Collected Poems Volume II Part 78

And, as I brought the wine--"This is my grace,"

Laughed Kit, "Diana grant the jolly buck That Shakespeare stole were toothsome as this pie."

He suddenly sank his voice,--"Hist, who comes here?

Look--Richard Bame, the Puritan! O, Ben, Ben, Your Mermaid Inn's the study for the stage, Your only teacher of exits, entrances, And all the shifting comedy. Be grave!

Bame is the G.o.dliest hypocrite on earth!

Remember I'm an atheist, black as coal.

He has called me Wormall in an anagram.

Help me to bait him; but be very grave.

We'll talk of Venus."

As he whispered thus, A long white face with small black-beaded eyes Peered at him through the doorway. All too well, Afterwards, I recalled that scene, when Bame, Out of revenge for this same night, I guessed, Penned his foul tract on Marlowe's tragic fate; And, twelve months later, I watched our Puritan Riding to Tyburn in the hangman's cart For thieving from an old bed-ridden dame With whom he prayed, at supper-time, on Sundays.

Like a conspirator he sidled in, Clasping a little pamphlet to his breast, While, feigning not to see him, Ben began:--

"Will's _Venus and Adonis_, Kit, is rare, A round, sound, full-blown piece of thorough work, On a great canvas, coloured like one I saw In Italy, by one--t.i.tian! None of the toys Of artistry your lank-haired losels turn, Your Phyllida--Love-lies-bleeding--Kiss-me-Quicks, Your fluttering Sighs and Mark-how-I-break-my-beats, Begotten like this, whenever and how you list, Your Moths of verse that shrivel in every taper; But a sound piece of craftsmanship to last Until the stars are out. 'Tis twice the length Of Vergil's books--he's listening! Nay, don't look!-- Two hundred solid stanzas, think of that; But each a square celestial brick of gold Laid level and splendid. I've laid bricks and know What thorough work is. If a storm should shake The Tower of London down, Will's house would stand.

Look at his picture of the stallion, Nostril to croup, that's thorough finished work!"

"'Twill shock our Tribulation-Wholesomes, Ben!

Think of that kiss of Venus! Deep, sweet, slow, As the dawn breaking to its perfect flower And golden moon of bliss; then slow, sweet, deep, Like a great honeyed sunset it dissolves Away!"

A hollow groan, like a ba.s.s viol, Resounded thro' the room. Up started Kit In feigned alarm--"What, Master Richard Bame!

Quick, Ben, the good man's ill. Bring him some wine!

Red wine for Master Bame, the blood of Venus That stained the rose!"

"White wine for Master Bame,"

Ben echoed, "Juno's cream that" ... Both at once They thrust a wine-cup to the sallow lips And smote him on the back.

"Sirs, you mistake!" coughed Bame, waving his hands And struggling to his feet, "Sirs, I have brought A message from a youth who walked with you In wantonness, aforetime, and is now Groaning in sulphurous fires!"

"Kit, that means h.e.l.l!"

"Yea, sirs, a pamphlet from the pit of h.e.l.l, Written by Robert Greene before he died.

Mark what he styles it--_A Groatsworth of Wit Bought with a Million of Repentance_!"

"Ah, Poor Rob was all his life-time either drunk, Wenching, or penitent, Ben! Poor lad, he died Young. Let me see now, Master Bame, you say Rob Greene wrote this on earth before he died, And then you printed it yourself in h.e.l.l!"

"Stay, sir, I came not to this haunt of sin To make mirth for Beelzebub!"

"O, Ben, That's you!"

"'Swounds, sir, am I Beelzebub?

Ogs-gogs!" roared Ben, his hand upon his hilt!

"Nay, sir, I signified the G.o.d of flies!

I spake out of the scriptures!" snuffled Bame With deprecating eye.

"I come to save A brand that you have kindled at your fire, But not yet charred, not yet so far consumed, One Richard Cholmeley, who declares to all He was persuaded to turn atheist By Marlowe's reasoning. I have wrestled with him, But find him still so constant to your words That only you can save him from the fire."

