The Tempest. The Two Gentlemen of Verona. The Merry Wives of Windsor. Measure for Measure. The Comedy of Errours. Much adoo about Nothing Loves Labour lost. Midsommer Nights Dreame. The Merchant of Venice. As you Like it. The Taming of the Shrew. All is well, that Ends well. Twelfe-Night, or what you will. The Winters Tale. HISTORIES. The Life and Death of King John. The Life & death of Richard the second. The First part of King Henry the fourth. The Second part of K. Henry the fourth. The Life of King Henry the Fift. The First part of King Henry the Sixt. The Second part of King Hen. the Sixt. The Third part of King Henry the Sixt. The Life and Death of Richard the Third The Life of King Henry the Eight. TRAGEDIES. The Tragedy of Coriolanus. Titus Andronicus. Romeo and Juliet. Timon of Athens. The Life and death of Julius Caesar. The Tragedy of Macbeth. The Tragedy of Hamlet. King Lear. Othello, the Moore of Venice. Anthony and Cleopater. Cymbeline King of Britaine. To the memory of my beloved, The Author MR. W I L L I A M S H A K E S P E A R E : A N D what he hath left us. To draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name, Am I thus ample to thy Booke, and Fame; While I confesse thy writings to be such, As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much. 'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these wayes Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For seeliest Ignorance on these may light, Which, when it sounds at best, but eccho's right; Or blinde Affection, which doth ne're advance The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; Or crafty Malice, might pretend this praise, And thine to ruine, where it seem'd to raise. These are, as some infamous Baud, or Whore, Should praise a Matron. What could hurt her more? But thou art proofe against them, and indeed Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need. I, therefore will begin. Soule of the Age ! The applause ! delight ! the wonder of our Stage ! My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lye A little further, to make thee a roome : Thou art a Moniment, without a tombe, And art alive still, while thy Booke doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. That I not mixe thee so, my braine excuses ; I meane with great, but disproportion'd Muses : For, if I thought my judgement were of yeeres, I should commit thee surely with thy peeres, And tell, how farre thou dist our Lily out-shine, Or sporting Kid or Marlowes mighty line. And though thou hadst small Latine, and lesse Greeke, From thence to honour thee, I would not seeke For names; but call forth thund'ring ’schilus, Euripides, and Sophocles to vs, Paccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To life againe, to heare thy Buskin tread, And shake a stage : Or, when thy sockes were on, Leave thee alone, for the comparison