Under that foggy sunset London glowed,Like one huge cob-webbed flagon of old wine.And, as I walked down Fleet Street, the soft skyMowed thro' the roaring thoroughfares, transfusedTheir hard sharp outlines, blurred the throngs of blackOn either pavement, blurred the rolling streamOf red and yellow busses, till the townTurned to a golden suburb of the clouds.And, round that mighty bubble of St. Paul's,Over the up-turned faces of the street,An air-ship slowly sailed, with whirring fans,A voyager in the new-found realms of gold,A shadowy silken chrysalis whence should breakWhat radiant wings in centuries to be.So, wandering on, while all the shores of TimeSoftened into Eternity, it seemedA dead man touched me with his living hand,A flaming legend passed me in the streetsOf London—laugh who will—that City of Clouds,Where what a dreamer yet, in spite of all,Is man, that splendid visionary childWho sent his fairy beacon through the dusk,On a blue bus before the moon was risen,—This Night, at eight, The Tempest!Dreaming thus,(Small wonder that my footsteps went astray!)I found myself within a narrow street,Alone. There was no rumour, near or far,Of the long tides of traffic. In my doubtI turned and knocked upon an old inn-door,Hard by, an ancient inn of mullioned panes,And crazy beams and over-hanging eaves:And, as I knocked, the slowly changing westSeemed to change all the world with it and leaveOnly that old inn steadfast and unchanged,A rock in the rich-coloured tides of time.And, suddenly, as a song that wholly escapesRemembrance, at one note, wholly returns,There, as I knocked, memory returned to me.I knew it all—the little twisted street,The rough wet cobbles gleaming, far away,Like opals, where it ended on the sky;And, overhead, the darkly smiling faceOf that old wizard inn; I knew by roteThe smooth sun-bubbles in the worn green paintUpon the doors and shutters.There was oneMyself had idly scratched away one dawn,One mad May-dawn, three hundred years ago,When out of the woods we came with hawthorn boughsAnd found the doors locked, as they seemed to-night.Three hundred years ago—nay, Time was dead!No need to scan the sign-board any moreWhere that white-breasted siren of the seaCurled her moon-silvered tail among such rocksAs never in the merriest seaman's taleBroke the blue-bliss of fabulous lagoonsBeyond the Spanish Main.And, through the dream,Even as I stood and listened, came a soundOf clashing wine-cups: then a deep-voiced songMade the old timbers of the Mermaid InnShake as a galleon shakes in a gale of windWhen she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea.SongIMarchaunt Adventurers, chanting at the windlass,Early in the morning, we slipped from Plymouth Sound,All for Adventure in the great New Regions,All for Eldorado and to sail the world around!Sing! the red of sun-rise ripples round the bows again.Marchaunt Adventurers, O sing, we're outward bound,All to stuff the sunset in our old black galleon,All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found.Chorus:Marchaunt Adventurers!Marchaunt Adventurers!Marchaunt Adventurers, O, whither are ye bound?—All for Eldorado and the great new Sky-line,All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found.IIMarchaunt Adventurers, O, what'ull ye bring home again?—Wonders and works and the thunder of the sea!Whom will ye traffic with?—The King of the Sunset!What shall be your pilot then?—A wind from Galilee.Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?—Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see.Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters.After many days, it shall return with usury.Chorus:Marchaunt Adventurers!Marchaunt Adventurers!What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be?—Englande!—Englande!—Englande!—Englande!—Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea!And there, framed in the lilac patch of skyThat ended the steep street, dark on its light,And standing on those glistering cobblestonesJust where they took the sunset's kiss, I sawA figure like foot-feathered Mercury,Tall, straight and splendid as a sunset-cloud.Clad in a crimson doublet and trunk-hose,A rapier at his side; and, as he paused,His long fantastic shadow swayed and sweptAgainst my feet.A moment he looked back,Then swaggered down as if he owned a worldWhich had forgotten—did I wake or dream?—Even his gracious ghost!Over his armHe swung a gorgeous murrey-coloured cloakOf Ciprus velvet, caked and smeared with mudAs on the day when—did I dream or wake?And had not all this happened once before?—When he had laid that cloak before the feetOf Gloriana! By that mud-stained cloak,'Twas he! Our Ocean-Shepherd! Walter Raleigh!He brushed me passing, and with one vigorous thrustOpened the door and entered. At his heelsI followed—into the Mermaid!—through three yardsOf pitch-black gloom, then into an old inn-parlourSwimming with faces in a mist of smokeThat up-curled, blue, from long Winchester pipes,While—like some rare old picture, in a dreamRecalled—quietly listening, laughing, watching,Pale on that old black oaken wainscot floatedOne bearded oval face, young, with deep eyes,Whom Raleigh hailed as "Will!"But as I staredA sudden buffet from a brawny handMade all my senses swim, and the room rangWith laughter as upon the rush-strewn floorMy feet slipped and I fell. Then a gruff voiceGrowled over me—"Get up now, John-a-dreams,Or else mine host must find another drawer!Hast thou not heard us calling all this while?"And, as I scrambled up, the rafters rangWith cries of "Sack! Bring me a cup of sack!Canary! Sack! Malmsey! and Muscadel!"I understood and flew. I was awake,A leather-jerkined pot-boy to these gods,A prentice Ganymede to the Mermaid Inn!There, flitting to and fro with cups of wine,I heard them toss the Chrysomelan namesFrom mouth to mouth—Lyly and Peele and Lodge,Kit Marlowe, Michael Drayton, and the rest,With Ben, rare Ben, brick-layer Ben, who rolledLike a great galleon on his ingle-bench.Some twenty years of age he seemed; and yetThis young Gargantua with the bull-dog jaws,The T, for Tyburn, branded on his thumb,And grim pock-pitted face, was growling talesTo Dekker that would fright a buccaneer.—How in the fierce Low Countries he had killedHis man, and won that scar on his bronzed fist;Was taken prisoner, and turned Catholick;And, now returned to London, was resolvedTo blast away the vapours of the townWith Boreas-throated plays of thunderous mirth."I'll thwack their Tribulation-Wholesomes, lad,Their Yellow-faced Envies and lean Thorns-i'-the-Flesh,At theBlack-friars Theatre, orThe Rose,Or elseThe Curtain. Failing these, I'll findSome good square inn-yard with wide galleries,And windows level with the stage. 'Twill serveMy Comedy of Vapours; though, I grant.For Tragedy a private House is best,Or, just as Burbage tip-toes to a deedOf blood, or, over your stable's black half-door,MarkedBattlementsin white chalk, your breathless DavidGlowers at the whiter Bathsheba within,Some humorous coach-horse neighs a 'hallelujah'!And the pit splits its doublets. Over goesThe whole damned apple-barrel, and the yardIs all one rough and tumble, scramble and scratchOf prentices, green madams, and cut-pursesFor half-chewed Norfolk pippins. Never mind!We'll build the perfect stage in Shoreditch yet.And Will, there, hath half promised I shall writeA piece for his own company! What d'ye thinkOfVenus and Adonis, his first heir,Printed last week? A bouncing boy, my lad!And he's at work on a Midsummer's DreamThat turns the world to fairyland!"All theseAnd many more were there, and all were young!There, as I brimmed their cups, I heard the voiceOf Raleigh ringing across the smoke-wreathed room,—"Ben, could you put a frigate on the stage,I've found a tragedy for you. Have you heardThe true tale of Sir Humphrey Gilbert?""No!""Why, Ben, of all the tragical affairsOf the Ocean-sea, and of that other OceanWhere all men sail so blindly, and misjudgeTheir friends, their charts, their storms, their stars, their God,If there be truth in the blind crowder's songI bought in Bread Street for a penny, thisIs the brief type and chronicle of them all.Listen!" Then Raleigh sent these rugged rhymesOf some blind crowder rolling in great wavesOf passion across the gloom. At each refrainHe sank his voice to a broad deep undertone,As if the distant roar of breaking surfOr the low thunder of eternal tidesFilled up the pauses of the nearer storm,Storm against storm, a soul against the sea:—
Under that foggy sunset London glowed,Like one huge cob-webbed flagon of old wine.And, as I walked down Fleet Street, the soft skyMowed thro' the roaring thoroughfares, transfusedTheir hard sharp outlines, blurred the throngs of blackOn either pavement, blurred the rolling streamOf red and yellow busses, till the townTurned to a golden suburb of the clouds.And, round that mighty bubble of St. Paul's,Over the up-turned faces of the street,An air-ship slowly sailed, with whirring fans,A voyager in the new-found realms of gold,A shadowy silken chrysalis whence should breakWhat radiant wings in centuries to be.
So, wandering on, while all the shores of TimeSoftened into Eternity, it seemedA dead man touched me with his living hand,A flaming legend passed me in the streetsOf London—laugh who will—that City of Clouds,Where what a dreamer yet, in spite of all,Is man, that splendid visionary childWho sent his fairy beacon through the dusk,On a blue bus before the moon was risen,—This Night, at eight, The Tempest!
Dreaming thus,(Small wonder that my footsteps went astray!)I found myself within a narrow street,Alone. There was no rumour, near or far,Of the long tides of traffic. In my doubtI turned and knocked upon an old inn-door,Hard by, an ancient inn of mullioned panes,And crazy beams and over-hanging eaves:And, as I knocked, the slowly changing westSeemed to change all the world with it and leaveOnly that old inn steadfast and unchanged,A rock in the rich-coloured tides of time.
And, suddenly, as a song that wholly escapesRemembrance, at one note, wholly returns,There, as I knocked, memory returned to me.I knew it all—the little twisted street,The rough wet cobbles gleaming, far away,Like opals, where it ended on the sky;And, overhead, the darkly smiling faceOf that old wizard inn; I knew by roteThe smooth sun-bubbles in the worn green paintUpon the doors and shutters.
There was oneMyself had idly scratched away one dawn,One mad May-dawn, three hundred years ago,When out of the woods we came with hawthorn boughsAnd found the doors locked, as they seemed to-night.Three hundred years ago—nay, Time was dead!No need to scan the sign-board any moreWhere that white-breasted siren of the seaCurled her moon-silvered tail among such rocksAs never in the merriest seaman's taleBroke the blue-bliss of fabulous lagoonsBeyond the Spanish Main.
And, through the dream,Even as I stood and listened, came a soundOf clashing wine-cups: then a deep-voiced songMade the old timbers of the Mermaid InnShake as a galleon shakes in a gale of windWhen she rolls glorying through the Ocean-sea.
Song
I
Marchaunt Adventurers, chanting at the windlass,Early in the morning, we slipped from Plymouth Sound,All for Adventure in the great New Regions,All for Eldorado and to sail the world around!Sing! the red of sun-rise ripples round the bows again.Marchaunt Adventurers, O sing, we're outward bound,All to stuff the sunset in our old black galleon,All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found.
Chorus:Marchaunt Adventurers!Marchaunt Adventurers!
Marchaunt Adventurers, O, whither are ye bound?—All for Eldorado and the great new Sky-line,All to seek the merchandise that no man ever found.
II
Marchaunt Adventurers, O, what'ull ye bring home again?—Wonders and works and the thunder of the sea!Whom will ye traffic with?—The King of the Sunset!What shall be your pilot then?—A wind from Galilee.Nay, but ye be marchaunts, will ye come back empty-handed?—Ay, we be marchaunts, though our gain we ne'er shall see.Cast we now our bread upon the waste wild waters.After many days, it shall return with usury.
Chorus:Marchaunt Adventurers!Marchaunt Adventurers!
What shall be your profit in the mighty days to be?—Englande!—Englande!—Englande!—Englande!—Glory everlasting and the lordship of the sea!
And there, framed in the lilac patch of skyThat ended the steep street, dark on its light,And standing on those glistering cobblestonesJust where they took the sunset's kiss, I sawA figure like foot-feathered Mercury,Tall, straight and splendid as a sunset-cloud.
Clad in a crimson doublet and trunk-hose,A rapier at his side; and, as he paused,His long fantastic shadow swayed and sweptAgainst my feet.
A moment he looked back,Then swaggered down as if he owned a worldWhich had forgotten—did I wake or dream?—Even his gracious ghost!
Over his armHe swung a gorgeous murrey-coloured cloakOf Ciprus velvet, caked and smeared with mudAs on the day when—did I dream or wake?And had not all this happened once before?—When he had laid that cloak before the feetOf Gloriana! By that mud-stained cloak,'Twas he! Our Ocean-Shepherd! Walter Raleigh!He brushed me passing, and with one vigorous thrustOpened the door and entered. At his heelsI followed—into the Mermaid!—through three yardsOf pitch-black gloom, then into an old inn-parlourSwimming with faces in a mist of smokeThat up-curled, blue, from long Winchester pipes,While—like some rare old picture, in a dreamRecalled—quietly listening, laughing, watching,Pale on that old black oaken wainscot floatedOne bearded oval face, young, with deep eyes,Whom Raleigh hailed as "Will!"
But as I staredA sudden buffet from a brawny handMade all my senses swim, and the room rangWith laughter as upon the rush-strewn floorMy feet slipped and I fell. Then a gruff voiceGrowled over me—"Get up now, John-a-dreams,Or else mine host must find another drawer!Hast thou not heard us calling all this while?"And, as I scrambled up, the rafters rangWith cries of "Sack! Bring me a cup of sack!Canary! Sack! Malmsey! and Muscadel!"I understood and flew. I was awake,A leather-jerkined pot-boy to these gods,A prentice Ganymede to the Mermaid Inn!
There, flitting to and fro with cups of wine,I heard them toss the Chrysomelan namesFrom mouth to mouth—Lyly and Peele and Lodge,Kit Marlowe, Michael Drayton, and the rest,With Ben, rare Ben, brick-layer Ben, who rolledLike a great galleon on his ingle-bench.Some twenty years of age he seemed; and yetThis young Gargantua with the bull-dog jaws,The T, for Tyburn, branded on his thumb,And grim pock-pitted face, was growling talesTo Dekker that would fright a buccaneer.—How in the fierce Low Countries he had killedHis man, and won that scar on his bronzed fist;Was taken prisoner, and turned Catholick;And, now returned to London, was resolvedTo blast away the vapours of the townWith Boreas-throated plays of thunderous mirth."I'll thwack their Tribulation-Wholesomes, lad,Their Yellow-faced Envies and lean Thorns-i'-the-Flesh,At theBlack-friars Theatre, orThe Rose,Or elseThe Curtain. Failing these, I'll findSome good square inn-yard with wide galleries,And windows level with the stage. 'Twill serveMy Comedy of Vapours; though, I grant.For Tragedy a private House is best,Or, just as Burbage tip-toes to a deedOf blood, or, over your stable's black half-door,MarkedBattlementsin white chalk, your breathless DavidGlowers at the whiter Bathsheba within,Some humorous coach-horse neighs a 'hallelujah'!And the pit splits its doublets. Over goesThe whole damned apple-barrel, and the yardIs all one rough and tumble, scramble and scratchOf prentices, green madams, and cut-pursesFor half-chewed Norfolk pippins. Never mind!We'll build the perfect stage in Shoreditch yet.And Will, there, hath half promised I shall writeA piece for his own company! What d'ye thinkOfVenus and Adonis, his first heir,Printed last week? A bouncing boy, my lad!And he's at work on a Midsummer's DreamThat turns the world to fairyland!"
All theseAnd many more were there, and all were young!There, as I brimmed their cups, I heard the voiceOf Raleigh ringing across the smoke-wreathed room,—"Ben, could you put a frigate on the stage,I've found a tragedy for you. Have you heardThe true tale of Sir Humphrey Gilbert?"
"No!"
"Why, Ben, of all the tragical affairsOf the Ocean-sea, and of that other OceanWhere all men sail so blindly, and misjudgeTheir friends, their charts, their storms, their stars, their God,If there be truth in the blind crowder's songI bought in Bread Street for a penny, thisIs the brief type and chronicle of them all.Listen!" Then Raleigh sent these rugged rhymesOf some blind crowder rolling in great wavesOf passion across the gloom. At each refrainHe sank his voice to a broad deep undertone,As if the distant roar of breaking surfOr the low thunder of eternal tidesFilled up the pauses of the nearer storm,Storm against storm, a soul against the sea:—
Sir Humphrey Gilbert, hard of hand,Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-sea,Gazed from the rocks of his New Found LandAnd thought of the home where his heart would be.He gazed across the wintry wasteThat weltered and hissed like molten lead,—"He saileth twice who saileth in haste!I'll wait the favour of Spring," he said.Ever the more, ever the more,He heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.The yellow clots of foam went byLike shavings that curl from a ship-wright's plane,Clinging and flying, afar and nigh,Shuddering, flying and clinging again.A thousand bubbles in every oneShifted and shimmered with rainbow gleams;But—had they been planets and stars that spunHe had let them drift by his feet like dreams:Heavy of heart was our Admirall,For, out of his ships—and they were but three!—He had lost the fairest and most tall,And—he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea.Ever the more, ever the more,He heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.Heavy of heart, heavy of heart,For she was a galleon mighty as May,And the storm that ripped her glory apartHad stripped his soul for the winter's way;And he was aware of a whisper blownFrom foc'sle to poop, from windward to lee,That the fault was his, and his alone,And—he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea."Had he done that! Had he done this!"And yet his mariners loved him well;But an idle word is hard to miss,And the foam hides more than the deep can tell.And the deep had buried his best-loved books,With many a hard-worn chart and plan:And a king that is conquered must see strange looks,So bitter a thing is the heart of man!And—"Who will you find to pay your debt?For a venture like this is a costly thing!Will they stake yet more, tho' your heart be setOn the mightier voyage you planned for the Spring?"He raised his head like a Viking crowned,—"I'll take my old flag to her Majestie,And she will lend me ten thousand poundTo make her Queen of the Ocean-sea!"Ever the more, ever the more,He heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.Outside—they heard the great winds blow!Outside—the blustering surf they heard,And the bravest there would ha' blenched to knowThat they must be taken at their own word.For the great grim waves were as molten lead—And he had two ships who sailed with three!