"_My tongue is weary: when my legs are too, I will bid you
good-night: and so kneel down before you; but indeed to pray for
the Queen._"
Play, epilogue, dance, all were over; the curtains drawn, the lanterns
hidden behind them. The cutpurse had slipped away, and the countryman
and apprentice found themselves side by side waiting while the gallery
dissolved its crowd into the fog.
"A brisk fellow," remarked the one, nodding at the vacant seat as he
stowed away his handkerchief. "But why should he guess me a rustic?"
"The fellow has no discernment," the apprentice answered dryly. "He
even took the play for a merry one."
The countryman peered forward into the young-old face silhouetted
against the glow which, cast upward and over the curtain-rod across the
stage, but faintly reached the gallery.
"I love wit, Sir, wherever I meet it. For a pint of sack you shall
prove me this play a sad one, and choose your tavern!"
"I thank you, but had liefer begin and discuss the epilogue: and the
epilogue is 'Who's to pay?'"
"A gentleman of Warwickshire, Master What-d'ye-lack--will that content
you? A gentleman of Warwickshire, with a coat-of-arms, or the College's
promise--which, I take it, amounts to the same thing." The countryman
puffed his cheeks.
"So-so?" The apprentice chuckled.
"_When we mean to build
We first survey the plot, then search our pockets._