or But having sported a while with the fairies, as on the sands with printless feet They chase the ebbing Neptune," "in the spiced Indian air, They dance their ringlets to the whistling wind,” of them as the impulse of his fancy may direct. | the loftiest aspirations of the human mind in the When we follow Macbeth to the chamber of Dun- ages which are yet to come. The great Milton's can: when we stand with him by the enchanted imagination alone can be placed in competition caldron; or see him, under the infliction of con- with that of Shakspeare; and even Milton's must science, glaring at the spectre of the blood-boltered yield the palm to that which is displayed in "A Banquo in the possession of the royal chair, horror Midsummer Night's Dream," and in the almost is by our side, thrilling in our veins, and bristling in divine "Tempest." our hair. When we attend the Danish prince to his midnight conference with the shade of his murdered father, and hear the ineffable accents of the dead, willing, but prohibited, "to tell the secrets of his prison-house," we are appalled, and our faculties are suspended in terror. When we see the faithful and the lovely Juliet awaking in the house of darkness and corruption with the corpse of her husband on her bosom: when we behold the innocent Desdemona dying by the hand, to which she was the most fondly attached; and charging on herself, with her latest breath, the guilt of her murderer: when we witness the wretchedness of Lear, contending with the midnight storm, and strewing his white locks on the blast; or carrying in his withered arms the body of his Cordelia murdered in his cause, is it possible that the tear of pity should not start from our eyes and trickle down our cheeks? In the forest of Arden, as we ramble with its accidental inmates, our spirits are soothed into cheerfulness, and are, occasionally, elevated into gaiety. In the tavern at Eastcheap, with the wittying at us the viper lock of Alecto. But to show and debauched knight, we meet with "Laughter holding both his sides;" and we surrender ourselves, willingly and delighted, to the inebriation of his influence. We could dwell for a long summer's day amid the fertility of these charming topics, if we were not called from them to a higher region of poetic enjoyment, possessed by the genius of Shakspearo alone, where he reigns sole lord, and where his subjects are the wondrous progeny of his own creative imagination. From whatever quarter of the world, eastern or northern, England may have originally derived her elves and her fairies, Shakspeare undoubtedly formed these little beings, as they flutter in his scenes, from an idea of his own; and they came from his hand, beneficent and friendly to man; immortal and invulnerable; of such corporeal minuteness as to lie in the bell of a cowslip; and yet of such power as to disorder the seasons; as the mighty Poet turns from their bowers, overcanopied with luscious woodbine," and plants us on "the blasted heath," trodden by the weird sisters, the Fates of the north; or leads us to the dreadful cave, where they are preparing their infernal caldron, and singing round it the incantations of hell. What a change, from all that is fascinating, to all that is the most appalling to the fancy; and yet each of these scenes is the product of the same astonishing intellect, delighting at one time to lull us on beds of roses, with the spirit of Or pheus, and at another to curdle our blood by throwhis supreme command of the super-human world, our royal Poet touches the sepulchre with his magic rod, and the sepulchre opens "its pond'rous and marble jaws," and gives its dead to "revisit the glimpses of the moon." The belief that the dead, on some awful occasions, were permitted to assume the semblance of those bodies, in which they had walked upon earth; or that the world of spirits was sometimes disclosed to the eye of mortality, has prevailed in every age of mankind, in the most enlightened as well as in the most dark. When philosophy had attained its widest extent of power, and had enlarged and refined the intellect, not only of its parent Greece, but of its pupil Rome, a spectre is recorded to have shaken the firmness of Dion, the scholar and the friend of Plato; and another to have assayed the constancy of the philosophic and the virtuous Brutus. In the superstitious age of our Elizabeth and of her Scottish successor, the belief in the existence of ghosts and apparitions was nearly universal; and when Shakspeare produced upon his stage the shade of the Danish sovereign, there was not, perhaps, a heart, amid the crowded audience, which did not To this little ethereal people our Poet has assigned palpitate with fear. But in any age, however little manners and occupations in perfect consistency tainted it might be with superstitious credulity, with their nature; and has sent them forth, in the would the ghost of royal Denmark excite an agita richest array of fancy, to gambol before us, to asto-ting interest, with such awful solemnity is he intro nish and delight us. They resemble nothing upon duced, so sublimely terrible is his tale of woe, and earth: but if they could exist with man, they would such are the effects of his appearance on the peract and speak as they act and speak, with the inspi- sons of the drama, who are its immediate witration of our Poet, in "The