"Egad Ben, I've never read a word o' the fool stuff in my life, so you're out there, burn me! And the bottle roosts with you, Alton. Give it wings. Major d'Arcy sir—with you!"
"Marchdale," said Sir Benjamin, "our ears attend you!"
Mr. Marchdale rose, coughed, tossed back his love-locks, unfolded his manuscript and setting hand within gorgeous bosom read forth the following:
"Chaste hour, soft hour, O hour when first we met
O blissful hour, my soul shall ne'er forget
How, 'mid the rose and tender violet,
Chaste, soft and sweet as rose, stood lovely Bet,
Her wreath-ed hair like silky coronet
O'er-wrought with wanton curls of blackest jet
Each glistered curl a holy amulet;
Her pearl-ed teeth her rosy lips did fret
As they'd sweet spices been or ambergret,
While o'er me stole her beauty like a net
Wherein my heart was caught and pris'ner set
A captive pent for love and not for debt,
A captive that in prison pineth yet.
A captive knowing nothing of regret
Nor uttering curse nor woeful epithet.
I pled my love, my brow grew hot, grew wet,
While sweetly she did sigh and I did sweat."
"Sweat, Tony?" exclaimed the Marquis. "O dem! What for?"
"Because 'twas the only rhyme I had left, for sure!"
"Od, od's my life!" cried Sir Benjamin, "here we have poesy o' the purest, in diction chaste, in expression delicate, in——"
"Nay, but Tony sweats too, Ben!" protested Alvaston.
"No matter, sir, no matter—'tis a very triumph! So elegant! Od's body Marchdale, 'tis excellent—sir, your health!"
"Burn me, Ben, but if Tony may sweat why th' dooce——"