Collected Poems Volume II Part 79

First, I leave a debt unpaid, It's all chalked up, not much all told, For Bread and Sack. When I am cold, Doll can p.a.w.n my Spanish blade And pay mine host. She'll pay mine'host!

But ... I have chalked up other scores In your own hearts, behind the doors, Not to be paid so quickly. Yet, O, if you would not have my ghost Creeping in at dead of night, Out of the cold wind, out of the wet, With weeping face and helpless fingers Trying to wipe the marks away, Read what I can write, still write, While this life within them lingers.

Let me pay, lads, let me pay.

_Item_, for a peac.o.c.k phrase, Flung out in a sudden blaze, Flung out at his friend Shake-scene, By this ragged Might-have-been, This poor Jackdaw, Robert Greene.

Will, I knew it all the while!

And you know it--and you smile!

My quill was but a Jackdaw's feather, While the quill that Ben, there, wields, Fluttered down thro' azure fields, From an eagle in the sun; And yours, Will, yours, no earth-born thing, A plume of rainbow-tinctured grain, Dropt out of an angel's wing.

Only a Jackdaw's feather mine, And mine ran ink, and Ben's ran wine, And yours the pure Pierian streams.

But I had dreams, O, I had dreams!

Dreams, you understand me, Will; And I fretted at the tether That bound me to the lowly plain, Gnawed my heart out, for I knew Once, tho' that was long ago, I might have risen with Ben and you Somewhere near that Holy Hill Whence the living rivers flow.

Let it pa.s.s. I did not know One bitter phrase could ever fly So far through that immortal sky --Seeing all my songs had flown so low-- One envious phrase that cannot die From century to century.

Kit Marlowe ceased a moment, and the wind, As if indeed the night were all one ghost, Wailed round the Mermaid Inn, then sent once more Its desolate pa.s.sion through the reader's voice:--

Some truth there was in what I said.

Kit Marlowe taught you half your trade; And something of the rest you learned From me,--but all you took you earned.

You took the best I had to give, You took my clay and made it live; And that--why that's what G.o.d must do!-- My music made for mortal ears You flung to all the listening spheres.

You took my dreams and made them true.

And, if I claimed them, the blank air Might claim the breath I shape to prayer.

I do not claim it! Let the earth Claim the thrones she brings to birth.

Let the first shapers of our tongue Claim whate'er is said or sung, Till the doom repeal that debt And cancel the first alphabet.

Yet when, like a G.o.d, you scaled The shining crags where my foot failed; When I saw my fruit of the vine Foam in the Olympian cup, Or in that broader chalice shine Blood-red, a sacramental drink, With stars for bubbles, lifted up, Through the universal night, Up to the celestial brink, Up to that quintessential Light Where G.o.d acclaimed you for the wine Crushed from those poor grapes of mine; O, you'll understand, no doubt, How the poor vine-dresser fell, How a pin-p.r.i.c.k can let out All the bannered hosts of h.e.l.l, Nay, a knife-thrust, the sharp truth-- I had spilt my wine of youth, The Temple was not mine to build.

My place in the world's march was filled.

Yet--through all the years to come-- Men to whom my songs are dumb Will remember them and me For that one cry of jealousy, That curse where I had come to bless, That harsh voice of unhappiness.

They'll note the curse, but not the pang, Not the torment whence it sprang, They'll note the blow at my friend's back, But not the soul stretched on the rack.

They'll note the weak convulsive sting, Not the crushed body and broken wing.

_Item_, for my thirty years, Dashed with sun and splashed with tears, Wan with revel, red with wine, This Jack-o-lanthorn life of mine.

Other wiser, happier men, Take the full three-score-and-ten, Climb slow, and seek the sun.

Dancing down is soon done.

Golden boys, beware, beware,-- The ambiguous oracles declare Loving G.o.ds for those that die Young, as old men may; but I, Quick as was my pilgrimage, Wither in mine April age.

_Item_, one groatsworth of wit, Bought at an exceeding price, Ay, a million of repentance.

Let me pay the whole of it.

Lying here these deadly nights, Lads, for me the Mermaid lights Gleam as for a castaway Swept along a midnight sea The harbour-lanthorns, each a spark, A pin-p.r.i.c.k in the solid dark, That lets trickle through a ray Glorious out of Paradise, To stab him with new agony.

Let me pay, lads, let me pay!

Let the Mermaid pa.s.s the sentence: I am pleading guilty now, A dead leaf on the laurel-bough, And the storm whirls me away.

Kit Marlowe ceased; but not the wailing wind That round and round the silent Mermaid Inn Wandered, with helpless fingers trying the doors, Like a most desolate ghost.

A sudden throng Of players bustled in, shaking the rain From their plumed hats. "Veracious witnesses,"

The snuffle of Bame arose anew, "declare It was a surfeit killed him, Rhenish wine And pickled herrings. His shirt was very foul.

