[In the following essay, Kuhn observes the suppositional and conditional quality of As You Like It, reflected in the prevalence of “ifs” in the language of the play.]

I

Four arresting problems occur in As You Like It within the space of one scene, V. iv. The first involves staging; the second, decorum; the third, the text; the fourth, dramatic recognition.

The first problem does not leap off the page at the reader but does emerge in production. In the course of V. iv, the last scene, Rosalind and Celia are offstage from line 26 to line 105 (2601-80),¹ at which point they re-enter with Hymen. In productions since the revival of the play after the Restoration, Rosalind has normally returned dressed as a woman. Such a costume change is expedited in modern stagings by means of zippers—as well as perhaps a free translation of doublet and hose to mean tunic and tights. In Shakespeare's time, doublet and hose were connected (as doublet and kirtle would be) by means of the interlacing and knotting of points through eyelets. Thus even for the most basic change from hose to kirtle, at least twenty knots would have had to be untied, the points unthreaded, the hose taken off, the kirtle put on, and all the points threaded and knotted again.² Such a change into women's clothes would also have implied a change of hairstyle, makeup, and footgear. It would be wondrous indeed if the Elizabethan Rosalind could have undergone such a complicated transformation in the space of seventy-eight lines. (Celia's costume change would not have been so difficult: a change of makeup would have been sufficient.)

The second problem, one of decorum, occurs simultaneously with the first problem. Those all-too-brief seventy-eight lines contain dialogue which seems out of keeping with the tone of the scene. Earlier in the play, when it was a question of killing time, a sing-song scene has been inserted, as in IV. ii. 10-18 (“What shall he have that kill'd the deer?”) or V. iii. 14-31 (“It was a lover and his lass,” which Touchstone has pointedly dismissed, describing it as “but time lost to hear such a foolish song”). These songs have not been radical departures from the general tone: indeed they have amplified the rustic and courtship themes. Shakespeare could have supplied a song about love or even magic in V. iv to occupy everyone's attention while waiting for the entrance of Rosalind. Instead he has the talk settle into a discussion of Counterchecks Quarrelsome, Lies Direct, and Lies with Circumstance.

Surely an elaboration of love and folly would have been more thematic here than Touchstone's rhapsody on If. A review of Touchstone's other scenes merely confounds the problem raised by his conversation here. Except for his patter about mustard and pancakes apropos of nothing in his first scene, Touchstone has generally fooled with the matter at hand. If Rosalind reads Orlando's poems, Touchstone parodies them; if her spirits are weary, his legs are. In short, he has usually taken a word or occasion given him by the other characters and parodied it, or punned on it, or taken it one step further. Why, then, should he now break into quarreling by the book while he and everyone else are waiting for a wedding march?

The third problem, one of text, is contained in the last two lines of the first stanza of Hymen's song. In the First Folio the lines read: “That thou mightst ioyne his hand with his / Whose heart within his bosome is” (V. iv. 112-13; 2689-90). Since the Third Folio of 1664, however, editors have changed the first and sometimes the third “his” to “her.”³ Significantly, the Second Folio, printed nine years after the first, and in the midst of living stage tradition, had reprinted “his.” Between the Second and Third Folios, however, the continuity of stage tradition was broken by the closing of the theatres and by the appearance of women onstage. It was not until 1740, nearly a century after the closing of the theatres, that As You Like It was again performed, and Rosalind's part then was taken by a woman. The desire of eighteenth-century actresses to end the play in their finery was thus confirmed by the editors of the Third Folio. A new, different stage tradition had been initiated. From this period onward Rosalind's line in the Epilogue, “If I were a woman” (V. iv. 213), ceased to make sense.

The fourth problem concerns an omission, a rather serious one in the light of other Shakespearean plays. In The Comedy of Errors, the apparent confusions of identity are resolved by the end of the play. In The Two Gentlemen of Verona the page Julia is still dressed as a boy when recognized by Proteus. Similarly in The Merchant of Venice and Much Ado About Nothing there are explicit recognition scenes in the last scenes of the plays:

BASS.
Were you the doctor, and I knew you not?
GRA.
Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?

(MV, V. i. 280-1)

HERO.
And when I lived, I was your other wife.
And when you loved, you were my other husband.

.....

