"Will's _Venus and Adonis_, Kit, is rare, A round, sound, full-blown piece of thorough work, On a great canvas, coloured like one I saw In Italy, by one--Titian! None of the toys Of artistry your lank-haired losels turn, Your Phyllida--Love-lies-bleeding--Kiss-me-Quicks, Your fluttering Sighs and Mark-how-I-break-my-beats, Begotten like this, whenever and how you list, Your Moths of verse that shrivel in every taper; But a sound piece of craftsmanship to last Until the stars are out. 'Tis twice the length Of Vergil's books--he's listening! Nay, don't look!-- Two hundred solid stanzas, think of that; But each a square celestial brick of gold Laid level and splendid. I've laid bricks and know What thorough work is. If a storm should shake The Tower of London down, Will's house would stand. Look at his picture of the stallion, Nostril to croup, that's thorough finished work!" "'Twill shock our Tribulation-Wholesomes, Ben! Think of that kiss of Venus! Deep, sweet, slow, As the dawn breaking to its perfect flower And golden moon of bliss; then slow, sweet, deep, Like a great honeyed sunset it dissolves Away!" A hollow groan, like a bass viol, Resounded thro' the room. Up started Kit In feigned alarm--"What, Master Richard Bame! Quick, Ben, the good man's ill. Bring him some wine! Red wine for Master Bame, the blood of Venus That stained the rose!" "White wine for Master Bame," Ben echoed, "Juno's cream that" ... Both at once They thrust a wine-cup to the sallow lips And smote him on the back. "Sirs, you mistake!" coughed Bame, waving his hands And struggling to his feet, "Sirs, I have brought A message from a youth who walked with you In wantonness, aforetime, and is now Groaning in sulphurous fires!" "Kit, that means hell!" "Yea, sirs, a pamphlet from the pit of hell, Written by Robert Greene before he died. Mark what he styles it--_A Groatsworth of Wit Bought with a Million of Repentance_!" "Ah, Poor Rob was all his life-time either drunk, Wenching, or penitent, Ben! Poor lad, he died Young. Let me see now, Master Bame, you say Rob Greene wrote this on earth before he died, And then you printed it yourself in hell!" "Stay, sir, I came not to this haunt of sin To make mirth for Beelzebub!" "O, Ben, That's you!" "'Swounds, sir, am I Beelzebub? Ogs-gogs!" roared Ben, his hand upon his hilt! "Nay, sir, I signified the god of flies! I spake out of the scriptures!" snuffled Bame With deprecating eye. "I come to save A brand that you have kindled at your fire,