Chapter II: Part 2

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--

My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:

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:

Whereto the Duke did instant make reply:

“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.”

But now, beholding Yolande amid her flowers, herself as sweet and fresh as they, he made an end of his singing and betook him, straightway, to amorous looks and deep-fetched sighs together with many supple bendings of the back, elegant posturings and motitions of slim legs, fannings and flauntings of be-feathered cap, and the like gallantries; and thereafter fell to his wooing on this fashion:

“Lady, O lady of lovely ladies most loved! Fair lady of hearts, sweet dame of tenderness, tender me thine ears, suffer one, hath sighed and suffered for sake of thee, to sightful sue. Lovely thou art and therefore to be loved, and day and night thou and Love the sum of my excogitations art, wherefore I, with loving art, am hither come to woo thee, since, lady, I do love thee.”

“Alack, Sir Palamon!” she sighed, “and is it so?”

“Alack!” he answered, “so it is. Yest're'en I did proclaim thee fairer than all fair ladies; to-day thou art yet fairer, thus this day thou art fairer than thyself; the which, though a paradox, is yet wittily true and truly witty, methinks. But as for me--for me, alas for me! I am forsooth the very slave of love, fettered fast by Dan Cupid, a slave grievous and woeful, yet, being thy slave, joying in my slavery and happy in my grievous woe. Thus it is I groan and moan, lady; I pine, repine and pine again most consumedly. I sleep little and eat less, I am, in fine and in all ways, 'haviours, manners, customs, feints and fashions soever, thy lover manifest, confessed, subject, abject, in season and out of season, yearly, monthly, daily, hourly, and by the minute. Moreover--”

“Beseech thee!” she cried, “Oh, beseech thee, take thy breath.”

“Gramercy, 'tis done, lady, 'tis done, and now forthwith resolved am I to sing thee--”

“Nay, I pray you, sir, sing no more, but resolve me this mystery. What is love?”

“Love, lady? Verily that will I in truth!” And herewith Sir Palamon fell to an attitude of thought with eyes ecstatic, with knitted brows and sage nodding of the head. “Love, my lady--ha! Love, lady is--hum! Love, then, perceive me, is of its nature elemental, being of the elements, as 'twere, composed and composite, as water, air and fire. For, remark me, there is no love but begetteth first water, which is tears; air, which is sighings and groanings; and fire, which is heart-burnings and the like. Thus is love a passion elemental. But yet, and heed me, lady, love is also metaphysical, being a motition of the soul and e'en the spirit, and being of the spirit 'tis ghostly, and being ghostly 'tis--ha! Who comes hither to shatter the placid mirror of my thoughts?”

So saying, the noble knight of Tong turned to behold one who strode towards them in haste, a tall man this whose black brows scowled fierce upon the day, and who spurned the tender flowers with foot ungentle as he came.

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.

“And now, my lady,” quoth Sir Gui, frowning upon her loveliness, “and now having discharged yon gaudy wind-bag, what of this letter I did receive but now--behold it!” and speaking, he snatched a crumpled missive from his bosom. “Behold it, I say!”

“Indeed, my lord, I do,” she answered, proud and disdainful; “it is, methinks, my answer to thy loathèd suit--”

“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.

FYTTE 4

How Pertinax plied angle to his sport
And, catching him no fish, fish-like was caught.

* * * * *

By sleepy stream where bending willows swayed,
And, from the sun, a greeny twilight made,
Sir Pertinax, broad back against a tree,
Lolled at his ease and yawned right lustily.
In brawny fist he grasped a rod or angle,
With hook wherefrom sad worm did, writhing, dangle.
Full well he loved the piscatorial sport,
Though he as yet no single fish had caught.
Hard by, in easy reach upon the sward,
Lay rusty bascinet and good broadsword.
Thus patiently the good Knight sat and fished,
Yet in his heart most heartily he wished
That he, instead of fishing, snug had been
Seated within his goodly tower of Shene.
And thinking thus, he needs must cast his eye
On rusty mail, on battered shoon, and sigh,
And murmur fitful curses and lament
That in such base, unknightly garb he went--
A lord of might whose broad shield bravely bore
Of proud and noble quarterings a score.
“And 't was forsooth for foolish ducal whim
That he must plod abroad in such vile trim!”
Revolving thus, his anger sudden woke,
And, scowling, to the unseen fish he spoke:

