The Falcon Inn stood at the western end of Bank Side, at the head of the Falcon stairs. In front a small garden stretched out towards the river. Part of the garden was an arbor, formed by a vine raised on poles, so as to form a roof of leaves. Here was a table placed, and round the table a company of ten or a dozen. At the head of the table was a young gentleman richly dressed. Behind him stood two servants. At his right sat a man of about thirty, of large frame and already corpulent, his brown hair short and curly, his beard cut short, his eyes singularly bright. [Illustration: SOUTH VIEW OF FALCON TAVERN, ON THE BANK SIDE, SOUTHWARK, AS IT APPEARED IN 1805] "'Tis Ben Jonson," whispered Stow. "Let us sit here, without the arbor, so that we can drink and listen. Ben is but lately out of prison, where he was cast for writing reflections on the Scottish nation. 'Twas said that he would lose his ears and have his nose slit, but the King showed mercy. He at the head of the table is some young nobleman, patron of poets, but, alas! I live now so retired that I know not his name. On the left of him is William Shakespeare, whom some think a better poet than Ben--a quiet man who says little. I have seen him here before. 'Twas he wrote the piece we have seen this day. He has a share in the theatre of Blackfriars. Burbage, the actor, sits next to Shakespeare, and then Alleyn and Hemying opposite, and Henslowe. And there is John Marston, another poet." Alleyn it was who held the guitar. At this time he was in the prime of life, not yet forty, his face full of mobility and quickness. He ran his fingers carelessly over the notes, and then began to sing in a clear, high voice: "'Twas I that paid for all things, 'Twas others drank the wine; I cannot now recall things, Live but a fool to pine. 'Twas I that beat the bush, The bird to others flew! For she, alas! for she, alas! hath left me. Falero--lero--loo! "If ever that Dame Nature (For this false lover's sake) Another pleasant creature Like unto her would make, Let her remember this, To make the other twice! For this, alas! for this, alas! hath left me. Falero--lero--loo! "No riches now can raise me, No want make me despair; No misery amaze me, Nor yet for want I care. I have lost a World itself; My earthly Heaven, adieu! Since she, alas! since she, alas! hath left me. Falero--lero--loo!" "Sir," said the young gentleman, "'tis an excellent song well sung. I drink your health." This he did rising, and very courteously.