And then he grew calmer and thought: It is not good, but it is as good as many. I cannot waste my whole life in longing for this man’s art and that man’s scope. If I am not made, why then I am not made; I return to my craft of glove-puppetry humbled. And then he walked the streets composing his epistle to the noble lord. It was far harder than any poem.

‘I know not how I shall offend . . .’ Spring waking in London, crude crosses still on the doors, but the wind blowing in the smell of grass and the ram-bell’s tinkle. Piemen and flower-seller’s cried. ‘. . . in dedicating my lines, no, my unpolished lines, to your lordship . . .’ From a barber-shop came the tuning of a lute and then the aching sweetness of treble song. ‘. . . nor how the world will rebuke, no, censure me for choosing so strong a prop . . .’ A kite overhead dropped a gobbet of human flesh. ‘. . . only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised . . .’ In a smoky tavern a bawdy catch was flung at the foul air. ‘. . . and vow to take advantage of all idle hours . . .’ Pickpurses strolled among the gawping country cousins. ‘. . . till I have honoured you with some grave labour . . .’ A limping child with a pig’s head leered out from an alleyway. ‘. . . But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed . . .’ A couple of Paul’s men swaggered by, going haw haw haw. ‘. . . I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather . . .’ Stale herrings smelled to heaven in a fishman’s basket. ‘. . . and never after ear so barren a land . . .’ A cart lurched, rounding a corner; wood splintered against stone. ‘. . . for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest . . .’ The sun, in sudden great glory, illumined white towers. ‘. . . I leave it to your honourable survey . . .’ A thin girl in rags begged, whining. ‘. . . and your honour to your heart’s content . . .’ An old soldier with one eye munched bread in a dark passage. ‘. . . which I wish may always answer your own wish . . .’ Skulls on Temple Bar. ‘. . . and the world’s hopeful expectation.’ A distant consort of brass -- cornets and sackbutts. ‘Your honour’s in all duty . . .’ A drayhorse farted. ‘. . . WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.’

(Norton ed., 1975), pp. 97-8