“A Duke! A Fool! A fool-duke, by my head!
Who, clad like Fool, like Fool will fain be wed,

For ass and dolt and fool of fools is he
Who'll live in bondage to some talk-full she.
Yet, if he'll wed, why i' the foul fiend's name,
Must he in motley seek the haughty dame?”

But now, while he did on this problem dwell,
Two unexpected happenings befell:
A fish to nibble on the worm began,
And to him through the green a fair maid ran.
Fast, fast amid the tangled brake she fled,
Her cheeks all pale, her dark eyes wide with dread;
But Pertinax her beauty nothing heeded,
Since both his eyes to watch his fish were needed;
But started round with sudden, peevish snort
As in slim hands his brawny fist she caught;
“Ha, maid!” he cried, “Why must thou come this way
To spoil my sport and fright mine fish away?”
“O man--O man, if man thou art,” she gasped,
“Save me!” And here his hand she closer grasped,
But even now, as thus she breathless spake,
Forth of the wood three lusty fellows brake;
Goodly their dress and bright the mail they wore,
While on their breasts a falcon-badge they bore.
“Oho!” cried one. “Yon dirty knave she's met!”
Sir Pertinax here donned his bascinet.
“But one poor rogue shan't let us!” t' other roared.
Sir Pertinax here reached and drew his sword.
“Then,” cried the third, “let's at him now all three!”
Quoth Pertinax: “Maid, get thee 'hind yon tree,
For now, methinks, hast found me better sport
Than if, forsooth, yon plaguy fish I'd caught.”
So saying, up he rose and, eyes a-dance
He 'gainst the three did joyously advance,
With sword that flashed full bright, but brighter yet
The eyes beneath his rusty bascinet;

While aspect bold and carriage proud and high,
Did plainly give his mean array the lie.
Thus, as he gaily strode to meet the three,
In look and gesture all proud knight was he;
Beholding which, the maid forgot her dread,
And, 'stead of pale, her cheek glowed softly red.

Now at the three Sir Pertinax did spring,
And clashing steel on steel did loudly ring,
Yet Pertinax was one and they were three,
And once was, swearing, smitten to his knee,
Whereat the maid hid face in sudden fear,
And, kneeling so, fierce cries and shouts did hear,
The sounds of combat dire, and deadly riot
Lost all at once and hushed to sudden quiet,
And glancing up she saw to her amaze
Three rogues who fleetly ran three several ways,
Three beaten rogues who fled with one accord,
While Pertinax, despondent, sheathed his sword.
“Par Dex!” he growled, “'Tis shame that they should run
Ere that to fight the rogues had scarce begun!”
So back he came, his rod and line he took,
And gloomed to find no worm upon his hook.
But now the maiden viewed him gentle-eyed;
“Brave soldier, I do thank thee well!” she sighed,
“Thou, like true knight, hast fought for me today--”
“And the fish,” sighed he, “have stole my worm away,
Which is great pity, since my worms be few!”
And here the Knight's despond but deeper grew.
“Yon rogues,” he sighed, “no stomach had for fight,
Yet scared the fish that had a mind to bite!”
“But thou hast saved me, noble man!” said she.
“So must I use another worm!” sighed he.

