And then the bells are making such a coil,
Saint against saint, from Mole to Capo-monte,
We can not hear the loudest voice cry gara

Of mouth, with one arm first, and then the other, | To catch the drops, leaving one hand for mischief;
And then the apron. Who beside thyself
Would talk so touchingly, so near mid-day?
A qualm came over me; I felt half-famisht;
No monk on earth could stand it; not the best
That ever faced the devil in the desert.
Romoalda. Between you, pretty work! the frate And whisper in God's ear we think it hard.
gone!

There's, by my reckoning, mother Romoalda,
Only one night between us and to-morrow.
Romoalda (striking her stomacher). The best
church-clock lies under this red canvas,
And points, within a trice, to dinner-time.
Griselda. You totter about sadly, neighbour
Febe!

Febe. No wonder; they have thrown so many
pulps

And peels of melon on the ground, I know

My feet are wet, and my whole stockings, with them

And plashy daffodils, like artichokes

If horse or mule tramp muzzling into us.
In vain, Griselda, lift we up our shoulders

Griselda. Well, Febe, by stout shoving we are

I dropt into the sea through awkwardness. Griselda. Did not the child cry out, as childdren should?

Febe. It did. Well, well! I made an angel
of it.

Griselda. Then say no more about it.
Febe.
'Tis in heaven,

Among the other angels: but I fear
That when they say, "Sing! sing, my little one!"
It may give answer, "Five hard fingers here
Have spoilt my singing."

Griselda.
They who make an angel
Make more than they who make ten penitents,
And yet to make one penitent wins heaven.
Febe. I sometimes wish 'twere back again.
Griselda.

To cry?

In size, knee-deep, and palm-leaves long as boats:
So, were there room for falling, fall I must.
Griselda. May-hap you tasted a cup's rim at It wakes me many mornings, many nights,

Febe. Ah! it does cry ere the first sea-mew
cries;

starting?

Febe. Before we met, one little broken one,

I sipt. They never told me 'twas so strong:
And then they took advantage of me.

Griselda.

Men

Always do that with us poor lonely women.

And fields of poppies could not quiet it.
Griselda. Febe! we must not think of it to-day.
Sorrow is most offensive to the great,

And nobody should grieve when kings are near.
This, above all days, is a day of joy ;
Another king is given to the world,

Febe. 'Twas not the wine nor men: a fig for And our first duty is to guard his throne.

them!

This hubbub has confounded me, this crowd;
Soldiers and monks, and mummers fill the street,
And candles bigger than the priests that bear
them,

And saucy boys running aside the candles

Febe. And drink a little beaker to his health.
We, mother Romoalda! with Christ's help,
Will, against all his enemies, support him.
O! I am thirsty with the dust! beside,
I was so worried by that odious mob,
The people seem to push against me still.

The sun beats all the day, through all the year; Lags far behind thy heart; thy strongest wit
Everything there so still and orderly,
May stretch and strain, but never make them
That he who sneezes in them is caught up
yoke-mates.

Should he awake

And cudgel'd for his pains.
Bacon.
Trumpets by sneezing, should he blow up banners,
'Twere well if only cudgels fell on him:
Our laws have sharper instruments, my lord!
Essex. I know it; and I knew it ere I rose.
Bacon. O! had this never happened!
Essex.
Then wouldst thou
Have lost some smiles, some parleyings, some
tags

Of ermine, and, . . what more thou valuest

(As any wise man would).. some little gold. Bacon. Dross!

Essex (smiling). Very true!.. as men are dust and ashes.

Bacon. This cork appliance, this hard breath

ing, served

While there was water under for support,
But cut a dismal figure in the mud.

Essex. To servile souls how abject seem the
fallen!

Benchers and message-bearers stride o'er Essex !
Bacon. Unmasted pinnace may row safely

under

No high colossus, without pricking it.

But, sure, the valiant Earl is somewhat chafed ..
Who could have thought it!.. by a worm like
me!

Essex. Begone! I have fairly weighed thee.
Bacon (alone).
He weigh me!

Bacon. Such thoughts become all mortals; most No man is stout enough* to trim the balance,
of all
Much less to throw the weight in..

Those who have fallen under high displeasure,
Who have their God and Prince to reconcile,
And are about to change this brief vile life...
Nay, nay, my lord! your life may rest unchanged
For years to come, if you, upon your knees,
Humbly ask pardon..
Essex (fiercely). Pardon! [After hesitation.
I will ask it..
Bacon... Before the privy council, and the

He weigh me!
Flaunting and brittle as a honeysuckle,
Sweet in the chamber, in the field blown down,
Ramping in vain to reach again its prop,
And crusht by the first footfal.

