallant ship fails in her voyage she becomes a fitting type, how “human affairs may decline at their highest.” So Sambucus, and Whitney after him (p. 11), adapt their device and stanzas to the motto,—

Res humanæ in ſummo declinant.

IN _medio librat Phœbus dum lumina cælo,
Diſſoluit radiis, quæ cecidere, niues.
Cùm res humanæ in ſummo ſtant, ſæpe liqueſcunt:
Et nihil æternum, quod rapit atra dies.
Nil iuuat ingentes habitare palatia Reges,
Conditio miſeros hæc eadémque manet.
Mors æquat cunctos, opibus nec parcit in horam,
Verbáque dum Volitant, ocyus illa venit.
Heu, leuiter ventus pellit nos omnis inermes,
Concidimus citiùs quàm leuat aura roſas._

“The gallante Shipp, that cutts the azure surge,
And hathe both tide, and wisshed windes, at will:
Her tackle sure, with shotte her foes to vrge,
With Captaines boulde, and marriners of skill,
With streamers, flagges, topgallantes, pendantes braue,
When Seas do rage, is swallowed in the waue.

The snowe, that falles vppon the mountaines greate,
Though on the Alpes, which seeme the clowdes to reache,
Can not indure the force of Phœbus heate,
But wastes awaie, Experience doth vs teache:
Which warneth all, on Fortunes wheele that clime
To beare in minde how they haue but a time.”

But with brighter auguries, though from a similar device, Alciat (Emb. 43) shadows forth hope for a commonwealth when dangers are threatening. A noble vessel with its sails set is tossing upon the billows, the winds, however, wafting it forward; then it is he gives utterance to the thought, _Constancy the Companion of Victory_; and thus illustrates his meaning,[177]—

“By storms that are numberless our Commonwealth is shaken,
And hope for safety in the future, hope alone is present:
So a ship with the ocean about her, when the winds seize her,
Gapes with wide fissures ’mid the treacherous waters.
What of help, the shining stars, brothers of Helen, can bring:
To spirits cast down good hope soon doth restore.”

Whitney (p. 37), from the same motto and device, almost with a clarion’s sound, re-echoes the thought,—

_Constantia comes victoriæ._
_To_ MILES CORBET _Esſquier._

“THE shippe, that longe vppon the sea dothe saile,
And here, and there, with varrijng windes is toste:
On rockes, and sandes, in daunger ofte to quaile.
Yet at the lengthe, obtaines the wished coaste:
Which beinge wonne, the trompetts ratlinge blaste,
Dothe teare the skie, for ioye of perills paste.

Thoughe master reste, thoughe Pilotte take his ease,
Yet nighte, and day, the ship her course dothe keepe:
So, whilst that man dothe saile theise worldlie seas,
His voyage shortes: althoughe he wake, or sleepe.
And if he keepe his course directe, he winnes
That wished porte, where lastinge ioye beginnes.”

To a similar purport is the “FINIS CORONAT OPVS,” _The end crowns the work_,—of Otho Vænius (p. 108), if perchance Shakespeare may have seen it. Cupid is watching a sea-tossed ship, and appears to say,—

“_Ni ratis optatum varijs iactata procellis
Obtineat portum, tum perijsse puta.
Futilis est diuturnus amor, ni in fine triumphet,
Nam benè cœpit opus, qui benè finit opus._”

[Sidenote: _i.e._]

“Unless the raft though tossed by various storms
The port desired obtains, think that it perishes;
Vain is the daily love if it no triumph forms,
For well he work begins, who well work finishes.”

Thus, however, rendered at the time into English and Italian,—

“_Where the end is good all is good._”

“The ship toste by the waues doth to no purpose saile,
Vnlesse the porte shee gayn whereto her cours doth tend.
Right so th’ euent of loue appeereth in the end,
For losse it is to loue and neuer to preuaile.”

“Il fine corona l’opere.”

