Dare I at maid to cast mine eye,
She mocketh me, and off doth fly,
And all because I'm humped o' back,
And something to my stature lack.
Thus, though I'm stronger man than three,
No maid may love the likes o' me.
Next, there's thyself--a Fool, I swear,
At fight or song beyond compare.
But--thou 'rt unlovely o' thy look,
And this no maid will ever brook.
So thou and I, for weal or woe,
To our lives' end unloved must go.
But think ye that I grieve or sigh?
Not so! A plague on love, say I!"
Now here Jocelyn sighed amain and, sitting beneath a tree, fell to sad and
wistful thinking.
"Aye, verily," he repeated, "I am 'unlovely of my
look.'"
Quoth Lobkyn heartily:
"In very sooth,
Fool, that's the truth!"
"Alas!" sighed Jocelyn, "'And this no maid
will ever brook!'"
Answered Lobkyn:
"And there dost speak, wise Fool, again,
A truth right manifest and plain,
Since fairest maids have bat-like eyes,
And see no more than outward lies.
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