Did you not hear me say that I would give a quart of ale to see a poet ?" "A poet's face," said the man in grey, "should be common to all, even like that of the sun.

He is no true poet, who would keep his face from the world." "But," said I, "the sun frequently hides his head from the world, behind a cloud." "Not so," said the man in grey.

"The sun does not hide his face, it is the cloud that hides it.

The sun is always glad enough to be seen, and so is the poet.

If both are occasionally hid, trust me it is no fault of theirs.