Upon a day, but when it matters not,
Nor where, but mark! the sun was plaguy hot
Falling athwart a long and dusty road
In which same dust two dusty fellows strode.
One was a tall, broad-shouldered, goodly wight
In garb of motley like a jester dight,
Fool's cap on head with ass's ears a-swing,
While, with each stride, his bells did gaily ring;
But, 'neath his cock's-comb showed a face so marred
With cheek, with brow and lip so strangely scarred
As might scare tender maid or timid child
Unless, by chance, they saw him when he smiled,
For then his eyes, so deeply blue and bright,
Did hold in them such joyous, kindly light,
That sorrow was from heavy hearts beguiled--
This jester seemed less ugly when he smiled.
Here, O my Gill, right deftly, in a trice
I've made him smile and made him do it--twice.
That 't was the Duke of course you've guessed at once
Since you, I know, we nothing of a dunce.
But, what should bring a duke in cap and bells?
Read on and mark, while he the reason tells.
Now, 'spite of dust and heat, his lute he strummed,
And snatches of a merry song he hummed,
The while askance full merrily he eyed
The dusty knave who plodded at his side.
A bony fellow, this, and long of limb,
His habit poor, his aspect swart and grim;
His belt to bear a long broad-sword did serve,
His eye was bold, his nose did fiercely curve
Down which he snorted oft and (what is worse)
Beneath his breath gave vent to many a curse.
Whereat the Duke, sly laughing, plucked lutestring
And thus, in voice melodious did sing:
“Sir Pertinax, why curse ye so?
Since thus in humble guise we go
We merry chances oft may know,
Sir Pertinax of Shene.”
“And chances woeful, lord, also!”
Quoth Pertinax of Shene.
“To every fool that passeth by
These foolish bells shall testify
That very fool, forsooth, am I,
Good Pertinax of Shene!”
“And, lord, methinks they'll tell no lie!”
Growled Pertinax of Shene.
Then spake the Knight in something of a pet,
“Par Dex, lord Duke--plague take it, how I sweat,
By Cock, messire, ye know I have small lust
Like hind or serf to tramp it i' the dust!
Per De, my lord, a parch-ed pea am I--
I'm all athirst! Athirst? I am so dry
My very bones do rattle to and fro
And jig about within me as I go!
Why tramp we thus, bereft of state and rank?
Why go ye, lord, like foolish mountebank?
And whither doth our madcap journey trend?
And wherefore? Why? And, prithee, to what end?”
Then quoth the Duke, “See yonder in the green
Doth run a cooling water-brook I ween,
Come, Pertinax, beneath yon shady trees,
And there whiles we do rest outstretched at ease
Thy 'wherefores' and thy 'whys' shall answered be,
And of our doings I will counsel thee.”
So turned they from the hot and dusty road
Where, 'mid green shade, a rill soft-bubbling flowed,
A brook that leapt and laughed in roguish wise,
Whereat Sir Pertinax with scowling eyes
Did frown upon the rippling water clear,
And sware sad oaths because it was not beer;
Sighful he knelt beside this murmurous rill,
Bent steel-clad head and bravely drank his fill.
Then sitting down, quoth he: “By Og and Gog,
I'll drink no more--nor horse am I nor dog
To gulp down water--pest, I hate the stuff!”
“Ah!” laughed the Duke, “'tis plain hast had enough,
And since well filled with water thou dost lie
To answer thee thy questions fain am I.
First then--thou art in lowly guise bedight,
For that thou art my trusty, most-loved knight,
Who at my side in many a bloody fray,
With thy good sword hath smit grim Death away--”
“Lord,” quoth the Knight, “what's done is past return,
'Tis of our future doings I would learn.”
“Aye,” said the Duke, “list, Pertinax, and know
'Tis on a pilgrimage of love we go:
Mayhap hast heard the beauty and the fame
Of fair Yolande, that young and peerless dame
“For whom so many noble lovers sigh
And with each other in the lists do vie?
