I am Sir Jonathan, a knicht of the realme more worthie than thee, and i’faith I am a-fillen with naught but contempte for thee. Thou art fat and witlesse, wrecches who spend their every wakynge houre beholding carvygnes most profane. Thou embodiest all that be forsaken by God. In truth, I ask of thee the number of maidens thou hast deflowered. Certes, I hazard that to tell a jape most well-deserved will temper the tongue of a fool, but thy tongues lack wit. I’faith, ‘tis more sinfulle than to waste thy seed by means of thy hand.
Approach me if thou darest. Spit thy envenomed words at me. I am a knicht most exemplary. I have earnt the lady’s favour at many a jouste, and hunt both boares and fowles. What japes do thou partakest of, other than “pleasure thyself”? I also am learned in rhetorick and alchymie, and have the hand of a maiden fairer than the Ladye of the Lak (In truth, I have carnal knowledge of her, and ’tis a rare thing indeed). My argument proceeds thus, that thou art witlesse pitiful wrecches forsaken by God.
Portrait relatede, ’tis me and mine ladye.