Well, sir, “come what come might,” I stole under cover of the darkness to the dwelling of my dulcinea.  All was quiet.  At the concerted signal her window was gently opened.  It was just above the projecting bow-window of her father’s shop, which assisted me in mounting.  The house was low, and I was enabled to scale the fortress with tolerable ease.  I clambered with a beating heart; I reached the casement; I hoisted my body half into the chamber and was welcomed, not by the embraces of my expecting fair one, but by the grasp of the crabbed-looking old father in the crisp curled wig.

I extricated myself from his clutches and endeavored to make my retreat; but I was confounded by his cries of thieves! and robbers!  I was bothered, too, by his Sunday cane; which was amazingly busy about my head as I descended; and against which my hat was but a poor protection.  Never before had I an idea of the activity of an old man’s arm, and hardness of the knob of an ivory-headed cane.  In my hurry and confusion I missed my footing, and fell sprawling on the pavement.  I was immediately surrounded by myrmidons, who I doubt not were on the watch for me.  Indeed, I was in no situation to escape, for I had sprained my ankle in the fall, and could not stand.  I was seized as a housebreaker; and to exonerate myself from a greater crime I had to accuse myself of a less.  I made known who I was, and why I came there.  Alas! the varlets knew it already, and were only amusing themselves at my expense.  My perfidious muse had been playing me one of her slippery tricks.  The old curmudgeon of a father had found my sonnets and acrostics hid away in holes and corners of his shop; he had no taste for poetry like his daughter, and had instituted a rigorous though silent observation.  He had moused upon our letters; detected the ladder of ropes, and prepared everything for my reception.  Thus was I ever doomed to be led into scrapes by the muse.  Let no man henceforth carry on a secret amour in poetry.

The old man’s ire was in some measure appeased by the pummelling of my head, and the anguish of my sprain; so he did not put me to death on the spot.  He was even humane enough to furnish a shutter, on which I was carried back to the college like a wounded warrior.  The porter was roused to admit me; the college gate was thrown open for my entry; the affair was blazed abroad the next morning, and became the joke of the college from the buttery to the hall.

I had leisure to repent during several weeks’ confinement by my sprain, which I passed in translating Boethius’ Consolations of Philosophy.  I received a most tender and ill-spelled letter from my mistress, who had been sent to a relation in Coventry.  She protested her innocence of my misfortunes, and vowed to be true to me “till death.”  I took no notice of the letter, for I was cured, for the present, both of love and poetry.  Women, however, are more constant in their attachments than