Though much I've dreamed of sweet Yolanda's charms
My days have passed in wars and feats of arms,
For, Pertinax, this blemished face I bear,
Should fright, methinks, a lady young and fair.
And so it is that I have deemed it wiser
To hide it when I might 'neath casque and visor--”
Hereat Sir Pertinax smote hand to knee
And, frowning, shook his head. “Messire,” said he,
“Thou art a man, and young, of noble race,
And, being duke, what matter for thy face?
Rank, wealth, estate--these be the things I trow
Can make the fairest woman tender grow.
Ride unto her in thy rich armour dight,
With archer, man-at-arms, and many a knight
To swell thy train with pomp and majesty,
That she, and all, thy might and rank may see;
So shall all folk thy worthiness acclaim,
And her maid's heart, methinks, shall do the same.
Thy blemished face shall matter not one jot;
To mount thy throne she'll think a happy lot.
So woo her thus--”
“So will I woo her not!”
Quoth Jocelyn, “For than I'd win her so,
Alone and loveless all my days I'd go.
Ha, Pertinax, 'spite all thy noble parts,
'Tis sooth ye little know of women's hearts!”
“Women?” quoth Pertinax, and scratched his jaw,
“'Tis true of dogs and horses I know more,
And dogs do bite, and steeds betimes will balk,
And fairest women, so they say, will talk.”
“And so dost thou, my Pertinax, and yet,
'Spite all thy talk, my mind on this is set--
Thus, in all lowliness I'll e'en go to her
And 'neath this foolish motley I will woo her.
And if, despite this face, this humble guise,
I once may read love's message in her eyes,
Then Pertinax--by all the Saints, 'twill be
The hope of all poor lovers after me,
These foolish bells a deathless tale shall ring,
And of Love's triumph evermore shall sing.
“So, Pertinax, ne'er curse ye so
For that in lowly guise we go,
We many a merry chance may know,
Sir Pertinax of Shene.”
“And chances evil, lord, also!”
Quoth Pertinax of Shene.
Now on a sudden, from the thorny brake,
E'en as Sir Pertinax thus doleful spake,
Leapt lusty loons and ragged rascals four,
Rusty their mail, yet bright the swords they bore.
Up sprang Sir Pertinax with gleeful shout,
Plucked forth his blade and fiercely laid about.
“Ha, rogues! Ha, knaves! Most scurvy dogs!” he cried.
While point and edge right lustily he plied
And smote to earth the foremost of the crew,
Then, laughing, pell-mell leapt on other two.
The fourth rogue's thrust, Duke Joc'lyn blithely parried
Right featly with the quarter-staff he carried.
Then 'neath the fellow's guard did nimbly slip
And caught him in a cunning wrestler's grip.
Now did they reel and stagger to and fro,
And on the ling each other strove to throw;
Arm locked with arm they heaved, they strove and panted,
With mighty shoulders bowed and feet firm-planted.
So on the sward, with golden sunlight dappled,
In silence grim they tussled, fiercely grappled.
Thus then Duke Jocelyn wrestled joyously,
For this tall rogue a lusty man was he,
But, 'spite his tricks and all his cunning play,
He in the Duke had met his match this day,
As, with a sudden heave and mighty swing,
Duke Jocelyn hurled him backwards on the ling,
And there he breathless lay and sore amazed,
While on the Duke with wonderment he gazed:
“A Fool?” he cried. “Nay, certes fool, per De,
Ne'er saw I fool, a fool the like o' thee!”
But now, e'en as the Duke did breathless stand,
Up strode Sir Pertinax, long sword in hand:
“Messire,” he growled, “my rogues have run away,
So, since you've felled this fellow, him I'll slay.”
“Not so,” the Duke, short-breathing, made reply,
“Methinks this rogue is too much man to die.”
“How?” cried the Knight; “not slay a knave--a thief?
