His life was like a barrow hogge, That liveth many a day, Or like a filthy heap of dung, That lyeth in a whoard; Which never can do any good, Till it be spread abroad. So fares it with the usurer, He cannot sleep in rest, For feare the thiefe will him pursue His heart doth thinke on many a wile, His wife must lend a shilling, For every weeke a penny, Yet bring a pledge, that is double worth, If that you will have any. And see, likewise, you keepe your day, Or else you loose it all: This was the living of the wife, she did it call. Her cow * Within that citie dwelt that time A marchant of great fame, Which being distressed in his need, Unto Gernutus came : Desiring him to stand his friend For twelve month and a day, To lend to him an hundred crownes : And he for it would pay Whatsoever he would demand of him, And pledges he should have. *Ver. 32. Her cow, etc., seems to have suggested to Shakespeare Shylock's argument for usury taken from Jacob's management of Laban's sheep, Act i., to which Antonio replies: "Was this inserted to make interest good? Or are your gold and silver ewes and rams? Shylock. I cannot tell, I make it breed as fast." No (quoth the Jew with flearing lookes), Sir, aske what you will have. No penny for the loane of it For one year you shall pay ; You may doe me as good a turne, Before my dying day. But we will have a merry jeast, For to be talked long : You shall make me a bond, quoth he, And this shall be the forfeyture; And here is a hundred crownes. The marchants ships were all at sea, And money came not in ; Which way to take, or what to doe And to Gernutus strait he comes With all my heart, Gernutus sayd, He goes his way; the day once past To get a sergiant presently; And clapt him on the backe: And layd him into prison strong, The marchants friends came thither fast, With many a weeping eye, THE SECOND PART. "Of the Jews crueltie; setting foorth the mercifulnesse of the Judge towards the Marchant. To the tune of Blacke and Yellow." SOME offered for his hundred crownes Five hundred for to pay; And at the last ten thousand crownes They offered, him to save. A pound of fleshe is my demand, Then sayd the judge, Yet, good my friend, To take the flesh from such a place, Do so, and lo! an hundred crownes To thee here will I give. No: no quoth he; no : judgement here: For I will have my pound of fleshe It grieved all the companie His crueltie to see, For neither friend nor foe could helpe But he must spoyled bee. The bloudie Jew now ready is With whetted blade in hand,* *The passage in Shakespeare bears so strong a resemblance to this, as to render it probable that the one suggested the other. See Act iv. Sc. ii. : "Bass. Why doest thou whet thy knife so earnestly?" etc. To spoyle the bloud of innocent, And as he was about to strike In him the deadly blow: Sith needs thou wilt thy forfeit have, For if thou doe, like murderer, Thou here shalt hanged be: Likewise of flesh see that thou cut No more than longes to thee: For if thou take either more or lesse Gernutus now waxt franticke mad, And so I graunt to set him free. The judge doth answere make; You shall not have a penny given ; Your forfeyture now take. At the last he doth demaund But for to have his owne. Either take your pound of flesh, quoth he, O cruell judge, then quoth the Jew, And so with griping* grieved mind *Ver. 61. Griped, Ashmol. copy. Good people, that doe heare this song, For trueth I dare well say, That many a wretch as ill as hee Doth live now at this day; That seeketh nothing but the spoyle Deviseth what they can. From whome the Lord deliver me, And every Christian too, And send to them like sentence eke **Since the first edition of this book was printed, the editor hath had reason to believe that both Shakespeare and the author of this ballad are indebted for their story of the Jew (however they came by it) to an Italian novel, which was first printed at Milan in the year 1554, in a book entitled, Il Pecorone, nel quale si contengono Cinquanta Novelle antiche, etc., republished at Florence about the year 1748 or 1749. The author was Ser. Giovanni Fiorentino, who wrote in 1378, thirty years after the time in which the scene of Boccace's Decameron is laid. (Vid. Manni Istoria del Decamerone di Giov. Boccac. 4to, Fior. 1744.) That Shakespeare had his plot from the novel itself, is evident from his having some incidents from it, which are not found in the ballad and I think it will also be found that he borrowed from the ballad some hints that were not suggested by the novel. (See above, Part ii. ver. 25, etc., where, instead of that spirited description of the whetted blade, etc., the prose narrative coldly says, "The Jew had prepared a razor," etc. See also some other passages in the same piece.) This, however, is spoken with diffidence, as I have at present before me only the abridgment of the novel which Mr. Johnson has given us at the end of his commentary on Shakespeare's play. The translation of the Italian story at large is not easy to be met with, having I believe never been published, though it was printed some years ago with this title : -"The Novel, from which the Merchant of Venice written by Shakespeare is taken, translated from the Italian. To which is added a translation of a novel from the Decamerone of Boccacio. London, printed for M. Cooper, 1755, 8vo." XII. THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. THIS beautiful sonnet is quoted in the Merry Wives of Windsor, Act iii. Sc. i., and has often been ascribed (together with the reply) to Shakespeare himself. There is, however, abundant reason to believe that it was written by Christopher Marlow. Isaac Walton in his Compleat Angler, first printed in the year 1658, but probably written some time before, speaks of it as "that smooth song, which was made by Kit Marlow, now fifty years ago: and . . . an answer to it which was made by Sir Walter Raleigh in his younger days." There are also other proofs of the author of the one being Christopher Marlow; of the other, Sir Walter Raleigh. COME live with me and be my love, There will we sit upon the rocks, There will I make thee beds of roses A gown made of the finest wool, A belt of straw, and ivie buds, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing THE NYMPH'S REPLY. If that the World and Love were young, But time drives flocks from field to fold, The flowers do fade, and wanton fields Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy belt of straw, and ivie buds, But could youth last, and love still breed, XIII. TITUS ANDRONICUS'S COMPLAINT. THE same question arises with this ballad as with that of Gernutus, as to whether Shakespeare took his play from the ballad, or whether the ballad was written from the play. In both cases there are marked differences. But there is good reason to believe that Shakespeare did not write, but simply improved the play of Titus Andronicus, which is much inferior to any of his other works. You noble minds, and famous martiall | For when Romes foes their warlike forces The moore, with her two sonnes did growe My daughter ravished without remorse, soe proud, That none like them in Rome might bee allowd. The moore soe pleas'd this new-made empress' eie, That she consented to him secretlye Then she, whose thoughts to murder were inclinde, Consented with the moore of bloody minde Against myselfe, my kin, and all my friendes, In cruell sort to bring them to their endes. Soe when in age I thought to live in peace, Both care and griefe began then to increase: Amongst my sonnes I had one daughter brighte, Which joy'd, and pleased best my aged sight; My deere Lavinia was betrothed than He being slaine, was cast in cruel wise, And took away her honour, quite perforce. When they had tasted of soe swete a flowre, Fearing this swete should shortly turne to sowre, They cutt her tongue, whereby she could not tell How that dishonoure unto her befell. Then both her hands they basely cutt off quite, Whereby their wickednesse she could not write; Nor with her needle on her sampler sowe The bloudye workers of her direfull woe. My brother Marcus found her in the wood, Staining the grassie ground with purple bloud, That trickled from her stumpes, and bloudlesse armes : Noe tongue at all she had to tell her harmes. But when I sawe her in that woefull case, When as I sawe she could not write nor speake, With grief mine aged heart began to breake; We spred an heape of sand upon the ground, With my three sonnes, who fell into the Whereby those bloudy tyrants out we |