Ben hath left us early this eve at the Mermaide. Your Will hath never observ’d him looke so worn, though Kit swears up-and-downe Ben doth always look so wearie. We inquir’d about his state, his eyes bearing heavy curtains of lid.
“’Tis that dogge and …cats,” Ben sighed.
“Your dog hath birthéd kits?” Kit mused.
“No,” growled Ben. “The cats hath birthed kits, and now the tom, seeing mother unburdened of the kits, doth yowl all through the nighte to woo her.”
“Ah,” your Will said. “And this doth drive your dogge mad.”
“’Tis not my dogge,” Ben snapped. “It doth tail me all about London.”
“Dogged by his dog,” Kit laughed.
“I sent the beast out to chase off cats, kits, and all—“
“You keep the cur in your lodging?” I asked. Kit and I didst exchange a smirk.
“I sent the beast out to chase off the tomcat,” Ben repeated, ignoring us. “After some time, and no bark, yet still hearing tomcat, I crept out to see what transpir’d.” Ben frowned and pointed to the dogge. “That creature, having no sense and no instinct for hunting, bear-bayting, or cats, I didst espie near the wall, slumbering undisturbéd with the kits as father cat continued to woo mother. Dost not marvel at this notion?! And yet this whole two dayes I hath not slept a winke.”
Kit howled. “What wilst thou do, Mastyr Jonson, when the cats welcome rats to thy abode? For it doth seem thy husbandry is wanting and the beasts do forget each his place.”
“Come, dogge,” Ben motioned. “Thou hath more sense than these two and art more witty in thy speech.” Then man, with dogge tailing, didst walk out into the night aire.