'Sing willow, willow, willow.'
That is one of Phil's favorite songs. Milicent, methinks I will call thee Barbara, and thou shalt sing with me—
'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,—
Sing all a green willow;
Her hand on her bosom,'—
There, put thy hand in that fashion—
'her head on her knee,'—
Nay, prithee, thou must bend thy head lower—
'Sing willow, willow, willow.'"
"My lady," said the gentlewoman, smiling, "I promise you I dare not take upon me to fulfil my tasks with credit to myself or your ladyship, if Mistress Bess hath the run of this room, and doth prepare cordials after her fashion from your ladyship's stores."
"Ah, Bess!" quoth my lady, shaking her finger at the saucy one; "I'll deliver thee up to Mrs. Fawcett, who will give thee a taste of the place of correction; and Phil is not here to-day to beg thee off. And now, good Milicent, prithee make a bundle of such clothes as we have in hand, and such comforts as be suitable to such as are sick and in prison, for this sweet young lady hath need of them for some who be in that sad plight."
"And, my lady," quoth the gentlewoman, "I would fain learn how to dress wounds when the flesh is galled; for I do sometimes meet with poor men who do suffer in that way, and would relieve them if I could."