D. Pedro.
The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

(Ado, V. iv. 60-61, 65)

Perhaps the most significant parallel, however, is found in Cymbeline, in which Imogen is still in boy's clothes when reunited with her father and husband. But nowhere in the text of As You Like It does Orlando realize that the boy he has been wooing is in fact his love. If Rosalind appears in a gown, she will merely look like the girl he left behind him at Frederick's court who bears “Some lively touches of [Ganymede's] favour” (V. iv. 27).

Now to step back a moment and conjecture. What if, instead of following both stage tradition and post-1664 editors (who not only emend Hymen's song but print Rowe's addition of “Rosalind in Woman's Cloths” instead of the First Folio's simple stage direction: “Enter Hymen, Rosalind, and Celia”), we have Rosalind and Celia come in very much as they went out—that is, instead of a gowned Rosalind, we have a shepherd with, perhaps, a clean face, long hair, and no hat who might walk like a girl instead of having a swashing and martial air? What if, in other words, we never pluck Rosalind's doublet and hose over her own head—the impossibility suggested by Celia?

What we would have is the Lie Direct in person. “Good Duke, receive thy daughter.” If the daughter's garb belies her sex, this is assuredly the Lie Direct. Which is unavoidable except “with an If.” Still, if Hymen says he is she, then the others must say so as well. Following Hymen's first stanza come line after line of If's:

DUKE S.
If there be truth in sight, you are my daughter.
ORL.
If there be truth in sight, you are my Rosalind.
PHE.
If sight and shape be true,
Why then, my love adieu!
ROS.
I'll have no father, if you be not he:
I'll have no husband, if you be not he:
Nor ne'er wed woman, if you be not she.

(V. iv. 116-22)

Ganymede's promise to Orlando is fulfilled to the letter: “It is not impossible to me … to set her before your eyes to-morrow, human as she is” (V. ii. 65-67).

To allow the First and Second Folio pronouns to stand as first printed permits a re-enactment of the mock marriage between Ganymede and Orlando in which Ganymede has said: “Give me your hand, Orlando” (IV. i. 114). The final stage picture of these two boys holding hands should mirror the earlier scene.⁴

Such a reading as I suggest would solve not only the problems listed above but a few others as well. The backstage furor of the complicated costume change can now be obviated. Hymen's allocation of personal pronouns can stand as originally printed. Touchstone, far from being guilty of lack of decorum, can emerge as a wise fool indeed. Orlando and Rosalind can have their recognition; Orlando is not destined to think that it was Ganymede who had the benefit of his courtship. As a dividend, the Epilogue line “If I were a woman” can be spoken without threat for the woman who plays Rosalind. But actresses are not the only ones affected: a boy actor portraying a woman dressed in boy's attire saying “If I were a woman” can bring a delight that is part and parcel of the play's effect.⁵

II

The initial strain on credibility evoked by Rosalind's reappearance as a recognizable Ganymede is the final test for Duke Senior, Orlando, and the audience. All will be rewarded for their suspension of disbelief—Hymen makes it so. For this strain, blithe though it is, is intrinsic to the play as a whole. Perhaps this alone may account for the appeal of As You Like It: it looks so easy!

Actually it is a deft sleight-of-hand, sleight-of-word that pleases as it teases. Touchstone claims there is “much virtue in If.” If is like an elastic: it creates and eases the strain on logic, poetry, and truth. The happy result of the release of strain, of course, is the audience's laughter.

The two “much virtue in If” speeches hark back to the similar If business involving a knight who swore by his honor (I. ii. 59-74). This episode annoyed G. B. Shaw. “Touchstone, with his rare jests about the knight that swore by his honor they were good pancakes! Who would endure such humor from any one but Shakespeare?—an Eskimo would demand his money back if a modern author offered him such fare.”⁶ Notwithstanding Shaw, however, the pancakes and mustard routine is thematically intrinsic to the play: it consists of strained logic and elaborates on conditions contrary to fact. And it specifically says that “if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn.”

Going back even further in the play to the first lines of the first scene, we have Orlando explaining his condition to Adam—which can hardly be news to the old man. What Orlando is actually doing is offering logical reasons for the new anger and resentment. Rowland de Boys “charged [Oliver] on his blessing, to breed me well” (I. i. 3-4, emphasis added). That is, the blessing was given on condition that Orlando be educated. The condition was not kept, and there begins the play.

