“Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall.”
The Queen smiled, read it twice over, once with deliberation to Lady Paget, and once again to herself. “It is a pretty beginning,” she said, after the consideration of a moment or two; “but methinks the muse hath deserted the young wit at the very outset of his task. It were good-natured—were it not, Lady Paget?—to complete it for him. Try your rhyming faculties.”
Lady Paget, prosaic from her cradle upwards as ever any lady of the bedchamber before or after her, disclaimed all possibility of assisting the young poet.
“Nay, then, we must sacrifice to the Muses ourselves,” said Elizabeth.
“The incense of no one can be more acceptable,” said Lady Paget; “and your Highness will impose such obligation on the ladies of Parnassus—”
“Hush, Paget,” said the Queen, “you speak sacrilege against the immortal Nine—yet, virgins themselves, they should be exorable to a Virgin Queen—and therefore—let me see how runs his verse—
'Fain would I climb, but that I fear to fall.'
Might not the answer (for fault of a better) run thus?—
'If thy mind fail thee, do not climb at all.'”
The dame of honour uttered an exclamation of joy and surprise at so happy a termination; and certainly a worse has been applauded, even when coming from a less distinguished author.