 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
The FOOL.
If You mind but the Moral my Tale does unfold,
Tho' the Story be antient, 'twill never be old.
With the Wise and the Good, Jest will do you no hurt,
But the Fool or the Knave makes you pay for your Sport.
Tho' the Story be antient, 'twill never be old.
With the Wise and the Good, Jest will do you no hurt,
But the Fool or the Knave makes you pay for your Sport.
In the merry brave Days of the glorious Queen Bess,
When your Men of much Sense fear'd not those that had less;
'Twas the Custom of Courtiers to keep a poor Fellow
Who should joke by Commission in Red, Green, and Yellow;
Who for one thing or other did most People fit,
Some were Pleas'd with the Garb, and some laugh'd at the Wit.
When your Men of much Sense fear'd not those that had less;
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Who should joke by Commission in Red, Green, and Yellow;
Who for one thing or other did most People fit,
Some were Pleas'd with the Garb, and some laugh'd at the Wit.
A Noble puff'd up, with his Pockets well stor'd,
Not as a Walsingham wise, but as fine as a Lord,
Made a Visit, bedaub'd with Embroidery all,
Where a Fool was unluckily sate in the Hall.
Not the Rainbow, when brightest, more gorgeous could show,
Nor a Belle on a Birth-Night, nor Bridegroom a Beau.
Welcome Brother, cries Motley, I see by the Hue
Of your Clothes what you are; Pray, Sir, whose Fool are You?
Not as a Walsingham wise, but as fine as a Lord,
Made a Visit, bedaub'd with Embroidery all,
Where a Fool was unluckily sate in the Hall.
Not the Rainbow, when brightest, more gorgeous could show,
Nor a Belle on a Birth-Night, nor Bridegroom a Beau.
Welcome Brother, cries Motley, I see by the Hue
Of your Clothes what you are; Pray, Sir, whose Fool are You?
To this answer'd my Lord in a pestilent Fume,
See him punish'd before I stir out of the Room;
I wonder you'll keep these pied Rascals, I hate 'em,
'Tis mere Scandalum this, I can tell you, Magnatum:
So the Master his Orders was fain to dispatch,
The poor Knave should bewhip'd at the Buttery-Hatch.
Execution was done, and he back was convey'd
On his Knees to beg Pardon for what he had said.
So with shrugging his Shoulders, and Tears in his Eyes,
Straight down on his Marrow-bones falling, he cries,
I'll ne'er call You Fool more; but Lord Cecil, I trow,
Would have scarce had me whip'd for the calling Him so!
See him punish'd before I stir out of the Room;
I wonder you'll keep these pied Rascals, I hate 'em,
'Tis mere Scandalum this, I can tell you, Magnatum:
So the Master his Orders was fain to dispatch,
The poor Knave should bewhip'd at the Buttery-Hatch.
Execution was done, and he back was convey'd
On his Knees to beg Pardon for what he had said.
So with shrugging his Shoulders, and Tears in his Eyes,
Straight down on his Marrow-bones falling, he cries,
I'll ne'er call You Fool more; but Lord Cecil, I trow,
Would have scarce had me whip'd for the calling Him so!
| Poems on Several Occasions | |