D. Not much. New-Place is sold,

And Willy Shakespeare's bought it, so I'm told.

G. What! little Willy Shakespeare bought the Place? Lord bless us, how young folk gets on apace!

Sir Hugh's great house beside the grammar-school!—
This Shakespeare's (take my word upon't) no fool.
I minds him sin' he were so high's my knee;
A stirrin' little mischief chap was he;

One day I cotched him peltin' o' my geese
Below the church: "You let 'en swim in peace,
"Young dog!" I says, or I shall fling thee in."
Will was on t'other bank, and did but grin,
And call out, "Sir, you come across to here!"
D. I knows old John this five and thirty year.
In old times many a cup he made me drink;
But Willy weren't aborn then, I don't think,
Or might a' been a babe on's mother's arm,
When I did cart 'en fleeces from our farm.
I went a coortin' then, in Avon-Lane,
And, tho' bit further, I was always fain
To bring my cart thereby, upon a chance
To catch some foolish little nod or glance,
Or "
meet me, Mary, wont 'ee, Charlcote way,
"Or down at Clopton Bridge, next holiday?"-
Health, Master Grunsey.

G. Thank'ee, friend. 'Tis hot.

We might do warse than call another pot.

Good Mistress Nan! Will Shakespeare, troth, I knew; A nimble curly-pate, and pretty too,

About the street; he growed an idle lad,

And like enough, 'twas thought, to turn out bad:

I don't justly fairly know, but folk did say
He vexed the Lucys, and so fleed away.

D. He's warth as much as Tanner Twigg to day; And all by plays in Lunnon.

G. Folk talks big:

Will Shakespeare warth as much as Tanner Twigg-
Tut tut! Is Will a player-man by trade?

D. O' course he is, o' course he is; and made
A woundy heap o' money too, and bought
A playhouse for himself like, out and out;
And makes up plays, beside, for 'en to act;
Tho' I can't tell thee rightly, for a fact,

If out o' books or his own head it be.
We've other work to think on, thee and me.
They say Will's doin' finely, howsomever.

G. Why, Dodd, the little chap was always clever.
I don't know nothing now o' such-like toys;
New fashions plenty, mun, sin' we were boys;
We used to ha' rare mummings, puppet-shows,
And Moralties,-they can't much better those.
The Death of Judas was a pretty thing,
"So-la! so-la!" the Divil used to sing.

But time goes on, for sure, and fashion alters.

D. Up at the Crown, last night, says young Jack Walters,

What does it count for, when all's done and said?

Ah! who'll obey, let Will say

"Come" or

66 Go?"

Such-like as him don't reckon much, I trow.
Sir, they shall travel first, like thee and me,
See Lunnon, to find out what great men be.
Ay, marry, must they. Saints! to see the Court
Take water down to Greenwich; there's fine sport!
Her Highness in her frills and puffs and pearls,

Barons, and lords, and chamberlains, and earls,
So thick as midges round her, -look at such
An' thou wouldst talk of greatness! why, the touch
Is on their stewards and lackeys, Goodman Dodd,
Who'll hardly answer Shakespeare wi' a nod,
And let him come, doffed cap and bended knee.
We knows a trifle, neighbour, thee and me.

D. We may, Sir, This here's grand old Stratford brew; No better yale in Lunnon, search it through. New-Place ben't no such bargain, when all's done; 'Twas dear, I knows it.

G. Thou bought'st better, mun,

At Hoggin Fields: all ain't alike in skill.

D. Thanks to the Lord above! I've not done ill.
No more has thee, friend Grunsey, in thy trade.

G. So-so. But here's young Will wi' money made,
And money saved; whereon I sets him down,
Say else who likes, a credit to the town;

Though some do shake their heads at player-folk.
D. A very civil man, to chat and joke;

I've ofttimes had a bit o' talk wi' Will.

G. How doth old Master Shakespeare?

D. Bravely still.

And so doth madam too, the comely dame.

G. And Willy's wife-what used to be her name?
D. Why, Hathaway, fro' down by Shottery gate.

I don't think she's so much about o' late.

Their son, thou see'st, the only son they had,
Died last year, and she took on dreadful bad;
And so the fayther did awhile, I'm told.
This boy o' theirs was nine or ten year old.
-Willy himself may bide here now, mayhap.

G. He always was a clever little chap.

I'm glad o' his luck, an' 'twere for old John's sake.

Your arm, sweet Sir.

Oh, how my legs do ache!

THESE LITTLE SONGS.

THESE little Songs,

Found here and there,

Single, or throngs,

Floating in air,

Springing from lea,
Or hid in the sea,-
Somehow or other
Have come together,

I can't tell how,

But certainly know

It never was wit on an inkstand begot 'em ;
Remember the place

And moment of grace,

Summer or winter, spring-time or autumn,

By sun, moon, stars,
Or a coal in the bars,
In market or church,
Graveyard or dance,

When they came without search,

Were found as by chance.

A word, a line,

You may say are mine;

But the best in the songs,

Whatever it be,

To you, and to me,

And to no one belongs.

William Morris.

THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE.

B

UT, knowing now that they would have her speak,

She threw her wet hair backward from her brow, Her hand close to her mouth touching her cheek,

As though she had had there a shameful blow,
And feeling it shameful to feel ought but shame
All through her heart, yet felt her cheek burned so,

She must a little touch it; like one lame

She walked away from Gauwaine, with her head
Still lifted up; and on her cheek of flame

The tears dried quick; she stopped at last and said: "O knights and lords, it seems but little skill

To talk of well-known things past now and dead.

"God wot I ought to say, I have done ill, And pray you all forgiveness heartily!

Because you must be right such great lords-still

66

Listen, suppose your time were come to die,
And you were quite alone and very weak;
Yea, laid a dying while very mightily

"The wind was ruffling up the narrow streak
Of river through your broad lands running well :
Suppose a hush should come, then some one speak.

"One of these cloths is heaven, and one is hell,
Now choose one cloth forever, which they be,
I will not tell you, you must somehow tell