I remember the players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing (whatsoever he penned) he never blotted out a line. My answer hath been, "Would he had blotted out a thousand," which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told posterity this but for their ignorance who chose that circumstance to commend their friend by wherein he most faulted; and to justify mine own candour, for I loved the man, and do honour his memory on this side idolatry as much as any. He was, indeed, honest, and of an open and free nature; had an excellent phantasy, brave notions, and gentle expressions, wherein he flowed with that facility that sometimes it was necessary he should be stopped. "Sufflaminandus erat," as Augustus said of Haterius. His wit was in his own power; would the rule of it had been so, too! Many times he fell into those things could not escape laughter, as when he said in the person of Caesar, one speaking to him, "Caesar, thou dost me wrong." He replied, "Caesar did never wrong but with just cause"; and such-like, which were ridiculous. But he redeemed his vices with his virtues. There was ever more in him to be praised than to be pardoned. [Sidenote: _Ben Johnson_] Wisdom without honesty is mere craft and cozenage. And therefore the reputation of honesty must first be gotten; which cannot be but by living well. A good life is a main argument. MOTHERHOOD [Sidenote: _Calverley_] She laid it where the sunbeams fall Unscann'd upon the broken wall, Without a tear, without a groan, She laid it near a mighty stone Which some rude swain had haply cast Thither in sport, long ages past, And Time with mosses had o'erlaid, And fenced with many a tall grass-blade, And all about bid roses bloom And violets shed their soft perfume. There, in its cool and quiet bed, She set her burden down and fled: Nor flung, all eager to escape, One glance upon the perfect shape That lay, still warm and fresh and fair, But motionless and soundless there. No human eye had mark'd her pass Across the linden-shadow'd grass Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven: Only the innocent birds of heaven-- The magpie, and the rook whose nest Swings as the elm-tree waves his crest-- And the lithe cricket, and the hoar And huge-limb'd hound that guards the door, Look'd on when, as a summer wind That, passing, leaves no trace behind, All unapparell'd, barefoot all, She ran to that old ruin'd wall, To leave upon the chill dank earth (For ah! she never knew its worth) 'Mid hemlock rank, and fern, and ling, And dews of night, that precious thing!