“Out upon thee, Wat Kilby, my cheeks burn with shame.”
“Ay, it do make the cheeks burn, parson. But it always was so, parson, and that’s the devil’s way. He always did serve me so, and you may preach at me and preach, and preach, and preach, but unless you can preach all the pretty women off the earth, if you’re right in what you say, I’m sartain to be burnt.”
“But you must resist the devil and he’ll flee, Wat Kilby.”
“Nay: not he, parson. He knows his man too well. There, it’s all no good. Reach down thy hand—got it. That’s well.”
“Thanks, Wat Kilby. Man, it is a goodly offering of the precious weed.”
“Thou and the king said it was devilish poison.”
“Ah, um, yes; but my ideas are being modified, my man. And now what does this mean?”
“Well, you see, parson, it’s all about a woman I have come.”
“Is this a time man to speak about a wedding?”
“Yes, parson; when you have to go by orders.”