Arrogance Stares, but sees badly: snatches with quick gripe

What seems within the reach, and, being infirm
Of stand, is overbalanced.

Foul words upon me?

Shall I bear

I have thrown them back
Manfully to the beard that wagged with them.
My courage is now safe beyond suspicion..
Myself can hardly doubt it after this.
Yet that audacious criminal dared spit
Reproaches! seldom are they bearable,
But, springing up from reason, sting like asps..
Not that the man has reason.. he has none..
For, what had I to do with it? I spoke..
And, when we are commanded, we must speak.
It was her Grace. . and surely she knows best.
I may now wash my hands of him at last,
I have but done my duty: fall who may.

WALTER TYRREL AND WILLIAM RUFUS.

Rufus. Tyrrel, spur onward! we must not await| The laggard lords: when they have heard the dogs

I warrant they will follow fast enough,
Each for his haunch. Thy roan is mettlesome;
How the rogue sidles up to me, and claims
Acquaintance with young Yorkshire! not
afraid

Of wrinkling lip, nor ear laid down like grass
By summer thunder-shower on Windsor mead.
Tyrrel. Behold, my liege! hither they troop
amain,

Tyrrel.
Please you, my liege,
Unless they had, they must have ridden round
Eleven miles.

Rufus.

Why not have ridden round

* Bacon little knew or suspected that there was then existing (the only one that ever did exist) his superior in intellectual power. Position gives magnitude. While the world was rolling above Shakspeare, he was seen imperfectly when he rose above the world, it was discovered that he was greater than the world. The most honest of his contemporaries would scarcely have admitted this, even had they known it. But vast objects of remote altitude must be looked at a long while before they are ascertained. Ages are the telescope-tubes that must be lengthened out for Shakspeare; and generations of men serve but as single witnesses to his claims.

Eleven miles? or twenty, were there need.
By our Lady! they shall be our carpenters
And mend what they have marr'd. At any time
I can make fifty lords; but who can make
As many head of deer, if mine escape?
And sure they will, unless they too are mad.
Call me that bishop.. him with hunting-cap
Surcharged with cross, and scarlet above knee.
Tyrrel (galloping forward). Ho! my lord
bishop!

Bishop.

Tyrrel.

Who calls me?

Your slave.

Bishop. Well said, if toned as well and timed as well.

Who art thou ? citizen or hind? what wantest?
Tyrrel. My lord! your presence; but before
the king;

Where it may grow more placid at its leisure.
The morn is only streakt with red, my lord!
You beat her out and out: how prettily
You wear your stocking over head and ears!
Keep off the gorse and broom! they soon catch
fire!

Bishop. The king shall hear of this: I recognise
Sir Walter Tyrrel.
Tyrrel.

And Sir Walter Tyrrel

By the same token duly recognises

The Church's well-begotten son, well-fed,

Well-mounted, and all well, except well-spoken,
The spiritual lord of Winchester.

Bishop. Ay, by God's grace! pert losel!
Tyrrel.

Prick along
Lord bishop! quicker! catch fresh air! we want it;
We have had foul enough till dinner-time.

Bishop. Varlet! I may chastise this insolence.
Tyrrel. I like those feathers: but there crows
no cock

Without an answer. Though the noisiest throat
Sings from the belfrey of snug Winchester,
Yet he from Westminster hath stouter spurs.
Bishop. God's blood! were I no bishop..
Tyrrel.
Then thy own

Were cooler.

Bishop. Whip that hound aside! O Christ!
The beast has paw'd my housings! What a day
For dirt!

Tyrrel. The scent lies well; pity no more
The housings; look, my lord! here trots the king!
Rufus. Which of you broke my palings down?
Bishop.
God knows,
Most gracious sir.
Rufus.
No doubt he does; but you,
Bishop! could surely teach us what God knows.
Ride back and order some score handicrafts

To fix them in their places.

I care but little for the chase to-day,
Although the scent lies sweetly. To knock down
My paling is vexatious. We must see
Our great improvements in this forest; what
Of roads blockt up, of hamlets swept away,
Of lurking dens called cottages, and cells,
And hermitages. Tyrrel! thou didst right
And dutifully, to remove the house
Of thy forefathers. 'Twas an odd request
To leave the dovecote for the sake of those
Flea-bitten blind old pigeons. There it stands!
But, in God's name! what mean these hives? the
bees
May sting my dogs.
Tyrrel.

They hunt not in the summer.
Rufus. They may torment my fawns.
Tyrrel.

