"Hold hard, Denholm!" quoth Alvaston. "There's too many sobs f'r sense. I don't object t' you groaning, I pa.s.s y'r pants, but you're getting y'r soul d.a.m.nably mixed wi' y'r sobs."

"Nay, 'tis a cry o' the soul, Alvaston," sighed Sir Jasper, "a very heart-throb, faith. Listen!"

"Sob, sob my soul sobs soulful night and day Till she in mercy shall thy pain allay Till all she rob And for thee throb Sob!"

"Curst affecting!" said the Captain, applauding with thumping wine-gla.s.s.

"Od gentlemen," cried Sir Benjamin as Sir Jasper sank back in his chair, "I do protest 'tis very infinite tender! It hath delicacy, pathos and a rhythm entirely its own. Denholm, I felicitate you heartily! And now, Alvaston, we call upon you!"

His lordship arose, stuck out a slender leg, viewed it with lazy approval, and unfolding a paper, recited therefrom as follows:

"Let the bird sing on the bough Th' ploughboy sing an' sweat But, while I can, I will avow Th' charms o' lovely Bet.

Let----"

"Hold!" commanded Sir Benjamin.

"Stop!" cried the Marquis. "Strike me everlastingly blue but I've got 'sweat' demme!"

"'S'heart, so have I!" exclaimed Mr. Marchdale with youthful indignation.

"Burn me!" sighed Alvaston, "seems we're all sweating! 'S unfortunate, curst disquietin' I'll admit, though I only sweat i' the first verse.

Le' me go on:"

"Let the parson----"

"Hold!" repeated Sir Benjamin. "Desist, Alvaston, I object to sweat, sir!"

"An' very natural too, Ben--Gad, I'll not forget you at th' churn! But to continue:"

"Let the parson pray----"

"Stay!" thundered Sir Benjamin. "Alvaston, sweat shall never do!"

"Why, Ben, why?"

"Because, first 'tis not a word poetic----"

"But I submit 'tis easy, Ben, an' very natural! Remember the churn Ben, the churn an' le' me get on. Faith! here we're keepin' my misfortunate parson on his knees whiles you boggle over a word! 'Sides if my 'sweat' 's disallowed you d.a.m.n Alton and Marchdale unheard!"

Hereupon, while Sir Benjamin shook protesting head, his lordship smoothed out his ma.n.u.script, frowned at it, turned it this way, turned it that, and continued:

"Let the parson pray and screech----"

"No, demme, 'tisn't 'screech'--here's a blot! Now what th' dooce--ha, 'preach' t' be sure----"

"Let the parson pray and preach And fat preferments get But, so long as I have speech-- I'll sing the charms o' Bet.

"Let the----"

"By th' way I take liberty t' call 'tention t' the fact that I begin 'n' end each canto wi' the same words, 'let' 'n' 'Bet.'"

"Let th' world go--round an' round The day be fine or wet, Take all that 'neath th' sun is found An' I'll take lovely Bet."

"Bravo Bob! Bravo! Simple and pointed! Haw!" quoth the Captain, hammering plaudits with his wine-gla.s.s again.

"'Tis not--not utterly devoid o' merits!" admitted Sir Benjamin judicially.

"Thank'ee humbly, my Benjamin!"

"Nay, but it hath points, Alvaston, especially towards the finality, though 'tis somewhat reminiscent of Mr. Waller."

"How so, sweet Ben?"

"In its climacteric thus, sir:"

"Give me but what this ribband bound Take all the rest the sun goes round."

"Egad Ben, I've never read a word o' the fool stuff in my life, so you're out there, burn me! And the bottle roosts with you, Alton.

Give it wings. Major d'Arcy sir--with you!"

"Marchdale," said Sir Benjamin, "our ears attend you!"

Mr. Marchdale rose, coughed, tossed back his love-locks, unfolded his ma.n.u.script and setting hand within gorgeous bosom read forth the following:

"Chaste hour, soft hour, O hour when first we met O blissful hour, my soul shall ne'er forget How, 'mid the rose and tender violet, Chaste, soft and sweet as rose, stood lovely Bet, Her wreath-ed hair like silky coronet O'er-wrought with wanton curls of blackest jet Each glistered curl a holy amulet; Her pearl-ed teeth her rosy lips did fret As they'd sweet spices been or ambergret, While o'er me stole her beauty like a net Wherein my heart was caught and pris'ner set A captive pent for love and not for debt, A captive that in prison pineth yet.

A captive knowing nothing of regret Nor uttering curse nor woeful epithet.

I pled my love, my brow grew hot, grew wet, While sweetly she did sigh and I did sweat."

"Sweat, Tony?" exclaimed the Marquis. "O dem! What for?"

"Because 'twas the only rhyme I had left, for sure!"

"Od, od's my life!" cried Sir Benjamin, "here we have poesy o' the purest, in diction chaste, in expression delicate, in----"

"Nay, but Tony sweats too, Ben!" protested Alvaston.

"No matter, sir, no matter--'tis a very triumph! So elegant! Od's body Marchdale, 'tis excellent--sir, your health!"

"Burn me, Ben, but if Tony may sweat why th' dooce----"