brethren of Greyfriars, who must often have gone in and out of this battered doorway. Let us add, to the credit of luckless Anne Boleyn, that she alone of all concerned had the grace to intercede with her royal tiger on the girl's behalf. There is a perhaps more attractive memory clinging to the place. In the seventeenth century here, for a time, lived Richard Lovelace, the handsomest man of his time--the Royalist poet who wrote two of the best songs in the language, the gay cavalier who died in want and despair because his lady-love, on his reported death, married another man. He may have written "Going to the Wars" in this very house--
"I could not love thee, dear, so much Loved I not honour more".
But "To Althea"--
"Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage",
he wrote while imprisoned by the House of Commons for presenting a Kentish Petition on behalf of King Charles.
While we are thinking of poets, and their not infrequent tendency (in the past) to a bad end