SHAKESPEAREAN SATIRE

MY liege, I did deny no prisoners; But I remember, when the fight was done, When I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress’d, Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reap’d, Show’d like a stubble-land at harvest-home. He was perfuméd like a milliner, And ’twixt his finger and his thumb he held A pouncet-box, which ever and anon He gave his nose and took ’t away again; Who, therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff: and still he smil’d and talk’d, And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call’d them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse Betwixt the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He question’d me; among the rest, demanded My prisoners in your Majesty’s behalf. I then, all smarting with my wounds being cold, To be so pester’d with a popinjay, Out of my grief and my impatience, Answer’d neglectingly I know not what, He should, or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman Of guns and drums and wounds—God save the mark!— And telling me the sovereign’st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise; And that it was great pity, so it was, This villainous saltpetre should be digg’d Out of the bowels of the harmless earth, Which many a good tall fellow had destroy’d So cowardly; and but for these vile guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord, I answer’d indirectly, as I said; And I beseech you, let not this report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high Majesty. Shakespeare.