Chapter IV: Part 4

But now, and just as they reached that narrow street where safety lay, they heard a shout, a scream, a rush of feet and roar of fierce voices and beheld, amid a surge of armed men, the old woman struggling in the cruel grip of Black Lewin who (like many others I wot of, my Gill) was brave enough by daylight. Vainly the old creature strove, screaming for mercy as Black Lewin whirled aloft his sword; but his blade clashed upon another as Jocelyn sprang, and for a while the air rang with the sound of fierce- smiting steel until, throwing up his arms, Black Lewin fell and lay there. But, roaring vengeance, the soldiery closed about Jocelyn who, beset by blows on every side, sank in turn, yet, even as he fell, two short though mighty legs bestrode his prostrate form and Lobkyn Lollo, whirling huge club, smote down the foremost assailant and, ever as he smote, he versified and chanted--thus:

“I'm Lollo hight,
Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I,
I'm Lollo hight,
'Tis my delight
By day or night
In honest fight
With main and might
Good blows to smite,
And where they light
'Tis sorry plight
For that poor wight,
Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I.

“Bows, swords and staves,
Come, lusty knaves,
And fit for graves
Brave Lobkyn soon will make ye;
So fight, say I,
Nor turn and fly,
Or, when ye die,
Then may old Horny take ye.”

Fierce raged the conflict, but in that narrow street they made good play against their many assailants, the valiant Dwarf's mighty club, backed by the Tanner's darting pike and Robin's flashing sword, which he had snatched from a loosened grasp. But Jocelyn lay prone upon his face, between Lobkyn's firm-planted feet, and stirred not. So club whirled, sword flashed and pike darted while, high above the tumult, rose Lobkyn's fierce chant:

“Hot blood I quaff,
At death I laugh,
Brave Lobkyn Lollo, I.
Come all that may,
And all I'll slay,
And teach ye how to die.”

“Lob--Lobkyn!” screamed the Witch. “Thou that drinkest nought but milk--talk not of blood, thou naughty poppet. Back now--stand back, I do command thee!”

Lobkyn smote a man to earth and, sighing regretful, stepped aside.

“Back!” screamed the Witch. “Stand back, I say, all three,
And leave this wicked rabblement to me.
Now shall they learn the terror of my curse,
Black magic shall they feel--and something worse!”

Then uttered she a sudden, hideous cry,
And, leaping, whirled her bony hands on high,
And lo! a choking dust-cloud filled the air;
That wreathed in whirling eddies here and there.

“Perendewix!” she cried. “Oh Radzywin--
Thraxa! Behold, my witchcraft doth begin!”
Back shrank their foes, back reeled they one and all,
They choked, they gasped, they let their weapons fall;
And some did groan, and some did fiercely sneeze,
And some fell prone, some writhed upon their knees;
Some strove to wipe the tears from blinded eyes,
But one and all gave voice to awful cries.

“Come!” cried the Witch, “to the door--the door. Lobkyn, bear ye the brave Fool--and tenderly! Haste, naughty bantling, haste--I hear the tread of more soldiers!”

So Lobkyn stooped and, lifting Jocelyn's inanimate form, tucked it beneath one arm, and with Robin and Will the Tanner, followed the old Witch into the house.

My daughter GILLIAN commandeth:

GILL: Go on, father, do; why will you keep stopping?
I think the old Witch is just perfectly topping.
And what frightful words she uses for curses!

MYSELF: Very frightful, indeed, though your slang still much worse is,
With your “topping,” “top-holing,” your “swishing” and “clipping,”

GILL: Well, I merely intended to say it was ripping;
But, if you object to my praises--

MYSELF: I only object to your phrases,
For there's no author but will own
He “liveth not by bread alone.”
As for myself, if what I write
Doth please--then praise with all your might.

GILL: Well, then, the Witch is splendid, though
I'm very curious to know
Just how her face all fiery grew,
And what the stuff was that she threw--
The stuff that made the soldiers sneeze
And brought them choking to their knees
It sounds as though it might be snuff.

MYSELF: My dear, they'd not found out such stuff.
But grisly witches long ago
Did many strange devices know.
Indeed, my Gill, they knew much more
Than wise folk gave them credit for.

GILL: Well, what was it? You haven't said.

MYSELF: I'll get on with our Geste instead.

FYTTE 7

That telleth to the patient reader nought,
Save how the Duke was to the wild-wood brought.

* * * * *

With sleepy eyes Duke Jocelyn watched afar,
In deep, blue void a solitary star,
That, like some bright and wakeful eye, did seem
To watch him where he lay 'twixt sleep and dream.
And, as he viewed it winking high above,
He needs must think of Yolande and his love,
And how, while he this twinkling star did view,
She, wakeful lying, might behold it too,
Whereas she lay a spotless maid and fair,
Clothed in the red-gold glory of her hair;
And, thinking thus, needs must he fondly sigh,
Then frowned to hear a lusty snore hard by--

--and looking whence came this sound, the Duke sat up and his wonder grew; for by light of a fire that glowed in a blackened fissure of rock he beheld himself couched on a bed of bracken within a roomy cave. Beside the fire leaned a mighty, iron-shod club, and beyond this, curled up like a dog, snored Lobkyn Lollo, the Dwarf. Hereupon Jocelyn reached out and shook Lob to wakefulness, who grunted sleepily, rubbed his eyes drowsily and yawned mightily:

Quoth JOCELYN: Good Dwarf, where am I?

Answered LOBKYN:
Safe, Fool, safe art thou, I trow,
Where none but Lob and friends do know.

JOCELYN: But how am I hither?

LOBKYN: Why, truly thou art hither, Fool,
Because thou art not thither, Fool!
In these two arms, thy life to save,
I bore thee to this goodly cave.

JOCELYN: How may one of thy inches bear man of mine so far?

LOBKYN: Why, Fool, though I of inches lack,
I'm mighty strong, both arm and back,
Thou that art longer man than me,
Yet I am stronger man than thee,
Though, lusty Fool, big fool you be,
I'd bear thee, Fool, if thou wert three.
And mark, Fool, if my grammar seemeth weak,
Pray license it since I in verse must speak.

JOCELYN: And pray why must thou speak in verse?

LOBKYN: Nature hath on me laid this curse,
And, though to speak plain prose I yearn,
My prose to verse doth ever turn.
Therefore I grieve, as well I might,
Because of my poetic plight--
Though bards and rhymers all I scorn,
Alack! I was a rhymer born.

