of tears,

There were lots of long faces, and no lack of fears. Old Nick might have broiled every saint on his fire, Had he only but spared them their barefooted friar. Oh the friar! the marvellous friar !

Let us sing in the praise of this wonderful friar.

"Oh! oh!" quoth the devil, at meeting his soul Nigh the gate of purgation, a taking a stroll, "Though some score of sinners you've got out of

here,

I have you fast for this many a year."
"By the mass," said the friar, "if here I must stay,
I'll be hanged if I'll go till you show me the way."
Oh the friar! the barefooted friar !

Let us sing in the praise of this valorous friar.

Master Satan, who's learned some civilities now,
Led the way to the gate with a smile and a bow,
When lo mid the damned did he presently shoot,
With a kick of the breech from the friar's broad foot :
Away sped the friar-his foe followed quick;
But heaven opened for him, and shut out Old Nick.

Oh the friar! the barefooted friar!

Let us sing in the praise of this saint of a friar!

“An excellent good song and a merry, Master Cotton!" exclaimed Ben Jonson; and similar commendations flowed from others of the company. "Said I not, my masters, we should have famous singing out of him?" continued he, "and have I not proved myself a true prophet?"

"Indeed, methinks you spoke of songs in no way like unto that we have just heard," answered Master Constable. "No matter,” replied the other. "If I have not touched the bull's eye, I have hit the target."

"I can now commend thee with a good conscience, Ben," observed Master Shakspeare, "thy conceit, like thy shooting, is not a miss."

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Ah, thou sweet wag! thou wilt give me no rest," cried Ben Jonson, laughingly.

"There be no rest for the wicked, Ben," said Master Shakspeare, in the same hu

mor.

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Callest thou me one of the wicked?" inquired his companion, seeming to be greatly shocked.

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thee, I would find more virtue in a bad oyster, than is to be met with in thy whole body."

"As thou wilt, Ben, as thou wilt," replied Master Shakspeare. "If thou art for finding anything commendable in bad oysters, I have done with thee. My stomach will endure no such unsavory similes. Keep whatever virtue thou discoverest under such circumstances; for though it must needs be but little, 'twill be something for thee to boast of-and that, methinks, ought to be a great object with thee at present."

Shortly after this, Master Cotton did call upon Sir Walter Raleigh for a song, which presently brought forth the ballad that is here given :—

SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S SONG.
A comely young knight went out to the fight,
And he was the pattern of chivalrie;
For so boldly he went through the tournament,

[John.

And in hall and in bower so courteouslie. Each damsel she uttered a benison, And sighed when she thought of the knight of St. With sword or with spear, he had not his peer, In England, in France, or in Germanie ; And at singing, so choice was his lute and his voice,

That there never was heard of such minstrelsie. Then the heart of each damsel went galloping on When she glanced on the face of the knight of St.

John.

His eyes were as bright as rivers of light,

His cheek like a rose from the east countrie; And he stood up so tall and so gallant withal,

None could gaze on unmoved at his excellencie.

Then ev'ry fair damsel, cried when he was gone, "What a love of a knight is the knight of St. John." He Paynims had slair, a hundred or twain,

In Palestine and in Arabie ;

Yet ten times a day would he kneel down and pray,
As though he had lived in great infamie.
And loudly each damsel proclaimed when 'twas done,
"What a saint of a knight is the knight of St. John."
But when it was told that his heart was as cold
As coldest winter in Muscovie;

That he was above ev'ry feeling of love,

And was bound by a vow unto chastitie. "Alack!" cried each damsel whose heart he had won, "What a wretch of a knight is the knight of St. John !"

This song also met with exceeding commendation; and the wine having been circulated pretty briskly, all seemed to be in the very best of spirits, and ready to praise anything that showed the smallest sign of worthiness, so that it proceeded from any of their company. Jests became more general. Master Shakspeare and Ben Jonson, however, still uttered the best, and the greatest number of them; as at first, usually choosing each other to be the subject: but it is utterly impossible I could put down one half of the choice things they said; and much afraid am I that the choicest have

and Fletcher were engaged with Master Shakspeare in some friendly talk concerning of a play of theirs that was to be performed at the Globe. Master Selden was leaning forward over the table, listening attentively to an account given by Master Cotton, of the finding of certain curious manuscripts in an ancient chest, the which Master Donne and Master Martin seemed also intent upon hearing. Master Constable and Master Sylvester, with Master Carew, were laughing merrily to a droll anecdote told by Ben Jonson; and Sir Walter Raleigh was relating to Master Francis an adventure that he had had in the wars.

