“When man is born he doth beginWith right good will, to daily sin,And little careth.But when his grave he thinketh near,Then grave he groweth in his fearAnd sin forsweareth.“This life that man doth cherish so,Is wondrous frail and quick to go,Nor will it stay.Yet where's the man that will not giveAll that he hath so he might liveAnother day.“Fain would I know the reason whyAll men so fearful are to dieAnd upward go?Since Death all woes and ills doth end,Sure Death, methinks, should be a friend,Not hated foe.“So when Death come, as come he must,Grieve not that we this sorry dustDo leave behind.For when this fleeting life be run,
By Death we all of us—each one,True life shall find.”Now while he sang melodious and clearAmid the throng that closer pressed to hear,Duke Joc'lyn of a sudden did espyThe “wherefore” of his coming and the “why.”Yolande herself he, singing, did behold,Her eyes, red lips, her hair of ruddy gold;And all her warm and glowing lovelinessDid sudden thus his raptured vision bless;While she, in gracious ease, her horse did sitThat pawed round hoof and champed upon his bit,Arching proud neck as if indeed he wereProud of the lovely burden he did bear.As Joc'lyn gazed upon her thus, she seemedA thousand times more fair than he had dreamed.Now while he sang, she viewed him, gentle-eyed,And quite forgot the gallant by her side,A tall, dark-featured, comely lord was he,With chin full square and eyes of mastery,Who, when the Duke made of his song an endDid from his saddle o'er Yolanda bend.With eyes on her warm beauty he stooped nearTo touch white hand and whisper in her ear;Whereat she laughed and frowned with cheek flushed redThen, frowning still, she turned her horse's head,And rode away with dame and squire and knight,Till lost she was to Joc'lyn's ravished sight.
“Ha, lord!” quoth Sir Pertinax, as they came within a quiet thoroughfare, “this lady is grown more fair since last we saw her Queen of Beauty at Melloc joust, concerning whom Fame, in troth, doth breed a just report for once. But, messire, didst mark him beside her—with touch o' hand, lord, whispers i' the ear—didst mark this wolf, this Seneschal, this thrice accurst Sir Gui?”
“Aye, forsooth,” answered the Duke, “but thou'rt an hungered, methinks?”
“To touch her hand, lord—aha! To whisper in her ear, lord—oho! A right puissant lord, Seneschal of Raddemore, Lord of Thorn and Knight of Ells! A lord of puissance and power potential.”
“And thou, my Pertinax, art but a hungry Knight, that trampeth with a hungry Fool, wherefore let us forthwith—”
“Aye, but mark me, lord, if this puissant lord with pomp and high estate doth woo the lady—”
“So then, my Pertinax, will I woo this lady also.”
“How, in this thy foolish guise?”
“Aye, forsooth.”
“Why, then, thou art like to be whipped for froward Fool and I for ragged rogue, and this our adventure brought to ill and woeful end—so here now is folly, lord, indeed!”
“Aye, forsooth!” smiled the Duke,
“Whereto these bells give heed.But come, amend thy speed,Methinks thy fasting-needThese gloomy vapours breed.Thy inner man doth pleadGood beef with ale or meadWherein, thou Fool decreed,I am right well agreed'T were goodly thing to feed,Nor will I thee impede,So follow Folly's leadAnd food-wards we'll proceed.”
How Pertinax mine host's large ears did wring,And Jocelyn of these same ears did sing.
Now the town was full, and every inn a-throng with company—lords, both great and small, knights and esquires and their several followings, as archers, men-at-arms, and the like, all thither come from far and near to joust at the great tournament soon to be, to honour the birthday of Benedicta, Duchess of Tissingors, Ambremont, and divers other fair cities, towns and villages. Thus our travellers sought lodgment in vain, whereat Sir Pertinax cursed beneath his breath, and Duke Jocelyn hummed, as was each his wont and custom; and ever the grim Knight's anger grew.
Until, at last, an humble inn they saw—A sorry place, with bush above the door.This evil place they straightway entered in,Where riot reigned, the wild, unlovely dinOf archers, men-at-arms, and rogues yet worse,Who drank and sang, whiles some did fight and curse.An evil place indeed, a lawless crew,And landlord, like his inn, looked evil too:Small was his nose, small were his pig-like eyes,But ears had he of most prodigious size,A brawny rogue, thick-jowled and beetle-browed,Who, spying out our strangers 'mid the crowd,Beholding them in humble, mean array,With gestures fierce did order them away.“Nay,” quoth Sir Pertinax, “here will we bide,Here will we eat and drink and sleep beside.Go, bring us beef, dost hear? And therewith mead,And, when we've ate, good beds and clean we 'll need.”“Ho!” cried the host. “Naught unto ye I'll bringUntil yon Fool shall caper first and sing!”Said Jocelyn: “I'll sing when I have fed!”“And then,” quoth Pertinax, “we will to bed!”“And wilt thou so?” the surly host replied;“No beds for likes o' ye do I provide.An' ye will sleep, knave, to the stable go,The straw is good enough for ye, I trow.”“Ha!” roared Sir Pertinax. “A stable? Straw?This to me, thou filthy clapper-claw,Thou fly-blown cod's-head, thou pestiferous thing!”And, roaring, on the brawny host did spring;By his large ears Sir Pertinax did take him,And to and fro, and up and down, did shake him;He shook him quick and slow, from side to side,While loud for aid the shaken landlord cried.Whereat the vicious crowd, in sudden wrath,Shouted and cursed and plucked their daggers forth.But, ere to harm our bold Knight they were able,Duke Joc'lyn lightly sprang on massy table;Cock's-comb a-flaunt and silver bells a-ring,He laughing stood and gaily plucked lute-string,And cut an antic with such merry graceThat angry shouts to laughter loud gave place.Thereafter he sang as followeth:“Bold bawcocks, brave, bibulous, babbling boys,Tall tosspots, come, temper this tumult and noise;So shall I sing sweetly such songs as shall sureConstrain carking care and contumacy cure.Thus, therefore—”
But here the surly landlord raised much clamour and outcry, whiles he touched and caressed his great ears with rare gentleness.