JOCELYN: Alack! poor Dwarf, as thou must versify,
By way of courtesy, then, so will I.

LOBKYN: How, Fool, then canst thou rhyme?

JOCELYN: Aye, Dwarf, at any time!
In dark, in light,
By day, by night,
Standing, sitting,
As be fitting,
Verses witty,
Quaint or pretty,
Incontinent I'll find.
Verses glad, Dwarf,
Verses sad, Dwarf,
Every sort, Lob,
Long or short, Lob
Or verses ill,
Yet verses still
Which might be worse,
I can rehearse
When I'm for verse inclined.
So, Lob, first speak me what became
Of our old Witch, that potent dame.

LOBKYN: Why, Fool, in faith she wrought so well
With direful curse and blasting spell
That every howling soldier-knave,
Every rogue and base-born slave
That by chance I did not slay,
From my grand-dam ran away.

JOCELYN: A noble Witch! Now, Lobkyn, tell
What hap'd when in the fight I fell,
And how alive I chance to be.

LOBKYN: Fool, I was there to succour thee.
I smote those pike-men hip and thigh,
That they did mangled pike-men lie;
Their arms, their legs, their skulls I broke,
Two, three, and four at every stroke.
I drave them here, I smote them there,
I smote, I slew, I none did spare,
I laughed, I sang, I--

“Ha, Lob!” growled a sleepy voice. “Now, as I'm a tanner, here's a-many I's! By Saint Crispin, meseemeth thou'rt all I's--for as thou fought I fought, or thought I fought, forsooth!”

LOBKYN: True, Will, did'st fight in goodly manner,
Though fightedst, Will, like any tanner;
But I did fight, or I'm forsworn,
Like one unto the manner born.
I fought, forsooth, with such good will,
'Tis marvel I'm not fighting still.
And so I should be, by my fay,
An I had any left to slay;
But since I slew them all--

“Hold there!” cried the Tanner. “I slew one or two, Lob, and Robin likewise. Thou'rt a lusty fighter, but what o' me and Robin--ha, what o' we?”

LOBKYN: In faith, ye're proper men and tall,
And I'm squat man, my stature small,
Nath'less, though small and squat I be,
I am the best man of the three.

“Why, as to that,” quoth the Tanner, “'tis but you says so! As to me I think what I will, and I do think--”

But here Lobkyn started up and seized the great club; quoth he:

“Hark and mark,
Heard ye nought there i' the dark?”

“Not I!” answered Will.

“Methought I heard an owl hoot,” said Jocelyn.

“Aye,” nodded Lobkyn:

“Aye, Fool, and yet this owl I 'll swear,
Hath ne'er a feather anywhere.
This owl hath ne'er a wing to fly,
But goes afoot like thou and I.
Now mark,
And hark!”

Hereupon the Dwarf laid finger to lip and uttered an owl-cry so dismal, so tremulous and withal so true to nature that it was wonder to hear. Instantly, from the dimness beyond the cavern-mouth, the cry was repeated, and presently was heard a panting and 'plaining, a snuffling and a shuffling, and into the light of the fire hobbled the old Witch. Beholding Jocelyn sitting cross-legged on his couch of fern, she paused and, leaning on her crooked stick, viewed him with her wise, old eyes.

“Aha, Motley!” she croaked. “Oho, thou flaunting jackanapes, didst peril thy foolish flesh for me that am poor and old and feeble, and cursed by all for witchcraft! So have I with my potions ministered to thee in thy sickness, and behold thou'rt alive, hale and strong again. Give me thy hand! Aha, here's cool, unfevered blood! Show me thy tongue. Oho! Aha! A little sup o' my black decoction--roots gathered at full o' moon--a little sup and shall be thyself by to-morrow's dawn. But--as for thee, thou good-for-naught, thou wicked elf--aha! would'st dare leave thy poor old grannam weak and 'fenceless? Give me thy rogue-ear!” Obediently, the mighty Dwarf arose and sighfully suffered the old woman to grasp him by the ear and to tweak and wring and twist it as she would.

“What dost thou here i' the wild-wood, thou imp, thou poppet o' plagues, thou naughty wap-de-staldees?”

To which Lobkyn, writhing and watering at the eyes, answered thus:

“Stay, prithee grannam, loose thy hold!
I would but be an outlaw bold,
An outlaw fierce that men shall fear--
Beseech thee, grand-dam, loose mine ear!”

“An outlaw, naughty one!” screeched the Witch, tweaking ear the harder. “Dare ye tell me so, elf?”

LOBKIN: Aye, grand-dam--cuff me an ye will,
Nath'less an outlaw I'll be still,
And many a wicked rogue I'll kill--
O grand-dam, loose mine ear!
And day and night I'll slay until
All rogues my name do fear.

For grand-dam, I'm a fighter--O,
Beseech thee, let my ear go!
And bones shall crack and blood shall flow,
If any dare resist me.
And all the world my name shall know,
Pray by the ear don't twist me!

All men before my club shall fly,
All on their knees shall “mercy” cry,
Or mangled in their gore shall lie--
Ah, grand-dam, pray don't clout me!
Don't beat me, grannam dear, but try
To do awhile without me--

“Without thee, thou piece o' naughtiness?” screamed the old woman. “Now will I lay my stick about thee--hold still, Rogue!”

Saying which, she proceeded to belabour the poor Dwarf with her knotted stick, clutching him fast by his ear the while. Thus she be-thwacked him soundly until he roared for mercy.

“Why, how now--how now?” cried a merry voice, and Robin strode into the firelight. “Gentle Witch, sweet dame,” quoth he, “what do ye with poor Lob?”

“Thwack him shrewdly!”

“Which is, Witch, that which none but witch the like o' thee might do, for lustier fighter and mightier dwarf never was. Thus, but for thy witch-like witcheries, the which, Witch, witch do prove thee, but for this and the power and potency of thy spells, now might he crack out thy life 'twixt finger and thumb--”

“Ha, forest-rogue, 'tis a bad brat, a very naughty elf would run off into the wild to be rogue like thee--an outlaw, forsooth!”

“Forsooth, Witch,” laughed Robin, “outlaw is he in very truth, in sooth and by my troth! Outlaw is Lob, banned by Church and Council of Ten, and so proclaimed i' the market square of Canalise this very morn by sound o' trumpet and--”

“How? How?” cried the old woman, wringing her trembling hands. “My Lobkyn outlawed? My babe, my lovely brat, my pretty bantling, woe and alas! My dear ugly one an outlaw?”

