Tell'th how Duke Jocelyn of love did sing,
And haughty knight in lily-pool did fling.

Upon a morn, when dewy flowers fresh-waked
Filled the glad air with perfume languorous,
And piping birds a pretty tumult made,
Thrilling the day with blended ecstasy;
When dew in grass did light a thousand fires,
And gemmed the green in flashing bravery—
Forth of her bower the fair Yolanda came,
Fresh as the morn and, like the morning, young,
Who, as she breathed the soft and fragrant air,
Felt her white flesh a-thrill with joyous life,
And heart that leapt responsive to the joy.
Vivid with life she trod the flowery ways,
Dreaming awhile of love and love and love;
Unknowing all of eyes that watched unseen,
Viewing her body's gracious loveliness:
Her scarlet mouth, her deep and dreamful eyes,
The glowing splendour of her sun-kissed hair,
Which in thick braids o'er rounded bosom fell
Past slender waist by jewelled girdle bound.

So stood Duke Jocelyn amid the leaves,
And marked how, as she walked, her silken gown
Did cling her round in soft embrace, as though
Itself had sense and wit enough to love her.
Entranced he stood, bound by her beauty's spell,
Whereby it seemed he did in her behold
The beauty of all fair and beauteous things.

Now leaned she o'er a pool where lilies pale
Oped their shy beauties to the gladsome day,
Yet in their beauty none of them so fair
As that fair face the swooning waters held.
And as, glad-eyed, she viewed her loveliness,
She fell to singing, soft and low and sweet,
Clear and full-throated as a piping merle,
And this the manner of her singing was:

“What is love? Ah, who shall say?
Flower to languish in a day,
Bird on wing that will away.
Love, I do defy thee!

“What is love? A toy so vain
'T is but found to lose again,
Painful sweet and sweetest pain;
Ah, love, come not nigh me.

“But, love, an thou com'st to me,
Wert thou as I'd have thee be,
Welcome sweet I'd make for thee,
And weary of thee never.

“If with thy heart thou could'st endure,
If thou wert strong and thou wert sure,
A master now, and now a wooer,
Thy slave I'd be for ever.”

Thus sang she sweet beside the lily-pool,
Unknowing any might her singing hear,
When rose another voice, so rich, so full
As thrilled her into rapt and pleasing wonder;
And as she hearkened to these deep-sung words,
She flushed anon and dimpled to a smile:

“What is love? 'Tis this, I say,
Flower that springeth in a day,
Bird of joy to sing alway,
Deep in the heart of me.

“What is love? A joyous pain
That I ne'er may lose again,
Since for ever I am fain
To think and dream of thee.”

Now hasted she to part the leafy screen,
And one in motley habit thus beheld.
But when 'neath flaunting cock's-comb she did mark
His blemished face, she backward from him drew
And caught her breath, and yet upon him gazed
'Neath wrinkled brow, the while Duke Jocelyn
Read the expected horror in her eyes:
Wherefore he bowed his head upon his breast
And plucked at belt with sudden, nervous hand
As, cold and proud and high, she questioned him:
“What thing art thou that 'neath thy hood doth show
A visage that might shame the gladsome day?”

Whereto he answered, low and humble-wise:
“A Fool! The very fool of fools am I—
A Fool that fain would pluck the sun from heaven.”

“Begone!” she sighed. “Thy look doth make me cold,
E'en as I stand thus i' the kindly sun.
Yet, an thou 'rt poor as thy mean habit speaks thee,
Take first this dole for tender Jesu's sake.”

Then answered Jocelyn on lowly knee:
“For thy sweet bounty I do thank thee well,
But, in good sooth, so great a fool am I,
'Stead of thy gold I rather would possess

Yon happy flower that in thy bosom bloometh.
Give me but this and richer fool am I
Than any knight-like fool that coucheth lance—
Greater I than any lord soever,
Aye—e'en Duke Jocelyn of Brocelaunde.”

