Shakespeare, "the rough copies of some songs in my _Love's Labour's
Lost_, published last year"; and, being further encouraged, searches
among his rough MSS., and tosses Jaggard a lyric or two and a couple
of sonnets. Jaggard pays his money, and departs with the verses. When
the miscellany appears, Shakespeare finds his name alone upon the
title-page, and remonstrates. But, of the defrauded ones, Marlowe is
dead; Barnefield has retired to live the life of a country gentleman
in Shropshire; Griffin dwells in Coventry (where he died, three years
later). These are the men injured; and if they cannot, or will not,
move in the business, Shakespeare (whose case at law would be more
difficult) can hardly be expected to. So he contents himself with
strong expressions at The Mermaid. But in 1612 Jaggard repeats his
offence, and is indiscreet enough to add Heywood to the list of the
spoiled. Heywood lives in London, on the spot; and Shakespeare, now
retired to Stratford, is of more importance than he was in 1599.
Armed with Shakespeare's authority Heywood goes to Jaggard and
threatens; and the publisher gives way.

Whatever our hypothesis, we cannot maintain that Jaggard behaved well.
On the other hand, it were foolish to judge his offence as if the man
had committed it the day before yesterday. Conscience in matters of
literary copyright has been a plant of slow growth. But a year or two
ago respectable citizens of the United States were publishing our
books "free of authorial expenses," and even corrected our imperfect
works without consulting us. We must admit that Jaggard acted up to
Luther's maxim, "_Pecca fortiter_." He went so far as to include a
piece so well known as Marlowe's _Live with me and be my love_--which
proves at any rate his indifference to the chances of detection. But
to speak of him as one would speak of a similar offender in this New
Year of Grace is simply to forfeit one's claim to an historical sense.