Chapter 05 - Market Segmentation

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Chapter 5
MARKET SEGMENTATION
HIGH-LEVEL CHAPTER OUTLINE

1. Delineate the Firm’s Current Situation

2. Determine Consumer Needs and Wants
3. Divide Markets on Relevant Dimensions
3.1. A Priori Versus Post Hoc Segmentation
3.2. Relevance of Segmentation Dimensions
3.3. Bases for Segmentation
3.3.1. Benefit Segmentation

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Chapter 05 - Market Segmentation

3.3.2. Psychographic Segmentation

3.3.3. Geodemographic Segmentation
4. Develop Product Positioning
5. Decide Segmentation Strategy
6. Design Marketing Mix Strategy

DETAILED CHAPTER OUTLINE

Introduction

• Market segmentation is the process of dividing a market into groups of similar

consumers and selecting the most appropriate group(s) for the firm to serve.
• The group or market segment that a company selects to focus on is called a target
market.
• Figure 5.1 represents a model of the market segmentation process.
• Market segmentation analysis is a cornerstone of sound marketing planning and
decision making.

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in any manner. This document may not be copied, scanned, duplicated, forwarded, distributed, or posted on a website, in whole or part.
Chapter 05 - Market Segmentation

1. Delineate the Firm’s Current Situation

• A firm must do a complete situational analysis when embarking on a new or modified
marketing program.
• At the marketing planning level, such an analysis aids in determining objectives,
opportunities, and constraints to be considered when selecting target markets and
developing marketing mixes.
• Marketing managers must have a clear idea of the amount of financial and other
resources that will be available for developing and executing a marketing plan.
• The inclusion of this first step in the market segmentation process is intended to be a
reminder of tasks to be performed prior to marketing planning.

2. Determine Consumer Needs and Wants

• Successful marketing strategies depend on discovering and satisfying consumer needs
and wants.
• As a practical matter, new technology often brings about an investigation of
consumer needs and wants for new or modified products and services.
• In these situations, the firm is seeking the group of consumers whose needs could best
be satisfied by the new or modified product.
• At a strategic level, consumer needs and wants usually are translated into more
operational concepts.

3. Divide Markets on Relevant Dimensions

• In a narrow sense, this step is often considered to be the whole of market
segmentation.
• Three important questions should be considered here:
1. Should the segmentation be a priori or post hoc?
2. How does one determine the relevant dimensions or basis to use for
segmentation?
3. What are some bases for segmenting consumer and organizational buyer markets?

3.1. A Priori versus Post Hoc Segmentation

• An a priori segmentation approach is one in which the marketing manager has
decided on the appropriate basis for segmentation in advance of doing any
research on a market.
• Post hoc segmentation is an approach in which people are grouped into
segments on the basis of research findings.
• Both of these approaches are valuable, and the question of which to use
depends in part on how well the firm knows the market for a particular
product class.
• If through previous research and experience a marketing manager has
successfully isolated a number of key market dimensions, then an a priori
approach based on them may provide more useful information.

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Chapter 05 - Market Segmentation

• In the case of segmentation for entirely new products, a post hoc approach
may be useful for determining key market dimensions.
• However, even when using a post hoc approach, some consideration must be
given to the variables to be included in the research design.

3.2. Relevance of Segmentation Dimensions

• Unfortunately, there is no simple solution for determining the relevant
dimensions for segmenting markets.
• Managerial expertise and experience are needed for selecting the appropriate
dimensions or bases on which to segment particular markets.
• In most cases, however, at least some initial dimensions can be determined
from previous research, purchase trends, and managerial judgment.
• The most market-oriented approach to segmentation is on the basis of what
benefits the potential consumer is seeking. Thus, consideration and research of
sought benefits are a strongly recommended approach in the marketing
literature.

3.3. Bases for Segmentation

• A number of useful bases for segmenting consumer and organizational
markets are presented in Figure 5.2.
• Two commonly used approaches for segmenting markets include benefit
segmentation and psychographic segmentation.
• Geodemographic segmentation, a recent development with a number of
advantages for marketers, is another approach for segmenting markets.

3.3.1. Benefit Segmentation

• The belief underlying this approach is that the benefits people are
seeking in consuming a given product are the basic reasons for the
existence of true market segments.
• This approach attempts to measure consumer value systems and
consumer perceptions of various brands in a product class. To
illustrate, Russell Haley provided the classic example of a benefit
segmentation in terms of the toothpaste market. Haley identified five
basic segments, which are presented in Figure 5.3.
• Benefit segmentation is clearly a market-oriented approach that seeks
to identify consumer needs and wants and to satisfy them by providing
products and services with the desired benefits.

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Chapter 05 - Market Segmentation

3.3.2. Psychographic Segmentation

• Psychographic segmentation focuses on consumer lifestyles.
• Consumers are first asked a variety of questions about their lifestyles
and then grouped on the basis of the similarity of their responses.
• Lifestyles are measured by asking consumers about their activities,
interests, and opinions (AIO).
• The best-known psychographic segmentation is called VALSTM
(values and lifestyles).
• The VALSTM framework has eight psychographic groups arranged in a
rectangle based on two dimensions (see Figure 5.4).
• The vertical dimension segments people based on the degree to which
they are innovative and have resources such as income, education,
self-confidence, intelligence, leadership skills, and energy.
• The horizontal dimension represents primary motivations for buying
and includes three different types.
• Consumers driven by knowledge and principles are motivated
primarily by ideals. These consumers include the Thinkers and
Believers groups.
• Consumers driven by a goal of demonstrating success to their peers are
motivated primarily by achievement. These consumers include
Achievers and Strivers.
• Consumers driven by a desire for social or physical activity, variety,
and risk taking are motivated primarily by self-expression. These
consumers include both the Experiencers and Makers.
• At the top of the rectangle are the Innovators, who have such high
resources that they may express any of the three motivations.
• At the bottom of the rectangle are the Survivors, who live
complacently and within their means without a strong primary
motivation.

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her that way: for shee did all things so contrary in her life time, that now
she is dead, I am sure she will goe against the streame.
T P C O H
HOW MAISTER HOBSON SAID HE WAS NOT AT HOME

On a time Master Hobson upon some ocation came to Master

Fleetewoods house to speake with him, being then new chosen the
recorder of London, and asked one of his men if he were within, and he
said he was not at home. But Maister Hobson, perceving that his maister
bad him say so, and that he was within (not being willing at that time to
be spoken withall), for that time desembling the matter, he went his way.
Within a few dayes after, it was Maister Fleetwoods chaunse to come to
Maister Hobson’s, and knocking at the dore, asked if he were within.
Maister Hobson, hearing and knowing how he was denyed Maister
Fleetwoods speach before time, spake himselfe aloud, and said hee was
not at home. Then sayd Maister Fleetwood: what, Master Hobson, thinke
you that I knowe not your voyce? Whereunto Maister Hobson answered
and said: now, Maister Fleetewood, am I quit with you: for when I came
to speake with you, I beleeved your man that said you were not at home,
and now you will not beleeve mine owne selfe; and this was the mery
conference betwixt these two merry gentlemen.
FROM CERTAINE CONCEYTS & JEASTS; AS WELL TO LAUGH DOWNE OUR HARDER
UNDIGESTED MORSELLS, AS BREAKE UP WITH MYRTH OUR BOOKE AND
BANQUET. COLLECTED OUT OF SCOTUS POGGIUS, AND OTHERS

A certayne Poore-man met king Phillip, & besought him for

something, because he was his kinsman. The king demanded frō whence
descended. Who answered: from Adam. Then the K. commaunded an
Almes to be given. Hee replyed, an Almes was not the gift of a king; to
whome the king answered: if I should so reward all my kindred in that
kinde, I should leave but little for myselfe.

A certaine conceyted Traveller being at a Banquet, where chanced a

flye to fall into his cuppe, which hee (being to drinke) tooke out for
himselfe, and afterwards put in againe for his fellow: being demanded
his reason, answered, that for his owne part he affected them not, but it
might be some other did.
 A certaine player, seeing Thieves in his house in the night, thus
laughingly sayde: I knowe not what you will finde here in the dark, when
I can find nothing my selfe in the light.
WIT AND MIRTH. CHARGEABLY COLLECTED OUT OF TAVERNS, ORDINARIES, INNES,
BOWLING-GREENES AND ALLYES, ALEHOUSES, TOBACCO-SHOPS, HIGHWAYES,
AND WATER-PASSAGES. MADE UP, AND FASHIONED INTO CLINCHES, BULLS,
QUIRKES, YERKES, QUIPS, AND JERKES. APOTHEGMATICALLY BUNDLED UP AND
GARBLED AT THE REQUEST OF JOHN GARRET’S GHOST

Taylor the Water-Poet was one of the favourite authors of Robert

Southey, who has given an account of his life and writings in his
Uneducated Poets, and has quoted him largely in his Common-Place
Book.
John Garret, at the request of whose ghost the Water-Poet professes to
have formed the present collection, was a jester of the period, mentioned
by Bishop Corbet and others. Heylin, author of the Cosmography, speaks
of “Archy’s bobs, and Garrets sawcy jests.” In his dedication of the Wit
and Mirth, Taylor alludes to Garret as “that old honest mirrour of mirth
deceased.”
Taylor, to forestall possible cavils at his plagiarisms from others, or
adoption of good sayings already published and well-known, expressly
says in the dedication: “Because I had many of them [the jests] by
relation and heare-say, I am in doubt that some of them may be in print
in some other Authors, which I doe assure you is more than I doe know.”

One said, that hee could never have his health in Cambridge, and that
if hee had lived there till this time, hee thought in his conscience that hee
had dyed seven yeeres agoe.
A Judge upon the Bench did aske an old man how old he was. My
Lord, said he, I am eight and fourscore. And why not fourscore and
eight? said the Judge. The other repli’d: because I was eight, before I
was fourescore.
 A rich man told his nephew that hee had read a booke called Lucius
Apuleius of the Golden Asse, and that he found there how Apuleius, after
he had beene an asse many yeeres, by eating of Roses he did recover his
manly shape againe, and was no more an asse: the young man replied to
his uncle: Sir, if I were worthy to advise you, I would give you counsell
to eate a salled of Roses once a weeke yourselfe.

A country man being demanded how such a River was called, that
ranne through their Country, hee answered that they never had need to
call the River, for it alwayes came without calling.

One borrowed a cloake of a Gentleman, and met one that knew him,
who said: I thinke I know that cloake. It may be so, said the other, I
borrowed it of such a Gentleman. The other told him that it was too
short. Yea, but, quoth he that had the cloake, I will have it long enough,
before I bring it home againe.
OF THE WOMAN THAT FOLLOWED HER FOURTH HUSBANDS BERE AND WEPT

A woman there was which had had iiii husbandys. It fourtuned also
that this fourth husbande dyed and was brought to chyrche upon the bere;
whom this woman folowed and made great mone, and waxed very sory,
in so moche that her neyghbours thought she wolde swown and dye for
sorow. Wherfore one of her gosseps cam to her, and spake to her in her
ere, and bad her, for Godds sake, comfort her self and refrayne that
lamentacion, or ellys it wold hurt her and peraventure put her in jeopardy
of her life. To whom this woman answeryd and sayd: I wys, good gosyp,
I have grete cause to morne, if ye knew all. For I have beryed iii
husbandes besyde this man; but I was never in the case that I am now.
For there was not one of them but when that I folowed the corse to
chyrch, yet I was sure of an nother husband, before the corse cam out of
my house, and now I am sure of no nother husband; and therfore ye may
be sure I have great cause to be sad and hevy.
By thys tale ye may se that the olde proverbe ys trew, that it is as great
pyte to se a woman wepe as a gose to go barefote.
 A C. M T
OF THE MERCHAUNTE OF LONDON THAT DYD PUT NOBLES IN HIS MOUTHE IN HYS
DETHE BEDDE

A ryche covetous marchant there was that dwellid in London, which

ever gaderyd mony and could never fynd in hys hert to spend ought upon
hym selfe nor upon no man els. Whiche fell sore syke, and as he laye on
hys deth bed had his purs lyenge at his beddys hede, and [he] had suche a
love to his money that he put his hande in his purs, and toke out thereof x
or xii li. in nobles and put them in his mouth. And because his wyfe and
other perceyved hym very syke and lyke to dye, they exortyd hym to be
confessyd, and brought the curate unto hym. Which when they had
caused him to say Benedicite, the curate bad hym crye God mercy and
shewe to hym his synnes. Than this seyck man began to sey: I crey God
mercy I have offendyd in the vii dedly synnes and broken the x
commaundementes; but because of the gold in his mouth he muffled so
in his speche, that the curate could not well understande hym: wherfore
the curat askyd hym, what he had in his mouthe that letted his spech. I
wys, mayster parsone, quod the syke man, muffelynge, I have nothyng in
my mouthe but a lyttle money; bycause I wot not whither I shal go, I
thought I wold take some spendynge money with me: for I wot not what
nede I shall have therof; and incontynent after that sayeng dyed, before
he was confessyd or repentant that any man coulde perceyve, and so by
lyklyhod went to the devyll.
By this tale ye may se, that they that all theyr lyves wyll never do
charyte to theyr neghbours, that God in tyme of theyr dethe wyll not
suffre them to have grace of repentaunce.
OF THE SCOLER OF OXFORDE THAT PROVED BY SOVESTRY II CHYKENS III

A ryche Frankelyn in the contrey havynge by his wyfe but one chylde
and no mo, for the great affeccyon that he had to his sayd chylde founde
hym at Oxforde to schole by the space of ii or iii yere. Thys yonge
scoler, in a vacacyon tyme, for his disporte came home to his father. It
fortuned afterwarde on a nyght, the father, the mother and the sayd
yonge scoler
5 lines wanting.
I have studyed sovestry, and by that scyence I can prove, that these ii
chekyns in the dysshe be thre chekyns. Mary, sayde the father, that wolde
I fayne se. The scoller toke one of the chekyns in his hande and said: lo!
here is one chekyn, and incontynente he toke bothe the chekyns in his
hande jointely and sayd: here is ii chekyns; and one and ii maketh iii:
ergo here is iii chekyns. Than the father toke one of the chekyns to him
selfe, and gave another to his wyfe, and sayd thus: lo! I wyll have one of
the chekyns to my parte, and thy mother shal have a nother, and because
of thy good argumente thou shalte have the thyrde to thy supper: for thou
gettyst no more meate here at this tyme; whyche promyse the father
kepte, and so the scoller wente without his supper.
By this tale men may se, that it is great foly to put one to scole to
lerne any subtyll scyence, whiche hathe no naturall wytte.
OF THE COURTEAR THAT ETE THE HOT CUSTARDE

A certayne merchaunt and a courtear, being upon a time together at

dyner having a hote custerd, the courtear being somwhat homely of
maner toke parte of it and put it in hys mouth, whych was so hote that
made him shed teares. The merchaunt, lookyng on him, thought that he
had ben weeping, and asked hym why he wept. This curtear, not
wyllynge it to be known that he had brent his mouth with the hote
custerd, answered and said, sir: quod he, I had a brother whych dyd a
certayn offence wherfore he was hanged; and, chauncing to think now
uppon his deth, it maketh me to wepe. This merchaunt thought the
courtear had said trew, and anon after the merchaunt was disposid to ete
of the custerd, and put a sponefull of it in his mouth, and brent his mouth
also, that his eyes watered. This courtear, that percevyng, spake to the
merchaunt and seyd: sir, quod he, pray why do ye wepe now? The
merchaunt perseyved how he had bene deceived and said: mary, quod he,
I wepe, because thou wast not hangid, when that they brother was
hangyd.
OF HYM THAT SOUGHT HIS WYFE AGAYNST THE STREME

A man there was whose wyfe, as she came over a bridg, fell in to the
ryver and was drowned; wherfore he wente and sought for her upward
against the stream, wherat his neighboures, that wente with hym,
marvayled, and sayde he dyd nought, he shulde go seke her downeward
with the streme. Naye, quod he, I am sure I shall never fynde her that
waye: for she was so waywarde and so contrary to every thynge, while
she lyvedde, that I knowe very well nowe she is deed, she wyll go a
gaynste the stream.
OF THE FOOLE THAT THOUGHT HYM SELFE DEED
 There was a felowe dwellynge at Florence, called Nigniaca, whiche
was nat verye wyse, nor all a foole, but merye and jocunde. A sorte of
yonge men, for to laughe and pastyme, appoynted to gether to make hym
beleve that he was sycke. So, whan they were agreed howe they wolde
do, one of them mette hym in the mornynge, as he came out of his house,
and bad him good morowe, and than asked him, if he were nat yl at ease?
No, quod the foole, I ayle nothynge, I thanke God. By my faith, ye have
a sickely pale colour, quod the other, and wente his waye.
Anone after, an other of them mette hym, and asked hym if he had nat
an ague: for your face and colour (quod he) sheweth that ye be very
sycke. Than the foole beganne a lyttel to doubt, whether he were sycke
or no: for he halfe beleved that they sayd trouth. Whan he had gone a
lytel farther, the thyrde man mette hym, and sayde: Jesu! manne, what do
you out of your bed? ye loke as ye wolde nat lyve an houre to an ende.
Nowe he doubted greatly, and thought verily in his mynde, that he had
hadde some sharpe ague; wherfore he stode styll and wolde go no
further; and, as he stode, the fourth man came and sayde: Jesu! man,
what dost thou here, and arte so sycke? Gette the home to thy bedde: for
I parceyve thou canste nat lyve an houre to an ende. Than the foles harte
beganne to feynte, and [he] prayde this laste man that came to hym to
helpe hym home. Yes, quod he, I wyll do as moche for the as for myn
owne brother. So home he brought hym, and layde hym in his bed, and
than he fared with hym selfe, as thoughe he wolde gyve up the gooste.
Forth with came the other felowes, and saide he hadde well done to lay
hym in his bedde. Anone after, came one whiche toke on hym to be a
phisitian; whiche, touchynge the pulse, sayde the malady was so
vehement, that he coulde nat lyve an houre. So they, standynge aboute
the bedde, sayde one to an other: nowe he gothe his waye: for his speche
and syght fayle him; by and by he wyll yelde up the goste. Therfore lette
us close his eyes, and laye his hands a crosse, and cary hym forth to be
buryed. And than they sayde lamentynge one to an other: O! what a losse
have we of this good felowe, our frende?
The foole laye stylle, as one [that] were deade; yea, and thought in his
mynde, that he was deade in dede. So they layde hym on a bere, and
caryed hym through the cite. And whan any body asked them what they
caryed, they sayd the corps of Nigniaca to his grave. And ever as they
went, people drew about them. Among the prece ther was a taverners
boy, the whiche, whan he herde that it was the cors of Nigniaca, he said
to them: O! what a vile bestly knave, and what a stronge thefe is deed!
by the masse, he was well worthy to have ben hanged longe ago. Whan
the fole harde those wordes, he put out his heed and sayd: I wys,
horeson, if I were alyve nowe, as I am deed, I wolde prove the a false
lyer to thy face. They, that caryed him, began to laugh so hartilye, that
they sette downe the bere, and wente theyr waye.
By this tale ye maye se, what the perswasion of many doth. Certaynly
he is very wyse, that is nat inclined to foly, if he be stered thereunto by a
multitude. Yet sapience is founde in fewe persones: and they be lyghtly
olde sobre men.

A few further bits are added, being witty sayings from Camden,
Bacon and the Jest Books and manuscripts of the period.

Queen Elizabeth seeing a gentleman in her garden, who had not felt
the effect of her favours so soon as he expected, looking out of her
window, said to him, in Italian, “What does a man think of, Sir Edward,
when he thinks of nothing?” After a little pause, he answered, “He
thinks, Madam, of a woman’s promise.” The queen shrunk in her head,
but was heard to say, Well, Sir Edward, I must not confute you: Anger
makes dull men witty, but it keeps them poor.

A certain nobleman sold a gentleman a horse for a good round sum,

which he took upon his lordship’s word, that he had no fault. About three
weeks after, he met my lord; “Why, your lordship told me,” says he,
“that your horse had no fault, and he is blind of an eye.” Well, Sir, says
my lord, it is no fault, it is only a misfortune.

A doctor of little learning, and less modesty, having talked much at

table; one, much admiring him, asked another, when the doctor was
gone, if he did not think him a great scholar? The answer was, He may
be learned, for aught I know, or can discover; but I never heard learning
make such a noise.

Sir Drue Drury called for tobacco-pipes at a tavern. The waiter

brought some, and, in laying them down on the table, broke most of
them. Sir Drue swore a great oath, that they were made of the same metal
with the Commandments. “Why so?” says one. Because they are so soon
broken.

A rich usurer was very lame of one of his legs, and yet nothing of hurt
outwardly to be seen, whereupon he sent for a surgeon for his advice;
who, being more honest than ordinary, told him, “It was in vain to
meddle with it, for it was only old age that was the cause.” But why then
(said the usurer) should not my other leg be as lame as this, seeing that
the one is no older than the other?

A gentleman disputing about religion in Button’s Coffeehouse, some

of the company said, “You talk of religion! I will hold you five guineas,
you cannot repeat the Lord’s prayer; Sir Richard Steele here shall hold
stakes.” The money being deposited, the gentleman began, I believe in
God; and so went through his Creed. Well, said the other, I own I have
lost, but I did not think that you could have done it.

A gentleman calling for small-beer at another gentleman’s table,

finding it very hard, gave it the servant again without drinking. “What,”
said the master of the house, “do you not like the beer?” It is not to be
found fault with, answered the other, for one should never speak ill of the
dead.
 Some gentlemen being at a tavern together, for want of better
diversion, some proposed play; but, said another of the company, “I have
fourteen good reasons against gaming.” “What are those,” said another?
“In the first place,” answered he, I have no Money. Oh! said the first, if
you had four hundred reasons, you need not name another.

Quin used to apply a story to the then ministry. A master of a brig

calls out, Who is there? A boy answered, Will, Sir.—What are you doing?
—Nothing, Sir.—Is Tom there?—Yes, says Tom.—What are you doing,
Tom?—Helping Will, Sir.

A gentleman, passing a woman who was skinning eels, and observing

the torture of the poor animals, asked her, how she could have the heart
to put them to such pain. Ah, said she, poor creatures! they be used to it.

A silly priest at Trumpington being to read that place, Eli, Eli,

Lamasabachthani, began to consider with himself, that it might be
ridiculous and absurd for him to read it as it stood, because he was vicar
of Trumpington, and not of Ely: and therefore he read it, Trumpington,
Trumpington, Lamasabachthani.

It seems impossible, right here, not to digress, chronologically, for a

moment.
Every one will have noticed that these old time jests are the
foundations on which many modern stories are built, but the last one
quoted above is so palpably the prototype of a current Boston story that
it must be told.
 A small child named Halliwell, spending the night with a neighbor,
Mrs. Cabot, knelt at the knee of her hostess to say her evening prayer.
“Our Father who art in Heaven,” the little visitor began devoutly,
“Cabot be thy name—”
“What? What do you mean?” asked the startled lady.
“Oh,” said the child, “of course, at home, I say ‘Halliwell be thy
name,’ but here, I thought it more polite to say Cabot.”

It is held by most writers on the subject that the great influx of humor
into literature took place in the latter half of the sixteenth century.
This is partly because the progressing art of printing brought about
the influx of many elements into literature at that time, and also because
then appeared the work of three of the greatest of the world’s humorists.
Shakespeare in England, Rabelais in France and Cervantes in Spain,
gave us their immortal works.
Earlier in the century Thomas More in his Utopia and Nicholas Udall
in his Ralph Royster Doyster wrote in humorously satiric vein, but these
works are difficult to quote from satisfactorily.
Having reached the period when Humor began to be produced in
various countries independently of one another, it becomes necessary to
modify our strict chronological arrangement and consider the nations and
their humorists separately.
Before this, broadly speaking, literature should be considered as a
whole, but as great names began to appear in certain widely separated
localities, a national division must be made.
And so, continuing in England, we come to William Shakespeare.
With Shakespeare’s greatness as a poet and dramatist we are not here
concerned, but there are some critics who dispute his preeminence as a
humorist.
While Hazlitt declared that in his opinion Molière was as great or
greater than Shakespeare as a comic genius; Doctor Johnson, on the
other hand, held that Shakespeare’s comedies are better than his
tragedies.
However, few are found to support Johnson’s opinion, and Hazlitt
qualifies his by saying that as Shakespeare’s imagination and poetry
were the master qualities of his mind, the ludicrous was forced to take
second place.
Both these worthies, however, agree on the question of Falstaff’s
greatness, and Hazlitt takes this attitude.
“I would not be understood to say that there are not scenes or whole
characters in Shakespeare equal in wit and drollery to anything upon
record. Falstaff alone is an instance, which, if I would, I could not get
over. He is the leviathan of all the creatures of the author’s comic genius,
and tumbles about his unwieldy bulk in an ocean of wit and humour. But
in general it will be found (if I am not mistaken), that even in the very
best of these the spirit of humanity and the fancy of the poet greatly
prevail over the mere wit and satire, and that we sympathize with his
characters oftener than we laugh at them. His ridicule wants the sting of
ill-nature. He had hardly such a thing as spleen in his composition.
Falstaff himself is so great a joke, rather from his being so huge a mass
of enjoyment than of absurdity.”
While with equal perceptive judgment “Falstaff,” says Dr. Johnson,
“unimitated, unimitable Falstaff, how shall I describe thee? Thou
compound of sense and vice; of sense which may be admired but not
esteemed; of vice which may be despised, but hardly detested! Falstaff ...
is a thief and a glutton, a coward and a boaster, always ready to cheat the
weak and prey upon the poor; to terrify the timorous and insult the
defenceless. At once obsequious and malignant, he satirizes in their
absence those whom he lives by flattering.... Yet the man thus corrupt,
thus despicable, makes himself necessary to the Prince that despises him,
by the most pleasing of all qualities, perpetual gaiety, by an unfailing
power of exciting laughter, which is the more freely indulged, as his wit
is not of the splendid or ambitious kind, but consists in easy scapes and
sallies of levity, which make sport, but raise no envy.”
One of the most difficult of all poets to quote from, we can only offer
detached and fugitive fragments of Shakespeare’s plays; beginning with
a bit quoted by Hazlitt and accompanied by his delightful observations
thereon.
 “Shakespeare takes up the meanest subjects with the same tenderness
that we do an insect’s wing, and would not kill a fly. To give a more
particular instance of what I mean, I will take the inimitable and
affecting, though most absurd and ludicrous dialogue, between Shallow
and Silence, on the death of old Double.”

Shallow. Come on, come on, come on; give me your hand, sir; give
me your hand, sir; an early stirrer, by the rood. And how doth my good
cousin Silence?
Silence. Good morrow, good cousin Shallow.
Shallow. And how doth my cousin, your bedfellow? and your fairest
daughter, and mine, my god-daughter Ellen?
Silence. Alas, a black ouzel, cousin Shallow.
Shallow. By yea and nay, sir; I dare say, my cousin William is become
a good scholar: he is at Oxford still, is he not?
Silence. Indeed, sir, to my cost.
Shallow. He must then to the inns of court shortly. I was once of
Clement’s inn; where, I think, they will talk of mad Shallow yet.
Silence. You were called lusty Shallow then, cousin.
Shallow. I was called anything, and I would have done anything
indeed, and roundly too. There was I, and little John Doit of
Staffordshire, and black George Bare, and Francis Pickbone, and Will
Squele, a Cotswold man, you had not four such swinge-bucklers in all
the inns of court again; and, I may say to you, we knew where the
bonarobas were, and had the best of them all at commandment. Then was
Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, a boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke
of Norfolk.
Silence. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about soldiers?
Shallow. The same Sir John, the very same: I saw him break
Schoggan’s head at the court-gate, when he was a crack, not thus high;
and the very same day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a
fruiterer, behind Gray’s-inn. O, the mad days that I have spent! and to
see how many of mine old acquaintances are dead!
 Silence. We shall all follow, cousin.
Shallow. Certain, ’tis certain, very sure, very sure: death (as the
Psalmist saith) is certain to all, all shall die.—How a good yoke of
bullocks at Stamford fair?
Silence. Truly cousin, I was not there.
Shallow. Death is certain. Is old Double of your town living yet?
Silence. Dead, sir.
Shallow. Dead! see, see! he drew a good bow; and dead? he shot a
fine shoot. John of Gaunt loved him well, and betted much money on his
head. Dead! he would have clapped i’ th’ clout at twelve score; and
carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and a half, that it would have
done a man’s heart good to see.—How a score of ewes now?
Silence. Thereafter as they be: a score of good ewes may be worth ten
pounds.
Shallow. And is old Double dead?

There is not anything more characteristic than this in all Shakespeare.

A finer sermon on mortality was never preached. We see the frail
condition of human life, and the weakness of the human understanding in
Shallow’s reflections on it; who, while the past is sliding from beneath
his feet, still clings to the present. The meanest circumstances are shown
through an atmosphere of abstraction that dignifies them: their very
insignificance makes them more affecting, for they instantly put a check
on our aspiring thoughts, and remind us that, seen through that dim
perspective, the difference between the great and little, the wise and
foolish, is not much. ‘One touch of nature makes the whole world kin’:
and old Double, though his exploits had been greater, could but have had
his day. There is a pathetic naïveté mixed up with Shallow’s
commonplace reflections and impertinent digressions. The reader laughs
(as well he may) in reading the passage, but he lays down the book to
think. The wit, however diverting, is social and humane. But this is not
the distinguishing characteristic of wit, which is generally provoked by
folly, and spends its venom upon vice.
 The fault, then, of Shakespeare’s comic Muse is, in my opinion, that it
is too good-natured and magnanimous. It mounts above its quarry. It is
‘apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of nimble, fiery, and delectable
shapes’: but it does not take the highest pleasure in making human nature
look as mean, as ridiculous, and contemptible as possible. It is in this
respect, chiefly, that it differs from the comedy of a later, and (what is
called) a more refined period.”
FROM HENRY IV, PART I

Enter H Prince of Wales and S J F .

Falstaff. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?

Prince Henry. Thou art so fat-witted with drinking of old sack, and
unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that
thou hast forgotten to demand that truly which thou wouldst truly know.
What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day? Unless hours were
cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and
dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot
wench in flame-colored taffata, I see no reason why thou should’st be so
superfluous to demand the time of the day.
Falstaff. Indeed, you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses,
go by the moon and seven stars; and not by Phœbus—he, “that
wand’ring knight so fair.” And, I pray thee, sweet wag, when thou art
king, as God save thy grace (majesty I should say; for grace thou wilt
have none)—
Prince Henry. What! none?
Falstaff. No, by my troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to
an egg and butter.
Prince Henry. Well, how then? come, roundly, roundly.
Falstaff. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou art king, let not us that
are squires of the night’s body, be called thieves of the day’s beauty; let
us be—Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon:
and let men say, we be men of good government; being governed, as the
sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose
countenance we—steal.
Prince Henry. Thou say’st well, and it holds well, too; for the fortune
of us, that are the moon’s men, doth ebb and flow like the sea; being
governed as the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof, now, a purse of gold
most resolutely snatched on Monday night, and most dissolutely spent on
Tuesday morning; got with swearing—lay by; and spent with crying—
bring in; now, in as low an ebb as the foot of the ladder; and, by and by,
in as high a flow as the ridge of the gallows.
Falstaff. By the Lord, thou say’st true, lad. And is not my hostess of
the tavern a most sweet wench?
Prince Henry. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of the castle. And is
not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance?
Falstaff. How now, how now, mad wag? what, in thy quips and thy
quiddities? what a plague have I to do with a buff jerkin?
Prince Henry. Why, what a pox have I to do with my hostess of the
tavern?
Falstaff. Well, thou hast called her to a reckoning many a time and
oft.
Prince Henry. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?
Falstaff. No, I’ll give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there.
Prince Henry. Yea, and elsewhere, so far as my coin would stretch;
and where it would not I have used my credit.
Falstaff. Yea, and so used it, that, were it not here apparent that thou
art heir apparent,—But, I pr’ythee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows
standing in England when thou art king? and resolution thus fobbed as it
is, with the rusty curb of old father antic the law? Do not thou, when
thou art king, hang a thief.
Prince Henry. No; thou shalt.
Falstaff. Shall I? Oh, rare! By the Lord, I’ll be a brave judge.
Prince Henry. Thou judgest false already; I mean thou shalt have the
hanging of the thieves, and so become a rare hangman.
Falstaff. Well, Hal, well; and in some sort it jumps with my humor, as
well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.
Prince Henry. For obtaining of suits?
Falstaff. Yea, for obtaining of suits; whereof the hangman hath no
lean wardrobe. ’Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a lugged bear.
 Prince Henry. Or an old lion; or a lover’s lute.
Falstaff. Yea, or the drone of a Lincolnshire bagpipe.
Prince Henry. What say’st thou to a hare, or the melancholy of Moor-
ditch.
Falstaff. Thou hast the most unsavory similes; and art, indeed, the
most comparative, rascalliest,—sweet young prince,—But Hal, I
pr’ythee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I
knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought: an old lord
of the council rated me the other day in the street about you, sir; but I
marked him not; and yet he talked very wisely; but I regarded him not:
and yet he talked wisely, and in the street too.
Prince Henry. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets and
no man regards it.
Falstaff. Oh, thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to
corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal,—God forgive
thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a
man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give
over this life, and I will give it over; by the Lord, and I do not, I am a
villain; I’ll be damned for never a king’s son in Christendom.
Prince Henry. Where shall we take a purse tomorrow, Jack?
Falstaff. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad; I’ll make one; an I do not, call
me villain, and baffle me.
Prince Henry. I see a good amendment of life in thee; from praying to
purse-taking.
FROM MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
C ,B ,D ,V ,S , and the W .

Dogberry. Is our whole dissembly appeared?

Verges. Oh, a stool and a cushion for the sexton!
Sexton. Which be the malefactors?
Dogberry. Marry, that am I and my partner.
Verges. Nay, that’s certain. We have the exhibition to examine.
Sexton. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? Let them
come before master constable.
 Dogberry. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name,
friend?
Borachio. Borachio.
Dogberry. Pray, write down—Borachio.—Yours, sirrah?
Conrade. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.
Dogberry. Write down—master gentleman Conrade.—Masters, do
you serve God?
Conrade, Borachio. Yea, sir, we hope.
Dogberry. Write down—that they hope they serve God. And write
God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains!—
Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves;
and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for
yourselves?
Conrade. Marry, sir, we are none.
Dogberry. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about
with him.—Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear, sir; I say to you,
it is thought you are false knaves.
Borachio. Sir, I say to you, we are none.
Dogberry. Well, stand aside.—’Fore God, they are both in a tale.
Have you writ down, that they are none?
Sexton. Master constable, you go not the way to examine: you must
call forth the watch that are their accusers.
Dogberry. Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way.—Let the watch come
forth.—Masters, I charge you, in the prince’s name, accuse these men.
1st Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince’s brother, was
a villain.
Dogberry. Write down—Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat
perjury, to call a prince’s brother villain.
Borachio. Master constable—
Dogberry. Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look, I promise
thee.
Sexton. What heard you him say else?
 2d Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John,
for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.
Dogberry. Flat burglary as ever was committed!
Verges. Yea, by the mass, that it is.
Sexton. What else, fellow?
1st Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to
disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her.
Dogberry. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting
redemption for this.
Sexton. What else?
2d Watch. This is all.
Sexton. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is
this morning secretly stolen away; Hero was in this manner accused, in
this very manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died.—
Master constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I
will go before, and show him their examination.
(Exit.)
Dogberry. Come, let them be opinioned.
Verges. Let them be in the hands—
Conrade. Off, coxcomb!
Dogberry. God’s my life! Where’s the sexton? Let him write down—
the prince’s officer, coxcomb.—Come, bind them.—Thou naughty
varlet!
Conrade. Away! You are an ass! you are an ass!
Dogberry. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my
years?—Oh, that he were here to write me down an ass!—But, masters,
remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not
than I am an ass.—No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be
proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is
more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more,
as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law,
go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses;
and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him.—
Bring him away.—Oh, that I had been writ down an ass!
FROM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

Launcelot. Certainly, my conscience will serve me to run this Jew my

master. The fiend is at mine elbow, and tempts me, saying to me,
“Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot,” or “good Gobbo,” or “good
Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My
conscience says, “No; take heed, honest Launcelot; take heed, honest
Gobbo”; or, as aforesaid, “honest Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn
running with thy heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack:
“Via!” says the fiend; “away!” says the fiend; “for the heavens, rouse up
a brave mind,” says the fiend, “and run.” Well, my conscience, hanging
about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me, “My honest friend
Launcelot, being an honest man’s son,” or rather an honest woman’s son;
for, indeed, my father did something smack—something grow to—he
had a kind of taste—well, my conscience says, “Launcelot, budge not.”
“Budge,” says the fiend. “Budge not,” says my conscience.
“Conscience,” say I, “you counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I, “you counsel
well.” To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my
master, who—God bless the mark!—is a kind of devil; and to run away
from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who, saving your reverence,
is the devil himself. Certainly, the Jew is the very devil incarnation; and,
in my conscience, my conscience is a kind of hard conscience to offer to
counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly
counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run.
FROM HAMLET

P and H , reading.

Polonius. How does my good Lord Hamlet?

Hamlet. Well, God-’a’-mercy.
Polonius. Do you know me, my lord?
Hamlet. Excellent well; you are a fishmonger
Polonius. Not I, my lord.
Hamlet. Then I would you were so honest a man.
Polonius. Honest, my lord?
 Hamlet. Ay, sir: to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man
picked out of ten thousand.
Polonius. That’s very true, my lord.
Hamlet. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a good
kissing carrion—Have you a daughter?
Polonius. I have, my lord.
Hamlet. Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a blessing; but not
as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to’t.
Polonius. How say you by that? (Aside.) Still harping on my daughter.
Yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone,
far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; very
near this. I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?
Hamlet. Words, words, words.
Polonius. What is the matter, my lord?
Hamlet. Between who?
Polonius. I mean the matter that you read, my lord.
Hamlet. Slanders, sir. For the satirical slave says here, that old men
have gray beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick
amber or plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit,
together with weak hams. All of which, sir, though I most powerfully
and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down;
for you yourself, sir, shall grow old as I am: if, like a crab, you could go
backward.
Polonius. (Aside.) Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.—
Will you walk out o’ the air, my lord?
Hamlet. Into my grave?
Polonius. Indeed, that is out o’ the air. (Aside.) How pregnant
sometimes his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits on, which
reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave
him, and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my
daughter.—My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of
you.
Hamlet. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more
willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.
 Polonius. Fare you well, my lord.
Hamlet. These tedious old fools!
FROM AS YOU LIKE IT

