"Some of your French Kickshaws—'Pettiz Birds rostez.' ... And 'pain-puffe avec un cold bakemeat.'"
"We have that every Sabbath," quod she, dryly, "without its fine Name. I suppose you had Sweets."
"Oh, yes; Leche Lombard; Pears en serop; Fritters, Doucettes, and une grande Custard."
"Come," saith she, "that was pretty well—enough, and no Profusion. But the Porpoise spoiled all. And they might have given you a Swan instead of a Coney. But stay; had you no Mortreuse?"
"No Mortreuse."
"Out on it!" quod she, "then I would not have given a Fig for your Feast. There's nothing you had, that we can't have at Home, save Mortreuse: I shall not rest till I know how to make it."
At this Time, every one in their House seemed, according to their several Dispositions, peaceful and happy; e'en Tib, after her Manner, whether eating a plentiful Meal, setting the House afloat, stretching forth of the Kitchen Window in the full Tide of Gossip with the Maid next Door, or hemming a Lockram Pinner. She and Miles were Friends to-day, Foes to-morrow. One Minute, she would be giving him a Sop-in-the-pan; the next, basting him with the Ladle. One Day, because he had soiled her fresh-scoured Floor with his muddy Shoes, she protested he should clean it; they had a real, earnest Fight, which a Man should be above having with a Woman;—and he pulled out a Lock of her red Hair, a small one,—which she snatched up from the Floor and pocketed, saying she would shew it to Mistress Fraunces. Howbeit, she did not.
I affected a quieter Companion in the Attick; and one not without his Teaching, for he was letterish after his Fashion, and had been in Paul's School. And, among his much used Books, there was Lilly's Grammar, and even Prudentius and Lactantius; and another, in his Eyes worth all the Rest, calling it "real Literature," and the others "mere Blotterature," a Joke of old Dean Colet's. This precious Volume looked to me mighty dull, being full of algebraic Signs; but he earned many a Headache over it, and gave me a Headache too, sometimes, in trying to help him.
Pleasant Hours those were! in that quiet Attick, with the Thames trembling in silver Light far below, while the Watermen clave it with their Oars to the mellow Song of "Heave ho, rumbelow!" and "Row the Boat, Norman!" The Blackbird sang as cheerily as if he were in the green Woods of Kent; and ever and anon the pretty Laugh of Mistress Anne would be heard from the Green Lattice, or she would peep in and say, "Have a Cake, Edward?" "Have a Cherry?" and leave her little Gift and run away.