FYTTE 4
How Pertinax plied angle to his sport
And, 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 wished
That he, instead of fishing, snug had been
Seated within his goodly tower of Shene.
And thinking thus, he needs must cast his eye
On rusty mail, on battered shoon, and sigh,
And murmur fitful curses and lament
That in such base, unknightly garb he went--
A lord of might whose broad shield bravely bore
Of proud and noble quarterings a score.
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