January 1, 2002
Dear Albert,
Just this morning as I sat down to begin writing in my
journal, as I do every day upon awakening, this time, on New Year’s, and began
thinking again about a piece I was engaged in writing yesterday—the Titherley
and Hutcheson articles you sent me some time ago. You may recall, (and if you
don’t it’s in my piece on the subject) in 1577 and 1580 “W.S.” wrote two poems,
the latter one about “Wit” and “Will.” Titherley discusses, briefly these poems
in his effort to convince the reader that Will Stanley was “Shakespeare.” To
that end he ties comments in the poems of W.S. to Shakespeare’s Sonnets,
especially 134, 136. Titherley makes no mention of the real theme of those
sonnets, however, and would have the subject of “Wit” and “Will” be their
common center. But, actually, the sonnets speak of “Will” and “Will,” not “Wit
and Will.” Obviously, Shakespeare’s entire witty play on the name “Will” caused
Titherley to think the author had himself “wit” as a subject, along with “will”
or “wils”.
I turned, once again, to study the
“Will” sonnets, as I had so many times before, to ensure myself I was not the
one getting things confused. My eye lite on Sonnet 136 first, and, on reading
it again, I immediately had the sensation I had just solved a riddle—a riddle
that I did not previously know existed in the sonnet. But, on solving it, proof
of the existence of the riddle appeared to assert itself. Below is the sonnet,
just as published [i.e., obviously in electronic form] in 1609.
136
[rhyme: ababcdcdefefbb][1] IF thy {s}oule check thee that I come {s}o neere,
[2] Sweare to thy blind {s}oule that I was thy Will,
[3] And will thy {s}oule knowes is admitted there,
[4] Thus farre for loue, my loue-{s}ute {s}weet full{fi}ll.
[5] Will, will ful{fi}ll the trea{s}ure of thy loue,
[6] I {fi}ll it full with wils, and my will one,
[7] In things of great receit with ea{s}e we prooue.
[8] Among a number one is reckon'd none.
[9] Then in the number let me pa{{s}{s}}e vntold,
[10] Though in thy {{s}t}ores account I one mu{{s}t} be,
[11] For nothing hold me,{s}o it plea{s}e thee hold,
[12] That nothing me, a {s}ome-thing {s}weet to thee.
[13] Make but my name thy loue, and loue that {{s}t}ill,
[14] And then thou loue{{s}t} me for my name is Will.
I had never
really understood the poem before, it seemed to me now as I finished reading it
again. The poem beseeches that the beloved swear to the poet that he, as her
one-time lover, was once her “Will.” If she does so, he tells her, she will
fulfill his “love-suit” request. Indeed, he appears to say that by admitting he
was her Will, she will fulfill her own love’s treasure. The poem then seems to
turn, almost with a bitter thrust, to assert that if she admits he, as “Will”
is her love, his love, as “Will” will be “one” among other “Wills,” no doubt,
of her other willful treasure.
There ought
to be a period after the sixth line, but there isn’t. The new thought (“In
things of great receipt”) is a reflection on what came before, and a derived
lesson in logic, so to speak. Indeed, quite precisely it is also a lesson in
the science of the day. “In things of
great receipt with ease we prove./Among a number one is counted none.” There
needs no period after “prove” as the original text has it. A comma is what is
need, with the continuing thought that in mathematics the number “one” is not
counted among the numbers (or as he says is counted “none,” i.e., is not
counted).
The riddle
now asserts itself, the answer to which is the “name” of “Will”—which is where
the poem begins. The riddle is in the line, “Then in the number let me pass
untold,/Though in thy stores account I one must be.” That is the riddling line.
What does it mean? The subject is the poet’s identity; he must be one of the
“Wills,” but one of the unknown ones. By specifically speaking of himself as
being the one who wishes to “pass untold,” or unknown, he is merely stating
that it is his true identity which passes by “untold.” His counterfeit name,
Will, is known and repeatedly, even (if this were not a riddle) absurdly so.
The poet’s “something sweet to thee” can refer to her “nothing” or her
“will”—which as the poet is at pains to tell us is the same in any case.
But the
important question is what does, “Then in the number let me pass untold” mean?
What number? Why, clearly, and as repeatedly stated, the number “ONE.” That is
the only “number” referred to. (Of course, there is the double entendre that “number” also refers to verse structure of
poetry). How can it “pass untold” and yet in her memory still be “one,” which
is counted “NONE”? The poet continues, “Make but my name thy love, and love
that still. . .” But the only name that the poet has given is the name “One”
which is “None” or “nothing” or “Will.” If she love’s him for “one” which is
“none” then she will love him, because, he says, “for my name is Will.”
