  Upon a day, but when it matters not, Nor where, but mark! the sun was plaguy hot Falling athwart a long and dusty road In which same dust two dusty fellows strode. One was a tall, broad-shouldered, goodly wight In garb of motley like a jester dight, Fool's cap on head with ass's ears a-swing, While, with each stride, his bells did gaily ring; But, 'neath his cock's-comb showed a face so marred With cheek, with brow and lip so strangely scarred As might scare tender maid or timid child Unless, by chance, they saw him when he smiled, For then his eyes, so deeply blue and bright, Did hold in them such joyous, kindly light, That sorrow was from heavy hearts beguiled— This jester seemed less ugly when he smiled. Here, O my Gill, right deftly, in a trice I've made him smile and made him do it—twice. That 't was the Duke of course you've guessed at once Since you, I know, we nothing of a dunce. But, what should bring a duke in cap and bells? Read on and mark, while he the reason tells. Now, 'spite of dust and heat, his lute he strummed, And snatches of a merry song he hummed, The while askance full merrily he eyed The dusty knave who plodded at his side. A bony fellow, this, and long of limb, His habit poor, his aspect swart and grim; His belt to bear a long broad-sword did serve, His eye was bold, his nose did fiercely curve Down which he snorted oft and (what is worse) Beneath his breath gave vent to many a curse. Whereat the Duke, sly laughing, plucked lutestring And thus, in voice melodious did sing: “Sir Pertinax, why curse ye so? Since thus in humble guise we go We merry chances oft may know, Sir Pertinax of Shene.” “And chances woeful, lord, also!” Quoth Pertinax of Shene. “To every fool that passeth by These foolish bells shall testify That very fool, forsooth, am I, Good Pertinax of Shene!” “And, lord, methinks they'll tell no lie!” Growled Pertinax of Shene. Then spake the Knight in something of a pet, “Par Dex, lord Duke—plague take it, how I sweat, By Cock, messire, ye know I have small lust Like hind or serf to tramp it i' the dust! Per De, my lord, a parch-ed pea am I— I'm all athirst! Athirst? I am so dry My very bones do rattle to and fro And jig about within me as I go! Why tramp we thus, bereft of state and rank? Why go ye, lord, like foolish mountebank? And whither doth our madcap journey trend? And wherefore? Why? And, prithee, to what end?” Then quoth the Duke, “See yonder in the green Doth run a cooling water-brook I ween, Come, Pertinax, beneath yon shady trees, And there whiles we do rest outstretched at ease Thy 'wherefores' and thy 'whys' shall answered be, And of our doings I will counsel thee.” So turned they from the hot and dusty road Where, 'mid green shade, a rill soft-bubbling flowed, A brook that leapt and laughed in roguish wise, Whereat Sir Pertinax with scowling eyes Did frown upon the rippling water clear, And sware sad oaths because it was not beer; Sighful he knelt beside this murmurous rill, Bent steel-clad head and bravely drank his fill. Then sitting down, quoth he: “By Og and Gog, I'll drink no more—nor horse am I nor dog To gulp down water—pest, I hate the stuff!” “Ah!” laughed the Duke, “'tis plain hast had enough, And since well filled with water thou dost lie To answer thee thy questions fain am I. First then—thou art in lowly guise bedight, For that thou art my trusty, most-loved knight, Who at my side in many a bloody fray, With thy good sword hath smit grim Death away—” “Lord,” quoth the Knight, “what's done is past return, 'Tis of our future doings I would learn.” “Aye,” said the Duke, “list, Pertinax, and know 'Tis on a pilgrimage of love we go: Mayhap hast heard the beauty and the fame Of fair Yolande, that young and peerless dame “For whom so many noble lovers sigh And with each other in the lists do vie? Though much I've dreamed of sweet Yolanda's charms My days have passed in wars and feats of arms, For, Pertinax, this blemished face I bear, Should fright, methinks, a lady young and fair. And so it is that I have deemed it wiser To hide it when I might 'neath casque and visor—” Hereat Sir Pertinax smote hand to knee And, frowning, shook his