I hate myself and yet I fain must smile

And play the thistle-down and dandy-puff,

The foolish froth at edge of flagonets;

And all the while see me a tortured torrent

Winding down in the darks of its own sorrow.

Yea, Dagonet, thou art too much of fool,

Like the great King and all other fools,

To be the thistle-down thou fain wouldst seem.

For thou art also anchored by the heels

To some sore, eating iron of thy desire.

Enter King Arthur.

King Arthur

Arthur. Well fool, what mummeries now?

Dagonet. I be holding a black Friday service, Sir King.

Arthur. And what sayest thou in thy supplications?

Dagonet. I think on thee Sir King, and I think on poor Dagonet.

And I say, Lord have mercy upon us!

Arthur. A pious wish, Sir fool, but why pitiest thou me?

Dagonet. For thy poverty, Sire?

Arthur. Why poverty, fool?

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