She, I say--my
mother (God rest her!), e'en she with tongue most harsh, most bitter and
most unwearying, hath enforced me, her son (whom Venus bless!)--e'en I that
am soul most transcendental--I that am a very wing-ed Mercury--me, I say
she hath, by torrential tongueful tumult (gentle lady!), constrained to don
the habit of a base, brawling, beefy and most material Mars! Wherefore at
my mother's behest (gracious dame!) I ride nothing joyful to be bruised and
battered by any base, brutal braggart that hath the mind to try a tilt with
me. Moreover--
ROBIN: Hold! Take breath, gentle sir, for thine own sweet sake draw thy
wind.
SIR PALAMON: 'Tis done, fellow, 'tis done! And now in three words will
I--
ROBIN: Cry ye mercy, sir, thy two words do yet halloo "Buzz-buzz" in mine
ears.
SIR PALAMON: Faith, robber-rogue, since I a tongue possess--
ROBIN: Therein thou art very son o' thy mother (whom St. Anthony cherish!).
SIR PALAMON: With this rare difference, outlaw--for whereas her tongue
(honoured relict!) is tipped with gall, wormwood, henbane, hemlock,
bitter-aloes and verjuice, and stingeth like the adder, the asp, the toad,
the newt, the wasp, and snaky-haired head of Medusa, mine--
ROBIN: Buzzeth, buzz, O buzz!
SIR PALAMON: Mine, thou paltry knave, I say mine--
ROBIN: Buzz--ha--buzz!
JOCELYN: I pray you, Sir Knight, doth the Red Gui tilt at to-morrow's
joust?
SIR PALAMON: Base mime, he doth! My Lord Gui of Ells, Lord Seneschal of
Raddemore, is myfriend, a very mirror of knightly prowess, the sure might
of whose lance none may abide.
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