Collected Poems Volume II Part 89

Her lavender sprigs in the London gloom Make every little bridal-room A country nook of fresh perfume,-- Dame Dimpling!

She wears white lace on her dark brown hair: And a rose on her breast, Dame Dimpling!

And who can show you a foot as fair Or an ankle as neat when she climbs the stair, Taper in hand, and head in the air, And a rose in her cheek?--O, past compare, Dame Dimpling!

"But don't forget those oyster-pies," cried Lyly.

"Nor the roast beef," roared Dekker. "Prove yourself The Muse of meat and drink."

There was a shout In Bread Street, and our windows all swung wide, Six heads at each.

Nat Field bestrode our sign And kissed the painted Mermaid on her lips, Then waved his tankard.

"Here they come," he cried.

"Camden and Selden, Chapman and Marston, too, And half Will's company with our big Ben Riding upon their shoulders."

"Look!" cried Dekker, "But where is Atlas now? O, let them have it!

A thumping chorus, lads! Let the roof crack!"

And all the Mermaid clashed and banged again In thunderous measure to the marching tune That rolled down Bread Street, forty voices strong:--

At _Ypres Inn_, by _Wring-wren Lane_, Old John of Gaunt would dine: He scarce had opened an oyster or twain, Or drunk one flagon of wine, When, all along the Vintry Ward, He heard the trumpets blow, And a voice that roared--"If thou love thy lord, Tell John of Gaunt to go!"

_Chorus:_ A great voice roared--"If thou love thy lord, Tell John of Gaunt to go!"

Then into the room rushed Haviland That fair fat Flemish host, "They are marching hither with sword and brand, Ten thousand men--almost!

It is these oysters or thy sweet life, Thy blood or the best of the bin!"-- "Proud Pump, avaunt!" quoth John of Gaunt, "I will dine at _The Mermaid Inn!_"

_Chorus:_ "Proud Pump, avaunt!" quoth John of Gaunt, "There is wine at _The Mermaid Inn!_"

And in came Ben like a great galleon poised High on the white crest of a shouting wave, And then the feast began. The fragrant steam As from the kitchens of Olympus drew A throng of ragged urchins to our doors.

Ben ordered them a castellated pie That rolled a cloud around them where they sat Munching upon the cobblestones. Our cas.e.m.e.nts Dripped with the golden dews of Helicon; And, under the warm feast our cellarage Gurgled and foamed in the delicious cool With crimson freshets-- "Tell us," cried Nat Field, When pipes began to puff. "How did you work it?"

Camden chuckled and tugged his long white beard.

"Out of the mouth of babes," he said and shook His head at Selden! "O, young man, young man, There's a career before you! Selden did it.

Take my advice, my children. Make young Selden Solicitor-general to the Mermaid Inn.

That rosy silken smile of his conceals A scholar! Yes, that suckling lawyer there Puts my grey beard to shame. His courteous airs And silken manners hide the nimblest wit That ever trimmed a sail to catch the wind Of courtly favour. Mark my words now, Ben, That youth will sail right up against the wind By skilful tacking. But you run it fine, Selden, you run it fine. Take my advice And don't be too ironical, my boy, Or even the King will see it."

He chuckled again.

"But tell them of your tractate!"

"Here it is,"

Quoth Selden, twisting a lighted paper spill, Then, with his round cherubic face aglow Lit his long silver pipe, "Why, first," he said, "Camden being Clarencieux King-at-arms, He read the King this little tract I wrote Against tobacco." And the Mermaid roared With laughter. "Well, you went the way to hang All three of them," cried Lyly, "and, as for Ben, His Trinidado goes to bed with him."

"Green gosling, quack no more," Selden replied, Smiling that rosy silken smile anew.

"The King's a _critic_! When have critics known The poet from his creatures, G.o.d from me?

How many cite Polonius to their sons And call it Shakespeare? Well, I took my text From sundry creatures of our great big Ben, And called it 'Jonson.'

Camden read it out Without the flicker of an eye. His beard Saved us, I think. The King admired his text.

'_There is a man_,' he read, '_lies at death's door Thro' taking of tobacco. Yesterday He voided a bushel of soot_.'

'G.o.d bless my soul, A bushel of soot! Think of it!' said the King.

'The man who wrote those great and splendid words,'

Camden replied,--I had prepared his case Carefully--'lies in Newgate prison, sire.

