.......
I’ll write a play, says one, for I have got
A broad-brimm’d hat, and waist-belt, towards a plot.
Says the other, I have one more large than that,
Thus they out-write each other with a hat!
The brims still grew with every play they writ;
And grew so large, they cover’d all the wit.
Hat was the play; ’t was language, wit, and tale:
Like them that find meat, drink, and cloth in ale.“
The King leaned well out over the box-rail, his dark eyes intent upon Nell’s face.
A fair hand, however, was placed impatiently upon his shoulder and drew him gently back. “Lest you fall, my liege.”
“Thanks, Castlemaine,” he replied, kindly but knowingly. “You are always thoughtful.”
The play went on. The actors came and went. Hart appeared in Oriental robes as Almanzor–a dress which mayhap had served its purposes for Othello, and mayhap had not; for cast-off court-dresses, without regard to fitness, were the players’ favourite costumes in those days, the richness more than the style mattering.
With mighty force, he read from the centre of the stage, with elocution true and syllable precise, Dryden’s ponderous lines. The King nodded approvingly to the poet. The poet glowed with pride at the patronage of the King. The old-time audience were enchanted. Dryden sat with a triumphant smile as he dwelt upon his poetic lines and heard the cherished syllables receive rounds of applause from the Londoners.
Was it the thought, dear Dryden; or was it Nell’s pretty ways that bewitched the most of it? Nell’s laugh still echoes in the world; but where are your plays, dear Dryden?