You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it shame to give
yourself up even for a few short moments to mirth and joyousness in
the land of Fancy; you who think that life hath nought to do with
innocent laughter that can harm no one; these pages are not for
you. Clap to the leaves and go no farther than this, for I tell you
plainly that if you go farther you will be scandalized by seeing
good, sober folks of real history so frisk and caper in gay colors
and motley that you would not know them but for the names tagged to
them. Here is a stout, lusty fellow with a quick temper, yet none
so ill for all that, who goes by the name of Henry II. Here is a
fair, gentle lady before whom all the others bow and call her Queen
Eleanor. Here is a fat rogue of a fellow, dressed up in rich robes
of a clerical kind, that all the good folk call my Lord Bishop of
Hereford. Here is a certain fellow with a sour temper and a grim
look-the worshipful, the Sheriff of Nottingham. And here, above
all, is a great, tall, merry fellow that roams the greenwood and
joins in homely sports, and sits beside the Sheriff at merry feast,
which same beareth the name of the proudest of the
Plantagenets-Richard of the Lion's Heart. Beside these are a whole
host of knights, priests, nobles, burghers, yeomen, pages, ladies,
lasses, landlords, beggars, peddlers, and what not, all living the
merriest of merry lives, and all bound by nothing but a few odd
strands of certain old ballads (snipped and clipped and tied
together again in a score of knots) which draw these jocund fellows
here and there, singing as they go.
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