“_Inutile è la naue, che in mar vaga
Senza prender giamai l’amato porto:
Impiagato d’Amor quel cor’ è à torto,
Che con vano sperar mai non s’appaga._”

Messin in his translation of Boissard’s _Emblems_ (edition 1588, p. 24), takes the motto, “AV NAVIRE AGITÉ _semble le jour de l’homme_,” and dilates into four stanzas the neatly expressed single stanza of the original.

“_Vita hæc est tanquam pelago commissa carina,
Instanti semper proxima naufragio.
Optima res homini est non nasci: proxima, si te
Nasci fata velent, quàm citò posse mori._”

[Sidenote: _i.e._]

“This life is as a keel entrusted to the sea,
Ever to threatening shipwreck nearest.
Not to be born for man is best; next, if to thee
The fates give birth, quick death is dearest.”

Shakespeare takes up these various ideas of which the ship in storm and in calm is typical, and to some of them undoubtedly gives utterance from the lips of the dauntless Margaret of Anjou (_3 Henry VI._, act v. sc. 4, l. 1, vol. v. p. 325),—

“Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss,
But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.
What though the mast be now blown overboard,
The cable broke, our holding-anchor lost,
And half our sailors swallow’d in the flood?
Yet lives our pilot still: Is’t meet that he
Should leave the helm and like a fearful lad
With tearful eyes add water to the sea
And give more strength to that which hath too much;
Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on the rock,
Which industry and courage might have saved?
Ah, what a shame! ah, what a fault were this!
Say, Warwick was our anchor; what of that?
And Montague our top-mast; what of him?
Our slaughter’d friends the tackles; what of these?
Why, is not Oxford here another anchor?
And Somerset another goodly mast?
The friends of France our shrouds and tacklings?
And, though unskilful, why not Ned and I
For once allow’d the skilful pilot’s charge?
We will not from the helm to sit and weep,
But keep our course, though the rough wind say,—no,
From shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck.
As good to chide the waves as speak them fair.
And what is Edward but a ruthless sea?
What Clarence but a quicksand of deceit?
And Richard but a rugged fatal rock?
All these the enemies to our poor bark.
Say, you can swim; alas, ’tis but a while:
Tread on the sand; why, there you quickly sink:
Bestride the rock; the tide will wash you off,
Or else you famish; that’s a threefold death.
This speak I, lords, to let you understand,
If case some one of you would fly from us,
That there’s no hoped-for mercy with the brothers
More than with ruthless waves, with sands and rocks.
Why, courage then! what cannot be avoided
’Twere childish weakness to lament or fear.”

Well did the bold queen merit the outspoken praises of her son,—

“Methinks, a woman of this valiant spirit
Should, if a coward heard her speak these words,
Infuse his breast with magnanimity,
And make him, naked, foil a man at arms.”

And in a like strain, when Agamemnon would show that the difficulties of the ten years’ siege of Troy were (l. 20),—

“But the protractive trials of great Jove
To find persistive constancy in men;”

the venerable Nestor, in _Troilus and Cressida_ (act i. sc. 3, l. 33, vol. vi. p. 142), enforces the thought by adding,—

“In the reproof of chance
Lies the true proof of men: the sea being smooth,
How many shallow bauble boats dare sail
Upon her patient breast, making their way
With those of nobler bulk!
But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage
The gentle Thetis, and anon behold
The strong-ribb’d bark through liquid mountains cut,
Bounding between the two moist elements
Like Perseus’ horse.
. . . . . . . .
Even so
Doth valour’s show and valour’s worth divide
In storms of fortune: for in her ray and brightness
The herd hath more annoyance by the breese
Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind
Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks,
And flies fled under shade, why then the thing of courage
As roused with rage with rage doth sympathize,
And with an accent tuned in selfsame key
Retorts to chiding fortune.”

To the same great sentiments Georgette Montenay’s “EMBLEMES CHRESTIENNES” (Rochelle edition, p. 11) supplies a very suitable illustration; it is to the motto, _Quem timebo_?—“Whom shall I fear?”—

“_Du grand peril des vens & de la mer,
C’est homme a bien cognoissance très claire,
Et ne craind point de se voir abismer
Rusque son Dieu l’adresse et luy esclaire._”

The device itself is excellent,—a single mariner on a tempestuous sea, undaunted in his little skiff; and the hand of Providence, issuing from a cloud, holds out to him a beacon light.

