that it could have been thought of—­Jonson maintains his personal dignity and his good sense.  You feel his compliments are such as the best should be, not necessarily understood and properly valued by the public, but of a discriminating sort that by their very comprehending sincerity would be most warmly appreciated by the people to whom they were addressed.  His verses to Shakespeare and his prose commentaries on him too, are models of what self-respecting admiration should be, generous in its praise of excellence, candid in its statement of defects.  They are the kind of compliments that Shakespeare himself, if he had grace enough, must have loved to receive.

Very different from his direct and dignified manner is the closely packed style of Donne, who, Milton apart, is the greatest English writer of the century, though his obscurity has kept him out of general reading.  No poetry in English, not even Browning, is more difficult to understand.  The obscurity of Donne and Browning proceed from such similar causes that they are worth examining together.  In both, as in the obscure passages in Shakespeare’s later plays, obscurity arises not because the poet says too little but because he attempts to say too much.  He huddles a new thought on the one before it, before the first has had time to express itself; he sees things or analyses emotions so swiftly and subtly himself that he forgets the slower comprehensions of his readers; he is for analysing things far deeper than the ordinary mind commonly can.  His wide and curious knowledge finds terms and likenesses to express his meaning unknown to us; he sees things from a dozen points of view at once and tumbles a hint of each separate vision in a heap out on to the page; his restless intellect finds new and subtler shades of emotion and thought invisible to other pairs of eyes, and cannot, because speech is modelled on the average of our intelligences, find words to express them; he is always trembling on the brink of the inarticulate.  All this applies to both Donne and Browning, and the comparison could be pushed further still.  Both draw the knowledge which is the main cause of their obscurity from the same source, the bypaths of mediaevalism.  Browning’s Sordello is obscure because he knows too much about mediaeval Italian history; Donne’s Anniversary because he is too deeply read in mediaeval scholasticism and speculation.  Both make themselves more difficult to the reader who is familiar with the poetry of their contemporaries by the disconcerting freshness of their point of view.  Seventeenth century love poetry was idyllic and idealist; Donne’s is passionate and realistic to the point of cynicism.  To read him after reading Browne or Jonson is to have the same shock as reading Browning after Tennyson.  Both poets are salutary in the strong and biting antidote they bring to sentimentalism in thought and melodious facility in writing.  They are the corrective of lazy thinking and lazy composition.