By Joryn the Lesser, Loyal Subject of His Most Benevolent Lordship
O most wise and merciful milord, I take quill in hand (though not by me own crude scrawl, but by the good graces of our literate town crier, for letters be wasted on a man fit only to till and toil!) to express me endless gratitude for the hardship ye bestow upon us!
There be grumblin’ among the lesser folk, askin’, “Why must we starve while milord feasts?” Such fools be weak of will and small of mind, for does not a mighty oak drink more than a blade of grass? Does not a stallion eat better than a mule? Aye, milord’s belly must be full, that he may have the strength to lead us in so many endeavors!
Me own wife, poor woman, asks, “Why does his wealth not trickle down faster?” But she knows not the ways of grand innovation! These things take time! Would she demand the harvest before the seed be planted? Nay! We must endure with patience and discipline, that we might be worthy when his blessings rain down upon us—a downpour, surely, just beyond the horizon!
Yes, the forges burn hot, the mines run deep, and some may perish—but progress has its costs! And should we die before seein’ its fruits, well, that be no fault of milord’s! No, ‘tis our own failings. Our laziness, our weakness, our failure to toil hard enough!
So let us offer more, work harder, eat less, complain never! For the burden milord carries be heavy, and we must not weigh him down with our petty needs!
May milord grow fat and prosperous, and may we, his lowly servants, ever find joy in our gracious starvation! As the sages have long warned: “When one is a sluggard and a drunkard, let him know what poverty is.” Aye, and so too must we accept our fate with grace, lest we be unworthy of milord’s favor!