You who so plod amid serious things that you feel it
shame to give yourself up even for a few short moments to
mirth and joyousness in the land of Fancy; you who think
that life hath nought to do with innocent laughter that can
harm no one; these pages are not for you. Clap to the
leaves and go no farther than this, for I tell you plainly that
if you go farther you will be scandalized by seeing good,
sober folks of real history so frisk and caper in gay colors
and motley that you would not know them but for the
names tagged to them. Here is a stout, lusty fellow with a
quick temper, yet none so ill for all that, who goes by the
name of Henry II. Here is a fair, gentle lady before whom
all the others bow and call her Queen Eleanor. Here is a
fat rogue of a fellow, dressed up in rich robes of a clerical
kind, that all the good folk call my Lord Bishop of
Hereford. Here is a certain fellow with a sour temper and
a grim look— the worshipful, the Sheriff of Nottingham.
And here, above all, is a great, tall, merry fellow that
roams the greenwood and joins in homely sports.
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