head. “Messire,” said he, “Thou art a man, and young, of noble race, And, being duke, what matter for thy face? Rank, wealth, estate—these be the things I trow Can make the fairest woman tender grow. Ride unto her in thy rich armour dight, With archer, man-at-arms, and many a knight To swell thy train with pomp and majesty, That she, and all, thy might and rank may see; So shall all folk thy worthiness acclaim, And her maid's heart, methinks, shall do the same. Thy blemished face shall matter not one jot; To mount thy throne she'll think a happy lot. So woo her thus—” “So will I woo her not!” Quoth Jocelyn, “For than I'd win her so, Alone and loveless all my days I'd go. Ha, Pertinax, 'spite all thy noble parts, 'Tis sooth ye little know of women's hearts!” “Women?” quoth Pertinax, and scratched his jaw, “'Tis true of dogs and horses I know more, And dogs do bite, and steeds betimes will balk, And fairest women, so they say, will talk.” “And so dost thou, my Pertinax, and yet, 'Spite all thy talk, my mind on this is set— Thus, in all lowliness I'll e'en go to her And 'neath this foolish motley I will woo her. And if, despite this face, this humble guise, I once may read love's message in her eyes, Then Pertinax—by all the Saints, 'twill be The hope of all poor lovers after me, These foolish bells a deathless tale shall ring, And of Love's triumph evermore shall sing. “So, Pertinax, ne'er curse ye so For that in lowly guise we go, We many a merry chance may know, Sir Pertinax of Shene.” “And chances evil, lord, also!” Quoth Pertinax of Shene. Now on a sudden, from the thorny brake, E'en as Sir Pertinax thus doleful spake, Leapt lusty loons and ragged rascals four, Rusty their mail, yet bright the swords they bore. Up sprang Sir Pertinax with gleeful shout, Plucked forth his blade and fiercely laid about. “Ha, rogues! Ha, knaves! Most scurvy dogs!” he cried. While point and edge right lustily he plied And smote to earth the foremost of the crew, Then, laughing, pell-mell leapt on other two. The fourth rogue's thrust, Duke Joc'lyn blithely parried Right featly with the quarter-staff he carried. Then 'neath the fellow's guard did nimbly slip And caught him in a cunning wrestler's grip. Now did they reel and stagger to and fro, And on the ling each other strove to throw; Arm locked with arm they heaved, they strove and panted, With mighty shoulders bowed and feet firm-planted. So on the sward, with golden sunlight dappled, In silence grim they tussled, fiercely grappled. Thus then Duke Jocelyn wrestled joyously, For this tall rogue a lusty man was he, But, 'spite his tricks and all his cunning play, He in the Duke had met his match this day, As, with a sudden heave and mighty swing, Duke Jocelyn hurled him backwards on the ling, And there he breathless lay and sore amazed, While on the Duke with wonderment he gazed: “A Fool?” he cried. “Nay, certes fool, per De, Ne'er saw I fool, a fool the like o' thee!” But now, e'en as the Duke did breathless stand, Up strode Sir Pertinax, long sword in hand: “Messire,” he growled, “my rogues have run away, So, since you've felled this fellow, him I'll slay.” “Not so,” the Duke, short-breathing, made reply, “Methinks this rogue is too much man to die.” GILL: A beard? O father—beard will never do! No proper knight a beard ever grew.' No knight could really romantic be Who wore a beard! So, father, to please me, No beard; they are, I think, such scrubby things— MYSELF: Yet they are worn, sometimes, by poets and kings. GILL: But your knight— MYSELF: Oh, all right, My Gill, from your disparagement to save him, I, like a barber, will proceed to shave him. Sir Pertinax, then, stroked his smooth-shaved chin, And thus to curse he softly did begin, “Par Dex, my lord—” My daughter GILLIAN interposeth: GILL: Your knight, dear father, seems to love to curse. MYSELF: He does. A difficult matter, child, in verse— GILL: Of verse I feel a little tired— MYSELF: Why, if you think a change desired, A change we'll have, for, truth to tell, This rhyming bothers me as well. So here awhile we'll sink to prose. Now, are you ready? Then here goes! “Par Dex, my lord!” growled Sir Pertinax. “A malison on't, says I, saving thy lordly grace, yet a rogue is a rogue and, being rogue, should die right roguishly as is the custom and the law. For if, messire, if—per De and by Our Sweet Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood, if, I say, in thy new and sudden-put-on attitude o' folly, thou wilt save alive all rogues soever, then by Saint Cuthbert his curse, by sweet Saint Benedict his blessed bones, by—” “Hold now, Pertinax,” said the Duke, slipping his lute into leathern bag and slinging it behind wide shoulders, “list ye, Sir Knight of Shene, and mark this, to wit: If a rogue in roguery die then rogue is he forsooth; but, mark this again, if a rogue be spared his life he may perchance and peradventure forswear, that is, eschew or, vulgarly speaking, turn from his roguish ways, and die as honest as I, aye, or even—thou!” Here Sir Pertinax snorted as they strode on together, yet in a little they turned aside from the hot and dusty road and journeyed on beneath the trees that grew thereby. “By all the fiends, my lord, and speaking vulgarly in turn, this belly o' mine lacketh, these my bowels do yearn consumedly unto messes savoury and cates succulent—” Whereat the Duke, smiling merry-eyed, chanted roguishly: “A haunch o' venison juicy from the spit now?” “Aha!” groaned the Knight, “Lord, let us haste—” “A larded capon to thee might seem fit now?” “Saints!” sighed the Knight, “but for one little taste.” “Or, Pertinax, a pasty plump and deep—” “Ha—pasty, by the Mass!” the Knight did cry. “Or pickled tongue of neat, Sir Knight, or sheep—” “Oh, for a horse! For wings wherewith to fly—” “Or breast of swan—” “Stay! nay, my lord, ha' mercy!” groaned Sir Pertinax, wiping moist brow. “Picture no more toothsome dainties to my soul lest for desire I swoon and languish by the way. I pray thee, let us haste, sire, so may we reach fair Canalise ere sunset—yet stay! Hearken, messire, hear ye aught? Sure, afar the tocsin soundeth?” Now hearkening thus, they both became aware Of distant bells that throbbed upon the air, A faint, insistent sound that rose and fell, A clamour vague that ominous did swell. As thus they stood, well hidden from the road, Footsteps they heard of feet that briskly strode. And, through the leaves, a small man they espied, Who came apace, a great sword by his side. Large bascinet upon his head he bore, 'Neath which his face a scowl portentous wore; While after toiled a stout but reverend friar Who, scant of breath, profusely did perspire And, thus perspiring, panted sad complaints Thus—on the heat, his comrade and the Saints. “O Bax, O Bax! Saint Cuthbert aid me now! O Bax, see how to sweat thou'st made me now! Thy speed abate! O sweet Saint Dominic! Why pliest thou thy puny shanks so quick; O day! O Bax! O hot, sulphurous day, My flesh betwixt ye melteth fast away. Come, sit ye, Bax, in shade of yon sweet tree, And, sitting soft, I'll sagely counsel thee.” “Not so, in faith,” the small man, scowling, said, “What use for counsel since the cause be fled? And since she's fled—Saints succour us!” he cried; As 'mid the leaves all suddenly he spied Sir Pertinax in his unlovely trim, His rusty mail, his aspect swart and grim— “Ha!” gasped the little man, “we are beset!” And starting back, off fell his bascinet. Whereat he fiercely did but scowl the more, And strove amain his ponderous sword to draw. “Hence, dog!” he cried, “lest, with my swashing blow, I make thee food for carrion kite and crow.” But in swift hands Sir Pertinax fast caught him And, bearing him on high, to Joc'lyn brought him, Who, while the captive small strove vain aloft Reproved him thus in accents sweet and soft: “Right puissant and potential sir, we do beseech thee check thy ferocity, quell now thy so great anger and swear not to give our flesh for fowls to tear, so shalt thou come down to earth and stand again upon thine own two legs. And thou, most reverend friar, invoke now thy bloody-minded comrade that he swear to harm us not!” The stout friar seated himself hard by beneath a tree, mopped moist brow, fetched his wind and smiled. “Sir Fool,” said he, “I am thy security that thou and thy brawny gossip need quake and tremble nothing by reason of this Bax, our valiant reeve—he shall harm ye no whit.” Here, meeting Jocelyn's eye, Sir Pertinax set down the small Reeve, who having taken up and put on his great bascinet, scowled, whereupon Duke Jocelyn questioned him full meek: “Good master Reeve, of your courtesy pray you tell us why yon bells do ring so wild alarm.” The small Reeve viewed him with disdainful eye; Sniffed haughty nose and proudly made reply: 'Our bells we ring and clamour make, because We've lost our lady fair of Tissingors. Our Duchess Benedicta hath this day From all her worthy guardians stole away. Thus we for her do inquisition make, Nor, 'till she's found, may hope our rest to take, And thus we cause such outcry as we may, Since we lose not our Duchess ev'ry day. So then we'd have ye speak us—aye or no, Saw ye our errant lady this way go? And, that ye may her know for whom we seek, Her just description fully I will speak: Her hair night-black, her eyes the self-same hue, Her habit brown, unless 't were red or blue, And if not blue why then mayhap 'tis green, Since she by turns of all such hues is seen—” “Stay, sir,” quoth Jocelyn, “'tis plain to see No maid but a chameleon is she, For here we have her brown and green and blue, And if not brown then rosy is her hue, And, if not red, why then 'tis very plain That brown she is or blue or green again. Now fain, sir, would I ask and question whether She e'er is seen these colours all together? “O fain would I a lady spy, By countryside or town, Who may be seen all blue and green, Unless she's red or brown.” But now, while fierce the little man did scowl, The rosy Friar, sly-smiling 'neath his cowl, His visage meek, spake thus in dulcet tone: “Sir Fool, our Reeve is something mixed, I'll own, Though he by divers colours is bemused, Learn ye this truth, so shall he stand excused: Our Duchess Benedicta, be it known, Hath this day from her several guardians flown. Ten worthy men her several guardians be, Of whom the chief and worthiest ye see, As first—myself, a friar of some report, Well-known, methinks, in country, town and court. Who as all men can unto all men speak, Well read beside in Latin and in Greek, A humble soul albeit goodly preacher, One apt to learn and therefore learned teacher, One who can laugh betimes, betimes can pray, Who'll colic cure or on the bagpipe play. Who'll sing—” “Stay!” cried the Reeve. “Friar, what o'me?” “Patience, O Bax, too soon I'll come to thee! Who'll sing ye then blithe as a bird on bough—” “Friar!” growled the Reeve, “the time for me is now!” “So be it, then,” the Friar did gently say, “I'll speak of thee as truly as I may: Here then behold our port-reeve, Greg'ry Bax, Who, save for reason, naught in reason lacks, Who, though he small and puny seems to shew, In speech he is Goliath-like, I trow, Chief Councillor of Tissingors is he, And of the council second but—to me. For with the townsfolk first of all come I—” REEVE: Since thy fat finger is in every pie— “Saving your reverend grace,” Duke Joc'lyn said, “What of this maid that turneth green and red?” REEVE: Fool, then learn this, ere that our lord duke died, Ten guardians for his child he did provide, The Friar and I, with men of lesser fame, Co-guardians are of this right puissant dame. JOCELYN: Beseech ye, sir, now tell us an' ye may, Why hath thy youthful Duchess run away? “Fair Fool,” quoth the Friar, fanning himself with a frond of bracken, “'tis a hot day, a day reminiscent of the ultimate fate of graceless sinners, and I am like the day and languish for breath, yet, to thy so pertinent question I will, straightly and in few words, pronounce and answer thee, as followeth: Our Lady Benedicta hath run away firstly, brethren, for that being formed woman after Nature's goodly plan she hath the wherewithal to walk, to leap, to skip or eke to run, as viz.: item and to wit—legs. Secondly, inquisitorial brethren, she ran for an excellent good reason—as observe—there was none to let or stay her. And thirdly, gentle and eager hearers, she did flit or fly, leave, vacate, or depart our goodly town of Tissingors for that she had—mark me—no mind