"I had rather be silent."
"Excellent, Roger; so will I talk for thee and me. First will I show three excellent reasons for happiness—videlicit: the birds sing, I talk, and Garthlaxton burns.—"
"I would thou did'st burn with it," growled Roger. "But here is a deed shall live when thou and I are dust, archer!"
"Verily, good Roger, for here and now will I make a song on't for souls unborn to sing—a good song with a lilt to trip it lightly on the tongue, as thus:
"How Beltane burned Garthlaxton low
With lusty Giles, whose good yew bow
Sped many a caitiff rogue, I trow,
Dixit!"
"How!" exclaimed Roger, "here be two whole lines to thy knavish self and but one to our master?"
"Aye," grumbled Walkyn, "and what of Roger?—what of me?—we were there also, methinks?"
"Nay, show patience," said Giles, "we will amend that in the next triplet, thus:
"There Roger fought, and Walkyn too,
And Giles that bare the bow of yew;
O swift and strong his arrows flew,
Dixit!"
"How think ye of that, now?"