Sir! not unless

Driven from their hives: they like the flowers
much better.

Rufus. Flowers! and leave flowers too?
Tyrrel.

Only some half-wild,

In tangled knots; balm, clary, marjoram.
Rufus. What lies beyond this close briar hedge,
that smells

Through the thick dew upon it, pleasantly?
Tyrrel. A poor low cottage: the dry marl-pit
shields it,

And, frail and unsupported like itself,
Peace-breathing honeysuckles comfort it
In its misfortunes.

Rufus.

I am fain to laugh
At thy rank minstrelsy. A poor low cottage!
Only a poor low cottage! where, I ween,
A poor low maiden blesses Walter Tyrrel.
Tyrrel. It may be so.

Rufus.
No; it may not be so.
My orders were that all should be removed;
And, out of special favour, special trust
In thee, Sir Walter, I consign'd the care
Into thy hands, of razing thy own house
And those about it; since thou hast another
Fairer and newer, and more lands around.
Tyrrel. Hall, chapel, chamber, cellar, turret,
grange,
[Riding off. Are level with the grass.
Rufus.

The command

Bishop.
Of our most gracious king shall be obeyed.

Malisons on the atheist! Who can tell
Where are my squires and other men? confused
Among the servitors of temporal lords!
I must e'en turn again and hail that brute.
Sir Walter! good Sir Walter ! one half-word!
[TYRREL rides toward him.

What negligence

To leave the work then incomplete, when little
Was there remaining! Strip that roof, and start
Thy petty game from cover.

Tyrrel.
Command not this!

O my liege!

Tyrrel. My father's house is (like my father) Spoken in angriness, no threat against

THE PARENTS OF LUTHER.

John Luther. I left thee, Margaretta, fast A noisier bird partakes our whispering bower?

Kisses than sleep so thinking, I heav'd up
Slowly my elbow from above the pillow,
And, when I saw it woke thee not, went forth.
Marg. I would have been awaken'd for a kiss,
And a good-by, or either, if not both.

John. Thy dreams were not worth much then.
Marg.
Few dreams are;
But...

John. By my troth! I will intrench upon
The woman's dowry, and will contradict,
Tho' I should never contradict again.

I have got more from dreams a hundred-fold
Than all the solid earth, than field, than town,
Than (the close niggard purse that cramps my
fist)

The mine will ever bring me.

Marg.

So have I,

John. No? and yet these are well worth dream-
ing of.

Marg. Try once again.
John.
Faith! it is kind to let me.
Under-ground beer-cascades from Nuremberg?
Rhine vintage stealing from Electoral cellars,
And, broader than sea-baths for mermaid brides,
With fluits upon the surface strides across,
Pink conchs, to catch it and to light it down;
And music from basaltic organ-pipes
For dancing; and five fairies to one man.

A boy were not like thee.
Marg.
John. Well, let us have him, if we miss the girl.
Marg. My father told me he must have a boy,
And call him Martin (his own name) because
Saint Martin both was brave and cloth'd the poor.
John. Hurrah then for Saint Martin! he shall
have

Enough to work on in this house of ours.

Marg. Now do not laugh, dear husband! but this dream

Marg. That one thought should make you now.
John. And that one tap upon the cheek to boot.
Marg. I do believe, if you were call'd to Heaven
You would stay toying here.
John.
I doubt I should.
Methinks I set my back against the gate
Thrown open to me by this rosy hand,
And look both ways, but see more heaven than
earth:

Give me thy dream: thou puttest it aside:

I must be feasted fetch it forth at once.

Marg. Husband! I dreamt the child was in my

arms,

And held a sword, which from its little grasp
I could not move, nor you: I dreamt that proud
But tottering shapes in purple filagree
Pull'd at it, and he laught.

John.

They frighten'd thee? Marg. Frighten'd me! no: the infant's strength prevail'd.

Devils, with angels' faces, throng'd about;
Some offer'd flowers, and some held cups behind,

Marg. Oh his wild fancies!. . Are they inno- And some held daggers under silken stoles.
cent?

John. I think I must be near it by that shrug.
Spicy sack-posset, roaring from hot springs
And running off like mad thro' candied cliffs,
But catching now and then some fruit that
drops..

Shake thy head yet? why then thou hast the
palsy.

Zooks! I have thought of all things probable

John. These frighten'd thee, however.
Marg.

He knew all;

A dream! a dream indeed! laught!

I knew he did.
John.
He knew and
Marg.
He sought his mother's breast,
And lookt at them no longer.
All the room

Was fill'd with light and gladness.