—"And I sail not home till the Spring," he said,"They are all too frail for the Ocean-sea."But the trumpeter thought of an ale-house bench,And the cabin-boy longed for a Devonshire lane,And the gunner remembered a green-gowned wench,And the fos'cle whisper went round again,—"Sir Humphrey Gilbert is hard of hand,But his courage went down with the ship, may-be,And we wait for the Spring in a desert land,For—he is afraid of the Ocean-sea."Ever the more, ever the more,He heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.He knew, he knew how the whisper went!He knew he must master it, last or first!He knew not how much or how little it meant;But his heart was heavy and like to burst."Up with your sails, my sea-dogs all!The wind has veered! And my ships," quoth he,"They will serve for a British AdmirallWho is Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-sea!"His will was like a North-east windThat swept along our helmless crew;But he would not stay on theGolden Hynde,For that was the stronger ship of the two."My little ship's-company, lads, hath passedPerils and storms a-many with me!Would ye have me forsake them at the last?They'll need a Knight of the Ocean-sea!"Ever the more, ever the more,We heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.Beyond Cape Race, the pale sun splashedThe grim grey waves with silver lightWhere, ever in front, his frigate crashedEastward, for England and the night.And still as the dark began to fall,Ever in front of us, running free,We saw the sails of our AdmirallLeading us home through the Ocean-sea.Ever the more, ever the more,We heard the winds and the waves roar!But he sailed on, sailed on before.On Monday, at noon of the third fierce dayA-board ourGolden Hyndehe came,With a trail of blood, marking his wayOn the salt wet decks as he walked half-lame.For a rusty nail thro' his foot had pierced."Come, master-surgeon, mend it for me;Though I would it were changed for the nails that amercedThe dying thief upon Calvary."The surgeon bathed and bound his foot,And the master entreated him sore to stay;But roughly he pulled on his great sea-bootWith—"The wind is rising and I must away!"I know not why so little a thing,When into his pinnace we helped him down,Should make our eyelids prick and stingAs the salt spray were into them blown,But he called as he went—"Keep watch and steerBy my lanthorn at night!" Then he waved his handWith a kinglier watch-word, "We are as nearTo heaven, my lads, by sea as by land!"Ever the more, ever the more,We heard the gathering tempest roar!But he sailed on, sailed on before.Three hundred leagues on our homeward road,We strove to signal him, swooping nigh,That he would ease his decks of their loadOf nettings and fights and artillery.And dark and dark that night 'gan fall,And high the muttering breakers swelled,Till that strange fire which seamen call"Castor and Pollux," we beheld,An evil sign of peril and death,Burning pale on the high main-mast;But calm with the might of GennesarethOur Admirall's voice went ringing past,Clear thro' the thunders, far and clear,Mighty to counsel, clear to command,Joyfully ringing, "We are as nearTo heaven, my lads, by sea as by land!"Ever the more, ever the more,We heard the rising hurricane roar!But he sailed on, sailed on before.And over us fled the fleet of the stars,And, ever in front of us, far or nigh,The lanthorn on his cross-tree sparsDipped to the Pit or soared to the Sky!'Twould sweep to the lights of Charles's Wain,As the hills of the deep 'ud mount and flee.Then swoop down vanishing cliffs againTo the thundering gulfs of the Ocean-sea.We saw it shine as it swooped from the height,With ruining breakers on every hand,Then—a cry came out of the black mid-night,As near to heaven by sea as by land!And the light was out! Like a wind-blown spark;All in a moment! And we—and we—Prayed for his soul as we swept thro' the dark:For he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea.Over our fleets for evermoreThe winds 'ull triumph and the waves roar!But he sails on, sails on before!Silence a moment held the Mermaid Inn,Then Michael Drayton, raising a cup of wine,Stood up and said,—"Since many have obtainedAbsolute glory that have done great deeds,But fortune is not in the power of man,So they that, truly attempting, nobly fail,Deserve great honour of the common-wealth.Such glory did the Greeks and Romans giveTo those that in great enterprises fellSeeking the true commodity of their countryAnd profit to all mankind; for, though they failed,Being by war, death, or some other chance,Hindered, their images were set up in brass,Marble and silver, gold and ivory,In solemn temples and great palace-halls,No less to make men emulate their virtuesThan to give honour to their just deserts.God, from the time that He first made the world,Hath kept the knowledge of His Ocean-seaAnd the huge Æquinoctiall ContinentsReserved unto this day. Wherefore I thinkNo high exploit of Greece and Rome but seemsA little thing to these DiscoveriesWhich our adventurous captains even nowAre making, out there, Westward, in the night,Captains most worthy of commendation,Hugh Willoughby—God send him home againSafe to the Mermaid!—and Dick Chauncellor,That excellent pilot. Doubtless this man, too,Sir Humphrey Gilbert, was worthy to be madeKnight of the Ocean-sea. I bid you allStand up, and drink to his immortal fame!"
Sir Humphrey Gilbert, hard of hand,Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-sea,Gazed from the rocks of his New Found LandAnd thought of the home where his heart would be.
He gazed across the wintry wasteThat weltered and hissed like molten lead,—"He saileth twice who saileth in haste!I'll wait the favour of Spring," he said.
Ever the more, ever the more,He heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
The yellow clots of foam went byLike shavings that curl from a ship-wright's plane,Clinging and flying, afar and nigh,Shuddering, flying and clinging again.
A thousand bubbles in every oneShifted and shimmered with rainbow gleams;But—had they been planets and stars that spunHe had let them drift by his feet like dreams:
Heavy of heart was our Admirall,For, out of his ships—and they were but three!—He had lost the fairest and most tall,And—he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea.
Ever the more, ever the more,He heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
Heavy of heart, heavy of heart,For she was a galleon mighty as May,And the storm that ripped her glory apartHad stripped his soul for the winter's way;
And he was aware of a whisper blownFrom foc'sle to poop, from windward to lee,That the fault was his, and his alone,And—he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea.
"Had he done that! Had he done this!"And yet his mariners loved him well;But an idle word is hard to miss,And the foam hides more than the deep can tell.
And the deep had buried his best-loved books,With many a hard-worn chart and plan:And a king that is conquered must see strange looks,So bitter a thing is the heart of man!
And—"Who will you find to pay your debt?For a venture like this is a costly thing!Will they stake yet more, tho' your heart be setOn the mightier voyage you planned for the Spring?"
He raised his head like a Viking crowned,—"I'll take my old flag to her Majestie,And she will lend me ten thousand poundTo make her Queen of the Ocean-sea!"
Ever the more, ever the more,He heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
Outside—they heard the great winds blow!Outside—the blustering surf they heard,And the bravest there would ha' blenched to knowThat they must be taken at their own word.
For the great grim waves were as molten lead—And he had two ships who sailed with three!—"And I sail not home till the Spring," he said,"They are all too frail for the Ocean-sea."
But the trumpeter thought of an ale-house bench,And the cabin-boy longed for a Devonshire lane,And the gunner remembered a green-gowned wench,And the fos'cle whisper went round again,—
"Sir Humphrey Gilbert is hard of hand,But his courage went down with the ship, may-be,And we wait for the Spring in a desert land,For—he is afraid of the Ocean-sea."
Ever the more, ever the more,He heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
He knew, he knew how the whisper went!He knew he must master it, last or first!He knew not how much or how little it meant;But his heart was heavy and like to burst.
"Up with your sails, my sea-dogs all!The wind has veered! And my ships," quoth he,"They will serve for a British AdmirallWho is Knight-in-chief of the Ocean-sea!"
His will was like a North-east windThat swept along our helmless crew;But he would not stay on theGolden Hynde,For that was the stronger ship of the two.
"My little ship's-company, lads, hath passedPerils and storms a-many with me!Would ye have me forsake them at the last?They'll need a Knight of the Ocean-sea!"
Ever the more, ever the more,We heard the winds and the waves roar!Thunder on thunder shook the shore.
Beyond Cape Race, the pale sun splashedThe grim grey waves with silver lightWhere, ever in front, his frigate crashedEastward, for England and the night.
And still as the dark began to fall,Ever in front of us, running free,We saw the sails of our AdmirallLeading us home through the Ocean-sea.
Ever the more, ever the more,We heard the winds and the waves roar!But he sailed on, sailed on before.
On Monday, at noon of the third fierce dayA-board ourGolden Hyndehe came,With a trail of blood, marking his wayOn the salt wet decks as he walked half-lame.
For a rusty nail thro' his foot had pierced."Come, master-surgeon, mend it for me;Though I would it were changed for the nails that amercedThe dying thief upon Calvary."
The surgeon bathed and bound his foot,And the master entreated him sore to stay;But roughly he pulled on his great sea-bootWith—"The wind is rising and I must away!"
I know not why so little a thing,When into his pinnace we helped him down,Should make our eyelids prick and stingAs the salt spray were into them blown,
But he called as he went—"Keep watch and steerBy my lanthorn at night!" Then he waved his handWith a kinglier watch-word, "We are as nearTo heaven, my lads, by sea as by land!"
Ever the more, ever the more,We heard the gathering tempest roar!But he sailed on, sailed on before.
Three hundred leagues on our homeward road,We strove to signal him, swooping nigh,That he would ease his decks of their loadOf nettings and fights and artillery.
And dark and dark that night 'gan fall,And high the muttering breakers swelled,Till that strange fire which seamen call"Castor and Pollux," we beheld,
An evil sign of peril and death,Burning pale on the high main-mast;But calm with the might of GennesarethOur Admirall's voice went ringing past,
Clear thro' the thunders, far and clear,Mighty to counsel, clear to command,Joyfully ringing, "We are as nearTo heaven, my lads, by sea as by land!"
Ever the more, ever the more,We heard the rising hurricane roar!But he sailed on, sailed on before.
And over us fled the fleet of the stars,And, ever in front of us, far or nigh,The lanthorn on his cross-tree sparsDipped to the Pit or soared to the Sky!
'Twould sweep to the lights of Charles's Wain,As the hills of the deep 'ud mount and flee.Then swoop down vanishing cliffs againTo the thundering gulfs of the Ocean-sea.
We saw it shine as it swooped from the height,With ruining breakers on every hand,Then—a cry came out of the black mid-night,As near to heaven by sea as by land!
And the light was out! Like a wind-blown spark;All in a moment! And we—and we—Prayed for his soul as we swept thro' the dark:For he was a Knight of the Ocean-sea.
Over our fleets for evermoreThe winds 'ull triumph and the waves roar!But he sails on, sails on before!
