man von Krystall gebildet hätte; sie zeigten nach ihrer Bestimmung den Lauf der Stunden an, und man kann zugleich das Räder - und Federwerk erkennen, das sie treibt.”

Ausser seinen Dramen hat Shakspeare noch zwei epische Gedichte, The Rape of Lucretia und Venus and Adonis, so wie eine Reihe von Sonetten und Liedern hinterlassen. Die neueste, vollständigste und eleganteste Ausgabe seiner sämmtlichen Werke ist: The Pictorial Edition of the Works of Shakspere. Edited by Charles Knight. London (1839 fgde) 8 Bde in gr. 8.

mone

When in disgrace with fortune and mens eyes, So then I am not lame, poore, nor dispised, I all alone beweepe my outcast state,

Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give, And trouble deafe heaven with my bootlesse cries, That I in thy aboundance am suffic'd, And looke upon my selfe, and curse my fate, And by a part of all thy glory live. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,

Looke what is best, that best I wish in thee; Featured like him, like him with friends possest! This wish I have; then ten times happy me! Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most injoy contented least: Yet in these thoughts my selfe almost despising, Haply I thinke on thee, and then my state, (Like to the larke, at breake of day arising

No longer mourne for me when I am dead, From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate; Than you shall heare the surly sullen bell For thy sweet love remembred, such welth Give warning to the world that I am fled

brings,

From this vile world, with vilest wormes to dwell: That then I scorne to change my state with Nay, if you read this line, remember not

kings.

The hand that writ it; for I love you so,
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O if (I say) you looke upon this verse,
When I, perhaps, compounded am with clay,

Doe not so much as my poore name reherse; Let me confesse that we two must be twaine,

But let your love even with my life decay : Although our undevided loves are one:

Least the wise world should looke into your So shall those blots that do with me remaine, Without thy helpe, by me be borne alone,

And mocke you with me after I am gone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our lives a seperable spight, Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Yet doth it steale sweet houres from love's delight. I may not ever more acknowledge thee, Least my bewailed guilt should doe thee shame; And I will comment upon that offence;

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, Nor thou with publike kindnesse honour me, Unlesse thou take that honour from thy name:

Speak of my lamenesse, and I straight will hault;

Against thy reasons making no defence.
But do not so;. I love thee in such sort,
As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. To set a forme upon desired change,

Thou canst not, love, disgrace me halfe so ill,
As lle myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle, and looke strange;
Be absent from thy walkes; and on my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell;

Lest I (too much profane) should do it wrong, As a decrepit father takes delight

And haply of our old acquaintance tell. To see his active child doe deeds of youth

For thee, against my selfe he vow debate, So I made lame by fortune's dearest spight, For I must nere love him whom thou dost hate, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth, For whether beautie, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or all, or more, Intitled in their parts do crowned sit, I make my love engrafted to this store:

Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there, | 'Tis better to be vile, than vile esteemid,
And made my selfe a motley to the view, When not to be, receives reproach of being,
Gor'd mine owne thoughts, sold cheape what is And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd,

most deare, Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing. Made old offences of affections new.

For why should others' false adulterat eyes Most true it is, that I have lookt on truth Give salutation to my sportive blood ? Askaunce and strangely; but by all above, Or on my frailties why are frailer spies, These blenches gave my heart another youth, Which in their wills count bad what I thinke And worst assaies proved thee my best of love.

good ? Now all is done, have what shall have no end : No, I am that I am; and they that levell Mine appetite I never more will grinde

At my abuses, reckon up their owne: On newer proofe, to trie an older friend, I may be straight, though they themselves be A god in love, to whom I am confined.

bevell; Then give me welcome, next my heaven the By their rancke thoughts my deeds must not be best,

showne; Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. Unlesse this generall evill they maintaine,

All men are bad and in their badnesse raigne.

O for my sake doe you with fortune chide,

Tyr'd with all these, for restfull death I cry; The guiltie goddess of my harmfull deeds,

As, to behold desart, a begger borne,
That did not better for my life provide,
Than publick meanes,

And needie nothing trim'd in jollitie,
which publick manners

And purest faith unhappily forsworne,

breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand, And maiden vertue rudely strumpeted,

And gilded honour shamefully misplast, And almost therce my nature is subbu'd

And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, To what it workes in, like the dyer's hand.