“Aye, marry is he, Witch, outlaw proclaimed, acclaimed, announced, pronounced and denounced; as such described, ascribed and proscribed by Master Gregory Bax, the port-reeve, for the late slaying and maiming of divers of the city guard. So outlaw is Lobkyn, his life henceforth forfeit even as mine.”

“My Lobkyn an hairy outlaw i' the wild-wood! Out alas! And what of his poor old grannam? What o' me--?”

“Content thee, sweet hag, since thou'rt outlawed along with him and, as witch, doomed to die unpleasantly by fire and flame and faggot, if thou'rt caught.”

“Alack! Wala-wa! Woe 's me!” groaned the Witch, cracking her finger-bones. “And all this by reason o' the Fool yonder.”

“Why, the Fool is dubbed outlaw likewise, Witch,” quoth Robin. “Outlaw is he along o' thee and Tanner Will.”

“And all by reason that this Fool must needs peril our lives for sake of rogue-outlaw, of forest-robber, of knavish woodland-lurker--”

“Hight Robin!” laughed Robin, leaning on his long bow-stave. “Now, this brave Fool having saved Robin his life, Witch, the which, Witch, was good thing for Robin, our Fool next saved thee, Witch, which was nought to Robin, in the which, Witch, Robin did not joy; for thou, old Witch, being witch, art therefore full o' witcheries which be apt to be-devil a man and fright his reason, for the which reason, being reasonable man, I reason, for this reason, that, so reasoning, I love thee not. But thou art old, Witch, which is good reason to reasonably reason thou art wise, Witch, and, being wise, I on this wise would seek counsel of thy wisdom, Witch. Imprimis, then--”

“Hold!” commanded the Witch; “here's a whirl o' windy wind! Hast more of such-like, forester?”

“Some little, Witch, which I will now, Witch--”

“Nay, then, Robin-a-Green, suffer me to rest my old bones whiles thy mill clacks.” Hereupon the old Witch seated herself beside the fire, with bony knees up-drawn to bony chin. “Speak, outlaw Robin,” she croaked, blinking her red eyes, “and speak ye plain.”

“Why, then, wise Witch, look 'ee: since we be outlaws each and every, with all men's hands against us, with none to succour, and death watchful for us, 'tis plain, and very plain, we, for our harbourage and defence, must in the wild-wood bide--”

“Ho!” cried Lobkyn:

“It soundeth good,
The brave wild-wood,
Where flowers do spring
And birds do sing.
To slay the deer
And make good cheer,
With mead and beer,
The livelong year,
And--”

“Roar not, toad!” cried the Witch. “Say on--Rogue-Robin!”

“Why, mark me, good Witch, here's where buskin chafeth! Not long since I ruled i' the wild-wood, a very king, with ten-score lusty outlaw-rogues to do my will. To-day is there never an one, and for this reasonable reason--to wit, I am hanged, and, being hanged, am dead, and, being dead, am not, and thus Robin is nobody; and yet again, perceive me, Witch, being Robin, I am therefore somebody; thus is nobody somebody, and yet somebody that nobody will believe anybody. The which, Witch, is a parlous case, methinks, for here am I, somebody, nobody and Robin altogether and at the same time; therefore, Witch, o' thy witchful wisdom--who am I, what and which, Witch?”

Here the Witch blinked and mowed, and cracked her finger-bones one after another. Quoth she:

“For thy first, thou'rt thyself; for the second, a rogue; and for the third, a wind-bag. I would thy second might tie up thy first in thy third.”

“So should Robin choke Robin with Robin. But hark 'ee again, good, patient dame. It seemeth that Ranulph the executioner betaketh him at cock-crow to hang poor me; but, finding me not, made great outcry, insomuch that the city guard, such as mighty Lob and Will had left alive, sought counsel together; and taking one of their slain fellows, Ranulph hanged him in my stead, and there he hangeth now, above the city gate, his face so marred that he might be me or any other.”

“Ha, Robin--well?”

“This day, at sunset, came I unto the trysting-oak, and by blast of horn summoned me my outlaw company. They came apace and in great wonderment, for, seeing me, they fell to great awe and dread, thinking me dead, since many had seen my body a-dangle on the gallows; wherefore, seeing me manifestly alive, they took me for ghoulish ghost 'stead o' good flesh and blood, and fled from me amain. So, by reason of my dead body, that is no body o' mine, yet that nobody will believe is no body o' mine, they believe that this my body is yet no body, but a phantom; the which is out of reason; yet thus unreasonably do the rogues reason by reason of the body that hangeth in place of my body above the city gate. Wherefore I reason there is yet reason in their unreason, seeing this body was somebody, yet no body o' mine, but which nobody among them can swear to. Which, Witch, is a matter which none but wise witch may counsel me in. How say'st thou, Witch?”

But for a while the old Witch scowled on the fire, bony chin on bony knees, and dreamily cracked her finger-joints.

“Oho!” she cried suddenly. “Aha--a body that nobody's is, yet body that everybody knoweth for body o' thine--aha! So must nobody know that nobody's body is not thy body. Dost see my meaning, Robin-a-Green?”

“No whit, Witch! Thou growest involved, thy talk diffuse, abstruse and altogether beyond one so obtuse as simple Rob--”

“Then hark 'ee again, Addlepate! Everybodymust believe nobody's body thy body, so by dead body will I make thy live body of so great account to everybody that nobody henceforth shall doubt dead body made live body, by my witchcraft, and thou be feared, therefore, of everybody. Dost follow me now, numskull?”

“Aye, truly, mother! And truly 'tis a rare subtlety, a notable wile, and thou a right cunning witch and wise. But how wilt achieve this wonder?”

“Since dead thou art, I to life will bring thee. Oho, I will summon thee through fire and flame; aha, I will make thee more dreaded than heretofore; thy fame shall fill the wild-wood and beyond. Know'st thou the Haunted Wood, hard by Thraxby Waste?”

Now here Robin's merry smile languished, and he rubbed nose with dubious finger.

“Aye, I do,” quoth he sombrely; “an ill place and--demon-rid, they say--”

“Come ye there to-morrow at midnight.”

“Alone?” says Robin, starting.

“Alone!”

“Nay, good Witch, most gentle, potent dame, I--though phantom accounted, I love not phantoms, and Thraxby Waste--”

“Come ye there--at midnight!”

