‘Wrapped up in this paper, a letter to Anne Hathaway, which mentions the fact of his sending her the lock, and encloses some verses.’
‘Is it possible?’ exclaimed the old man, with intense excitement; ‘oh, happy day! Read it, read it! I can see nothing clearly.’
The letter ran as follows:
‘Dearesste Anna,—As thou haste alwaye founde mee toe my worde moste
treue, so thou shalt see I have stryctlye kept mye promyse. I praye
you perfume thys mye poore Locke withe thye balmye eyess, fore thenne,
indeede, shalle Kynges themmeselves love and paye homage toe itte. I doe
assure thee no rude hand hath knottedde itte, thye Willys alone hath
done the worke. Adewe sweete love.
‘Thyne everre,
‘Wm. Shakespeare.’
‘Most tender, true, and precious!’ exclaimed the antiquary, ecstatically; ‘and now the verses?’
‘There are but two, sir,’ said the young man, apologetically:—
‘“Is therre in heavenne aught more rare
Thane thou sweete nymphe of Avon fayre,
Is therre onne earthe a manne more treue
Thanne Willy Shakespeare is toe you?”’