"I have prevailed on Dick Burbage to play the principal character," observed Master Shakspeare to his brother playwriters, "but it hath so happened there must be a delay of some few days before it can be played. Dick went the other night to visit an alderman's wife by appointment, and his worship, her husband, returning sooner than they expected, Dick leaped out of the window, and had the ill hap to sprain his ankle; since when I can get him to talk of nothing but the monstrousness of such husbands, who be ever a coming home when they should stay abroad."

"That is so like him," observed Master Beaumont, laughingly. "He doeth an ill thing, getteth himself into a scrape for it, and then with a famous impudency none can help laughing at-abuseth not himself, who must be the only one to blame, but the very party he was striving to do hurt to."

"For his drolleries methinks he shall be found nearly as wild as Green," added Master Fletcher. 66 There is a good story of him I heard him tell to-day."

Ha! prythee relate it," said Master Shakspeare.

"Green walking nigh upon St. Savior's, met a funeral," continued the other. "He was struck with the miserable countenances of all who made part of the procession. The undertaker and his men seemed determined on looking more mournful than the mourners, and the mourners appeared to be vying with each other who should look the most wo-begone. Green could not abide such awful long faces. He said the sight of them was so exceeding pitiful he could not but feel for their hapless conditions; and this made him resolved to strive if it were possible to make them all in a better humor. Thereupon, upon coming up to

faces. In a moment, undertaker, bearers, mourners, and all, relaxed somewhat in that severity of visage that had so moved him. If they did not smile, they were on the point of it. Seeing this, after passing them, Tom made a short cut, and met them at the corner of the next street, with a face more comical than he had put on before; at the sight of which there can be no doubt in the world every one set up a palpable grin. The next thing he did was to fix himself at the church door, and when they came up he looked into every man's face with a countenance so marvellously ridiculous that it was impossible to say whether the undertaker or the mourners laughed the loudest; and as for the bearers, they shook their sides so heartily, that the coffin went jog, jog, jog, upon their shoulders, in immi. nent danger of being pitched upon the parson, who, as was very natural, looked awfully scandalized at their behavior."

"Ha! ha!" exclaimed Master Shakspeare, bursting out into a famous laugh, "that is Tom Green all over."

"What art making so much noise about? a murrain on thee!" cried Ben Jonson from the other end of the table. "Dost find so few to heed thy sorry jests thou art forced into laughing at them thyself. Well-had I wit of any sort, it should be such as might move the mirth of my company."

"Thou art right, Ben," replied his ready antagonist. "Hadst thou wit of any sort, doubtless thou couldst make a goodly use of it; but I see thou art aware of thine own deficiencies, so I will say no more on that head."

Thou canst say as much as thou wilt on that or any other head-saving thine own," retorted the other. 'And, as thou knowest full well, it be very proper policy of thee to be silent on so barren a subject."

Nay, my head can not well be barren," said Master Shakspeare good hu moredly, "seeing that it hath its labors continually. But as for thine, Ben-I do wonder thou art not ashamed to look it in the face, thou doth it so little credit. Thou wilt bring shame upon thy head, depend on't. Some power thou hast there, no doubt, for 'tis well known thou art head-strong."

"Out upon thee!" exclaimed Ben Jonson, whilst those who heard the jest were laughing very merrily. "Thou art like a bad oyster-that openeth its mouth only to show how worthless it be."

Bad oysters again, and be hanged to thee!" cried the other. 66 Why, what a villanous taste hast thou! Well, if thy humor runneth on such garbage, let it; yet would it be but civil. of thee couldst thou refrain from thrusting such unwholesome conceits before those of weaker stomachs."

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Mayhap there shall be found more likeness betwixt you and a bad oyster than you think can exist," observed Master Fletcher.

“O' my life I see not any resemblance," replied Master Shakspeare. "Prythee say how dost thou make it out."

"Because it seemeth to me that he that biteth at you be like to get the worst of it," answered Master Fletcher, "and so it be with your bad oyster."

"Ah! he is villanously unpalatable!" cried Ben Jonson in some bitterness. "There is another point that bringeth the resemblance still closer," added Master Beaumont.

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Alack, is it brought so home to me!" cried the other very pitifully.

""Tis the bad oysters that produce all the pearls," continued his companion.

"Ben! thy bad oyster be not so bad a fish after all!" exclaimed Master Shakspeare very drolly, amid the laughter of all around him.

"Away! I'll have none of thee !" cried Ben Jonson, seemingly a little put out. whilst he appeared intent upon the paring of an orange. "Thou art intolerably conceited. Thou takest none to be so good as thyself. I doubt not for all the airs thou dost give thyself, there shall easily be found thy betters in scholarship, and thy equal in all things."

