O! could I be a child alway,
How happy were life’s holyday!”
The countenance of Sir Oliver recovered all its wonted expression of good humour, as the child prettily recited these lines; and patting her on the head, as she concluded, he turned to Cuthbert and said, in his usual kind tone, “We will talk our matter over another time: I see that you are no joy-killer, and would never mar an innocent pleasure-making—I was ever fond of a good play—a pox on these prick-eared knaves that would forbid them!
“‘Why kings and emperors have taen delight
To make experience of their wits in plays,’
as Master Kyd hath it, in his Spanish tragedy.”
Cuthbert said nothing; but having a recollection of the passage from which Sir Oliver had quoted, thought he might have found a more comfortable sanction and a much better authority.
“But, prithee,” continued Sir Oliver, “whose rhymes be these that the child has just spoken?”
“They are my poor doggerel,” answered Cuthbert; “for this dear child would give me no rest till I made a part for her in the Birthday Masque.”