"I have it from veracious witnesses," Bame snuffled, "that the death of Robert Greene Was caused by a surfeit, sir, of Rhenish wine And pickled herrings. Also, sir, that his shirt Was very foul, and while it was at wash He lay i' the cobbler's old blue smock, sir!" "Gods," The voice of Raleigh muttered nigh mine ear, "I had a dirty cloak once on my arm; But a Queen's feet had trodden it! Drawer, take Yon pamphlet, have it fried in cod-fish oil And bring it hither. Bring a candle, too, And sealing-wax! Be quick. The rogue shall eat it, And then I'll seal his lips." "No--not to-night," Kit whispered, laughing, "I've a prettier plan For Master Bame." "As for that scrap of paper," The voice of Shakespeare quietly resumed, "Why, which of us could send his heart and soul Thro' Caxton's printing-press and hope to find The pretty pair unmangled. I'll not trust The spoken word, no, not of my own lips, Before the Judgment Throne against myself Or on my own defence; and I'll not trust The printed word to mirror Robert Greene. See--here's another Testament, in blood, Written, not printed, for the Mermaid Inn. Rob sent it from his death-bed straight to me. Read it. 'Tis for the Mermaid Inn alone; And when 'tis read, we'll burn it, as he asks." Then, from the hands of Shakespeare, Marlowe took A little scroll, and, while the winds without Rattled the shutters with their ghostly hands And wailed among the chimney-tops, he read:-- Greeting to all the Mermaid Inn From their old Vice and Slip of Sin, Greeting, Ben, to you, and you Will Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe, too. Greeting from your Might-have-been, Your broken sapling, Robert Greene. Read my letter--'Tis my last, Then let Memory blot me out, I would not make my maudlin past A trough for every swinish snout. First, I leave a debt unpaid, It's all chalked up, not much all told, For Bread and Sack. When I am cold, Doll can pawn my Spanish blade And pay mine host. She'll pay mine'host! But ... I have chalked up other scores In your own hearts, behind the doors, Not to be paid so quickly. Yet, O, if you would not have my ghost Creeping in at dead of night, Out of the cold wind, out of the wet, With weeping face and helpless fingers Trying to wipe the marks away, Read what I can write, still write, While this life within them lingers. Let me pay, lads, let me pay. _Item_, for a peacock phrase, Flung out in a sudden blaze, Flung out at his friend Shake-scene, By this ragged Might-have-been, This poor Jackdaw, Robert Greene.