Shakespeare in those days; at any rate not in the way that we know him nowadays. To the Pope-suckled Englishman of culture, Shakespeare, if he was anything at all, was a sort of robustious and flowery dramatist. They played him in full-bottomed wigs and small clothes. To-day the tendencies are all the other way. Shakespeare we shall tell you was no playwright, but a poet, and the biggest of them. Our modern actors spoil him for us, not by their cuts and modifications, but by their raree-shows and mouthings. Who of them can say for you to your soul’s satisfaction: … “O here, Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-weary flesh?” Shakespeare is for all time and more and more for the closet. Blake is a greater poet than the critical are disposed to admit, even in this age of tender enthusiasms. And Mr. Yeats is a poet, not because he is Irish or Keltic, but in so far and precisely as far as he has had the good sense to take Blake for his master. For Kelticism as it is understood by its professors, Shakespeare abounds in it. _1st Lady._ Come, my gracious lord, Shall I be your playfellow? _Mam._ No, I’ll none of you. _1st Lady._ Why, my sweet lord? _Mam._ You’ll kiss me hard, and speak to me as if I were a baby still.—I love you better. _2nd Lady._ And why so, my lord? _Mam._ Not for because Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say, Become some women best, so that there be not Too much hair there, but in a semi-circle Or half-moon made with a pen. _2nd Lady._ Who taught you this? _Mam._ I learnt it out of women’s faces.—Pray now What color are your eyebrows? _1st Lady._ Blue, my lord. _Mam._ Nay, there’s a mock. I have seen a lady’s nose That has been blue, but not her eyebrows. _2nd Lady._ Hark ye; The queen your mother rounds apace; we shall Present our service to a fine new prince One of these days; and then you’d wanton with us, If we would have you. _1st Lady._ She is spread of late Into a goodly bulk. Good time encounter her! _Her._ What wisdom stirs amongst you?—Come, sir, now I am for you again. Pray you, sit by us, And tell’s a tale. _Mam._ Merry or sad shall’t be? _Her._ As merry as you will. _Mam._ A sad tale’s best for winter: I have one of sprites and goblins. _Her._ Let’s have that, good sir, Come on, sit down. Come on, and do your best, To fright me with your sprites, you’re powerful at it. _Mam._ There was a man— _Her._ Nay, come sit down; then on.