. . . bonfires, soldiers, speeches.
In all my tour along the river's reaches
I've had ill-luck: I've clashed with public feasts.
At Wycombe fair, we met performing beasts,
At Henley, waxworks, and at Maidenhead
The Psyche woman talking with the dead.
At Bray, we met the rain, at Reading, flood,
At Pangbourne, politics, at Goring, mud.
Now here, at Wallingford, the Royal Pair.
Counter-attraction killing everywhere,[Pg 20]
Killing a circus dead: God give me peace;
If this be living, death will be release.
By God, it brims the cup; it fills the can.
What trade are you?

King Cole:

I am a wandering man.

The Showman:

You mean, a tramp who flutes for bread and pence?

King Cole:

I come, and flute, and then I wander thence.

The Showman:

Quicksilver Tom, who couldn't keep his place.

King Cole:

My r. . . Read More