Tempest," and "Anesses. We catch, indeed, the terrors of Horatio Midsummer Night's Dream." In contrast with his Ariel, "a spirit too delicate," as the servant of a witch, "to act her earthy and abhorred commands:" but ready, under the control of his philosophic master, -"to bedim The noontide sun; call forth the mutinous winds: "To answer his best pleasure, be it to fly, and the young prince; and if the illusion be not so strong as to seize in the first instance on our own minds, it acts on them in its result from theirs. The melancholy, which previously preyed on the spirits of the youthful Hamlet, was certainly heightened into insanity by this ghostly conference; and from this dreadful moment his madness is partly assumed, and partly unaffected. It is certain that no spectre, ever brought upon the stage, can be compared with this phantom, created by the power in contrast with this aerial being, the imagination of Shakspeare. The apparition of the host, in of Shakspeare has formed a monster, the offspring "The Lover's Progress," by Fletcher, is too conof a hag and a demon; and has introduced him temptible to be mentioned on this occasion: the into the scene with a mind and a character appro- spirit of Almanzor's mother, in "The Conquest of priately and strictly his own. As the drama, into Granada," by Dryden, is not of a higher class; and which are introduced these two beings, beyond the even the ghost of Darius, in "The Persians," of action of Nature, as it is discoverable on this earth, the mighty and sublime Eschylus,shrinks into insig one of them rising above, and one sinking beneath nificance before this of the murdered Majesty of the level of humanity, may be received as the Denmark. For his success, indeed, in this instance, proudest evidence, which has hitherto been pro- Shakspeare is greatly indebted to the superior awduced, of the extent and vigour of man's imagina-fulness of his religion; and the use which he has tion; so it bids fair to stand unrivalled amid all made of the Romish purgatory must be regarded as supremely felicitous. When the imagination of Shakspeare sported without control amid these creations of its own, it unquestionably lifted him high above any competition. As he plays with the fairies in their bowers of eglantine and woodbine; er directs the operations in the magic cave; or calls the dead man from the "cold obstruction" of the tomb, "to make night hideous," he may challenge the poets of every age, from that of Homer to the present, and be fearless of the event. But eier from his ignorance of them, which is not easily credible, or from his disregard to them, or rather, per-ted by the intervention of a thousand miles. Let haps, from his desire to escape from their yoke, he violates without remorse the dramatic unities of time and place, contenting himself to preserve the unity of action or design, without which, indeed, nothing worthy of the name of composition can exist. And who steps forward, in this instance of his licentious liberty, as the champion of Shakspeare, but that very critic who brings such charges against him as a poet and a dramatist, that, if they were capable of being substantiated, would overturn him from his lofty pedestal; and would prove the object of our homage, during two centuries, to be a little deformed image, which we had with the most silly idolatry mistaken for a god? But Johnson's defence of Shakspeare seems to be as weak as his attack; though in either case the want of power in the warrior is concealed under the glare of his ostentatious arms. It is unquestionable that, since the days of the patrician of Argos, recorded by Horace, who would sit for hours in the vacant theatre, and give his applause to actors who were not there, no man, unattended by a keeper, ever mistook the wooden and narrow platform of a stage for the fields of Philippi or Agincourt; or the painted canvass, shifting under his eye, for the palace of the Ptolemies or the Cæsars; or the walk, which had brought him from his own house to the theatre, for a voyage across the Mediterranean to Alexandria; or the men and women, with whom he had probably conversed in the common intercourse of life, for old Romans and Grecians. Such a power of illusion, quite incompatible with any degree of sanity of mind, has never been challenged by any critic, as attached to poetry and the stage; and it is adduced, in his accustomed style of argument, by Johnson, only for the purpose of confounding his adversaries with absurdity, or of baffling them with ridicule. But there is a power of illusion, belonging to genuine poetry, which, without overthrowing the reason, can seize upon the imagination, and make it subservient to its purposes. This is asserted by Horace in that often cited passage: instrument. The stream of passion, like a stream. of electricity, rushes from the actor to us, and we are as unable as we are unwilling to resist it. Now it is this feeling, which constitutes the poetic probability of what we see and hear, and which may be violated by an injudicious and lawless shifting of the scene. If our passions be interested by an action passing at a place called Rome, it must shock and chill them to have our attentions hurried suddenly, without any reason for the discontinuance of the action, to a place called Alexandria, separaus suppose, then, that in the fulness of the scenic