_Oliver_.--Yea, sorely doth it vex and harrow me that I was then of ill conditions, and that my name--even your godson's--stank in your nostrils. _Sir Oliver_.--Ha! polecat! it was not thy name, although bad enough, that stank first; in my house, at least.[13] But perhaps there are worse maggots in stauncher mummeries. _Oliver_.--Whereas in the bowels of your charity you then vouchsafed me forgiveness, so the more confidently may I crave it now in this my urgency. _Sir Oliver_.--More confidently! What! hast got more confidence? Where didst find it? I never thought the wide circle of the world had within it another jot for thee. Well, Nol, I see no reason why thou shouldst stand before me with thy hat off, in the courtyard and in the sun, counting the stones of the pavement. Thou hast some knavery in thy head, I warrant thee. Come, put on thy beaver. _Oliver_.--Uncle Sir Oliver! I know my duty too well to stand covered in the presence of so worshipful a kinsman, who, moreover, hath answered at baptism for my good behaviour. _Sir Oliver_.--God forgive me for playing the fool before Him so presumptuously and unprofitably! Nobody shall ever take me in again to do such an absurd and wicked thing. But thou hast some left-hand business in the neighbourhood, no doubt, or thou wouldst never more have come under my archway. _Oliver_.--These are hard times for them that seek peace. We are clay in the hand of the potter. _Sir Oliver_.--I wish your potters sought nothing costlier, and dug in their own grounds for it. Most of us, as thou sayest, have been upon the wheel of these artificers; and little was left but rags when we got off. Sanctified folks are the cleverest skinners in all Christendom, and their Jordan tans and constringes us to the averdupoise of mummies. _Oliver_.--The Lord hath chosen his own vessels. _Sir Oliver_.--I wish heartily He would pack them off, and send them anywhere on ass-back or cart, (cart preferably,) to rid our country of 'em. But now again to the point: for if we fall among the potsherds we shall hobble on but lamely. Since thou art raised unto a high command in the army, and hast a dragoon to hold yonder thy solid and stately piece of horse-flesh, I cannot but take it into my fancy that thou hast some commission of array or disarray to execute hereabout. _Oliver_.--With a sad sinking of spirit, to the pitch well-nigh of swounding, and with a sight of bitter tears, which will not be put back nor staid in anywise, as you bear testimony unto me, uncle Oliver. _Sir Oliver_.--No tears, Master Nol, I beseech thee! Thou never art more pery than when it rains with thee. Wet days, among those of thy kidney, portend the letting of blood. What dost whimper at? _Oliver_.--That I, that I, of all men living, should be put upon this work! _Sir Oliver_.--What work, prythee?