With arms akimbo stood this prepossessing personage before the pilgrim, in all his native rudeness and disorder. The latter tightened his cloak about him, and withdrew some three or four paces from his companion.
"Nuncle," said the jester—for such was in fact his vocation—"I wonder for what property master keeps a fool?—I bethink me 'tis for his wit: more wit and less honesty, though." The palmer was silent.
"Art going to the hall?" continued he. "The fool is whipt there for being honest. Have a care, nuncle; if Sir Osmund catch thee, thou hadst as good bequeath thy bones to the Pope to make into saint's gear.—I'm very sad, nuncle!"
"Sad!" said the pilgrim; "in good troth, an' thou be sad, the cock of the hall yonder is but in sorry plight."
"'Tis more wholesome to cry to-day," said the dolorous knave, "knowing ye shall laugh to-morrow, than to laugh to-day, and to-morrow's dool somehow making your mirth asthmatic:
"Be merry to-morrow; to-day, to-day,
Your belly-full fill of grief;
When sorrow hath supp'd, go play, go play,
For mirth I wot is brief.
"Ay, grandam, ye are wise; and an old woman's wit best becomes a fool:
"When sorrow hath supp'd, go play, go play,
For mirth I wot is brief."
He drew out the last notes into one of those querulous cadences, much in vogue as an ad libitum on all fitting occasions: even the sad features of the pilgrim were provoked into a smile.
"Art bound for the hall?" again inquired the inquisitive hunchback.