“With submission, Mr. Sidney,” replied the student, “is not all opportunity yours when you see it? Oblatam occasionem tene: the warrant of Cicero is in the phrase.”
“The very offering, my friend, implies a priority of ownership by another; wherefore, if I seize another man’s opportunity uninvited, I am guilty of a moral felony.”
“But supposing he, that other, omits or refuses to make use of his own?” persisted the student, with his tongue in his cheek.
Nicholas Blount roared: “Omits, quotha! But what is mine is mine, rogue, though there be a thousand popinjays could convert the thing to their own more profitable usage. Wherefore I say, who takes my opportunity steals; wherefore I say, this Raleigh is a thief of opportunity.”
“Instance, instance!” cried the two young gentlemen, crowing; and Greville bawled for the drawer to bring wine.
The soldier grunted: “I’m no man for equivoque; I hold by what I say. You shall hear and judge between us. This Walter, sirs——”
“A very proper courtier of his inches,” said Greville.
“Your friend, sir,” answered Blount sarcastically; “and mine—God quit us of all such allies. He was my friend once, and took the privileges. There was little he would not take, including the wall, of any man. To do him justice, a sweet fighting Hector, full of courage as of grace. He was just home from Ireland when we met last year—fresh from carving of the Kerns. Yet a hand like milk. Nothing would ever stick to it but gold. I cry you mercy, gentles. He was my friend, I say.”
Greville broke into laughter, and Sidney smiled, his lips twitching.
“Castigo te non quod—eh, master clerk?” said the latter. “Perchance he chastised the Captain for very love.”