my part, I never saw her—you have, I think, Master Goldthred?”
“That I have, old boy,” said the mercer. “Look you, I was riding hither from Abingdon—I passed under the east oriel window of the old mansion, where all the old saints and histories and suchlike are painted—It was not the common path I took, but one through the Park; for the postern-door was upon the latch, and I thought I might take the privilege of an old comrade to ride across through the trees, both for shading, as the day was somewhat hot, and for avoiding of dust, because I had on my peach-coloured doublet, pinked out with cloth of gold.”
“Which garment,” said Michael Lambourne, “thou wouldst willingly make twinkle in the eyes of a fair dame. Ah! villain, thou wilt never leave thy old tricks.”
“Not so—not so,” said the mercer, with a smirking laugh; “not altogether so—but curiosity, thou knowest, and a strain of compassion withal,—for the poor young lady sees nothing from morn to even but Tony Foster, with his scowling black brows, his bull’s head, and his bandy legs.”
“And thou wouldst willingly show her a dapper body, in a silken jerkin—a limb like a short-legged hen’s, in a cordovan boot, and a round, simpering, what-d’ye-lack sort of a countenance, set off with a velvet bonnet, a Turkey feather, and a gilded brooch? Ah! jolly mercer, they who have good wares are fond to show them!—Come, gentles, let not the cup
