“Let him ride to the devil—he has horse of mine, and spurs of his own. Any more?”
“The whole antechamber is full, my lord—knights and squires, doctors and dicers.”
“The dicers, with their doctors[*] in their pockets, I presume.”
[*] Doctor, a cant name for false dice.
“Counts, captains, and clergymen.”
“You are alliterative, Jerningham,” said the Duke; “and that is a proof you are poetical. Hand me my writing things.”
Getting half out of bed—thrusting one arm into a brocade nightgown, deeply furred with sables, and one foot into a velvet slipper, while the other pressed in primitive nudity the rich carpet—his Grace, without thinking farther on the assembly without, began to pen a few lines of a satirical poem; then suddenly stopped—threw the pen into the chimney—exclaimed that the humour was past—and asked his attendant if there were any letters. Jerningham produced a huge packet.
“What the devil!” said his Grace, “do you think I will read all these? I am like Clarence, who asked a cup of wine, and was soused into a butt of sack. I mean, is there anything which presses?”
“This letter, your Grace,” said Jerningham, “concerning the Yorkshire mortgage.”
“Did I not bid thee carry it to old Gatheral, my steward?”