Silence a moment held the Mermaid Inn,Then Michael Drayton, raising a cup of wine,Stood up and said,—"Since many have obtainedAbsolute glory that have done great deeds,But fortune is not in the power of man,So they that, truly attempting, nobly fail,Deserve great honour of the common-wealth.Such glory did the Greeks and Romans giveTo those that in great enterprises fellSeeking the true commodity of their countryAnd profit to all mankind; for, though they failed,Being by war, death, or some other chance,Hindered, their images were set up in brass,Marble and silver, gold and ivory,In solemn temples and great palace-halls,No less to make men emulate their virtuesThan to give honour to their just deserts.God, from the time that He first made the world,Hath kept the knowledge of His Ocean-seaAnd the huge Æquinoctiall ContinentsReserved unto this day. Wherefore I thinkNo high exploit of Greece and Rome but seemsA little thing to these DiscoveriesWhich our adventurous captains even nowAre making, out there, Westward, in the night,Captains most worthy of commendation,Hugh Willoughby—God send him home againSafe to the Mermaid!—and Dick Chauncellor,That excellent pilot. Doubtless this man, too,Sir Humphrey Gilbert, was worthy to be madeKnight of the Ocean-sea. I bid you allStand up, and drink to his immortal fame!"
Some three nights later, thro' the thick brown fog,A link-boy, dropping flakes of crimson fire,Flared to the door and, through its glowing frame,Ben Jonson and Kit Marlowe, arm in arm,Swaggered into the Mermaid Inn and calledFor red-deer pies.There, as they supped, I caughtScraps of ambrosial talk concerning Will,HisVenus and Adonis."Gabriel thought'Twas wrong to change the old writers and createA cold Adonis."—"Laws were made for Will,Not Will for laws, since first he stole a buckIn Charlecote woods."—"Where never a buck chewed fern,"Laughed Kit, "unless it chewed the fern seed, too,And walked invisible.""Bring me some wine," called Ben,And, with his knife thrumming upon the board,He chanted, while his comrade munched and smiled.IWill Shakespeare's out like Robin HoodWith his merry men all in green,To steal a deer in Charlecote woodWhere never a deer was seen.IIHe's hunted all a night of June,He's followed a phantom horn,He's killed a buck by the light of the moon,Under a fairy thorn.IIIHe's carried it home with his merry, merry band,There never was haunch so fine;For this buck was born in Elfin-landAnd fed upon sops-in-wine.IVThis buck had browsed on elfin boughsOf rose-marie and bay,And he's carried it home to the little white houseOf sweet Anne Hathaway.V"The dawn above your thatch is red!Slip out of your bed, sweet Anne!I have stolen a fairy buck," he said,"The first since the world began.VI"Roast it on a golden spit,And see that it do not burn;For we never shall feather the like of itOut of the fairy fern."VIIShe scarce had donned her long white gownAnd given him kisses four,When the surly Sheriff of Stratford-townKnocked at the little green door.VIIIThey have gaoled sweet Will for a poacher;But squarely he fronts the squire,With "When did you hear in your woods of a deer?Was it under a fairy briar?"IXSir Thomas he puffs,—"If God thought goodMy water-butt ran with wine,Or He dropt me a buck in Charlecote wood,I wot it is mine, not thine!"X"If you would eat of elfin meat,"Says Will, "you must blow up your horn!Take your bow, and feather the doeThat's under the fairy thorn!XI"If you would feast on elfin food,You've only the way to learn!Take your bow and feather the doeThat's under the fairy fern!"XIIThey're hunting high, they're hunting low,They're all away, away,With horse and hound to feather the doeThat's under the fairy spray!XIIISir Thomas he raged! Sir Thomas he swore!But all and all in vain;For there never was deer in his woods before,And there never would be again!And, as I brought the wine—"This is my grace,"Laughed Kit, "Diana grant the jolly buckThat Shakespeare stole were toothsome as this pie."He suddenly sank his voice,—"Hist, who comes here?Look—Richard Bame, the Puritan! O, Ben, Ben,Your Mermaid Inn's the study for the stage,Your only teacher of exits, entrances,And all the shifting comedy. Be grave!Bame is the godliest hypocrite on earth!Remember I'm an atheist, black as coal.He has called me Wormall in an anagram.Help me to bait him; but be very grave.We'll talk of Venus."As he whispered thus,A long white face with small black-beaded eyesPeered at him through the doorway. All too well,Afterwards, I recalled that scene, when Bame,Out of revenge for this same night, I guessed,Penned his foul tract on Marlowe's tragic fate;And, twelve months later, I watched our PuritanRiding to Tyburn in the hangman's cartFor thieving from an old bed-ridden dameWith whom he prayed, at supper-time, on Sundays.Like a conspirator he sidled in,Clasping a little pamphlet to his breast,While, feigning not to see him, Ben began:—"Will'sVenus and Adonis, Kit, is rare,A round, sound, full-blown piece of thorough work,On a great canvas, coloured like one I sawIn Italy, by one—Titian! None of the toysOf artistry your lank-haired losels turn,Your Phyllida—Love-lies-bleeding—Kiss-me-Quicks,Your fluttering Sighs and Mark-how-I-break-my-beats,Begotten like this, whenever and how you list,Your Moths of verse that shrivel in every taper;But a sound piece of craftsmanship to lastUntil the stars are out. 'Tis twice the lengthOf Vergil's books—he's listening! Nay, don't look!—Two hundred solid stanzas, think of that;But each a square celestial brick of goldLaid level and splendid. I've laid bricks and knowWhat thorough work is. If a storm should shakeThe Tower of London down, Will's house would stand.Look at his picture of the stallion,Nostril to croup, that's thorough finished work!""'Twill shock our Tribulation-Wholesomes, Ben!Think of that kiss of Venus! Deep, sweet, slow,As the dawn breaking to its perfect flowerAnd golden moon of bliss; then slow, sweet, deep,Like a great honeyed sunset it dissolvesAway!"A hollow groan, like a bass viol,Resounded thro' the room. Up started KitIn feigned alarm—"What, Master Richard Bame!Quick, Ben, the good man's ill. Bring him some wine!Red wine for Master Bame, the blood of VenusThat stained the rose!""White wine for Master Bame,"Ben echoed, "Juno's cream that" ... Both at onceThey thrust a wine-cup to the sallow lipsAnd smote him on the back."Sirs, you mistake!" coughed Bame, waving his handsAnd struggling to his feet,"Sirs, I have broughtA message from a youth who walked with youIn wantonness, aforetime, and is nowGroaning in sulphurous fires!""Kit, that means hell!""Yea, sirs, a pamphlet from the pit of hell,Written by Robert Greene before he died.Mark what he styles it—A Groatsworth of WitBought with a Million of Repentance!""Ah,Poor Rob was all his life-time either drunk,Wenching, or penitent, Ben! Poor lad, he diedYoung. Let me see now, Master Bame, you sayRob Greene wrote this on earth before he died,And then you printed it yourself in hell!""Stay, sir, I came not to this haunt of sinTo make mirth for Beëlzebub!""O, Ben,That's you!""'Swounds, sir, am I Beëlzebub?Ogs-gogs!" roared Ben, his hand upon his hilt!"Nay, sir, I signified the god of flies!I spake out of the scriptures!" snuffled BameWith deprecating eye."I come to saveA brand that you have kindled at your fire,But not yet charred, not yet so far consumed,One Richard Cholmeley, who declares to allHe was persuaded to turn atheistBy Marlowe's reasoning. I have wrestled with him,But find him still so constant to your wordsThat only you can save him from the fire.""Why, Master Bame," said Kit, "had I the keysTo hell, the damned should all come out and danceA morrice round the Mermaid Inn to-night.""Nay, sir, the damned are damned!""Come, sit you down!Take some more wine! You'd have them all be damnedExcept Dick Cholmeley. What must I unsayTo save him?" A quick eyelid dropt at Ben."Now tell me, Master Bame!""Sir, he deridesThe books of Moses!""Bame, do you believe?—There's none to hear us but Beëlzebub—Do you believe that we must taste of deathBecause God set a foolish naked wenchToo near an apple-tree, how long ago?Five thousand years? But there were men on earthLong before that!" "Nay, nay, sir, if you readThe books of Moses...." "Moses was a juggler!""A juggler, sir, how, what!" "Nay, sir, be calm!Take some more wine—the white, if that's too red!I never cared for Moses! Help yourselfTo red-deer pie. Good!All the miraclesYou say that he performed—why, what are they?I know one Heriots, lives in Friday Street,Can do much more than Moses! Eat your pieIn patience, friend, the mouth of man performsOne good work at a time. What says he, Ben?The red-deer stops his—what? Sticks in his gizzard?O—led them through the wilderness! No doubtHe did—for forty years, and might have madeThe journey in six months. Believe me, sir,That is no miracle. Moses gulled the Jews!Skilled in the sly tricks of the Egyptians,Only one art betrayed him. Sir, his booksAre filthily written. I would undertake—If I were put to write a new religion—A method far more admirable. Eh, what?Gruel in the vestibule?Interpret, Ben!His mouth's too full!O, the New Testament!Why, there, consider, were not all the ApostlesFishermen and base fellows, without witOr worth?"—again his eyelid dropt at Ben.—"The Apostle Paul alone had wit, and heWas a most timorous fellow in bidding usProstrate ourselves to worldly magistratesAgainst our conscience! I shall fry for this?I fear no bugbears or hobgoblins, sir,And would have all men not to be afraidOf roasting, toasting, pitch-forks, or the threatsOf earthly ministers, tho' their mouths be stuffedWith curses or with crusts of red-deer pie!One thing I will confess—if I must choose—Give me the Papists that can serve their GodNot with your scraps, but solemn ceremonies,Organs, and singing men, and shaven crowns.Your protestant is a hypocritical ass!""Profligate! You blaspheme!" Up started Bame,A little unsteady now upon his feet,And shaking his crumpled pamphlet over his head!"Nay—if your pie be done, you shall partakeA second course. Be seated, sir, I pray.We atheists will pay the reckoning!I had forgotten that a PuritanWill swallow Moses like a red-deer pieYet choke at a wax-candle! Let me readYour pamphlet. What, 'tis half addressed to me!Ogs-gogs! Ben! Hark to this—the TestamentOf poor Rob Greene would cut Will Shakespeare offWith less than his own Groatsworth! Hark to this!"And there, unseen by them, a quiet figureEntered the room and beckoning me for wineSeated himself to listen, Will himself,While Marlowe read aloud with knitted brows."'Trust them not; for there is an upstart crowBeautified with our feathers!'