Hence, thou misjudging censor! know, I wrot
Those idle rimes to note the odious spot
And blemish that deformes the lineaments
Of moderne poesies habiliments.

Oh that the beauties of invention *
For want of judgements disposition,
Should all be spoil'd!"...

Then, after describing seven types of poets-of whom the fifth may be Shakspere,† and the sixth Ben Jonson (comp. p. 245)-Marston goes on to satirize the readers of his and other writers' loose poems, for whom he "slubber'd up that chaos indigest" of his Pigmalion. This epithet is certainly not consistent with the dedication of his poem to Good Opinion and his Mistress; and his excuse for his failure in it is plainly an after-thought. But whatever we determine as to Marston's motives and honesty, we shall all join in regretting the "want of judgements disposition" that let Shakspere choose Venus for an early place in his glorious gallery of women-forms whose radiant purity and innocence have won all hearts; though we will remember this fault only as the low level from which he rose on stepping-stones of his dead self to higher things. He who put Venus near the beginning of his career, ended with Miranda, Perdita, Imogen, and Queen Katherine. Let them make atonement for her!

* Comp. Shakspere's "First heir of my invention."

Yon's one whose straines haue flowne so high a pitch,
That straight he flags, and tumbles in a ditch.

His sprightly hot high-soring poesie

Is like that dream'd-of imagery,

Whose head was gold, brest silver, brassie thigh,

Lead leggs, clay feete: O faire fram'd poesie !"

That Shakspere's subject was clay, and his verse gold, is certainly true. The author of the Return from Parnassus (written about 1602, published 1606), puts it thus (Hazlitt's Dodsley, ix. 118):

"William Shakespeare?

Who loves Adonis' love or Lucrece rape:

His sweeter verse contains heart-robbing life,
Could but a graver subject him content,
Without love's foolish, lazy languishment."

RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,

EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.

RIGHT HONOURABLE,

I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your Lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burthen: only if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart's content, which I wish may always answer your own wish, and the world's hopeful expectation.

Your Honour's in all duty,

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he lov'd, but love he laugh'd to scorn:
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-fac'd suitor gins to woo him.

Thrice fairer than myself,' thus she began,
'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are,
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set I'll smother thee with kisses;

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. And yet not cloy thy lips with loath'd satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety,
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,

And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good;
Being so enrag'd, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;

She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens-O, how quick is love!—
The steed is stalled up, and even now

To tie the rider she begins to prove;

Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips;
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips,

And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'

He burns with bashful shame, she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;

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