An untypically large number of If's appear in this play, more than in any other play by Shakespeare, both in absolute frequency and in relative frequency. To be precise, As You Like It has 138 If's (and six equivalent an's, which are always printed “and” in the First Folio), for a relative frequency of 0.647, significantly higher than the relative frequency of If in all of Shakespeare's works, 0.4256. The AYL frequency is half again as many as is average.⁷ In the 2796 lines of AYL in the First Folio, moreover, If averages out to about one occurrence in every nineteen lines of dialogue. Not only does If function as a conditional conjunction; it is a substantive four times—in Touchstone's exposition—reflecting the play's self-consciousness.

Touchstone has a penchant for games of logic. Sometimes they are based on If—as in his declaration of Corin's ultimate damnation for not having been at court: “Why, if thou never wast at court …” (III. ii. 39-43). At other times they depend on his “If-mentality,” and then everything from marriage to the trivium is fair game. In V. i Touchstone proceeds to demolish both William and the trivium by hopelessly confusing grammar, logic, and rhetoric:

TOUCH.
… Art thou wise?
WILL.
Ay sir, I have a pretty wit.
TOUCH.
Why, thou say'st well. I do now remember a saying, “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” The heathen philosopher, when he had a desire to eat a grape, would open his lips when he put it into his mouth; meaning thereby, that grapes were made to eat, and lips to open. You do love this maid?
WILL.
I do, sir.
TOUCH.
Give me your hand. Art thou learned?
WILL.
No, sir.
TOUCH.
Then learn this of me: to have, is to have; for it is a figure in rhetoric, that drink being pour'd out of a cup into a glass, by filling the one, doth empty the other; for all your writers do consent that ipse is he: now, you are not ipse, for I am he.
WILL.
Which he, sir?
TOUCH.
He, sir, that must marry this woman.

(ll. 27-45)

Here Touchstone's satire touches even Socratic philosophy. Socrates is all but named in “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” Moreover, Touchstone has rigged the arrangement so that William has to give him the answer he is looking for—a technique stolen from Socrates.

But Touchstone is not the only one who plays with logic and If's. Celia fairly revels in the If of unreal condition:

If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy uncle the Duke, my father …

By our beards, if we had them, thou art.

If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should down.

(I. ii. 8, 69, 201-02)

These are conditions contrary to fact: Celia's father was not banished by Rosalind's, nor do the ladies have beards or thunderbolts. Except for William and Audrey, everyone in the play has at least one conjectural If.

If has other modes, however. There is the If of real condition, wherein the speaker assents to the truth of the premise. Thus we hear Rosalind defend herself:

If with myself I hold intelligence,
Or have acquaintance with mine own desires,
If that I do not dream, or be not frantic,—
As I do trust I am not—

(I. iii. 43-46)

Similarly, Duke Senior says to Orlando: “If that thou were the good Sir Rowland's son, / As you have whisper'd faithfully you were” (II. vii. 190-91). Also, Corin says to Ganymede and Aliena: “If you will see a pageant truly play'd / … Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you” (III. iv. 48-51). And Oliver when he greets them says: “If that an eye may profit by a tongue, / Then should I know you by description” (IV. iii. 83-84). These real conditions of If reach a climax in Hymen's second stanza:

Here's eight that must take hands
To join in Hymen's bands
                    If truth holds true contents.

(V. iv. 126-28)

That is, if truth be true—an ultimately unempirical but intrinsically plausible supposition. No longer is it “if the senses are true” or “if what you say is true,” but now only “if truth be true.” In the final analysis, logic fails. There are, after all, unprovable hypotheses. This is the essence of Hymen's verse. But it is also the root of the loves in the play. Ultimately they simply are. “To have is to have.”

