John. [Stooping and picking a dandelion.] And to give you this flower, dear Susan.

Susan. [Throwing it down.] A common thing like that!  I’ll have none of it.

John.  ’Tis prime you looks when you be angered, Susan.  The blue fire do fairly leap from your eyes.

Susan.  O you’re enough to anger a saint, John.  What have you brought me here for?

John.  I thought I’d like to tell you as you was such a fine wench, Susan.  And that I did never see a finer.

Susan.  You do look at me as though I was yonder prize heifer what Master William’s so powerful set on.

John.  Ah—­and ’tis true as you have sommat of the look of she when you stands a pawing of the ground as you be now.

Susan.  Is it to insult me that you’ve got me away from the kitchen, John?

John.  Nay—­’tis to tell you that you be a rare smartish wench—­and I’ll go along to the church with you any day as you will name, my dear.

Susan.  That you won’t, John.  I don’t mind taking a nosegay of flowers from you now and then, and hearing you speak nice to me over the garden gate of an evening, but I’m not a-going any further along the road with you.  That’s all. [She moves towards the house.

John.  Now, do you bide a moment longer, Susan—­and let me say sommat of all they feelings which be stirring like a nest of young birds in my heart for you.

Susan.  They may stir within you like an old waspes’ nest for all I care, John.

John.  Come, Susan, put better words to your tongue nor they.  You can speak honey sweet when it do please you to.

Susan.  ’Tis mustard as is the right food for you this morning, John.

John.  I gets enough of that from mistress—­I mean—­well—­I mean—­[in a loud, clear voice] —­O mistress is a wonderful fine woman and no mistake.

Susan.  You won’t say as much when she comes round the corner and catches you a wasting of your time like this, John.

John.  Is it a waste of time to stand a-drinking in the sweetness of the finest rose what blooms, Susan?

Susan.  Is that me, John?

John.  Who else should it be, Susan?

Susan.  Well, John—­sometimes I think there’s not much amiss with you.

John.  O Susan, them be grand words.

Susan.  But then again—­I do think as you be getting too much like
Master William.

John.  And a grander gentleman than he never went upon the earth.

Susan.  Cut and clipped and trimmed and dry as that box tree yonder. 
And you be getting sommat of the same fashion about you, John.

John.  Then make me differenter, Susan, you know the way.

Susan.  I’m not so sure as I do, John.