"Fling away ambition,
By that sin fell the angels, how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to rise by it."
Whilst the poet wrote, as was not uncommonly the case, a whole levée of visitors continually interrupted his labours. This, however, was a circumstance that seemed rather to aid than disturb the current of his thoughts. He laid down his pen to laugh with the light-hearted, and he thrust aside his manuscript to listen to the more serious. He was all things with all men. The courtier, the soldier, the scholar, all and each found in him something to wonder at and admire. On this day, which was the sixth for the representation of his play, his visitors were numerous. In addition to many of his brother authors, several of the actors and other persons connected with the theatre, the Earl of Essex, Sir Walter Raleigh, Lord Southampton, and the poet Spenser, sought him in his lodging. Master Doubletongue too, who on this day had been seeking an opportunity of introducing himself into the house, as he met with some actor or other visitor coming out, hesitated as to the safety of such espial. Nay, he felt considerably astonished at the number and quality of the persons who seemed, as the day advanced, to come thronging about the locality.
Whilst he continued watching for some person he appeared to expect, he beheld the open space in front of the house filled with the attendants of several nobles of the Court; their magnificent steeds, gaily caparisoned, being led up and down, or held by servitors with the emblazoned badges of the favourites of the Queen.
It is indeed curious to consider the poet himself during the visit of these magnificoes, and who, in the enjoyment of his society, sought a new pleasure; visitors who, like himself, were elevated above "the common cry of curs," and, leaving their high rank out of the question, worthy of the friendship of Shakespeare. The poet himself, too, was perfectly at his ease in the company of these haughty nobles. He sat and conversed with them in all the freedom of unchecked enjoyment.
To attempt any description of the conversation carried on amongst these choice and master spirits of the age would be vain and ridiculous, since it exceeds the power of our pen to describe it. Nay, were it possible so to do, we must of necessity furnish forth to the world a dialogue such as is only to be found in the page of him who acted as the host to the assemblage.
Let us look at the picture, for it is one worthy of regard. Shakespeare sits beneath the ample chimney, his table is before him, strewed with papers. He leans back in his chair; a divine expression, a sweet smile is on his bearded face. Opposite to him is his patron, Lord Southampton, his chin resting upon the hilt of his sheathed rapier, his eyes and ears intent upon the subject Shakespeare is speaking of. Beside Shakespeare, leaning his cheek upon his hand, his elbow upon the table, sits the magnificent Essex; he also is intently regarding the poet, admiration in his gaze. Standing somewhat behind Lord Southampton, his back against the carved chimney, is the poet Spenser. Raleigh sits within the embayment of the window; his plumed hat is carelessly thrown down beside him, and his quick, restless glance is ever and anon turned from the poet towards the different craft which pass and repass upon the Thames below. Beside these, élite of the company, there is Tarleton, the comedian and Court fool, who, under cover of his folly, shoots his bolts upon all the party. One more addition, and the party is completed; and it is made up by the dissolute friend of the poet, the fat and jovial Froth.
Whilst they are engaged in conversation, the drawer from an adjoining tavern enters with wine and other refreshments. From long-necked and quaint-looking bottles is poured the wines of Gascony and Spain. The means, too, and appliances for indulgence in Sir Walter's favourite weed is then handed round, and (as was the custom of the period) each guest takes a whiff; the thin blue smoke mounts into the air, and eddies about the carved ceiling; and, as the mirth and joviality of the party grows faster, time flies unheeded by, the shadows descend upon the Thames, again and again the bottles are renewed, and another day dawns upon the party, ere they recollect how the hours have fled.
Can our readers wonder at this, when they remember of what that party consisted, and their entertainer? Those magnificoes had come to pay the poet a morning visit, and they had stayed half a day and one entire night. Shakespeare was their entertainer!
As the first faint streaks of dawn began to "lace the severing clouds," the poet stood alone in his apartment. His guests had left him, and his room shewed tokens of the revel they had been engaged in.
The revellers had drank deep, for they were such as would be most likely to give themselves up to the peculiar enjoyment of the hour. Shakespeare had cheered the cup for them.