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. Song flies you know