"No," said Doubletongue; "she wisheth not to have the scandal of such a partner. Go, fellow—go."
"Pshaw!" said the forester, "what a brace of old crones thou art—go, get thee down to the hostel yonder, and warm thee with a cup of wine, or an extra flannel shirt! Dance, quotha, and with such a lass as Anne Hathaway—Ha! Ha! Why, there's not a caper left in the pair of ye. Go, ye gray beards, go, or by my faith I'll make ye both dance to some other tune."
"Come, neighbour," said Doubletongue, who liked not the athletic make and savage look of the forester, "let us budge and exchange no more words with this scurvy companion. For, look ye there, the girl and he understand each other, depend on't. They are well matched. I know the fellow. He's a keeper of Sir Thomas Lucy's, and one of the greatest ruffians in the country."
But the village maiden evidently did not relish the companionship of the tall forester. She turned and would have tripped off with her two female companions without more controversy. The forester, however, who seemed somewhat flushed with good liquor, seized her by the hand, and insisted upon her being his partner.
"If I must dance with thee, Diccon, why I must," she said, as she was led by the rude keeper to another party; "but it is ungentle of thee to force me to do so against my free inclination."
"Thou art ever thus coy with me, Anne," said the forester, "and ever avoidest my company. Why dost use me thus, when I have sworn an hundred times I would die to serve thee?"
"I like thee not, and would have no further words with thee," said the maiden. "Thy presence poisons my delight. I have told thee so I know not how oft. I pr'ythee prove the love thou dost profess, by leaving me."
"Beware I shew thee not how love can turn to hate," said the dark forester, bitterly. "Thou shalt not spurn me thus for nothing. Come, thou shalt dance," and forthwith the forester led the maiden out to join the dancers.
Gazing upon the revellers, and at no great distance from the spot where the forester and his unwilling partner danced, stood a youth, apparently about seventeen years of age. He leaned upon a stout staff, and regarded the dancers with a countenance so melancholy, that it was evident (although he listened to the pipe and tabor, and watched the glee of the revellers) he had no part in their enjoyment. It was young Shakespeare: he had been absent some time from his native town—no one knew where he had sojourned, or what part of the world he had visited during this sequestration of himself from a neighbourhood recent events had rendered so full of melancholy associations. He had occasionally given his parents intimation by a few lines, or some message, of his welfare, and had but a few days before returned to Stratford.
It is not to be supposed, that one so full of observation would fail in remarking the very handsome female we have described. "The prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the green sward."