excitement, a friend at our elbow, with the impassible fibre of a Johnson, were to shake us and to say, "What! are you mad? Know you not whers you are? in Drury Lane theatre ? within a few hundred yards of your own chambers in Lincoln's Inn, and neither at Rome nor at Alexandria? and perceive you not that the old man whom you see there on his knee, with his hands clenched, and his eyes raised in imprecation to heaven, is our old friend, Garrick, who is reciting with much propriety some verses made by a man, long since in his grave? Yes! Garrick, with whom you conversed not many hours ago; and who, a few hours hence, will be talking with his friends, over a comfortable supper, of the effects of his present mimickry?" If we should be thus addressed, (and a sudden shifting of the scene may produce an equal dissipation of the illusion which delights us,) should we be thankful to our wise friend for thus informing our understanding by the interruption of our feelings? Should we not rather exclaim with the Argive noble of Horace, when purged by hellebore into his senses, "Ille per extentum funem mihi passe videtur Ire poeta, meum qui pectus inaniter angit, Irritat, mulcet falsis terroribus implet Ut magus; et modo me Thebis modo ponit Athenis." Assisted by the scenery, the dresses of the actors, and their fine adaptation of the voice and countenance to the design of the poet, this illusion becomes so strong as intimately to blend us with the fictitious personages whom we see before us. We know, indeed, that we are seated upon benches, and are spectators only of a poetic fiction: but the power, which mingles us with the agents upon the stage, is of such a nature that we feel, as it were, one interest with them we resent the injuries which they suffer, we rejoice at the good fortune which betides them: the pulses of our hearts beat in harmony with theirs; and as the tear gushes from their eyes, it swells and overflows in ours. To account for this influence of poetic imitation, for this contagion of represented passion belongs to the metaphysician, the sole business of the critic is to remark and to reason from the fact. It is unquestionable that our imaginations are, to a certain extent, under the control of authentic poetry, and especially of that poetry which employs the scenic imitation for its Fuit haud ignobilis Argis, &c. Epis. lib. ii. Ep. ii. 1. 128. "Pol me occidisti cui sic extorta voluptas Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error." With the illusion of the poetic or dramatic imitation, established as an unquestionable truth in our minds, let us now turn and consider the dramatic unities in their origin and effect. The unity of action, indeed, may be thrown altogether from our notice; for, universally acknowledged to be essentially necessary to the drama, and constituting what may be called its living principle, it has escaped from violation even by our lawless Poet himself. The drama, as we know, in Greece, derived its ori gin from the choral odes, which were sung at certain seasons before the altar of Bacchus. To these, in the first instance, was added a dialogue of two persons; and, the number of speakers being subsequently increased, a regular dramatic fable was, at length, constructed, and the dialogue usurped the prime honours of the performance. But the chorus, though degraded, could not be expelled from the scene, which was once entirely its own; and, consecrated by the regard of the people, it was forced upon the acceptance of the dramatist, to act with it in the best manner that he could. It was stationed, therefore, permanently on the stage, and made to occupy its place with the agents who were to conduct the action of the fable. From the circumstance of its being stationary on the stage, it secured the strict observance of the unity of place: for with a stage, which was never vacant, and consequently with only one scene, the Grecian dramatist could not remove his agents whithersoever he pleased, in accommodation to his immediate convenience; but on the spot, where the scene opened, he was cons strained to retain them till the action of the drama, was closed, and what could not consistently be acted was necessarily onsigned to narration. This was a heavy servitude to the dramatist; but it had its compensations ir uninterrupted feeling, and in the greater conservation of probability. To the unity of time, as time is more pliant to the imagination than place, the Grecian dramatist seems to have paid little any regard. In the Agamemnon of Eschylus, the fire signals have only just announced to Mycenae the fall of Troy, when the herald arrives with the tidings of the victorious king's approach; who must thus have passed from Phrygia to the Peloponnesus, obstructed also as his passage was by a tempest, with the celerity nearly of a ray of light; and in the Trachini of Sophocles, a journey of about one hundred and twenty miles is accomplished during the recitation of a hundred verses. The transgression of the unity of time was not, perhaps, much the subject of the auditor's calculation, or in any degree of his concern. With his mind intent on the still occupied stage and the unchanging scene, he was ready to welcome the occurrence of any new event, or to listen with pleasure to any new narration of facts beyond the stage, without pausing to investigate the poet's due apportionment of time. If the scene had been shifted, the feelings of the spectator would have been outraged by such an infringement of the unity of place. When the arbitrary separation of the drama into acts was accomplished by the Roman dramatists, the observance of the unity of place became more easy, though still it was not to be abandoned. An act constitutes a portion of the action of a drama, at the close of which the stage is vacated and the curtain drops. If, during the act, the scene be shifted, the unity of place is broken; the probability of the dramatic imitation is diminished, and our feelings are certainly offended: but in the interval between act and act, the scene may be removed to any place where it may suit the convenience of the poet to plant it, to Venice or to Cyprus; and any lapse of time may, readily and without absurdity, be imagined to intervene. The action of the drama must necessarily be maintained one and entire, and then, with the scene stationary during the act, all the dramatic unities will be sufficiently, if not rigidly, preserved. As we know nothing of the tragic writers of Rome, all their works having perished, with the exception of those of Seneca, from which not any thing of value can be learned, we cannot decide whether or not they availed themselves of the liberty which they had obtained by this division of their plays into acts; and that their plays were divided into acts, like those of the Roman comic writers, we are assured by Horace when he tells the Pisos "Neve minor, neu sit quinto productior actu Fabula, &c." If the limits prescribed to me on the present oc casion would admit of such a disquisition, I would submit to my readers an analysis of one of our Poet's finest plays, that I might distinctly show how much he has lost by his neglect of the dramatic unities; and how much more effectually he might have wrought for his purpose if he had not disdained or been too idle to solicit their assistance. In two lines of supreme fustian and nonsense, John so says of him, "Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign; And panting time toil'd after him in vain." If he spurn'd the reign of existence, he must have plunged into some illimitable void, if there be such, in the infinity of space; and what is the idea intended to be conveyed by "Panting time toiling after him in vain," I will confess that I do not prethese lines the first refers to the super-human creacisely comprehend. I conclude, however, that of tures of the dramatist's invention, to his fairies, his magicians, and his ghosts: and these, indeed, are proud evidences of his imaginative powers; and that the second, in the ludicrous image, which it presents, of old Time, panting and toiling in vain to catch the active and runaway Poet, must allude to less bard for probability and the limitation of time; the contempt occasionally discovered by our lawand this, of which any scribbler may be guilty, is, in truth, the most effective dispraise. But it is more wonderful that Shakspeare, who may be regarded as the father of the English drama, accomplished so much for its perfection, than that he failed to accomplish more." We have now considered this extraordinary man as the giver of a poetic soul to historic narration, as the framer of a dramatic fable, and excelling equally in the sublime, the pathetic, and the ludicrous; as luxuriating by himself, in a sort of inaccessible glory, in a world of his own imagination; as neglecting the dramatic unities, either from ignorance of their effect, or from an indolent dislike sory survey of his excellencies and his defects. His of their restraint. We have made, in short, a curdiction only now remains to be the subject of our attention; and in this subordinate portion of the drama, we shall find him to be as superior to competition as he is in the characteristic and the imaBut if they did not assert the liberty, which they ginative. His diction is an instrument, which is had gained by thus breaking the continued repre- admirably adapted to all his purposes. In his trasentation of the Grecian theatre, they had them-gic strains, it sounds every note of the gamut; and selves only to blame; for they certainly possessed is either sublime or tender, vehement or pathetic, the means of effectively preserving all the power of with the passion of which it is the organ in de the unities at a very small expense of difficulty and scription it is picturesque, animated, and glowing; labour. It is for his inattention to the integrity of and every where its numbers are so harmonious, so the scene during the continuance of each single act varied, almost to infinity, in their cadence and their that I conceive Shakspeare to be principally cen- pauses, that they give to the ear a perpetual feast, surable; and the variety, to which we are instruct-in which there is no satiety. As the diction of ed to look as the consequence of his lawlessness in Shakspeare rises in his higher scenes, without efthis instance, to be an insufficient compensation for fort or tumour, to the sublime of poetry, so does it the outrage of probability, for the frequent violation fall, in his comic, with facility and grace, into the of our feelings, and for the vicious example with humility of prose. It has been charged with being which he has corrupted the good taste, and has harsh and ungrammatical. I believe it to be