And straightway with his fishing he proceeded
While sat the maid beside him all unheeded;
Whereat she frowned and, scornful, thus did speak
With angry colour flaming in her cheek:
“What man art thou that canst but fight and fish?
Hast thou no higher thought, no better wish?”
“Certes,” quoth he, “I would I had indeed
A goodly pot of foaming ale or mead.”
“O base, most base!” the maid did scornful cry,
And viewed him o'er with proud, disdainful eye.
“That I should owe my life to man like thee!
That one so base could fight and master three!
Who art thou, man, and what? Speak me thy name,
Whither ye go and why, and whence ye came,
Thy rank, thy state, thy worth to me impart,
If soldier, serf, or outlawed man thou art;
And why 'neath ragged habit thou dost wear
A chain of gold such as but knights do bear,
Why thou canst front three armed rogues unafraid,
Yet fear methinks to look upon a maid?”

But to these questions Pertinax sat dumb--
That is, he rubbed his chin and murmured, “Hum!”
Whereat she, frowning, set determined chin
And thus again to question did begin:

SHE: What manner of man art thou?

HE: A man.

SHE: A soldier?

HE: Thou sayest.

SHE: Art in service?

HE: Truly.

SHE: Whom serve ye?

HE: A greater than I.

SHE: Art thou wed?

HE: The Saints forfend!

SHE: Then art a poor soldier and solitary.

HE: I might be richer.

SHE: What dost thou fishing here?

HE: I fish.

SHE: And why didst fight three men for me--a maid unknown?

HE: For lack of better employ.

SHE: Rude soldier--whence comest thou?

HE: Fair maiden, from beyond.

SHE: Gross Knight, whither goest thou?

HE: Dainty damosel, back again.

SHE: Dost lack aught?

HE: Quiet!

SHE: How, would'st have me hold my peace, ill fellow?

HE: 'T would be a marvel.

SHE: Wherefore?

HE: Thou'rt a woman.

SHE: And thou a man, ill-tongued, ill-beseen, ill-mannered, unlovely, and I like thee not!

HE: And what is worse, the fish bite not.

Now here, and very suddenly, she fell a-weeping, to the Knight's no small discomfiture, though she wept in fashion wondrous apt and pretty; wherefore Sir Pertinax glanced at her once, looked twice and, looking, scratched his ear, rubbed his chin and finally questioned her in turn:

HE: Distressful damosel, wherefore this dole? SHE: For that I am weary, woeful and solitary. And thou--thou'rt harsh of look, rough of tongue, ungentle of--HE: Misfortunate maiden, thy loneliness is soon amended, get thee to thy friends--thy gossips, thy--

SHE: I have none. And thou'rt fierce and ungentle of face.

Here she wept the more piteously and Sir Pertinax, viewing her distress, forgot his hook and worm, wherefore a fish nibbled it slyly, while the Knight questioned her further:

HE: Woeful virgin, whence comest thou?

SHE: From afar. And thou art ofeatures grim and--

HE: And whither would'st journey?

SHE: No where! And thou art--

HE: Nay, here is thing impossible, since being here thou art somewhere and that within three bowshots of the goodly town of Canalise wherein thou shalt doubtless come by comfort and succour.

SHE: Never! Never! Here will I weep and moan and perish. And thou--

HE: And wherefore moan and perish?

SHE: For that I am so minded, being a maid forlorn and desolate, a poor wanderer destitute of kith, of kin, of hope, of love, and all that maketh life sweet. And thou art sour-faced and--

HE: Grievous maid, is, among thy many wants, a lack of money?

SHE: That also. And thou art cold of eye, fierce of mouth, hooked of nose, flinty of heart, stony of soul, and I a perishing maid.

At this Sir Pertinax blinked and caught his breath; thereafter he laid down his rod, whereupon the fish incontinent filched his worm all unnoticed while the Knight opened the wallet at his girdle and took thence certain monies.

HE: Dolorous damsel, behold six good, gold pieces! Take them and go, get thee to eat--eat much, so shall thy dolour wax less, eat beef--since beef is a rare lightener of sorrow, by beef shall thy woes be comforted.

SHE: Alas! I love not beef.

Now here Sir Pertinax was dumb a space for wonder at her saying, while she stole a glance at him betwixt slender fingers.

