Third that he never change his trencher twice. 
  Fourth that he use all common courtesies: 
  Sit bare at meals and one half rise and wait. 
  Last, that he never his young master beat,
  But he must ask his mother to define,
  How many jerks she would his breech should line. 
  All these observed, he could contented be,
  To give five marks and winter livery.

IX.  THE IMPECUNIOUS FOP.

This satire constitutes Satire Seven of Book III.  The phrase of dining with Duke Humphrey, which is still occasionally heard, originated in the following manner:—­In the body of old St. Paul’s was a huge and conspicuous monument of Sir John Beauchamp, buried in 1358, son of Guy, and brother of Thomas, Earl of Warwick.  This by vulgar mistake was called the tomb of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, who was really buried at St. Alban’s.  The middle aisle of St. Paul’s was therefore called “The Duke’s Gallery”.  In Dekker’s Dead Terme we have the phrase used and a full explanation of it given; also in Sam Speed’s Legend of His Grace Humphrey, Duke of St. Paul’s Cathedral Walk (1674).

  See’st thou how gaily my young master goes,
  Vaunting himself upon his rising toes;
  And pranks his hand upon his dagger’s side;
  And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide? 
  ’Tis Ruffio:  Trow’st thou where he dined to-day? 
  In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphrey. 
  Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer,
  Keeps he for every straggling cavalier;
  An open house, haunted with great resort;
  Long service mixt with musical disport. 
  Many fair younker with a feathered crest,
  Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest,
  To fare so freely with so little cost,
  Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host. 
  Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say
  He touched no meat of all this livelong day;
  For sure methought, yet that was but a guess,
  His eyes seemed sunk for very hollowness,
  But could he have—­as I did it mistake—­
  So little in his purse, so much upon his back? 
  So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt
  That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt. 
  See’st thou how side[163] it hangs beneath his hip? 
  Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip. 
  Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by,
  All trapped in the new-found bravery. 
  The nuns of new-won Calais his bonnet lent,
  In lieu of their so kind a conquerment. 
  What needed he fetch that from farthest Spain,
  His grandame could have lent with lesser pain? 
  Though he perhaps ne’er passed the English shore,
  Yet fain would counted be a conqueror. 
  His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head,
  One lock[164] Amazon-like dishevelled,
  As if he meant to wear a native cord,
  If chance his fates should him that bane afford. 
  All British bare upon the bristled skin,