SIR THOMAS WYATT. I do not hear from Carew or the Duke Of Suffolk, and till then I should not move. The Duke hath gone to Leicester; Carew stirs In Devon: that fine porcelain Courtenay, Save that he fears he might be crack'd in using, (I have known a semi-madman in my time So fancy-ridd'n) should be in Devon too. _Enter_ WILLIAM. News abroad, William? WILLIAM. None so new, Sir Thomas, and none so old, Sir Thomas. No new news that Philip comes to wed Mary, no old news that all men hate it. Old Sir Thomas would have hated it. The bells are ringing at Maidstone. Doesn't your worship hear? WYATT. Ay, for the Saints are come to reign again. Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's no call As yet for me; so in this pause, before The mine be fired, it were a pious work To string my father's sonnets, left about Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order, And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine, To grace his memory. WILLIAM. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas? He was a fine courtier, he; Queen Anne loved him. All the women loved him. I loved him, I was in Spain with him. I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I hate Spain, Sir Thomas. WYATT. But thou could'st drink in Spain if I remember. WILLIAM. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas always granted the wine. WYATT. Hand me the casket with my father's sonnets. WILLIAM. Ay--sonnets--a fine courtier of the old Court, old Sir Thomas. [_Exit_. WYATT. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace, To read and rhyme in solitary fields, The lark above, the nightingale below, And answer them in song. The sire begets Not half his likeness in the son. I fail Where he was fullest: yet--to write it down. [_He writes_. _Re-enter_ WILLIAM. WILLIAM. There _is_ news, there _is_ news, and no call for sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand men on Penenden Heath all calling after your worship, and your worship's name heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the first man in Kent and Christendom, for the Queen's down, and the world's up, and your worship a-top of it. WYATT. Inverted Aesop--mountain out of mouse. Say for ten thousand ten--and pothouse knaves, Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale. _Enter_ ANTONY KNYVETT. WILLIAM. Here's Antony Knyvett. KNYVETT. Look you, Master Wyatt, Tear up that woman's work there. WYATT. No; not these, Dumb children of my father, that will speak When I and thou and all rebellions lie Dead bodies without voice. Song flies you know For ages. KNYVETT. Tut, your sonnet's a flying ant, Wing'd for a moment. WYATT. Well, for mine own work, [_Tearing the paper_. It lies there in six pieces at your feet; For all that I can carry it in my head. KNYVETT. If you can carry your head upon your shoulders.