“May I gaze upon thee when my latest hour is come!  May I hold thy hand when mine faileth me!”

This, if adumbrating the church, is the most beautiful thought that ever issued from the heart of man; but if addressed to a wanton, as some do opine, is filth from the sink, nauseating and insufferable.

“’William! that which moveth the heart most is the best poetry; it comes nearest unto God, the source of all power.’”

Sir Thomas.

“Yea; and he appeareth unto me to know more of poetry than of divinity.  Those ancients have little flesh upon the body poetical, and lack the savour that sufficeth.  The Song of Solomon drowns all their voices:  they seem but whistlers and guitar-players compared to a full-cheeked trumpeter; they standing under the eaves in some dark lane, he upon a well-caparisoned stallion, tossing his mane and all his ribbons to the sun.  I doubt the doctor spake too fondly of the Greeks; they were giddy creatures.  William, I am loath to be hard on them; but they please me not.  There are those now living who could make them bite their nails to the quick, and turn green as grass with envy.”

William Shakspeare.

“Sir, one of those Greeks, methinks, thrown into the pickle-pot, would be a treasure to the housewife’s young jerkins.”

Sir Thomas.

“Simpleton! simpleton! but thou valuest them justly.  Now attend.  If ever thou shouldst hear, at Oxford or London, the verses I am about to repeat, prithee do not communicate them to that fiery spirit Mat Atterend.  It might not be the battle of two hundreds, but two counties; a sort of York and Lancaster war, whereof I would wash my hands.  Listen!”

And now did Sir Thomas clear his voice, always high and sonorous, and did repeat from the stores of his memory these rich and proud verses, —

“’Chloe! mean men must ever make mean loves;
They deal in dog-roses, but I in cloves. 
They are just scorch’d enough to blow their fingers;
I am a phoenix downright burnt to cinders.’”

At which noble conceits, so far above what poor Bill had ever imagined, he lifted up his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, —

“The world itself must be reduced to that condition before such glorious verses die!  Chloe and clove!  Why, sir!  Chloe wants but a V toward the tail to become the very thing!  Never tell me that such matters can come about of themselves.  And how truly is it said that we mean men deal in dog-roses.

“Sir, if it were permitted me to swear on that holy Bible, I would swear I never until this day heard that dog-roses were our provender; and yet did I, no longer ago than last summer, write, not indeed upon a dog-rose, but upon a sweet-briar, what would only serve to rinse the mouth withal after the clove.”

Sir Thomas.

“Repeat the same, youth.  We may haply give thee our counsel thereupon.”