the proud full sail of his great verse. This singer is inspired by that affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.[8] Here are personal allusions to some facts, or jests, which we cannot hope to discover: the rival poet has been guessed at as Barnabe Barnes ("Parthenope and Parthenophil," 1593), who certainly wrote a sonnet on the inspiration of Southampton's eyes. Others think that George Chapman, the translator of Homer, is the rival whom Shakespeare writes of admiringly. In XCV-XCVI the poet recurs to the stories which "spot the beauty of thy budding name". In CIV he has loved his friend for three years, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned. Yet he goes on in the old strain of love and praise, though What's new to speak, what new to register? In CX-CXI he perhaps laments his own profession as a player; perhaps he refers to changes in his affections. Taking the whole of this and the preceding sonnet together, the second seems the more natural interpretation. In Sonnet CXI, Fortune is blamed That did not better for my life provide Than public means which public manners breeds, Thence comes it that my name receives a brand. The name of actor was, indeed, branded as no better than that of vagabond, while the play-writers constantly called the players "apes," and "mimics". Here Shakespeare does seem to speak of his profession:-- I have gone here and there And made myself a motley to the view. With CXXVII begin Sonnets addressed to a woman, a dark lady, but (CXXX) not very beautiful. My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun. This may be a mere criticism of the absurd hyperboles of admiration by contemporary sonneteers. In CXXXIII the poet seems to upbraid the lady for taking his friend from him, and through three sonnets this plaint is poured out with obscure puns on "will" and "Will," his name, and--some think--his friend's name. The poet is (CXLIV) placed between "two spirits that suggest me still", One good, is a man; one evil, a woman. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil. In addressing the woman, the poet is much more outspoken than when addressing the man on The pretty wrongs that liberty commits. The poet, like Catullus with Lesbia, loves against his reason and his knowledge of the woman's true nature (CXLVII), Past cure am I, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madman's are, At random from the truth vainly expressed; For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.