Of this and more than this, bold Robin thought,
And, in his dungeon's gloomy solitude,
He groaned full deep and, since no eye could see,
Shed bitter tears.
My daughter GILLIAN supplicateth:
GILL: Poor Robin! Father, promise me
To save him from the gallows-tree.
He's much too nice a man to kill;
So save him, father; say you will!
MYSELF: But think of poor Ranulph with no one to hang!
GILL: Ranulph's song was top-hole, but--
MYSELF: You know I hate slang--
GILL: Yes, father--but then I hate Ranulph much more,
With his nasty great beard that in tangles he wore.
So, father, if you must have some one to slay,
Instead of poor Robin, hang Ranulph--
MYSELF: Why, pray?
GILL: In nice books the nasty folks only should die;
Those are the kind of books nice people buy.
I like a book that makes me glad,
And loathe a book that makes me sad;
So, as this Geste is made for me,
Make it as happy as can be.
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