—O, he bidsAll green eyes open:—'And, being an absoluteJohannes fac-totum is in his own conceitThe only Shake-scene in a country!'""Feathers!"Exploded Ben. "Why, come to that, he pouchedYour eagle's feather of blank verse, and litHis Friar Bacon's little magic lampAt the Promethean fire of Faustus. Jove,It was a faery buck, indeed, that WillPoached in that greenwood.""Ben, see that you walkLike Adam, naked! Nay, in nakednessAdam was first. Trust me, you'll not escapeThis calumny! Vergil is damned—he wearsA hen-coop round his waist, nicked in the nightFrom Homer! Plato is branded for a thief,Why, he wrote Greek! And old Prometheus, too,Who stole his fire from heaven!""Who printed it?""Chettle! I know not why, unless he tooBe one of those same dwarfs that find the worldToo narrow for their jealousies. Ben, Ben,I tell thee 'tis the dwarfs that find no worldWide enough for their jostling, while the giants,The gods themselves, can in one tavern findRoom wide enough to swallow the wide heavenWith all its crowded solitary stars.""Why, then, the Mermaid Inn should swallow this,"The voice of Shakespeare quietly broke in,As laying a hand on either shoulder of KitHe stood behind him in the gloom and smiledAcross the table at Ben, whose eyes still blazedWith boyhood's generous wrath. "Rob was a poet.And had I known ... no matter! I am sorryHe thought I wronged him. His heart's blood beats in this.Look, where he says he dies forsaken, Kit!""Died drunk, more like," growled Ben. "And if he did,"Will answered, "none was there to help him home,Had not a poor old cobbler chanced upon him,Dying in the streets, and taken him to his house,And let him break his heart on his own bed.Read his last words. You know he left his wifeAnd played the moth at tavern tapers, burntHis wings and dropt into the mud. Read here,His dying words to his forsaken wife,Written in blood, Ben, blood. Read it, 'I charge thee,Doll, by the love of our youth, by my soul's rest,See this man paid! Had he not succoured meI had died in the streets.' How young he was to callThus on their poor dead youth, this withered shadowThat once was Robin Greene. He left a child—See—in its face he prays her not to findThe father's, but her own. 'He is yet greenAnd may grow straight,' so flickers his last jest,Then out for ever. At the last he beggedA penny-pott of malmsey. In the bill,All's printed now for crows and daws to peck,You'll find four shillings for his winding sheet.He had the poet's heart and God help allWho have that heart and somehow lose their wayFor lack of helm, souls that are blown abroadBy the great winds of passion, without powerTo sway them, chartless captains. Multitudes plyTrimly enough from bank to bank of ThamesLike shallow wherries, while tall galleons,Out of their very beauty driven to dareThe uncompassed sea, founder in starless nights,And all that we can say is—'They died drunk!'""I have it from veracious witnesses,"Bame snuffled, "that the death of Robert GreeneWas caused by a surfeit, sir, of Rhenish wineAnd pickled herrings. Also, sir, that his shirtWas very foul, and while it was at washHe lay i' the cobbler's old blue smock, sir!""Gods,"The voice of Raleigh muttered nigh mine ear,"I had a dirty cloak once on my arm;But a Queen's feet had trodden it! Drawer, takeYon pamphlet, have it fried in cod-fish oilAnd bring it hither. Bring a candle, too,And sealing-wax! Be quick. The rogue shall eat it,And then I'll seal his lips.""No—not to-night,"Kit whispered, laughing, "I've a prettier planFor Master Bame.""As for that scrap of paper,"The voice of Shakespeare quietly resumed,"Why, which of us could send his heart and soulThro' Caxton's printing-press and hope to findThe pretty pair unmangled. I'll not trustThe spoken word, no, not of my own lips,Before the Judgment Throne against myselfOr on my own defence; and I'll not trustThe printed word to mirror Robert Greene.See—here's another Testament, in blood,Written, not printed, for the Mermaid Inn.Rob sent it from his death-bed straight to me.Read it. 'Tis for the Mermaid Inn alone;And when 'tis read, we'll burn it, as he asks."Then, from the hands of Shakespeare, Marlowe tookA little scroll, and, while the winds withoutRattled the shutters with their ghostly handsAnd wailed among the chimney-tops, he read:—Greeting to all the Mermaid InnFrom their old Vice and Slip of Sin,Greeting, Ben, to you, and youWill Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe, too.Greeting from your Might-have-been,Your broken sapling, Robert Greene.Read my letter—'Tis my last,Then let Memory blot me out,I would not make my maudlin pastA trough for every swinish snout.First, I leave a debt unpaid,It's all chalked up, not much all told,For Bread and Sack. When I am cold,Doll can pawn my Spanish bladeAnd pay mine host. She'll pay mine'host!But ... I have chalked up other scoresIn your own hearts, behind the doors,Not to be paid so quickly. Yet,O, if you would not have my ghostCreeping in at dead of night,Out of the cold wind, out of the wet,With weeping face and helpless fingersTrying to wipe the marks away,Read what I can write, still write,While this life within them lingers.Let me pay, lads, let me pay.Item, for a peacock phrase,Flung out in a sudden blaze,Flung out at his friend Shake-scene,By this ragged Might-have-been,This poor Jackdaw, Robert Greene.Will, I knew it all the while!And you know it—and you smile!My quill was but a Jackdaw's feather,While the quill that Ben, there, wields,Fluttered down thro' azure fields,From an eagle in the sun;And yours, Will, yours, no earth-born thing,A plume of rainbow-tinctured grain,Dropt out of an angel's wing.Only a Jackdaw's feather mine,And mine ran ink, and Ben's ran wine,And yours the pure Pierian streams.But I had dreams, O, I had dreams!Dreams, you understand me, Will;And I fretted at the tetherThat bound me to the lowly plain,Gnawed my heart out, for I knewOnce, tho' that was long ago,I might have risen with Ben and youSomewhere near that Holy HillWhence the living rivers flow.Let it pass. I did not knowOne bitter phrase could ever flySo far through that immortal sky—Seeing all my songs had flown so low—One envious phrase that cannot dieFrom century to century.Kit Marlowe ceased a moment, and the wind,As if indeed the night were all one ghost,Wailed round the Mermaid Inn, then sent once moreIts desolate passion through the reader's voice:—Some truth there was in what I said.Kit Marlowe taught you half your trade;And something of the rest you learnedFrom me,—but all you took you earned.You took the best I had to give,You took my clay and made it live;And that—why that's what God must do!—My music made for mortal earsYou flung to all the listening spheres.You took my dreams and made them true.And, if I claimed them, the blank airMight claim the breath I shape to prayer.I do not claim it! Let the earthClaim the thrones she brings to birth.Let the first shapers of our tongueClaim whate'er is said or sung,Till the doom repeal that debtAnd cancel the first alphabet.Yet when, like a god, you scaledThe shining crags where my foot failed;When I saw my fruit of the vineFoam in the Olympian cup,Or in that broader chalice shineBlood-red, a sacramental drink,With stars for bubbles, lifted up,Through the universal night,Up to the celestial brink,Up to that quintessential LightWhere God acclaimed you for the wineCrushed from those poor grapes of mine;O, you'll understand, no doubt,How the poor vine-dresser fell,How a pin-prick can let outAll the bannered hosts of hell,Nay, a knife-thrust, the sharp truth—I had spilt my wine of youth,The Temple was not mine to build.My place in the world's march was filled.Yet—through all the years to come—Men to whom my songs are dumbWill remember them and meFor that one cry of jealousy,That curse where I had come to bless,That harsh voice of unhappiness.They'll note the curse, but not the pang,Not the torment whence it sprang,They'll note the blow at my friend's back,But not the soul stretched on the rack.They'll note the weak convulsive sting,Not the crushed body and broken wing.Item, for my thirty years,Dashed with sun and splashed with tears,Wan with revel, red with wine,This Jack-o-lanthorn life of mine.Other wiser, happier men,Take the full three-score-and-ten,Climb slow, and seek the sun.Dancing down is soon done.Golden boys, beware, beware,—The ambiguous oracles declareLoving gods for those that dieYoung, as old men may; but I,Quick as was my pilgrimage,Wither in mine April age.Item, one groatsworth of wit,Bought at an exceeding price,Ay, a million of repentance.Let me pay the whole of it.Lying here these deadly nights,Lads, for me the Mermaid lightsGleam as for a castawaySwept along a midnight seaThe harbour-lanthorns, each a spark,A pin-prick in the solid dark,That lets trickle through a rayGlorious out of Paradise,To stab him with new agony.Let me pay, lads, let me pay!Let the Mermaid pass the sentence:I am pleading guilty now,A dead leaf on the laurel-bough,And the storm whirls me away.Kit Marlowe ceased; but not the wailing windThat round and round the silent Mermaid InnWandered, with helpless fingers trying the doors,Like a most desolate ghost.A sudden throngOf players bustled in, shaking the rainFrom their plumed hats. "Veracious witnesses,"The snuffle of Bame arose anew, "declareIt was a surfeit killed him, Rhenish wineAnd pickled herrings. His shirt was very foul.He had but one. His doublet, too, was frayed,And his boots broken ...""What! Gonzago, you!"A short fat player called in a deep voiceAcross the room and, throwing aside his cloakTo show the woman's robe he wore beneath,Minced up to Bame and bellowed—"'Tis such menAs you that tempt us women to our fall!"And all the throng of players rocked and roared,Till at a nod and wink from Kit a hushHeld them again."Look to the door," he said,"Is any listening?" The young player crept,A mask of mystery, to the door and peeped."All's well! The coast is clear!""Then shall we tellOur plan to Master Bame?"Round the hushed roomWent Kit, a pen and paper in his hand,Whispering each to read, digest, and sign,While Ben re-filled the glass of Master Bame."And now," said Kit aloud, "what think you, lads?Shall he be told?" Solemnly one or two'Gan shake their heads with "Safety! safety! Kit!""O, Bame can keep a secret! Come, we'll tell him!He can advise us how a righteous manShould act! We'll let him share an he approve.Now, Master Bame,—come closer—my good friend,Ben Jonson here, hath lately found a wayOf—hush! Come closer!