[Footnote 29:  2 Henry IV, V. i.]

Then there was some discussion concerning the stopping of William’s (Peregrine’s?) wages, “About the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley Fair.”

SHAKESPEARE:  “This Davy serves you for good uses; he is your serving man and your husbandman.”

SQUIRE:  “A good varlet, a good varlet, a very good varlet....  By the mass, I have drunk too much sack at supper!  A good varlet.” [30]

[Footnote 30:  2 Henry IV, V. iii.]

These were the squire’s last words that night.  He soon slept peacefully, as was his wont after his evening meal; whereupon the poet, with his accustomed gallantry, commenced making love in right good earnest to the fair daughter of the house.

The Cotswold girls, like the Irish, have always been famous for their beauty.  Even amongst the peasants you may nowadays see the most beautiful and graceful women in the world, though their attire is usually of a plain and unbecoming character, and but ill adapted to set off the features and form of the wearer.  The squire’s daughter, whom we will call Jessica, was no exception to the rule.  She was a handsome brunette—­indeed, the squire called her a “black ousel.”  Shakespeare fell in love with her at once, and, forgetting all about the family at Stratford, he plunged into the most desperate flirtation.  The girl, with that natural perception of the divine in man common to her sex, could not help feeling a strange admiration for this unexpected, though not unwelcome, guest.  There was something about his countenance which exercised a peculiar charm and fascination.  The thoughtful brow, the keen hazel eye, and the gentle bearing of the man were what at first attracted attention.  But it was his manner and speech, half serious and half mirthful, which made such an impression on her mind; and perhaps she felt that, “to the face whose beauty is the harmony between that which speaks from within and the form through which it speaks, power is added by all that causes the outer man to bear more deeply the impress of the inner.”

The surroundings, too, were as romantic as they possibly could be.  A pair of rush candles were shedding their dim light through the long low oak-panelled apartment; they were the only lights that were burning, and even these flickered ominously at times, as if threatening to go out and leave the place in total darkness.  A full moon, however, was casting her silvery beams through the great lattice casement, and in one of the upper panes of this window were richly emblazoned the arms of which the squire was so proud.

It was a glorious evening.  Opening the window, William Shakespeare looked out upon the peaceful garden.  The moon was shedding a pale light upon the woods and the stream, “decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass.”  A hundred yards away the silent Coln was gliding slowly onwards towards the sea.  Owls were breathing heavily in the hanging wood, and a pair of otters were hunting in the pool.