sudden in its matchless might, taking mine own life with violence,
rending my weak frame like rotten rags. It was not I, your maisty.
Ye Queene.–O’ God’s name, who hath favored us? Hath it come to pass yt
a fart shall fart itself? Not such a one as this, I trow. Young Master
Beaumont–but no; ‘twould have wafted him to heaven like down of goose’s
boddy. ‘Twas not ye little Lady Helen–nay, ne’er blush, my child;
thoul’t tickle thy tender maidenhedde with many a mousie-squeak before
thou learnest to blow a harricane like this. Wasn’t you, my learned and
ingenious Jonson?
Jonson.–So fell a blast hath ne’er mine ears saluted, nor yet a stench
so all-pervading and immortal. ‘Twas not a novice did it, good your
maisty, but one of veteran experience–else hadde he failed of
confidence. In sooth it was not I.
Ye Queene.–My lord Bacon?
Lord Bacon.-Not from my leane entrailes hath this prodigy burst forth, so
please your grace. Naught doth so befit ye grete as grete performance;
and haply shall ye finde yt ’tis not from mediocrity this miracle hath
issued.
[Tho’ ye subjoct be but a fart, yet will this tedious sink of learning
pondrously phillosophize. Meantime did the foul and deadly stink pervade
all places to that degree, yt never smelt I ye like, yet dare I not to
leave ye presence, albeit I was like to suffocate.]
Ye Queene.–What saith ye worshipful Master Shaxpur?
Shaxpur.–In the great hand of God I stand and so proclaim mine
innocence. Though ye sinless hosts of heaven had foretold ye coming of
this most desolating breath, proclaiming it a work of uninspired man, its
quaking thunders, its firmament-clogging rottenness his own achievement
in due course of nature, yet had not I believed it; but had said the pit
itself hath furnished forth the stink, and heaven’s artillery hath shook
the globe in admiration of it.
[Then was there a silence, and each did turn him toward the worshipful
Sr Walter Ralegh, that browned, embattled, bloody swashbuckler, who
rising up did smile, and simpering say,]
Sr W.–Most gracious maisty, ’twas I that did it, but indeed it was so
poor and frail a note, compared with such as I am wont to furnish, yt in
sooth I was ashamed to call the weakling mine in so august a presence.
It was nothing–less than nothing, madam–I did it but to clear my nether
throat; but had I come prepared, then had I delivered something worthy.
Bear with me, please your grace, till I can make amends.
[Then delivered he himself of such a godless and rock-shivering blast
that all were fain to stop their ears, and following it did come so dense
and foul a stink that that which went before did seem a poor and trifling
thing beside it. Then saith he, feigning that he blushed and was
confused, I perceive that I am weak to-day, and cannot justice do unto my
powers; and sat him down as who should say, There, it is not much yet he
that hath an arse to spare, let him fellow that, an’ he think he can. By
God, an’ I were ye queene, I would e’en tip this swaggering braggart out
o’ the court, and let him air his grandeurs and break his intolerable
wind before ye deaf and such as suffocation pleaseth.]
Then fell they to talk about ye manners and customs of many peoples, and
Master Shaxpur spake of ye boke of ye sieur Michael de Montaine, wherein
was mention of ye custom of widows of Perigord to wear uppon ye
headdress, in sign of widowhood, a jewel in ye similitude of a man’s
member wilted and limber, whereat ye queene did laugh and say widows in
England doe wear prickes too, but betwixt the thighs, and not wilted
neither, till coition hath done that office for them. Master Shaxpur did
likewise observe how yt ye sieur de Montaine hath also spoken of a
certain emperor of such mighty prowess that he did take ten maidenheddes
in ye compass of a single night, ye while his empress did entertain two
and twenty lusty knights between her sheetes, yet was not satisfied;