Fool’s treason; is the king thy brother fool?”
Then little Dagonet clapt his hands and shrill’d,
“Ay, ay, my brother fool, the king of fools!
Conceits himself as God that he can make
Figs out of thistles, silk from bristles, milk
From burning spurge, honey from hornet combs,
And men from beasts—Long live the King of fools!”
—Tennyson.
But yours the cold heart and the murderous tongue,
The wintry soul that hates to hear a song,