frost doth freese on

ev - 'ry hill, And Boreas blowes his breeches cost him but a crown, He held them six-pence

D

sayd un-to
thou art but

me qui-et-lye, Rise up, and save cow of low de-gree. 'Tis pride that pulls the

Crumbocke's life, coun-try down,

Man, put thine old cloake about thee.
Then take thine old cloake about thee.

were called "table-music." We have given an example of Morley's "Now is the Month of Maying," arranged for two voices in this manner. (See Chapter VI.) The book was laid on the table between the two singers, each of whom could read his part from his own side of the table, as they sat opposite each other.

We now quote a scene from "Twelfth Night," which may be regarded as the most typical one connected with the music of the tavern in all the works of Shakespeare, although it occurs, not in an inn, but in the house of Olivia. The reader will bear in mind what has already been stated regarding the loudness

of most of this music, and will readily comprehend the indignation of Olivia, Malvolio, and Maria. It is the third scene of the second act of the great comedy.

"Enter Clown.

Sir Andrew. Here comes the fool, i' faith.

Clown. How, now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of we three?

Sir Toby. Welcome, ass.

Now let's have a catch.

Sir Andrew. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool hath. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; 'twas very good, i' faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it?

Clown. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's nose is no whipstock: My lady has a white hand, and the myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.

Sir Andrew. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song.

Sir Toby. Come on; there is sixpence for you: let's have

a song.

Sir Andrew. There's a testril of me too; if one knight give a—

Clown. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life?

Sir Toby. A love-song, a love-song.

Sir Andrew. Ay, ay; I care not for good life.

SONG.

Clown. O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O, stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:

Trip no farther, pretty sweeting;
Journey's end in lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

Sir Andrew. Excellent good, i' faith!

Sir Toby. Good, good.

Clown. What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come, is still unsure:

In delay there lies no plenty;

Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty.

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Sir Andrew. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight.
Sir Toby. A contagious breath.

Sir Andrew. Very sweet and contagious, i' faith.

Sir Toby. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch, that will draw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do that?

I

Sir Andrew. An you love me, let's do't: I am a dog at a catch.

Clown. By'r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well.

Sir Andrew. Most certain: let our catch be, Thou knave.'

Clown. Hold thy peace, thou knave,' knight? I shall be constrain'd in't to call thee knave, knight.

Sir Andrew. 'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins, 'Hold thy peace.' Clown. I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.

'Schmidt says that the weavers in Elizabethan times were mostly refugees from the Netherlands, and therefore Calvinists, who were much addicted to psalm-singing.

Sir Andrew. Good, i' faith! Come, begin.

Enter MARIA.

[They sing a catch.

Maria. What a catterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward, Malvolio; and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me.

Sir Toby. My lady's a Cataian, we are politicians; Malvolio's a Peg-a-Ramsey, and Three merry men be we.' Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally, lady! There dwelt a man in Babylon, lady, lady!'

[Singing. Clown. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling. Sir Andrew. Ay, he does well enough, if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

Sir Toby.
Maria.

O, the twelfth day of December,' [Singing. For the love o' God, peace.

Enter MALVOLIO.

Malvolio. My masters, are you mad? or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do you make an alehouse of my lady's house, that ye squeak out your coziers' catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you?

Sir Toby. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up! Malvolio. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you, that, though she harbours you as her kinsman, she's nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, an it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell.

Sir Toby. Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone,'