Forget not to set down, how passionate,
   How heart-sick, and how full of languishment,
   Her beauty makes me. . . . . . 
   Write on, while I peruse her in my thoughts. 
   Her voice to music, or the nightingale: 
   To music every summer-leaping swain
   Compares his sunburnt lover when she speaks;
   And why should I speak of the nightingale? 
   The nightingale sings of adulterate wrong;
   And that, compared, is too satirical: 
   For sin, though sin, would not be so esteemed;
   But rather virtue sin, sin virtue deemed. 
   Her hair, far softer than the silkworm’s twist,
   Like as a flattering glass, doth make more fair
   The yellow amber:—­Like a flattering glass
   Comes in too soon; for, writing of her eyes,
   I’ll say that like a glass they catch the sun,
   And thence the hot reflection doth rebound
   Against my breast, and burns the heart within. 
   Ah, what a world of descant makes my soul
   Upon this voluntary ground of love!

“Pretty enough, very pretty! but” exactly as like and as near the style of Shakespeare’s early plays as is the style of Constable’s sonnets to that of Shakespeare’s.  Unless we are to assign to the Master every unaccredited song, sonnet, elegy, tragedy, comedy, and farce of his period, which bears the same marks of the same date—­a date, like our own, of too prolific and imitative production—­as we find inscribed on the greater part of his own early work; unless we are to carry even as far as this the audacity and arrogance of our sciolism, we must somewhere make a halt—­and it must be on the near side of such an attribution as that of King Edward III. to the hand of Shakespeare.

With the disappearance of the poetic pimp and the entrance of the unsuspecting Countess, the style rises yet again—­and really, this time, much to the author’s credit.  It would need a very fine touch from a very powerful hand to improve on the delicacy and dexterity of the prelude or overture to the King’s avowal of adulterous love.  But when all is said, though very delicate and very dexterous, it is not forcible work:  I do not mean by forcible the same as violent, spasmodic, emphatic beyond the modesty of nature; a poet is of course only to be commended, and that heartily, for keeping within this bound; but he is not to be commended for coming short of it.  This whole scene is full of mild and temperate beauty, of fanciful yet earnest simplicity; but the note of it, the expression, the dominant key of the style, is less appropriate to the utterance of a deep and deadly passion than—­at the utmost—­of what modern tongues might call a strong and rather dangerous flirtation.  Passion, so to speak, is quite out of this writer’s call; the depths and heights of manly as of womanly emotion are alike beyond his reach.

   Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,
   He turns to favour and to prettiness.