I found her foot-prints in the grass, just where she stood and saw me pass. I stood within her own sweet field and waited for my may. I laughed. The dance has turned about! I stand within: she'll pass without, And--_down the road the wedding came, the road I danced that day_!
_I saw the wedding-folk go by, with laughter and with minstrelsy, I gazed across her own sweet hedge, I caught her happy smile, I saw the tall young butcher pass to little red-roofed Sudbury, His bride upon his arm, my lost companion of a mile._
Down from his table leapt the motley Fool. His bladder bounced from head to ducking head, His crackling laugh rang high,--"Sir John, I danced In February, and the song says May! A fig for all your poets, liars all! Away to Fenchurch Street, lasses and lads, They hold high revel there this May-day morn. Away!" The mad-cap throng echoed the cry. He drove them with his bauble through the door; Then, as the last gay kerchief fluttered out He gave one little sharp sad lingering cry As of a lute-string breaking. He turned back
And threw himself along a low dark bench; His jingling cap was crumpled in his fist, And, as he lay there, all along Cheapside The happy voices of his comrades rang:--
Out of the woods we'll dance and sing Under the morning-star of Spring, Into the town with our fresh boughs And knock at every sleeping house, Not sighing, Or crying, Though Love knows no denying! Then, round your summer queen and king, Come, young lovers, dance and sing, Dance and sing!
His motley shoulders heaved. I touched his arm, "What ails you, sir?" He raised his thin white face, Wet with the May-dew still. A few stray petals Clung in his tangled hair. He leapt to his feet, "'Twas February, but I danced, boy, danced In May! Can you do this?" Forward he bent Over his feet, and shuffled it, heel and toe, Out of the Mermaid, singing his old song--
A-maying, A-playing, For Love knows no gain-saying! Wisdom trips not? Even so,-- Come, young lovers, trip and go, Trip and go.
Five minutes later, over the roaring Strand, "_Chorus!_" I heard him crow, and half the town Reeled into music under his crimson comb.
Gods, what a hubbub shook our cobwebs out The day that Chapman, Marston and our Ben Waited in Newgate for the hangman's hands.