University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The Butlery opening into the Great Hall.
Barnabas—Peter the Butler, and Ralph, with other servants passing through.
RALPH.
The widow's eyes, to-day, were dry as mine.
I fain would see so stout a leading staff
In hands as strong as those which used to hold it.

BARNABAS.
Together they were over much for me.
This leading staff was held in partnership;
And she would rather grip the nether end,
Than loose the whole of it. Dry-eyed, Sir Pantler!
It has made mine make water many a time.
But get thee to thy cellarage again—
Builth's people will have service.

PETER.
Wine for grooms
Wine for Builth's foresters!

BARNABAS.
Ay, so they say.

PETER.
Not drink metheglin in the barbican?

BARNABAS.
They will no more of it; but lift their cry
For Bordelais or Rhenish. Five-hooped stoops
Are empty ere they well have laid the dust
Of such fierce dog-day drouth and sultriness.
Tis five times worse with single jacks. Send down
And broach the triple-butt lodged last of all:
It hath an ancient smatch of Bordilais,
And sundry other kinds, beside crab verjuice.

PETER.
Bid Job be ready with his yokes and measures.
The thirteenth table Rhenish! We jog on
Towards last year's plenishment apace.

BARNABAS.
There needs
Such thirsty haste to keep abreast their eating.
Both ways the Lord of Builth does mightily;
He sits beneath his tester like a prince—
Sir Philip and Sir Andrew either side him.
Fain would they make the burial end of all
Like meat, drink, care, or sorrow.

RALPH.
Hast spiced the bowls?
We must have quarter-tons for buttery service.

PETER.
Who notched the second tale of three-score flagons?

BARNABAS.
I did count these, and then surceased awhile,
Being out of heart and tallies. Geoffrey Builth
Has got the canopy above his poll,
And rules amongst the mourners merrily.
He followed, since the noon, his uncle's bier;
And now he fills his seat with broader haunches,
Thinking no more what brought him here to-day,
Than I of Hardicanute.

PETER.
But where is Mahel?

RALPH.
At prayers belike, with Stephen, in his closet.
Sirs, shall I speak the truth of him, or lie—
Or hold my tongue—or how? This nursling Earl
Is but a babe of two-and-twenty years.
So harmless is he, artless, peaceful, patient—
Of such fair carriage, and such good report,
That he is good for nothing.

PETER.
Why so, gossip?
Because he feasts not here to-day with Builth?
Fitzwalter might have done as son-in-law,
But neither sons or brothers used to do:
Then wherefore good for nothing?

RALPH.
Look abroad—
Our herbs, in field and garden, thrive the best,
Connaturally with clime, and soil, and season:
But sometimes well enough by cheating nature
With feigned conformity, till changed indeed
Through that which renders use as strong as she.
So must we men, to prosper. These are times
For rough and ready hands, like Geoffrey Builth's:
And he who has them not should seem to have.
Our new Earl's sire raised his both high and oft,
But not in prayer.

BARNABAS.
Thou dost with all thy might,
Both pray and preach 'gainst grace and godliness.
Clerk Satan sits at hand to say amen!
Great subterranean doctrines, Pantler Ralph!
These herbs of thine are hot.

RALPH.
Canst answer me?

BARNABAS.
Not I—nor care to mix amongst such simples.
Till better furnished with an ell-long spoon,
I shall forbear thy pottage. If our calf
Have too much milk at present in his mouth,
He did not draw it from the cow that bare him,
Nor has he grazed upon these plants of thine.

PETER.
The guests are up! hark! bustle both of ye!

(Exeunt.