First Proofs Welcomes All To Ground-breaking News

The Universities Can No Longer Be Relied Upon To Claim They Know William Shakespeare's True Identity. It Has Now Been Proved Conclusively That Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, Wrote The Sonnets; This Implies He Also Wrote The Plays Listed In the First Folio. To Support His Identity, Ben Jonson, Thomas Nashe, Edmund Spenser, Leonard Digges, William Marshall, Sir Aston Cokaine, Together With Publishers Thomas Thorpe and John Benson, Have Confirmed His Identity beyond rational doubt.


Fear not my truth; the moral of my wit Is 'plain and true'; there's all the reach of it.

'Tis not the many oaths that make the truth, But the plain single view that is vow'd true.

A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men's.

If thou art rich, thou'rt poor; For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And death unloads thee.

I am a man More sinn'd against than sinning.

The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance.

O let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presages of my speaking breast.

Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from other's books.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.

I am disgrace'd, impeach'd, and baffled here, Pierce'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear.

My grief lies all within; And these external manners of laments Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swell with silence in the tortur'd soul.

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them.

The sands are number'd that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end.

We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

But be contented when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away: My life hath in this line some interest Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.

I have lived long enough: my way of lfe Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf, And that which should accompany old age, As, honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but in their stead, Curses.

Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more.

The earth can yield me but a common grave.





EDWARD DE VERE and confirmed by TOM NASHE

"My Argument, Whisper, Talk in Secret,: Lo E. De Vere My Name." "I, T. Nashe, Whisper Secret Talk." (Sonnet 76).


"Lo, So Test Privately E. Vere. Whisper, Secret Talk." ('Strange Newes').


"So Test Him, He I Vow Is - Whisper, Talk In Secret - E. De Vere, As He Shakspeare, Scamp! Me: B.I." (The inscription below Shakspeare's bust at Stratford-upon-Avon.)

"Whisper, Secret Talk, Scam! : W. S. e.g. Vere" (The four lines of verse that cover Shakspeare's gravesite in Holy Trinity Church at Stratford-upon-Avon).

"Whisper, Talk In Secret : E De Vere, Re: He Shakespeare." (Jonson's Poem on the first page of the First Folio).


[1] "Whisper, Secret Talk: 'To De Vere, His Epigram'" [2] "These Sonnets All By E Ver The Forth." [3] "Henry Wriothesley"; [4] "Thou Art Visible To Wishes, Veteran!" (The Dedication to 'Shakespeares Sonnets').


"Whisper, Talk In Secret - E. Vere." (A poem praising Edmund Spenser's newly published 'Faerie Queene'. The signature response of Edward de Vere, as Ignoto the unknown. He having earlier received a poem from Spenser that had compared his poetry to those of the Muses).


"Me, E. De Vere, Whisper, Talk In Secret." (A poetic eulogy written to praise 'Shake-speare').


"Me, Lo, E. Vere, Re: Mary S. Indebted To His Rote " [S, for Sidney. Rote: archaic for a company of actors. King James I visited Mary S. at Wilton House and was entertained by a 'Rote'.] (A letter: 'To The Reader' in Poems Written By Wil. Shakespeare Gent.).


"Whisper, Talk In Secret, Vere." (Marshall's Poem beneath his copy of Martin Droeshout's original picture of 'Shakespeare', which first appeared at the front of the First Folio).


"Sic! Whisper, Secret Talk: Lo, Vere." (Encrypted into a poem dedicated to his neighbour, William Dugdale, who first illustrated Shakspeare's Monument at Stratford-upon-Avon, depicting him as a trader in wool).

NOTE: The cipher language above is consistently and repeatedly corroborated by a key of 17: the number of Edward de Vere's earldom. Also, the ciphers always include further keys to locate the position where each cluster of secret plain-text is to begin. Moreover, they also obey the rule of the classic tragedians, requiring the name of the author to be secreted into the first lines of the open text—or cipher-text as it is called by cryptographers.

The probability that the code-word for 'whisper, secret talk', or 'whisper, talk in secret', appears by chance in all nine ciphers, is approximately one chance in ten billion.

The probability that Vere will occur by chance on just six occasions, where the name is specifically indicated by its key, allows only 2 chances from a trillion-trillion-trillion possibilities.

Against such impossible odds, which discount the additional words in the plain-text; and in view of the fact that the plain-text is always correctly corroborated by an acceptable key, it is justifiable, scientifically and mathematically, to maintain with absolute confidence that William Shakespeare was Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of Oxford, and his secret identity was imposed upon him as a matter of national security. What that matter was, may be inferred from historical records. These are set out and explained in the book:

How Science Proved Edward deVere Was William Shakespeare.

Front Cover

Second Edition Revised and Updated
Published by Firstproofs
9 780954 387389
160 pages

Hardback $29.50 Available Worldwide

The basic content of this book first appeared as a peer-reviewed article in the
Journal of Scientific Exploration
Volume 31 No. 4 winter edition 2017.
The revised and updated Second Edition is now on sale

For further information: E-mail:

Will Shaxpere

A young man married is a man that's marred.

Hath not his eye Stray'd his affection in unlawful love? A sin prevailing much in youthful men.

Hasty marriages seldom proveth well.

Man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured.

O thou monster Ignorance, how deform'd dost thou look!

He is a stone, a very pebble stone, and has no more pity in him than a dog.

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven.

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth Is with a kind of colic pinched.

A terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.

'Tis not so well that I am poor, though many of the rich are damned.

I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself.

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit.

So shall you share all that he does possess, By having him making yourself no less.

Gold were as good as twenty orators, And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything.

Methinks I am a prophet new inspired, And thus expiring do foretell of him.

Fate, show thy force; ourselves we do not owe; What is decreed must be, and be this so.

Now am I in Arden; the more fool I: when I was at home I was in a better place: but travellers must be content.

To do a thing, where I the issue doubted, Whereof the execution did cry out Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear Which oft infects the wisest.

For I am sick and capable of fears, Oppress'd with wrongs and therefore full of fears.

'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot.

Thou dost in thy passages of life Make me believe that thou art only mark'd For the hot vengenace and the rod of heaven To punish me for my misreadings.





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