"Hear what the old rascal is saying!" said the poet.
"And behold the fruits of our labours shall spring up into life;"—
"Oh, this is past all sufferance!" said the poet.
—"For, O thou fair one, whose beauty is as the beauty of the morning, and whose innocence surpasseth that of the kid, or the lamb, or the young roe, when they are playing upon the mountains,"—
"Gude faith, Mr Carol," said Charlie aside, "it's that auld chap that's the poet; an' no you."
"Humph! mere fustian!" said the poet.
The friar still went on:—
—"That beauty will decay, as the rose fadeth on the brows of Shinar or Hermon; and that innocence shall be perverted by the sinful and regardless people among whom thou sojournest, and shall become, as it were, betrothed to sin and corruption; yea, and that eye, that shineth like the dews of the morning, shall be darkened. But, O beloved maiden! there is that in this little book, yea, I say unto thee, even in this old, neglected, and despised book, that, unto those who learn it, shall prove the savour of life unto life; and if thou dost learn and cherish the things contained in this book thou shalt never die!"
"Ay, billy, that is a yanker!" said Tam aside: "When ane is gaun to tell a lie, there's naething like telling a plumper at aince, and being done wi't."
"Now, but hear to the deceitful old rogue," said the poet: "All the books of black art in the world cannot accomplish that. In the name of Saint Barnabas, I say let them be separated!"