On one level, the verbal level, the play deals with logic and argument, rhetoric and debate. The play's characters fleet the time till the resolution in Act V by talking, talking, talking, reasoning, and persuading. Underneath the verbal level, however, it is surprising how little logic one actually discovers. The lack of plot after Act I has been observed by critics through the centuries, recently in effective terms by Helen Gardner and Harold Jenkins.⁸ Similarly, the motivational logic that was in his source, Shakespeare dispensed with. In Lodge, for example, Saladyne (Oliver's equivalent) stood to enrich himself by doing away with a younger brother who had received a fatter legacy. In AYL, on the other hand, Oliver is confused by his feelings: “for my soul, yet I know not why, hates nothing more than he” (I. i. 156-57). In Lodge, Duke Torismond banishes Rosalind for fear that if and when she marries, her future husband will wrest the kingdom from him; but Duke Frederick has no basis for mistrust. Lodge's Aliena falls in love with Saladyne only after he rescues her from brigands—not simply at first sight, as in Shakespeare, where Oliver has a speech telling Orlando how unlikely his story must sound (V. ii. 5-12). In various ways, then, Shakespeare makes his plot even more implausible than the plot in his source.

Shakespeare's characters have less logic than instinct. Jaques has a groundless melancholy. Touchstone can give no better reason for marrying Audrey than that “man hath his desires.” Rosalind can give no better reason for loving Orlando than that her father loved his father. Where Lodge weighted his novel with reasonable motivation, Shakespeare lightened his play by replacing the motivations with suppositions. What emerges is almost algebraic: if a = b and b = c, then a = c; and “Let a = 10. …” “Let you be in love, let me pretend to be your Rosalind. Let you come to woo me. Then I will cure you of your madness—if you are mad and I say love is madness.” The algebraic quality is most evident in If blocks such as II. iv. 25-35, II. vii. 114-18 (one per line), and V. ii. 98-111.

The suppositional, conjectural quality is taken a step further when the play moves off the page onto the stage. Then we have visual If's: this is the forest of Arden; this is a boy playing a girl playing a boy sometimes playing a girl. If their logic fails, their poetry fares no better. Orlando links the two by claiming that “neither rhyme nor reason” can express how much he is in love. In Arden, when lovers are not being “logical” they are being “poetical”—with the exception of William, who is as innocent of poetry as he is of philosophy. Orlando, Amiens, Jaques, Phebe, and Touchstone can all write verses at a moment's notice. Touchstone, Rosalind, and Phebe can even fall into rhyme in the middle of prose—often with amusing results. Rosalind rhymes “shepherd's passion” with “my fashion” (II. iv. 57-58) and “offer” with “scoffer” (III. v. 61-62). Touchstone improves on this by rhyming “Audrey” and “bawdry” (III. iii. 85-86). But both these amateurs are utterly transcended by Phebe, Arden's poet in residence, who spouts doggerel indefatigably: “The matter's in my head and in my heart: / I will be bitter with him, and passing short” (III. v. 136-37) and “If sight and shape be true, / Why then, my love adieu!” (V. iv. 118-19) and “I will not eat my word, now thou art mine; / Thy faith, my fancy to thee doth combine” (V. iv. 147-48). Her most literary performance is half-borrowed: “Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might, / ‘Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?’” (III. v. 80-81).

Literary criticism is embarked on in Arden with as much gusto as is associated with rhyme or reason. Orlando's poems, lacking in scansion but loaded with bombast, are grist for Touchstone's mill. Offstage Jaques mars them still further by “reading them unfavouredly” (III. ii. 255-56)—just as Rosalind would destroy Phebe's verses onstage. Even Audrey succumbs by inquiring like a philosopher into the nature of poetry.

It is paradoxical—probably intentionally so—that a play containing so much quasi-logical dialogue should be at bottom so illogical, and that a play which talks so much of poetry should contain more prose than blank verse.

Inevitably, rhyme and reason are both inadequate. By the end of the play Orlando has decided he “can live no longer by thinking” (V. ii. 50), and Ganymede says she will weary him “no longer by idle talking.” It is important to note, however, that her talk was not all idle. Beneath the playful chatter was earnest purpose. The sport she devised was to test Orlando's fidelity, to insure that his instant love would not wither in rough weather. Having fallen many fathoms deep in love, she feigned arguing him out of love to persuade him to stay in. Sidney's wry comments on Plato's dialogues bear remembering here:

And truly even Plato whosoever well considereth shall find that in the body of his work, though the inside and strength were Philosophy, the skin as it were and beauty depended most of Poetry: for all standeth upon dialogues wherein he feigneth many honest burgesses of Athens to speak of such matters, that, if they had been set on the rack, they would never have confessed them.⁹

Feigning is basic to As You Like It. One of the songs maintains that “most friendship is feigning.” Ganymede in IV. iii swoons over Orlando's blood and counterfeits that she counterfeits (in passing, one might note that she stole both word and action from Phebe's “pageant” in III. v). To Charles, Oliver feigns love for his brother; to Orlando, he feigns that he will give him some part of his will (I. i. 72-77). Rosalind and Celia feign to be Ganymede and Aliena. Feigning is not exactly lying, but it is certainly close. It might be called the Lie Circumstantial.

