The record-union., 1892-02-04
THE OLD FALCON TAVERN.
A ConviviaI Evening With Shakespeare
and Ben .JonSon.

ST doubt not,' said Stow, ''that we
have here-'tis the Falcon Tavern-a
company of wits and poets and players.
Let us tarry but the drinking of a single
flask. 1t may be, unless their tongues
are more free than is seemingly, that we
shall be rewarded"
The Falcon Inn stood at the Western
end of the Bank Side, at the head of the
Falcon stairs. In front a small garden
stretched out toward the river. Part of
the garden was an arbor, formed by
vine raised on poles, so as to form ROOF
OF leaves. Here was table placed, and
round the table q company OF ten or
dozen. At the head of the table was
young man richly dressed. Behind him
stood two servants. At his right sat
man of about thirty, of large frame and
already corpulent, his brown hair short
and curly, his beard cut short, his eyes
slngularly bright.
'"TiS Ben Jonson," whispered Stow.
"Let us sit here, without the arbor, so
that we can drink and listen. Ben is but
lately out of prison, where he was cast
for writing reflections on the Scottish ma
ton. Twas said that he would lose his
ears and have his nose slit, but the King
showed mercy. He at the head OF the
table is some young nobleman, patron OF
poets, but, alas, l live now so retired that
know not his name. On the left OF him
is William Shakespeare, whom some
think better poet than Ben-a quiet man,
who SAYS little. / have seen him here
before Twas he wrote the piece we have
seen this day. He has share in the
theater of Blackfriars. Burbage the actor
sits next to Shakespeare, and then Alleyn
and Hemyng opposite, ana Henslowe.
And there is john Marston, another
poet"
Alleyn it was who held the guitar. At
this time he was in the prime Of life, not
yet 10, his face full of mobility and quick
ness. He ran his fingers carelessly over
the notes, and then began to sing III d
clear, high voice:
Twas that paid for all things;
Twas others drank the wine.
I cannot now recall things;
Live but Il fool TO pine.
Twas that beat the bush;
The bird to others flew!
For she, alas for she, alas! hath lett me.
talerO-lerO-lOOi
Ifever that Dame Nature
(tor this false lovers Sake)
Another pleasant creature
Like unto her would make,
Let her remember this:
TO make the other tWicei
For this alas for this, alas! hath left me.
Ealero-ieFO-Ioo!
No riches now can raise me,
No want make me despair;
No misery amaze me
Nor yet for want | care.
l have lost a world itself;
My earthly heaven, ,adiedi
Since she, alas! since she, alas hath left me.
Faiero-IeTO-lOo!
''Sir," said the young gentleman, "'tis
an excellent song, well sung. | drink
your health"
This he did, rising, and very courte-
ously.
Now in the talk that followed l OBJ
served that while the PLAYERS amused by
| .l.,fTV xJx.tr L., -
| laughter by what he said, speaking in
language which belongs to scholars and
TO books, and that Shakespeare sat for the
most part in silence, yet not III the silence
of blockhead in the presence of wits,
and when he spoke it was to the purpose.
Also | remarked that the guitar passed
! from hand to hand, and that everybody
could play and sing, and that the bold
ness of the talk showed the freedom of
their minds. Who can repeat the unre-
strained conversation of a tavern COM
pany? Nay, sinbe some of them were
more than merry with wine, it would be
an Ill turn to set down what they said.
We drank our cups and listened TO the
talk.
Presently Ben Jonson himself sang
one Of his own songs, in rough, but not
unmelodious voice:
Follow a shadow, it still flies you;
Seem to fly il, it will pursue
So court mistress she denies you;
Let her alone. she will court you.
Say, are not the women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of us men?
At morn or even shades are longest;
At noon they are or short or none.
SO men at weakest, they are strongest;
But grant us perfect, they're not known.
say. are not women truly, then,
Styled but the shadows of The men?
! We came away about sunset, or near
/ half-past in the evening. Some of the
company were by this time merry with
! their wine, and as we rose one began to
| brawl an old tavern ditty, drumming on
the wood of the guitar with his knuckles:
There was d eve had three lambs,
And one of them was blacke;
There was man had three sons,
Jeffrey, James and Jack.
The one was hanged, the other drownd;
The third was lost anu never found;
The old man he fell in a sound
Come NIL US a cup OF sacke.
Walter Besant, in Harper's Magazine.