"Shakespeare's Sonnets never before Imprinted," have afforded commentators material for many volumes filled with theories which to the ordinary critical mind appear to have no foundation in fact. Chapters have been written to prove that Mr. W. H., the only begetter of the Sonnets, was Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, and chapters have been written to prove that he was no such person, but that William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke, was the man intended to be designated. Theories have been elaborated to identify the individuals represented by the Rival Poet and the dark Lady. Not one of these theories is supported by the vestige of a shred of testimony that would stand investigation. There has not come down any evidence that Shakspur, of Stratford, knew either the Earl of Southampton, the Earl of Pembroke or Marie Fitton. The truth is that Mr. W. H. was _Shakespeare_, who _was_ the only begetter of the Sonnets, and the proof of this statement will in due time be forthcoming. It may be well to try and read some of the Sonnets as they stand and endeavour to realise what is the obvious meaning of the printed words. The key to the Sonnets will be found in No. 62. The language in which it is written is explicit and capable of being understood by any ordinary intellect. "Sinne of selfe-love possesseth al mine eie And all my soule, and al my every part; And for this sinne there is no remedie, It is so grounded inward in my heart. Me thinkes no face so gratious is as mine, No shape so true, no truth of such account, And for my selfe mine owne worth do define, As I all other in all worth's surmount But when my glasse shewes me my selfe indeed Beated and chopt with tand antiquitie, Mine own selfe love quite contrary I read Selfe, so selfe loving were iniquity. Tis thee (my-selfe) that for myself I praise Painting my age with beauty of thy daies." The writer here states definitely that he is dominated by the sin of self-love; it possesseth his eye, his soul, and every part of him. There can be found no remedy for it; it is so grounded in his heart. No face is so gracious as is his, no shape so true, no truth of such account. He defines his worth as surmounting that of all others. This is the frank expression of a man who not only believed that he was, but knew that he was superior to all his contemporaries, not only in intellectual power, but in personal appearance. Then comes an arrest in the thought, and he realises that time has been at work. He has been picturing himself as he was when a young man. He turns to his glass and sees himself beated and chopt with tanned antiquity; forty summers have passed over his brow.[48]