R and O

Rosalind. (Aside.) I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under
that habit play the knave with him.—Do you hear, forester?
Orlando. Very well: what would you?
Rosalind. I pray you, what is’t o’clock?
Orlando. You should ask me, what time o’ day: there’s no clock in the
forest.
Rosalind. Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every
minute, and groaning every hour, would detect the lazy foot of Time as
well as a clock.
Orlando. And why not the swift foot of Time? Had not that been as
proper?
Rosalind. By no means, sir. Time travels in divers paces with divers
persons. I’ll tell you, who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal,
who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
Orlando. I prithee, who doth he trot withal?
Rosalind. Marry, he trots hard with a young maid, between the
contract of her marriage and the day it is solemnised: if the interim be
but a se’nnight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven
years.
Orlando. Who ambles Time withal?
Rosalind. With a priest that lacks Latin, and a rich man that hath not
the gout; for the one sleeps easily, because he cannot study; and the other
lives merrily, because he feels no pain: the one lacking the burden of lean
and wasteful learning; the other knowing no burden of heavy, tedious
penury. These Time ambles withal.
Orlando. Who doth he gallop withal?
Rosalind. With a thief to the gallows; for though he go as softly as
foot can fall, he thinks himself too soon there.
 Orlando. Who stays it still withal?
Rosalind. With lawyers in the vacation; for they sleep between term
and term, and then they perceive not how Time moves.
Orlando. Where dwell you, pretty youth?
Rosalind. Here in the skirts of the forest, like fringe upon a petticoat.
Orlando. Are you native of this place?
Rosalind. As the cony, that you see dwell where she is kindled.
Orlando. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase in
so removed a dwelling.
Rosalind. I have been told of so many: but, indeed, an old religious
uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an inland man;
one that knew courtship too well, for there he fell in love. I have heard
him read many lectures against it; and I thank God I am not a woman, to
be touched with so many giddy offences as he hath generally taxed their
whole sex withal.
Orlando. Can you remember any of the principal evils that he laid to
the charge of women?
Rosalind. There were none principal: they were all like one another,
as half-pence are; every one fault seeming monstrous, till its fellow fault
came to match it.
Orlando. I prithee, recount some of them.
Rosalind. No; I will not cast away my physic but on those that are
sick. There is a man haunts the forest, that abuses our young plants with
carving Rosalind on their barks; hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies
on brambles; all, forsooth, deifying the name of Rosalind: if I could meet
that fancy-monger I would give him some good counsel, for he seems to
have the quotidian of love upon him.
Orlando. I am he that is so love-shaked. I pray you, tell me your
remedy.
Rosalind. There is none of my uncle’s marks upon you: he taught me
how to know a man in love; in which cage of rushes, I am sure, you are
not prisoner.
Orlando. What were his marks?
 Rosalind. A lean cheek, which you have not; a blue eye, and sunken,
which you have not; an unquestionable spirit, which you have not; a
beard neglected, which you have not (but I pardon you for that, for,
simply, your having in beard is a younger brother’s revenue. Then, your
hose shall be ungartered, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned,
your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless
desolation. But you are no such man; you are rather point-device in your
accoutrements, as loving yourself, than seeming the lover of any other.
Orlando. Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.
Rosalind. Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love
believe it; which, I warrant, she is apter to do than to confess she does.
That is one of the points in the which women still give the lie to their
consciences. But, in good sooth, are you he that hangs the verses on the
trees, wherein Rosalind is so admired?
Orlando. I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalind, I am
that he, that unfortunate he.
Rosalind. But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?
Orlando. Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.
Rosalind. Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves as well
a dark house and a whip as madmen do. And the reason why they are not
so punished and cured is, that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers
are in love too. Yet I profess curing it by counsel.
Orlando. Did you ever cure any so?
Rosalind. Yes, one; and in this manner. He was to imagine me his
love, his mistress, and I set him every day to woo me: at which time
would I, being but a moonish youth, grieve, be effeminate, changeable,
longing, and liking; proud, fantastical, apish, shallow, inconstant, full of
tears, full of smiles; for every passion something, and for no passion
truly anything, as boys and women are, for the most part, cattle of this
colour: would now like him, now loathe him; then entertain him, then
forswear him; now weep for him, then spit at him; that I drave my suitor
from his mad humour of love, to a living humour of madness, which
was, to forswear the full stream of the world, and to live in a nook
merely monastic. And thus I cured him; and in this way will I take upon
me to wash your liver as clean as a sound sheep’s heart, that there shall
not be one spot of love in’t.
 Orlando. I would not be cured, youth.
Rosalind. I would cure you, if you would but call me Rosalind, and
come every day to my cote, and woo me.
Orlando. Now, by the faith of my love, I will. Tell me where it is.
Rosalind. Go with me to it, and I’ll show it you; and, by the way, you
shall tell me where in the forest you live. Will you go?
Orlando. With all my heart, good youth.

Francis, Lord Bacon, gave us much wise writing, and, incidentally

much of the wit of wisdom, but we look to him in vain for laughable
humor.
A few epigrammatic selections from his essays are given.

All colours will agree in the dark.

This is certain, that a man that studieth revenge keepeth his own
wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.

Whosoever esteemeth too much of an amourous affection, quitteth

both riches and wisdom.
Money is like muck: not good except it be spread.

Princes are like to heavenly bodies, which cause good or evil times,
and which have much veneration, and no rest.
 Old men object too much, consult too long, adventure too little, repent
too soon.

To take advice of some few friends is ever honourable; for lookers-on

many times see more than gamesters.

Suspicions that the mind of itself gathers are but buzzes; but
suspicions that are artificially nourished and put into men’s heads by the
tales and whisperings of others, have stings.

Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an

exact man. And therefore, if man write little, he had need have a great
memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read
little, he had need have much cunning to seem to know that which he
doth not.

Sir John Harington, chiefly remembered for his translation of Orlando

Furioso, wrote clever humorous verse.
OF A PRECISE TAILOR
A tailor, thought a man of upright dealing—
True, but for lying, honest, but for stealing—
Did fall one day extremely sick by chance,
And on the sudden was in wondrous trance.
The fiends of hell, mustering in fearful manner,
Of sundry coloured silks displayed a banner
Which he had stolen, and wished, as they did tell,
That he might find it all one day in hell.
The man, affrighted with this apparition,
Upon recovery grew a great precisian.
He bought a Bible of the best translation,
And in his life he showed great reformation;
He walked mannerly, he talked meekly,
He heard three lectures and two sermons weekly;
He vowed to shun all company unruly,
And in his speech he used no oath but “truly”;
And, zealously to keep the Sabbath’s rest,
His meat for that day on the eve was drest;
And, lest the custom which he had to steal
Might cause him sometimes to forget his zeal,
He gives his journeyman a special charge,
That if the stuff, allowance being large,
He found his fingers were to filch inclined,
Bid him to have the banner in his mind.
This done—I scant can tell the rest for laughter—
A captain of a ship came three days after,
And brought three yards of velvet and three-quarters,
To make Venetians down below the garters.
He, that precisely knew what was enough,
Soon slipt aside three-quarters of the stuff.
His man, espying it, said, in derision,
“Master, remember how you saw the vision!”
“Peace, knave!” quoth he; “I did not see one rag
Of such a coloured silk in all the flag.”

OF A CERTAIN MAN
There was (not certain when) a certain preacher
That never learned, and yet became a teacher,
Who, having read in Latin thus a text
Of erat quidam homo, much perplext,
He seemed the same with studie great to scan,
In English thus: There was a certain man.
But now (quoth he), good people, note you this:
He saith there was—he doth not say there is;
For in these days of ours it is most plain
Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man’s certain;
Yet by my text you see it comes to pass
That surely once a certain man there was;
But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man
Can find this text, There was a certain woman.

