BLACK BILL'S HONEY-MOON

The garlands of a Whitsun ale were strewn

About our rushes, the night that Raleigh brought

Bacon to sup with us. There, on that night,

I saw the singer of the Faërie Queen

Quietly spreading out his latest cantos

For Shakespeare's eye, like white sheets in the sun.

Marlowe, our morning-star, and Michael Drayton

Talked in that ingle-nook. And Ben was there,

Humming a song upon that old black settle:

“Or leave a kiss but in the cup

And I'll not ask for wine.”

But, meanwhile, he drank malmsey.

Francis Bacon

Straddled before the fire; and, all at once,

He said to Shakespeare, in a voice that gripped

The Mermaid Tavern like an arctic frost:

“There are no poets in this age of ours,

Not to compare with Plautus. They are all

Dead, the men that were famous in old days.”

“Why — so they are,” said Will. The humming stopped.

I saw poor Spenser, a shy gentle soul,

With haunted eyes like starlit forest pools,

Smuggling his cantos under his cloak again.

“There's verse enough, no doubt,” Bacon went on,

“But English is no language for the Muse.

Whom would you call our best? There's Gabriel Harvey,

And Edward, Earl of Oxford. Then there's Dyer,

And Doctor Golding; while, for tragedy,

Thomas, Lord Buckhurst, hath a lofty vein.

And, in a lighter prettier vein, why, Will,

There is thyself! But — where's Euripides?”

“Dead,” echoed Ben, in a deep ghost-like voice.

And drip — drip — drip — outside we heard the rain

Miserably dropping round the Mermaid Inn.

“Thy Summer's Night — eh, Will? Midsummer's Night?—

That's a quaint fancy,” Bacon droned anew,

“But — Athens was an error, Will! Not Athens!

Titania knew not Athens! Those wild elves

Of thy Midsummer's Dream — eh? Midnight's Dream?—

Are English all. Thy woods, too, smack of England;

They never grew round Athens. Bottom, too,

He is not Greek!”

“Greek?” Will said, with a chuckle,

“Bottom a Greek? Why, no, he was the son

Of Marian Hacket, the fat wife that kept

An ale-house, Wincot-way. I lodged with her

Walking from Stratford. You have never tramped

Along that countryside? By Burton Heath?

Ah, well, you would not know my fairylands.

It warms my blood to let my home-spuns play

Around your cold white Athens. There's a joy

In jumping time and space.”

But, as he took

The cup of sack I proffered, solemnly

The lawyer shook his head. “Will, couldst thou use

Thy talents with discretion, and obey

Classic examples, those mightst match old Plautus,

In all except priority of the tongue.

This English tongue is only for an age,

But Latin for all time. So I propose

To embalm in Latin my philosophies.

Well seize your hour! But, ere you die, you'll sail

A British galleon to the golden courts

Of Cleopatra.”

“Sail it!” Marlowe roared,

Mimicking in a fit of thunderous glee

The drums and trumpets of his Tamburlaine:

“And let her buccaneers bestride the sphinx,

And play at bowls with Pharaoh's pyramids,

And hale white Egypt with their tarry hands

Home to the Mermaid! Lift the good old song

That Rob Greene loved. Gods, how the lad would shout it!

Stand up and sing, John Davis!”

“Up!” called Raleigh,

“Lift the chanty of Black Bill's Honey-moon, Jack!

We'll keep the chorus going!”

“Silence, all!”

Ben Jonson echoed, rolling on his bench:

“This gentle lawyer hath a longing, lads,

To hear a right Homeric hymn. Now, Jack!

But wet your whistle, first! A cup of sack

For the first canto! Muscadel, the next!

Canary for the last!” I brought the cup.

John Davis emptied it at one mighty draught,

Leapt on a table, stamped with either foot,

And straight began to troll this mad sea-tale: