“I mean a man sad and grave as the monks of Beaulieu,” said the jester.
My poor boy, he who is sitting in sackcloth and ashes needs no jester.
I was just a jester and no more, and so, in a measure—though I blush to say it—I grew content.
Yes (replied the jester), he has a striking likeness to that person and a heap of others.
Come on (the jester shouted), give us a tune upon ...