“Why, then, good Witch, an come I must, suffer that I bring the valiant Fool and mighty Lob--prithee, now!”

At this the old Witch scowled and mumbled and crackled her finger-bones louder than ever.

“Oho!” cried she at last, “thou great child, afraid-o'-the-dark, bring these an ye will--but none other!”

“Good mother, I thank thee!”

“Tchak!” cried the Witch, and, struggling to her feet, hobbled to Jocelyn and laid bony finger on wrist and brow, nodded, mumbled, and so, bent on her staff, hobbled away; but, reaching the cave-mouth, she paused, and smote stick to earth fiercely.

“To-morrow!” she croaked. “Midnight! Re--member!”

FYTTE 8

Tells how the Witch, with incantations dire,
In life to life brought Robin through the fire.

* * * * *

The wind was cold--indeed 'twas plaguy chill--
That furtive crept and crept, like something ill
Stealing with dreadful purpose in the dark,
With scarce a sound its stealthy course to mark;
While pallid moon did seem to swoon, as though
It ghastly things beheld on earth below;
And Robin gripped the good sword by his side,
And Joc'lyn looked about him watchful-eyed;
While Lobkyn Lollo felt and looked the bolder
By reason of the club across his shoulder.

“Here,” whispered Robin, peering through the gloom,
“Is dismal place, I've heard, of death and doom.
Here do be ghosts and goblins, so 'tis said,
Demons, phantoms, spectres of the dead--”
“Aye, verily,” quoth Lob, “and what is worse,
'Tis here my grand-dam oft doth come to curse,
And haunteth it with spiteful toads and bats,
With serpents fell, with ewts and clawful cats.
Here doth she revel hold o' moony nights,
With grave-rank ghouls and moaning spectral sprites;
And ... Saints! what's that?
A hook-winged bat?
Not so; perchance, within its hairy body fell
Is man or maid transformed by magic spell.
O, brothers, heedful be, and careful tread
Lest magic gin should catch and strike us dead!
O would my grannam might go with us here.
Since, being witch, she doth no witchcraft fear.”

So came the three at last to Haunted Wood,
Where mighty trees in gloomy grandeur stood,
Their wide-flung boughs so closely interweaving
Scarce space between for ghostly moonbeams leaving;
But, snake-like, round each other closely twined,
In shuddering wind did mournful voices find,
And, groaning, writhed together to and fro
Like souls that did the fiery torment know.
Thus, in the wood, 'twas dark and cold and dank,
And breathed an air of things long dead and rank;
While shapes, dim-seen, did creep and flit and fly
With sudden squeak, and bodeful, wailing cry.

At last they reached a clearing in the wood,
Where, all at once, as 'mid the leaves they stood,
From Lobkyn's lips, loud, tremulous, and high,
There rose and swelled the owlet's shuddering cry.
Scarce on the air this dismal sound had died,
When they the Witch's hobbling form espied.
Beholding Robin, by the arm she caught him,
And to a place of rocks in haste she brought him;
And here, where bosky thickets burgeoned round,
She pointed to a chasm in the ground.

“Go down!” she hissed. “Go down, thou thing of clay,
Thou that art dead--into thy grave I say.
Since thou 'rt hanged, a dead man shalt thou be
Till from thy grave my spells shall summon thee--”
“My grave?” gasped Robin, blenching from her frown.
“Aye, Rogue!” she croaked. “Behold thy grave! Go down!”
So shiv'ring Robin, in most woeful plight,
Crept into gloom and vanished from their sight.
“O, Robin, Robin!” the old Witch softly cried,
“Alack, I'm here!” faint voice, below, replied.
“Thou dead,” croaked she, “thou ghostly shade forlorn,
From charnel-vault sound now thy spectral horn,
Sound now thy rallying-note, then silent be
Till from thy mouldering tomb I summon thee!”

Now, on the stillness rose the ghostly sound
Of Robin's hunting horn that through the ground
Rang thin and high, unearthly-shrill and clear,
That thrilled the shivering woodland far and near,
And shuddering to silence, left behind
A whisper as of leaves in stealthy wind.
A rustling 'mid the underbrush they heard
Where, in the gloom about them, dim things stirred--
Vague, stealing shapes that softly nearer drew,
Till from the tree-gloom crept a ragged crew,
Wild men and fierce, a threatening, grimly herd,
Who stood like shadows, speaking not a word;
And the pale moon in fitful flashes played
On sword and headpiece, pike and broad axe-blade.
While the old hag, o'er witch-fire crouching low,
Puffed at the charcoal till it was aglow;
Then hobbling round and round her crackling fire,
She thus began her incantations dire:

“Come ye long-dead,
Ye spirits dread,

Ye things of quaking fear,
Ye poor, lost souls,
Ye ghosts, ye ghouls,
Haxwiggin bids ye here!
By one by two, by two by three,
Spirits of Night, I summon ye,
By three by four, by four by five,
Come ye now dead that were alive,
Come now I bid ye
From grave-clods rid ye,
Come!
From South and North,
I bid ye forth,
From East, from West,
At my behest--
Come!
Come great, come small,
Come one, come all,
Heed ye my call,
List to my call, I say,
From pitchy gloom
Of mouldered tomb
Here find ye room
For sport and holiday.
Come grisly ghosts and goblins pale,
Come spirits black and grey,
Ye shrouded spectres--Hail, O Hail!
Ho! 'tis your holiday.
Come wriggling snakes
From thorny brakes,
Hail!
Come grimly things
With horny wings,
That flit, that fly,
That croak, that cry,
Hail!

“Come ghouls, come demons one and all,
Here revel whiles ye may;
Ye noisome things that creep and crawl,
Come, sport and round me play.
Ho, claw and wing and hoof and horn,
Here revel till the clammy dawn.

“Peeping, creeping,
Flying, crying,
Fighting, biting,
Groaning, moaning,
Ailing, wailing,
Spirits fell,
Come to my spell,
Ho! 'tis your holiday!
So, are ye there,
High up in air,
The moonbeams riding
'Mid shadows hiding?

“Now gather round, ye spectral crew,
This night have we brave work to do--
Bold Robin o' the Green, 'tis said,
On gallows hangeth cold and dead
Beneath the sky
On gibbet high,
They in a noose did swing him.
Go, goblins, go,
And ere they know,
Unto me hither bring him.”

Here paused the Witch to mend her glowing fire,
While each man to his neighbour shuffled nigher,
As witch-flame leapt and ever brighter grew,
Till, to their horror, sudden it burned blue;
Whereat each silent, fearful beholder
Felt in the gloom to touch his fellow's shoulder,
Yet, in that moment, knew an added dread
To see the fire from blue turn ghastly red;
Then, as the Witch did o'er it crooning lean,
Behold! it changed again to baleful green.
Whereat the Witch flung bony arms on high,
As though with claw-like hands she 'd rend the sky;
And while the lurid flames leapt ever higher,
She thus invoked the Spirit of the Fire.

“As fire doth change, yet, changed, unchanged doth burn,
By fiery spell shall dead to life return!

“Ho, goblins yonder--'neath the moon,
Have ye brought me the dead so soon?
Ha! is it Bxibin that ye bring,
That pale, that stiff, that clammy thing?
Now work we spell with might and main,
Shall make it live and breathe again.

“Now in and out,
And round about,
Ye wriggling rout,
With hoof and claw and wing;
Now high, now low,
Now fast, now slow,
Now to and fro
Tread we a magic ring.

“Thus, while the frighted moon doth peep,
We 'll wake this cold, dead thing from sleep,
Till Robin back to life shall leap.
And when he from the fire shall spring,
Ye outlaws hail him for your King.

“For on that wight
Who, day or night,
Shall Robin disobey
With purpose fell
I'll cast a spell
Shall wither him away.

“Ho, Robin! Ope thy death-cold eyes,
Ho, Robin! From thy grave arise,
Ho, Robin! Robin, ho!
Robin that doth bide so near me,
Robin, Robin, wake and hear me,
Ho, Robin! Robin, ho!

“Back to life I summon thee,
Through the fire thy path must be,
Through the fire that shall not harm thee,
Through flame that back to life shall charm thee,
Shall warm thy body all a-cold,
And make grim Death loose clammy hold.
Ho, Robin-a-Green,
Ho, Robin-a-Green,
Leap back to life by all men seen!”

Through curling smoke-wreaths and through writhing flame,
With mighty bound, bold Robin leaping came,
And by the Witch did in the fire-light stand,
Sword by his side and bugle-horn in hand,
And laughed full blithe as he was wont to do,
And, joyous, hailed his wild and ragged crew:

“What lads, are ye there forsooth? Is't Myles I see with lusty Watt and John and Hal o' the Quarterstaff? God den t' ye, friends, and merry hunting to one and all, for by oak and ash and thorn here stand I to live with thee, aye, good lads, and to die with ye here in the good greenwood--”

But now and all at once from that grim and silent company a mighty shout went up:

“'Tis Robin--'tis Robin, 'tis bold Robin-a-Green! 'Tis our Robin himself come back to us!”

And fearful no longer, they hasted to him and clasped him in brawny arms, hugging him mightily and making great rejoicing over him.

FYTTE 9

That tells almost as fully as it should,
The joys of living in the good greenwood.

* * * * *

Deep-hidden in the trackless wild the outlaws had made them a haven of refuge, a camp remote and well sequestered. Here were mossy, fern-clad rocks that soared aloft, and here green lawns where ran a blithesome brook; it was indeed a very pleasant place shut in by mighty trees. Within this leafy boskage stood huts of wattle, cunningly wrought; beneath the steep were many caves carpeted with dried fern and fragrant mosses, while everywhere, above and around, the trees spread mighty boughs, through which the sun darted golden beams be-dappling the sward, and in whose leafy mysteries the birds made joyous carolling.

And here beneath bending willows arched over this merry brook, one sun-bright morning riotous with song of birds, sat Jocelyn with Robin a-sprawl beside him.

“O brother,” says Robin, “O brother, 't is a fair place the greenwood, a fair, sweet place to live--aye, or to die in methinks, this good greenwood, whereof I have made a song--hark 'ee!”

“Oho, it is a right good thing
When trees do bud and flowers do spring
All in the wood, the fair, green wood,
To hear the birds so blithely sing,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
All in the good, green wood.

“Who cometh here leaves grief behind,
Here broken man hath welcome kind,
All in the wood, the fair, green wood.
The hopeless here new hope may find,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
All in the kind, green wood.

“Ho, friend, 'tis pleasant life we lead,
No laws have we, no laws we need
Here i' the good, green wood.
For every man's a man indeed,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
Here i' the good, green wood.

“All travellers that come this way
Must something in fair tribute pay
Unto the wood, the fair, green wood.
Or here in bonds is like to stay,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
Lost in the good, green wood.

“Full many a lord, in boastful pride,
This tribute, scornful, hath denied
Unto the wood, the fair, green wood.
And thereupon hath sudden died,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
All in the fair, green wood.

“And when our time shall come to die
Methinks we here may softly lie
Deep in the fair, green wood.
With birds to sing us lullaby,
Adown, adown, hey derry down,
All in the good, green wood.”

“So there it is, brother--and life and death in a nutshell, as 'twere. Now, wherefore wilt not join us and turn outlaw, good Fool?”

“For that I am a fool belike, Robin. Howbeit, I'm better Fool than outlaw.”

“Say, rather, greater fool, Fool, for foresters' life is better than life o' folly, and payeth better to boot, what with booty--ha! Moreover, I do love thee, since, Fool, though fool, art wise in counsel and valiant beyond thought--so 'tis I would not lose thee. Stay, therefore, and live my comrade and brother, equal with me in all things. How say'st thou?”

“Why, Robin, I say this: True friendship is a goodly thing and a rare in this world, and, therefore, to be treasured; 'tis thing no man may buy or seek, since itself is seeker and cometh of itself; 'tis a prop--a staff in stony ways, a shield 'gainst foes, a light i' the dark. So do I love friendship, Robin, and thou'rt my friend, yet must leave thee, though friendship shall abide.”

Quoth ROBIN: How abide an we be parted?

“In heart and mind and memory, Robin. Moreover, though I go, yet will I return anon, an life be mine.”

“And wherefore go ye, brother?”

“First to seek my comrade.”

“Thy comrade--ha! I mind him, a fierce great fellow with hawk's beak and a fighting eye. And whither trend ye?”

“To Canalise.”

“Art crazed, brother? 'Tis there death waiteth thee!”

“Yet must I go, Robin, since there my heart waiteth me.”

“A maid, brother?”

“A maid, Robin.”

“Heigho! So wilt thou go, come joy, come pain, come life or death, since a maid is made to make man saint or devil, some days glad and some days sad, but ever and always a fool. And thou art Fool by profession, and, being lover professed and confessed, art doubly a fool; and since, good Folly, love's but folly and thou, a Fool, art deep in folly, so is thy state most melancholy.”

“And dost think love so great folly, Robin?” said a soft voice, and, looking round, they beheld the lovely, dark-tressed Melissa, who viewed them bright-eyed and pouted red mouth, frowning a little.

“Aye, verily, lady,” laughed Robin, as she sank on the grass beside them. “Forsooth, 'tis a madness fond. For see, now, a man being in love is out of all else.”

“As how, Sir Outlaw?”

“Marry, on this wise--when man's in love he mopeth apart and is ill company, so is he out o' friends; he hangeth humble head abashed, so is he out o' countenance; he uttereth frequent, windy, sighful suspirations, so is he out o' breath; he lavisheth lucre on his love, so is he out o' pocket; he forsweareth food, despiseth drink, scorneth sleep, so is he out o' health--in fine, he is out of all things, so is he out of himself; therefore he is mad, and so may go hang himself!”

MELISSA: And hast thou loved, Robin?

ROBIN: Ever and always, and none but Robin!

MELISSA: And none more worthy, Robin?

ROBIN: And none more, as I am worthy Robin.

MELISSA: Lovest thou not Love, Robin?

ROBIN: Love, love not I.

MELISSA: Then Love canst thou know not.

ROBIN: Then if I love Love for Love's sake, must Love then love me, therefore?

MELISSA: If thy love for Love be true love, so shall Love love thee true.

ROBIN: Then if Love should love me for my sake, then would I love Love for Love's sake; but since Love ne'er hath sought me for my sake, ne'er will I seek Love for Love's sake for my sake, since Love, though plaguy sweet, is a sweet plague, I judge and, so judging, will by my judgment stand.

MELISBA: And how think you, Sir Fool?

JOCELYN: I think if Love find Robin and Robin, so found of Love, shall learn to love Love for Love's sake, Love shall teach Robin how, hi loving Love--Love, if a plague, doth but plague him lovingly to his better judgment of Love, till, being on this wise, wise--he shall judge of Love lovingly, loving Love at last for Love's own lovely sake, rather than for his own selfish self. For as there is the passion of love, the which is a love selfish, so there is the true Spirit of Love, the which forgetteth self in Love's self, thus, self-forgotten, Love is crowned by Love's true self.

MELISSA: How think ye of this, Robin?

ROBIN: By Cupid, we are so deep in love that we are like to drown of love and we be not wary. Here hath my lovely jowlopped-crested brother so beset poor Robin with Love and self and Robin, that Robin kens not which is Love, Love's self or himself.

MELISSA: And yet I do think 'tis very plain! Yet an thou canst express this plainer, prithee do, Sir Fool.

“Blithely, sweet lady, here will I frame my meaning in a rhyme, thus:

“Who loveth Love himself above,
With Love base self transcending
Love, Love shall teach how Love may reach
The Love that hath no ending.

“'Tis thus Love-true, Love shall renew,
Love's love thus waning never,
So love each morn of Love new-born,
Love shall live loving ever.”

ROBIN: Aye, verily, there's Love and yet such a love as no man may find methinks, brother.

JOCELYN: Never, Robin, until it find him. For true love, like friendship, cometh unsought, like all other good things.

ROBIN: 'Las! then needs must I be no good thing since I am sought e'en now of old Mopsa the Witch yonder!

And he pointed where the old creature hobbled towards them bent on her crooked staff. Up rose Robin and, hasting to meet her, louted full low, since she was held in great respect of all men by reason of her potent spells. Chuckling evilly, she drew down Robin's tall head to whisper in his ear, whereupon he laughed, clapped hand to brawny thigh, and taking old Mopsa's feeble arm, hastened away with her. But Melissa, reclining 'neath the willow-shade, gazed down into the murmurous waters of the brook with eyes of dream whiles Jocelyn struck soft, sweet chords upon his lute. And presently she turned to view him thoughtfully--his strange, marred face; his eyes so quick and keen 'neath battered cock's-comb; his high, proud bearing despite his frayed and motley habit; and ever her wonder grew until, at last, she must needs question him:

“Fools, Sir Fool, have I seen a-many, both in the motley and out, but thou art rare among all fools, I do think.”

JOCELYN: Gramercy, lady! Truly fool am I of all fools singular.

MELISSA: Thou'rt he I heard, upon a day, sing strange, sweet songs, within the marketplace of Canalise!

JOCELYN: The same, lady.

MELISSA: That soused my lord Gui head over ears in a lily-pool?

JOCELYN: Verily, lady.

MELISSA: O! Would one might do as much for Sir Agramore of Biename!

JOCELYN: One doubtless will, lady.

MELISSA: Thyself?

JOCELYN: Nay--one that loveth the disputatious bickering of sharp steel better than I--one had rather fight than eat, and rather fight three men than one--

“Three men?” cried Melissa, starting.

“Aye, lady--and six men than three!”

“There was such an one, Fool, in truth a very brave man, did fight three of my Lord Agramore's foresters on my behalf. Dost know of such an one, Fool?”

“Methinks he is my comrade, Lady.”

“Thy comrade--in truth? Then, pray you, speak me what seeming hath he.”

“Ill, lady.”

“How so, Fool?”

“A great, fierce rogue is he, unlovely of look, bleak of eye, harsh of tongue, hooked of nose, flinty of soul, stony of heart, of aspect grim and manners rude!”

“Then, verily, thy comrade have I never seen!” quoth Melissa, flushing and with head up-flung. “He that saved me is nothing the like of this.”

“And yet,” said Jocelyn slyly, “'tis thus he hath been named ere now!”

“Nay, Fool, indeed he that saved me was tall and seemly man, very fierce and strong in fight, but to me wondrous gentle--in truth, something timorous, and, 'spite rusty mail, spake and looked like a noble knight.”

“Then forsooth, lady, thy champion is no comrade of mine, for he is but a poor rogue, ill-beseen, ill-kempt, ill-spoken, ill-mannered and altogether ill, save only that he is my friend--”

“And thou speakest ill of thy ill friend, the which is ill in thee--ill Fool!” and the fair Melissa rose.

“And pray, lady, didst learn thy preserver's name?”

“Indeed, for I asked him.”

“And it was--?”

“Pertinax!” she sighed.

“Pertinax!” said Jocelyn, both in the same moment; the dark-browed Melissa sat down again.

“So thy comrade and--he are one, Fool?”

“Indeed, lady. Yet here we have him, on the one hand, a man noble and seemly, and, on the other, a poor rogue, hook-nosed, ill-beseen, ill--”

“'Tis thou hast miscalled him, Fool!” said she, frowning.

“Not I, lady.”

“Who, then?”

“A maid--”

“Ah!” said Melissa, frowning blacker than ever. “A maid, Fool? What maid?”

“A wandering gipsy o' the wood, lady--a dark-eyed damsel with long, black curling hair and 'voice of sweet allure'--'tis so he named her--”

“This was belike some wicked witch!” said Melissa, clenching white fist.

“Aye, belike it was, lady, for she bestowed on him a strange jewel, a heart in heart of crystal, that wrought for us in Canalise marvels great as our wondrous Witch herself.”

Now here the lovely Melissa's frown vanished, and her red lips curved to sudden smile.

“Belike this was no witch after all!” said she gently.

“Howbeit, lady,” quoth Jocelyn slyly, “my poor comrade is surely bewitched by her none the less. She hath wrought on him spell so potent that he groweth mopish and talketh of her eyes, her hair, her sweet and gentle voice, her little foot, forsooth.”

“And doth he so, indeed?” said Melissa softly, and, twiddling one of her own pretty feet, she smiled at it. “Doth he sigh o'er much?” she questioned.

“Consumedly! By the minute!”

“Poor soldier!” she murmured.

“Aye, poor rogue!” said Jocelyn; whereupon she frowned again, and turned her back upon him.

“And he is thy comrade.”

“Even so--poor knave!”

“And destitute--even as thou?”

“Aye, a sorry clapper-claw--even as I, lady.”

“Then, pray thee, why doth he wear gold chain about his neck?”

“Chain, lady--?”

“Such as only knights do wear!”

“Belike he stole it, lady--”

“Aye--belike he did!” said she, rising; then she sighed and laughed, and so turned and left him.

And in a while Jocelyn rose also, and went on beside the brook; but as he walked deep in thought, there met him Robin, he full of mirth and laughter.

“Oho, brother, good brother!” cried he joyfully, clapping hand on Jocelyn's broad shoulder, “come away, now, and see what the good wind hath blown hither--come thy ways and see!”

So came they where rose a great tree of huge girth, whose gnarled branches spread far and wide, a veryforest of leaves, beneath whose shade were many of the outlaws grouped about one who crouched miserably on his knees, his arms fast bound and a halter about his neck; and, as obedient to Robin's words the fierce company fell back, Jocelyn saw this torn and pallid captive was none other than Ranulph the Hangman.

“Woe's me, my masters!” quoth he 'twixt chattering teeth. “'Tis pity poor Ranulph must die before his time, for ne'er shall be found hangman, headsman or torturer the like o' Ranulph--so dainty i' the nice adjustment o' noose! So clean and delicate wi' the axe! So tender and thoughtful wi' pincers, thumbscrew, rack or red-hot iron! A hangman so kindly o' soul, so merry o' heart, alack, so free, so gay, so merry--forsooth a very wanton, waggish, jovial bawcock-lad--”

“Why, then, good, merry wag,” laughed Robin, “now shalt thou cut us an antic aloft in air, shalt caper and dance in noose to our joyance! Up with him, bully lads, and gently, that he may dance the longer!”

But as Ranulph was dragged, shivering, to his feet, Jocelyn stepped forward.

“Stay!” he cried. “Look, now, here's hangman did but hang since hang he must; must he hang therefore?”

ROBIN: Aye, marry, since hanging shall his hanging end!

JOCELYN: But if to hang his duty is, must he for duty hang? Moreover, if ye hang this hangman, unhanged hangmen shall hang still, and since ye may not all hangmen hang, wherefore should this hangman hang?

ROBIN: Brother, an this hangman hang, fewer hangmen shall there be to hang, forsooth.

JOCELYN: Not so, Robin, for hangman dead begetteth hangman new; this hangman hanged, hangman in his place shall hang men after him. Shall this hangman hang for hanging as in duty bound, whiles other hangmen, unhanged, hang still? Here, methinks, is small wisdom, little reason, and less of justice, Robin.

ROBIN: Beshrew me, brother--but here's so much of hanging hanging on hanging plaguy hangman that hang me if I get the hang on't--

JOCELYN: Plainly, Robin--wilt hang a man for doing his duty?

ROBIN: Plainly, brother--no. But--

JOCELYN: Then canst not hang this hangman, since hanging his duty is--

ROBIN: Yet 'tis base, vile duty--

JOCELYN: Yet duty it is--wherefore, an there be any justice in the good greenwood, this hangman unhanged must go.

Now here Robin scowled, and his brawny fellows scowled likewise, and began to mutter and murmur against Jocelyn, who, leaning back to tree, strummed his lute and sang:

“O, Life is sweet, but Life is fleet,
O'er quick to go, alack!
And once 'tis spilt, try as thou wilt,
Thou canst not call it back!

“So bethink thee, bold Robin, and, as thou 'rt king o' the wild-wood, be thou just king and merciful--”

“Now out upon thee, brother!” cried Robin, forgetting to scowl. “Out on thee with thy honied phrases, thy quipsome lilting rhymes! Here go I to do a thing I ha' no lust to do--and all by reason o' thee! Off--off wi' the halter, lads--loose the hangman-claws of him! Hereafter, since he can pay no ransom, he shall be our serf; to have a hangman fetch and carry shall be rare, methinks!”

Quoth JOCELYN: How much should hangman's flesh be worth i' the greenwood, Robin?

“Why, brother, 'tis poor, sad and dismal knave; five gold pieces shall buy him, aye--halter and all, and 'tis fair, good halter, look you!”

“Why, then,” said Jocelyn, opening his wallet, “behold the monies, so do I buy him of thee--”

“Now, by Saint Nick!” cried Robin, amazed. “Nay, brother, an thou'lt buy so sorry a thing, give thy money to the merry lads; I'll none on't. And now,” said he, the money duly paid, “what wilt do wi' thy hangman?”

“Sir Fool,” cried Ranulph, falling on his knees at Jocelyn's feet, “fain would I serve thee--e'en to the peril o' the life thou hast saved. Bid me labour for thee and in labour shall be my joy, bid me fight for thee and I will fight whiles life is in me; bid me follow thee and I will follow even unto--”

“Nay, hangman,” said Jocelyn, “I bid thee rise and sing for us, and so be gone wheresoever thou wilt.”

