“Aye, belike I am, wench,” he answered gaily. “I dream you sweet, gentle and great o’ soul—and dreams ever go by contrary, for thy looks are sour, thy speech ungracious and thy soul—ha, thy soul, child!”
“What of’t?”
“’Tis the unknown quantity! How, dost frown yet, my Rose? Is it for anger or hunger?
“O Rose of love, O fragrant rose
Thy visage sheweth me
The source of all thy present woes
Is that thy stomach empty goes,
So filled it soon shall be.
—bethink thee, Rose, the joys in store—ham, beef, beer ... base material things to appal the soul and yet—how comfortable, how irresistible to your human maid and man! So ha’ patience, sweet wench, ha’ patience till I have laved me, combed me and found us an inn. Meantime sit ye and list to the birds, commune you with Nature whiles I go wash in the brook yonder.”