HE (_after some while_): Maid, I tell thee beef, fairly cooked and aptly seasoned, is of itself a virtue whereby the body is strengthened and nourished, whereby cometh content, and with content kindliness, and with kindliness charity, and therewith all other virtues small and eke great; therefore eat beef, maiden, for the good of thy soul.

“How?” said she, viewing him bright-eyed 'twixt her fingers again. “Dost think by beef one may attain to paradise?”

HE: Peradventure.

SHE: Then no beef, for I would not live a saint yet awhile.

HE: Nathless, take thou these monies and go buy what thou wilt.

So saying, Sir Pertinax set the coins beside her shapely foot and took up his neglected rod.

SHE: And is this gold truly mine?

HE: Verily.

SHE: Then I pray thee keep it for me lest I lose it by the way and so--let us begone.

Here Sir Pertinax started.

“Begone?” quoth he. “Begone--in truth? Thou and I in faith? Go whither?”

SHE: Any whither.

HE: Alone? Thou and I?

“Nay, not alone,” she sighed; “let us go together.”

Sir Pertinax dropped his fishing-rod and watched it idly float away down the stream:

“Together, maiden?” said he at last.

“Truly!” she sighed. “For thou art lonely even as I am lonely, and thou art, methinks, one a lonely maid may trust.”

“Ha--trust!” quoth he. “And wherefore would'st trust me, maiden?”

SHE: For two reasons--thou art of age mature and something ill-favoured.

Now, at this Sir Pertinax grew angered, grew thoughtful, grew sad and, beholding his image mirrored in the waters, sighed for his grim, unlovely look and, in his heart, cursed his vile garb anew. At last he spoke:

HE: Truly thou may'st trust me, maiden.

SHE: And wherefore sighest thou, sad soldier?

HE: Verily for thy two reasons. Though, for mine age, I am not forty turned.

Saying which, he sighed again, and stared gloomily into the murmurous waters. But presently, chancing to look aside, he beheld a head low down amid the underwood, a head huge and hairy with small, fierce eyes that watched him right bodefully, and a great mouth that grinned evilly; and now as he stared, amazed by this monstrous head, it nodded grimly, speaking thus:

“Lob, Lobkyn he
Commandeth thee
To let her be
And set her free,
Thou scurvy, cutpurse, outlaw knave,
Lest hanged thou be
Upon a tree
For roguery
And villainy,
Thou knavish, misbegotten slave;
For proud is she
Of high degree,
As unto ye
Explicitly--”

“Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, rising and drawing sword. “Now, be thou imp of Satan, fiend accursed, or goblin fell, come forth, and I with steel will try thee, Thing!”

Out from the leaves forthwith crawled a dwarf bowed of leg, mighty of shoulder, humped of back, and with arms very long and thick and hairy. In one great fist he grasped a ponderous club shod with iron spikes, and now, resting his hands on this and his chin on his hands, he scowled at the Knight, yet grinned also.

“Ho!” he cried, rolling big head in threatening fashion:

“Vile dog, thy rogue's sconce cracked shall be, Thy base-born bones be-thwacked shall be. I'll deal thee many a dour ding For that thou darest name me--Thing!”

“Now, as I live!” said Sir Pertinax, scowling also. “Here will I, and with great joyance, cleave me thine impish mazzard and split thee to thy beastly chine. And for thy ill rhyming:

“I with this goodly steel will halve thee
And into clammy goblets carve thee.
So stand, Thing, to thy club betake thee,
And soon, Thing, I will no-thing make thee.”

But, as they closed on each other with eager and deadly intent, the maid stepped lightly betwixt.

“Stay, soldier--hold!” she commanded. “Here is none but Lobkyn Lollo--poor, brave Lob, nor will I suffer him to harm thee.”

“How, maiden?” snorted the good Knight fiercely. “Harm me, say'st thou--yon puny Thing?”

“Truly, soldier!” said she, roguish-eyed. “For though thou art very ungentle, harsh of tongue, of visage grim and manners rude--I would not have Lob harm thee--yet!”

Now hereupon our bold Sir Pertinax
With indignation red of face did wax.
The needful word his tongue was vainly seeking,
Since what he felt was quite beyond the speaking.
Though quick his hand to ward or give a blow,
His tongue all times unready was and slow,
Therefore he speechless looked upon the maid,
Who viewed him 'neath her lashes' dusky shade,
Whence Eros launched a sudden beamy dart
That 'spite chain-mail did reach and pierce his heart.
And in that instant Pertinax grew wise,
And trembled 'neath this forest-maiden's eyes;
And trembling, knew full well, seek where he might,
No eyes might hold for him such magic light,
No lips might hold for him such sweet allure,
No other hand might his distresses cure,
No other voice might so console and cheer,
No foot, light-treading, be so sweet to hear
As the eyes, lips, hand, voice, foot of her who stood
Before him now, cheek flushing 'neath her hood.
All this Sir Pertinax had in his thought,
And, wishing much to say to her, said nought,
By reason that his tongue was something slow,
And of smooth phrases he did little know.
But yet 't is likely, though he nothing said,
She, maid-like, what he spake not, guessed or read
In his flushed brow, his sudden-gentle eyes,
Since in such things all maids are wondrous wise.

Now suddenly the brawny Dwarf did cry:
“Beware, my old great-grand-dam creepeth nigh!”
Thus speaking, 'mid the bushes pointed he,
Where crook'd old woman crouched beneath a tree
Whence, bowed upon a staff, she towards them came,
An ancient, wrinkled, ragged, hag-like dame
With long, sharp nose that downward curved as though
It fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below.
Mutt'ring she came and mowing she drew near,
And straightway seized the Dwarf by hairy ear:
Fast by the ear this ancient dame did tweak him,
And cuffed his head and, cuffing, thus did speak him:

“Ha, dolt! Bad elf, and wilt thou slay, indeed,
This goodly man did aid me in my need?
For this was one that fought within the gate
And from Black Lewin saved thy grannam's pate!
Down, down, fool-lad, upon thy knees, I say,
And full forgiveness of this soldier pray.”

But Sir Pertinax, perceiving how the old dame
did thus tweak and wring at the Dwarf's great,
hairy ear even until his eyes watered, interceded,
saying:

“Good, ancient soul, humble not the sturdy, unlovely,
mis-shapen, rascally imp for such small
matter.”

“Nay, but,” croaked the old woman, tightening
claw-like fingers, “kind master, he would doubtless
have slain thee.” At this, Sir Pertinax scowled,
and would have sworn great oath but, meeting the
maid's bright eyes, checked himself, though with
much ado:

“Art so sure,” he questioned, “so sure man of
my inches may be slain by thing so small?”

At this the maid laughed, and the old woman,
sighing, loosed the ear she clutched:

“Shew thy strength, Lob,” she commanded and,
drawing the maiden out of ear-shot, sat down beside
her on the sward and fell to eager, whispered talk.
Meantime the Dwarf, having cherished his ear,
sulkily though tenderly, seized hold upon his great
club with both hairy hands:

And whirling it aloft, with sudden might
A fair, young tree in sunder he did smite,
That 'neath the blow it swayed and crashing fell.
Quoth Pertinax: “Good Thing, 't is very well.
Par Dex, and by the Holy Rood,” quoth he,
“'T is just as well that I was not yon tree!”
And whirling his long sword as thus he spoke,
Shore through another at a single stroke.
“Here's tree for tree, stout manling!” he did say.
“What other trick canst show to me, I pray?”
Then Lobkyn stooped the broken stump to seize,
Bowed brawny back and with a wondrous ease

Up by the roots the rugged bole he tore
And tossed it far as it had been a straw.
Sad grew our knight this mighty feat perceiving,
Since well he knew't was past his own achieving.

But anon he smiled and clapped the mighty Dwarf on shoulder, saying:

“Greeting to thee, lusty Lob, for by Our Holy Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood, ne'er saw I thine equal, since thou, being man so small, may do what man o' my goodly inches may nowise perform. Thou should'st make a right doughty man-at-arms!”

