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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.
If a nation loses its storytellers, it loses its childhood.
If a nation loses its storytellers, it loses its childhood.
Soft as some song divine, thy story flows.
Soft as some song divine, thy story flows.
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.
And what so tedious as a twice-told tale.
And what so tedious as a twice-told tale.
I hate
To tell again a tale once fully told.
I hate
To tell again a tale once fully told.
Out of their saddles into the dirt--and thereby hangs a tale.
Out of their saddles into the dirt--and thereby hangs a tale.
This story will never go down.
This story will never go down.
