As he rides along in his velvet cloak, his puffed and slashed doublet, his silken hose, his hands gloved with embroidered gloves, or bared to show his rings, smelling of scents, a chain about his neck, he will hear the many street cries about him:
‘Will you buy any sand, mistress?’
‘Brooms, brooms for old shoes! Pouch-rings, boots, or buskings! Will ye buy any new brooms?’
‘New oysters, new oysters! New, new cockles!’
‘Fresh herrings, cockels nye!’
‘Will you buy any straw?’
‘Hay yee any kitchen stuff, maids?’
‘Pippins fine! Cherrie ripe, ripe, ripe!’