Smiled now Yolande with rosy lip up-curving,
While in soft cheek a roguish dimple played.
Quoth she: “Duke Jocelyn, I've heard it said,
Is great and rich, a mighty man-at-arms,
And thou but sorry Fool in mean array,
Yet”—from white fingers she let fall the flower—
“Be thou, Fool, greater than this mighty Duke!
And now, since mighty Fool and rich I've made thee,
In quittance I would win of thee a song.”

Now sat Yolande, white chin on dimpled fist,
Viewing him o'er with cruel, maiden-eyes,
So swift to heed each outward mark and blemish
(Since maids be apt to sly disparagement,
And scorn of all that seems un-beautiful)
While he did lean him by the marble rim,
His wistful gaze down-bent upon the pool,
Feeling her look and knowing while she looked:
What time he touched his lute with fingers skilled,
And so fell singing, wonder-low and sweet:

“Though foul and harsh of face am I,
Lady fair—O lady!
Fair thoughts within my heart may lie,
As flowers that bloom unseen to die,
Lady fair—O lady!

“Though this my hateful face may fright thee,
Lady fair—O list!
My folly mayhap shall delight thee,
A song of fools I will recite thee,
Lady fair—O list!”

Herewith he sighed amain, but smiled anon,
And fell anon to blither, louder note:

“Sing hey, Folly—Folly ho,
And here's a song of Folly,
All 'neath the sun,
Will gladly run
Away from Melancholy.

“And Fool, forsooth, a Fool am I,
Well learned in foolish lore:
For I can sing ye, laugh or sigh:
Can any man do more?
Hey, Folly—Folly, ho!
'Gainst sadness bar the door.

“A Fool am I, yet by fair leave,
Poor Fools have hearts to feel.
Poor Fools, like other fools, may grieve
If they their woes conceal.
Hither, Folly—Folly, ho!
All Fools to Folly kneel.

“What though a Fool be melancholy,
Sick, sick at heart—heigho!
Pain must he hide 'neath laughing Folly,
What Fool should heed his woe!
Hither, Folly—Folly, ho!
Fool must unpitied go.

“E'en though a Fool should fondly woo,
E'en though his love be high,
Poor Folly's fool must wear the rue,
Proud love doth pass him by.
Heigho, Folly—Folly, ho!
Poor Fool may love—and die.

“Though Wisdom should in motley go,
And fools the wise man ape;
Who is there that shall Wisdom know
Beneath a 'scalloped cape?
Heigho, Folly—Folly, ho!
Life is but sorry jape.

“So, hey, Folly—Folly, ho!
And here's a song o' Folly,
All 'neath the sun
Do gladly run
Away from Melancholy.”

The singing done, she viewed him kinder-eyed,
Till eyes met eyes—when she did pout and frown,
And chid him that his song was something sad,
And vowed so strange a Fool was never seen.
Then did she question him in idle wise
As, who he was and whence he came and why?
Whereto the Duke—

GILL:

Dear father, if you're in the vein,
I'd like a little rhyme again;
For blank verse is so hard to read,
And yours is very blank indeed!

MYSELF:

Girl, when blank verse I write for thee,
I write it blank as blank can be.
Stay, I'll declare (no poet franker)
No blank verse, Gill, was ever blanker.
But:
Since, with your sex's sweet inconstancy,
Rhymes now you wish, rhymes now I'll
rhyme for thee:
As thus, my dear—
Give ear:

“Sweet lady, since you question me,
Full blithely I will answer thee;
And, since you fain would merry be,
I'll sing and rhyme it merrily:

“Since Mirth's my trade and follies fond,
Methinks a fair name were Joconde;
And for thy sake
I travail make
Through briar and brake,
O'er fen and lake,
The Southward March beyond.

“For I an embassage do bear,
Now unto thee, Yolande the fair,
Which embassy,
Now unto thee,
Right soothfully,
And truthfully,
Most full, most free,
Explicit I 'll declare.

