IV This buck had browsed on elfin boughs Of rose-marie and bay, And he's carried it home to the little white house Of sweet Anne Hathaway. V "The dawn above your thatch is red! Slip out of your bed, sweet Anne! I have stolen a fairy buck," he said, "The first since the world began. VI "Roast it on a golden spit, And see that it do not burn; For we never shall feather the like of it Out of the fairy fern." VII She scarce had donned her long white gown And given him kisses four, When the surly Sheriff of Stratford-town Knocked at the little green door. VIII They have gaoled sweet Will for a poacher; But squarely he fronts the squire, With "When did you hear in your woods of a deer? Was it under a fairy briar?" IX Sir Thomas he puffs,--"If God thought good My water-butt ran with wine, Or He dropt me a buck in Charlecote wood, I wot it is mine, not thine!" X "If you would eat of elfin meat," Says Will, "you must blow up your horn! Take your bow, and feather the doe That's under the fairy thorn! XI "If you would feast on elfin food, You've only the way to learn! Take your bow and feather the doe That's under the fairy fern!" XII They're hunting high, they're hunting low, They're all away, away, With horse and hound to feather the doe That's under the fairy spray! XIII Sir Thomas he raged! Sir Thomas he swore! But all and all in vain; For there never was deer in his woods before, And there never would be again! 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 godliest 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:--