The penultimate chapter, in which, dismissed by The King, The Fool comes over to me (The Poet) to cause mischief in my lonely corner of the court.

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The Fool strut unto me with sobbing frame
Then winked, dry-eyed, reveal’ng to me his game,
And I sighed, deeply, knowing what mischief came
When such a force was in a mood to play
With only one to share the disarray
Of scutter’ng clouds that blew within his mind
Forming to substance rarely, being blind
To matters not satirical in kind.
“Why, poetaster, won’t you poetize
A sonnet for The Prince to win the prize:
The hand of that fair maiden, German-born,
Lest he be left alone to buff his horn.”
So said The Fool before I countered back,
“Methinks he needs not I for love’s attack,
For evidently she is his already.”
“Truly? O, how romantic!” squealed he,
Gripping my arms to dance, yet when rebuffed,
Puppet’ng my hand, his occiput he cuffed,
Knocking his bell-sewn hat straight o’er his eyes,
“I cannot see their love. You tell me lies!”
I fixed his hat and see’ng he said, “’Tis true!
‘Tis though each drunk of Aphrodite’s brew!
Yet, O, how careful do...