!"

"Marchdale," said Sir Benjamin, "our ears attend you!"

Mr. Marchdale rose, coughed, tossed back his love-locks, unfolded his
manuscript and setting hand within gorgeous bosom read forth the
following:

"Chaste hour, soft hour, O hour when first we met
O blissful hour, my soul shall ne'er forget
How, 'mid the rose and tender violet,
Chaste, soft and sweet as rose, stood lovely Bet,
Her wreath-ed hair like silky coronet
O'er-wrought with wanton curls of blackest jet
Each glistered curl a holy amulet;
Her pearl-ed teeth her rosy lips did fret
As they'd sweet spices been or ambergret,
While o'er me stole her beauty like a net
Wherein my heart was caught and pris'ner set
A captive pent for love and not for debt,
A captive that in prison pineth yet.
A captive knowing nothing of regret
Nor uttering curse nor woeful epithet.
I pled my love, my brow grew hot, grew wet,
While sweetly she did sigh and I did sweat."

"Sweat, Tony?" exclaimed the Marquis. "O dem! What for?"

"Because 'twas the only rhyme I had left, for sure!"

"Od, od's my life!" cried Sir Benjamin, "here we have poesy o' the
purest, in diction chaste, in expression delicate, in----"

"Nay, but Tony sweats too, Ben!" protested Alvaston.

"No matter, sir, no matter--'tis a very triumph! So elegant! Od's
body Marchdale, 'tis excellent--sir, your health!"

"Burn me, Ben, but if Tony may sweat why th' dooce----"

"Major d'Arcy sir, I charge to you!" Hereupon Sir Benjamin filled and
bowed, the Major did the same, and they drank together.

"But Ben," persisted Alvaston, "if Tony----"

"West, the floor and our attention are yours, sir!"

The Captain rose, shot his ruffles, squared his shoulders and read:

"Warble ye songsters of the grove--haw!
Warble of her that is my love
Where'er on pinions light ye rove
Haw!
Ye feathered songsters--warble.

"Warble ye heralds of the--haw!--the air
Warble her charms beyond compare
Warble here and warble there
Haw!
Ye feathered songsters--warble.
Warble, warble on the spray
Warble night and warble day
Warble, warble whiles ye may
Haw!
Ye feathered songsters--warble."

"A pretty thing!" nodded Sir Benjamin, "'tis light, 'tis
graceful--easy, flowing, and full of----"

"Warbles!" murmured Alvaston.

"'Tis a musical word, sir, and what is poesy but word-music? I commend
'warble' heartily--we all do, I think."

Here a chorus of