to stay, remain or abide therein. And this for the following express, rare and most curious reason as—mark now—in a word—” “Hold—hold, Friar John!” exclaimed the Reeve; “here sit ye here a-sermonising, venting words a-many what time our vanished Duchess fleeth. Knew I not the contrary I should say thou didst countenance her flight and spent thyself in wordy-wind wherewith to aid her!” Now here, chancing to meet Duke Jocelyn's shrewd gaze, Friar John slowly and ponderously winked one round, bright eye. Quoth he: “Hark to our valiant port-reeve Greg'ry Bax Who, save for reason, nought of reason lacks!” “Howbeit,” fumed the Reeve, stamping in the dust, “here sit ye at thy full-bodied ease, fanning flies and animadverting—” “Animadverting!” nodded Friar John. “A good word, Reeve, a fair, sweet word; in verity a word full-bodied as I, wherefore it liketh me well. So sit I here animadverting whiles thou kicketh up a dust in fashion foolish and un-reeve-like.” “A plague o' words!” cried the Reeve. “A pest o' wind! Enough—enough, contain thy prolixities and rodomontade and let me to the point explain—” “Aha!” quoth the Friar. “Good sooth, here's a noble word! A word round i' the mouth, rolling upon the tongue. Ha, Reeve, I give thee joy of rodomontade!” “Thus then,” continued the Reeve, “I will, with use of no verbiage circumlocutory, explain.” “Ho-oho!” cried Friar John, rubbing plump hands ecstatic. “Good Bax, ne'er have I heard thee to so great advantage—verbiage circumlocutory—and thou—thou such small man to boot! O most excellent, puny Reeve!” Here the little man turned his back upon the Friar and continued hastily thus: “A lord there is, a lord of lofty pride, Who for our lady oft hath sued and sighed—” FRIAR JOHN: Whom she as oft hath scornfully denied! THE REEVE: A mighty lord who seeketh her to wife— FRIAR JOHN: Though he, 'tis said, doth lead most evil life! THE REEVE: To which fair lord our wilful maid we'd wed— FRIAR JOHN: Since this fair lord the council holds in dread! THE REEVE: But she, defying us, this very day Like wicked thief hath stole herself away. Thus this poor lord such deeps of gloom is in Vows he'll not wash, nor shave again his chin Till found is she: He groaneth, sheddeth tears— THE FRIAR: And swears her guardians ten shall lose their ears! THE REEVE: Wherefore are we in mighty perturbation, Amazed, distraught and filled with consternation. Thus do our bells ring out their wild alarms, Our civic bands do muster under arms; Drums shall be drummed the countryside around, Until our truant Duchess we have found, And we have wed this most elusive dame Unto Sir Agramore of Biename. THE FRIAR: And yield her thus to woes and bitter shame! THE REEVE: So speak me, fellows; as ye came this way Saw ye aught of this wilful, errant may? Answered JOCELYN: “Neither to-day nor any other day.” “Why then,” fumed the Reeve, “here have we been at great expense o' breath and time and all to no purpose. Come, Friar, beseech thee, let us haste to begone.” So Friar John got slowly to his feet Complaining loud of hurry and of heat, But paused behind the hasteful Reeve to linger, And to plump nose he slyly laid plump finger. Now stood Sir Pertinax thoughtful, chin on fist, insomuch that Jocelyn, thrumming his lute, questioned him: “Good Pertinax, how now What pond'rest thou With furrowed brow? Thy care, Sir Knight, avow!” Saith Pertinax: “I meditate the way wondrous of woman, the frowardness of creatures feminine. For mark me, sir, here is one hath guardians ten, yet despite them she is fled away and they ten!” “Why truly, Pertinax, they are ten, so is she fled.” “Aye, but if they be ten that ward her and she one that would flee, how shall this one flee these ten?” “For that they be ten.” “Nay, lord, here be twenty eyes to watch one young maid and twenty legs to pursue the same, yet doth she evade them one and all, and here's the wonder on't—she's but one maid.” “Nay, there's the reason on't, Pertinax—she is a maid.” “The which is great matter for wonder, lord!” “Spoke like a very Pertinax, my Pertinax, for here's no wonder at all. For perceive, the lady is young, her wardens ten grave seniors, worthy