GILL: I won't!
MYSELF: Then don't! Though, I might say, since you're set on it, child, My
duke was not so ugly when he smiled--
GILL: Then make him smile as often as you can.
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.
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