As You Like It contains much talk of truth and lying, of the breaking and swearing of oaths and vows. Touchstone looks for ways of circumventing the truth—“if you swear by that that is not, you are not forsworn” (I. ii. 70-71)—and seeks a loophole in the marriage ceremony whereby he can eventually leave his wife, “to swear, and to forswear, according as marriage binds and blood breaks” (V. iv. 55-56). In other words, Touchstone looks for ways to break his promise. Rosalind, on the other hand, tries every means to cut through any possible feigning on Orlando's part to assure herself that he is “true in love” (III. iv). Similarly, Audrey feels compelled to cut through to the essence of poetry: “is it honest in deed and word? is it a true thing?” To which Touchstone replies: “No, truly; for the truest poetry is the most feigning; and lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear in poetry may be said as lovers they do feign” (III. iii. 14-18). Poetry takes a further beating in Ganymede's deliberate misreading of Troilus and Cressida and Hero and Leander (IV. i. 89-97); contrary to her misinterpretation, Troilus and Leander did both indeed die for love. At the end of that speech, therefore, she declares, “But these are all lies,” meaning two things—poetry is feigning, and her interpretation is a deliberate lie.

The feigning motif is strongly resonant of Sidney's Apology for Poetry, wherein Sidney tries to reconcile poetic feigning and absolute truth:

Now for the poet, he nothing affirms, and therefore never lieth. For, as I take it, to lie is to affirm that to be true which is false. … The poet never maketh any circles about your imagination, to conjure you to believe for true what he writes … in truth, not labouring to tell you what is or is not, but what should or should not be. And therefore, though he recount things not true, yet because he telleth them not for true, he lieth not. … What child is there that, coming to a play, and seeing Thebes written in great letters upon an old door, doth believe that it is Thebes?¹⁰

Feigning, poesy, and lying are all in league with flattery, that staple of court life and courtly love which is exposed in the play. By contrast, Duke Senior claims, the sufferings imposed by nature are not flatterers but rather counselors. Ganymede tells Silvius that it is not Phebe's mirror (which would tell her the truth) but himself who flatters her, and thus launches an attack on flattery and conventional Petrarchan attitudes to persuade Phebe that she is but “the ordinary / Of nature's salework” (III. v. 42-43).

The flatterer feigns praise of attributes that are not present; the real world demands actual accomplishments before it praises. The teacher and lover praise and encourage the potential as well as the actual; by doing so, they bring to light qualities even the possessor never knew he had. In the fairy tale the believing lover sees, then frees, the prince hidden beneath the form of a frog. In As You Like It, Rosalind's belief in Orlando supplies the education he felt so cheated of in the opening scene. Although at the beginning of the play, even his brother will admit that Orlando is “never schooled yet learned,” there are nevertheless a few rough spots. Ganymede is pleased to take him on as a pupil. He learns more than the meaning of punctuality.

In the first half of the play Orlando relies on his sword and his muscular strength to overcome opposition: he grapples with Oliver, wrestles with Charles, and is prepared singlehandedly to take on a whole band of supposed outlaws. Meanwhile, however, he is unable to summon words even to speak with Rosalind in their first interview. His tongue is his most unreliable muscle. By shadow-boxing with Ganymede, Orlando learns a lover's confidence and self-expression. How important it is, then, to allow him to discover that the boy he called Rosalind is in fact no other than his love. In IV. i Orlando has said that he would keep his promise “with no less religion than if” Ganymede were indeed his Rosalind. That If of unreal condition, as he thought, concealed the If of real condition, as we and Rosalind knew. Now all the conditions of his life have been fulfilled: he has his education, his Rosalind, his fortune, and Oliver's friendship. It has long been a puzzle why Shakespeare, having mentioned Jaques de Boys only once before in the play's opening lines, uses him as the messenger in the final scene. Perhaps by this means he intends to point out that the disparity in education between the once envious Orlando and his brother has now disappeared.

