Volume II Part 78 (1/2)
And, as I brought the wine--”This is my grace,”
Laughed Kit, ”Diana grant the jolly buck That 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 s.h.i.+fting comedy. Be grave!
Bame is the G.o.dliest 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 eyes Peered 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 Puritan Riding to Tyburn in the hangman's cart For thieving from an old bed-ridden dame With 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's _Venus and Adonis_, Kit, is rare, A round, sound, full-blown piece of thorough work, On a great canvas, coloured like one I saw In Italy, by one--t.i.tian! None of the toys Of 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 craftsmans.h.i.+p to last Until the stars are out. 'Tis twice the length Of Vergil's books--he's listening! Nay, don't look!-- Two hundred solid stanzas, think of that; But each a square celestial brick of gold Laid level and splendid. I've laid bricks and know What thorough work is. If a storm should shake The 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 flower And golden moon of bliss; then slow, sweet, deep, Like a great honeyed sunset it dissolves Away!”
A hollow groan, like a ba.s.s viol, Resounded thro' the room. Up started Kit In 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 Venus That stained the rose!”
”White wine for Master Bame,”
Ben echoed, ”Juno's cream that” ... Both at once They thrust a wine-cup to the sallow lips And smote him on the back.
”Sirs, you mistake!” coughed Bame, waving his hands And struggling to his feet, ”Sirs, I have brought A message from a youth who walked with you In wantonness, aforetime, and is now Groaning in sulphurous fires!”
”Kit, that means h.e.l.l!”
”Yea, sirs, a pamphlet from the pit of h.e.l.l, Written by Robert Greene before he died.
Mark what he styles it--_A Groatsworth of Wit Bought with a Million of Repentance_!”
”Ah, Poor Rob was all his life-time either drunk, Wenching, or penitent, Ben! Poor lad, he died Young. Let me see now, Master Bame, you say Rob Greene wrote this on earth before he died, And then you printed it yourself in h.e.l.l!”
”Stay, sir, I came not to this haunt of sin To make mirth for Beelzebub!”
”O, Ben, That's you!”
”'Swounds, sir, am I Beelzebub?
Ogs-gogs!” roared Ben, his hand upon his hilt!
”Nay, sir, I signified the G.o.d of flies!
I spake out of the scriptures!” snuffled Bame With deprecating eye.
”I come to save A brand that you have kindled at your fire, But not yet charred, not yet so far consumed, One Richard Cholmeley, who declares to all He was persuaded to turn atheist By Marlowe's reasoning. I have wrestled with him, But find him still so constant to your words That only you can save him from the fire.”
”Why, Master Bame,” said Kit, ”had I the keys To h.e.l.l, the d.a.m.ned should all come out and dance A morrice round the Mermaid Inn to-night.”
”Nay, sir, the d.a.m.ned are d.a.m.ned!”
”Come, sit you down!
Take some more wine! You'd have them all be d.a.m.ned Except d.i.c.k Cholmeley. What must I unsay To save him?” A quick eyelid dropt at Ben.
”Now tell me, Master Bame!”
”Sir, he derides The books of Moses!”
”Bame, do you believe?-- There's none to hear us but Beelzebub-- Do you believe that we must taste of death Because G.o.d set a foolish naked wench Too near an apple-tree, how long ago?
Five thousand years? But there were men on earth Long before that!” ”Nay, nay, sir, if you read The 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 yourself To red-deer pie. Good!
All the miracles You say that he performed--why, what are they?
I know one Heriots, lives in Friday Street, Can do much more than Moses! Eat your pie In patience, friend, the mouth of man performs One good work at a time. What says he, Ben?