—coining money, Bame.""Coining!" "Ay, hush, now! Hearken! A certain sureAnd indiscoverable method, sir!He is acquainted with one Poole, a felonLately released from Newgate, hath great skillIn mixture of metals—hush!—and, by the helpOf a right cunning maker of stamps, we meanTo coin French crowns, rose-nobles, pistolettes,Angels and English shillings."For one breathBame stared at him with bulging beetle-eyes,Then murmured shyly as a country maidIn her first wooing, "Is't not against the law?""Why, sir, who makes the law? Why should not BameCoin his own crowns like Queen Elizabeth?She is but mortal! And consider, too,The good works it should prosper in your hands,Without regard to red-deer pies and wineWhite as the Milky Way. Such secrets, Bame,Were not good for the general; but a fewDiscreet and righteous palms, your own, my friend,And mine,—what think you?"With a hesitant glanceOf well-nigh child-like cunning, screwing his eyes,Bame laughed a little huskily and looked roundAt that grave ring of anxious faces, allHolding their breath and thrilling his blunt nervesWith their stage-practice. "And no risk?" breathed Bame,"No risk at all?" "O, sir, no risk at all!We make the very coins. Besides, that partTouches not you. Yours is the honest face,That's all we want.""Why, sir, if you be sureThere is no risk ...""You'll help to spend it. Good!We'll talk anon of this, and you shall carryMore angels in your pocket, master Bame,Than e'er you'll meet in heaven. Set hand on sealTo this now, master Bame, to prove your faith.Come, all have signed it. Here's the quill, dip, write.Good!"And Kit, pocketing the paper, bowedThe gull to the inn-door, saying as he went,—"You shall hear further when the plan's complete.But there's one great condition—not one word,One breath of scandal more on Robert Greene.He's dead; but he was one of us. The dayYou air his shirt, I air this paper, too."No gleam of understanding, even then,Illumed that long white face: no stage, indeed,Has known such acting as the Mermaid InnThat night, and Bame but sniggered, "Why, of course,There's good in all men; and the best of usWill make mistakes.""But no mistakes in this,"Said Kit, "or all together we shall swingAt Tyburn—who knows what may leap to light?—You understand? No scandal!" "Not a breath!"So, in dead silence, Master Richard BameWent out into the darkness and the night,To ask, as I have heard, for many a moon,The price of malmsey-butts and silken hose,And doublets slashed with satin.As the doorSlammed on his back, the pent-up laughter burstWith echo and re-echo round the room,But ceased as Will tossed on the glowing hearthThe last poor Testament of Robert Greene.All watched it burn. The black wind wailed and moanedAround the Mermaid as the sparks flew up."God, what a night for ships upon the sea,"Said Raleigh, peering through the wet black panes,"Well—we may thank Him for the Little Red Ring!""The Little Red Ring," cried Kit, "the Little Red Ring!"Then up stood Dekker on the old black settle."Give it a thumping chorus, lads," he called,And sang this brave song of the Mermaid Inn:—ISeven wise men on an old black settle,Seven wise men of the Mermaid Inn,Ringing blades of the one right metal,What is the best that a blade can win?Bread and cheese, and a few small kisses?Ha! ha! ha! Would you take them—you?—Ay, if Dame Venus would add to her blissesA roaring fire and a friend or two!Chorus:Up now, answer me, tell me true!——Ay, if the hussy would add to her blissesA roaring fire and a friend or two!IIWhat will you say when the world is dying?What, when the last wild midnight fallsDark, too dark for the bat to be flyingRound the ruins of old St. Paul's?What will be last of the lights to perish?What but the little red ring we knew,Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherishA fire, a fire, and a friend or two!Chorus: Up now, answer me, tell me true!What will be last of the stars to perish?—The fire that lighteth a friend or two!IIIUp now, answer me, on your mettleWisest man of the Mermaid Inn,Soberest man on the old black settle,Out with the truth! It was never a sin.—Well, if God saved me alone of the seven,Telling meyoumust be damned, oryou,"This," I would say, "This is hell, not heaven!Give me the fire and a friend or two!"Chorus:Steel was never so ringing true:"God," we would say, "this is hell, not heaven!Give us the fire, and a friend or two!"
Some three nights later, thro' the thick brown fog,A link-boy, dropping flakes of crimson fire,Flared to the door and, through its glowing frame,Ben Jonson and Kit Marlowe, arm in arm,Swaggered into the Mermaid Inn and calledFor red-deer pies.There, as they supped, I caughtScraps of ambrosial talk concerning Will,HisVenus and Adonis."Gabriel thought'Twas wrong to change the old writers and createA cold Adonis."—"Laws were made for Will,Not Will for laws, since first he stole a buckIn Charlecote woods."—"Where never a buck chewed fern,"Laughed Kit, "unless it chewed the fern seed, too,And walked invisible.""Bring me some wine," called Ben,And, with his knife thrumming upon the board,He chanted, while his comrade munched and smiled.
I
Will Shakespeare's out like Robin HoodWith his merry men all in green,To steal a deer in Charlecote woodWhere never a deer was seen.
II
He's hunted all a night of June,He's followed a phantom horn,He's killed a buck by the light of the moon,Under a fairy thorn.
III
He's carried it home with his merry, merry band,There never was haunch so fine;For this buck was born in Elfin-landAnd fed upon sops-in-wine.
IV
This buck had browsed on elfin boughsOf rose-marie and bay,And he's carried it home to the little white houseOf sweet Anne Hathaway.
V
"The dawn above your thatch is red!Slip out of your bed, sweet Anne!I have stolen a fairy buck," he said,"The first since the world began.
VI
"Roast it on a golden spit,And see that it do not burn;For we never shall feather the like of itOut of the fairy fern."
VII
She scarce had donned her long white gownAnd given him kisses four,When the surly Sheriff of Stratford-townKnocked at the little green door.
VIII
They have gaoled sweet Will for a poacher;But squarely he fronts the squire,With "When did you hear in your woods of a deer?Was it under a fairy briar?"
IX
Sir Thomas he puffs,—"If God thought goodMy water-butt ran with wine,Or He dropt me a buck in Charlecote wood,I wot it is mine, not thine!"
X
"If you would eat of elfin meat,"Says Will, "you must blow up your horn!Take your bow, and feather the doeThat's under the fairy thorn!
XI
"If you would feast on elfin food,You've only the way to learn!Take your bow and feather the doeThat's under the fairy fern!"
XII
They're hunting high, they're hunting low,They're all away, away,With horse and hound to feather the doeThat's under the fairy spray!
XIII
Sir Thomas he raged! Sir Thomas he swore!But all and all in vain;For there never was deer in his woods before,And there never would be again!
And, as I brought the wine—"This is my grace,"Laughed Kit, "Diana grant the jolly buckThat Shakespeare stole were toothsome as this pie."
He suddenly sank his voice,—"Hist, who comes here?Look—Richard Bame, the Puritan! O, Ben, Ben,Your Mermaid Inn's the study for the stage,Your only teacher of exits, entrances,And all the shifting comedy. Be grave!Bame is the godliest hypocrite on earth!Remember I'm an atheist, black as coal.He has called me Wormall in an anagram.Help me to bait him; but be very grave.We'll talk of Venus."As he whispered thus,A long white face with small black-beaded eyesPeered at him through the doorway. All too well,Afterwards, I recalled that scene, when Bame,Out of revenge for this same night, I guessed,Penned his foul tract on Marlowe's tragic fate;And, twelve months later, I watched our PuritanRiding to Tyburn in the hangman's cartFor thieving from an old bed-ridden dameWith whom he prayed, at supper-time, on Sundays.
Like a conspirator he sidled in,Clasping a little pamphlet to his breast,While, feigning not to see him, Ben began:—
"Will'sVenus and Adonis, Kit, is rare,A round, sound, full-blown piece of thorough work,On a great canvas, coloured like one I sawIn Italy, by one—Titian! None of the toysOf artistry your lank-haired losels turn,Your Phyllida—Love-lies-bleeding—Kiss-me-Quicks,Your fluttering Sighs and Mark-how-I-break-my-beats,Begotten like this, whenever and how you list,Your Moths of verse that shrivel in every taper;But a sound piece of craftsmanship to lastUntil the stars are out. 'Tis twice the lengthOf Vergil's books—he's listening! Nay, don't look!—Two hundred solid stanzas, think of that;But each a square celestial brick of goldLaid level and splendid. I've laid bricks and knowWhat thorough work is. If a storm should shakeThe Tower of London down, Will's house would stand.Look at his picture of the stallion,Nostril to croup, that's thorough finished work!"