“Thus: videlicit and to wit,
Sith now thou art to wedlock fit—
Both day and night
In dark, in light
A worthy knight,
A lord of might,
In his own right,
Duke Joc'lyn hight
To thine his heart would knit.

“But, since the Duke may not come to thee,
I, in his stead, will humbly sue thee;
His love each day
I will portray
As best I may;
I'll sue, I'll pray,
I'll sing, I'll play,
Now grave, now gay,
And in this way,
I for the Duke will woo thee.”

Now, fair Yolanda gazed with wide-oped eyes,
And checked sweet breath for wonder and surprise;
Then laughed full blithe and yet, anon, did frown,
And with slim fingers plucked at purfled gown:

“And is it thou—a sorry Fool,” she cried.
“Art sent to win this mighty Duke a bride?”

“E'en so!” quoth he. “Whereof I token bring;
Behold, fair maid, Duke Joc'lyn's signet ring.”
“Heaven's love!” she cried. “And can it truly be
The Duke doth send a mountebank like thee,
A Fool that hath nor likelihood nor grace
From worn-out shoon unto thy blemished face—
A face so scarred—so hateful that meseems
At night 't will haunt and fright me with ill dreams;
A slave so base—”

“E'en so!” Duke Joc'lyn sighed,
And his marred visage 'neath his hood did hide.
“But, though my motley hath thy pride distressed,
I am the Fool Duke Joc'lyn loveth best.
And—ah, my lady, thou shalt never see
In all this world a Fool the like of me!”

Thus spake the Duke, and then awhile stood mute,
And idly struck sweet chords upon his lute,
Watching Yolande's fair, frowning face the while,
With eyes that held a roguish, wistful smile.
She, meeting now these eyes of laughing blue,
Felt her cheeks burn, and sudden angry grew.

So up she rose in proud and stately fashion,
And stamped slim foot at him in sudden passion;
And vowed that of Duke Joc'lyn she cared naught;
That if he'd woo, by him she must be sought;
Vowed if he wooed his wooing should be vain,
And, as he came, he back should go again.
“For, since the Duke,” she cried, “dare send to me
A sorry wight, a very Fool like thee,
By thy Fool's mouth I bid thee to him say,
He ne'er shall win me, woo he as he may;
Say that I know him not—”

“Yet,” spake Duke Joc'lyn soft,
“E'er this, methinks, thou'st seen my lord full oft.
When at the joust thou wert fair Beauty's queen
Duke Joc'lyn by thy hand oft crowned hath been.”
“True, Fool,” she answered, 'twixt a smile and frown,
“I've seen him oft, but with his vizor down.
And verily he is a doughty knight,
But wherefore doth he hide his face from sight?”

“His face?” quoth Joc'lyn with a gloomy look,
“His face, alack!” And here his head he shook;
“His face, ah me!” And here Duke Joc'lyn sighed,
“His face—” “What of his face?” Yolanda cried.
“A mercy's name, speak—speak and do not fail.”
“Lady,” sighed Joc'lyn, “thereby hangs a tale,
The which, though strange it sound, is verity,
That here and now I will relate to thee—
'T is ditty dire of dismal doating dames,
A lay of love-lorn, loveless languishment,
And ardent, amorous, anxious anguishment,
Full-fed forsooth of fierce and fiery flames;
So hark,
And mark:
In Brocelaunde not long ago,
Was born Duke Jocelyn. I trow
Not all the world a babe could show,
A babe so near divine:
For, truth to tell,
He waxed so well,
So fair o' face,
So gay o' grace,
That people all,
Both great and small,
Where'er he went,
In wonderment
Would stare and stare
To see how fair
A lad was Jocelyn.

