Hereupon the Dwarf cut a caper but sighed thereafter: quoth he:
“Aha, good master, and Oho,
As man-at-arms fain would I go;
Aye, verily, I would be so,
But that my grannam sayeth 'No!'
“And, sir, my grand-dam I obey
Since she's a potent witch, they say;
Can cast ye spells by night or day
And charmeth warts and such away.
“Love philtres too she can supply
For fools that fond and foolish sigh,
That wert thou foul as hog in sty
Fair women must unto thee fly.
“Then deadly potions she can make,
Will turn a man to wriggling snake,
Or slimy worm, or duck, or drake,
Or loathly frog that croaks in lake.
“And she can curse beyond compare,
Can curse ye here, or curse ye there;
She'll curse ye clad or curse ye bare,
In fine, can curse ye anywhere.
“And she can summon, so 't is said,
From fire and water, spirits dread,
Strong charms she hath can wake the dead
And set the living in their stead.
“So thus it is, whate'er she say,
My grand-dam, master, I obey.”
“Now by my head,” quoth Sir Pertinax, “an thy grand-dam hath a potency in spells and such black arts—the which is an ill thing—thou hast a powerful gift of versification the which, methinks, is worse. How cometh this distemper o' the tongue, Lobkyn?”
“O master,” spake the sighful Dwarf forlorn,
“Like many such diseases, 't is inborn.
For even as a baby, I
Did pule in rhyme and versify;
And the stronger that I grew,
My rhyming habit strengthened too,
Until my sad sire in despair
Put me beneath the Church's care.
The holy fathers, 't is confessed,
With belt and sandal did their best,
But, though they often whipped me sore,
I, weeping, did but rhyme the more,
Till, finding all their efforts vain,
They sadly sent me home again.”
“A parlous case, methinks!” said Sir Pertinax, staring at the Dwarf's rueful visage. “Learned ye aught of the holy fathers?”
“Aye, sir, they taught me truth to tell,
To cipher and to read right well;
They taught me Latin, sir, and Greek,
Though even then in rhyme I'd speak.”
“And thou canst read and write!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “So can not I!”
Cried LOB:
“What matter that? Heaven save the mark,
Far better be a soldier than a clerk,
Far rather had I be a fighter
Than learned reader or a writer,
Since they who'd read must mope in schools,
And they that write be mostly fools.
So 'stead of pen give me a sword,
And set me where the battle's toward,
Where blood—”
But the ancient dame who had risen and approached silently, now very suddenly took Lobkyn by the ear again.