"Why, Master Bame," said Kit, "had I the keys To h.e.l.l, the d.a.m.ned should all come out and dance A morrice round the Mermaid Inn to-night."

"Nay, sir, the d.a.m.ned are d.a.m.ned!"

"Come, sit you down!

Take some more wine! You'd have them all be d.a.m.ned Except d.i.c.k Cholmeley. What must I unsay To save him?" A quick eyelid dropt at Ben.

"Now tell me, Master Bame!"

"Sir, he derides The books of Moses!"

"Bame, do you believe?-- There's none to hear us but Beelzebub-- Do you believe that we must taste of death Because G.o.d set a foolish naked wench Too near an apple-tree, how long ago?

Five thousand years? But there were men on earth Long before that!" "Nay, nay, sir, if you read The books of Moses...." "Moses was a juggler!"

"A juggler, sir, how, what!" "Nay, sir, be calm!

Take some more wine--the white, if that's too red!

I never cared for Moses! Help yourself To red-deer pie. Good!

All the miracles You say that he performed--why, what are they?

I know one Heriots, lives in Friday Street, Can do much more than Moses! Eat your pie In patience, friend, the mouth of man performs One good work at a time. What says he, Ben?

The red-deer stops his--what? Sticks in his gizzard?

O--_led them through the wilderness_! No doubt He did--for forty years, and might have made The journey in six months. Believe me, sir, That is no miracle. Moses gulled the Jews!

Skilled in the sly tricks of the Egyptians, Only one art betrayed him. Sir, his books Are filthily written. I would undertake-- If I were put to write a new religion-- A method far more admirable. Eh, what?

_Gruel in the vestibule?_ Interpret, Ben!

His mouth's too full! _O, the New Testament!_ Why, there, consider, were not all the Apostles Fishermen and base fellows, without wit Or worth?"--again his eyelid dropt at Ben.-- "The Apostle Paul alone had wit, and he Was a most timorous fellow in bidding us Prostrate ourselves to worldly magistrates Against our conscience! I shall fry for this?

I fear no bugbears or hobgoblins, sir, And would have all men not to be afraid Of roasting, toasting, pitch-forks, or the threats Of earthly ministers, tho' their mouths be stuffed With curses or with crusts of red-deer pie!

One thing I will confess--if I must choose-- Give me the Papists that can serve their G.o.d Not with your sc.r.a.ps, but solemn ceremonies, Organs, and singing men, and shaven crowns.

Your protestant is a hypocritical a.s.s!"

"Profligate! You blaspheme!" Up started Bame, A little unsteady now upon his feet, And shaking his crumpled pamphlet over his head!

"Nay--if your pie be done, you shall partake A second course. Be seated, sir, I pray.

We atheists will pay the reckoning!

I had forgotten that a Puritan Will swallow Moses like a red-deer pie Yet choke at a wax-candle! Let me read Your pamphlet. What, 'tis half addressed to me!

Ogs-gogs! Ben! Hark to this--the Testament Of poor Rob Greene would cut Will Shakespeare off With less than his own Groatsworth! Hark to this!"

And there, unseen by them, a quiet figure Entered the room and beckoning me for wine Seated himself to listen, Will himself, While Marlowe read aloud with knitted brows.

"'_Trust them not; for there is an upstart crow Beautified with our feathers!_'

--O, he bids All green eyes open:--'_And, being an absolute Johannes fac-totum is in his own conceit The only Shake-scene in a country!_'"

"Feathers!"

Exploded Ben. "Why, come to that, he pouched Your eagle's feather of blank verse, and lit His Friar Bacon's little magic lamp At the Promethean fire of Faustus. Jove, It was a faery buck, indeed, that Will Poached in that greenwood."

"Ben, see that you walk Like Adam, naked! Nay, in nakedness Adam was first. Trust me, you'll not escape This calumny! Vergil is d.a.m.ned--he wears A hen-coop round his waist, nicked in the night From Homer! Plato is branded for a thief, Why, he wrote Greek! And old Prometheus, too, Who stole his fire from heaven!"

