The Rain It Raineth
Some are born fools, some are made foolish, and some have foolery thrust upon 'em. Then speak no ill of fools, sir; I shall prove what circumstance may so oppress a man that he who's no man's fool -- as you yourself, sir -- may be woman's. Think not so? Then hear.
I loved a maid once -- such adoring love -- but ask the duke o' that. He'll tell you all, so take his tale for mine. Her father loved not me. A silly thing, you'd say, a trifle, so? More sticky 'twas than sweet.
He'd power more than common father's wont, to set his eyes where'er his lass would go and spy what suitors did in cloistered lanes; and then, once found, played from afar such tricks as any fool might love. A branch of roses, ripe to prick the skin; a bird aloft with aim exquisite, so -- but leave that by; a stormy cloud, too weak to bear its burthen one rod more, so it must drop the whole and drench the swain. Then might my lady pity draggled wretch, but never love -- and, worser, laugh.
But me she fancied; so was I made bold for her dear sake. I fronted him; defied; brass-brave I thundered, fine's the king's own heralds. She looked on, admiring as a play. Himself but sat in silence 'til my shot ran dry, then up rose he and flung my suit outdoors, with me inside. The finest silk it was...but ne'er mind that. It was well-watered, for, as I touched earth, poured down the rain.
A fool, they say, knows not when he's been beat -- his back doth know! -- but head did not, nor heart, so back crept I, when day's lamp burned low. She met me in the lanes, but would not stay, the rain poured down so chill.
I came at noon: he spied the shadowing clouds and came with haste to toss me o'er the wall, saving his gates. I sat at home, to plot how I might win, and there within the house the rain drummed on.
Now here's a pretty scene. Within and yet without, like faithful dog too foolish-old to know his master's scorn, came e'er the rain; my love would none of me. So back again, to crave what hope he'd give. (A fine fair love, you'd say -- I own it, yet, what other hope, for one by love betrayed? A lover is a fool, did I not say?) And so heard his decree: roamed I the world, that rain must follow me.
What then? To lack the sun, the lesser light -- and, too, the greater ('twas my lady's face, or so I told her) -- would not that fate make any man a fool? I took his gift. I spun myself fine tales, how I'd return, a wizard now myself, from worlds afar, to humble him from base discourtesy and claim my love.
So, here. I serve a lady -- none so fair's my love, and none so kind, though admirable sad. I speak my grief in plain fair words, plain song, and not a man but thinks it fooling. Not you, sir? Oh, aye, I heard you say, a drunkard's tale. So 'tis, for who could love a fool?
But could I find a door that once I saw, and find the key to it, I'd call you here such rivers as would churn all fields to mud, for all the sun's hot spite; out-rain the sum of all my lady's tears -- instead I sit here dry.
Oh, thanks, good sir, and here's the same for you; and if we drown in it, well, what worse fate?
Then here's to folly! Aye, sir, here's to love.