This poet Shakespeare, whom I read with pleasure,
Wrote once--I think, in taking his own 'Measure':--
'They say best men are molded out of faults,
And, for the most, become much more the better
For being a little bad.' The reason halts:
If read between the lines--not by the letter--
'Tis plain enough that Shakespeare was atrimmin'
His own unruly ship and furling sail
To meet a British tempest or a gale,
And keep cold water from his wine and women.
Now I'll admit, when he's a little mellow,
The Devil himself's a devilish clever fellow,
And, though his cheeks and paunch are somewhat shrunk,
He only lacks a cowl to make a monk.
Time is the mother of twins _et hic et nunc;_
Come, hood your horns and fill the mug abrimmin',
For we are cheek by jowl on wit and wine and women."
And so the monk and Devil filled the mug,
And quaffed and chaffed and laughed the night away;
And when the "wee sma" hours of night had come,
The monk slipped out and stole the abbot's rum;
And when the abbot came at break of day,
There cheek by jowl--horns, hoofs, and hood--they lay,
With open missal and an empty jug,
And broken beads and badly battered mug--
In fond embrace--dead drunk upon the rug.
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