“Blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes,
Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.”
It had never been pointed out before that the shepherd of this lovely pastoral, whose “youth in art and art in youth” are described with such subtlety of phrase and passion, was none other than the Mr W.H. of the Sonnets, And yet there was no doubt that he was so. Not merely in personal appearance are the two lads the same, but their natures and temperaments are identical. When the false shepherd whispers to the fickle maid—
“All my offences that abroad you see
Are errors of the blood, none of the mind;
Love made them not”:
when he says of his lovers,
“Harm have I done to them, but ne’er was harmed;
Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free,
And reigned, commanding in his monarchy”:
when he tells us of the “deep-brained sonnets” that one of them had sent him, and cries out in boyish pride—