"A song, Master Shakspeare, I pray you," exclaimed Sir Walter Raleigh, seeing a quarrel was at hand, unless he had skill enough to thrust it aside. "It be monstrous of you to have remained all this time and sung nothing."

"Ask Ben for a song," replied Master Shakspeare. "He is the capitalest singer of a good song among us all.”

"I be not in the humor. I can not sing. I have forgotten such songs as I used to attempt," said Ben Jonson, still a little out of temper, but not so much as he was.

"Surely thou hast not forgot that most sweet song of thine, 'Drink to me only with thine eyes'?" inquired the other. "The sweetest, truest, delicatest verses I have met with this many a day; and I be thoroughly convinced of it, they will live in the reputation of the world as

long as there shall be found hearts and minds capable of appreciating their infinite beauty."

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Dost really think so, Will?" eagerly asked Ben Jonson, his features gradually changing from a very evident sulkiness to a most glowing pleasure, as he took his eyes off what he was intent upon, and fixed them upon Master Shakspeare. "Dost think them of any goodness? Dost fancy they will live any time? Art sure the song pleaseth thee?"

"There can be no doubt of it," replied the other. "'Tis as proper a song as ever was writ: and I should show an infamous lack of judgment were I not to give it the praise that be its due."

"At least it showeth a wonderful noble heart in thee to say so," said Master Jonson earnestly. The more especially, because thou hast written a score or two of songs of a merit I despair of attaining; and I do take some little shame upon myself for appearing out of temper with thee, because thou dost sometimes press me, as I have fancied, somewhat too hard."

This song was well received of all, especially by Master Shakspeare, who seemed much taken with the conceit of it; and it appeared to give a fresh zest to the conviviality of the company; for more wine was brought in, more sack made, and the laugh became louder, and the jest more frequent. The table now lacked much of the pleasant appearance it had. Certes, there was a great show of empty bottles, glasses, cups, tankards, and lighted candles; but of the dishes, mayhap there was a pippin in one, two or three prunes in another, half an orange. in a third, and in the fourth nothing but parings of apples and shells of walnuts. Many more songs were sung: a love ballad by Master Carew, and ditties of a like kind by Beaumont and Fletcher. Master Donne and one or two others, the which have gone clean out of my memory, as well as sundry droll catches and exquisite madrigals which were then and there sung by divers of the company. In truth, nothing could exceed the mirth and harmony that prevailed, the which Sir Walter Raleigh at one end of the table, and Master Shakspeare at the other. sought to preserve with an exceeding pleasant humor and courteous free-heartedness. Every one looked moved by the spirit of good-fellowship, and although

Master Cotton being in a grave discourse to two or three attentive listeners on a matter of some antiquity, did ever and anon get slyly pelted by Master Shakspeare on one side, and Ben Jonson on the other, with orange pips and nutshells, to the infinite mirth of those around, he took it in good part, till a prune-stone from the latter hit him so sore a blow on the nose, that he suddenly caught hold of the half orange that lay in the dish before him, and flung it at Ben Jonson with so true an aim that it smashed against his head, whereupon the laugh was louder than ever, and Master Jonson joined in it as merrily as the rest. All at once there was a great cry for Master Francis to sing a song. He felt he had scarce confidence to attempt such a thing before so famous a company, and begged hard to be let off; but none heeding his excuses, and Sir Walter Raleigh and Master Shakspeare pressing him on the subject, he, after some to-do, and with a voice somewhat tremulous, began to sing the verses here set down.

MASTER FRANCIS' SONG. Forbear, sweet Wanton! Go your ways! I heed no more your dainty smiling: Your sugared words-your thrilling gazeAnd matchless craft in heart-beguiling. For though your beauty may be bright, If all may in its splendor bask, Now bid my love a fair "good night!"— I will not con a common task.

Forbear, false Syren! Strive no more!

Your tuneful voice hath ceased to charm me: Your power hath gone-your reign is o'er, Those witching sounds can no more harm meFor though the strain was honey sweet, Its honey sweetness all allowed; And I like not the poor conceit,

To be but one among the crowd.

But give to me the steadfast soul Whose love no selfish care can sever, And I will own her fond control,

And throne her in my heart for ever. But till such golden maid I find, (And fondly hope I such exists); The love that changeth like the wind, May, like the wind, go where it lists.

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Truly, a most sweet song, Master Francis," exclaimed Ben Jonson, who had listened to the young singer, as had all, with an entire attentiveness.

"And of an exceeding proper spirit," added Master Shakspeare; who fancied it was writ by Master Francis in relation to Joanna-in which he was in some way right, for he had composed it soon after his quarrel with her.

"Tis indeed, very admirably conceived," said Sir Walter Raleigh; and from others round about him, Master Francis received such praise, that although it