he, But, 'spite his tricks and all his cunning play, He in the Duke had met his match this day, As, with a sudden heave and mighty swing, Duke Jocelyn hurled him backwards on the ling, And there he breathless lay and sore amazed, While on the Duke with wonderment he gazed:   “A Fool?” he cried. “Nay, certes fool, per De, Ne'er saw I fool, a fool the like o' thee!”    But now, e'en as the Duke did breathless stand, Up strode Sir Pertinax, long sword in hand:   “Messire,” he growled, “my rogues have run away, So, since you've felled this fellow, him I'll slay.”    “Not so,” the Duke, short-breathing, made reply,   “Methinks this rogue is too much man to die.”    “How?” cried the Knight; “not slay a knave—a thief? Such clemency is strange and past belief! Mean ye to let the dog all scathless go?”    “Nay,” said the Duke, square chin on fist, “not so, For since the rogue is plainly in the wrong The rogue shall win his freedom with a song, And since forsooth a rogue ingrain is he, So shall he sing a song of roguery. Rise, roguish rogue, get thee thy wind and sing, Pipe me thy best lest on a tree ye swing!”    Up to his feet the lusty outlaw sprang, And thus, in clear melodious voice, he sang:    “I'll sing a song not over long, A song of roguery. For I'm a rogue, and thou'rt a rogue, And so, in faith, is he. And we are rogues, and ye are rogues, All rogues in verity.    “As die we must and turn to dust, Since each is Adam's son, A rogue was he, so rogues are we, And rascals every one.    “The Abbot sleek with visage meek, With candle, book and bell, Our souls may curse, we're none the worse, Since he's a rogue as well.    “My lord aloft doth hang full oft Poor rogues the like o' me, But all men know where e'er he go A greater rogue is he.    “The king abroad with knight and lord Doth ride in majesty, But strip him bare and then and there A shivering rogue ye'll see,    “Sirs, if ye will my life to spill, Then hang me on a tree, Since rogue am I, a rogue I'll die, A roguish death for me.    “But i' the wind the leaves shall find Small voices for my dole,    “And when I'm dead sigh o'er my head Prayers for my poor rogue soul; For I'm a rogue, and thou 'rt a rogue, And so in faith is he, As we are rogues, so ye are rogues, All rogues in verity.”    The singing done, the Duke sat lost in thought, What time Sir Pertinax did stamp and snort:   “Ha, by the Mass! Now, by the Holy Rood! Ne'er heard I roguish rant so bold and lewd! He should be whipped, hanged, quartered, flayed alive—”    “Then,” quoth the Duke, “pay him gold pieces five,”    “How—pay a rogue?” the Knight did fierce retort.   “A ribald's rant—give good, gold pieces for't? A plague! A pest! The knave 

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