I am no poet, thank God! but I know what folks can do,
and what folks cannot do."
"Well, Silas," replied Sir Thomas, "after thy thanksgiving for being
no poet, let us have the rest of the piece."
"The rest!" quoth Master Silas. "When the ale hath done with its
humming, it is time, methinks, to dismiss it. Sir, there never was
any more; you might as well ask for more after Amen or the see of
Canterbury."
Sir Thomas was dissatisfied, and turned off the discourse; and
peradventure he grew more inclined to be gracious unto Willy from
the slight rub his chaplain had given him, were it only for the
contrariety. When he had collected his thoughts he was determined
to assert his supremacy on the score of poetry.
"Deans, I perceive, like other quality," said he, "cannot run on
long together. My friend, Sir Everard Starkeye, could never
overleap four bars. I remember but one composition of his, on a
young lady who mocked at his inconsistency, in calling her sometimes
his Grace and at other times his Muse.
'My Grace shall Fanny Carew be,
While here she deigns to stay;
And (ah, how sad the change for me!)
My Muse when far away!'
And when we laughed at him for turning his back upon her after the
fourth verse, all he could say for himself was, that he would rather
a game at ALL FOURS with Fanny, than OMBRE and PICQUET with the
finest furbelows in Christendom.
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