Old Sir Thomas would have hated it. The bells are ringing at
Maidstone. Doesn't your worship hear?

WYATT. Ay, for the Saints are come to reign again.
Most like it is a Saint's-day. There's no call
As yet for me; so in this pause, before
The mine be fired, it were a pious work
To string my father's sonnets, left about
Like loosely-scatter'd jewels, in fair order,
And head them with a lamer rhyme of mine,
To grace his memory.

WILLIAM. Ay, why not, Sir Thomas? He was a fine courtier, he; Queen
Anne loved him. All the women loved him. 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,