We cannot
pass without noting that the sixth line also emphasizes the fact that “Will”
and “One” are equivalent names for himself (“I, fill it full with wills, and my
will one. . .” One can read “I” as a Roman numeral one, a pronoun, or a
exclamation “ay,” –it is a triple
entendre, at least. What can any of this mean: what can be “I,” “One”
“Will” and his name which passes by “untold” in “nothing,” or “None”?
The answer
is simple, E.O. If E.O. did not have an N to hide himself, his name would be
spotted on first focus, EO. With the “N” he disguises his real name in “OnE”
which is “nothing” which is himself.
Of course
it is a fact, in many of the SS there is the existence of the poet’s friend called “Will.” This
“friend” (or another one just like him) is his other self, his “next self.” The
sonnet below makes the point.
133
[rhyme: ababcdcdefefgg][1] BE{{s}h}rew that heart that makes my heart to groane
[2] For that deepe wound it giues my friend and me;
[3] I'{{s}t} not ynough to torture me alone,
[4] But {{s}l}aue to {{s}l}auery my {s}weet'{{s}t} friend mu{{s}t} be.
[5] Me from my {s}elfe thy cruell eye hath taken,
[6] And my next {s}elfe thou harder ha{{s}t} ingro{{s}{s}}ed,
[7] Of him, my {s}elfe, and thee I am for{s}aken,
[8] A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cro{{s}{s}}ed :
[9] Pri{s}on my heart in thy {{s}t}eele bo{s}omes warde,
[10] But then my friends heart let my poore heart bale,
[11] Who ere keepes me, let my heart be his garde,
[12] Thou can{{s}t} not then v{s}e rigor in my Iaile.
[13] And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee,
[14] Perforce am thine and all that is in me.
Another sonnet plays on the “Will” friend, as his “other mine.”
134
[rhyme: ababcdcdefefgg][1] SO now I haue confe{{s}t} that he is thine,
[2] And I my {s}elfe am morgag'd to thy will,
[3] My {s}elfe Ile forfeit,{s}o that other mine,
[4] Thou wilt re{{s}t}ore to be my comfort {{s}t}ill:
[5] But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
[6] For thou art couetous, and he is kinde,
[7] He learnd but {s}uretie-like to write for me,
[8] Vnder that bond that him as fa{{s}t} doth binde.
[9] The {{s}t}atute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
[10] Thou v{s}urer that put'{{s}t} forth all to v{s}e,
[11] And {s}ue a friend,came debter for my {s}ake,
[12] So him I loo{s}e through my vnkinde abu{s}e.
[13] Him haue I lo{{s}t}, thou ha{{s}t} both him and me,
[14] He paies the whole,and yet am I not free.
Now what is very interesting are the lines, “He learnd but suretie-like to write for me,/Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.” It rather seems the two lines are an aside, which is an explanation for an apparent indiscretion. Was it that the lover discovered that Will sometimes wrote his love poems to her for him? Is that why he is explaining, suddenly, in the middle of the text, that he “taught” him to “write for me.” But, we must be careful about “but” in the sentence. Its real meaning is, not that he taught his friend to write surety-like for him, but that he taught him to write for him everything “except” surety-like documents. The “but” in such a context invariably means an exclusion. Perhaps with such careful use of words the poet is implicitly saying that he himself alone only can write surety for himself, vindicating himself as to any promises, perhaps. All is speculation. But what is not speculation is that for some reason he felt it fit to inject the confession that he taught his friend to write for him, as a Master to an apprentice, it would seem—both held by the same bonds. Perhaps it is more than this, perhaps not. Again, one can only speculate.
135
[rhyme: ababbcbcadadaa][1] WHo euer hath her wi{{s}h},thou ha{{s}t} thy Will,
[2] And Will too boote,and Will in ouer-plus,
[3] More then enough am I that vexe thee {{s}t}ill,
[4] To thy {s}weete will making addition thus.
[5] Wilt thou who{s}e will is large and {s}patious,
[6] Not once vouch{s}afe to hide my will in thine,
[7] Shall will in others {s}eeme right gracious,
[8] And in my will no faire acceptance {{s}h}ine:
[9] The {s}ea all water, yet receiues raine {{s}t}ill,
[10] And in aboundance addeth to his {{s}t}ore,
[11] So thou beeing rich in Will adde to thy Will,
[12] One will of mine to make thy large Will more.
[13] Let no vnkinde, no faire be{s}eechers kill,
[14] Thinke all but one, and me in that one Will.
The repetition of the “one” will, and “one Will” theme, gives grounds, I believe, that we were correct in perceiving and solving the riddle; the solution to the riddle insists that he (the poet) is the one in the will (and me in that one Will.” The “One will of mine,” is the OE, hiding in “that OnE Will.”
More Later, can’t type any more.
Seasons Greetings,
Eric
P.S. I have a number of more direct responses to recent communications, coming soon.