Then Ranulph arose and glancing round upon the fierce company, from the noose at his feet to Jocelyn's scarred face, he drew a great breath; quoth he:

“Sir Fool, since 'tis thy will fain would I give thee song blithe and joyful since joy is in my heart, but alack, though my songs begin in merry vein they do grow mournful anon; howbeit, for thy joy now will I sing my cheeriest;” whereupon Ranulph brake into song thus:

“I am forsooth a merry soul,
Hey deny down, ho ho!
I love a merry song to troll,
I love to quaff a cheery bowl,
And yet thinks I, alas!
Such things too soon do pass,
And proudest flesh is grass.
Alack-a-day and woe,
Alack it should be so!

“A goodly lover I might be,
Merrily, ho ho!
But pretty maids in terror flee,
When this my hangman's head they see.
But woe it is, thinks I,
All fair, sweet dames must die,
And pale, sad corpses lie.
Alack-a-day and woe,
Alack it should be so!

“Fairest beauty is but dust,
Shining armour soon will rust,
All good things soon perish must,
Look around, thinks I, and see
All that, one day, dead must be,
King and slave and you and me.
Alack-a-day and woe,
Alack it must be so!”

“Out!” cried Robin. “Here forsooth is dolorous doleful dirge--out on thee for sad and sorry snuffler!”

“Aye, verily,” sighed Ranulph, “'tis my curse. I begin with laugh and end in groan. I did mean this for merry song, yet it turned of itself sad song despite poor I, and there's the pity on't--”

“Enough!” growled Robin, “away with him. Brand, do you hoodwink him in his 'kerchief and give him safe conduct to beyond the ford, and so set Master Hangman Grimglum-grief on his road--”

“Sir Fool,” cried Ranulph, “God den t'ye and gramercy. Should it be e'er thy fate to die o' the gallows, may I have thy despatching--I will contrive it so sweetly shalt know nought of it--oho! 'twould be my joy.”

“Off!” cried Robin. “Off, thou pestiferous fungus lest I tread on thee--hence, away!”

So the outlaws blindfolded Ranulph and led him off at speed.

“Away,” quoth Jocelyn, nodding, “so now in faith must I, Robin--”

“What, is't indeed farewell, brother?”

“Aye, Robin.”

“Why, then, what may I give thee in way o' love and friendship?”

“Thy hand.”

“Behold it, brother! And what beside? Here is purse o' good pieces--ha?”

“Nay, Robin, prithee keep them for those whose need is greater.”

“Can I nought bestow--dost lack for nothing, brother?”

“What thou, methinks, may not supply--”

“And that?”

“Horse and armour!” Now at this, Robin laughed and clapped hand to thigh; quoth he:

“Come with Robin, brother!” So he brought Jocelyn into a cave beneath the steep and, lighting a torch from fire that burned there, led him on through other caves and winding passages rough-hewn in the rock, and so at last to a vasty cavern.

And here was great store of merchandise of every sort,--velvets, silks, and rich carpets from the Orient; vases of gold and silver, and coffers strong-clamped with many iron bands. And here also, hanging against the rocky walls, were many and divers suits of armour with helms and shields set up in gallant array; beholding all of which Jocelyn paused to eye merry Robin askance; quoth he soberly:

“Sir Rogue, how came ye by all this goodly furniture?”

“By purest chance, brolher,” laughed Robin, “for hark 'ee--

“Chance is a wind to outlaws kind,
And many fair things blows us,
It--merchants, priors, lords, knights and squires,
And like good things bestows us--”

“Aye,” said Jocelyn, “but what of all those knights and squires whose armour hangeth here?”

“Here or there, brother, they come and they go. Ha, yonder soundeth Ralfwyn's horn--three blasts which do signify some right fair windfall. Come, let us see what this jolly wind hath blown us this time!” So saying, Robin laughed and led the way out into the sunny green. And here, surrounded by a ring of merry forest rogues, they beheld a knight right gallantly mounted and equipped, his armour blazing in the sun, his gaudy bannerole a-flutter from long lance, his shield gaudy and brave with new paint; beholding which, Robin chuckled gleefully; quoth he:

“Oho! On a field vert three falcons gules, proper, charged with heart ensanguined--aha, here's good booty, methinks!”

Now, as this splendid knight rode nearer, contemptuous of his brawny captors, Robin stared to see that on his helmet he wore a wreath of flowers, while lance and sword, mace and battle-axe were wreathed in blooming roses.

“Ho, Jenkyn, Cuthbert!” cried Robin, “what Sir Daintiness have ye here?” But ere his grinning captors could make reply, the knight himself spake thus:

“Behold a very gentle knight,
Sir Palamon of Tong,
A gentle knight in sorry plight,
That loveth love and hateth fight,
A knight than fight had rather write,
And strophes to fair dames indite,
Or sing a sighful song.

“By divers braggarts I'm abused,
'Tis so as I've heard tell,
Because, since I'm to fight unused,
I many a fight have bold refused,
And, thereby, saved my bones unbruised,
Which pleaseth me right well.

“No joy have I in steed that prances,
True gentle man am I
To tread to lutes slow, stately dances.
'Stead of your brutish swords and lances,
I love love's lureful looks and glances,
When hand to hand, unseen, advances,
And eye caresseth eye.”

“And how a plague, Sir Gentleness,” questioned Robin, “may eye caress eye?”

“E'en as lips voiceless may wooing speak, Sir Roguery, and tongue unwagging tell tales o' love, Sir Ferocity.”

ROBIN: Then had I the trick o' voiceless speech, now would I, with silly tongue, tell thee thou art our prisoner to ransom, Sir Silken Softness.

SIR PALAMON: And I joy therefore, Sir Forest Fiend.

ROBIN: And wherefore therefore?

SIR PALAMON: For that therefore I need not to the joust, to that bone-shattering sport of boastful, brutal braggadocios, but here, lapped soft in the gentle green, woo the fair Yolande--

JOCELYN: How, knight, the fair lady Yolande, say'st thou?

SIR PALAMON: Even she.

JOCELYN: But here she is not and thou art, how then may one that is, woo one is not?

SIR PALAMON: Gross mountebank, by thought--I woo in thought, breathe my thought upon the balmy air and air beareth it to her feet.

ROBIN: And she treadeth on't, so there's an end o' thy love! But pray you, Sir Downy Daintiness, how come ye that are so gentle so ungently dight? Discourse, Sir Dove!