the boor thus mocked.

The two subjects and the setting are not and cannot be brought into
unity. Shakespeare's mind wandered from his real subject to brood upon
the obsession of Helen that betrayed Troy to the fire, and upon the
tragical working of wisdom that brought about an end so foul. Other, and
bigger, subjects for plays tempted him from the work. He put it aside
before it was half alive. As it stands, it has neither life nor meaning.
It oppresses the mind into making gloomy interpretation. Tragedy in its
imperfect form cannot but be gloomy. It is nothing but the record of a
fatal event. But Shakespearean tragedy is tragedy in its perfect form.
It is an exultation of the soul over the husks of life and the winds
that blow them. This play, had it ever been finished, would have been
like the other tragedies of the great years. That it is not finished is
our misfortune.

The finished scenes are full of wisdom--

"Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back,
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great-sized monster of ingratitude:
Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd
As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
As done: perseverance, dear my lord,
Keeps honour bright: to have done, is to hang
Quite out of fashion."

"O, let not virtue seek
Remuneration for the thing it was."

"Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves."

"And sometimes we are devils to ourselves."

Some have thought that this play was written by Shakespeare to ridicule
the two poets, Ben Jonson (in the person of Ajax) and John Marston (in
the person of Thersites). Those two poets were engaged, with others, in
the years 1601-2, in what is called the War of the Theatres, that is,
they wrote plays to criticise and mock each other. These plays are often
scurrilous and seldom amusing. During the course of the war the two
chief combatants came to blows.

It is sad that Shakespeare should be credited with the paltriness of
lesser men. His view of his task is expressed in _Timon of Athens_ with
the perfect golden clearness of supreme power--

"my free drift
Halts not particularly, but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax: no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold;
But flies an eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no tract behind."

He held that view throughout his creative life, as a great poet must. At