He had but one. His doublet, too, was frayed, And his boots broken ..."

"What! Gonzago, you!"

A short fat player called in a deep voice Across the room and, throwing aside his cloak To show the woman's robe he wore beneath, Minced up to Bame and bellowed--"'Tis such men As you that tempt us women to our fall!"

And all the throng of players rocked and roared, Till at a nod and wink from Kit a hush Held them again.

"Look to the door," he said, "Is any listening?" The young player crept, A mask of mystery, to the door and peeped.

"All's well! The coast is clear!"

"Then shall we tell Our plan to Master Bame?"

Round the hushed room Went Kit, a pen and paper in his hand, Whispering each to read, digest, and sign, While Ben re-filled the gla.s.s of Master Bame.

"And now," said Kit aloud, "what think you, lads?

Shall he be told?" Solemnly one or two 'Gan shake their heads with "Safety! safety! Kit!"

"O, Bame can keep a secret! Come, we'll tell him!

He can advise us how a righteous man Should act! We'll let him share an he approve.

Now, Master Bame,--come closer--my good friend, Ben Jonson here, hath lately found a way Of--hush! Come closer!--coining money, Bame."

"Coining!" "Ay, hush, now! Hearken! A certain sure And indiscoverable method, sir!

He is acquainted with one Poole, a felon Lately released from Newgate, hath great skill In mixture of metals--hush!--and, by the help Of a right cunning maker of stamps, we mean To coin French crowns, rose-n.o.bles, pistolettes, Angels and English shillings."

For one breath Bame stared at him with bulging beetle-eyes, Then murmured shyly as a country maid In her first wooing, "Is't not against the law?"

"Why, sir, who makes the law? Why should not Bame Coin his own crowns like Queen Elizabeth?

She is but mortal! And consider, too, The good works it should prosper in your hands, Without regard to red-deer pies and wine White as the Milky Way. Such secrets, Bame, Were not good for the general; but a few Discreet and righteous palms, your own, my friend, And mine,--what think you?"

With a hesitant glance Of well-nigh child-like cunning, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his eyes, Bame laughed a little huskily and looked round At that grave ring of anxious faces, all Holding their breath and thrilling his blunt nerves With their stage-practice. "And no risk?" breathed Bame, "No risk at all?" "O, sir, no risk at all!

We make the very coins. Besides, that part Touches not you. Yours is the honest face, That's all we want."

"Why, sir, if you be sure There is no risk ..."

"You'll help to spend it. Good!

We'll talk anon of this, and you shall carry More angels in your pocket, master Bame, Than e'er you'll meet in heaven. Set hand on seal To this now, master Bame, to prove your faith.

Come, all have signed it. Here's the quill, dip, write.

Good!"

And Kit, pocketing the paper, bowed The gull to the inn-door, saying as he went,-- "You shall hear further when the plan's complete.

But there's one great condition--not one word, One breath of scandal more on Robert Greene.

He's dead; but he was one of us. The day You air his shirt, I air this paper, too."

No gleam of understanding, even then, Illumed that long white face: no stage, indeed, Has known such acting as the Mermaid Inn That night, and Bame but sn.i.g.g.e.red, "Why, of course, There's good in all men; and the best of us Will make mistakes."

"But no mistakes in this,"

Said Kit, "or all together we shall swing At Tyburn--who knows what may leap to light?-- You understand? No scandal!" "Not a breath!"

So, in dead silence, Master Richard Bame Went out into the darkness and the night, To ask, as I have heard, for many a moon, The price of malmsey-b.u.t.ts and silken hose, And doublets slashed with satin.

As the door Slammed on his back, the pent-up laughter burst With echo and re-echo round the room, But ceased as Will tossed on the glowing hearth The last poor Testament of Robert Greene.

All watched it burn. The black wind wailed and moaned Around the Mermaid as the sparks flew up.

"G.o.d, what a night for ships upon the sea,"

Said Raleigh, peering through the wet black panes, "Well--we may thank Him for the Little Red Ring!"

"_The Little Red Ring_," cried Kit, "_the Little Red Ring!_"

Then up stood Dekker on the old black settle.

"Give it a thumping chorus, lads," he called, And sang this brave song of the Mermaid Inn:--

I

Seven wise men on an old black settle, Seven wise men of the Mermaid Inn, Ringing blades of the one right metal, What is the best that a blade can win?

Bread and cheese, and a few small kisses?

Ha! ha! ha! Would you take them--you?

--Ay, if Dame Venus would add to her blisses A roaring fire and a friend or two!

_Chorus:_ Up now, answer me, tell me true!-- --Ay, if the hussy would add to her blisses A roaring fire and a friend or two!