The man grumbled, but submitted, and George beckoned the nymph.
“Descend,” said he, “and give us of your quality. You shall not lose by it.”
She nodded, disappeared for a moment, and returning with a lute, ran to the stairs, descended to the yard, and stood among the company, confident and unabashed. And straight and readily she touched the strings, with slender fingers seeming oddly native to that tuneful contact, and sang the little song which afterwards came to be the most associated with her naughty name.
My lodging is on the cold ground,
And hard, very hard, is my fare,
But that which grieves me more
Is the coldness of my dear.
Oh, turn, love, I prythee, love, turn
to me,
For thou art the only one, love,