For even as a baby, I
Did pule in rhyme and versify;
And the stronger that I grew,
My rhyming habit strengthened too,
Until my sad sire in despair
Put me beneath the Church's care.
The holy fathers, 't is confessed,
With belt and sandal did their best,
But, though they often whipped me sore,
I, weeping, did but rhyme the more,
Till, finding all their efforts vain,
They sadly sent me home again."
"A parlous case, methinks!" said Sir Pertinax, staring at the Dwarf's
rueful visage. "Learned ye aught of the holy fathers?"
"Aye, sir, they taught me truth to tell,
To cipher and to read right well;
They taught me Latin, sir, and Greek,
Though even then in rhyme I'd speak."
"And thou canst read and write!" exclaimed Sir Pertinax. "So can not I!"
Cried LOB:
"What matter that? Heaven save the mark,
Far better be a soldier than a clerk,
Far rather had I be a fighter
Than learned reader or a writer,
Since they who'd read must mope in schools,
And they that write be mostly fools.
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