If is a springboard that propels the quester from the premise to a conclusion beyond. The forest of Arden embodies an unreal condition for the exiles. By accepting its premises, they are rewarded with conclusions transcending their expectations. Oliver's case is revealing: he surrenders so completely as to give up his inheritance for the love of a poor shepherdess—a shepherdess who will turn out to be the daughter of a Duke.

The unreal condition of the forest is contained within the larger unreal condition of the play itself. The many If's of the forest are amplified by the large If of the play. By virtue of If, a contract is drawn up between the players and the audience. If you will suspend your disbelief, you will be delighted by our play. In “Art and Nature in As You Like It,” D. J. Palmer points out a bawdy pun in the Epilogue: “between you, and the women, the play may please.”¹¹ In a sexual encounter, there must be a mutual yielding for the love-play to please. At a stageplay the audience must yield its disbelief to be pleased. The players, for their part, yield truth of one kind to show truths of a higher kind—to show things as they should be, to use Sidney's language. The audience feigns an If. If you say so, then I say so.

As You Like It begins in one kind of seriousness, passes through a magic circle of Huizingian play, and ends in an advanced kind of seriousness. The circle of play has been constantly characterized by the conditional. If saves the game, for it defines the condition and shapes the consequence. In saving the game it makes the play. To employ a musical metaphor, As You Like It is a series of inspired improvisations in the key of If.

Notes

1. Textual references are to the Arden edition of As You Like It, J. W. Holme, ed., 2nd ed. (London: Methuen, 1920). Where relevant, line references to the First Folio, using Charlton Hinman's through line numbers, follow the Arden reference.

2. The source for these costume details is Marie Linthicum, Costume in the Drama of Shakespeare and His Contemporaries (London: Oxford Univ. Press, 1936).

3. In 1832 Thomas Caldecott (1744-1833) published his edition of As You Like It, in which he preserved the masculine pronoun and defended an unaltered Ganymede. His reasons are most readily accessible in the Variorum As You Like It (H. H. Furness, ed. [Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1890], p. 278): “The Duke must, one would think, have at once recognised her in a female dress; and she must also have delivered the epilogue in a male habit, or she could hardly have used the expression ‘if I were a woman.’” Furness disagrees with Caldecott's reasons but defends the folio reading on the grounds of “the more difficult reading” and its reminiscence of the mock-marriage.

4. The end of As You Like It is a variation of the end of The Merry Wives of Windsor, in which Slender narrowly escapes marrying the disguised postmaster's boy, but Dr. Caius is cozened completely!

5. Although to “make curtsy” is now a feminine gesture, in Shakespeare's time it was an act appropriate to both sexes. The two citations contemporary to Shakespeare in the OED, in fact, apply the phrase to a minstrel and to a boy.

6. Dramatic Opinions and Essays (London: Archibald Constable and Co., 1907), II, 118.

7. My source for these numbers is Marvin Spevack, ed., A Complete and Systematic Concordance to the Works of Shakespeare, 6 vols. (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1968-70). The second highest relative frequency of If is in Ado, [Much Ado About Nothing] 0.597; third is MV [Merchant of Venice] with 0.573; fourth is TN [Twelfth Night] with 0.536; fifth is MM [Measure for Measure] with 0.526; sixth is Oth. [Othello] with 0.525. The relative frequency of If is highest in the comedies, average in the tragedies, and lowest in the histories. The lowest relative frequency is found at 0.252 in R 2 [Richard II] with the If's in Mac. [Macbeth] at 0.255.

8. Helen Gardner, “As You Like It,” More Talking of Shakespeare, ed. John W. P. Garrett (New York: Longmans, Green and Co Ltd, 1959), pp. 17-32. H. Jenkins, “As You Like It,” Shakespeare Survey 8 (1955), 40-51.

9. Sir Philip Sidney, An Apology for Poetry, ed. Geoffrey Shepherd (Edinburgh: Nelson, 1967), p. 97.

10. Sidney, pp. 123-24.

11. Philological Quarterly, 49 (1970), 30.