"How every fool can play upon the word. I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none but parrots." Again Lorenzo-- "Oh, dear discretion, how his words are suited, The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words: And I do know A many fools that stand in better place Garnished like him, that for a tricksie word Defie the matter." Comedians from Aristophanes downwards have been wont to complain in one place of that which they adopt in another--their object not being to adopt fixed principles so much as to show the varying shades of human thought. Shakespeare required something light to bring his deep reflections into bolder relief, and therefore frequently had recourse to humour. We are not surprised that he had no very high estimate of it, when we find him so much dependant upon "the alms-basket of words." There is so much of this in his plays, that it is almost superfluous to quote, but a few instances may be taken at random. Falstaff to Poins-- "You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back--call you that backing your friends? A plague upon such backing; give me a man who will face me." Falstaff to Prince Henry. Act I. Scene II. I prythee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as God save thy grace--majesty, I should say, for grace thou wilt have none-- _P. Hen._ What! none? _Fal._ No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter. In Love's Labour Lost. Act I. Scene II. _Armado._ Comfort me, boy. What great men have been in love? _Inoth._ Hercules, master. _Arm._ Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. _Inoth._ Samson, master; he was a man of good carriage, for he raised the town gates on his back like a porter, and he was in love. In the musicians scene, in Romeo and Juliet, Act IV. Scene V. we find-- _Musician._ Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. _Peter._ Then have at you with my wit. I will dry beat you with my iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like: When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound-- Why _silver_ sound? Why music with her silver sound? What say you, Simon Catling? _First Mins._ Marry, Sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. _Peter._ Pretty. What say you, Hugh Rebeck? _Sec. Mins._ I say "silver sound," because musicians sound for silver. _Peter._ Pretty, too! What say you, James Soundpost? _Third Mins._ Faith! I know not what to say. _Peter._ O! I cry for mercy; you are the singer; I will say for you. It is music with her silver sound, because musicians have no gold for sounding.