“Oho, my yeres!” roared he. “My yeres do be in woeful estate. Oho, what o' yon fierce-fingered rogue, good fellows, what o' yon knave—'a did twist my yeres plaguily and wring 'em roguishly, 'a did! Shall 'a not be beaten and drubbed out into the kennel, ha? What o' poor Nykins' yeres, says I—my yeres, oho!”
“Thine ears, unsavoury scullion,” laughed Jocelyn; “thine ears, forsooth? Hark ye, of thy so great, so fair, so fine ears I'll incontinent make a song. List ye, one and all, so shall all here now hear my song of ears!” Forthwith Duke Jocelyn struck his lute and sang:
“Thine ears, in sooth, are long ears,Stout ears, in truth, and strong ears,Full ears, I trow, and fair ears,Round ears also and rare ears.So here's an ear that all eyes hereShall see no beauty in, 'tis clear.For these o' thine be such ears,Large, loose, and over-much ears,Ears that do make fingers itch,Ears to twist and ears to twitch.
If thine ears had gone unseen,Pulled forsooth they had not been;Yet, since pulled indeed they were,Thine ears plain the blame must bear.So of thine ears no more complain,Lest that thine ears be pulled again.So hide thine ears as best ye may,Of which same ears, to end, I sayThine ears indeed be like my song,Of none account, yet over long!”
Now hereupon was huge laughter and merriment, insomuch that the thick-jowled landlord betook himself otherwhere, and all men thronged upon our jester, vociferous for more.
“Aye, but, bold tosspots,” laughed Jocelyn, “how now, sit ye without wine in very truth?”
“Not so, good Fool,” they cried. “Here be wine a-plenty for us and for thee!”
“Go 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 fearYou '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 ratherLike some parts of your “Beltane.”MYSELF: How, child! Dare you accuse your sireOf 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 youTill you politely beg me to.Now then, your blank-verse doom you know,Hey, presto, and away we go!
Tell'th how Duke Jocelyn of love did sing,And haughty knight in lily-pool did fling.
Upon a morn, when dewy flowers fresh-wakedFilled the glad air with perfume languorous,And piping birds a pretty tumult made,Thrilling the day with blended ecstasy;When dew in grass did light a thousand fires,And gemmed the green in flashing bravery—Forth of her bower the fair Yolanda came,Fresh as the morn and, like the morning, young,Who, as she breathed the soft and fragrant air,Felt her white flesh a-thrill with joyous life,And heart that leapt responsive to the joy.Vivid with life she trod the flowery ways,Dreaming awhile of love and love and love;Unknowing all of eyes that watched unseen,Viewing her body's gracious loveliness:Her scarlet mouth, her deep and dreamful eyes,The glowing splendour of her sun-kissed hair,Which in thick braids o'er rounded bosom fellPast slender waist by jewelled girdle bound.So stood Duke Jocelyn amid the leaves,And marked how, as she walked, her silken gownDid cling her round in soft embrace, as thoughItself had sense and wit enough to love her.Entranced he stood, bound by her beauty's spell,Whereby it seemed he did in her beholdThe beauty of all fair and beauteous things.
Now leaned she o'er a pool where lilies paleOped their shy beauties to the gladsome day,Yet in their beauty none of them so fairAs that fair face the swooning waters held.And as, glad-eyed, she viewed her loveliness,She fell to singing, soft and low and sweet,Clear and full-throated as a piping merle,And this the manner of her singing was:“What is love? Ah, who shall say?Flower to languish in a day,Bird on wing that will away.Love, I do defy thee!“What is love? A toy so vain'T is but found to lose again,Painful sweet and sweetest pain;Ah, love, come not nigh me.“But, love, an thou com'st to me,Wert thou as I'd have thee be,Welcome sweet I'd make for thee,And weary of thee never.“If with thy heart thou could'st endure,If thou wert strong and thou wert sure,A master now, and now a wooer,Thy slave I'd be for ever.”Thus sang she sweet beside the lily-pool,Unknowing any might her singing hear,When rose another voice, so rich, so fullAs thrilled her into rapt and pleasing wonder;And as she hearkened to these deep-sung words,She flushed anon and dimpled to a smile:“What is love? 'Tis this, I say,Flower that springeth in a day,Bird of joy to sing alway,Deep in the heart of me.“What is love? A joyous painThat I ne'er may lose again,Since for ever I am fainTo think and dream of thee.”Now hasted she to part the leafy screen,And one in motley habit thus beheld.But when 'neath flaunting cock's-comb she did markHis blemished face, she backward from him drewAnd caught her breath, and yet upon him gazed'Neath wrinkled brow, the while Duke JocelynRead the expected horror in her eyes:Wherefore he bowed his head upon his breastAnd plucked at belt with sudden, nervous handAs, cold and proud and high, she questioned him:“What thing art thou that 'neath thy hood doth showA visage that might shame the gladsome day?”Whereto he answered, low and humble-wise:“A Fool! The very fool of fools am I—A Fool that fain would pluck the sun from heaven.”“Begone!” she sighed. “Thy look doth make me cold,E'en as I stand thus i' the kindly sun.Yet, an thou 'rt poor as thy mean habit speaks thee,Take first this dole for tender Jesu's sake.”Then answered Jocelyn on lowly knee:“For thy sweet bounty I do thank thee well,But, in good sooth, so great a fool am I,'Stead of thy gold I rather would possessYon happy flower that in thy bosom bloometh.Give me but this and richer fool am IThan any knight-like fool that coucheth lance—Greater I than any lord soever,Aye—e'en Duke Jocelyn of Brocelaunde.”Smiled now Yolande with rosy lip up-curving,While in soft cheek a roguish dimple played.Quoth she: “Duke Jocelyn, I've heard it said,Is great and rich, a mighty man-at-arms,And thou but sorry Fool in mean array,Yet”—from white fingers she let fall the flower—“Be thou, Fool, greater than this mighty Duke!And now, since mighty Fool and rich I've made thee,In quittance I would win of thee a song.”Now sat Yolande, white chin on dimpled fist,Viewing him o'er with cruel, maiden-eyes,So swift to heed each outward mark and blemish(Since maids be apt to sly disparagement,And scorn of all that seems un-beautiful)While he did lean him by the marble rim,His wistful gaze down-bent upon the pool,Feeling her look and knowing while she looked:What time he touched his lute with fingers skilled,And so fell singing, wonder-low and sweet:“Though foul and harsh of face am I,Lady fair—O lady!Fair thoughts within my heart may lie,As flowers that bloom unseen to die,Lady fair—O lady!“Though this my hateful face may fright thee,Lady fair—O list!My folly mayhap shall delight thee,A song of fools I will recite thee,Lady fair—O list!”Herewith he sighed amain, but smiled anon,And fell anon to blither, louder note:“Sing hey, Folly—Folly ho,And here's a song of Folly,All 'neath the sun,Will gladly runAway from Melancholy.“And Fool, forsooth, a Fool am I,Well learned in foolish lore:For I can sing ye, laugh or sigh:Can any man do more?Hey, Folly—Folly, ho!'Gainst sadness bar the door.“A Fool am I, yet by fair leave,Poor Fools have hearts to feel.Poor Fools, like other fools, may grieveIf they their woes conceal.Hither, Folly—Folly, ho!All Fools to Folly kneel.“What though a Fool be melancholy,Sick, sick at heart—heigho!Pain must he hide 'neath laughing Folly,What Fool should heed his woe!Hither, Folly—Folly, ho!Fool must unpitied go.“E'en though a Fool should fondly woo,E'en though his love be high,Poor Folly's fool must wear the rue,Proud love doth pass him by.Heigho, Folly—Folly, ho!Poor Fool may love—and die.“Though Wisdom should in motley go,And fools the wise man ape;Who is there that shall Wisdom knowBeneath a 'scalloped cape?Heigho, Folly—Folly, ho!Life is but sorry jape.“So, hey, Folly—Folly, ho!And here's a song o' Folly,All 'neath the sunDo gladly runAway from Melancholy.”The singing done, she viewed him kinder-eyed,Till eyes met eyes—when she did pout and frown,And chid him that his song was something sad,And vowed so strange a Fool was never seen.Then did she question him in idle wiseAs, who he was and whence he came and why?Whereto the Duke—
My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:
GILL:Dear father, if you're in the vein,I'd like a little rhyme again;For blank verse is so hard to read,And yours is very blank indeed!MYSELF:Girl, when blank verse I write for thee,I write it blank as blank can be.Stay, I'll declare (no poet franker)No blank verse, Gill, was ever blanker.But:Since, with your sex's sweet inconstancy,Rhymes now you wish, rhymes now I'llrhyme for thee:As thus, my dear—Give ear:
Whereto the Duke did instant make reply:
“Sweet lady, since you question me,Full blithely I will answer thee;And, since you fain would merry be,I'll sing and rhyme it merrily:“Since Mirth's my trade and follies fond,Methinks a fair name were Joconde;And for thy sakeI travail makeThrough briar and brake,O'er fen and lake,The Southward March beyond.“For I an embassage do bear,Now unto thee, Yolande the fair,Which embassy,Now unto thee,Right soothfully,And truthfully,Most full, most free,Explicit I 'll declare.“Thus: videlicit and to wit,Sith now thou art to wedlock fit—Both day and nightIn dark, in lightA worthy knight,A lord of might,In his own right,Duke Joc'lyn hightTo thine his heart would knit.“But, since the Duke may not come to thee,I, in his stead, will humbly sue thee;His love each dayI will portrayAs best I may;I'll sue, I'll pray,I'll sing, I'll play,Now grave, now gay,And in this way,I for the Duke will woo thee.”Now, fair Yolanda gazed with wide-oped eyes,And checked sweet breath for wonder and surprise;Then laughed full blithe and yet, anon, did frown,And with slim fingers plucked at purfled gown:“And is it thou—a sorry Fool,” she cried.“Art sent to win this mighty Duke a bride?”“E'en so!” quoth he. “Whereof I token bring;Behold, fair maid, Duke Joc'lyn's signet ring.”“Heaven's love!” she cried. “And can it truly beThe Duke doth send a mountebank like thee,A Fool that hath nor likelihood nor graceFrom worn-out shoon unto thy blemished face—A face so scarred—so hateful that meseemsAt night 't will haunt and fright me with ill dreams;A slave so base—”“E'en so!” Duke Joc'lyn sighed,And his marred visage 'neath his hood did hide.“But, though my motley hath thy pride distressed,I am the Fool Duke Joc'lyn loveth best.And—ah, my lady, thou shalt never seeIn all this world a Fool the like of me!”Thus spake the Duke, and then awhile stood mute,And idly struck sweet chords upon his lute,Watching Yolande's fair, frowning face the while,With eyes that held a roguish, wistful smile.She, meeting now these eyes of laughing blue,Felt her cheeks burn, and sudden angry grew.So up she rose in proud and stately fashion,And stamped slim foot at him in sudden passion;And vowed that of Duke Joc'lyn she cared naught;That if he'd woo, by him she must be sought;Vowed if he wooed his wooing should be vain,And, as he came, he back should go again.“For, since the Duke,” she cried, “dare send to meA sorry wight, a very Fool like thee,By thy Fool's mouth I bid thee to him say,He ne'er shall win me, woo he as he may;Say that I know him not—”“Yet,” spake Duke Joc'lyn soft,“E'er this, methinks, thou'st seen my lord full oft.When at the joust thou wert fair Beauty's queenDuke Joc'lyn by thy hand oft crowned hath been.”“True, Fool,” she answered, 'twixt a smile and frown,“I've seen him oft, but with his vizor down.And verily he is a doughty knight,But wherefore doth he hide his face from sight?”“His face?” quoth Joc'lyn with a gloomy look,“His face, alack!” And here his head he shook;“His face, ah me!” And here Duke Joc'lyn sighed,“His face—” “What of his face?” Yolanda cried.“A mercy's name, speak—speak and do not fail.”“Lady,” sighed Joc'lyn, “thereby hangs a tale,The which, though strange it sound, is verity,That here and now I will relate to thee—'T is ditty dire of dismal doating dames,A lay of love-lorn, loveless languishment,And ardent, amorous, anxious anguishment,Full-fed forsooth of fierce and fiery flames;So hark,And mark:In Brocelaunde not long ago,Was born Duke Jocelyn. I trowNot all the world a babe could show,A babe so near divine:For, truth to tell,He waxed so well,So fair o' face,So gay o' grace,That people all,Both great and small,Where'er he went,In wondermentWould stare and stareTo see how fairA lad was Jocelyn.And when to man's estate he came,Alack, fair lady, 't was the same!And many a lovely, love-lorn dameWould pitiful pant and pine.These doleful damesFelt forceful flames,The old, the grey,The young and gay,Both dark and fairWould rend their hair,And sigh and weepAnd seldom sleep;And dames long wedFrom spouses fledFor love of Jocelyn.Therefore the Duke an oath did takeBy one, by two, by three,That for these love-lorn ladies' sakeNo maid his face should see.And thus it is, where'er he ridethHis love-begetting face he hideth.”Now laughed Yolande, her scorn forgotten quite,“Alas!” she cried. “Poor Duke! O woeful plight!And yet, O Fool, good Fool, full fain am I,This ducal, love-begetting face to spy—”Quoth Joc'lyn: “Then, my lady, prithee, look!”And from his bosom he a picture took.“Since this poor face of mine doth so affright theeHere's one of paint that mayhap shall delight thee.Take it, Yolande, for thee the craftsmen wrought it,For thee I from Duke Jocelyn have brought it.If day and night thou 'lt wear it, fair Yolande,”And speaking thus, he gave it to her hand.Its golden frame full many a jewel bore,But 't was the face, the face alone she saw.And viewing it, Yolanda did beholdA manly face, yet of a god-like mould.Breathless she sate, nor moved she for a space,Held by the beauty of this painted face;'Neath drooping lash she viewed it o'er and o'er,And ever as she gazed new charms she saw.Then, gazing yet, “Who—what is this?” she sighed.“Paint, lady, paint!” Duke Joc'lyn straight replied,“The painted visage of my lord it shows—Item: one mouth, two eyes and eke a nose—”“Nay, Fool,” she murmured, “here's a face, meseems,I oft have seen ere now within my dreams;These dove-soft eyes in dreams have looked on me!”Quoth Joc'lyn: “Yet these eyes can nothing see!”“These tender lips in accents sweet I've heard!”Quoth Joc'lyn: “Yet—they ne'er have spoke a word!But here's a face at last doth please thee wellYet hath no power to speak, see, sigh or smell,Since tongueless, sightless, breathless 't is—thus IA sorry Fool its needs must e'en supply.And whiles thou doatest on yon painted headMy tongue I'll lend to woo thee in its stead.I'll woo with witAs seemeth fit,Whiles there thou sitAnd gaze on it.Whiles it ye seeIts voice I'll beAnd plead with thee,So hark to me:Yolande, I love thee in true loving way;That is, I'll learn to love thee more each day,Until so great my growing love shall grow,This puny world in time 't will overflow.To-day I love, and yet my love is suchThat I to-morrow shall have twice as much.Thus lovingly to love thee I will learnTill thou shalt learn Love's lesson in thy turn,And find therein how sweet this world can beWhen as I love, thou, love, shall so love me.”“Hush, hush!” she sighed, and to her ruddy lipShe sudden pressed one rosy finger-tip.And then, O happy picture! Swift from sightShe hid it in her fragrant bosom white.“O Fool,” she cried, “get thee behind yon tree,And thou a very Fool indeed shall see,A knightly fool who sighs and groans in verseAnd oft-times woos in song, the which is worse.”For now they heard a voice that sung most harsh,That shrilled and croaked like piping frog in marsh,A voice that near and ever nearer drewUntil the lordly singer strode in view.A noble singer he, both tall and slender,With locks be-curled and clad in pompous splendour;His mantle of rich velvet loose did flow,As if his gorgeous habit he would show;A jewelled bonnet on his curls he bore,With nodding feather bravely decked before;He was a lover verypoint de vice,And all about him, save his voice, was nice.Thus loudly sang, with lungs both sound and strongThis worthy knight, Sir Palamon of Tong.“O must I groanAnd make my moanAnd live alone alway?Yea, I must sighAnd droop and die,If she reply, nay, nay!“I groan for thee,I moan for thee,Alone for thee I pine.All's ill for meUntil for meShe will for me be mine.”
But now, beholding Yolande amid her flowers, herself as sweet and fresh as they, he made an end of his singing and betook him, straightway, to amorous looks and deep-fetched sighs together with many supple bendings of the back, elegant posturings and motitions of slim legs, fannings and flauntings of be-feathered cap, and the like gallantries; and thereafter fell to his wooing on this fashion:
“Lady, O lady of lovely ladies most loved! Fair lady of hearts, sweet dame of tenderness, tender me thine ears, suffer one, hath sighed and suffered for sake of thee, to sightful sue. Lovely thou art and therefore to be loved, and day and night thou and Love the sum of my excogitations art, wherefore I, with loving art, am hither come to woo thee, since, lady, I do love thee.”
“Alack, Sir Palamon!” she sighed, “and is it so?”
“Alack!” he answered, “so it is. Yest're'en I did proclaim thee fairer than all fair ladies; to-day thou art yet fairer, thus this day thou art fairer than thyself; the which, though a paradox, is yet wittily true and truly witty, methinks. But as for me—for me, alas for me! I am forsooth the very slave of love, fettered fast by Dan Cupid, a slave grievous and woeful, yet, being thy slave, joying in my slavery and happy in my grievous woe. Thus it is I groan and moan, lady; I pine, repine and pine again most consumedly. I sleep little and eat less, I am, in fine and in all ways, 'haviours, manners, customs, feints and fashions soever, thy lover manifest, confessed, subject, abject, in season and out of season, yearly, monthly, daily, hourly, and by the minute. Moreover—”
“Beseech thee!” she cried, “Oh, beseech thee, take thy breath.”
“Gramercy, 'tis done, lady, 'tis done, and now forthwith resolved am I to sing thee—”
“Nay, I pray you, sir, sing no more, but resolve me this mystery. What is love?”
“Love, lady? Verily that will I in truth!” And herewith Sir Palamon fell to an attitude of thought with eyes ecstatic, with knitted brows and sage nodding of the head. “Love, my lady—ha! Love, lady is—hum! Love, then, perceive me, is of its nature elemental, being of the elements, as 'twere, composed and composite, as water, air and fire. For, remark me, there is no love but begetteth first water, which is tears; air, which is sighings and groanings; and fire, which is heart-burnings and the like. Thus is love a passion elemental. But yet, and heed me, lady, love is also metaphysical, being a motition of the soul and e'en the spirit, and being of the spirit 'tis ghostly, and being ghostly 'tis—ha! Who comes hither to shatter the placid mirror of my thoughts?”
So saying, the noble knight of Tong turned to behold one who strode towards them in haste, a tall man this whose black brows scowled fierce upon the day, and who spurned the tender flowers with foot ungentle as he came.
A tall, broad-shouldered, haughty lord was he,With chin full square and eyes of mastery,At sight of whom, Yolanda's laughter failed,And in her cheek the rosy colour paled.Quoth he: “Sir Palamon, now of thy grace,And of thy courteous friendship yield me place,To this fair lady I a word would say.Thus do I for thy courteous-absence pray,I am thy friend, Sir Knight, as thou dost know,But—”“My lord,” quoth Sir Palamon, “I go—Friendship methinks is a most holy bond,A bond I hold all binding bonds beyond,And thou 'rt a friend right potent, my lord Gui,So to thy will I willingly comply.Thus, since thy friendship I hold passing dear,Thou need but ask—and lo! I am not here.”Thus having said, low bowed this courtly knight,Then turned about and hasted out of sight.
“And now, my lady,” quoth Sir Gui, frowning upon her loveliness, “and now having discharged yon gaudy wind-bag, what of this letter I did receive but now—behold it!” and speaking, he snatched a crumpled missive from his bosom. “Behold it, I say!”
“Indeed, my lord, I do,” she answered, proud and disdainful; “it is, methinks, my answer to thy loathèd suit—”
“Loathèd!” he cried, and caught her slender wrist,And held it so, crushed in his cruel fist;But proud she faced him, shapely head raised high.“Most loathèd, my lord!” she, scornful, made reply.“For rather than I'd wed myself with thee,The wife of poorest, humblest slave I'd be,Or sorriest fool that tramps the dusty way—”“Ha! Dare thou scorn me so?” Sir Gui did say,“Then I by force—by force will sudden take thee,And slave of love, my very slave I 'll make thee—”Out from the leaves Duke Joc'lyn thrust his head,“O fie! Thou naughty, knavish knight!” he said.“O tush! O tush! O tush again—go to!'T is windy, whining, wanton way to woo.What tushful talk is this of 'force' and 'slaves',Thou naughty, knavish, knightly knave of knaves?Unhand the maid—loose thy offensive paw!”Round sprang Sir Gui, and, all astonished, sawA long-legged jester who behind him stoodWith head out-thrust, grim-smiling 'neath his hood.“Plague take thee, Fool! Out o' my sight!” growled he,“Or cropped thine ugly nose and ears shall be.Begone, base rogue! Haste, dog, and get thee hence,Thy folly pleadeth this thy Fool's offence—Yet go, or of thy motley shalt be stripped,And from the town I 'll have thee shrewdly whipped,For Lord of Ells and Raddemore am I,Though folk, I've heard, do call me 'Red Sir Gui,'Since blood is red and—I am Gui the Red.”“Red Gui?” quoth Joc'lyn. “Art thou Gui the dread—Red Gui—in faith? Of him Dame Rumour saith,His ways be vile but viler still—his breath.Now though a life vile lived is thing most ill,Yet some do think a vile breath viler still.”Swift, swift as lightning from a summer sky,Out flashed the vengeful dagger of Sir Gui,And darting with a deadly stroke and fierce,Did Joc'lyn's motley habit rend and pierce,Whereat with fearful cry up sprang Yolande,But this strange jester did grim-smiling stand.Quoth he: “Messire, a fool in very truth,The fool of foolish fools he'd be, in sooth,Who'd play a quip or so, my lord, with theeUnless in triple armour dight were he;And so it is this jester doth not failWith such as thou to jest in shirt of mail.Now since my heart thy foolish point hath missedThy dagger—thus I answer—with my fist!”Then swift he leapt and, even as he spoke,He fetched the knight so fierce and fell a strokeThat, reeling, on the greensward sank Sir Gui,And stared, wide-eyed, unseeing, at the sky.Right firmly then upon his knightly breastDuke Joc'lyn's worn and dusty shoe did rest,And while Yolande stood white and dumb with fear,Thus sang the Duke full blithely and full clear:“Dirt thou art since thou art dust,And shalt to dust return;Meanwhile Folly as he lustNow thy base dust doth spurn.“Yea, lord, though thy rank be high,One day, since e'en lords must die,Under all men's feet thou'lt lie.”Now, fierce, Sir Gui did curse the Fool amain,And, cursing, strove his dagger to regain.But Joc'lyn stooped, in mighty arms he swung him,And down into the lily-pool he flung him.With splash resounding fell the noble knight,Then gurgling rose in damp and sorry plight,Whiles Joc'lyn, leaning o'er the marble rim,With lifted finger thus admonished him:“Red Gui,Dread Gui,Lest a dead Gui,Gui, I make of thee,Understand, Gui,Fair Yolande, Gui,Humbly wooed must be.“So, Gui,Know, Gui,Ere thou go, Gui,Gui they call the Red;And thou'lt woo, Gui,Humbly sue, Gui,Lest Love strike thee dead.“Now while thou flound'rest in yon pool,Learn thou this wisdom of a Fool;Cold water oft can passion coolAnd fiery ardours slake;Thus, sir, since water quencheth fire,So let it soothe away thine ire.Then—go seek thee garments drierLest a rheum thou take.”Sir Gui did gasp, and gasping, strove to curse,Whereat he, gasping, did but gasp the worse,Till, finding he could gasp, but nothing say,He shook clenched fist and, gasping, strode away.Then Joc'lyn turned and thus beheld Yolande,Who trembling all and pale of cheek did stand.“O Fool!” she sighed. “Poor Fool, what hastthou done?”Quoth he: “Yolande, to woo thee I've begun,I better might have wooed, it is most true,If other wooers had not wooed thee too.”“Nay, Fool!” she whispered. “O beware—beware!Death—death for thee is in the very air.From Canalise, in haste, I bid thee fly,For 'vengeful lord and cruel is Sir Gui.Take now this gold to aid thee on thy way,And for thy life upon my knees I'll pray,And with the holy angels intercedeTo comfort thee and aid thee in thy need.And so—farewell! “Thus, speaking, turned Yolande.But Joc'lyn stayed her there with gentle hand,Whereat she viewed him o'er in mute surprise,To see the radiant gladness of his eyes.Quoth he: “Yolande, since thou wilt pray for me,Of thy sweet prayers fain would I worthy be.This I do know—let Death come when he may,The love I bear thee shall live on alway.Nor will I strive to leave grim Death behind me,Since when Death wills methinks he sure will find me;As in the world Death roameth everywhere,Who flees him here perchance shall meet him there.Here, then, I'll bide—let what so will betide me,Thy prayers like holy angels, watch beside me.So all day long and in thy pretty sleeping'Till next we meet the Saints have thee in keeping.”
My daughter GILLIAN animadverteth:GILL: The last part seems to me much better.I like Yolande, I hope he'll get her.MYSELF: Patience, my dear, he's hardly met her.GILL: I think it would be rather niceTo make him kiss her once or twice.MYSELF: I'll make him kiss her well, my dear,When he begins—but not just here.I'll later see what I can doIn this matter to please you.GILL: And then I hope, that by and byHe kills that frightful beast, Sir Gui.MYSELF: Yes, I suppose, we ought to slay him,For all his wickedness to pay him.GILL: And Pertinax, I think—don't you?Should have a lady fair to woo.To see him in love would be perfectly clipping.It's a corking idea, and quite awfully ripping—MYSELF: If you use such vile slang, miss, I vow I will not—GILL: O, Pax, father! I'm sorry; I almost forgot.MYSELF: Very well, if my warning you'll bear wellin mind,A fair damsel for Pertinax I 'll try to find.GILL: Then make her, father, make her quick,I always knew you were a brick.
How Pertinax plied angle to his sportAnd, catching him no fish, fish-like was caught.
By sleepy stream where bending willows swayed,And, from the sun, a greeny twilight made,Sir Pertinax, broad back against a tree,Lolled at his ease and yawned right lustily.In brawny fist he grasped a rod or angle,With hook wherefrom sad worm did, writhing, dangle.Full well he loved the piscatorial sport,Though he as yet no single fish had caught.Hard by, in easy reach upon the sward,Lay rusty bascinet and good broadsword.Thus patiently the good Knight sat and fished,Yet in his heart most heartily he wishedThat he, instead of fishing, snug had beenSeated within his goodly tower of Shene.And thinking thus, he needs must cast his eyeOn rusty mail, on battered shoon, and sigh,And murmur fitful curses and lamentThat in such base, unknightly garb he went—A lord of might whose broad shield bravely boreOf proud and noble quarterings a score.“And 't was forsooth for foolish ducal whimThat he must plod abroad in such vile trim!”Revolving thus, his anger sudden woke,And, scowling, to the unseen fish he spoke:“A Duke! A Fool! A fool-duke, by my head!Who, clad like Fool, like Fool will fain be wed,For ass and dolt and fool of fools is heWho'll live in bondage to some talk-full she.Yet, if he'll wed, why i' the foul fiend's name,Must he in motley seek the haughty dame?”But now, while he did on this problem dwell,Two unexpected happenings befell:A fish to nibble on the worm began,And to him through the green a fair maid ran.Fast, fast amid the tangled brake she fled,Her cheeks all pale, her dark eyes wide with dread;But Pertinax her beauty nothing heeded,Since both his eyes to watch his fish were needed;But started round with sudden, peevish snortAs in slim hands his brawny fist she caught;“Ha, maid!” he cried, “Why must thou come this wayTo spoil my sport and fright mine fish away?”“O man—O man, if man thou art,” she gasped,“Save me!” And here his hand she closer grasped,But even now, as thus she breathless spake,Forth of the wood three lusty fellows brake;Goodly their dress and bright the mail they wore,While on their breasts a falcon-badge they bore.“Oho!” cried one. “Yon dirty knave she's met!”Sir Pertinax here donned his bascinet.“But one poor rogue shan't let us!” t' other roared.Sir Pertinax here reached and drew his sword.“Then,” cried the third, “let's at him now all three!”Quoth Pertinax: “Maid, get thee 'hind yon tree,For now, methinks, hast found me better sportThan if, forsooth, yon plaguy fish I'd caught.”So saying, up he rose and, eyes a-danceHe 'gainst the three did joyously advance,With sword that flashed full bright, but brighter yetThe eyes beneath his rusty bascinet;While aspect bold and carriage proud and high,Did plainly give his mean array the lie.Thus, as he gaily strode to meet the three,In look and gesture all proud knight was he;Beholding which, the maid forgot her dread,And, 'stead of pale, her cheek glowed softly red.Now at the three Sir Pertinax did spring,And clashing steel on steel did loudly ring,Yet Pertinax was one and they were three,And once was, swearing, smitten to his knee,Whereat the maid hid face in sudden fear,And, kneeling so, fierce cries and shouts did hear,The sounds of combat dire, and deadly riotLost all at once and hushed to sudden quiet,And glancing up she saw to her amazeThree rogues who fleetly ran three several ways,Three beaten rogues who fled with one accord,While Pertinax, despondent, sheathed his sword.“Par Dex!” he growled, “'Tis shame that they should runEre that to fight the rogues had scarce begun!”So back he came, his rod and line he took,And gloomed to find no worm upon his hook.But now the maiden viewed him gentle-eyed;“Brave soldier, I do thank thee well!” she sighed,“Thou, like true knight, hast fought for me today—”“And the fish,” sighed he, “have stole my worm away,Which is great pity, since my worms be few!”And here the Knight's despond but deeper grew.“Yon rogues,” he sighed, “no stomach had for fight,Yet scared the fish that had a mind to bite!”“But thou hast saved me, noble man!” said she.“So must I use another worm!” sighed he.And straightway with his fishing he proceededWhile sat the maid beside him all unheeded;Whereat she frowned and, scornful, thus did speakWith angry colour flaming in her cheek:“What man art thou that canst but fight and fish?Hast thou no higher thought, no better wish?”“Certes,” quoth he, “I would I had indeedA goodly pot of foaming ale or mead.”“O base, most base!” the maid did scornful cry,And viewed him o'er with proud, disdainful eye.“That I should owe my life to man like thee!That one so base could fight and master three!Who art thou, man, and what? Speak me thy name,Whither ye go and why, and whence ye came,Thy rank, thy state, thy worth to me impart,If soldier, serf, or outlawed man thou art;And why 'neath ragged habit thou dost wearA chain of gold such as but knights do bear,Why thou canst front three armed rogues unafraid,Yet fear methinks to look upon a maid?”But to these questions Pertinax sat dumb—That is, he rubbed his chin and murmured, “Hum!”Whereat she, frowning, set determined chinAnd thus again to question did begin:
SHE: What manner of man art thou?
HE: A man.
SHE: A soldier?
HE: Thou sayest.
SHE: Art in service?
HE: Truly.
SHE: Whom serve ye?
HE: A greater than I.
SHE: Art thou wed?
HE: The Saints forfend!
SHE: Then art a poor soldier and solitary.
HE: I might be richer.
SHE: What dost thou fishing here?
HE: I fish.
SHE: And why didst fight three men for me—a maid unknown?
HE: For lack of better employ.
SHE: Rude soldier—whence comest thou?
HE: Fair maiden, from beyond.
SHE: Gross Knight, whither goest thou?
HE: Dainty damosel, back again.
SHE: Dost lack aught?
HE: Quiet!
SHE: How, would'st have me hold my peace, ill fellow?
HE: 'T would be a marvel.
SHE: Wherefore?
HE: Thou'rt a woman.
SHE: And thou a man, ill-tongued, ill-beseen, ill-mannered, unlovely, and I like thee not!
HE: And what is worse, the fish bite not.
Now here, and very suddenly, she fell a-weeping, to the Knight's no small discomfiture, though she wept in fashion wondrous apt and pretty; wherefore Sir Pertinax glanced at her once, looked twice and, looking, scratched his ear, rubbed his chin and finally questioned her in turn:
HE: Distressful damosel, wherefore this dole? SHE: For that I am weary, woeful and solitary. And thou—thou'rt harsh of look, rough of tongue, ungentle of—HE: Misfortunate maiden, thy loneliness is soon amended, get thee to thy friends—thy gossips, thy—
SHE: I have none. And thou'rt fierce and ungentle of face.
Here she wept the more piteously and Sir Pertinax, viewing her distress, forgot his hook and worm, wherefore a fish nibbled it slyly, while the Knight questioned her further:
HE: Woeful virgin, whence comest thou?
SHE: From afar. And thou art ofeatures grim and—
HE: And whither would'st journey?
SHE: No where! And thou art—
HE: Nay, here is thing impossible, since being here thou art somewhere and that within three bowshots of the goodly town of Canalise wherein thou shalt doubtless come by comfort and succour.
SHE: Never! Never! Here will I weep and moan and perish. And thou—
HE: And wherefore moan and perish?
SHE: For that I am so minded, being a maid forlorn and desolate, a poor wanderer destitute of kith, of kin, of hope, of love, and all that maketh life sweet. And thou art sour-faced and—
HE: Grievous maid, is, among thy many wants, a lack of money?
SHE: That also. And thou art cold of eye, fierce of mouth, hooked of nose, flinty of heart, stony of soul, and I a perishing maid.
At this Sir Pertinax blinked and caught his breath; thereafter he laid down his rod, whereupon the fish incontinent filched his worm all unnoticed while the Knight opened the wallet at his girdle and took thence certain monies.
HE: Dolorous damsel, behold six good, gold pieces! Take them and go, get thee to eat—eat much, so shall thy dolour wax less, eat beef—since beef is a rare lightener of sorrow, by beef shall thy woes be comforted.
SHE: Alas! I love not beef.
Now here Sir Pertinax was dumb a space for wonder at her saying, while she stole a glance at him betwixt slender fingers.
HE (after some while): Maid, I tell thee beef, fairly cooked and aptly seasoned, is of itself a virtue whereby the body is strengthened and nourished, whereby cometh content, and with content kindliness, and with kindliness charity, and therewith all other virtues small and eke great; therefore eat beef, maiden, for the good of thy soul.
“How?” said she, viewing him bright-eyed 'twixt her fingers again. “Dost think by beef one may attain to paradise?”
HE: Peradventure.
SHE: Then no beef, for I would not live a saint yet awhile.
HE: Nathless, take thou these monies and go buy what thou wilt.
So saying, Sir Pertinax set the coins beside her shapely foot and took up his neglected rod.
SHE: And is this gold truly mine?
HE: Verily.
SHE: Then I pray thee keep it for me lest I lose it by the way and so—let us begone.
Here Sir Pertinax started.
“Begone?” quoth he. “Begone—in truth? Thou and I in faith? Go whither?”
SHE: Any whither.
HE: Alone? Thou and I?
“Nay, not alone,” she sighed; “let us go together.”
Sir Pertinax dropped his fishing-rod and watched it idly float away down the stream:
“Together, maiden?” said he at last.
“Truly!” she sighed. “For thou art lonely even as I am lonely, and thou art, methinks, one a lonely maid may trust.”
“Ha—trust!” quoth he. “And wherefore would'st trust me, maiden?”
SHE: For two reasons—thou art of age mature and something ill-favoured.
Now, at this Sir Pertinax grew angered, grew thoughtful, grew sad and, beholding his image mirrored in the waters, sighed for his grim, unlovely look and, in his heart, cursed his vile garb anew. At last he spoke:
HE: Truly thou may'st trust me, maiden.
SHE: And wherefore sighest thou, sad soldier?
HE: Verily for thy two reasons. Though, for mine age, I am not forty turned.
Saying which, he sighed again, and stared gloomily into the murmurous waters. But presently, chancing to look aside, he beheld a head low down amid the underwood, a head huge and hairy with small, fierce eyes that watched him right bodefully, and a great mouth that grinned evilly; and now as he stared, amazed by this monstrous head, it nodded grimly, speaking thus: