As one that inly mourned; so was she sad, Seemed in her heart some hidden core she had, So Of ancient kings and queens, that had of yore Whom to avenge, she had this knight from far compelled. Behind her, far away, a dwarf did lag, That lazy seemed in being ever last, Of needments at his back. Thus as they past, Did pour into his leman's lap so fast, That every wight to shroud it did constrain, And this fair couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. Enforced to seek some covert nigh at hand, A shady grove, not far away, they spied, And all within were paths and alleys wide, With footing worn, and leading inward far; Fair harbor, that them seems; so in they entered are. And forth they pass, with pleasure forward led, Much can they praise the trees, so straight and high, The Laurel, meed of mighty conquerors, Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, When, weening to return whence they did stray, That which of them to take, in divers doubt they been. But little is known, with certainty, of the incidents of Shakspeare's life. He was born at Stratford-on-Avon, was the son of a wool-comber or glover, and received some education at a grammar-school. While yet a minor, he married Anne Hathaway, a woman seven years older than himself. He had one son, two daughters, and three grandsons; the latter died without children, and there now remains no descendant of the great poet. It is supposed his dramatic genius was developed by being admitted behind the scenes, at the performances of the London players, in Stratford. He removed to London when about twenty-two years of age, where he soon rose to distinction in the theatre. He was considered "of good account," as an actor; "but the cause of his unexampled success was his immortal dramas, the delight and wonder of his age, 'That so did take Eliza and our James.'" He was familiar with the nobles, wits and poets, of his day, and was usually styled the "gentle Shakspeare." He received annually from the theatre what was equal to £1500 at the present day, In the fulness of his fame, with a handsome competency, and before age had chilled the enjoyments of life, the poet returned to his native town, to spend the remainder of his days among the quiet scenes and the friends of his youth. Four years he spent in this dignified retirement, and the history of literature scarcely presents another such picture of calm felicity and satisfied ambition. He died at the early age of fifty-two years. In miscellaneous poetry, with the exception of the Faery Queen, there are no poems equal to those of this great dramatist. His sonnets are mostly addressed to some male object, and are extravagant and enthusiastic in their character, though they bear the impress of strong passion and deep sincerity. The following beautiful sonnet seems to have been produced by a feeling of premature age. "That time of year, thou mayest in me behold, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which, by and by, black night doth take away, In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, [From "Romeo and Juliet.”] LOVE SCENE, BY NIGHT, IN A GARDEN. Romeo. He jests at scars, that never felt a wound! But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! (Juliet appears above, at a window.) Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, Be not her maid, since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it; cast it off It is my lady; oh, it is love! my She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? I am too bold; 't is not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars of all the heaven, O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art Jul. O, Romeo, Rorneo — wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name; Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet! Rom. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? (Aside.) Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. Nor arm, nor face- nor any other part O, be some other name! Rom. I take thee at thy word; Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized; Henceforth, I never will be Romeo. Jul. What man art thou, that thus, bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel ? Rom. By a name, I know not how to tell thee who I am; My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Had I it written, I would tear the word. Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. How com'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb; And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom. With love's light wings, did I o'er-perch these walls, For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt; Jul. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes; And but thou love me, let them find me here; My life were better ended by their hate, Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore, washed by the furthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. Jul. Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, |