"Madam, come see what you lack?
Here's complexion in my pack;
White and red you may have in this place,
To hide an old ill-wrinkled face:
First, let me have but a catch of thy gold,
Then thou shalt seem,
Like a wench of fifteen,
Although you be threescore and ten years old."
That this song enjoyed extensive popularity in the latter half of the
seventeenth century, is evinced by the number of printed copies. It is
found in Playford's _Select Ayres and Dialogues_, 1659; in Dr. Wilson's
_Cheerfull Ayres and Ballads_, 1660; in Playford's _Catch that Catch Can_,
1667; and in many subsequent collections of a similar kind. But in none of
these works is the name of the writer of the words given; and all the
copies are deficient of the _third_ and _fourth_ stanzas. The point of the
satire conveyed in these stanzas was lost after the reign of James I.,
which may account for their omission.
"Shakspeare's rime," being associated with Wilson's music, is of some
importance towards settling the point of authorship. In 1846 I printed a
little pamphlet with the following title:
"Who was _Jack Wilson_, the Singer of Shakspeare's Stage? An Attempt to
prove the Identity of this {440} Person with John Wilson, Doctor of
Musick, in the University of Oxford, A.D. 1644."
It would be out of place here to dwell upon this publication, suffice it to
say, that all the information I have since collected, tends to confirm the
hypothesis advanced. One extract from this _brochure_ will show the
connexion that existed between Shakspeare and Wilson:
"Wilson was the composer of four other Shakspearian lyrics, a fact
unknown to Mr. Collier, when he wrote the article in the _Shakspeare
Papers_: 'Where the bee sucks,' 'Full fathom five,' 'Lawn as white as
driven snow,' and 'From the fair Lavinian shore.' They are all printed
in the author's _Cheerfull Ayres or Ballads_, Oxford, 1660. We have now
evidence from this work, that Wilson was the _original_ composer of the
music to _one_ of Shakspeare's plays. He says in his preface, 'some of
these ayres were _originally_ composed by those whose names are affixed
to them, but are here placed as being _new set_ by the author of the
rest. The two songs, 'Where the bee sucks,' and 'Full fathom five,'
have appended to them the name of 'R. Johnson,' who, upon this
evidence, we may undoubtedly conclude was the _original_ composer of
the music in the play of the _Tempest_. The song 'Lawn as white as
driven snow,' from the _Winter's Tale_, has the name of 'John Wilson'
attached to it, from which it is equally certain that he was its
_original_ composer. In my own mind, the circumstances connected with
the Shakspearian lyrics in this book are almost conclusive as to the
identity of John Wilson the _composer_ with John Wilson the _singer_.
Unless the composer had been intimately acquainted with the theatre of
Shakspeare's day, it is not likely that he would have remembered, so
long after, the name of one of its composers. Nor is it likely, being
so well acquainted with the _original_ composers of the Shakspearian
drama, and so anxious as he appears to have been to do justice to their
memory, that he would have omitted informing us, who was the _original_
composer of the song in the _Winter's Tale_, had it been any other than
himself. The _Winter's Tale_ was not produced before 1610 or 1611, at
which period Wilson was sixteen or seventeen years old, an age quite
ripe enough for the production of the song in question."
A reviewer of my little publication in the _Athenaeum_ (Nov. 8, 1846) makes
the following remark:
"Let us observe, in conclusion, that Dr. Rimbault is better read in
Jack Wilson than Ben Jonson, or we should never have seen Mr.
Shakspeare's 'Rime' at the 'Mitre,' in Fleet Street, seriously referred
to as a genuine composition. It is a mere clumsy adaptation, from Ben's
interesting epigram 'Inviting a Friend to Supper.'"
It is really too bad to be charged with ignorance _unjustly_. I have on my
shelves the works of glorious Ben, three times over: in folio 1616-31; in
folio, 1692; and in nine volumes octave (Gifford's edition), 1816; all of
which I will freely give to the "reviewer," if he can prove that _one line_
of "Shakspeare's Rime at the Mytre" is taken from the aforesaid epigram. I
heartily agree with him in admiration of Jonson's spirited imitation of
Martial, which I have transcribed as a pleasant relish towards digesting
these rambling remarks:
"INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPPER.
"To-night, grave Sir, both my poor house and I
Do equally desire your company:
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,
But that your worth will dignify our feast,
With those that come; whose grace may make that seem
Something, which else could hope for no esteem.
It is the fair acceptance, Sir, creates
The entertainment perfect, not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better salad,
Ushering the mutton; with a short-legg'd hen,
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,
Limons, and wine for sauce: to these, a coney
Is not to be despair'd of for our money;
And though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,
The sky not falling, think we may have larks.
I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some
May yet be there; and godwit if we can;
Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe'er my man
Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or of some better book to us,
Of which we'll speak our minds, amidst our meat;
And I'll profess no verses to repeat;
To this if aught appear, which I not know of,
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;
But that which most doth take my muse and me,
Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine,
Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine;
Of which had Horace or Anacreon tasted,
Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted.
Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,
Are all but Luther's beer, to this I sing,
Of this we will sup free, but moderately,
And we will have no Pooly', or Parrot by;
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men:
But at our parting, we will be, as when
We innocently met. No simple word,
That shall be utter'd at our mirthful board,
Shall make us sad next morning; or affright
The liberty, that we'll enjoy to-night."