“On a student entangled in love,” is the subject of Alciat’s 108th Emblem. The lover appears to have been a jurisconsult, whom Alciat, himself a jurisconsult, represents,—

“Immersed in studies, in oratory and right well skilled,
And great especially in all the processes of law,
Haliarina he loves; as much as ever loved
The Thracian prince his sister’s beauteous maid.
Why in Cyprus dost thou overcome Pallas by another judge?
Sufficient is it not to conquer at Mount Ida?”

The unfinished thoughts of Alciat are brought out more completely by Whitney, who thus illustrates his subject (p. 135),—

_Jn ſtudioſum captum amore._

“A Reuerend sage, of wisedome most profounde,
Beganne to doate, and laye awaye his bookes:
For CVPID then, his tender harte did wounde,
That onlie nowe, he lik’de his ladies lookes?
Oh VENVS staie? since once the price was thine,
Thou ought’st not still, at PALLAS thus repine.”

Note, now, how the thoughts of the Emblematists, though greatly excelled in the language which clothes them, are matched by the avowals which the severe and grave Angelo made to himself in _Measure for Measure_ (act ii. sc. 4, l. 1, vol. i. p. 327). He had been disposed to carry out against another the full severity of the law, which he now felt himself inclined to infringe, but confesses,—

“When I would pray and think, I think and pray
To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words:
Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,
Anchors on Isabel: Heaven in my mouth,
As if I did but only chew his name;
And in my heart the strong and swelling evil
Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied,
Is like a good thing, being often read,
Grown fear’d and tedious; yea, my gravity,
Wherein—let no man hear me—I take pride,
Could I with boot change for an idle plume,
Which the air beats for vain. O place, O form,
How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,
Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls
To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood:
Let’s write good angel on the devil’s horn;
’Tis not the devil’s crest.”

But the entire force of this parallelism in thought is scarcely to be apprehended, unless we mark Angelo’s previous conflict of desire and judgment. Isabel utters the wish, “Heaven keep your honour safe!” And after a hearty “Amen,” the old man confesses to himself (p. 324),—

“For I am that way going to temptation,
Where prayers cross.”
Act ii. sc. 2, l. 158.

“What’s this, what’s this? Is this her fault or mine?
The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
Ha!
Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I
That, lying by the violet in the sun,
Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,
Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be
That modesty may more betray our sense
Than woman’s lightness.”
Act ii. sc. 2, l. 162.

“What, do I love her,
That I desire to hear her speak again,
And feast upon her eyes? What is’t I dream on?
O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint,
With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous
Is that temptation that doth goad us on
To sin in loving virtue.”
Act ii. sc. 2, l. 177

There is an Emblem by Whitney (p. 131), which, though in some respects similar to one at p. 178 of the “PEGMA” by Costalius, 1555, entitled “Iron,” “on the misery of the human lot,” is to a very great degree his own, and which makes it appear in a stronger light than usual, that a close resemblance exists between his ideas and even expressions and those of Shakespeare. The subject is “Writings remain,” and the device the overthrow of stately buildings, while books continue unharmed.

_Scripta manent._

_To Sir_ ARTHVRE MANWARINGE _Knight._

“If mightie TROIE, with gates of steele, and brasse,
Bee worne awaie, with tracte of stealinge time:
If CARTHAGE, raste: if THEBES be growne with grasse.
If BABEL stoope: that to the cloudes did clime:
If ATHENS, and NVMANTIA suffered spoile:
If ÆGYPT spires, be euened with the soile.

Then, what maye laste, which time dothe not impeache,
Since that wee see, theise monumentes are gone:
Nothinge at all, but time doth ouer reache,
It eates the steele, and weares the marble stone:
But writinges laste, thoughe yt doe what it can,
And are preseru’d, euen since the worlde began.

