'Thy gown was of the grassy green,
Thy sleeves of satin hanging by;
Which made thee be our harvest queen—
And yet thou wouldst not love me.'
'Tis a pleasant pastime, friend Jack; but there comes an end. I know not which be the worse, wenches or usurers, for landing a poor lad in jail; but both together, Jack—and that is thy case—they are not like to let thee escape. 'Tis not to every one in such a plight there cometh a talisman like that pretty toy there: beshrew me, what a thing it is in this world to have a goodly presence!"
He now rose from the table and went to the door, and called aloud for some one to bring him a light. When that was brought, and his pipe set going, he sat him down on the bench by the empty fire-place, for the seat seemed comfortable, and there he smoked with much content, while his friend continued to pace up and down the apartment, meditating over his own situation, and seemingly not over well pleased with the survey.
Presently something in one of the pigeon-holes over the fire-place attracted the attention of the visitor; and having nothing better to do (for he would leave his friend time to ponder over what he had said), he rose and pulled forth a little bundle of sheets of paper that opened in his hand as he sat down again.
"What's this, Jack?" said he. "Hast become playwright? Surely all of this preachment is not in praise of the fair damsel's eyebrows?"
His friend turned round, saw what he had got hold of, and laughed.
"That, now," said he, "were something to puzzle the wits with, were one free to go to London. I had some such jest in mind; but perchance 'twas more of idleness that made me copy out the play."
"'Tis not yours, then? Whose?" said Master Frank Lloyd, looking over the pages with some curiosity.
"Whose? Why, 'tis by one Will Shakespeare, that you may have heard of. Would it not puzzle them, Frank? Were it not a good jest, now, to lay it before some learned critic and ask his worship's opinion? Or to read it at the Silver Hind as of thy writing? Would not Dame Margery weep with joy? Out upon the Mermaid!—have we not poets of our own?"
He had drawn near, and was looking down at the sheets that his friend was examining.