WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE PEDAGOGUE AND POACHER SCENE I. SIR THOMAS Lucy's parlour at Charlcote. SIR THOMAS seated in an elbow chair, turned somewhat aside from the head of the table. LADY LUCY seated near him. MOLES standing near the door. SIR THOMAS LUCY. The bended back beseems the baser birth Incurve thy chine with meet humility, Then in a standing posture list to me. MOLES [bowing awkwardly]. Aye, aye, Sir Thomas. SIR THOMAS LUCY. Know, rude forester, There's something rotten in the state of Charlcote. Sound stands the mansion still, 't is true, with roof Impervious to the beams and rains of heaven, Or portalled lodge, or zone of stately trees; The thicket blooms and fruits; nor hath the plough But where the sylvan people? Where the troops Is emptier than the forest avenue, Where still a remnant lingers, which dislodged, All should be dire depopulation. Whence, in the name of Zernebock, this nuisance ! [Rises and approaches MOLES. Storms the Wild Huntsman with his swarthy pack Along my woodland alleys? Do the hounds That erst with horrid fangs Actæon tore Seek in these shades a quadrupedal prey? Say, doth the broom-bestriding sorceress, Her skinny arms round the reluctant deer, Burst from the brake and scour adown the glade, [MOLES scratches his head. LADY LUCY. Truly, Sir Thomas, you have dazed the man, Crushing with flowery opulence of phrase His weak intelligence, as she of Naxos Perished 'neath garlands heaped to honour her. SIR THOMAS LUCY. Have I then, aiming at a lowly mark, Despatched my arrow toward the skies? Yet, rustic, Haply thou deem'st the gold of my discourse By thee with diamond should be repaid: O no! the pebble shall serve well enough. More than a spinster. Yet, who wotteth not Of some forgotten nook, some cornered cranny, Where even I, our Stratford's Pittacus, Must grope without his eyes? Thy special sphere Is vermin, as avoucheth my barn-door, With hawk and stoat thick tapestried by thee. I hold thee then well seen in venery, Dodona's oak, or Libyan Ammon's shrine. This trouble's candle and extinguisher. What bane our board of venison bereaves? MOLES. Sir Thomas, I be thinking it be thieves. SIR THOMAS LUCY. Rehearse the villains' appellations. MOLES. There is but one, his name is Everybody. Each pounces on whatever he can find, Wood, wheat, wool, poultry, hare and hart and hind. SIR THOMAS LUCY. Yet must thou their iniquity bewray, And shine the Phosphor of their reckoning day: If frank, thy tongue my treasury unlocks: If stockish, steel thy legs against the stocks. |