There first the wren thy myrtles shed On gentlest Otway's infant head, To him thy cell was shown; And while he sung the female heart, With youth's soft notes unspoiled by art, Thy turtles mixed their own. [Sidenote: THOMAS OTWAY] So wrote William Collins, adding in a note that the Arun (more properly the Rother, a tributary of the Arun) runs by the village of Trotton, in Sussex, where Thomas Otway had his birth. The unhappy author of _Venice Preserv'd_ and _The Orphan_ was born at Trotton in 1652, the son of Humphrey Otway, the curate, who afterwards became rector of Woolbeding close by. Otway died miserably when only thirty-three, partly of starvation, partly of a broken heart at the unresponsiveness of Mrs. Barry, the actress, whom he loved, but who preferred the Earl of Rochester. His two best plays, although they are no longer acted, lived for many years, providing in Belvidera, in _Venice Preserv'd_ and Monimia, in _The Orphan_ (in which he "sung the female heart") congenial _rôles_ for tragic actresses--Mrs. Barry, Mrs. Oldfield, Mrs. Cibber, Mrs. Siddons and Miss O'Neill. Otway was buried in the churchyard of St. Clement Danes, but a tablet to his fame is in Trotton church, which is of unusual plainness, not unlike an ecclesiastical barn. Here also is the earliest known brass to a woman--Margaret de Camoys, who lived about 1300. [Sidenote: HOTSPUR'S LADY] The transition is easy (at Trotton) from Otway to Shakespeare, from _Venice Preserv'd_ to _Henry IV._ HOTSPUR (to LADY PERCY). Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come quick, quick; that I may lay my head in thy lap. _Lady P._ Go, ye giddy goose. [_The music plays._ _Hot._ Now I perceive, the devil understands Welsh; And 't is no marvel' he's so humorous, By'r lady, he's a good musician. _Lady P._ Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in Welsh. _Hot._ I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish. _Lady P._ Wouldst have thy head broken? _Hot._ No. _Lady P._ Then be still. _Hot._ Neither: 'tis a woman's fault. _Lady P._ Now God help thee! _Hot._ To the Welsh lady's bed. _Lady P._ What's that? _Hot._ Peace! she sings. [_A Welsh song sung by_ LADY MORTIMER. _Hot._ Come, Kate, I'll have your song too. _Lady P._ Not mine, in good sooth. _Hot._ Not yours, in good sooth! 'Heart, you swear like a comfit-maker's wife. 'Not you, in good sooth'; and, 'As true as I live'; and,