“What on earth for?” saith she.
“Why,” quoth he, “because thou hast a mighty notion of having things thine own way.”
“Sir Robert,” quoth Aunt Joyce, “pray you, box my cousin’s ears for me, as you sit convenient.—And what art thou thine own self, thou caitiff?”
“A Bonus Homo,” answers Father, right sadly: whereat all that did know Latin fell a-laughing. And I, asking at my Lady Stafford, she told me that Bonus Homo is to say Good Man, and was in past time the name of a certain Order of friars, that had carried down the truth of the Gospel from the first ages in a certain part lying betwixt Italy and France.
“Nell,” saith Father, “I did thee wrong to call thee a Pharisee: thou art rather a Herodian.”
“But I pray you, Sir Aubrey, what did you mean by the name you gave me?” saith Mistress Martin. “For I would fain wit my faults, that I may go about to amend them: and as at this present I am none the wiser.”
“The Essenes,” saith he, “Mistress Martin, were a sect of the Jews, so extreme orthodox that they did deny to perform sacrifice or worship in the Temple, seeing there they should have to mingle themselves with other sects, and with wicked men that brought not their sacrifices rightly. Moreover, they would neither eat flesh-meat nor drink wine: and they believed not that there were so much as one good woman in the whole world.”
“Then I cry you mercy, Sir Aubrey,” quoth she, “but if so be, assuredly I am not of them. I do most heartily believe in good women, whereof methinks I can see four afore me, at the very least, this instant moment: nor have I yet abjured neither wine nor flesh-meat.”
“Oh no, the details be different,” saith he: “yet I dare be bold to say, you have a conceit of a perfect Church, whereinto no untrue man should ever be suffered to enter.”
“Ay, that have I,” said she. “Methinks the Church of England is too comprehensive, and should be drawn on stricter lines.”