A veray parfit gentil knight,
Thatte of ye Golden Cyrcle hight,
One day yridden forth;
But ne to finde a fayre mayde,
He went on errants of his trade,
To fight or filch ye North.
He was a wight of grisly fronte,
And muckle berd ther was upon 't,
His lockes farre down did laye:
Ful wel he setten on his hors,
Thatte fony felaws calléd Mors,
For len it was and grai.
Ilk knight he hadde ne vizor on,
His busynes were then undone,
All time was for attack;
More than, he hadde ne mail, either,
But arméd with a revolvér,
He like-_Wise_ chawed toback.
He sayde his was a mightie hond,
Ne better in ye Southron lond
To yearn anly battail:
Mony a dewel hadde he fought,
And put his foe alway to rout,
Withouten ony fail.
Eke fro his sheld ther stroke the ee,
These letters golden, 'F.F.V.,'
Thatte mony a clerk did pain;
Which guessed it, '_Forte Fuor Vi_!'
The people giggled, 'l' your ey;
It's Fume and Fight in Vain!'
Eftsoons hire cloke ye awful Night,
Yspreaden roun ilk warrihour wight,
Ye glasse of chivalrie;
But nothing daunt, he kept his course,
As well as mote his sorry hors,
Farre to the North countrée.
And thus in darkesse all yclad,
He hied him, gif he weren mad,
O'er feld and eke through thicket;
When 'Stop, by God!' some one began,
'You'er mine--'or any other man!''
Jesu! a Yankee picket!
'Gent knight, yclept of Golden Cyrcle!
Why in the devil don't one dirk all?
Where now's your chivalrie?'
'Goode sir,' quod he, 'twas ne for fight
I hied me out ilk murkie night,
It was for poulterie!'
'Wal, damn your 'poulterie'--and you!
Such deed no generous knight would do!
So I mote thee deter!
I'll show thee, though, the _coop_, sir knight,
Where _chickens_ such as thee are blight--
You are my prisoner!'
Mony maydens weren grieved--
Cleopatras, slouchy-sleeved--
Darksome maydes of work all;
And mony felaws of much might
Ydrink the hades of ye Knight
Of ye grete Golden Cyrcle.
We much fear that it may be said of the chief cavalier of the Golden
Circle, what the old German _lanzknecht_, in Rabelais, said of the
Gascon adventurer: 'The knight pretends that he wants to fight, but is
much more inclined to steal; therefore, good people, look out for your
property.'
* * * * *
The following story, it is averred, can be vouched for, to any
reasonable extent, by a large crowd of witnesses.
DEAR CONTINENTAL: Possibly you would not give 'a Continental dime'
for that which I am about to pen. Possibly, too, you may damn it
into the waste-basket. I have often _heard_ of a 'Continental
damn'--it never occurred to me before what the article really was.
Dante has, I know, provided a corner for those who were
_in_-continentally condemned; but it was reserved for you to
abridge the word, and so _make a vice of a virtue_!
I once lived in a village: to that village came an itinerant
dramatic company; and that company advertised to play a grand
moral temperance drama, entitled _Down the Hill_.
The principal actor called himself Eglantine Mowbray. I believe
that the latter syllable of the last name was the only portion
thereof to which he was really entitled. He _did_ bray.
The bills appeared, with the following heading: