Cracknels, old cheese, flaunes, tarts and clotted cream. Hath any a wish not circumscribed by these?" "A white-pot custard, for my white-pot queen," Cried Kemp, waving his bauble, "mark this, boy, A white-pot custard for my queen of May,-- She is not here, but that concerns not thee!-- A white-pot Mermaid custard, with a crust, Lashings of cream, eggs, apple-pulse and spice, A little sugar and manchet bread. Away! Be swift!" And as I bustled to and fro, The Friar raised his big brown fists again And preached in mockery of the Puritans Who thought to strip the moonshine wings from Mab, Tear down the May-poles, rout our English games, And drive all beauty back into the sea. Then laughter and chatter and clashing tankards drowned All but their May-day jollity a-while. But, as their breakfast ended, and I sank Gasping upon a bench, there came still more Poets and players crowding into the room; And one--I only knew him as Sir John-- Waved a great ballad at Will Kemp and laughed, "Atonement, Will, atonement!" "What," groaned Kemp, "Another penny poet? How many lies Does _this_ rogue tell? Sir, I have suffered much From these Melpomenes and strawberry quills, And think them better at their bloody lines On _The Blue Lady_. Sir, they set to work At seven o'clock in the morning, the same hour That I, myself, that's _Cavaliero_ Kemp, With heels of feather and heart of cork, began Frolickly footing, from the great Lord Mayor Of London, tow'rds the worshipful Master Mayor Of Norwich." "Nay, Kemp, this is a May-day tune, A morrice of country rhymes, made by a poet Who thought it shame so worthy an act as thine Should wither in oblivion if the Muse With her Castalian showers could keep it green. And while the fool nid-nodded all in time, Sir John, in swinging measure, trolled this tale:-- I With Georgie Sprat, my overseer, and Thomas Slye, my tabourer, And William Bee, my courier, when dawn emblazed the skies, I met a tall young butcher as I danced by little Sudbury, Head-master o' morrice-dancers all, high headborough of hyes. By Sudbury, by Sudbury, by little red-roofed Sudbury, He wished to dance a mile with me! I made a courtly bow: I fitted him with morrice-bells, with treble, bass and tenor bells, And "_Tickle your tabor, Tom_," I cried, "_we're going to market now_." And rollicking down the lanes we dashed, and frolicking up the hills we clashed, And like a sail behind me flapped his great white frock a-while, Till, with a gasp, he sank and swore that he could dance with me no more; And--over the hedge a milk-maid laughed, _Not dance with him a mile_?