Playful Poems | Page 5

and also none displease
Of all here riding in this company,
And
mine host grant it, I would pass thee by,
Till thou art better, and so
tell MY tale;
For in good faith thy visage is full pale;
Thine eyes
grow dull, methinks; and sure I am,
Thy breath resembleth not sweet
marjoram,
Which showeth thou canst utter no good matter:
Nay,
thou mayst frown forsooth, but I'll not flatter.
See, how he gapeth, lo!
this drunken wight;
He'll swallow us all up before he'll bite;
Hold
close thy mouth, man, by thy father's kin;
The fiend himself now set
his foot therein,
And stop it up, for 'twill infect us all;
Fie, hog; fie,
pigsty; foul thy grunt befall.
Ah--see, he bolteth! there, sirs, was a
swing;
Take heed--he's bent on tilting at the ring:
He's the shape,
isn't he? to tilt and ride!
Eh, you mad fool! go to your straw, and
hide."
Now with this speech the cook for rage grew black,

And would have
stormed, but could not speak, alack!
So mumbling something, from
his horse fell he,
And where he fell, there lay he patiently,
Till pity

on his shame his fellows took.
Here was a pretty horseman of a cook!

Alas! that he had held not by his ladle!
And ere again they got him
on his saddle,
There was a mighty shoving to and fro
To lift him up,
and muckle care and woe,
So heavy was this carcase of a ghost.

Then to the Manciple thus spake our host:-
"Since drink upon this
man hath domination,
By nails! and as I reckon my salvation,
I trow
he would have told a sorry tale;
For whether it be wine, or it be ale,

That he hath drank, he speaketh through the nose,
And sneezeth much,
and he hath got the POSE, {19}
And also hath given us business
enow
To keep him on his horse, out of the slough;
He'll fall again,
if he be driven to speak,
And then, where are we, for a second week?

Why, lifting up his heavy drunken corse!
Tell on thy tale, and look
we to his horse.
Yet, Manciple, in faith thou art too nice
Thus
openly to chafe him for his vice.
Perchance some day he'll do as
much for thee,
And bring thy baker's bills in jeopardy,
Thy black
jacks also, and thy butcher's matters,
And whether they square nicely
with thy platters."
"Mine," quoth the Manciple, "were then the mire!
Much rather would
I pay his horse's hire,
And that will be no trifle, mud and all,
Than
risk the peril of so sharp a fall.
I did but jest. Score not, ye'll be not
scored.
And guess ye what? I have here, in my gourd,
A draught of
wine, better was never tasted,
And with this cook's ladle will I be
basted,
If he don't drink of it, right lustily.
Upon my life he'll not
say nay. Now see.
And true it was, the cook drank fast enough;
Down went the drink out
of the gourd, FLUFF, FLUFF:
Alas! the man had had enough before:

And then, betwixt a trumpet and a snore,
His nose said
something,--grace for what he had;
And of that drink the cook was
wondrous glad.
Our host nigh burst with laughter at the sight,
And sighed and wiped
his eyes for pure delight,
And said, "Well, I perceive it's necessary,


Where'er we go, good wine with us to carry.
What needeth in this
world more strifes befall?
Good wine's the doctor to appease them all.

O, Bacchus, Bacchus! blessed be thy name,
That thus canst turn
our earnest into game.
Worship and thanks be to thy deity.
So on
this head ye get no more from me.
Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee
pray."
"Well, sire," quoth he, "now hark to what I say."
THE MANCIPLE'S TALE OF PHOEBUS AND THE CROW.
When Phoebus dwelt with men, in days of yore,
He was the very
lustiest bachelor
Of all the world; and shot in the best bow.
'Twas
he, as the old books of stories show,
That shot the serpent Python, as
he lay
Sleeping against the sun, upon a day:
And many another
noble worthy deed
He did with that same bow, as men may read.
He played all kinds of music: and so clear
His singing was, and such
a heaven to hear,
Men might not speak during his madrigal.

Amphion, king of Thebes, that put a wall
About the city with his
melody,
Certainly sang not half so well as he.
And add to this, he
was the seemliest man
That is, or has been, since the world began.

What needs describe his beauty? since there's none
With which to
make the least comparison.
In brief, he was the flower of gentilesse,
{21}
Of honour, and of perfect worthiness:
And yet, take note, for
all this mastery,
This Phoebus was of cheer so frank and free,
That
for his sport, and to commend the glory
He gat him o'er the snake (so
runs the story),
He used to carry in his hand a bow.
Now this same god had in his house a crow,
Which in a cage he
fostered many a day,
And taught to speak, as folks will teach a jay.

White was the crow; as is a