Of knightly joustings, presbyterial pomps,
And red-wine revellings; cunningly, i’ the fringe,
Chaced round with little lutes and ladies’ Cupids
To snuggle the horse-hair lining. This brave shirt,
This inward-goading cloth of gaiety,
The poor, starved peasant wears on his bare back—
A ghost, that plays the bridegroom with’s despair.
PLOUGHMAN
[Amongst sneers and applause.]
Right!