And so they shall, while that they same dothe laste,
Which haue declar’d, and shall to future age:
What thinges before three thousande yeares haue paste,
What martiall knightes, haue march’d vppon this stage:
Whose actes, in bookes if writers did not saue,
Their fame had ceaste, and gone with them to graue.

Of SAMSONS strengthe, of worthie IOSVAS might.
Of DAVIDS actes, of ALEXANDERS force.
Of CÆESAR greate; and SCIPIO noble knight,
Howe shoulde we speake, but bookes thereof discourse:
Then fauour them, that learne within their youthe:
But loue them beste, that learne, and write the truthe.”

_La vie de Memoire_, and _Vine ut viuas_,—“Live that you may live,”—emblematically set forth by pen, and book, and obelisk, and ruined towers, in Boissard’s _Emblems_ by Messin (1588, pp. 40, 41), give the same sentiment, and in the Latin by a few brief lines,—

“_Non omnis vivit, vitâ qui spirat in istâ:
Sed qui post fati funera vivit adhuc:
Et cui posteritas famæ præconia servat
Æternum is, calamo vindice, nomen habet._”

Thus having the main idea taken up in the last of the four French stanzas,—

“Mais qui de ses vertus la plume a pour garand:
Celuy centre le temps invincible se rend:
Car elle vainc du temps & l’effort, & l’injure.”

In various instances, only with greater strength and beauty, Shakespeare gives utterance to the same sequences of thought. When, in _Love’s Labour’s Lost_ (act i. sc. 1, l. 1, vol. ii. p. 97), fashioning his court to be,—

“A little Academe,
Still and contemplative in living art,”

Ferdinand, king of Navarre, proclaims,—

“Let Fame, that all hunt after in their lives,
Live register’d upon our brazen tombs,
And then grace us in the disgrace of death;
When, spite of cormorant devouring Time,
The endeavour of this present breath may buy
That honour which shall bate his scythe’s keen edge,
And make us heirs of all eternity.”

In his Sonnets, more especially, Shakespeare celebrates the enduring glory of the mind’s treasures. Thus, the 55th Sonnet (_Works_, vol. ix. p. 578) is written almost as Whitney wrote,—

“Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents,
Than unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish lime.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry.
Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
’Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity,
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room,
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.”

But the 65th Sonnet (p. 583) is still more in accordance with Whitney’s ideas,—not a transcript of them, but an appropriation,—

“Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o’ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack!
Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
No one, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.”

How closely, too, are these thoughts allied to some in that Emblem (p. 197) in which Whitney, following Hadrian Junius, so well celebrates “the eternal glory of the pen.”

Pennæ gloria immortalis.

_Ad Iacobum Blondelium._

]

He has been telling of Sidney’s praise, and in a well-turned compliment to him and to his other friend, “EDWARDE DIER,” makes the award,—

“This Embleme lo, I did present, vnto this woorthie Knight. Who, did the same refuse, as not his proper due: And at the first, his sentence was, it did belonge to you. Wherefore, lo, fame with trompe, that mountes vnto the skye: And, farre aboue the highest spire, from pole, to pole dothe flye, Heere houereth at your will, with pen adorn’d with baies: Which for you bothe, shee hath prepar’d, vnto your endlesse praise. The laurell leafe for you, for him, the goulden pen; The honours that the Muses giue, vnto the rarest men. Wherefore, proceede I praye, vnto your lasting fame; For writinges last when wee bee gonne, and doe preserue our name. And whilst wee tarrye heere, no treasure can procure, The palme that waites vpon the pen, which euer doth indure. Two thousand yeares, and more, HOMERVS wrat his books; And yet, the same doth still remayne, and keepes his former looke. Wheare Ægypte spires bee gonne, and ROME doth ruine feele, Yet, both begonne since he was borne, thus time doth turne the wheele. Yea, thoughe some Monarche greate some worke should take in hand, Of marble, or of Adamant, that manie worldes shoulde stande, Yet, should one only man, with labour of the braine, Bequeathe the world a monument, that longer shoulde remaine, And when that marble waules, with force of time should waste; It should indure from age, to age, and yet no age should taste.”