My Gill, from your disparagement to save him,
I, like a barber, will proceed to shave him.

Sir Pertinax, then, stroked his smooth-shaved chin,
And thus to curse he softly did begin,
"Par Dex, my lord--"


My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:


GILL: Your knight, dear father, seems to love to curse.

MYSELF: He does. A difficult matter, child, in verse--

GILL: Of verse I feel a little tired--

MYSELF: Why, if you think a change desired,
A change we'll have, for, truth to tell,
This rhyming bothers me as well.
So here awhile we'll sink to prose.
Now, are you ready? Then here goes!


"Par Dex, my lord!" growled Sir Pertinax. "A malison on't, says I, saving
thy lordly grace, yet a rogue is a rogue and, being rogue, should die right
roguishly as is the custom and the law. For if, messire, if--per De and by
Our Sweet Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood, if, I say, in thy new and
sudden-put-on attitude o' folly, thou wilt save alive all rogues soever,
then by Saint Cuthbert his curse, by sweet Saint Benedict his blessed