The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest.
Fear not my truth; the moral of my wit Is 'plain and true'; there's all the reach of it.
'Tis not the many oaths that make the truth, But the plain single view that is vow'd true.
That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.
A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's.
If thou art rich, thou'rt poor; For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee.
I am a man More sinn'd against than sinning.
The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance.
O let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presages of my speaking breast.
Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from other's books.
There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought.
I see my reputation is at stake; My fame is shrewdly gored.
Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.
I am disgrace'd, impeach'd, and baffled here, Pierce'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear.
Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.
My grief lies all within; And these external manners of laments Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swell with silence in the tortur'd soul.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them.
The sands are number'd that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.
But be contented when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away: My life hath in this line some interest Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
I have lived long enough: my way of lfe Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf, And that which should accompany old age, As, honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but in their stead, Curses.
Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more.
The earth can yield me but a common grave.
THE GREATEST LITERARY MYSTERY
OF ALL TIME
WHO WAS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE?
NOW SOLVED BY THOSE
NAMED BELOW
EDWARD DE VERE and confirmed by THOMAS NASHE
"My Argument, Whisper, Talk in Secret,: Lo E. De Vere My Name." "I, T. Nashe, Whisper Secret Talk." (Sonnet 76).THOMAS NASHE
"Lo, So Test Privately E. Vere. Whisper, Secret Talk." ('Strange Newes').BEN JONSON
"So Test Him, He I Vow Is - Whisper, Talk In Secret - E. De Vere, As He Shakspeare, Scamp! Me: B.I." (The inscription below Shakspeare's bust at Stratford-upon-Avon.)
"Whisper, Secret Talk, Scam!" "W. S. e.g. Vere" (The four lines of verse that cover Shakspeare's gravesite in Holy Trinity Church at Stratford-upon-Avon).
"Whisper, Talk In Secret : E De Vere, Re: He Shakespeare." (Jonson's Poem on the first page of the First Folio).THOMAS THORPE
[1] "Whisper, Secret Talk: 'To De Vere, His Epigram'" [2] "These Sonnets All By E Ver The Forth." [3] "Henry Wriothesley"; [4] "Thou Art Visible To Wishes, Veteran!" (The Dedication to 'Shakespeares Sonnets').IGNOTO
"Whisper, Talk In Secret - E. Vere." (A poem praising Edmund Spenser's newly published 'Faerie Queene'. The signature response of Edward de Vere, as Ignoto the unknown. He having earlier received a poem from Spenser that had compared his poetry to those of the Muses).LEONARD DIGGES
"Me, E. De Vere, Whisper, Talk In Secret." (A poetic eulogy written to praise 'Shake-speare').JOHN BENSON
"Me, Lo, E. Vere, Re: Mary S. Indebted To His Rote " [S, for Sidney. Rote: archaic for a company of actors. King James I visited Mary S. at Wilton House and was entertained by a 'Rote'.] (A letter: 'To The Reader' in Poems Written By Wil. Shakespeare Gent.).WILLIAM MARSHALL
"Whisper, Talk In Secret, Vere." (Marshall's Poem beneath his copy of Martin Droeshout's original picture of 'Shakespeare', which first appeared at the front of the First Folio).
SIR ASTON COKAINE
"Sic! Whisper, Secret Talk: Lo, Vere." (Encrypted into a poem dedicated to his neighbour, William Dugdale, who first illustrated Shakspeare's Monument at Stratford-upon-Avon, depicting him as a trader in wool).NOTE: There are 3 keys to Sonnet 76 which are corroborated by the secret it conceals. The first key is 14, which is the recognized number for the lines in a Shakespeare sonnet. The second key is 17, the number of Lord Oxford's earldom. The third key is 9, the number of letters that spell 'seventeen'. To decipher Sonnet 76 requires the sonnet be written in a grille of 14 columns. The first letter of the plaintext (the secret) is then revealed at the coordinate (9, -17). The letters of the secret can then be read vertically upwards, "Lo E. De Vere". They have also been sandwiched precisely between "My Argument" and "My Name". Hence: 'My Argument, Lo, E. de Vere: My Name". This is a legitimate use of both the Cardano Grille, dating back to 1550, and Cordovero's 'Pardes Rimmonim', which re-introduced Equi-distant Letter Sequencing (ELS) in the 16th century.
It is therefore indisputable that the person who intended that message to be read by employing the 3 corroborating keys: 14, 9, and 17, was also the poet and author that wrote the sonnet.
Shaxpere had no reason for doing this. Edward de Vere had every reason for secretly naming himself as the author. And since he has named himself as the poet of Sonnet 76, he must have written all the sonnets. By writing all the sonnets, he must also have written the plays attributed to Shakespeare. Therefore Edward de Vere can only have been William Shakespeare. QED.
Thomas Nashe, Edmund Spenser, Ben Jonson, Leonard Digges, William Marshall, Sir Aston Cokaine, and the publishers Thomas Thorpe and John Benson have all attested to that very same fact, by using a key of 17 in their own ciphers. These all reveal de Vere as Shakespeare,
Note too, the probability that 'Lo E De Vere' will appear by chance, given the letters that comprise the sonnet, is 6.3 x 10-11 i.e. 0.000 000 000 063.Alternatively, the probability that 'Vere' alone will occur by chance on just six of these publications, where the name is specifically indicated by its key, allows just 2 chances from a trillion-trillion-trillion possibilities.
Against such impossible odds, which discount the additional words in the plain-text; and in view of the fact that the plain-text is always correctly corroborated by an acceptable key, it is justifiable, scientifically and mathematically, to maintain with absolute confidence that William Shakespeare was Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, and his secret identity was imposed upon him as a matter of national security. What that matter was, may be inferred from historical records. These are set out and explained in the book:
How Science Proved Edward deVere Was William Shakespeare.
Second Edition Revised and Updated
Published by Firstproofs
ISBN
9 780954 387389
160 pages
Hardback $29.50 Available WorldwideAlso
Paperback $14.95 Available on Amazon and where books are sold
ISBN 9 780954 387358
The basic content of this book first appeared as a peer-reviewed article in
Journal of Scientific Exploration Volume 31 No. 4 winter edition 2017.
A young man married is a man that's marred.
Hath not his eye Stray'd his affection in unlawful love? A sin prevailing much in youthful men.
Should all despair That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind Would hang themselves.
Hasty marriages seldom proveth well.
I will show you a chamber with a bed; which bed, because it shall not speak of your pretty encounters, press it to death!
I was in love with my bed.
Man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured.
O thou monster Ignorance, how deform'd dost thou look!
He is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven.
Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth Is with a kind of colic pinched.
A terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.
'Tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned.
I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself.
This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit.
So shall you share all that he does possess, By having him making yourself no less.
Gold were as good as twenty orators, And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.
If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends; for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend.
Methinks I am a prophet new inspired, And thus expiring do foretell of him.
Fate, show thy force; ourselves we do not owe; What is decreed must be, and be this so.
Now am I in Arden; the more fool I: when I was at home I was in a better place: but travellers must be content.
To do a thing, where I the issue doubted, Whereof the execution did cry out Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear Which oft infects the wisest.
For I am sick and capable of fears, Oppress'd with wrongs and therefore full of fears.
My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am, nor what I do.
I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass.
Thou dost in thy passages of life Make me believe that thou art only mark'd For the hot vengenace and the rod of heaven To punish me for my misreadings.