I say, my lord, can such a subtilty
(But all his craft ye must not wot of me,
And somewhat help I yet to his working),
That all the ground on which we ben riding,
Till that we come to Canterbury town,
He can all clean turnen so up so down,
And pave it all of silver and of gold.
--THE CANON'S YEOMAN'S PROLOGUE, CANTERBURY TALES.

THE artist commenced his narrative in the following terms:

-"I was bred a blacksmith, and knew my art as well as e'er a
black-thumbed, leathern-aproned, swart-faced knave of that noble
mystery. But I tired of ringing hammer-tunes on iron stithies, and went
out into the world, where I became acquainted with a celebrated juggler,
whose fingers had become rather too stiff for legerdemain, and who
wished to have the aid of an apprentice in his noble mystery. I served
him for six years, until I was master of my trade--I refer myself to
your worship, whose judgment cannot be disputed, whether I did not learn
to ply the craft indifferently well?"

"Excellently," said Tressilian; "but be brief."

"It was not long after I had performed at Sir Hugh Robsart's, in your
worship's presence," said the artist, "that I took myself to the stage,
and have swaggered with the bravest of them all, both at the Black Bull,
the Globe, the Fortune, and elsewhere; but I know not how--apples were
so plenty that year that the lads in the twopenny gallery never took
more than one bite out of them, and threw the rest of the pippin at
whatever actor chanced to be on the stage. So I tired of it--renounced
my half share in the company, gave my foil to my comrade, my buskins to
the wardrobe, and showed the theatre a clean pair of heels."