"For within the hollow crown, That rounds the mortal temples of a king, Keeps death his court; and there the antick sits, Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp; Allowing him a breath, a little scene To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks; Infusing him with self and vain conceit.-- As if this flesh, which walls about our life, Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus; Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and--farewell king!" So, too, he knew that gold could not bring joy--that death and misfortune come alike to rich and poor, because: "If thou art rich thou art poor; For like an ass whose back with ingots bows Thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee." In some of his philosophy there was a kind of scorn--a hidden meaning that could not in his day and time have safely been expressed. You will remember that Laertes was about to kill the king, and this king was the murderer of his own brother, and sat upon the throne by reason of his crime--and in the mouth of such a king Shakespeare puts these words: "There's such divinity doth hedge a king." So, in Macbeth: "How he solicits Heaven himself best knows; but strangely visited people All swollen and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despairs of surgery, he cures; Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy prayers; and 'tis spoken To the succeeding royalty--he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace." Shakespeare was the master of the human heart--knew all the hopes, fears, ambitions and passions that sway the mind of man; and thus knowing, he declared that "Love is not love that alters When it alteration finds." This is the sublimest declaration in the literature of the world. Shakespeare seems to give the generalization--the result--without the process of thought. He seems always to be at the conclusion--standing where all truths meet. In one of the Sonnets is this fragment of a line that contains the highest possible truth: "Conscience is born of love." If man were incapable of suffering, the words right and wrong never could have been spoken. If man were destitute of imagination, the flower of pity never could have blossomed in his heart. We suffer--we cause others to suffer--those that we love--and of this fact conscience is born. Love is the many-colored flame that makes the fireside of the heart. It is the mingled spring and autumn--the perfect climate of the soul. XIII. IN the realm of comparison Shakespeare seems to have exhausted the relations, parallels and similitudes of things, He only could have said: