‘Well, you are here—and like Chloris in a green kirtle. I love you in it.’
‘Alack! and when it is wore out you will love me no more.’
‘Then it shall last you a lifetime.’
‘God advise me, if I am to choose between that and your love. But my comfort is after a year or two you would learn to hate me in it.’
‘To hate you, Joan! You can find comfort in that?’
‘Nay, comfort in a new gown. Yet it glads me that it likes you, dear my lord. I will wear green to my wedding and green till my bedding under the green turf. It was to make myself inconspicious against the green grass that I put it on. Yet there is no grass in here, Brion.’
‘No, by my faith. You speak “conspiciously” well. We are not so deep in but we may be seen. How merry you are.’
‘Am I? Mayhap it is to hide something.’
‘What! Are you growing afraid?’
‘Afraid? By my troth, no. If you could hear my conscience singing! It is a carol all quavers.’