I’ll laugh when I sit in my stall, and merrily will sing. That I with my poor last and awl, am fellow with the king. But it is more I must confess, than I at first did know, But Harry Tudor ne’ertheless, resolves it shall be so. And now farewell unto Whitehall, I homeward must retire, To sing and whistle in my stall, my Joan will me desire: I do but think how she shall laugh, when she hears of this thing, That he that drank her nut-brown ale, Was England’s Royal King. CHAP. VI. How the Cobbler became a Courtier. Now the king considering the pleasant humour of the cobbler, how innocently merry he was, and free from any design; that he was a person that laboured very hard, and took a great deal of pains for a small livelihood, was pleased, out of his princely grace and favour, to allow him a liberal annuity of forty merks a year, for the better support of his jolly humour, and the maintenance of his wife Joan, and that he should be admitted one of his courtiers, and that he might have the freedom of his cellar whenever he pleased. Which being so much beyond expectation, did highly exalt the cobbler’s humour, much to the satisfaction of the king. So after a great many legs and scrapes, he returned home to his wife Joan, with the joyful news of his reception at court; which so well pleased her, that she did not think much at the great pains she took in decking him for the journey. ANECDOTE. When Charles II was on a progress through his dominions, he was waited upon by the magistracy of a certain city in the north of England. The Mayor had prepared with no little study a splendid oration for so memorable an occasion. Kneeling down to deliver his address the worthy Magistrate (who was excessively fat) commenced by a feu dejoy of rather a singular nature: whether he deemed an expression of loyalty tantamount to a royal salute of the present day, history is silent: certain it is, he felt greatly embarrassed, and blundered his oration most woefully. “I have, please your Majesty, begun at the wrong end,” cried the good Mayor, endeavouring to apologize for the incoherency of his speech. “So I remarked,” replied the facetious monarch, “but I fear the mistake can’t now be corrected:--Rise up, Sir Walter Cannon.” THE TWO BEARS. Two very intimate friends, one a painter, the other a goldsmith, travelling together, were benighted near a convent of religious christians, where they were entertained with great humanity. As those travellers wanted money to continue their journey, the painter, who was a proficient in his art, offered to work for the monastery. He soon possessed his hosts with a high opinion of his talents, and even inspired them with a confidence, which they had soon too much reason to repent.