“Do not think to escape me,” said the devil.
“That I would not, my lord,” said Smetse. “Come with me, I pray you most humbly.”
“Very well,” said the devil, “but not for long.”
In the garden Smetse began to sigh afresh.
“Ah,” he said, “look at my plums, my lord; will you be pleased to let me go up and eat my fill?”
“Go up then,” said the devil.
Up in the tree Smetse began to eat in a most greedy manner, and suck in the juice of the plums with a great noise. “Ah,” cried he, “plums of paradise, Christian plums, how fat you are! Princely plums, you would solace a hundred devils burning in the lowest parts of hell. By you, sweet plums, blessed plums, is thirst driven out of my throat; by you, adorable plums, gentle plums, is purged from my stomach all evil melancholy; by you, fresh plums, sugary plums, is diffused in my blood an infinite sweetness. Ah, juicy plums, joyous plums, faery plums, would that I could go on sucking you for ever!”
And while he was saying all this, Smetse went on picking them, eating them and sipping the juice, without ever stopping.
“Pox!” said the devil, “it makes my mouth water; why dost not throw me down some of these marvellous plums?”
“Alas, my lord,” said Smetse, “that I cannot do; they would melt into water on their fall, so delicate are they. But if you will be pleased to climb up into the tree you will find much pleasure in store for you.”