wights —solemn, sober and sedate, Pertinax, wise and wearisome, grave yet garrulous, and therefore they suffice not.” “Aye, prithee and wherefore not?” “For their divers worthy attributes and because they be—ten. Now had these ten been one and this one a very man—the man—here had been no running away on part of the lady, I 'll warrant me?” “Stay, my lord,” said Pertinax, in deep perplexity, “how judge ye so—and wherefore—why and by what manner o' reasoning?” “Ha, Pertinax!” laughed the Duke, “my lovely, loveless numskull!” So saying, he kicked the good Knight full joyously and so they trudged on again. Till presently, beyond the green of trees, They saw afar the town of Canalise, A city fair, couched on a gentle height, With walls embattled and strong towers bedight. Now seeing that the sun was getting low, Our travellers at quicker pace did go. Thus as in haste near to the gate they came, Before them limped a bent and hag-like dame, With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though It beak-like wished to peck sharp chin below. Humbly she crept in cloak all torn and rent, And o'er a staff her tottering limbs were bent. So came she to the gate, then cried in fear, And started back from sudden-levelled spear; For 'neath the gate lounged lusty fellows three Who seldom spake yet spat right frequently. “Kind sirs, good sirs,” the ancient dame did cry, “In mercy's name I pray ye let me by—” But, as she spoke, a black-jowled fellow laughed, And, spitting, tripped her with out-thrust pike-shaft, That down she fell and wailed most piteously, Whereat the brawny fellows laughed all three. “Ha, witch!” they cried, as thus she helpless lay, “Shalt know the fire and roasted be one day!” Now as the aged creature wailed and wept, Forth to her side Duke Joc'lyn lightly stepped, With quarter-staff a-twirl he blithely came. Quoth he: “Messires, harm not this ancient dame, Bethink ye how e'en old and weak as she, Your wives and mothers all must one day be. So here then lies your mother, and 't were meeter As ye are sons that as sons ye entreat her. Come, let her by and, fool-like to requite ye, With merry jape and quip I will delight ye, Or with sweet song I 'll charm those ass's ears, And melt, belike, those bullish hearts to tears—” Now the chief warder, big and black of jowl, Upon the Duke most scurvily did scowl. “How now,” quoth he, “we want no fool's-heads here—” “Sooth,” laughed the Duke, “you're fools enow 't is clear, Yet there be fools and fools, ye must allow, Gay fools as I and surly fools—as thou.” “Ha, look 'ee, Fool, Black Lewin e'en am I, And, by my head, an ill man to defy. Now, motley rogue, wilt call me fool?” he roared, And roaring fierce, clapped hairy fist on sword. “Aye, that will I,” Duke Joc'lyn soft replied, And black-avised, swart, knavish rogue beside.” But now, while thus our ducal jester spoke, Black Lewin sprang and fetched him such a stroke That Jocelyn saw flash before his eyes, More stars that e'er he'd noticed in the skies. Whereat Sir Pertinax did gaping stare, Then ground his teeth and mighty oaths did swear, And in an instant bared his trusty blade, But then the Duke his fiery onslaught stayed. “Ha!” cried the Knight, “and wilt thou smitten be By such base knave, such filthy rogue as he?” “Nay,” smiled the Duke, “stand back and watch, good brother, A Rogue and Fool at buffets with each other.” And speaking thus, he leapt on Black Lewin, And smote him twice full hard upon the chin, Two goodly blows upon that big, black jowl, Whereat Black Lewin lustily did howl And falling back, his polished bascinet With ringing clash the cold, hard flagstones met. Whereat his fellows, shouting fierce alarms, Incontinent betook them to their arms; And thus it seemed a fight there must have been But that a horseman sudden spurred between— A blue-eyed youth with yellow, curling hair, Of slender shape, of face and feature fair, A dainty knight was he in very truth, A blue-eyed, merry, laughter-loving youth. “Ha, knaves, what do ye with the Fool?” lisped he, “Wilt strike a motley, dogs—a Fool? Let be! Though faith, 't would seem, Sir Fool, thou hast a fist That surly Lewin to his dole