"Who printed it?"

"Chettle! I know not why, unless he too Be one of those same dwarfs that find the world Too narrow for their jealousies. Ben, Ben, I tell thee 'tis the dwarfs that find no world Wide enough for their jostling, while the giants, The G.o.ds themselves, can in one tavern find Room wide enough to swallow the wide heaven With all its crowded solitary stars."

"Why, then, the Mermaid Inn should swallow this,"

The voice of Shakespeare quietly broke in, As laying a hand on either shoulder of Kit He stood behind him in the gloom and smiled Across the table at Ben, whose eyes still blazed With boyhood's generous wrath. "Rob was a poet.

And had I known ... no matter! I am sorry He thought I wronged him. His heart's blood beats in this.

Look, where he says he dies forsaken, Kit!"

"Died drunk, more like," growled Ben. "And if he did,"

Will answered, "none was there to help him home, Had not a poor old cobbler chanced upon him, Dying in the streets, and taken him to his house, And let him break his heart on his own bed.

Read his last words. You know he left his wife And played the moth at tavern tapers, burnt His wings and dropt into the mud. Read here, His dying words to his forsaken wife, Written in blood, Ben, blood. Read it, '_I charge thee, Doll, by the love of our youth, by my soul's rest, See this man paid! Had he not succoured me I had died in the streets._' How young he was to call Thus on their poor dead youth, this withered shadow That once was Robin Greene. He left a child-- See--in its face he prays her not to find The father's, but her own. '_He is yet green And may grow straight_,' so flickers his last jest, Then out for ever. At the last he begged A penny-pott of malmsey. In the bill, All's printed now for crows and daws to peck, You'll find four shillings for his winding sheet.

He had the poet's heart and G.o.d help all Who have that heart and somehow lose their way For lack of helm, souls that are blown abroad By the great winds of pa.s.sion, without power To sway them, chartless captains. Mult.i.tudes ply Trimly enough from bank to bank of Thames Like shallow wherries, while tall galleons, Out of their very beauty driven to dare The uncompa.s.sed sea, founder in starless nights, And all that we can say is--'They died drunk!'"

"I have it from veracious witnesses,"

Bame snuffled, "that the death of Robert Greene Was caused by a surfeit, sir, of Rhenish wine And pickled herrings. Also, sir, that his shirt Was very foul, and while it was at wash He lay i' the cobbler's old blue smock, sir!"

"G.o.ds,"

The voice of Raleigh muttered nigh mine ear, "I had a dirty cloak once on my arm; But a Queen's feet had trodden it! Drawer, take Yon pamphlet, have it fried in cod-fish oil And bring it hither. Bring a candle, too, And sealing-wax! Be quick. The rogue shall eat it, And then I'll seal his lips."

"No--not to-night,"

Kit whispered, laughing, "I've a prettier plan For Master Bame."

"As for that sc.r.a.p of paper,"

The voice of Shakespeare quietly resumed, "Why, which of us could send his heart and soul Thro' Caxton's printing-press and hope to find The pretty pair unmangled. I'll not trust The spoken word, no, not of my own lips, Before the Judgment Throne against myself Or on my own defence; and I'll not trust The printed word to mirror Robert Greene.

See--here's another Testament, in blood, Written, not printed, for the Mermaid Inn.

Rob sent it from his death-bed straight to me.

Read it. 'Tis for the Mermaid Inn alone; And when 'tis read, we'll burn it, as he asks."

Then, from the hands of Shakespeare, Marlowe took A little scroll, and, while the winds without Rattled the shutters with their ghostly hands And wailed among the chimney-tops, he read:--

Greeting to all the Mermaid Inn From their old Vice and Slip of Sin, Greeting, Ben, to you, and you Will Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe, too.

Greeting from your Might-have-been, Your broken sapling, Robert Greene.

Read my letter--'Tis my last, Then let Memory blot me out, I would not make my maudlin past A trough for every swinish snout.