Such clemency is strange and past belief!
Mean ye to let the dog all scathless go?”
“Nay,” said the Duke, square chin on fist, “not so,
For since the rogue is plainly in the wrong
The rogue shall win his freedom with a song,
And since forsooth a rogue ingrain is he,
So shall he sing a song of roguery.
Rise, roguish rogue, get thee thy wind and sing,
Pipe me thy best lest on a tree ye swing!”
Up to his feet the lusty outlaw sprang,
And thus, in clear melodious voice, he sang:
“I'll sing a song not over long,
A song of roguery.
For I'm a rogue, and thou'rt a rogue,
And so, in faith, is he.
And we are rogues, and ye are rogues,
All rogues in verity.
“As die we must and turn to dust,
Since each is Adam's son,
A rogue was he, so rogues are we,
And rascals every one.
“The Abbot sleek with visage meek,
With candle, book and bell,
Our souls may curse, we're none the worse,
Since he's a rogue as well.
“My lord aloft doth hang full oft
Poor rogues the like o' me,
But all men know where e'er he go
A greater rogue is he.
“The king abroad with knight and lord
Doth ride in majesty,
But strip him bare and then and there
A shivering rogue ye'll see,
“Sirs, if ye will my life to spill,
Then hang me on a tree,
Since rogue am I, a rogue I'll die,
A roguish death for me.
“But i' the wind the leaves shall find
Small voices for my dole,
“And when I'm dead sigh o'er my head
Prayers for my poor rogue soul;
For I'm a rogue, and thou 'rt a rogue,
And so in faith is he,
As we are rogues, so ye are rogues,
All rogues in verity.”
The singing done, the Duke sat lost in thought,
What time Sir Pertinax did stamp and snort:
“Ha, by the Mass! Now, by the Holy Rood!
Ne'er heard I roguish rant so bold and lewd!
He should be whipped, hanged, quartered, flayed alive--”
“Then,” quoth the Duke, “pay him gold pieces five,”
“How--pay a rogue?” the Knight did fierce retort.
“A ribald's rant--give good, gold pieces for't?
A plague! A pest! The knave should surely die--”
But here he met Duke Joc'lyn's fierce blue eye,
And silent fell and in his poke did dive,
And slowly counted thence gold pieces five,
Though still he muttered fiercely 'neath his breath,
Such baleful words as: “'S blood!” and “'S bones!” and “'S death!”
Then laughed the Duke and from the greenwood strode;
But scarce was he upon the dusty road,
Than came the rogue who, louting to his knee:
“O Fool! Sir Fool! Most noble Fool!” said he.
“Either no fool, or fool forsooth thou art,
That dareth thus to take an outlaw's part.
Yet, since this day my rogue's life ye did spare,
So now by oak, by ash, by thorn I swear--
“And mark, Sir Fool, and to my saying heed--
Shouldst e'er lack friends to aid thee in thy need
Come by this stream where stands a mighty oak,
Its massy bole deep-cleft by lightning stroke,
Hid in this cleft a hunting-horn ye'll see,
Take then this horn and sound thereon notes three.
So shall ye find the greenwood shall repay
The roguish life ye spared a rogue this day.”
So spake he; then, uprising from his knees,
Strode blithe away and vanished 'mid the trees.
Whereat Sir Pertinax shook doleful head:
“There go our good gold pieces, lord!” he said.
“Would that yon rogue swung high upon a tree,
And in my poke our gold again might be.
Full much I marvel, lord, and fain would know
Wherefore and why unhanged didst let him go?”
Then answered the Duke singing on this wise:
“Good Pertinax, if on a tree
Yon rogue were swinging high
A deader rogue no man could see--
'He's but a rogue!' says you to me,
'But a living rogue!' says I.
“And since he now alive doth go
More honest he may die,
Yon rogue an honest man may grow,
If we but give him time, I trow,
Says I to you, says I.”