The Development Of The Feeling For Nature In The Middle Ages And Modern Times Part 23

(_Henry VI._)

If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes; When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'er-flow?

If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face?

And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?

I am the sea: hark, how her sighs do blow!

She is the weeping welkin, I the earth; Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow'd and drowned.

(_t.i.tus Andronicus._)

This battle fares like to the morning's war When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd blowing of his nails Can neither call it perfect day nor night.

Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forced by the tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the self-same sea Forced to retire by fury of the wind.

Sometime the flood prevails and then the wind: Now one the better, then another best; Both tugging to be victors, breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered.

So is the equal poise of this fell war.

(_Henry VI._)

In the last five examples the epic treatment and the personifications are noteworthy.

Comparisons from animal life are forcible and striking:

How like a deer, stricken by many princes, Dost thou lie here! (_Julius Caesar._)

Richard III. is called:

The wretched b.l.o.o.d.y and usurping boar That spoil'd your summer fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash and makes his trough In your embowell'd bosoms; this foul swine Lies now even in the centre of this isle.

The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind.

(_Richard III._)

The smallest objects are noted:

As flies to wanton boys are we to the G.o.ds; They kill us for their sport. (_King Lear._)

_Marcus_: Alas! my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.

_t.i.tus_: But how if that fly had a father and a mother?

How would he hang his slender gilded wings, And buzz lamenting doings in the air!

Poor harmless fly!

That, with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry! and thou Hast kill'd him!

(_t.i.tus Andronicus._)

Shakespeare has abundance of this idyllic miniature painting, for which all the literature of the day shewed a marked taste.

Tamora says:

My lovely Aaron, wherefore look'st thou sad, When everything doth make a gleeful boast?

The birds chant melody on every bush, The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind And make a chequer'd shadow on the ground.

(_t.i.tus Andronicus._)

And Valentine in _Two Gentlemen of Verona_:

This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flouris.h.i.+ng peopled towns; Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale's complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes.

Like this, in elegiac sentimentality, is Romeo:

Before the wors.h.i.+pp'd sun Peer'd forth the golden window of the east....

Many a morning hath he there been seen With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew.

_Cymbeline, Winter's Tale_, and _As You Like It_ are particularly rich in idyllic traits; the artificiality of court life is contrasted with life in the open; there are songs, too, in praise of woodland joys:

Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And tune his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

(_As You Like It._)

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingrat.i.tude.

Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen Altho' thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho, sing heigh-ho unto the green holly!

Most friends.h.i.+p is feigning, most loving mere folly![4]

(_As You Like It._)

Turning again to comparisons, we find birds used abundantly:

More pity that the eagle should be mewed While kites and buzzards prey at liberty.

(_Richard III._)

True hope is swift and flies with swallow's wings.

(_Richard III._)

As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort Rising and cawing at the gun's report Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky, So at his sight away his fellows fly.

(_Midsummer Night's Dream._)

And plant life is touched with special tenderness:

All the bystanders had wet their cheeks Like trees bedashed with rain.

(_Richard III._)

Why grow the branches when the root is gone?

Why wither not the leaves that want their sap?

(_Richard III._)

Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, Which in their summer beauty kiss'd each other.

(_Richard III._)

Ah! my tender babes!

My unblown flowers, new appearing sweets.

(_Richard III._)

Romeo is

To himself so secret and so close ...

As is the bud bit with an envious worm, Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.