Volume II Part 88 (1/2)
I found her foot-prints in the gra.s.s, just where she stood and saw me pa.s.s.
I stood within her own sweet field and waited for my may.
I laughed. The dance has turned about! I stand within: she'll pa.s.s without, And--_down the road the wedding came, the road I danced that day_!
_I saw the wedding-folk go by, with laughter and with minstrelsy, I gazed across her own sweet hedge, I caught her happy smile, I saw the tall young butcher pa.s.s to little red-roofed Sudbury, His bride upon his arm, my lost companion of a mile._
Down from his table leapt the motley Fool.
His bladder bounced from head to ducking head, His crackling laugh rang high,--”Sir John, I danced In February, and the song says May!
A fig for all your poets, liars all!
Away to Fenchurch Street, la.s.ses and lads, They hold high revel there this May-day morn.
Away!” The mad-cap throng echoed the cry.
He drove them with his bauble through the door; Then, as the last gay kerchief fluttered out He gave one little sharp sad lingering cry As of a lute-string breaking. He turned back
And threw himself along a low dark bench; His jingling cap was crumpled in his fist, And, as he lay there, all along Cheapside The happy voices of his comrades rang:--
Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying, Though Love knows no denying!
Then, round your summer queen and king, Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing!
His motley shoulders heaved. I touched his arm, ”What ails you, sir?” He raised his thin white face, Wet with the May-dew still. A few stray petals Clung in his tangled hair. He leapt to his feet, ”'Twas February, but I danced, boy, danced In May! Can you do this?” Forward he bent Over his feet, and shuffled it, heel and toe, Out of the Mermaid, singing his old song--
A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying!
Wisdom trips not? Even so,-- Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go.
Five minutes later, over the roaring Strand, ”_Chorus!_” I heard him crow, and half the town Reeled into music under his crimson comb.
VI
BIG BEN
G.o.ds, what a hubbub shook our cobwebs out The day that Chapman, Marston and our Ben Waited in Newgate for the hangman's hands.
Chapman and Marston had been flung there first For some imagined insult to the Scots In _Eastward Ho_, the play they wrote with Ben.
But Ben was famous now, and our brave law Would fain have winked and pa.s.sed the big man by.
The lesser men had straightway been condemned To have their ears cut off, their noses slit.
With other tortures.
Ben had risen at that!
He gripped his cudgel, called for a quart of ale, Then like Helvellyn with his rocky face And mountain-belly, he surged along Cheapside, Snorting with wrath, and rolled into the gaol, To share the punishment.
”There is my mark!
'Tis not the first time you have branded me,”
Said our big Ben, and thrust his broad left thumb Branded with T for Tyburn, into the face Of every protest. ”That's the mark you gave me Because I killed my man in Spitalfields, A duel honest as any your courtiers fight.
But I was no Fitzdotterel, bore no gules And azure, robbed no silk-worms for my hose, I was Ben Jonson, out of Annandale, Bricklayer in common to the good Lord G.o.d.
You branded me. I am Ben Jonson still.
You cannot rub it out.”
The Mermaid Inn Buzzed like a hornet's nest, upon the day Fixed for their mutilation. And the stings Were ready, too; for rapiers flashed and clashed Among the tankards. Dekker was there, and Nash, Brome (Jonson's body-servant, whom he taught His art of verse and, more than that, to love him,) And half a dozen more. They planned to meet The prisoners going to Tyburn, and attempt A desperate rescue.
All at once we heard A great gay song come marching down the street, A single voice, and twenty marching men, Then the full chorus, twenty voices strong:--
The prentice whistles at break of day All under fair roofs and towers, When the old Cheape openeth every way Her little sweet inns like flowers; And he sings like a lark, both early and late, To think, if his house take fire, At the good _Green Dragon_ in Bishopsgate He may drink to his heart's desire.