"'Twill shock our Tribulation-Wholesomes, Ben!Think of that kiss of Venus! Deep, sweet, slow,As the dawn breaking to its perfect flowerAnd golden moon of bliss; then slow, sweet, deep,Like a great honeyed sunset it dissolvesAway!"A hollow groan, like a bass viol,Resounded thro' the room. Up started KitIn feigned alarm—"What, Master Richard Bame!Quick, Ben, the good man's ill. Bring him some wine!Red wine for Master Bame, the blood of VenusThat stained the rose!""White wine for Master Bame,"Ben echoed, "Juno's cream that" ... Both at onceThey thrust a wine-cup to the sallow lipsAnd smote him on the back."Sirs, you mistake!" coughed Bame, waving his handsAnd struggling to his feet,"Sirs, I have broughtA message from a youth who walked with youIn wantonness, aforetime, and is nowGroaning in sulphurous fires!""Kit, that means hell!""Yea, sirs, a pamphlet from the pit of hell,Written by Robert Greene before he died.Mark what he styles it—A Groatsworth of WitBought with a Million of Repentance!""Ah,Poor Rob was all his life-time either drunk,Wenching, or penitent, Ben! Poor lad, he diedYoung. Let me see now, Master Bame, you sayRob Greene wrote this on earth before he died,And then you printed it yourself in hell!""Stay, sir, I came not to this haunt of sinTo make mirth for Beëlzebub!""O, Ben,That's you!""'Swounds, sir, am I Beëlzebub?Ogs-gogs!" roared Ben, his hand upon his hilt!"Nay, sir, I signified the god of flies!I spake out of the scriptures!" snuffled BameWith deprecating eye."I come to saveA brand that you have kindled at your fire,But not yet charred, not yet so far consumed,One Richard Cholmeley, who declares to allHe was persuaded to turn atheistBy Marlowe's reasoning. I have wrestled with him,But find him still so constant to your wordsThat only you can save him from the fire.""Why, Master Bame," said Kit, "had I the keysTo hell, the damned should all come out and danceA morrice round the Mermaid Inn to-night.""Nay, sir, the damned are damned!""Come, sit you down!Take some more wine! You'd have them all be damnedExcept Dick Cholmeley. What must I unsayTo save him?" A quick eyelid dropt at Ben."Now tell me, Master Bame!""Sir, he deridesThe books of Moses!""Bame, do you believe?—There's none to hear us but Beëlzebub—Do you believe that we must taste of deathBecause God set a foolish naked wenchToo near an apple-tree, how long ago?Five thousand years? But there were men on earthLong before that!" "Nay, nay, sir, if you readThe books of Moses...." "Moses was a juggler!""A juggler, sir, how, what!" "Nay, sir, be calm!Take some more wine—the white, if that's too red!I never cared for Moses! Help yourselfTo red-deer pie. Good!All the miraclesYou say that he performed—why, what are they?I know one Heriots, lives in Friday Street,Can do much more than Moses! Eat your pieIn patience, friend, the mouth of man performsOne good work at a time. What says he, Ben?The red-deer stops his—what? Sticks in his gizzard?O—led them through the wilderness! No doubtHe did—for forty years, and might have madeThe journey in six months. Believe me, sir,That is no miracle. Moses gulled the Jews!Skilled in the sly tricks of the Egyptians,Only one art betrayed him. Sir, his booksAre filthily written. I would undertake—If I were put to write a new religion—A method far more admirable. Eh, what?Gruel in the vestibule?Interpret, Ben!His mouth's too full!O, the New Testament!Why, there, consider, were not all the ApostlesFishermen and base fellows, without witOr worth?"—again his eyelid dropt at Ben.—"The Apostle Paul alone had wit, and heWas a most timorous fellow in bidding usProstrate ourselves to worldly magistratesAgainst our conscience! I shall fry for this?I fear no bugbears or hobgoblins, sir,And would have all men not to be afraidOf roasting, toasting, pitch-forks, or the threatsOf earthly ministers, tho' their mouths be stuffedWith curses or with crusts of red-deer pie!One thing I will confess—if I must choose—Give me the Papists that can serve their GodNot with your scraps, but solemn ceremonies,Organs, and singing men, and shaven crowns.Your protestant is a hypocritical ass!"
"Profligate! You blaspheme!" Up started Bame,A little unsteady now upon his feet,And shaking his crumpled pamphlet over his head!
"Nay—if your pie be done, you shall partakeA second course. Be seated, sir, I pray.We atheists will pay the reckoning!I had forgotten that a PuritanWill swallow Moses like a red-deer pieYet choke at a wax-candle! Let me readYour pamphlet. What, 'tis half addressed to me!Ogs-gogs! Ben! Hark to this—the TestamentOf poor Rob Greene would cut Will Shakespeare offWith less than his own Groatsworth! Hark to this!"And there, unseen by them, a quiet figureEntered the room and beckoning me for wineSeated himself to listen, Will himself,While Marlowe read aloud with knitted brows."'Trust them not; for there is an upstart crowBeautified with our feathers!'—O, he bidsAll green eyes open:—'And, being an absoluteJohannes fac-totum is in his own conceitThe only Shake-scene in a country!'""Feathers!"Exploded Ben. "Why, come to that, he pouchedYour eagle's feather of blank verse, and litHis Friar Bacon's little magic lampAt the Promethean fire of Faustus. Jove,It was a faery buck, indeed, that WillPoached in that greenwood.""Ben, see that you walkLike Adam, naked! Nay, in nakednessAdam was first. Trust me, you'll not escapeThis calumny! Vergil is damned—he wearsA hen-coop round his waist, nicked in the nightFrom Homer! Plato is branded for a thief,Why, he wrote Greek! And old Prometheus, too,Who stole his fire from heaven!""Who printed it?""Chettle! I know not why, unless he tooBe one of those same dwarfs that find the worldToo narrow for their jealousies. Ben, Ben,I tell thee 'tis the dwarfs that find no worldWide enough for their jostling, while the giants,The gods themselves, can in one tavern findRoom wide enough to swallow the wide heavenWith all its crowded solitary stars."
"Why, then, the Mermaid Inn should swallow this,"The voice of Shakespeare quietly broke in,As laying a hand on either shoulder of KitHe stood behind him in the gloom and smiledAcross the table at Ben, whose eyes still blazedWith boyhood's generous wrath. "Rob was a poet.And had I known ... no matter! I am sorryHe thought I wronged him. His heart's blood beats in this.Look, where he says he dies forsaken, Kit!""Died drunk, more like," growled Ben. "And if he did,"Will answered, "none was there to help him home,Had not a poor old cobbler chanced upon him,Dying in the streets, and taken him to his house,And let him break his heart on his own bed.Read his last words. You know he left his wifeAnd played the moth at tavern tapers, burntHis wings and dropt into the mud. Read here,His dying words to his forsaken wife,Written in blood, Ben, blood. Read it, 'I charge thee,Doll, by the love of our youth, by my soul's rest,See this man paid! Had he not succoured meI had died in the streets.' How young he was to callThus on their poor dead youth, this withered shadowThat once was Robin Greene. He left a child—See—in its face he prays her not to findThe father's, but her own. 'He is yet greenAnd may grow straight,' so flickers his last jest,Then out for ever. At the last he beggedA penny-pott of malmsey. In the bill,All's printed now for crows and daws to peck,You'll find four shillings for his winding sheet.He had the poet's heart and God help allWho have that heart and somehow lose their wayFor lack of helm, souls that are blown abroadBy the great winds of passion, without powerTo sway them, chartless captains. Multitudes plyTrimly enough from bank to bank of ThamesLike shallow wherries, while tall galleons,Out of their very beauty driven to dareThe uncompassed sea, founder in starless nights,And all that we can say is—'They died drunk!'"
"I have it from veracious witnesses,"Bame snuffled, "that the death of Robert GreeneWas caused by a surfeit, sir, of Rhenish wineAnd pickled herrings. Also, sir, that his shirtWas very foul, and while it was at washHe lay i' the cobbler's old blue smock, sir!""Gods,"The voice of Raleigh muttered nigh mine ear,"I had a dirty cloak once on my arm;But a Queen's feet had trodden it! Drawer, takeYon pamphlet, have it fried in cod-fish oilAnd bring it hither. Bring a candle, too,And sealing-wax! Be quick. The rogue shall eat it,And then I'll seal his lips.""No—not to-night,"Kit whispered, laughing, "I've a prettier planFor Master Bame.""As for that scrap of paper,"The voice of Shakespeare quietly resumed,"Why, which of us could send his heart and soulThro' Caxton's printing-press and hope to findThe pretty pair unmangled. I'll not trustThe spoken word, no, not of my own lips,Before the Judgment Throne against myselfOr on my own defence; and I'll not trustThe printed word to mirror Robert Greene.See—here's another Testament, in blood,Written, not printed, for the Mermaid Inn.Rob sent it from his death-bed straight to me.Read it. 'Tis for the Mermaid Inn alone;And when 'tis read, we'll burn it, as he asks."
Then, from the hands of Shakespeare, Marlowe tookA little scroll, and, while the winds withoutRattled the shutters with their ghostly handsAnd wailed among the chimney-tops, he read:—
Greeting to all the Mermaid InnFrom their old Vice and Slip of Sin,Greeting, Ben, to you, and youWill Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe, too.Greeting from your Might-have-been,Your broken sapling, Robert Greene.
Read my letter—'Tis my last,Then let Memory blot me out,I would not make my maudlin pastA trough for every swinish snout.
First, I leave a debt unpaid,It's all chalked up, not much all told,For Bread and Sack. When I am cold,Doll can pawn my Spanish bladeAnd pay mine host. She'll pay mine'host!But ... I have chalked up other scoresIn your own hearts, behind the doors,Not to be paid so quickly. Yet,O, if you would not have my ghostCreeping in at dead of night,Out of the cold wind, out of the wet,With weeping face and helpless fingersTrying to wipe the marks away,Read what I can write, still write,While this life within them lingers.Let me pay, lads, let me pay.
Item, for a peacock phrase,Flung out in a sudden blaze,Flung out at his friend Shake-scene,By this ragged Might-have-been,This poor Jackdaw, Robert Greene.
Will, I knew it all the while!And you know it—and you smile!My quill was but a Jackdaw's feather,While the quill that Ben, there, wields,Fluttered down thro' azure fields,From an eagle in the sun;And yours, Will, yours, no earth-born thing,A plume of rainbow-tinctured grain,Dropt out of an angel's wing.Only a Jackdaw's feather mine,And mine ran ink, and Ben's ran wine,And yours the pure Pierian streams.
But I had dreams, O, I had dreams!Dreams, you understand me, Will;And I fretted at the tetherThat bound me to the lowly plain,Gnawed my heart out, for I knewOnce, tho' that was long ago,I might have risen with Ben and youSomewhere near that Holy HillWhence the living rivers flow.Let it pass. I did not knowOne bitter phrase could ever flySo far through that immortal sky—Seeing all my songs had flown so low—One envious phrase that cannot dieFrom century to century.
Kit Marlowe ceased a moment, and the wind,As if indeed the night were all one ghost,Wailed round the Mermaid Inn, then sent once moreIts desolate passion through the reader's voice:—
Some truth there was in what I said.Kit Marlowe taught you half your trade;And something of the rest you learnedFrom me,—but all you took you earned.You took the best I had to give,You took my clay and made it live;And that—why that's what God must do!—My music made for mortal earsYou flung to all the listening spheres.You took my dreams and made them true.And, if I claimed them, the blank airMight claim the breath I shape to prayer.I do not claim it! Let the earthClaim the thrones she brings to birth.Let the first shapers of our tongueClaim whate'er is said or sung,Till the doom repeal that debtAnd cancel the first alphabet.Yet when, like a god, you scaledThe shining crags where my foot failed;When I saw my fruit of the vineFoam in the Olympian cup,Or in that broader chalice shineBlood-red, a sacramental drink,With stars for bubbles, lifted up,Through the universal night,Up to the celestial brink,Up to that quintessential LightWhere God acclaimed you for the wineCrushed from those poor grapes of mine;O, you'll understand, no doubt,How the poor vine-dresser fell,How a pin-prick can let outAll the bannered hosts of hell,Nay, a knife-thrust, the sharp truth—I had spilt my wine of youth,The Temple was not mine to build.My place in the world's march was filled.
Yet—through all the years to come—Men to whom my songs are dumbWill remember them and meFor that one cry of jealousy,That curse where I had come to bless,That harsh voice of unhappiness.They'll note the curse, but not the pang,Not the torment whence it sprang,They'll note the blow at my friend's back,But not the soul stretched on the rack.They'll note the weak convulsive sting,Not the crushed body and broken wing.
Item, for my thirty years,Dashed with sun and splashed with tears,Wan with revel, red with wine,This Jack-o-lanthorn life of mine.Other wiser, happier men,Take the full three-score-and-ten,Climb slow, and seek the sun.Dancing down is soon done.Golden boys, beware, beware,—The ambiguous oracles declareLoving gods for those that dieYoung, as old men may; but I,Quick as was my pilgrimage,Wither in mine April age.
Item, one groatsworth of wit,Bought at an exceeding price,Ay, a million of repentance.Let me pay the whole of it.Lying here these deadly nights,Lads, for me the Mermaid lightsGleam as for a castawaySwept along a midnight seaThe harbour-lanthorns, each a spark,A pin-prick in the solid dark,That lets trickle through a rayGlorious out of Paradise,To stab him with new agony.Let me pay, lads, let me pay!Let the Mermaid pass the sentence:I am pleading guilty now,A dead leaf on the laurel-bough,And the storm whirls me away.
Kit Marlowe ceased; but not the wailing windThat round and round the silent Mermaid InnWandered, with helpless fingers trying the doors,Like a most desolate ghost.
A sudden throngOf players bustled in, shaking the rainFrom their plumed hats. "Veracious witnesses,"The snuffle of Bame arose anew, "declareIt was a surfeit killed him, Rhenish wineAnd pickled herrings. His shirt was very foul.He had but one. His doublet, too, was frayed,And his boots broken ..."
"What! Gonzago, you!"A short fat player called in a deep voiceAcross the room and, throwing aside his cloakTo show the woman's robe he wore beneath,Minced up to Bame and bellowed—"'Tis such menAs you that tempt us women to our fall!"And all the throng of players rocked and roared,Till at a nod and wink from Kit a hushHeld them again.
"Look to the door," he said,"Is any listening?" The young player crept,A mask of mystery, to the door and peeped."All's well! The coast is clear!""Then shall we tellOur plan to Master Bame?"Round the hushed roomWent Kit, a pen and paper in his hand,Whispering each to read, digest, and sign,While Ben re-filled the glass of Master Bame."And now," said Kit aloud, "what think you, lads?Shall he be told?" Solemnly one or two'Gan shake their heads with "Safety! safety! Kit!""O, Bame can keep a secret! Come, we'll tell him!He can advise us how a righteous manShould act! We'll let him share an he approve.Now, Master Bame,—come closer—my good friend,Ben Jonson here, hath lately found a wayOf—hush! Come closer!—coining money, Bame.""Coining!" "Ay, hush, now! Hearken! A certain sureAnd indiscoverable method, sir!He is acquainted with one Poole, a felonLately released from Newgate, hath great skillIn mixture of metals—hush!—and, by the helpOf a right cunning maker of stamps, we meanTo coin French crowns, rose-nobles, pistolettes,Angels and English shillings."For one breathBame stared at him with bulging beetle-eyes,Then murmured shyly as a country maidIn her first wooing, "Is't not against the law?""Why, sir, who makes the law? Why should not BameCoin his own crowns like Queen Elizabeth?She is but mortal! And consider, too,The good works it should prosper in your hands,Without regard to red-deer pies and wineWhite as the Milky Way. Such secrets, Bame,Were not good for the general; but a fewDiscreet and righteous palms, your own, my friend,And mine,—what think you?"With a hesitant glanceOf well-nigh child-like cunning, screwing his eyes,Bame laughed a little huskily and looked roundAt that grave ring of anxious faces, allHolding their breath and thrilling his blunt nervesWith their stage-practice. "And no risk?" breathed Bame,"No risk at all?" "O, sir, no risk at all!We make the very coins. Besides, that partTouches not you. Yours is the honest face,That's all we want.""Why, sir, if you be sureThere is no risk ...""You'll help to spend it. Good!We'll talk anon of this, and you shall carryMore angels in your pocket, master Bame,Than e'er you'll meet in heaven. Set hand on sealTo this now, master Bame, to prove your faith.Come, all have signed it. Here's the quill, dip, write.Good!"And Kit, pocketing the paper, bowedThe gull to the inn-door, saying as he went,—"You shall hear further when the plan's complete.But there's one great condition—not one word,One breath of scandal more on Robert Greene.He's dead; but he was one of us. The dayYou air his shirt, I air this paper, too."No gleam of understanding, even then,Illumed that long white face: no stage, indeed,Has known such acting as the Mermaid InnThat night, and Bame but sniggered, "Why, of course,There's good in all men; and the best of usWill make mistakes.""But no mistakes in this,"Said Kit, "or all together we shall swingAt Tyburn—who knows what may leap to light?—You understand? No scandal!" "Not a breath!"So, in dead silence, Master Richard BameWent out into the darkness and the night,To ask, as I have heard, for many a moon,The price of malmsey-butts and silken hose,And doublets slashed with satin.As the doorSlammed on his back, the pent-up laughter burstWith echo and re-echo round the room,But ceased as Will tossed on the glowing hearthThe last poor Testament of Robert Greene.All watched it burn. The black wind wailed and moanedAround the Mermaid as the sparks flew up."God, what a night for ships upon the sea,"Said Raleigh, peering through the wet black panes,"Well—we may thank Him for the Little Red Ring!""The Little Red Ring," cried Kit, "the Little Red Ring!"Then up stood Dekker on the old black settle."Give it a thumping chorus, lads," he called,And sang this brave song of the Mermaid Inn:—
I
Seven wise men on an old black settle,Seven wise men of the Mermaid Inn,Ringing blades of the one right metal,What is the best that a blade can win?Bread and cheese, and a few small kisses?Ha! ha! ha! Would you take them—you?—Ay, if Dame Venus would add to her blissesA roaring fire and a friend or two!
Chorus:Up now, answer me, tell me true!——Ay, if the hussy would add to her blissesA roaring fire and a friend or two!
II
What will you say when the world is dying?What, when the last wild midnight fallsDark, too dark for the bat to be flyingRound the ruins of old St. Paul's?What will be last of the lights to perish?What but the little red ring we knew,Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherishA fire, a fire, and a friend or two!
Chorus: Up now, answer me, tell me true!What will be last of the stars to perish?—The fire that lighteth a friend or two!
III
Up now, answer me, on your mettleWisest man of the Mermaid Inn,Soberest man on the old black settle,Out with the truth! It was never a sin.—Well, if God saved me alone of the seven,Telling meyoumust be damned, oryou,"This," I would say, "This is hell, not heaven!Give me the fire and a friend or two!"
Chorus:Steel was never so ringing true:"God," we would say, "this is hell, not heaven!Give us the fire, and a friend or two!"