"Let us hear his verse again," said Sir Hugh. "Come, Martin, thou hast a voice, thou shalt read it."
"Ahem," said Martin. "I am no hand at a stanza; I shall mar the good verse, I fear me. Nevertheless, I will essay it."
THE SONNET.
Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were filled with your most high deserts?
Though yet, Heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life, and shews not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes,
And in fresh numbers, number all your graces,
The age to come would say, this poet lies,
Such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces,
So should my papers, yellow'd with their age,
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue;
And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But where some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice,—in it, and in my rhyme.
Sir Hugh was a man of parts. He was a man, too, of strong sense, and, for the age in which he lived, might have been esteemed and accounted a learned man withal.
Had he chosen to be more of a courtier, and his creed been different, he might have risen to some eminence as a statesman.
He felt considerable astonishment, and expressed no less admiration, at the beauty of the verses just recited.
"Now, by my fay, good Martin," said he, "I do somewhat lean to thy opinion in the matter, inasmuch as it seemeth scarce possible so young a lad could have penned such stanzas. Nay, by our Lady, I know not where to look amongst our old poets in order to find aught to equal those lines."
"Then where hath the lad gotten them from?" said Arderne. "Peradventure he hath fetched them from some recent book of songs and sonnets; they say young Spencer hath lately written."
"'Tis not in Spencer's vein," said Charlotte; "and since we have so far discussed the matter, I must needs say that I can almost vouch for his having written them."