sir, od's body--I protest----"

"So none o' your villainies Ben," sighed Alvaston, "no looseness,
coarseness, ribaldry or bawdry----"

"Blood and fury!" roared the exasperated Sir Benjamin, "I hope I'm
sufficiently a man of honour----"

"Quite, Ben, quite--the very pink!" nodded his lordship affably. "And
talkin' o' pink, the bottle stands, Marchdale! Fill, gentlemen. I
give you Ben, our blooming Benjamin and no heel-taps!"

The health was drunk with acclaim and Sir Benjamin, once more his
jovial and pompous self, proceeded:

"In writing these odes and sonnets we have all, I take it, depended
upon our mother--hem! our mother-wit and each followed his individual
fancy. I now take joy to summon Denholm to read to us his--ah--effort."

Sir Jasper rose, drew a paper from his bosom, sighed, languished with
his soulful eyes and read:

"Groan, groan my heart, yet in thy groaning joy
Since thou'rt deep-smit of Venus' blooming boy;
Till Sorrow's flown
And Joy's thine own
Groan!"

"Haw!" exclaimed the Captain, "very chaste! Doocid delicate!"

Sir Jasper bowed and continued:

"Pant, pant my heart, yet in thy panting ne'er
Let Doubt steal in to slay thee with despair;
But till Love grant
All heart doth want
Pant!"

"Gad!" said the Marquis, "you're doing a dem'd lot o' panting, Jasper!"

"I vow 'tis quaintly mournful!" nodded Sir Benjamin. "'Tis polished
and passionate!"

Again Sir Jasper bowed, and continued:

"Sob, sob my soul, sobs soul----"

"Hold hard, Denholm!" quoth Alvaston. "There's too many sobs f'r
sense. I don't object t' you groaning, I pass y'r pants, but you're
getting y'r soul damnably mixed wi' y'r sobs."

"Nay, 'tis a cry o' the soul, Alvaston," sighed Sir Jasper, "a very
heart-throb, faith. Listen!"

"Sob, sob my soul sobs soulful night and day
Till she in mercy shall thy pain allay
Till all she rob
And for thee throb
Sob!"

"Curst affecting!" said the Captain, applauding with thumping
wine-glass.

"Od gentlemen," cried Sir Benjamin as Sir Jasper sank back in his
chair, "I do protest 'tis very infinite tender! It hath delicacy,
pathos and a rhythm entirely its own. Denholm, I felicitate you
heartily! And now, Alvaston, we call upon you!"

His lordship arose, stuck out a slender leg, viewed it with lazy
approval, and unfolding a paper, recited therefrom as follows:

"Let the bird sing on the bough
Th' ploughboy sing an' sweat