'Ah,' said the shrewd King, goggling his great eyes Cannily. 'Did he not defame the Scots?' 'That's true,' said Camden, like a man that hears Truth for the first time. 'O ay, he defamed 'em,' The King said, very wisely, once again. 'Ah, but,' says Camden, like a man that strives With more than mortal wit, 'only such Scots As flout your majesty, and take tobacco. He is a Scot, himself, and hath the gift Of preaching.' Then we gave him Jonson's lines Against Virginia. '_Neither do thou lust After that tawny weed; for who can tell, Before the gathering and the making up, What alligarta may have spawned thereon_,' Or words to that effect. 'Magneeficent!' Spluttered the King--'who knows? Who knows, indeed? That's a grand touch, that Alligarta, Camden!' 'The Scot who wrote those great and splendid words,' Said Camden, 'languishes in Newgate, sire. His ears and nose--' And there, as we arranged With Inigo Jones, the ladies of the court Assailed the King in tears. Their masque and ball Would all be ruined. All their Grecian robes, Procured at vast expense, were wasted now. The masque was not half-written. Master Jones Had lost his poets. They were all in gaol. Their noses and their ears ... 'God bless my soul,' Spluttered the King, goggling his eyes again, 'What d'you make of it, Camden?'-- 'I should say A Puritan plot, sire; for these justices-- Who love tobacco--use their law, it seems, To flout your Majesty at every turn. If this continue, sire, there'll not be left A loyal ear or nose in all your realm.' At that, our noble monarch well-nigh swooned. He hunched his body, padded as it was Against the assassin's knife, six inches deep With great green quilts, wagged his enormous head, Then, in a dozen words, he wooed destruction: 'It is presumption and a high contempt In subjects to dispute what kings can do,' He whimpered. 'Even as it is blasphemy To thwart the will of God.' He waved his hand, And rose. 'These men must be released, at once!' Then, as I think, to seek a safer place, He waddled from the room, his rickety legs Doubling beneath that great green feather-bed He calls his 'person.'--I shall dream to-night Of spiders, Camden.--But in half an hour, Inigo Jones was armed with Right Divine To save such ears and noses as the ball Required for its perfection. Think of that! And let this earthly ball remember, too, That Chapman, Marston, and our great big Ben Owe their poor adjuncts to--ten Grecian robes And 'Jonson' on tobacco! England loves Her poets, O, supremely, when they're dead." "But Ben has narrowly escaped her love," Said Chapman gravely.