“Chloe! I would not have thee wince
That I unto thee send a quince.
I would not have thee say unto ’t
Begone! and trample ’t underfoot,
For, trust me, ’t is no fulsome fruit.
It came not out of mine own garden,
But all the way from Henly in Arden,—
Of an uncommon fine old tree,
Belonging to John Asbury.
And if that of it thou shalt eat,
’Twill make thy breath e’en yet more sweet;
As a translation here doth shew,
On fruit-trees, by Jean Mirabeau.
The frontispiece is printed so.
But eat it with some wine and cake,
Or it may give the belly-ache. [153a]
This doth my worthy clerk indite,
I sign,
Sir Thomas Lucy, Knight.”
“Now, Willy, there is not one poet or lover in twenty who careth for consequences. Many hint to the lady what to do, few what not to do although it would oftentimes, as in this case, go to one’s heart to see the upshot.”
“Ah, sir,” said Bill, in all humility, “I would make bold to put the parings of that quince under my pillow, for sweet dreams and insights, if Doctor Glaston had given me encouragement to continue the pursuit of poetry. Of a surety it would bless me with a bedful of churches and crucifixions, duly adumbrated.”
Whereat Sir Thomas, shaking his head, did inform him,—
“It was in the golden age of the world, as pagans call it, that poets of condition sent fruits and flowers to their beloved, with posies fairly penned. We, in our days, have done the like. But manners of late are much corrupted on the one side, if not on both.
“Willy! it hath been whispered that there be those who would rather have a piece of brocade or velvet for a stomacher than the touchingest copy of verses, with a bleeding heart at the bottom.”
William Shakspeare.
“Incredible!”
Sir Thomas.