"Pardon me, sire! If I am qualified to be lord high chancellor, I am qualified to give a little further advice in this matter."
"What is it, Alred? Prithee, come to the point at once: none of thy sermons. When I am king thou shalt be court preacher, if thou affect that office; but spare me now, an' thou lovest me."
"Well, here it is. When fair maids of this quality have favours to grant, mark me, they will have it done daintily. Faugh! What do you take her for? Don't trust to second-hand dealings too much. Vulgar eyes looking on at it! Pshaw! What a stomach you credit her with! Listen. This must be a grand passion; you are entranced, bewitched, dying for very love of the matchless queen of your heart! Mark me, pitch your notes high if you would have this pretty bird come fluttering to your bower. Why, canst thou not rhyme a maudlin verse or two? Come, cudgel thy brains, and I will help thee with a stave; here are writing materials."
"Ha, ha, ha! I like thy notions. Come, thou shalt draw us up a rhyme, such as the gallant knights of Normandy address to their lady-loves. By my soul, I am three parts Norman, and the other part is not Saxon. So I'll superscribe no screeching Saxon verse. I declare 'tis a language which is a cross between the screech of a witch and the grunt of a hog. Something elegant, or I'll none of it, mark me, Alred."
"Well, it shall be something lofty, I warrant, as becomes a prince. So here goes:—
"Fair maid of the flaxen hair,
And eyes of the heavenly blue,"——
"Bravo! Ha, ha, ha! Go it, sweet Alred? 'Tis fine! I'll sing that at my lady's tent door. Get me thy guitar."
"Pray don't interrupt me, my King. The poetic fire is burning; don't let us miss the glow of it.
"Fair maid of the flaxen hair,
And eyes of the heavenly blue,
Whose graces bewitchingly rare
Have sweetly enchanted my view.
"Oh! haste to thy Prince ever true,
Whose adored one ever thou art.
Thy presence shall sweetly renew
The joy to my languishing heart."