they are indigestible to the French and Italians, the politest people in the world. One can hardly find ten lines together without some gross violation of taste or decency. What do you think of Bottom in the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream?’ or of Troilus’ and Cressida’s passion[errata 1]?”
Here I could not help interrupting him by saying, “You have named the two plays that, with all their faults, contain, perhaps, some of the finest poetry.”
“Yes,” said he, “in ‘Troilus and Cressida:’
“‘Prophet may you be!
“If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth.
“When Time is old, and hath forgot itself,
“When water-drops have worn the stones of Troy,
“And blind Oblivion swallow’d cities up,
“And mighty states characterless are grated
“To dusty nothing,—yet let memory
“From false to false, among false maids in love,
“Upbraid my falsehood! when they’ve said,––As false
“As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth,
“As fox to lamb, as wolf to heifer’s calf,
“Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son;
M 2
