JOCELYN: But here she is not and thou art, how then may one that is, woo
one is not?
SIR PALAMON: Gross mountebank, by thought--I woo in thought, breathe my
thought upon the balmy air and air beareth it to her feet.
ROBIN: And she treadeth on't, so there's an end o' thy love! But pray you,
Sir Downy Daintiness, how come ye that are so gentle so ungently dight?
Discourse, Sir Dove!
SIR PALAMON: In two words then, thou lewd lurcher o' the thickets; I ride
thus in steely panoply--the which doth irk me sore--by reason of the tongue
of my mother (good soul!) the which doth irk me more. For she (worthy
lady!) full-fed o' fatuous fantasies and fables fond, fuddled i' faith
o' faddling fictions as--gestes of jongleurs, tales told by tramping
troubadours, ballades of babbling braggarts, romances of roysterous
rhymers, she (good gossip!) as I say, having hearkened to and perused the
works of such-like pelting, paltry prosers and poets wherein sweep of sword
and lunge o' lance is accompted of worthier repute than the penning of
dainty distich and pretty poesies pleasingly passionate.
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