And the fellow put himself into a fresh attitude.
"We come in peace, my good sir," said Tom; "first to listen to your talented effusions, and next for a little private conversation on a subject on which—" but Mr. Barker interrupted,—
"To listen, and to drink? The muse is dry,
And Pegasus doth thirst for Hippocrene,
And fain would paint—imbibe the vulgar call—
Or hot or cold, or long or short—Attendant!"
The bar girl, who knew his humour, came forward.
"Glasses all round—these noble knights will pay—
Of hottest hot, and stiffest stiff. Thou mark'st me?
Now to your quest!"
And he faced round with a third attitude.
"Do you know Mr. Briggs?" asked the straightforward Major. He rolled his eyes to every quarter of the seventh sphere, clapped his hand upon his heart, and assumed an expression of angelic gratitude:—
"My benefactor! Were the world a waste,
A thistle-waste, ass-nibbled, goldfinch-pecked,
And all the men and women merely asses,
I still could lay this hand upon this heart,
And cry, 'Not yet alone! I know a man—
A man Jove-fronted, and Hyperion-curled—
A gushing, flushing, blushing human heart!'"
"As sure as you live, sir," said Tom, "if you won't talk honest prose,
I won't pay for the brandy and water."
"Base is the slave who pays, and baser prose—
Hang uninspired patter! 'Tis in verse
That angels praise, and fiends in Limbo curse."