hath kissed. If it can strum thy lute but half as well, Then gestours all methinks thou should'st excel— Ye rogues, pass Folly in, no man shall say That from our town we folly turned away. Come, follow, Fool, into the market-square, And give us earnest of thy foolish ware.” Now it was market day, and within the goodly square were people come from near and far, a notable concourse, country folk and folk of the town, farmers and merchants, rustic maids, fair ladies, knights and esquires on horseback or a-foot, but who, hearing the jingle of the Duke's tinkling bells, seeing his flaunting cock's-comb, with one accord gathered to him from every quarter: For when this long-legged gestour they espied, They, laughing, hemmed him in on every side, And, “See, a Fool! A Fool! The Fool must sing,” And “Fool! A Fool!” upon the air did ring, Wherefore the Duke betook him to his lute, And strummed until the chattering crowd was mute. Then while all folk did hold their peace to hear, In golden voice he sang, full rich and clear: “'A fool! A fool!' ye cry, A fool forsooth am I. But tell me, wise ones, if ye can, Where shall ye find a happy man? Lived there one since the world began? Come, answer ye To me! “'What of the king?' says you. Says I to you—'Go to! A king despite his crown and throne, Hath divers troubles all his own. Such woes, methinks, as are unknown To such as ye, Or me!' “'Ha, then—the rich!' ye cry, 'Not so in truth,' says I. 'The rich man's gold is load of care, That day and night he needs must bear; Less care he'd know if poor he were, As poor as ye, Or me!' “For, sirs, as I do guess This thing called 'Happiness' Man leaveth with his youth behind; So keep ye all a youthful mind, Thus happiness ye all shall find If wit have ye, Like me! “O list ye, great and small, Proud knight, free man and thrall, True happiness, since life began, The birthright is of every man; Seize then your birthright if ye can, Since men are ye— Like me! “Thus I forsooth, a Fool, Do now ye wise ones school; Since of my folly, full and free, I wisely thus admonish ye, Be wise—or eke fools learn to be In verity— Like me!” Now when the song was ended some there were who laughed and some looked grave, some talked amain and some wagged solemn heads, while many a good coin rang heartily at Duke Jocelyn's feet; smiling, he bade Sir Pertinax take them up, joying to see the proud Knight stooping thus to pouch the money like any beggar. But now, when he would fain have gone his way into the town, the people would by no means suffer it and clamoured amain on all sides, insistent for more; wherefore, lifting his scarred face to the sunset sky, Duke Jocelyn sang as here followeth: “Ha, lord!” quoth Sir Pertinax, as they came within a quiet thoroughfare, “this lady is grown more fair since last we saw her Queen of Beauty at Melloc joust, concerning whom Fame, in troth, doth breed a just report for once. But, messire, didst mark him beside her—with touch o' hand, lord, whispers i' the ear—didst mark this wolf, this Seneschal, this thrice accurst Sir Gui?” “Aye, forsooth,” answered the Duke, “but thou'rt an hungered, methinks?” “To touch her hand, lord—aha! To whisper in her ear, lord—oho! A right puissant lord, Seneschal of Raddemore, Lord of Thorn and Knight of Ells! A lord of puissance and power potential.” “And thou, my Pertinax, art but a hungry Knight, that trampeth with a hungry Fool, wherefore let us forthwith—” “Aye, but mark me, lord, if this puissant lord with pomp and high estate doth woo the lady—” “So then, my Pertinax, will I woo this lady also.” “How, in this thy foolish guise?” “Aye, forsooth.” “Why, then, thou art like to be whipped for froward Fool and I for ragged rogue, and this our adventure brought to ill and woeful end—so here now is folly, lord, indeed!” “Aye, forsooth!” smiled the Duke, “Whereto these bells give heed. But come, amend thy speed, Methinks thy fasting-need These gloomy vapours breed. Thy inner man doth plead Good beef with ale or mead Wherein, thou Fool decreed, I am right well agreed 'T were goodly thing to feed, Nor will I thee impede, So follow Folly's lead And food-wards we'll proceed.”
|
|