Hereupon the Dwarf cut a caper but sighed thereafter: quoth he:

“Aha, good master, and Oho,
As man-at-arms fain would I go;
Aye, verily, I would be so,
But that my grannam sayeth 'No!'

“And, sir, my grand-dam I obey
Since she's a potent witch, they say;
Can cast ye spells by night or day
And charmeth warts and such away.

“Love philtres too she can supply
For fools that fond and foolish sigh,
That wert thou foul as hog in sty
Fair women must unto thee fly.

“Then deadly potions she can make,
Will turn a man to wriggling snake,
Or slimy worm, or duck, or drake,
Or loathly frog that croaks in lake.

“And she can curse beyond compare,
Can curse ye here, or curse ye there;
She'll curse ye clad or curse ye bare,
In fine, can curse ye anywhere.

“And she can summon, so 't is said,
From fire and water, spirits dread,
Strong charms she hath can wake the dead
And set the living in their stead.

“So thus it is, whate'er she say,
My grand-dam, master, I obey.”

“Now by my head,” quoth Sir Pertinax, “an thy grand-dam hath a potency in spells and such black arts--the which is an ill thing--thou hast a powerful gift of versification the which, methinks, is worse. How cometh this distemper o' the tongue, Lobkyn?”

“O master,” spake the sighful Dwarf forlorn,
“Like many such diseases, 't is inborn.
For even as a baby, I
Did pule in rhyme and versify;
And the stronger that I grew,
My rhyming habit strengthened too,
Until my sad sire in despair
Put me beneath the Church's care.
The holy fathers, 't is confessed,
With belt and sandal did their best,
But, though they often whipped me sore,
I, weeping, did but rhyme the more,
Till, finding all their efforts vain,
They sadly sent me home again.”

“A parlous case, methinks!” said Sir Pertinax, staring at the Dwarf's rueful visage. “Learned ye aught of the holy fathers?”

“Aye, sir, they taught me truth to tell,
To cipher and to read right well;
They taught me Latin, sir, and Greek,
Though even then in rhyme I'd speak.”

“And thou canst read and write!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “So can not I!”

Cried LOB:

“What matter that? Heaven save the mark,
Far better be a soldier than a clerk,
Far rather had I be a fighter
Than learned reader or a writer,
Since they who'd read must mope in schools,
And they that write be mostly fools.
So 'stead of pen give me a sword,
And set me where the battle's toward,
Where blood--”

But the ancient dame who had risen and approached silently, now very suddenly took Lobkyn by the ear again.

“Talk not of blood and battles, naughty one!” she cried. “Think not to leave thy old grannam lone and lorn and helpless--nor this our fair maid. Shame on thee, Lob, O shame!” saying the which she cuffed him again and soundly.

“Master,” he sighed, “thou seest I may not go,
Since that my grand-dam will not have it so.”

“Good mother, wise mother,” said the maid, viewing Sir Pertinax smilingly askance, “why doth poor soldier go bedight in fine linen 'neath rusty hauberk? Why doth poor soldier wear knightly chain about his neck and swear by knightly oath? Good mother, wise mother, rede me this.”

The old woman viewed Pertinax with her bright, quick eyes, but, ere she could answer, he sheathed sword, drew ragged mantle about him, and made to go, but, turning to the maid, bent steel-clad head.

“Most fair damosel,” said he gently, “evening cometh on, and now, since thou art no longer forlorn, I will away.”

“Nay, first, I pray thee, what is thy name?”

“Pertinax, madam.”

“So then doth Melissa thank Pertinax. And now--out alas! Will Pertinax leave Melissa, having but found her?”

Sir Pertinax looked up, looked down, fidgeted with his cloak, and knew not how to answer; wherefore she sighed again, though with eyes full merry 'neath drooping lashes and reached out to him her slender hand. “Aye me, and shall we meet no more, poor soldier?” she questioned softly.

