ery enviably, with the demon-tainted blood of Edward Longshanks,
because it seems to me that these tales, when they are rightly
considered, compose the initial portion of a troubling history.
Whether (as some declare) the taint came from Manuel of Poictesme, or
whether (as yet others say) this poison was inherited from the demon
wife whom Foulques Plantagenet fetched out of hell, the blood in these
men was not all human. These men might not tread equally with human
beings: their wives suffered therefor, just as they that had inherited
this blood suffered therefor, and all England suffered therefor. And
the upshot of it I have narrated elsewhere, in the book called and
entitled _The Red Cuckold_, which composes the final portion of this
history, and tells of the last spilling and of the extinction of this
blood.

Also, my little book, you will encounter more malignant people who
will jeer at you, and will say that you and I have cheated them of
your purchase-money. To these you will reply, with Plutarch, _Non mi
aurum posco, nec mi pretium_. Secondly you will say that, of
necessity, the tailor cuts the coat according to his cloth; and that
he cannot undertake to robe an Ephialtes or a towering Orion suitably
when the resources of his shop amount to only a few yards of cambric.
Indeed had I the power to make you better, my little book, I would
have exercised that power to the utmost. A good conscience is a
continual feast, and I summon high Heaven to be my witness that had I
been Homer you had awed the world, another Iliad. I lament your
inability to do this, as heartily as any person living; yet Heaven
willed it; and it is in consequence to Heaven these aforementioned
cavillers should rightfully complain.

So to such impious people do you make no answer at all, unless indeed
you should elect to answer them by repetition of this song which I now
make for you, my little book, at your departure from me. And the song
runs in this fashion:

Depart, depart, my book! and live and die
Dependent on the idle fantasy
Of men who cannot view you, quite, as I.

For I am fond, and willingly mistake
My book to be the book I meant to make,
And cannot judge you, for that phantom's sake.

Yet pardon me if I have wrought too ill
In making you, that never spared the will
To shape you perfectly, and lacked the skill.

Ah, had I but the power, my book, then I
Had wrought in you some wizardry so high
That no m