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THE PRINCESS;
Many a long league back to the North, we came,When the first forn-owl whirr'd about the copse,Upon a little town within a woodClose at the boundary of the liberties;There entering in an hostel call'd mine hostTo council, plied him with his richest wines,And show'd the late-writ letters of the king.
 He, with a long low sibilation, staredAs blank as death in marble; then exclaim'dAverring it was clear against all rulesFor any man to go: but as his brainBegan to mellow, 'If the king,' he said,'Had given us letters, was he bound to speak?The king would bear him out;' and at the last—The summer of the vine in all his veins—'No doubt that we might make it worth his while.For him, he reverenced his liege-lady there;He always made a point to post with mares;His daughter and his housemaid were the boys.
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