Last night I rode with Touchstone on a bus br From Ludgate Hill to World's End. It was he! br Despite the broadcloth and the bowler hat, br I knew him, Touchstone, the wild flower of folly, br The whetstone of his age, the scourge of kings, br The madcap morning star of elfin-land, br Who used to wrap his legs around his neck br For warmth on winter nights. He had slipped back, br To see what men were doing in a world br That should be wiser. He had watched a play, br Read several books, heard men discourse of art br And life; and he sat bubbling like a spring br In Arden. Never did blackbird, drenched with may, br Chuckle as Touchstone chuckled on that ride.