"And hark thee, I would have thee fling away that new-fangled restriction of thine, of terminating in accurate and similar rhymes.
They are a constraint on thy flow of fancy, and make thee resemble a man dancing in fetters." "The fetters are easily flung off, at least," said Blondel, again sweeping his fingers over the strings, as one who would rather have played than listened to criticism.
"But why put them on, man ?" continued the King.

"Wherefore thrust thy genius into iron bracelets?
I marvel how you got forward at all.

I am sure I should not have been able to compose a stanza in yonder hampered measure." Blondel looked down, and busied himself with the strings of his harp, to hide an involuntary smile which crept over his features; but it escaped not Richard's observation.
"By my faith, thou laughest at me, Blondel," he said; "and, in good truth, every man deserves it who presumes to play the master when he should be the pupil.

But we kings get bad habits of self-opinion.

Come, on with thy lay, dearest Blondel--on after thine own fashion, better than aught that we can suggest, though we must needs be talking." Blondel resumed the lay; but as extemporaneous composition was familiar to him, he failed not to comply with the King's hints, and was perhaps not displeased to show with how much ease he could new-model a poem, even while in the act of recitation.
THE BLOODY VEST.
FYTTE SECOND.
The Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant feats-- There was winning of honour and losing of seats; There was hewing with falchions and splintering of staves-- The victors won glory, the vanquish'd won graves.
Oh, many a knight there fought bravely and well, Yet one was accounted his peers to excel, And 'twas he whose sole armour on body and breast Seem'd the weed of a damsel when bouned for her rest.
There were some dealt him wounds that were bloody and sore, But others respected his plight, and forbore.
"It is some oath of honour," they said, "and I trow, 'Twere unknightly to slay him achieving his vow." Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the tournament cease-- He flung down his warder, the trumpets sung peace; And the judges declare, and competitors yield, That the Knight of the Night-gear was first in the field.
The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was nigher, When before the fair Princess low looted a squire, And deliver'd a garment unseemly to view, With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all hack'd and pierc'd through; All rent and all tatter'd, all clotted with blood, With foam of the horses, with dust, and with mud; Not the point of that lady's small finger, I ween, Could have rested on spot was unsullied and clean.
"This token my master, Sir Thomas a Kent, Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent; He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the fruit, He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail in his suit; Through life's utmost peril the prize I have won, And now must the faith of my mistress be shown: For she who prompts knights on such danger to run Must avouch his true service in front of the sun.
"'I restore,' says my master, 'the garment I've worn, And I claim of the Princess to don it in turn; For its stains and its rents she should prize it the more, Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though crimson'd with gore.'" Then deep blush'd the Princess--yet kiss'd she and press'd The blood-spotted robes to her lips and her breast.
"Go tell my true knight, church and chamber shall show If I value the blood on this garment or no." And when it was time for the nobles to pass, In solemn procession to minster and mass, The first walk'd the Princess in purple and pall, But the blood-besmear'd night-robe she wore over all; And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at dine, When she knelt to her father and proffer'd the wine, Over all her rich robes and state jewels she wore That wimple unseemly bedabbled with gore.
Then lords whisper'd ladies, as well you may think, And ladies replied with nod, titter, and wink; And the Prince, who in anger and shame had look'd down, Turn'd at length to his daughter, and spoke with a frown: "Now since thou hast publish'd thy folly and guilt, E'en atone with thy hand for the blood thou hast spilt; Yet sore for your boldness you both will repent, When you wander as exiles from fair Benevent." Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall where he stood, Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of mood: "The blood that I lost for this daughter of thine, I pour'd forth as freely as flask gives its wine; And if for my sake she brooks penance and blame, Do not doubt I will save her from suffering and shame; And light will she reck of thy princedom and rent, When I hail her, in England, the Countess of Kent." A murmur of applause ran through the assembly, following the example of Richard himself, who loaded with praises his favourite minstrel, and ended by presenting him with a ring of considerable value.