"Truly," quoth he, "the dear world is as fair here as in the woodland
shades. Who calls it a vale of tears? Methinks it is but the darkness
in our minds that bringeth gloom to the world. For what sayeth that
merry song thou singest, Little John? Is it not thus?
"_For when my love's eyes do thine, do thine, And when her lips smile so
rare, The day it is jocund and fine, so fine, Though let it be wet or be
fair And when the stout ale is all flowing so fast, Our sorrows and
troubles are things of the past_."
"Nay," said Friar Tuck piously, "ye do think of profane things and of
nought else; yet, truly, there be better safeguards against care and woe
than ale drinking and bright eyes, to wit, fasting and meditation. Look
upon me, have I the likeness of a sorrowful man?"
At this a great shout of laughter went up from all around, for the night
before the stout Friar had emptied twice as many canakins of ale as any
one of all the merry men.
"Truly," quoth Robin, when he could speak for laughter, "I should say
that thy sorrows were about equal to thy goodliness.
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