That is old blind Moone again, fiddling in your dreams.

Once, when Will had called for sack

And bidden him up and play,

Old blind Moone, he turned his back,

Growled, and walked away,

Sailed into a thunder-cloud,

Snapped his fiddle-string,

And hobbled from The Mermaid

Sulky as a king.

Only from the darkness now, steals the strain we knew:

No one even knows his grave!

Only here and there a stave,

Out of all his hedge-row flock, be-drips the may with dew.

26

26

And I know not what wild bird

Carried us his parting word:—

Master Shakespeare needn’t take the crowder’s fiddle, too.

Will has wealth and wealth to spare.

Give him back his own.

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