“Ah, sir,” said Bill, in all humility, “I would make bold to put the parings of that quince under my pillow, for sweet dreams and insights, if Doctor Glaston had given me encouragement to continue the pursuit of poetry.  Of a surety it would bless me with a bedful of churches and crucifixions, duly adumbrated.”

Whereat Sir Thomas, shaking his head, did inform him, —

“It was in the golden age of the world, as pagans call it, that poets of condition sent fruits and flowers to their beloved, with posies fairly penned.  We, in our days, have done the like.  But manners of late are much corrupted on the one side, if not on both.

“Willy! it hath been whispered that there be those who would rather have a piece of brocade or velvet for a stomacher than the touchingest copy of verses, with a bleeding heart at the bottom.”

William Shakspeare.

“Incredible!”

Sir Thomas.

“’T is even so!”

William Shakspeare.

“They must surely be rotten fragments of the world before the flood,—­saved out of it by the devil.”

Sir Thomas.

“I am not of that mind.

“Their eyes, mayhap, fell upon some of the bravery cast ashore from the Spanish Armada.  In ancienter days, a few pages of good poetry outvalued a whole ell of the finest Genoa.”

William Shakspeare.

“When will such days return?”

Sir Thomas.

“It is only within these few years that corruption and avarice have made such ghastly strides.  They always did exist, but were gentler.

“My youth is waning, and has been nigh upon these seven years, I being now in my forty-eighth.”

William Shakspeare.

“I have understood that the god of poetry is in the enjoyment of eternal youth; I was ignorant that his sons were.”

Sir Thomas.

“No, child! we are hale and comely, but must go the way of all flesh.”

William Shakspeare.

“Must it, can it, be?”

Sir Thomas.

“Time was, my smallest gifts were acceptable, as thus recorded:-

“From my fair hand, O will ye, will ye
Deign humbly to accept a gilly-
   Flower for thy bosom, sugared maid!

“Scarce had I said it ere she took it,
And in a twinkling, faith! had stuck it,
   Where e’en proud knighthood might have laid.”

William was now quite unable to contain himself, and seemed utterly to have forgotten the grievous charge against him; to such a pitch did his joy o’erleap his jeopardy.