And strength by limping sway disabled, Pitty me then, and wish I were reneu'd;

And art made tongue-tied by authoritie, Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drinke

And folly, (doctor like,) controuling skill,
Potions of eysell, 'gainst my strong infection;

And simple truth, mis - calde simplicitie,
No bitternesse that I will bitter thinke,
Nor double pennance to correct correction.

And captive Good attending captaine Ill:

Tyr'd will all these, from these would I be Pitty me then, deare friend, and I assure ye,

gone, Even that your pitty is enough to cure me.

Save that, to dye, I leave my love alone.

Your love and pittie doth th' impression fill Or shall I live your epitaph to make?
Which vulgar scandall stampt upon my brow; Or you survive when I in earth am rotten?
For what care I who calls me well or ill, From hence your memory death cannot take
So you ore-green my bad, my good allow? Although in me each part will be forgotten.
You are my All - the-world, and I must strive Your name from hence immortall life shall have,
To know my shames and prayses from your tongue; Though I, (once gone,) to all the world must dye:
None else to me, nor I to none alive.

The earth can yeeld me but a common grave, That my steel'd sense or changes; right or wrong. When you intombed in men's eyes shall lie: In so profound abisme I throw all care

Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Of others voyces, that my adder's sense Which eyes not yet created shall ore-read; To critic and to flatterer stopped are.

And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse: Mark how with my neglect I doe dispense: When all the breathers of this world are dead,

You are so strongly in my purpose bred, You still shall live (such vertue hath my pen,) That all the world besides me thinks y' are Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths dead.

of men.

owe.

Two loves I have of comfort and despaire, Never beleeve, though in my nature raign'd
Which like two spirits doe suggest me still; All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
The better angel is a man right faire,

That it could so preposterously be staind,
The worser spirit a woman, colour'd ill. To leave for nothing all thy summe of good;
To winne me soone to hell, my female evill For nothing this wide universe I call,
Tempteth my better angell from my side,

Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.
And would corrupt my saint to be a devill,
Wooing his puritie with her fowle pride.
And whether that my angell be turn'd feend,
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;

That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,
But being both from me, both to each friend, For slander's marke was ever yet the fair;
I guesse one angeli in another's hell.

The ornament of beautie is suspect,
Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt, A crow that flies in hearen's sweetest ayre:.
Till my bad angel fire my good one out. So thou be good, slander doth but approve

Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;

For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, Those pretty wrongs that libertie commits, And thou present'st a pure unstayned prime. When I am sometime absent from thy heart, Thou hast pass’d by the ambush of young dayes, Thy beautie and thy yeares full well befits, Either not assail'd, or victor being charged; For still temptation followes where thou art. Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, Gentle thou art, and therefore to be wonne, To tye up envy, evermore inlarged: Beautious thou art, therefore to be assail'd; If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show, And when a woman wooes, what woman's sonne Then thou alone kingdomes of hearts shouldst Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed. Aye me! but yet thou might'st my seate forbeare And chide thy beautie and thy staying youth, Who lead thee in their ryot even there Where thou art forct to break a two-fold truth; What potions have I drunke of Syren teares,

Her's, by thy beautie tempting her to thee; Distillid from limbecks foule as hell within, Thine, by thy beautie being false to me. Applying feares to hopes, and hopes to feares,

Still loosing when I saw my selfe to win!

What wretched errors hath my heart committed, That thou hast her, it is not all my griefe, Whilst it hath thought it selfe so blessed never! And yet it may be said I loved her dearly; How have mine eyes out of their spheares beene That she hath thee, is of my wayling cheef,

fitted,
A losse in love that touches me more nearly. In the distraction of this madding fever!
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse yee: O benefit of ill! now I finde true
Thou doest love her, because thou know'st I That better is by evill still made better;

love her;

And ruin'd love, when it is built anew, And for my sake even so doth she abuse me, Growes fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. So I returne rebuked to my content, If I loose thee, my losse is my love's gaine, And gaine by ills thrice more than I have spent. And loosing her, my friend hath found that losse; Both finde each other, and I loose both twaine, And both for my sake lay on me this crosse:

But here's the joy; my friend and I are one; That you were once unkind, befriends me now; Sweet flattery! -- then shee loves but me alone. And for that sorrow, which I then did feele,

Needes must I under my transgressions bow,

Unless my nerves were brasse or hammer'd steele. O never say that I was false of heart,

For if you were by my unkindnesse shaken, Though absence seem'd my flame to quallifie. As I by yours, y’have pass'd a hell of time; As easie might I from my selfe depart,

And I, a tyrant, have no leasure taken As from my soule which in thy breast doth lye: To waigh how once I suffer'd in your crime. That is my home of love: if I have ranged, O that our night of woe might have remembred Like him that travails, I returne againe; My deepest sence, how hard true sorrow hits, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, And soone to you, as you to me, then tendred So that my selfe bring water for my staine. The humble salve which wounded bosomes fits!

But that your trespasse now becomes a fee; Thine eyes I love, and they, as pittying me, Mine ransoms your's, and your's must ran- Knowing thy heart, torment me with disdaine;

some me. Have put on blacke, and loving mourners be,

Looking with pretty ruth upon my paine.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven

Better becomes the gray cheekes of the east,
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; Nor that full starre that ushers in the even,
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? Doth halfe that glory to the sober west,
No love, my love, that thou may'st true love call; As those two mourning eyes become thy face;
All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. To let it then as well beseeme thy heart
Then if for my love thou my love receivest, To mourne for me, since mourning doth thee
I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;

grace, But yet be blamed, if thou thyselfe deceivest And sure thy pitie like in every part. By wilfull taste of what thy selfe refusest. Then will I sweare beauty herselfe is blacke, I doe forgive thy robb'ry, gentle theefe,

And all they foule that thy complection lacke.
Although thou steale thee all my povertie;
And yet, love knowes, it is a greater griefe,
To beare love's wrong, than hate's knowne injury.

Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well showes,
Kill me with spight; yet we must not be foes.

So now I have confest that he is thine,

And I myselfe am morgag'd to thy will; How sweete and lovely dost thou make the shame Myselfe Ile forfeit, so that other mine Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,

Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still;

But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free, Doth spot the beautie of thy budding name!

For thou art covetous, and he is kinde; 0, in what sweets doest thou thy sinnes inclose!

He learned but, suretie-like, to write for me, That tongue that tells the story of thy dayes,

Under that bond that him as fast doth binde. (Making lascivious comments on thy sport,) Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise :

The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,

Thou usurer that put'st forth all to use,
Naning thy name, blesses an ill report.
O what a mansion have those vices got,

And sue a friend, came debtor for my sake; Which for their habitation choose out thee!

So him I loose through my unkinde abuse. Where beautie's vaile doth cover every blot,

Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me, And all things turne to faire that eyes can see!

He paies the whole, and yet I am not free. Take heede, deare heart, of this large priviledge; The hardest knife ill- used doth loose its edge.

How oft, when thou, my musicke, mușicke play'st, In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworne,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds But thou art twice forsworne to me love swearing;
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torne,
The wiry concord that mine eare confounds, In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
Doe I envie those jackes, that nimble leape But why of two oathes' breach doe I accuse thee
To kisse the tender inward of thy hand, When I breake twenty? I am perjur'd most;
Whilst my poore lips, which should that harvest For all my vowes are oathes but to misuse thee,

reape

And all my honest faith in thee is lost: At the wood's bouldnesse by thee blushing stand! For I have sworne deepe oathes of thy deepe To be so tickled, they would change their state

kindenesse, And situation with those dancing chips

Oathes of thy love, thy truth, thy constancie; O’re whom thy fingers walke with gentle gate, And to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindnesse, Making dead wood more bless'd than living lips Or made them sweare against the thing they see;

Since saucie jackes so happy are in this, For I have sworne thee fair: more perjured I, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kisse. To sweare, against the truth, so foule a lie!

Wotton.

Sir Henry Wotton aus altem edlem Geschlechte stammend, ward 1568 zu Bocton Hall in Kent geboren, machte seine Studien in Winchester und Oxford, ging dann auf Reisen, und trat bei seiner Rückkehr in die Dienste des Grafen von Essex. Als dieser mächtige Günstling gestürzt wurde, begab sich Wotton nach Florenz und verweilte hier bis zur Thronbesteigung Jakob's I., der ihn zum englischen Gesandten in Venedig ernannte. Nach seiner Zurückberufung wurde er Provost von Eton College wo er 1639 starb.

Henry Wotton ist nicht mit dem Kritiker William Wotton der mehr als ein Jahrhundert später lebte, zu verwechseln. Der Erstere hat im Ganzen nur wenige Gedichte hinterlassen, aber diese wenigen zeichnen sich durch Gedankenreichthum, Anmuth und Kraft so vortheilhaft aus, dass sie sich fortwährend im Andenken der Nation erhalten haben.