On the Terrace.
“Where we disavow
Being keeper to our brother, we’re his Cain.”
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
“Hylton, thou art weary gear!”
“What ails me?”
“What ails thee, forsooth? Marry, but that’s as good a jest as I heard this year! I lack thee to tell me that. For what ails me at thee, that were other matter, and I can give thee to wit, an’ thou wilt. Thou art as heavy as lead, and as dull as ditch-water, and as flat as dowled (flat) ale. I would I were but mine own master, and I’d mount my horse, and ride away from the whole sort of you!”
“From your father and mother, Matthew?”
“Certes. Where’s the good of fathers and mothers, save to crimp and cramp young folks that would fain stretch their wings and be off into the sunlight? Mine never do nought else.”
“Think you not the fathers and mothers might reasonably ask, Where’s the good of sons and daughters? How much have you cost yours, Matthew, since you were born?”
Matthew Foljambe turned round with a light laugh, and gazed half contemptuously at the speaker.
“Gentlemen never reckon,” said he. “’Tis a mean business, only fit for tradesfolk.”