His nose and ears await the hangman's knife.'

'Ah,' said the shrewd King, goggling his great eyes Cannily. 'Did he not defame the Scots?'

'That's true,' said Camden, like a man that hears Truth for the first time. 'O ay, he defamed 'em,'

The King said, very wisely, once again.

'Ah, but,' says Camden, like a man that strives With more than mortal wit, 'only such Scots As flout your majesty, and take tobacco.

He is a Scot, himself, and hath the gift Of preaching.' Then we gave him Jonson's lines Against Virginia. '_Neither do thou l.u.s.t After that tawny weed; for who can tell, Before the gathering and the making up, What alligarta may have sp.a.w.ned thereon_,'

Or words to that effect.

'Magneeficent!'

Spluttered the King--'who knows? Who knows, indeed?

That's a grand touch, that Alligarta, Camden!'

'The Scot who wrote those great and splendid words,'

Said Camden, 'languishes in Newgate, sire.

His ears and nose--'

And there, as we arranged With Inigo Jones, the ladies of the court a.s.sailed the King in tears. Their masque and ball Would all be ruined. All their Grecian robes, Procured at vast expense, were wasted now.

The masque was not half-written. Master Jones Had lost his poets. They were all in gaol.

Their noses and their ears ...

'G.o.d bless my soul,'

Spluttered the King, goggling his eyes again, 'What d'you make of it, Camden?'-- 'I should say A Puritan plot, sire; for these justices-- Who love tobacco--use their law, it seems, To flout your Majesty at every turn.

If this continue, sire, there'll not be left A loyal ear or nose in all your realm.'

At that, our n.o.ble monarch well-nigh swooned.

He hunched his body, padded as it was Against the a.s.sa.s.sin's knife, six inches deep With great green quilts, wagged his enormous head, Then, in a dozen words, he wooed destruction: 'It is presumption and a high contempt In subjects to dispute what kings can do,'

He whimpered. 'Even as it is blasphemy To thwart the will of G.o.d.'

He waved his hand, And rose. 'These men must be released, at once!'

Then, as I think, to seek a safer place, He waddled from the room, his rickety legs Doubling beneath that great green feather-bed He calls his 'person.'--I shall dream to-night Of spiders, Camden.--But in half an hour, Inigo Jones was armed with Right Divine To save such ears and noses as the ball Required for its perfection. Think of that!

And let this earthly ball remember, too, That Chapman, Marston, and our great big Ben Owe their poor adjuncts to--ten Grecian robes And 'Jonson' on tobacco! England loves Her poets, O, supremely, when they're dead."

"But Ben has narrowly escaped her love,"

Said Chapman gravely.

"What do you mean?" said Lodge.

And, as he spoke, there was a sudden hush.

A tall gaunt woman with great burning eyes, And white hair blown back softly from a face Ethereally fierce, as might have looked Ca.s.sandra in old age, stood at the door.

"Where is my Ben?" she said.

"Mother!" cried Ben.

He rose and caught her in his mighty arms.

Her labour-reddened, long-boned hands entwined Behind his neck.

"She brought this to the gaol,"

Said Chapman quietly, tossing a phial across To Camden. "And he meant to take it, too, Before the hangman touched him. Half an hour And you'd have been too late to save big Ben.

He has lived too much in ancient Rome to love A slit nose and the pillory. He'd have wrapped His purple round him like an emperor.

I think she had another for herself."

"There's Roman blood in both of them," said Dekker, "Don't look. She is weeping now," And, while Ben held That gaunt old body sobbing against his heart, Dekker, to make her think they paid no heed, Began to sing; and very softly now.

Full forty voices echoed the refrain:--

_The Cardinal's Hat_ is a very good inn, And so is _The Puritan's Head_; But I know a sign of a Wine, a Wine That is better when all is said.

It is whiter than Venus, redder than Mars, It was old when the world begun; For all good inns are moons or stars But _The Mermaid_ is their Sun.

_Chorus:_ They are all alight like moons in the night, But _The Mermaid_ is their Sun.

Therefore, when priest or parson cries That inns like flowers increase, I say that mine inn is a church likewise, And I say to them "Be at peace!"

An host may gather in dark St. Paul's To salve their souls from sin; But the Light may be where "two or three"

Drink Wine in _The Mermaid Inn_.

_Chorus:_ The Light may be where "two or three"

Drink Wine in _The Mermaid Inn_.