“This I know not,” he answered.

“For thy brave rescue I do give thee my humble thanks, poor soldier.”

“Thy rescue, child?” cried the old woman. “Alack and wert thou seen? Thy rescue, say'st thou?”

“Indeed, good mother, from Sir Agramore's rough foresters. But for thee, thou needy soldier, my gratitude is thine henceforth. Had I aught else to give thee, that were thine also. Is there aught I may? Speak.”

Now Sir Pertinax could not but heed all the rich, warm beauty of her--these eyes so sombrely sweet, her delicate nose, the temptation of her vivid lips--and so spake hot with impulse:

“Aye, truly, sweet maid, truly I would have of thee a--” Her eyes grew bright with laughter, a dimple played wanton in her cheek, and Sir Pertinax was all suddenly abashed, faint-hearted and unsure; thus, looking down, he chanced to espy a strange jewel that hung tremulous upon her moving bosom: a crowned heart within a heart of crystal.

“Well, thou staid and sorry soldier, what would'st have of me?” she questioned.

“Verily,” he muttered, “I would have of thee yon trinket from thy bosom.” Now at his words she started, caught her breath and stared at him wide-eyed; but, seeing his abashment, laughed and loosed off the jewel with quick, small fingers.

“Be it so!” said she. But hereupon the old woman reached out sudden hand.

“Child!” she croaked, “Art mad? Mind ye not the prophecy? Beware the prophecy--beware!

'He that taketh Crystal Heart,
Taketh all and every part!'

Beware, I say, Oh, beware!”

“Nay, good mother, have I not promised? And for this crystal it hath brought me nought but unease hitherto. Take it, soldier, and for the sake of this poor maid that giveth, break it not, dishonour it not, and give it to none but can define for thee the secret thereof--and so, poor, brave, fearful soldier--fare thee well!”

Saying which this fair maiden turned, and clasping the Witch's bony arm about her slender loveliness, passed away into the denser wood with Lobkyn Lollo marching grimly behind, his mighty club across his shoulder.

Long stood Sir Pertinax, staring down at the strange jewel in his hand yet seeing it not, for, lost in his dreams, he beheld again two eyes, dusky-lashed and softly bright, a slender hand, a shapelyfoot, while in his ears was again the soft murmur of a maid's voice, a trill of girlish laughter. So lost in meditation was he that becoming aware of a shadow athwart the level sunset-glory, he started, glanced up and into the face of a horseman who had ridden up unheard upon the velvet ling; and this man was tall and armed at points like a knight; the vizor of his plumed casque was lifted, and Sir Pertinax saw a ruddy face, keen-eyed, hawk-nosed, thin-lipped.

“Fellow,” questioned the haughty knight, “what hold ye there?”

“Fellow,” quoth Sir Pertinax, haughty and gruff also, “'t is no matter to thee!” And speaking, he buttoned the jewel into the wallet at his belt.

“Fool!” exclaimed the Knight, staring in amaze, “wilt dare name me 'fellow'? Tell me, didst see three foresters hereabout?”

“Poltroon, I did.”

“Knave, wilt defy me?”

“Rogue, I do!”

“Slave, what did these foresters?”

“Villain, they ran away!”

“Ha, varlet! and wherefore?”

“Caitiff, I drubbed them shrewdly.”

“Dared ye withstand them, dog?”

“Minion, I did.”

“Saw ye not the badge they bore?” demanded the fierce stranger-knight.

“'T was the like of that upon thy shield!” nodded Sir Pertinax grimly.

“Know ye who and what I am, dunghill rogue?”

“No, dog's-breakfast--nor care!” growled Sir Pertinax, whereat the stranger-knight grew sudden red and clenched mailed fist.

“Know then, thou kennel-scourer, that I am Sir

Agramore of Biename, Lord of Swanscote and Hoccom, Lord Seneschal of Tissingors and the March.”

“Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “So do I know thee for a very rogue ingrain and villain manifest.”

