And then, at a sign from his master, the household minstrel (for every baron of that age “kept a poet,” like the London firm in the old story) struck up a very appropriate song—
“The Merchant he sitteth ’mid bags of coin
With a grave and wrinkled brow;
He loveth to hold the good red gold,
But he likes not the steel, I trow!
His wares sell high to all who can buy,
And of two he can well make three;
But he knows not to wield the blade and shield—
What profit, what profit is he?
“The Scholar he spelleth out learned lore