Ben Jonson, next to Shakespeare as a dramatist, is a master of satiric

wit. His strong, somewhat psychological comedies are difficult to quote
from except in long extracts.
FROM “EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOR”

Bobadil. I will tell you, sir, by the way of private, and under seal, I am
a gentleman, and live here obscure, and to myself; but were I known to
her majesty and the lords (observe me), I would undertake, upon this
poor head and life, for the public benefit of the state, not only to spare
the entire lives of her subjects in general, but to save the one-half, nay,
three parts of her yearly charge in holding war, and against what enemy
soever. And how would I do it, think you?
E. Knowell. Nay, I know not, nor can I conceive.
Bobadil. Why, thus, sir. I would select nineteen more, to myself,
throughout the land; gentlemen they should be of good spirit, strong and
able constitution; I would choose them by an instinct, a character that I
have: and I would teach these nineteen the special rules—as your punto,
your reverso, your stoccata, your imbroccato, your passado, your
montanto—till they could all play very near, or altogether as well as
myself. This done, say the enemy were forty thousand strong, we twenty
would come into the field the tenth of March, or thereabouts; and we
would challenge twenty of the enemy; they could not in their honor
refuse us; well, we would kill them: challenge twenty more, kill them;
twenty more, kill them; twenty more, kill them too; and thus would we
kill every man his twenty a day, that’s twenty score; twenty score, that’s
two hundred; two hundred a day, five days a thousand; forty thousand;
forty times five, five times forty, two hundred days kills them all up by
computation. And this will I venture my poor gentleman-like carcass to
perform, provided there be no treason practised upon us, by fair and
discreet manhood; that is, civilly by the sword.
FROM “VOLPONE”

Volpone. Lady, I kiss your bounty, and for this timely grace you have
done your poor Scoto, of Mantua, I will return you, over and above my
oil, a secret of that high and inestimable nature which shall make you for
ever enamoured on that minute, wherein your eye first descended on so
mean, yet not altogether to be despised, an object. Here is a powder
concealed in this paper, of which, if I should speak to the worth, nine
thousand volumes were but as one page, that page as a line, that line as a
word; so short is this pilgrimage of man, which some call life, to the
expression of it. Would I reflect on the price? Why, the whole world is
but as an empire, that empire as a province, that province as a bank, that
bank as a private purse to the purchase of it. I will only tell you it is the
powder that made Venus a goddess, given her by Apollo, that kept her
perpetually young, cleared her wrinkles, firmed her gums, filled her skin,
coloured her hair, from her derived to Helen, and at the sack of Troy
unfortunately lost: till now, in this our age, it was as happily recovered,
by a studious antiquary, out of some ruins of Asia, who sent a moiety of
it to the Court of France, but much sophisticated, wherewith the ladies
there now colour their hair. The rest, at this present, remains with me,
extracted to a quintessence; so that, wherever it but touches in youth it
perpetually preserves, in age restores the complexion; seats your teeth,
did they dance like virginal jacks, firm as a wall; makes them white as
ivory, that were black as coal.
A VINTNER,

To whom Jonson was in debt, told him that he would excuse the
payment, if he could give an immediate answer to the following
questions: What God is best pleased with; what the devil is best pleased
with: what the world is best pleased with; and what he was best pleased
with. Jonson, without hesitation, replied thus:
God is best pleas’d, when men forsake their sin;
The devil’s best pleas’d, when they persist therein:
The world’s best pleas’d, when thou dost sell good wine;
And you’re best pleas’d, when I do pay for mine.

It was the fashion to flatter in those days, and King James had
abundance of such incense offered to him, though according to Ben
Jonson it was impossible to flatter so perfect a monarch. The dramatist
addressed the following epigram To the Ghost of Martial (Ep. 36):
Martial, thou gav’st far nobler epigrams
To thy Domitian, than I can my James:
But in my royal subject I pass thee,
Thou flattered’st thine, mine cannot flatter’d be.

A thought which has been humorously expanded by Ben Jonson (Ep.

42):
Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be?
Th’ observing neighbours no such mood can see.
Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever;
But that his Joan doth too. And Giles would never
By his free will be in Joan’s company;
No more would Joan he should. Giles riseth early,
And having got him out of doors is glad;
The like is Joan. But turning home is sad;
And so is Joan. Oft-times when Giles doth find
Harsh sights at home, Giles wisheth he were blind;
All this doth Joan. Or that his long-yearn’d life
Were quite outspun; the like wish hath his wife.
 * * * * *

If now, with man and wife, to will and nill

The self-same things, a note of concord be,
I know no couple better can agree.

John Donne, one of the greatest preachers of the English church, was
also a noted wit, poet and courtier. Like his contemporaries his wit was
satirical, but in more playful vein than most.
THE WILL
Before I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe,
Great Love, some legacies: Here I bequeathe
Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see;
If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee;
My tongue to fame; to embassadors mine ears;
To women or the sea, my tears.
Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore,
By making me serve her who had twenty more,
That I should give to none but such as had too much before.

My constancy I to the planets give;

My truth to them who at the court do live;
My ingenuity and openness
To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness;
My silence to any who abroad have been;
My money to a Capuchin.
Thou, Love, taught’st me, by appointing me
To love there where no love received can be,
Only to give to such as have an incapacity.

My faith I give to Roman Catholics;

All my good works unto the schismatics
Of Amsterdam; my best civility
And courtship to a university;
My modesty I give to soldiers bare;
My patience let gamesters share.
Thou, Love taught’st me, by making me
Love her that holds my love disparity,
Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity.

I give my reputation to those

Which were my friends; mine industry to foes;
To schoolmen I bequeathe my doubtfulness;
My sickness to physicians, or excess;
To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ;
And to my company my wit.
Thou, Love, by making me adore
Her who begot this love in me before,
Taught’st me to make as though I gave, when I do but restore.
 To him for whom the passing bell next tolls
I give my physic-books; my written rolls
Of moral counsel I to Bedlam give;
My brazen medals unto them which live
In want of bread; to them which pass among
All foreigners, mine English tongue.
Thou, Love, by making me love one
Who thinks her friendship a fit portion
For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion.

Therefore I’ll give no more, but I’ll undo

The world by dying, because love dies too.
Then all your beauties will no more be worth
Than gold in mines where none doth draw it forth;
And all your graces no more use shall have
Than a sundial in a grave.
Thou, Love, taught’st me, by making me
Love her who doth neglect both thee and me,
To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three.

Thomas Dekker was a prolific dramatic author of the period, and his
satirical characterizations are among the wittiest of his day.
OBEDIENT HUSBANDS

There is a humour incident to a woman, which is, when a young man

hath turmoiled himself so long that with much ado he hath gotten into
marriage, and hath perhaps met with a wife according to his own desire,
and perchance such an one that it had been better for him had he lighted
on another, yet he likes her so well that he would not have missed her for
any gold; for, in his opinion, there is no woman like unto her. He hath a
great delight to hear her speak, is proud of his match, and is,
peradventure, withal of so sheepish a nature, that he has purposed to
govern himself wholly by her counsel and direction, so that if any one
speak to him of a bargain, or whatsoever other business, he tells them
that he will have his wife’s opinion on it, and if she be content, he will go
through with it; if not, then will he give it over.
Thus he is as tame and pliable as a jackanapes to his keeper. If the
Prince set forth an army, and she be unwilling that he should go, who
(you may think) will ask her leave, then must he stay at home, fight who
will for the country. But if she be desirous at any time to have his room
(which many times she likes better than his company), she wants no
journey to employ him in, and he is as ready as a page to undertake
them. If she chide, he answers not a word; generally, whatsoever she
does, or howsoever, he thinks it well done.