harsh diminished the efficiency of the English stage. A and unrhythmical (I confine the remark, of course, recent commentator, however, has discovered, and to the verse portion of it) only when it has been he seems to applaud himself on the felicitous dis- deformed by the perverse industry of tasteless comcovery, that our great bard has been faithful to one mentators, referring us to incorrect transcriptions unity of the drama, though he has treated the others for authorities; and to the same cause may be aswith disregard that he has been faithful to the cribed, as I am satisfied, many, if not all, of its unity of feeling-to the unity of feeling! What! grosser grammatical errors. It will not, indeed, in when he transports us from the revels and the wit every instance, as we are willing to allow, abide of Falstaff to the council chamber of the politic the rigid analysis of grammar; for it sometimes Bolingbroke, to the military array of the young impresses the idea forcibly and distinctly on the Percy, to the field of Shrewsbury, to the castle of mind without the aid of regular grammar, and with the plaintiff Northumberland. The tragedies of out discovering the means by which the exploit has Rowe, and the comedies of Congreve may vaunt of been achieved. As one example of this power their unity of feeling: but that mixed species of dra- of Shakspeare's diction, among many of a similar ma, in which Shakspeare delights, will admit the nature which might be adduced, we will transcribe praise of any other unity in preference to that of the often-cited answer of Claudio to his sister, in feeling. "Measure for Measure," respecting the unknown terrors of deatn. The expressions in Italics convey their meaning with great accuracy to the hear De Arte Poetica, 1. 189. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. er's or the reader's mind; but, if submitted to the philosophical grammarian s examination, they will not easily stand under it; and they may puzzle us to account for their effect in the communication of the poet's ideas. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where: To bathe in fiery floods; or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice: To be imprison'd in the viewless winds; The pendent world: or to be worse than worst This entire passage, terminating at "howling," is There myriads still shall laugh, or drop the tear, Vicesimo quinto die Martii, Anno Regni Domini In the name of God, Amen. I William Shakspeare of Stratford upon Avon, in the county of As for those barba-Warwick, gent. in perfect health and memory (God risms of the double negative and the double com- be praised!) do make and ordain this my last parative, which Malone is studious to recall from will and testament in manner and form following; the old copies into Shakspeare's text, I have already that is to say: declared my conviction that they are falsely charged upon Shakspeare. They are not to be found in those effusions of his muse which issued from the press under his own immediate inspection; and they must assuredly be considered as the illiterate errors of an illiterate transcriber. I could now easily, and the task would be delight- Yes, master of the human heart! we own There Love, there Hate, there Joy in turn presides; On the scath'd heath the fatal sisters scowl: These are thy wonders, Nature's darling birth! First, I commend my soul into the hands of God my creator, hoping, and assuredly believing, through the only merits of Jesus Christ my Saviour, to be made partaker of life everlasting; and my body to the earth whereof it is made. Item, I give and bequeath unto my daughter Judith, one hundred and fifty pounds of lawful English money, to be paid unto her in manner and form following; that is to say, one hundred pounds in discharge of her marriage portion within one year after my decease, with consideration after the rate of two shillings in the pound for so long a time as the same shall be unpaid unto her after my decease; and the fifty pounds residue thereof, upon her surrendering of, or giving of such sufficient security as the overseers of this my will shall like of, to surrender or grant, all her estate and right that shall descend or come unto her after my decease, or that she now hath, of, in, or to, one copyhold tenement, with the appurtenances, lying and being in Stratford upon Avon aforesaid, in the said county of Warwick, being parcel or holden of the manor of Rowington, unto my daughter Susanna Hall, and her heirs for ever. Item, I give and bequeath unto my said daughter Judith one hundred and fifty pounds more, if she, or any issue of her body, be living at the end of three years next ensuing the day of the date of this my will, during which time my executors to pay her consideration from my decease according to the rate aforesaid and if she die within the said term without issue of her body, then my will is, and I do give and bequeath one hundred pounds thereof to my niece Elizabeth Hall, and the fifty pounds to be set forth by my executors during the life of my sister Joan Hart, and the use and profit thereof coming, shall be paid to my said sister Joan, and after her decease the said fifty pounds shall remain amongst amongst them; but if my said daughter Judith be the children of my said sister, equally to be divided living at the end of the said three years, or any issue of her