And in came Ben like a great galleon poised High on the white crest of a shouting wave, And then the feast began. The fragrant steam As from the kitchens of Olympus drew A throng of ragged urchins to our doors. Ben ordered them a castellated pie That rolled a cloud around them where they sat Munching upon the cobblestones. Our casements Dripped with the golden dews of Helicon; And, under the warm feast our cellarage Gurgled and foamed in the delicious cool With crimson freshets-- "Tell us," cried Nat Field, When pipes began to puff. "How did you work it?" Camden chuckled and tugged his long white beard. "Out of the mouth of babes," he said and shook His head at Selden! "O, young man, young man, There's a career before you! Selden did it. Take my advice, my children. Make young Selden Solicitor-general to the Mermaid Inn. That rosy silken smile of his conceals A scholar! Yes, that suckling lawyer there Puts my grey beard to shame. His courteous airs And silken manners hide the nimblest wit That ever trimmed a sail to catch the wind Of courtly favour. Mark my words now, Ben, That youth will sail right up against the wind By skilful tacking. But you run it fine, Selden, you run it fine. Take my advice And don't be too ironical, my boy, Or even the King will see it." He chuckled again. "But tell them of your tractate!" "Here it is," Quoth Selden, twisting a lighted paper spill, Then, with his round cherubic face aglow Lit his long silver pipe, "Why, first," he said, "Camden being Clarencieux King-at-arms, He read the King this little tract I wrote Against tobacco." And the Mermaid roared With laughter. "Well, you went the way to hang All three of them," cried Lyly, "and, as for Ben, His Trinidado goes to bed with him." "Green gosling, quack no more," Selden replied, Smiling that rosy silken smile anew. "The King's a _critic_! When have critics known The poet from his creatures, God from me? How many cite Polonius to their sons And call it Shakespeare? Well, I took my text From sundry creatures of our great big Ben, And called it 'Jonson.' Camden read it out Without the flicker of an eye. His beard Saved us, I think. The King admired his text. '_There is a man_,' he read, '_lies at death's door Thro' taking of tobacco. Yesterday He voided a bushel of soot_.' 'God bless my soul, A bushel of soot! Think of it!' said the King. 'The man who wrote those great and splendid words,' Camden replied,--I had prepared his case Carefully--'lies in Newgate prison, sire. His nose and ears await the hangman's knife.'