Not all in vain with beauty and love
 Has God the world adorned;
And he who Nature scorns and mocks,
 By Nature is mocked and scorned.

The Enchanted Shirt

  Fytte the First:  wherein it shall be shown how the Truth is too mighty
  a Drug for such as he of feeble temper.

The King was sick.  His cheek was red
  And his eye was clear and bright;
He ate and drank with a kingly zest,
  And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know,
  And doctors came by the score. 
They did not cure him.  He cut off their heads
  And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came,
  And one was as poor as a rat,
He had passed his life in studious toil,
  And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book;
  His patients gave him no trouble,
If they recovered they paid him well,
  If they died their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue,
  As the King on his couch reclined;
In succession they thumped his august chest,
  But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, “You’re as sound as a nut.” 
  “Hang him up,” roared the King in a gale,—­
In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;
  The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
  And thus his prescription ran,—­
King will be well, if he sleeps one night
  In the Shirt of a Happy Man.

  Fytte the Second:  tells of the search for the Shirt and how it was nigh
  found but was not, for reasons which are said or sung.

Wide o’er the realm the couriers rode,
  And fast their horses ran,
And many they saw, and to many they spoke,
  But they found no Happy Man.

They found poor men who would fain be rich,
  And rich who thought they were poor;
And men who twisted their waists in stays,
  And women that shorthose wore.

They saw two men by the roadside sit,
  And both bemoaned their lot;
For one had buried his wife, he said,
  And the other one had not.

At last as they came to a village gate,
  A beggar lay whistling there;
He whistled and sang and laughed and rolled
  On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked
  At the scamp so blithe and gay;
And one of them said, “Heaven save you, friend! 
  You seem to be happy to-day.”

“O yes, fair sirs,” the rascal laughed
  And his voice rang free and glad,
“An idle man has so much to do
  That he never has time to be sad.”

“This is our man,” the courier said;
  “Our luck has led us aright. 
“I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
  For the loan of your shirt to-night.”

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,
  And laughed till his face was black;
“I would do it, God wot,” and he roared with the fun,
  “But I haven’t a shirt to my back.”