"Before I lost my five poor wits,
I mind me of a Romish clerk,
Who sang how Care, the phantom dark,
Beside the belted horseman sits.
Methought I saw the griesly sprite
Jump up but now behind my Knight."
"Perhaps thou didst, knave," said Ivanhoe, looking over his shoulder;
and the knave went on with his jingle:
"And though he gallop as he may,
I mark that cursed monster black
Still sits behind his honor's back,
Tight squeezing of his heart alway.
Like two black Templars sit they there,
Beside one crupper, Knight and Care.
"No knight am I with pennoned spear,
To prance upon a bold destrere:
I will not have black Care prevail
Upon my long-eared charger's tail,
For lo, I am a witless fool,
And laugh at Grief and ride a mule."
And his bells rattled as he kicked his mule's sides.
"Silence, fool!" said Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe, in a voice both majestic
and wrathful. "If thou knowest not care and grief, it is because thou
knowest not love, whereof they are the companions. Who can love without
an anxious heart? How shall there be joy at meeting, without tears at
parting?" ("I did not see that his honor or my lady shed many anon,"
thought Wamba the Fool; but he was only a zany, and his mind was not
right.
Pages:
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448