And when to man's estate he came,
Alack, fair lady, 't was the same!
And many a lovely, love-lorn dame
Would pitiful pant and pine.
These doleful dames
Felt forceful flames,
The old, the grey,
The young and gay,
Both dark and fair
Would rend their hair,
And sigh and weep
And seldom sleep;
And dames long wed
From spouses fled
For love of Jocelyn.

Therefore the Duke an oath did take
By one, by two, by three,
That for these love-lorn ladies' sake
No maid his face should see.
And thus it is, where'er he rideth
His love-begetting face he hideth.”

Now laughed Yolande, her scorn forgotten quite,
“Alas!” she cried. “Poor Duke! O woeful plight!
And yet, O Fool, good Fool, full fain am I,
This ducal, love-begetting face to spy—”
Quoth Joc'lyn: “Then, my lady, prithee, look!”
And from his bosom he a picture took.

“Since this poor face of mine doth so affright thee
Here's one of paint that mayhap shall delight thee.
Take it, Yolande, for thee the craftsmen wrought it,
For thee I from Duke Jocelyn have brought it.
If day and night thou 'lt wear it, fair Yolande,”
And speaking thus, he gave it to her hand.
Its golden frame full many a jewel bore,
But 't was the face, the face alone she saw.
And viewing it, Yolanda did behold
A manly face, yet of a god-like mould.
Breathless she sate, nor moved she for a space,
Held by the beauty of this painted face;
'Neath drooping lash she viewed it o'er and o'er,
And ever as she gazed new charms she saw.
Then, gazing yet, “Who—what is this?” she sighed.
“Paint, lady, paint!” Duke Joc'lyn straight replied,
“The painted visage of my lord it shows—
Item: one mouth, two eyes and eke a nose—”
“Nay, Fool,” she murmured, “here's a face, meseems,
I oft have seen ere now within my dreams;
These dove-soft eyes in dreams have looked on me!”

Quoth Joc'lyn: “Yet these eyes can nothing see!”

“These tender lips in accents sweet I've heard!”

Quoth Joc'lyn: “Yet—they ne'er have spoke a word!
But here's a face at last doth please thee well
Yet hath no power to speak, see, sigh or smell,
Since tongueless, sightless, breathless 't is—thus I
A sorry Fool its needs must e'en supply.
And whiles thou doatest on yon painted head
My tongue I'll lend to woo thee in its stead.
I'll woo with wit
As seemeth fit,
Whiles there thou sit
And gaze on it.
Whiles it ye see
Its voice I'll be
And plead with thee,
So hark to me:
Yolande, I love thee in true loving way;
That is, I'll learn to love thee more each day,
Until so great my growing love shall grow,
This puny world in time 't will overflow.
To-day I love, and yet my love is such
That I to-morrow shall have twice as much.
Thus lovingly to love thee I will learn
Till thou shalt learn Love's lesson in thy turn,
And find therein how sweet this world can be
When as I love, thou, love, shall so love me.”

“Hush, hush!” she sighed, and to her ruddy lip
She sudden pressed one rosy finger-tip.
And then, O happy picture! Swift from sight
She hid it in her fragrant bosom white.
“O Fool,” she cried, “get thee behind yon tree,
And thou a very Fool indeed shall see,
A knightly fool who sighs and groans in verse
And oft-times woos in song, the which is worse.”
For now they heard a voice that sung most harsh,
That shrilled and croaked like piping frog in marsh,
A voice that near and ever nearer drew
Until the lordly singer strode in view.
A noble singer he, both tall and slender,

With locks be-curled and clad in pompous splendour;
His mantle of rich velvet loose did flow,
As if his gorgeous habit he would show;
A jewelled bonnet on his curls he bore,
With nodding feather bravely decked before;
He was a lover very point de vice,
And all about him, save his voice, was nice.
Thus loudly sang, with lungs both sound and strong
This worthy knight, Sir Palamon of Tong.

“O must I groan
And make my moan
And live alone alway?
Yea, I must sigh
And droop and die,
If she reply, nay, nay!

“I groan for thee,
I moan for thee,
Alone for thee I pine.
All's ill for me
Until for me
She will for me be mine.”

A tall, broad-shouldered, haughty lord was he,
With chin full square and eyes of mastery,
At sight of whom, Yolanda's laughter failed,
And in her cheek the rosy colour paled.

Quoth he: “Sir Palamon, now of thy grace,
And of thy courteous friendship yield me place,
To this fair lady I a word would say.
Thus do I for thy courteous-absence pray,
I am thy friend, Sir Knight, as thou dost know,
But—”

“My lord,” quoth Sir Palamon, “I go—
Friendship methinks is a most holy bond,
A bond I hold all binding bonds beyond,
And thou 'rt a friend right potent, my lord Gui,
So to thy will I willingly comply.
Thus, since thy friendship I hold passing dear,
Thou need but ask—and lo! I am not here.”
Thus having said, low bowed this courtly knight,
Then turned about and hasted out of sight.

“Loathèd!” he cried, and caught her slender wrist,
And held it so, crushed in his cruel fist;
But proud she faced him, shapely head raised high.
“Most loathèd, my lord!” she, scornful, made reply.
“For rather than I'd wed myself with thee,
The wife of poorest, humblest slave I'd be,
Or sorriest fool that tramps the dusty way—”
“Ha! Dare thou scorn me so?” Sir Gui did say,
“Then I by force—by force will sudden take thee,
And slave of love, my very slave I 'll make thee—”

Out from the leaves Duke Joc'lyn thrust his head,
“O fie! Thou naughty, knavish knight!” he said.
“O tush! O tush! O tush again—go to!
'T is windy, whining, wanton way to woo.
What tushful talk is this of 'force' and 'slaves',
Thou naughty, knavish, knightly knave of knaves?
Unhand the maid—loose thy offensive paw!”
Round sprang Sir Gui, and, all astonished, saw
A long-legged jester who behind him stood
With head out-thrust, grim-smiling 'neath his hood.

“Plague take thee, Fool! Out o' my sight!” growled he,
“Or cropped thine ugly nose and ears shall be.
Begone, base rogue! Haste, dog, and get thee hence,
Thy folly pleadeth this thy Fool's offence—

Yet go, or of thy motley shalt be stripped,
And from the town I 'll have thee shrewdly whipped,
For Lord of Ells and Raddemore am I,
Though folk, I've heard, do call me 'Red Sir Gui,'
Since blood is red and—I am Gui the Red.”
“Red Gui?” quoth Joc'lyn. “Art thou Gui the dread—
Red Gui—in faith? Of him Dame Rumour saith,
His ways be vile but viler still—his breath.
Now though a life vile lived is thing most ill,
Yet some do think a vile breath viler still.”

Swift, swift as lightning from a summer sky,
Out flashed the vengeful dagger of Sir Gui,
And darting with a deadly stroke and fierce,
Did Joc'lyn's motley habit rend and pierce,
Whereat with fearful cry up sprang Yolande,
But this strange jester did grim-smiling stand.
Quoth he: “Messire, a fool in very truth,
The fool of foolish fools he'd be, in sooth,
Who'd play a quip or so, my lord, with thee
Unless in triple armour dight were he;
And so it is this jester doth not fail
With such as thou to jest in shirt of mail.
Now since my heart thy foolish point hath missed
Thy dagger—thus I answer—with my fist!”
Then swift he leapt and, even as he spoke,
He fetched the knight so fierce and fell a stroke
That, reeling, on the greensward sank Sir Gui,
And stared, wide-eyed, unseeing, at the sky.
Right firmly then upon his knightly breast
Duke Joc'lyn's worn and dusty shoe did rest,
And while Yolande stood white and dumb with fear,
Thus sang the Duke full blithely and full clear:

“Dirt thou art since thou art dust,
And shalt to dust return;
Meanwhile Folly as he lust
Now thy base dust doth spurn.

