"
"The earl is a worthy peer," said brother Michael; "he is worth
any fourteen earls on this side Trent, and any seven on the other."
(The reader will please to remember that Rubygill Abbey was
north of Trent.)
"His mettle will be tried," said Sir Ralph. "There is many a courtier
will swear to King Henry to bring him in dead or alive."
"They must look to the brambles then," said brother Michael.
"The bramble, the bramble, the bonny forest bramble,
Doth make a jest
Of silken vest,
That will through greenwood scramble:
The bramble, the bramble, the bonny forest bramble."
"Plague on your lungs, son Michael," said the abbot; "this is your old coil:
always roaring in your cups."
"I know what I say," said brother Michael; "there is often more sense
in an old song than in a new homily.
The courtly pad doth amble,
When his gay lord would ramble:
But both may catch
An awkward scratch,
If they ride among the bramble:
The bramble, the bramble, the bonny forest bramble."
"Tall friar," said Sir Ralph, "either you shoot the shafts of your merriment
at random, or you know more of the earl's designs than beseems your frock."
"Let my frock," said brother Michael, "answer for its own sins.
It is worn past covering mine. It is too weak for a shield,
too transparent for a screen, too thin for a shelter,
too light for gravity, and too threadbare for a jest.
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