"Thy Summer's Night--eh, Will? Midsummer's Night?-- That's a quaint fancy," Bacon droned anew, "But--Athens was an error, Will! Not Athens! Titania knew not Athens! Those wild elves Of thy Midsummer's Dream--eh? Midnight's Dream?-- Are English all. Thy woods, too, smack of England; They never grew round Athens. Bottom, too, He is not Greek!" "Greek?" Will said, with a chuckle, "Bottom a Greek? Why, no, he was the son Of Marian Hacket, the fat wife that kept An ale-house, Wincot-way. I lodged with her Walking from Stratford. You have never tramped Along that countryside? By Burton Heath? Ah, well, you would not know my fairylands. It warms my blood to let my home-spuns play Around your cold white Athens. There's a joy In jumping time and space." But, as he took The cup of sack I proffered, solemnly The lawyer shook his head. "Will, couldst thou use Thy talents with discretion, and obey Classic examples, those mightst match old Plautus, In all except priority of the tongue. This English tongue is only for an age, But Latin for all time. So I propose To embalm in Latin my philosophies. Well seize your hour! But, ere you die, you'll sail A British galleon to the golden courts Of Cleopatra." "Sail it!" Marlowe roared, Mimicking in a fit of thunderous glee The drums and trumpets of his Tamburlaine: "And let her buccaneers bestride the sphinx, And play at bowls with Pharaoh's pyramids, And hale white Egypt with their tarry hands Home to the Mermaid! Lift the good old song That Rob Greene loved. Gods, how the lad would shout it! Stand up and sing, John Davis!" "Up!" called Raleigh, "Lift the chanty of Black Bill's Honey-moon, Jack! We'll keep the chorus going!" "Silence, all!" Ben Jonson echoed, rolling on his bench: "This gentle lawyer hath a longing, lads, To hear a right Homeric hymn. Now, Jack! But wet your whistle, first! A cup of sack For the first canto! Muscadel, the next! Canary for the last!" I brought the cup. John Davis emptied it at one mighty draught, Leapt on a table, stamped with either foot, And straight began to troll this mad sea-tale: CANTO THE FIRST Let Martin Parker at hawthorn-tide Prattle in Devonshire lanes, Let all his pedlar poets beside Rattle their gallows-chains, A tale like mine they never shall tell Or a merrier ballad sing, Till the Man in the Moon pipe up the tune And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring! _Chorus:_ Till Philip of Spain in England reign, And the stars play Kiss-in-the-Ring!