“Aflurry I be!” cried Patience. “Aye, for the pack o’ me be afulled o’ song and weave, and e’en word to them ahere.
“Yea, but afirst there be a weave, for the thrift-bite eateth o’ me.” (The bite of her thrifty nature.)
Some of the story followed and then she said to Mrs. M., who sat at the board:
“Here be aone who doth to lift up the lid o’ the brew’s pot, that she see athin! Aye, Dame, there abe but sweets athin the brew for thee. Amore, for e’en tho’ I do brew o’ sweets and tell unto thee, I be a dealer o’ sours do I to choose! Ayea, and did I to put the spatting o’ thee athin the brew, aye verily ’twould be asoured a bit!” Then deprecatingly: “’Tis a piddle I put!
“Yea, for him aside who sitteth that he drink o’ this brew do I to sing; fetch thee aside, thee the trickster o’ thy day!”
There being so many “tricksters” in the room, they were at a loss to know which one she meant. Mr. C. asked if she meant Dr. D., but Patience said:
“Thinkest thou he who setteth astraight the wry doth piddle o’ a song? Anay, to him who musics do I to sing.”
This referred to Mr. G., who is a musician and a composer, and he took the board. Patience at once gave him this song:
Nodding, nodding, ’pon thy stem,
Thou bloom o’ morn,