“What have thy garments cost this last year, Ned?” pursueth Father.
“Eh, five pound would buy mine any year,” quoth he.
“And so I reckon would ten mine,” saith Father. “What be Wat’s wages now?—is he any thing bettered?”
“Sixteen pound the year, Sir, as he told me.”
“I guess shop-folk should be something put to it to take twenty-three out of sixteen,” quoth Father.
“And prithee, Ned, how many such suits hath my young gentleman in his wardrobe?”
“That cannot I say certainly, Sir: but I would guess six or seven,” Ned makes answer. “But, dear heart! you wit not the half hath to come of that sixteen pound: beyond clothes, there be presents, many and rich (this last new year but one girdle of seven pound;) pomanders (perfumed balls, which served as scent-bottles), and boxes of orange comfits, and cups of tamarisk wood, and aqua mirabilis, and song books, and virginals (the predecessor of the piano) and viols (violins), and his portrait in little, and playing tables (backgammon), and speculation glasses (probably magnifying glasses), and cinnamon water, and sugar-candy, and fine Venice paper for his letters, and pouncet-boxes—”
“Take breath, Ned,” saith Father. “How many letters doth Wat write by the year?”
“They be love-letters, on the Venice paper,” quoth Ned. “In good sooth, I wis not, Sir: only I saw them flying hither and thither as thick as Mother Carey’s chickens.”
“Is he troth-plight?” saith Father, very seriously.