Francis Bacon at forty years of age, or thereabouts, unmarried, childless, sits down to his table, Hilliard's portrait before him, with pen in hand, full of self-love, full of admiration for that beautiful youth on whose counterfeit presentment he is gazing. His intellectual triumphs pass in review before him, most of them known only to himself and that youth--his companion through life. That was the Francis Bacon who controlled him in all his comings and goings--his ideal whom he worshipped. If he could have a son like that boy! His pen begins to move on the paper-- "From fairest creatures we desire increase That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time decrease His tender heire might bear his memory." The pen stops and the writer's eye wanders to the miniature:-- "But _thou_[49] contracted to thine own bright eyes." And so the Sonnets flow on, without effort, without the need of reference to authorities, for the great, fixed and methodical memory needs none. How natural are the allusions-- "Thou art thy mother's glasse and she in thee Calls backe the lovely Aprill of her prime." * * * * * "Be as thy presence is, gracious and kind, Or to thyselfe at least kind hearted prove. Make thee another self, for love of me That beauty may still live in thine or thee." * * * * * "Let those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless and rude, barrenly perish; Look, whom she best indow'd she gave the more; Which bountious guift thou shouldst in bounty cherrish; She carv'd thee for her seale, and ment therby Thou shouldst print more, not let that coppy die." * * * * * "O that you were yourselfe, but love you are No longer yours, then you yourselfe here live, Against this cunning end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to some other give · · · · Who lets so faire a house fall to decay · · · · O none but unthrifts, deare my love you know You had a Father, let your Son say so." * * * * * "But wherefore do not you a mightier waie Make warre uppon this bloodie tirant Time? And fortifie your selfe in your decay With meanes more blessed, then my barren rime? Now stand you on the top of happie houres And many maiden gardens, yet onset, With virtuous wish would beare you living flowers Much liker than your painted counterfeit: * * * * *