MYSELF: I might do that, 't is none so bad a plan.
GILL: And the lady—she must be a lady fair.
MYSELF: My dear, she's beautiful beyond compare.
GILL: Why, then—
MYSELF: My pen!
So here and now I do begin The tale of young Duke Jocelyn, For critics, schools, And cramping rules, Heedless and caring not a pin. The title here behold On this fair page enrolled, In letters big and bold, As seemeth fit— To wit:—
FYTTE I
Upon a day, but when it matters not, Nor where, but mark! the sun was plaguy hot Falling athwart a long and dusty road In which same dust two dusty fellows strode. One was a tall, broad-shouldered, goodly wight In garb of motley like a jester dight, Fool's cap on head with ass's ears a-swing, While, with each stride, his bells did gaily ring; But, 'neath his cock's-comb showed a face so marred With cheek, with brow and lip so strangely scarred As might scare tender maid or timid child Unless, by chance, they saw him when he smiled, For then his eyes, so deeply blue and bright, Did hold in them such joyous, kindly light, That sorrow was from heavy hearts beguiled— This jester seemed less ugly when he smiled. Here, O my Gill, right deftly, in a trice I've made him smile and made him do it—twice. That 't was the Duke of course you've guessed at once Since you, I know, we nothing of a dunce. But, what should bring a duke in cap and bells? Read on and mark, while he the reason tells. Now, 'spite of dust and heat, his lute he strummed, And snatches of a merry song he hummed, The while askance full merrily he eyed The dusty knave who plodded at his side. A bony fellow, this, and long of limb, His habit poor, his aspect swart and grim; His belt to bear a long broad-sword did serve, His eye was bold, his nose did fiercely curve Down which he snorted oft and (what is worse) Beneath his breath gave vent to many a curse. Whereat the Duke, sly laughing, plucked lutestring And thus, in voice melodious did sing:
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