body, then my will is, and so I devise and bequeath the said hundred and fifty pounds to be set out by my executors and overseers for the best benefit of her and her issue, and the stock not to be paid unto her so long as she shall be married and covert baron; but my will is, that she shall have the consideration yearly paid unto her during her life, and after her decease the said stock and consideration to be paid to her children, if she have any, and if not, to her executors and assigns, she living the said term after my decease: provided that if such husband as she shall at the end of the said three years be married unto, or at any [time] after, do sufficiently assure unto her, and the issue 30 of her body, lands answerable to the portion by this my will given unto her, and to be adjudged so by my executors and overseers, then my will is, that the said hundred and fifty pounds shall be paid to such husband as shall make such assurance, to his own use. Item, I give and bequeath unto my said sister Joan twenty pounds, and all my wearing apparel, to be paid and delivered within one year after my decease; and I do will and devise unto her the house, with the appurtenances, in Stratford, wherein she dwelleth, for her natural life, under the yearly rent of twelve-pence. Item, I give and bequeath unto her three sons, William Hart, Hart, and Michael Hart, five pounds apiece, to be paid within one year after my decease. Item, I give and bequeath unto the said Elizabeth Hall all my plate (except my broad silver and gilt bowl,) that I now have at the date of this my will. Item, I give and bequeath the poor of Stratford aforesaid ten pounds; to Mr. Thomas Combe my sword; to Thomas Russel, esq. five pounds; and to Francis Collins of the borough of Warwick, in the county of Warwick, gent. thirteen pounds six shillings and eight-pence, to be paid within one year after my decease. Item, I give and bequeath to Hamlet [Hamnet] Sadler twenty-six shillings eight-pence, to buy him a ring; to William Reynolds, gent. twenty-six shillings eight-pence, to buy him a ring; to my godson William Walker, twenty shillings in gold; to Anthony Nash, gent. twenty-six shillings eightpence; and to Mr. John Nash, twenty-six shillings eight-pence; and to my fellows, John Hemynge, Richard Burbage, and Henry Cundell, twenty-six shillings eight-pence apiece, to buy them rings. Item, I give, will, bequeath, and devise, unto my daughter Susanna Hall, for better enabling of her to perform this my will, and towards the performance thereof, all that capital messuage or tenement, with the appurtenances, in Stratford aforesaid, called The New Place, wherein I now dwell, and to the right heirs of me the said William Shakspeare testament. And I do entreat and appoint the said By me WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. Fra. Collyns, Probatum fuit testamentum suprascriptum apud London, coram Magistro William Byrde, Legum Doctore, &c. vicesimo secundo die mensis Junii, Anno Domini 1616; juramento Johannis Hall unius ex. cui, &c. de bene, &c. jurat. reservata potestate, &c. Susanna Hall, all. ex. &c. eam cum venerit, &c. petitur, &c. ΤΟ THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. two messuages or tenements, with the appurte- MR. WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE, nances, situate, lying, and being in Henley-street, within the borough of Stratford aforesaid; and all my barns, stables, orchards, gardens, lands, tenements, and hereditaments whatsoever, situate, lying, and being, or to be had, received, perceived, or taken, within the towns, hamlets, villages, fields, and grounds of Stratford upon Avon, Old Stratford, Bishopton, and Welcombe, or in any of them, in the said county of Warwick; and also all that messuage or tenement, with the appurtenances, wherein one John Robinson dwelleth, situate, lying, and being, in the Blackfriars in London, near the Wardrobe: and all other my lands, tenements, and hereditaments whatsoever: to have and to hold all and singular the said premises, with their appurtenances, unto the said Susanna Hall, for and during the term of her natural life; and after her decease to the first son of her body lawfully issuing, and to the heirs males of the body of the said first son lawfully issu. ing; and for default of such issue, to the second son of her body lawfully issuing, and to the heirs males of the body of the said second son lawfully issuing; and for default of such heirs, to the third son of the body of the said Susanna lawfully issuing, and to the heirs males of the body of the said third son lawfully issuing; and for default of such issue, the same so to be and remain to the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh sons of her body, lawfully issuing one after another, and to the heirs males of the bodies of the said fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh sons lawfully issuing, in such manner as it is before limited to be and remain to the first, second, and third sons of her body, and to their heirs males; and for default of such issue, the said premises to be and remain to my said niece Hall, and the heirs males of her body lawfully issuing; and for default of such issue, to my daughter Judith, and the heirs males of her body lawfully issuing; and for default of such issue, To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name, |