-11-
This is simpler that the first part, but it stands out because 1) it’s a readable phrase “two alike”, 2) it’s directly next to and parallel in the next column to the first part, and 3) it perfectly represents the relationship of Francis Bacon and his friend Tobie Matthew. Bacon, in a letter to Conde Condomar, who was the Spanish ambassador to England from 1613 to 1622, wrote, in Latin, “Prefectio domini Tobiae Matthaei, qui mihi est tanquam alter ego, ..” the second part translating as “who to me is like a second I”. And this is why a biography on Matthews was titled The Life of Sir Tobie Matthew, Bacon’s Alter Ego.
So the phrase
“two alike” fits the two contiguous names “F Bacon Tobey” perfectly. The
possibility that this has occurred by chance in a Shakespeare play where Bacon
is a leading possible hidden author would seem to be extraordinary. And still,
the acrostic message doesn’t even appear to end there. On the following column,
beginning just a few lines up from the start of the other two acrostic passages
in the previous columns, was found another meaningful sequence, which is the
following:
PROSPERO Well demanded, wench.
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,
So dear the love my people bore me, nor set
A mark so bloody on the business, but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us, to sigh
To the winds whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,
So dear the love my people bore me, nor set
A mark so bloody on the business, but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg'd,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively had quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar'd to us, to sigh
To the winds whose pity, sighing back again,
Did us but loving wrong.
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