Remember you wele, how that ye dele; For if ye, as ye said, Be so unkind to leave behind Your love, the Nut-Brown Maid, Trust me truly that I shall die Soon after ye be gone: For in my mind, of all mankind I love but you alone. The Nut-Brown Maid There is a malady peculiar to such as we. I have known this mingling of boredom and melancholia; Dame Johanna, who was scornful and cruel, called it ‘l’accidie’. She misused me but once and thereafter deemed I had power and became afraid. Power! pitiful that, pitiful me, who never realized the strength in a word, a name. A name of riches. A rich name, unspoken. I broke my vow of self-counsel, though, in Yorkshire, shocked out of vigilance by Patch, come dripping rain and folly, off the moor and out of the past, and I, loving and hating him for that reason, saw his loonish eye flicker, felt his wide lips upon my hand and longed to scream: ‘What of my lord, Sir Fool? What, what of my love?’ I did not ask straightway. Instead, we talked of apostasy; it was meet that I could do so, not being professed myself...
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