"What beautiful Hair this is of yours, my Dear!" says she; "soe fine, long, and soft! scarcelie a Silver Thread in it. I warrant there's manie a young Gallant at Court would be proud of such."
"Girls, put your Scissars out of your Mother's Way," says Father; "she's a perfect Dalilah, and will whip off Half my Curls before I can count Three, unless you look after her. And I," he adds, with a Sigh, "am, in one Sort, a Samson."
"I'm sure Dalilah never treated Samson's old Coat with such Respect,"
says Mother, finishing her Task, resuming her Apron, and kissing him.
"Soe now, keep your Eyes open—I mean, keep awake, till I bring you a
Gossip's Bowl."
When she was gone, Father continued sitting bolt upright, his Eyes, as she sayd (his beautifull Eyes!), open and wakefull, and his Countenance composed, yet grave, as if his Thoughts were at least as far off as Tangrolipix the Turk. All at once, he says,
"Deb, are my Sleeves white at the Elbow?"
"No, Father."
"Or am I shiny about the Shoulders?"
"No, Father."
"Why, then," cries he, gaily, this Coat can't be very old, however long I may have worn it. I'll rub on in it still; and your Mother and you will have the more Money for copper-coloured Clokes. But don't, at any Time, let your Father get shabby, Children. I would never be threadbare nor unclean. Let my Habitt be neat and spotless, my Bands well washed and uncrumpled, as becometh a Gentleman. As for my Sword in the Corner, your Mother may send that after my Medal as soon as she will. The Cid parted with his Tizona in his Life-time; soe a peaceable Man, whose Eyes, like the Prophet Abijah's, are set, may well doe the same."
May 12, 1665.