GOLFATOR. Well met, honest Scholar. The birds have mated and reared their
young since last I saw you, and the summer is over and gone. How fares it
with you? Indifferent well, methinks, for I observed you to strike a ball
a few minutes since.
SCHOLAR. Truly, Master, this golf is a thing that is not come by quickly,
and I well nigh despair of mastering it.
GOLF. Then let me advise you to abandon it in season, that you may be
spared much vexation, and your friends many afflicting tales.
SCHOL. Nay, sir, I am resolved at any cost to lay hold of the secret, to
which end I have vowed the rest of my days.
GOLF. Truly, a worthy ambition. Now there be men that have vowed their
days to so futile a thing as the mapping of the farthest stars, which is
of small purpose compared with the mastering of this incomparable game.
Good luck to you then, honest Scholar.
SCHOL. Sir, what luck I have now and again is the fruit of such counsel
as you have given me, and I entreat you further to instruct me in the
art of striking the ball, that it may fly straight, and not match the
crescent of the young moon.
GOLF. Marry, sir, you will never bring off a skillful shot, save by
accident, until you put rhythm into your stroke; nor is aught else of
value achieved in this life save by rhythm. A sage once said that if
he but had his way he would write the word “Whim” above every man’s
door-way. Now, sir, in the place of this “Whim” I would write the word
“Rhythm.”
SCHOL. I take not your meaning, Master. What, in so many words, is this
priceless Rhythm?
GOLF. Marry, sir, he that could answer you in so many words would have
the tongue of all philosophy.