At which noble conceits, so far above what poor Bill had ever imagined, he lifted up his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed,—
“The world itself must be reduced to that condition before such glorious verses die! Chloe and Clove! Why, sir! Chloe wants but a V toward the tail to become the very thing! Never tell me that such matters can come about of themselves. And how truly is it said that we mean men deal in dog-roses.
“Sir, if it were permitted me to swear on that holy Bible, I would swear I never until this day heard that dog-roses were our provender; and yet did I, no longer ago than last summer, write, not indeed upon a dog-rose, but upon a sweet-briar, what would only serve to rinse the mouth withal after the clove.”
Sir Thomas.
“Repeat the same, youth. We may haply give thee our counsel thereupon.”
Willy took heart, and lowering his voice, which hath much natural mellowness, repeated these from memory:—
“My briar that smelledst sweet
When gentle spring’s first heat
Ran through thy quiet veins,—
Thou that wouldst injure none,
But wouldst be left alone,—
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains.
“What! hath no poet’s lyre
O’er thee, sweet-breathing briar,
Hung fondly, ill or well?
And yet methinks with thee
A poet’s sympathy,
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, might dwell.
“Hard usage both must bear,
Few hands your youth will rear,
Few bosoms cherish you;
Your tender prime must bleed
Ere you are sweet, but freed
From life, you then are prized; thus prized are poets too.”
Sir Thomas said, with kind encouragement, “He who beginneth so discreetly with a dog-rose, may hope to encompass a damask-rose ere he die.”