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But that's another story.
But that's another story.
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.
In this spacious isle I think there is not one
But he hath heard some talk of Hood and read more
In this spacious isle I think there is not one
But he hath heard some talk of Hood and Little John,
Of Tuck, the merry friar, which many a sermon made
In praise of Robin Hood, his outlaws, and their trade.
Out of their saddles into the dirt--and thereby hangs a tale.
Out of their saddles into the dirt--and thereby hangs a tale.
I don't ever want anything to come in the way of me truthfully telling a story.rn
I don't ever want anything to come in the way of me truthfully telling a story.rn
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.
Soft as some song divine, thy story flows.
Soft as some song divine, thy story flows.
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
