like him, like him with friends possess’d,
Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, – and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
I continued to sing my calculated songs throughout that summer, piling verse on verse, page on page, making each time a fresh copy for my lord. With the form established between us, I began to exceed myself in gallantry, making the object of my praises the subject of love itself. Though my poem was addressed to a handsome youth, I strove as best I could to reflect some universal desire.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometimes declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
I burnt my nightly hours as he inferred, confined to my small room, bent over my formal rhythms, counting the beats on my fingers, feeling for that thread of sense which would hold together the discreet observations and soaring praises they would contain. Sometimes several days, or even a week, would pass without a single line that I deemed worth showing to him. At other times, in the course of a night’s labour, I would find several pages of some worth had piled one upon the other. So, often laboriously and occasionally swiftly, I began to accumulate my efforts.
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’
So should my papers, yellow’d with their age,
Be scorn’d, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice, – in it and in my rhyme.
The introduction of a child of his own making who would perpetuate that beauty was accidental and felicitous, though perhaps with my poetic senses now attuned to his particular circumstances, I presaged some future development.
THERE WERE TIMES when my lord seemed to regard me with a certain wry amusement for my pains. In conversation one day, he deliberately switched the subject from the sonnet he had been reading towards another subject perhaps closer to his heart. At the time he was staring at the floor, as though gathering his thoughts. Now he turned to peer once more at me with his green eyes, flecked with gold. ‘My mother has spoken to you again?’
‘She has.’
‘And on the usual subject?’
‘The usual,’ I said.
‘And you take her side, as always.’
‘Her side is your side,’ I replied, and added, ‘She speaks for you.’
He turned away. ‘Damn me, if she does.’
I said, ‘There are matters which await you. That is all she says.’
‘Yes, yes, matters!’ This was fierce and fast. He seemed compelled to continue, for the rest of what he wished to say now streamed forth. ‘It is time, perhaps, that you knew something further of me, of my closer circumstances…’
‘Your closer circumstances?’ The phrase rang oddly, and I was at a loss as to this new departure.
He said, ‘You know, for example, that my father died when I was eight.’ I nodded, nervous at his apparent continued excitation. Now, with an effort, he seemed to compose himself sufficiently to explain. ‘After my father had been buried, my Lord Burghley became my legal guardian. When I was still no more than a child, my great guardian caused me to sign a contract, promising to marry his granddaughter, Elizabeth de Vere, on pain of which refusal, on reaching my majority, I would pay a fine – a terrible fine, almost equal to the value of my entire estate. You know of this?’
It was common gossip, so I said, cautiously, ‘I have heard rumours, nothing more.’
‘Then,’ he insisted, ‘you have heard of the disposition of my Lord Burghley?’
I said only that I knew that he had the disposition of a lawyer, and the reputation of a courtier.
‘And what else have you heard of him?’ he asked.
‘That he is our Queen’s closest advisor, and the strongest voice in the Privy Council.’
‘Yes, yes, that is his political suit. But have you ever seen the man, in person?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘He is the coldest creature that ever walked upon this earth. He regards all art, all painting, all poetry, as vanity. The theatre in particular he considers both impious and seditious. They say he is not of the Puritan party, yet he has a puritan’s instincts. Whatever he touches, becomes ice. If he walks through summer, winter follows. And yet it was he who replaced my dead and lamented father – in nomine patris.’
‘In your maturity,’ I tentatively suggested, ‘You will grow away from him.’
‘If only it were so!’ He seemed a little calmer now, staring at the floor, but still biting his fist, his attention set in some other realm. ‘Even from a distance, from London, he still controls my household. My mother too is fearful of him.’
‘Why, my lord?’ I asked.
He raised his eyes again to mine. ‘If I do not marry the one he has chosen for me, my mother too shall be ruined by the catastrophic fine that my Lord Burghley, in his wisdom, shall apportion on me.’
He remained unusually excited. I did my best to calm him, saying, ‘Your mother thinks more of an heir from you than of your inheritance.’
‘Yes,