They
are great drinkers, says Iago, 'most potent in potting; your Dane, your
German, and your swag-bellied Hollander are nothing to your English'.
They are epicures, says Macbeth. They will eat like wolves and fight
like devils, says the Constable of France. An English nobleman,
according to the Lady of Belmont, can speak no language but his own. An
English tailor, according to the porter of Macbeth's castle, will steal
cloth where there is hardly any cloth to be stolen, out of a French
hose. The devil, says the clown in _All's Well_, has an English name; he
is called the Black Prince.
Nothing has been changed in this vein of humorous banter since
Shakespeare died. One of the best pieces of Shakespeare criticism ever
written is contained in four words of the present Poet Laureate's Ode
for the Tercentenary of Shakespeare, 'London's laughter is thine'. The
wit of our trenches in this war, especially perhaps among the Cockney
and South country regiments, is pure Shakespeare. Falstaff would find
himself at home there, and would recognize a brother in Old Bill.
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