William. What blooms do young maids like the best, John?
John. Put in a sprig of thyme, master.
William. Yes—I can well spare that.
John. And a rose that’s half opened, master.
William. It goes to my heart to have a rose wasted on this business, John.
John. ’Tain’t likely as you can get through courtship without parting with sommat, master. Lucky if it baint gold as you’re called upon to spill.
William. That’s true, John—I’ll gather the rose—
John. See here, master, the lily and the pink. Them be brave flowers, the both of them, and with a terrible fine scent coming out of they.
William. Put them into the nosegay, John—And now—no more—’Tis enough waste for one day.
John. ’Tis a smartish lot of blooms as good as done for, says I.