whereupon Duke Jocelyn questioned him full meek:     

       “Good master Reeve, of your courtesy pray you tell us why yon bells do ring so wild alarm.”      

   The small Reeve viewed him with disdainful eye; Sniffed haughty nose and proudly made reply:   'Our bells we ring and clamour make, because We've lost our lady fair of Tissingors. Our Duchess Benedicta hath this day From all her worthy guardians stole away. Thus we for her do inquisition make, Nor, 'till she's found, may hope our rest to take, And thus we cause such outcry as we may, Since we lose not our Duchess ev'ry day. So then we'd have ye speak us—aye or no, Saw ye our errant lady this way go? And, that ye may her know for whom we seek, Her just description fully I will speak:   Her hair night-black, her eyes the self-same hue, Her habit brown, unless 't were red or blue, And if not blue why then mayhap 'tis green, Since she by turns of all such hues is seen—”    “Stay, sir,” quoth Jocelyn, “'tis plain to see No maid but a chameleon is she, For here we have her brown and green and blue, And if not brown then rosy is her hue, And, if not red, why then 'tis very plain That brown she is or blue or green again. Now fain, sir, would I ask and question whether She e'er is seen these colours all together?    “O fain would I a lady spy, By countryside or town, Who may be seen all blue and green, Unless she's red or brown.”    But now, while fierce the little man did scowl, The rosy Friar, sly-smiling 'neath his cowl, His visage meek, spake thus in dulcet tone:   “Sir Fool, our Reeve is something mixed, I'll own, Though he by divers colours is bemused, Learn ye this truth, so shall he stand excused:   Our Duchess Benedicta, be it known, Hath this day from her several guardians flown. Ten worthy men her several guardians be, Of whom the chief and worthiest ye see, As first—myself, a friar of some report, Well-known, methinks, in country, town and court. Who as all men can unto all men speak, Well read beside in Latin and in Greek, A humble soul albeit goodly preacher, One apt to learn and therefore learned teacher, One who can laugh betimes, betimes can pray, Who'll colic cure or on the bagpipe play. Who'll sing—”    “Stay!” cried the Reeve. “Friar, what o'me?”    “Patience, O Bax, too soon I'll come to thee! Who'll sing ye then blithe as a bird on bough—”    “Friar!” growled the Reeve, “the time for me is now!”    “So be it, then,” the Friar did gently say,   “I'll speak of thee as truly as I may:   Here then behold our port-reeve, Greg'ry Bax, Who, save for reason, naught in reason lacks, Who, though he 

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