I often say when I'm at home,
I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.
"And then there's Sultan Saladin,
That Turkish Soldan full of sin;
He has a hundred wives at least,
By which his pleasure is increased:
I've often wished, I hope no sin,
That I were Sultan Saladin.
"But no, the Pope no wife may choose,
And so I would not wear his shoes;
No wine may drink the proud Paynim,
And so I'd rather not be him:
My wife, my wine, I love I hope,
And would be neither Turk nor Pope."
"Encore! Encore! Bravo! Bis!" Everybody applauded the King's song with
all his might: everybody except Ivanhoe, who preserved his abominable
gravity: and when asked aloud by Roger de Backbite whether he had heard
that too, said firmly, "Yes, Roger de Backbite; and so hast thou if thou
darest but tell the truth."
"Now, by St. Cicely, may I never touch gittern again," bawled the King
in a fury, "if every note, word, and thought be not mine; may I die in
to-morrow's onslaught if the song be not my song. Sing thyself, Wilfrid
of the Lanthorn Jaws; thou could'st sing a good song in old times." And
with all his might, and with a forced laugh, the King, who loved brutal
practical jests, flung his guitar at the head of Ivanhoe.
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