Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I know their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked, but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing;
For me, which now behold these present days
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise._

_Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
And the sad augurs mark their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of the most balmy time,
My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,
Since spite of him I'll live in the poor rhyme
While he sweeps over dull and speechless tribes.
And thou, in this shall find thy monument,
When tyrant crests and tombs of brass are spent!"_

Rapturous and universal praise and applause greeted William and his
immortal sonnets; and if any critical reader or author will take pains to
delve into and scan the poetry and philosophy of Spenser and Bacon with
that of Shakspere, they will quickly and honestly come to the conclusion
that the former writers are merely rushlights to the flashing electric
lights of the Divine Bard!

To paraphrase the encomium of Shakspere to Cleopatra would fit the
greatness of himself:

_"Age cannot wither him, nor custom stale
His infinite variety; other men cloy
The appetites they feed; but he makes hungry
Where most he satisfies!"_

CHAPTER IX.

BOHEMIAN HOURS. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. "LOVE'S LABOR'S LOST."

_"I have ventured
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders
This many summers in a sea of glory."_

The literary bohemians of London three hundred years ago were an
impecunious and jealous lot of human pismires, who built their dens,
carried their loads, and were filled with vaulting ambition just the same
as we see them to-day.

The hack-writer for publishers, the actor for theatrical managers and the
author of growing renown belonged to clubs and tavern coteries, pushing
their way up the rocky heights of fame, and struggling, as now, for b