The sire begets
Not half his likeness in the son.
Not half his likeness in the son.
Tennyson
I loved him, I was in Spain
with him. I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I hate
Spain, Sir Thomas.
WYATT. But thou could'st drink in Spain if I remember.
WILLIAM. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas always
granted the wine.
WYATT. Hand me the casket with my father's sonnets.
WILLIAM. Ay--sonnets--a fine courtier of the old Court, old Sir
Thomas. [_Exit_.
WYATT. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more
His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace,
To read and rhyme in solitary fields,
The lark above, the nightingale below,
And answer them in song.
The sire begets
Not half his likeness in the son. I fail
Where he was fullest: yet--to write it down.
[_He writes_.
_Re-enter_ WILLIAM.
WILLIAM. There _is_ news, there _is_ news, and no call for
sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand
men on Penenden Heath all calling after your worship, and your
worship's name heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the first
man in Kent and Christendom, for the Queen's down, and the world's up,
and your worship a-top of it.
WYATT. Inverted Aesop--mountain out of mouse.
Say for ten thousand ten--and pothouse knaves,
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale.
_Enter_ ANTONY KNYVETT.
WILLIAM. Here's Antony Knyvett.
KNYVETT. Look you, Master Wyatt,
Tear up that woman's work there.
WYATT. No; not these,
Dumb children of my father, that will speak
When I and thou and all rebellions lie
Dead bodies without voice.
with him. I couldn't eat in Spain, I couldn't sleep in Spain. I hate
Spain, Sir Thomas.
WYATT. But thou could'st drink in Spain if I remember.
WILLIAM. Sir Thomas, we may grant the wine. Old Sir Thomas always
granted the wine.
WYATT. Hand me the casket with my father's sonnets.
WILLIAM. Ay--sonnets--a fine courtier of the old Court, old Sir
Thomas. [_Exit_.
WYATT. Courtier of many courts, he loved the more
His own gray towers, plain life and letter'd peace,
To read and rhyme in solitary fields,
The lark above, the nightingale below,
And answer them in song.
The sire begets
Not half his likeness in the son. I fail
Where he was fullest: yet--to write it down.
[_He writes_.
_Re-enter_ WILLIAM.
WILLIAM. There _is_ news, there _is_ news, and no call for
sonnet-sorting now, nor for sonnet-making either, but ten thousand
men on Penenden Heath all calling after your worship, and your
worship's name heard into Maidstone market, and your worship the first
man in Kent and Christendom, for the Queen's down, and the world's up,
and your worship a-top of it.
WYATT. Inverted Aesop--mountain out of mouse.
Say for ten thousand ten--and pothouse knaves,
Brain-dizzied with a draught of morning ale.
_Enter_ ANTONY KNYVETT.
WILLIAM. Here's Antony Knyvett.
KNYVETT. Look you, Master Wyatt,
Tear up that woman's work there.
WYATT. No; not these,
Dumb children of my father, that will speak
When I and thou and all rebellions lie
Dead bodies without voice.
