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The knight and friars

an historical tale

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Risum teneatis!
Hor.


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THE KNIGHT and FRIARS,

In ancient days there liv'd a Knight,
Of valour and renown,
Whose sword was oft in battle stain'd,
While Henry wore the crown.
This Knight did wed a lady fair,
Right beautiful to see,
With courteous air and winning smiles,
For she from pride was free.
Yet she was chaste as winter's snow,
As spotless, too, her fame;
Nor mought e'en slander aim a dart,
Which ere could wound the dame.
In wealth this Knight did eke abound,
And in religion true,
Wherefore he did resolve to build
A church and convent too.

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Near to his house the convent stood,
And there did dwell therein,
Twelve Friars clad in sable gowns
T' exclude—or cover sin.
Among these twelve there happen'd twain
Who did each other hate:
Their rancour death could scarce subdue,
As we shall soon relate.
The first a sturdy Friar was,
With rosy gills and cheek;
Whose belly, like a pudding-bag,
Was always round and sleke.
This Monk—they Friar John did call.
His adversaries name
Was Friar Richard—and in sooth
His size was much the same.
Our Knight and lady every morn
To matin song did wend,
And through the Cloysters as they pass'd,
Friar John would there attend.
And to the lady duck'd and cring'd,
While she a courteous smile
Returning, made our Friar proud,
And did his wits beguile.

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Estsoons resolv'd his wretched plight
And passion to declare,
In gallant strain he doth indite
A letter to the fair.
This to her hand right secretly
Our Friar did convey;
Which she, disdaining his rude love,
Shews to her lord straitway.
“Now, quoth the Knight, you shall appoint
A time and place to meet,
Where trusty Ralpho and myself
The amorous Monk will greet.”
This said, the lady strait doth write
And answer to the Monk,
Whereat the jolly pious swain
With joy was almost drunk.
With musk and civet, scenting sweet,
He doth himself perfume.
And by the fair at dead of night
Is led into her room.
But ah! our Friar did not dream
What he had now to dread,
For there he found th' enraged Knight,
With Ralph, behind the bed.

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In vain to deprecate his wrath,
The wretched caitiff tries,
Beneath the bed he meant to stain,
He suffocated dies.
Revenge thus sated, black remorse
Doth speedily succeed;
When thus the Knight bespeaks his man,
The partner of his deed.
Though just the vengeance I did take
Upon this lustful elf,
Yet much I dread great injury
Therefrom, unto myself.
Quoth Ralph, “This murder to conceal
I have a clean device,
Which with your aid to execute
We'll manage in a trice.
“Into the convent-garden strait
The body we'll convey,
Where found—Suspicion shall not turn
Her hagard eyes this way.”
This said, upon his brawny back
He took the murder'd Friar,
And bore him off, just as w' are told,
Æneas did his fire.

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Then to the convent-garden-wall
A ladder they applied,
Ralph mounts with John, then deftly shifts
The ladder t' other side.
A temple in the garden stood
For glutton friars meet,
There Ralpho plac'd poor Friar John
Upright upon the seat,
And left him fitting in that plight:
Thus having eas'd his mind;
Remounts the wall, but in his haste
The ladder leaves behind.
Now Friar Richard on that night,
A goodly supper made,
Of lobster, crabs, and oyster pye,
With eggs right newly laid.
This sumptuous fare he did wash down
With draughts of humming ale,
Until, for want of further room,
His appetite did fail.
Then to his cell the Friar went,
His wonted rest to take:
But, ah! the Ferment in his guts
Did soon his slumbers break.

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On every side opprest, in haste
He to the temple hies;
But sad mischance! upon the seat
He Friar John espies.
“Hoh! Friar John! make haste! he cried,
I am in urgent need;
And if you there much longer sit,
I here must do the Deed.”
Friar John sat still—but nothing spoke—
As though he staid, in Jest;
Whereat enrag'd, Friar Richard threw
A stone full at his breast.
Down tumbles Friar John, amain,
From Cloacina's throne:
Aghast, Friar Richard finds him dead,
And thinks the deed his own.
His late emergence now forgot,
'Midst terrors of his mind,
Against the garden-wall he spied
The ladder left behind.
A sudden resolution now
The cunning Friar takes,
To place Friar John in porch of Knight
Instead of filthy jakes.

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Once more, see Friar John ascend
The covent-garden-wall;
Then Richard leaves him in the porch,
At entrance of the hall.
Meanwhile the Knight, whose conscious heart
With guilt was sore opprest,
Resummons trusty Ralph, to ask,
If all were now at rest.
Quoth Ralph—“I to the garden-wall
To listen will repair.”
But, passing through the porch, he found
The Friar sitting there.
Back to the Knight, with winged speed,
He hies him through the Hall,
And tells, how Friar John, again,
Had climb'd the garden-wall.
Quoth Knight—“If he so well can climb,
He sure as well can ride;
Therefore upon a horse's back
We'll send him off astride.”
This project honest Ralph approv'd,
And from the stable brought
A fiery stallion, which the Knight
For feats of arms had bought.

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But first in armour, capapee,
See Friar John array'd!
Then, underneath the horse's breast,
Secure his legs are made.
With beaver up, and lance in hand,
He sallies from the gate;
Nor yet did sturdy Roan perceive
His rider's lumpish weight.
Here for a while the new made Knight,
We leave with trusty Roan;
Although our story won't permit
Them long to be alone.
Mean time, Friar Richard of his crime
Full sorely did repent;
But Dread of punishment much more
His tortur'd bosom rent.
“Ah! luckless wretch! thy well known spite
Against poor Friar John,
Shall bring thy horrid deed to light,
And hang'd thoul't be anon.”
Thus for a while the Monk bewail'd
His sad impending fate;
He must escape e're morning light,
Or flight will be too late:

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But ah! with such a load of flesh
His progress to impede,
On foot it were a vain attempt:
And where to find a Steed!
But, in expedients fruitful still,
He calls to mind a mare;
On which the baker from the mill
His meal was wont to bear.
Estsoons, he to the baker hies,
And on some slight-pretence,
Obtains the mare to ride to mill
And bring home meal from thence.
Then after many a strain and heave
He mounts poor one-ey'd Joan;
But scarce had he the convent left
When he encounter'd Roan.
Amaz'd to see an armed Knight
So suddenly come on;
Yet more amaz'd was he to find
That Knight was Friar John.
For by the glimmering of the moon;
He might his features spy,
While guilt the want of better light
Did readily supply.

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Then turning from the phantom strait,
He urg'd his mare to flight;
But cruel fortune still did owe
The Monk a further spite.
For Roan now snuff'd the tainted air
Which Joan had left behind;
And snorting, like Dan Virgil's mares,
He bounds upon the wind.
Away runs Joan—and at her heels
Flies Roan with furious speed;
Nor long mought feeble flight elude
Attack of vigorous Steed.
Thus through the town with thundering noise,
Our eager coursers fly;
Joan still before—but sturdy Roan
Is at her crupper nigh.
Dan Phœbus thus did Daphne fly,
And thus the God pursued;
But Joan less fleet than Daphne was,
Or somewhat less a prude.
For now her speed begins to fail,
And Richard's hopes are spent;
While John with brandish'd lance pursues,
Like Knight at Tournament;

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When Joan, who half unwilling was
This racing to begin,
In spite of Richard's fears, stop'd short,
A narrow lane within.
All conquering Roan with furious heat
Submissive Joan assails,
While lance of John on Richard's pate
Falls, quick, as thresher's flails.
John's rattling arms and Richard's cries
Soon rouse the sleeping train;
To whom the Friar owns his guilt,
For, now, concealment's vain.
The self-convicted Friar now
To goal is carried strait;
Is tried, condemn'd, and from the rope
Expects his wretched fate.
But Providence, which always doth
Repentant sinners save,
Now interpos'd to save the Monk
From gallows and the grave.
For to the King the Knight had gone,
And all his crime reveal'd;
For which he pardon did obtain
For service done in field.

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Thus Friar Richard was releas'd,
From terror and from goal;
And to the convent did return
To feast on crabs and ale.
THE END.
 

Henry V.

Mought, an old English word for—night.

Wend—go.

Duck'd—bow'd—the word used in the history,

Estsoons—forthwith.

Deftly—dexterously.

Jakes—a garden temple.

Dan—an old English epithet for a poet.