“Forsooth, Custance, I charged no memory of mine with such drastis,” (dross, rubbish).
“Drastis!”
“I cry thee mercy—cates (delicates, good things) and honey, if thou wilt have it so. ’Twas all froth and thistle-down.”
“I have done, Ned. I will not speak to thee again this month.”
“And wilt keep that resolve—ten minutes? By ’r Lady, I am no squire of dames, Custance. Prithee, burden not me with an heap of fond glose,” (foolish flattery).
“By Saint Mary her hosen, but I would my Lord had chosen a better messenger!”
Constance was really vexed. Edward himself was in a little difficulty, for he had only been amusing himself with his sister’s anxieties. In reality, he was charged with no message, and he did not want the trouble of devising one suitable to Kent’s character.
“By Saint Mary her galoches,” (loose over-shoes), he said jocularly, “what wouldst have of me, Custance? I cannot carry love-letters in mine head.”
“But canst not tell me one word?”
Edward would have given a manor if she would have been quiet, or would have passed to some other topic. But he said—