For this delightful tourney of rhyme I hunger:
Who’s to begin, my master?
Peisthetairus. Why, the younger.
For the topic—as ’tis tropic
Heat at present—perhaps ’twere pleasant
If each Paladin
His ballad in
Put salad in.
But there must be no single metre, please
That’s not allowed by Dr. Guest, of Caius,