latter is the really conclusive reply. In the case of Michel Angelo,
for instance, one must admit that if his works are set beside those of
Titian or Paul Veronese, it is impossible not to be struck by the
absence in the Florentine of that susceptibility to feminine charm
which pervades the pictures of the Venetians. But, as Mr Harris
points out (though he does not use this particular illustration) Paul
Veronese is an anchorite compared to Shakespear. The language of the
sonnets addressed to Pembroke, extravagant as it now seems, is the
language of compliment and fashion, transfigured no doubt by
Shakespear's verbal magic, and hyperbolical, as Shakespear always
seems to people who cannot conceive so vividly as he, but still
unmistakable for anything else than the expression of a friendship
delicate enough to be wounded, and a manly loyalty deep enough to be
outraged. But the language of the sonnets to the Dark Lady is the
language of passion: their cruelty shews it. There is no evidence
that Shakespear was capable of being unkind in cold blood. But in his
revulsions from love, he was bitter, wounding, even ferocious; sparing
neither himself nor the unfortunate woman whose only offence was that
she had reduced the great man to the common human denominator.

In seizing on these two points Mr Harris has made so sure a stroke,
and placed his evidence so featly that there is nothing left for me to
do but to plead that the second is sounder than the first, which is, I
think, marked by the prevalent mistake as to Shakespear's social
position, or, if you prefer it, the confusion between his actual
social position as a penniless tradesman's son taking to the theatre
for a livelihood, and his own conception of himself as a gentleman of
good family. I am prepared to contend that though Shakespear was
undoubtedly sentimental in his expressions of devotion to Mr W. H.
even to a point which nowadays makes both ridiculous, he was not