to, tall topers,” quoth the Duke, “ye are witless, in faith, for there is no man here but is without wine, as in song will I shew—mark now:     

   “'Tis plain that ye are wine without, Since wine's within ye, topers stout. Without your wine, ye whineful show, Thus wine-full, wine without ye go. Being then without your wine, 'tis true, Wine-less, ye still are wine-full too. But, mark! As thus ye wine-full sit, Since wine's within, out goeth wit. Thus, truth to tell, tall topers stout, Both wine and wit ye go without!”  

       By such tricks of rhyme, jugglery of words, and the like, Duke Jocelyn won this fierce company to great good humour and delight; insomuch that divers of these roysterers pressed wine upon him and money galore. But, the hour growing late, he contrived at last to steal away with Sir Pertinax, which last, having fed copiously, now yawned consumedly, eager for bed. Howbeit, despite the Knight's fierce threats, they found no bed was to be had in all the inn, and so, perforce, betook them at last to the stable.     

   There, while our Knight cursed softly, though full deep, Soon in the straw our Duke fell fast asleep. My daughter GILLIAN propoundeth:    GILL:   O, father, dear, I greatly fear You 'll never be a poet! MYSELF: Don't be too hard upon the bard, I know it, girl, I know it! These last two lines, I quite agree, Might easily much better be. Though, on the whole, I think my verse, When all is said, might be much worse. GILL:   Worse, father? Yes, perhaps you're right, Upon the whole—perhaps, it might. MYSELF: But hark now, miss! Attend to this! Poetic flights I do not fly; When I begin, like poor Lobkyn, I merely rhyme and versify. Since my shortcomings I avow, The story now, you must allow, Trips lightly and in happy vein? GILL:   O, yes, father, though it is rather Like some parts of your “Beltane.”    MYSELF: How, child! Dare you accuse your sire Of plagiary—that sin most dire? And if I do, small blame there lies; It is myself I plagiarise. GILL:   Why, yes, of course! And, as you know. I always loved your “Beltane” so. MYSELF: But don't you like the “geste” I'm writing? GILL:   Of course! It's getting most exciting, In spite of all the rhymes and stuff—    MYSELF: Stuff? Enough! My daughter, you're so sweetly frank. Henceforth my verses shall be blank. No other rhyme I'll rhyme for you Till you politely beg me to. Now then, your blank-verse doom you know, Hey, presto, and away we go! 

  

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