“How!” roared Sir Agramore. “This to my face, thou vile creeper of ditches, thou unsavoury tavern-haunter--this in my teeth!”

“Heartily, heartily!” nodded Sir Pertinax. “And may it choke thee for the knavish carcass thou art.”

At this, and very suddenly, the Knight loosed mace from saddle-bow, and therewith smote Sir Pertinax on rusty bascinet, and tumbled him backward among the bracken. Which done, Sir Agramore laughed full loud and, spurring his charger, galloped furiously away. And after some while Sir Pertinax arose, albeit unsteadily, but finding his legs weak, sat him down again; thereafter with fumbling hands he did off dinted bascinet and viewed it thoughtfully, felt his head tenderly and, crawling to the stream, bathed it solicitously; then, being greatly heartened, he arose and drawing sword, set it upright in the ling and, kneeling, clasped his hands and spake as follows:

“Here and now, upon my good cross-hilt I swear I will with joy and zeal unremitting, seek me out one Sir Agramore of Biename. Then will I incontinent with any, all, or whatsoever weapon he chooseth fall upon him and, for this felon stroke, for his ungentle dealing with the maid, I will forthwith gore, rend, tear, pierce, batter, bruise and otherwise use the body of the said Sir Agramore until, growing aweary of its vile tenement, his viler soul shall flee hence to consume evermore with such unholy knaves as he. And this is the oath of me, Sir Pertinax,

“Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene, to the which oath may the Saints bend gracious ear, in especial Our Holy Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood--Amen!”

Having registered the which most solemn oath, Sir Pertinax arose, sheathed his sword, and strode blithely towards the fair and prosperous town of Canalise. But, being come within the gate, he was aware of much riot and confusion in the square and streets beyond, and hasting forward, beheld a wild concourse, a pushing, jostling throng of people making great clamour and outcry, above which hubbub ever and anon rose such shouts, as: “Murderer! Thief! Away with him! Death to him!”

By dint of sharp elbow and brawny shoulder our good knight forced himself a way until--surrounded by men-at-arms, his limbs fast bound, his motley torn and bloody, his battered fool's-cap all awry--he beheld Duke Jocelyn haled and dragged along by fierce hands. For a moment Sir Pertinax stood dumb with horror and amaze, then, roaring, clapped hand to sword. Now, hearing this fierce and well-known battle shout, Duke Jocelyn turned and, beholding the Knight, shook bloody head in warning and slowly closed one bright, blue eye; and so, while Sir Pertinax stood rigid and dumb, was dragged away and lost in the fierce, jostling throng.

My daughter GILLIAN propoundeth:

GILL: Father, when you began this Geste, I thought
It was a poem of a sort.

MYSELF: A sort, Miss Pert! A sort, indeed?

GILL: Of course--the sort folks love to read.
But in the last part we have heard
Of poetry there's scarce a word.

MYSELF: My dear, if you the early Geste-books read,
You'll find that, oft as not, indeed,
The wearied Gestours, when by rhyming stumped,
Into plain prose quite often jumped.

GILL: But, father, dear, the last part seems to me
All prose--as prosy as can be--

MYSELF: Ha, prosy, miss! How, do you then suggest
Our Geste for you lacks interest?

GILL: Not for a moment, father, though
Sir Pertinax was much too slow.
When fair Melissa “laughing stood,”
He should have kissed--you know he
should--Because, of course, she wished him to.

MYSELF: Hum! Girl, I wonder if that's true?

GILL: O father, yes! Of course I'm right,
And you're as slow as your slow knight.
Were you as slow when you were young?

MYSELF: Hush, madam! Hold that saucy tongue.
You may be sure, in my young days,
I was most dutiful always.
Grown up, I was, it seems to me,
No slower than I ought to be.
And now, miss, since you pine for verse,
Rhyme with my prose I'll intersperse;
And, like a doting father, I
To hold your interest will try.

FYTTE 5

Which of Duke Joc'lyn's woeful plight doth tell,
And all that chanced him pent in dungeon cell.

* * * * *