“‘Free love—free field—we love but while we may: The woods are hushed, their music is no more: The leaf is dead, the yearning past away: New leaf, new life—the days of frost are o’er: New life, new love, to suit the newer day: New loves are sweet as those that went before: Free love—free field—we love but while we may.’ “Ye might have moved slow-measure to my tune, Not stood stockstill. I made it in the woods, And heard it ring as true as tested gold.” But Dagonet with one foot poised in his hand, “Friend, did ye mark that fountain yesterday Made to run wine?—but this had run itself All out like a long life to a sour end— And them that round it sat with golden cups To hand the wine to whosoever came— The twelve small damosels white as Innocence, In honour of poor Innocence the babe, Who left the gems which Innocence the Queen Lent to the King, and Innocence the King Gave for a prize—and one of those white slips Handed her cup and piped, the pretty one, ‘Drink, drink, Sir Fool,’ and thereupon I drank, Spat—pish—the cup was gold, the draught was mud.” And Tristram, “Was it muddier than thy gibes? Is all the laughter gone dead out of thee?— Not marking how the knighthood mock thee, fool— ‘Fear God: honour the King—his one true knight— Sole follower of the vows’—for here be they Who knew thee swine enow before I came, Smuttier than blasted grain: but when the King Had made thee fool, thy vanity so shot up It frighted all free fool from out thy heart; Which left thee less than fool, and less than swine, A naked aught—yet swine I hold thee still, For I have flung thee pearls and find thee swine.” And little Dagonet mincing with his feet, “Knight, an ye fling those rubies round my neck In lieu of hers, I’ll hold thou hast some touch Of music, since I care not for thy pearls. Swine? I have wallowed, I have washed—the world Is flesh and shadow—I have had my day. The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me—an I wallowed, then I washed— I have had my day and my philosophies— And thank the Lord I am King Arthur’s fool. Swine, say ye? swine, goats, asses, rams and geese Trooped round a Paynim harper once, who thrummed On such a wire as musically as thou Some such fine song—but never a king’s fool.” And Tristram, “Then were swine, goats, asses, geese The wiser fools, seeing thy Paynim bard Had such a mastery of his mystery That he could harp his wife up out of hell.” Then Dagonet, turning on the ball of his foot, “And whither harp’st thou thine? down! and thyself Down! and two more: a helpful harper thou, That harpest downward! Dost thou know the star We call the harp of Arthur up in heaven?” And Tristram, “Ay, Sir Fool, for when our King Was victor wellnigh day by day, the knights, Glorying in each new glory, set his name High on all hills, and in the signs of heaven.”