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The rusticalls held their breath. Then did I look as glum as might be, and muttered slowly thus 'Videamus quam diu tu fictus morio vosque veri stulti audebitis in hac aula morari, strepitantes ita et olentes: ut dulcissimae nequeam miser scribere. They shook like aspens, and stole away on tiptoe one by one at first, then in a rush and jostling, and left me alone; and most scared of all was the fool: never earned jester fairer his ass's ears.
We sauntered after dinner in Sir Alexander's garden, and saw his little grotto, which is hung with pieces of poetry written in a fair hand. It was Non temere incusat tectae putedinis ignes; Nec fictus, febres qui fovet, humor erit, Non bilem ille movet, nulla hic pituita; Salutis Quae spes, si fallax ardeat intus aqua Nec doctas magno rixas ostentat hiatu, Quis ipsis major febribus ardor inest.
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