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His eye begets occasion for his wit;
For every object that the one doth catch
The other read more
His eye begets occasion for his wit;
For every object that the one doth catch
The other turns to a mirth-moving jest,
Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor,
Delivers in such apt and gracious words,
That aged ears play truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished,
So sweet and voluble is his discourse.
But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison house,
I could a tale read more
But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison house,
I could a tale unfold whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood,
Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres,
Thy knotted and combined locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand on end
Like quills upon the fretful porpentine.
Out of their saddles into the dirt--and thereby hangs a tale.
Out of their saddles into the dirt--and thereby hangs a tale.
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So said, so tender, yet so true.
For seldom shall she hear a tale
So said, so tender, yet so true.
Soft as some song divine, thy story flows.
Soft as some song divine, thy story flows.
In after-dinner talk,
Across the walnuts and the wine.
In after-dinner talk,
Across the walnuts and the wine.
This story will never go down.
This story will never go down.
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