“Yea, lord, though thy rank be high,
One day, since e'en lords must die,
Under all men's feet thou'lt lie.”

Now, fierce, Sir Gui did curse the Fool amain,
And, cursing, strove his dagger to regain.
But Joc'lyn stooped, in mighty arms he swung him,
And down into the lily-pool he flung him.

With splash resounding fell the noble knight,
Then gurgling rose in damp and sorry plight,
Whiles Joc'lyn, leaning o'er the marble rim,
With lifted finger thus admonished him:

“Red Gui,
Dread Gui,
Lest a dead Gui,
Gui, I make of thee,
Understand, Gui,
Fair Yolande, Gui,
Humbly wooed must be.

“So, Gui,
Know, Gui,
Ere thou go, Gui,
Gui they call the Red;
And thou'lt woo, Gui,
Humbly sue, Gui,
Lest Love strike thee dead.

“Now while thou flound'rest in yon pool,
Learn thou this wisdom of a Fool;
Cold water oft can passion cool
And fiery ardours slake;
Thus, sir, since water quencheth fire,
So let it soothe away thine ire.
Then—go seek thee garments drier
Lest a rheum thou take.”

Sir Gui did gasp, and gasping, strove to curse,
Whereat he, gasping, did but gasp the worse,
Till, finding he could gasp, but nothing say,
He shook clenched fist and, gasping, strode away.
Then Joc'lyn turned and thus beheld Yolande,
Who trembling all and pale of cheek did stand.

“O Fool!” she sighed. “Poor Fool, what hast
thou done?”

Quoth he: “Yolande, to woo thee I've begun,
I better might have wooed, it is most true,
If other wooers had not wooed thee too.”

“Nay, Fool!” she whispered. “O beware—beware!
Death—death for thee is in the very air.
From Canalise, in haste, I bid thee fly,
For 'vengeful lord and cruel is Sir Gui.
Take now this gold to aid thee on thy way,
And for thy life upon my knees I'll pray,
And with the holy angels intercede
To comfort thee and aid thee in thy need.
And so—farewell! “Thus, speaking, turned Yolande.
But Joc'lyn stayed her there with gentle hand,
Whereat she viewed him o'er in mute surprise,
To see the radiant gladness of his eyes.

Quoth he: “Yolande, since thou wilt pray for me,
Of thy sweet prayers fain would I worthy be.
This I do know—let Death come when he may,
The love I bear thee shall live on alway.

Nor will I strive to leave grim Death behind me,
Since when Death wills methinks he sure will find me;
As in the world Death roameth everywhere,
Who flees him here perchance shall meet him there.
Here, then, I'll bide—let what so will betide me,
Thy prayers like holy angels, watch beside me.
So all day long and in thy pretty sleeping
'Till next we meet the Saints have thee in keeping.”

My daughter GILLIAN animadverteth:

GILL: The last part seems to me much better.
I like Yolande, I hope he'll get her.

MYSELF: Patience, my dear, he's hardly met her.

GILL: I think it would be rather nice
To make him kiss her once or twice.

MYSELF: I'll make him kiss her well, my dear,
When he begins—but not just here.
I'll later see what I can do
In this matter to please you.

GILL: And then I hope, that by and by
He kills that frightful beast, Sir Gui.

MYSELF: Yes, I suppose, we ought to slay him,
For all his wickedness to pay him.

GILL: And Pertinax, I think—don't you?
Should have a lady fair to woo.
To see him in love would be perfectly clipping.
It's a corking idea, and quite awfully ripping—

MYSELF: If you use such vile slang, miss, I vow I will not—

GILL: O, Pax, father! I'm sorry; I almost forgot.

MYSELF: Very well, if my warning you'll bear well
in mind,
A fair damsel for Pertinax I 'll try to find.

GILL: Then make her, father, make her quick,
I always knew you were a brick.