Page:A study of Shakespeare (IA cu31924013158393).pdf/282

 The number would confound my memory And make a thousand millions of a task Which briefly is no more indeed than one. These quartered squadrons and these regiments Before, behind us, and on either hand, Are but a power: When we name a man, His hand, his foot, his head, have several strengths; And being all but one self instant strength, Why, all this many, Audley, is but one, And we can call it all but one man's strength. He that hath far to go tells it by miles; If he should tell the steps, it kills his heart: The drops are infinite that make a flood, And yet, thou know'st, we call it but a rain. There is but one France, one king of France, That France hath no more kings; and that same king Hath but the puissant legion of one king; And we have one: Then apprehend no odds; For one to one is fair equality.

Bien coupé, mal cousu; such is the most favourable verdict I can pass on this voluminous effusion of a spirit smacking rather of the schools than of the field. The first six lines or so might pass muster as the early handiwork of Shakespeare; the rest has as little of his manner as his matter, his metre as his style.

The poet can hardly be said to rise again after this calamitous collapse. We find in the rest of this scene nothing better worth remark than such poor catches at a word as this;

And let those milkwhite messengers of time Show thy time's learning in this dangerous time;