"Tell us more, friend," he said lazily.
"Gladly. I need help. I am making a tour, you understand, of the chief towns of England, staying a day or more in each, until the Muse arrives. I was ever one to hope; and, gentlemen, by the froth on my pewter-mug, I swear that many noblemen and gentry will buy my book of verses when it's all completed."
"So you need our help?" asked Michael, humouring him.
"Most urgently. I have a most diverting ditty in my head, about this town of Banbury. It runs in this way:
"Here I found a Puritan one
Hanging of his cat on a Monday
For killing of a mouse on a Sunday."
"Good!" laughed Michael. "It's a fine conceit."
"Ah, you've taste, sir. But the trouble is, I find no rhyme to 'Puritan one.' To find no rhyme, to a poet, is like journeying through a country that brews no ale. Believe me, it is heartache, this search for a good rhyme."
"Puri*tane* one—the lilt running that way——"
"I have tried that, too," said the other with sorrow, "and still find no rhyme."
The door opened sharply, and the landlord bustled in. "Supper is served, gentlemen. I trust you will not mind sharing it with some officers of the Parliament quartered here?"