THE COMB.83An old man bought a sheep’s cloak for his wife, and he futtered her the whole night long at the foot of the fence. In the morning the weather was damp, and the old woman, with back bent, went weeping; but the old man followed and mounted her. Said the woman to her husband:“Tear me not in this fashion, Gabriel!”But the man was hard of hearing, knew not what she said, thrust his yard into her, and futtered her dog-fashion.... The eye is ne’er too weary to see, nor the backside to fizzle, nor the nose to take snuff, nor the coynte to lose the chance of a goodly futter.... But this by way of a prelude ... a foreword.Once there lived a pope,84who possessed a daughter, a virgin and an artless. And when summer came the pope was wont to hire workmen to mow the hay; and he hired them in this wise:If his daughter pissed o’er the haycock which the workman had mown, the man went wageless.Workmen a-plenty hired themselves to the pope, but, one and all, they laboured wageless; the daughter, whatsoe’er the height of the haycock, pissed o’er it.Yet another workman and a bold did accept the conditions; if the pope’s daughter pissed o’er the haycock which he had mown, no claim for his work would he make. Then mowed the workman his hay; when he had mown it and set it in a heap, he lay down beside the haycock, drew forth his yard from his drawers, and fell to toying with it. The pope’s daughter drew nigh to the workman to scrutinise the haycock, cast a glance at him, and said:“What dost thou, little peasant?”“I rub my comb.”“What dost comb with this comb of thine?”“Come—I will comb thee. Lie down on the hay.”The pope’s daughter lay down on the hay, the workman fell to combing her, and he winnowed her as was proper. Anon the young girl rose up and said:“What a delicious comb!”Afterwards she sought to piss o’er the haycock; of no avail; she did piss upon herself, as it might run from a sieve. Seeking out her father, she spake him, saying:“The haycock is too high; I may not piss o’er it.”“Ah! my daughter! here in sooth is a goodly workman. I will hire him for a year.”And when the workman came to receive his wage, the pope said:“Friend, hire thyself to me for a year.”“I am willing,” quoth the workman; and hehired himself to the pope. Most contented, too, was the pope’s daughter, and when night came she sought the workman, saying:“Comb me.”“Nay, I will not comb thee for nought. Give me one hundred roubles. Buy the comb.”The pope’s daughter gave him one hundred roubles, and nightly he combed her.Came a time when the workman fell out with the pope, saying:“Render me my wage, little father.”His wage rendered, the workman went his way. Now the pope’s daughter was not present when these things were done, but when she returned to the house she inquired:“Where is the workman?”“He demanded his wage and is gone forthwith to the village,” quoth the pope.“Ah! little father! what hast thou done? He hath carried off my comb!” cried the pope’s daughter.She hastened in pursuit, and came upon him by a little stream; the workman had tucked up his drawers and was fording the stream.“Give me my comb!” cried the pope’s daughter.The workman took a stone and cast it into the water.“Pick it up,” said he; and, passing to the other side of the stream, went his way.The pope’s daughter tucked up her petticoat, entered the water, and sought the comb. She rummaged at the bottom of the stream. No comb.Chanced to pass a lord, who cried to her:“What seekest, little dove?”“My comb! I have purchased it from a workman for one hundred roubles; departing, he carried it off with him. Him I pursued, and he cast the comb in the water.”The lord descended from his carriage, removed his breeches, and entered the water in search of the comb. They searched; together they searched. On a sudden the pope’s daughter perceived that a yard hung ‘twixt the lord’s legs. She seized it with both hands, gripped it fast, and cried:“Shame on thee, lord! ‘Tis my comb! Give it me!”“What dost thou, shameless one? Leave hold of me!” said the lord.“Nay, ‘tis thou who art shameless! Thou wouldst take what pertains to another. Give me my comb!”And she dragged him by his yard to her father.The pope gazed through the window. Behold, his daughter dragged a lord by his yard and never ceased from crying: “Give me my comb, wretched fellow!” what time the lord made plaintive sound, saying: “Little father, deliver me from a death not deserved! All my life I will not forget thee!”From his drawers the pope drew forth his yard, displayed it to his daughter through the window, and cried:“My daughter! my daughter! Here is thy comb!”“Truly ‘tis mine!” cried the daughter. “Behold its red end! And I thought the lord had taken it!”And she released this unfortunate and sped into the house. The lord drew on his hose and took to his heels.The girl came running into the house.“Where is my comb, little father?”“Ah! what a daughter!” grumbled the pope. “See, little mother. I believe she hath lost her maidenhead.”“Examine her thyself, little father,” said the popess. “That will be better.”The pope lowered his drawers and gave the comb to his daughter. When they were in action, the pope gasped and cried:“No, no—the girl hath not lost her honour....”Quoth the popess:“Little father, push her honour yet further back.”“Fear not, little mother. She will not let it fall. I have pushed it far.”Thus went the pope’s daughter to the comb. Henceforward the pope combed them both, regaling them with his little ‘doll,’85passing his life in futtering both daughter and mother.
THE COMB.83An old man bought a sheep’s cloak for his wife, and he futtered her the whole night long at the foot of the fence. In the morning the weather was damp, and the old woman, with back bent, went weeping; but the old man followed and mounted her. Said the woman to her husband:“Tear me not in this fashion, Gabriel!”But the man was hard of hearing, knew not what she said, thrust his yard into her, and futtered her dog-fashion.... The eye is ne’er too weary to see, nor the backside to fizzle, nor the nose to take snuff, nor the coynte to lose the chance of a goodly futter.... But this by way of a prelude ... a foreword.Once there lived a pope,84who possessed a daughter, a virgin and an artless. And when summer came the pope was wont to hire workmen to mow the hay; and he hired them in this wise:If his daughter pissed o’er the haycock which the workman had mown, the man went wageless.Workmen a-plenty hired themselves to the pope, but, one and all, they laboured wageless; the daughter, whatsoe’er the height of the haycock, pissed o’er it.Yet another workman and a bold did accept the conditions; if the pope’s daughter pissed o’er the haycock which he had mown, no claim for his work would he make. Then mowed the workman his hay; when he had mown it and set it in a heap, he lay down beside the haycock, drew forth his yard from his drawers, and fell to toying with it. The pope’s daughter drew nigh to the workman to scrutinise the haycock, cast a glance at him, and said:“What dost thou, little peasant?”“I rub my comb.”“What dost comb with this comb of thine?”“Come—I will comb thee. Lie down on the hay.”The pope’s daughter lay down on the hay, the workman fell to combing her, and he winnowed her as was proper. Anon the young girl rose up and said:“What a delicious comb!”Afterwards she sought to piss o’er the haycock; of no avail; she did piss upon herself, as it might run from a sieve. Seeking out her father, she spake him, saying:“The haycock is too high; I may not piss o’er it.”“Ah! my daughter! here in sooth is a goodly workman. I will hire him for a year.”And when the workman came to receive his wage, the pope said:“Friend, hire thyself to me for a year.”“I am willing,” quoth the workman; and hehired himself to the pope. Most contented, too, was the pope’s daughter, and when night came she sought the workman, saying:“Comb me.”“Nay, I will not comb thee for nought. Give me one hundred roubles. Buy the comb.”The pope’s daughter gave him one hundred roubles, and nightly he combed her.Came a time when the workman fell out with the pope, saying:“Render me my wage, little father.”His wage rendered, the workman went his way. Now the pope’s daughter was not present when these things were done, but when she returned to the house she inquired:“Where is the workman?”“He demanded his wage and is gone forthwith to the village,” quoth the pope.“Ah! little father! what hast thou done? He hath carried off my comb!” cried the pope’s daughter.She hastened in pursuit, and came upon him by a little stream; the workman had tucked up his drawers and was fording the stream.“Give me my comb!” cried the pope’s daughter.The workman took a stone and cast it into the water.“Pick it up,” said he; and, passing to the other side of the stream, went his way.The pope’s daughter tucked up her petticoat, entered the water, and sought the comb. She rummaged at the bottom of the stream. No comb.Chanced to pass a lord, who cried to her:“What seekest, little dove?”“My comb! I have purchased it from a workman for one hundred roubles; departing, he carried it off with him. Him I pursued, and he cast the comb in the water.”The lord descended from his carriage, removed his breeches, and entered the water in search of the comb. They searched; together they searched. On a sudden the pope’s daughter perceived that a yard hung ‘twixt the lord’s legs. She seized it with both hands, gripped it fast, and cried:“Shame on thee, lord! ‘Tis my comb! Give it me!”“What dost thou, shameless one? Leave hold of me!” said the lord.“Nay, ‘tis thou who art shameless! Thou wouldst take what pertains to another. Give me my comb!”And she dragged him by his yard to her father.The pope gazed through the window. Behold, his daughter dragged a lord by his yard and never ceased from crying: “Give me my comb, wretched fellow!” what time the lord made plaintive sound, saying: “Little father, deliver me from a death not deserved! All my life I will not forget thee!”From his drawers the pope drew forth his yard, displayed it to his daughter through the window, and cried:“My daughter! my daughter! Here is thy comb!”“Truly ‘tis mine!” cried the daughter. “Behold its red end! And I thought the lord had taken it!”And she released this unfortunate and sped into the house. The lord drew on his hose and took to his heels.The girl came running into the house.“Where is my comb, little father?”“Ah! what a daughter!” grumbled the pope. “See, little mother. I believe she hath lost her maidenhead.”“Examine her thyself, little father,” said the popess. “That will be better.”The pope lowered his drawers and gave the comb to his daughter. When they were in action, the pope gasped and cried:“No, no—the girl hath not lost her honour....”Quoth the popess:“Little father, push her honour yet further back.”“Fear not, little mother. She will not let it fall. I have pushed it far.”Thus went the pope’s daughter to the comb. Henceforward the pope combed them both, regaling them with his little ‘doll,’85passing his life in futtering both daughter and mother.
An old man bought a sheep’s cloak for his wife, and he futtered her the whole night long at the foot of the fence. In the morning the weather was damp, and the old woman, with back bent, went weeping; but the old man followed and mounted her. Said the woman to her husband:
“Tear me not in this fashion, Gabriel!”
But the man was hard of hearing, knew not what she said, thrust his yard into her, and futtered her dog-fashion.... The eye is ne’er too weary to see, nor the backside to fizzle, nor the nose to take snuff, nor the coynte to lose the chance of a goodly futter.... But this by way of a prelude ... a foreword.
Once there lived a pope,84who possessed a daughter, a virgin and an artless. And when summer came the pope was wont to hire workmen to mow the hay; and he hired them in this wise:
If his daughter pissed o’er the haycock which the workman had mown, the man went wageless.Workmen a-plenty hired themselves to the pope, but, one and all, they laboured wageless; the daughter, whatsoe’er the height of the haycock, pissed o’er it.
Yet another workman and a bold did accept the conditions; if the pope’s daughter pissed o’er the haycock which he had mown, no claim for his work would he make. Then mowed the workman his hay; when he had mown it and set it in a heap, he lay down beside the haycock, drew forth his yard from his drawers, and fell to toying with it. The pope’s daughter drew nigh to the workman to scrutinise the haycock, cast a glance at him, and said:
“What dost thou, little peasant?”
“I rub my comb.”
“What dost comb with this comb of thine?”
“Come—I will comb thee. Lie down on the hay.”
The pope’s daughter lay down on the hay, the workman fell to combing her, and he winnowed her as was proper. Anon the young girl rose up and said:
“What a delicious comb!”
Afterwards she sought to piss o’er the haycock; of no avail; she did piss upon herself, as it might run from a sieve. Seeking out her father, she spake him, saying:
“The haycock is too high; I may not piss o’er it.”
“Ah! my daughter! here in sooth is a goodly workman. I will hire him for a year.”
And when the workman came to receive his wage, the pope said:
“Friend, hire thyself to me for a year.”
“I am willing,” quoth the workman; and hehired himself to the pope. Most contented, too, was the pope’s daughter, and when night came she sought the workman, saying:
“Comb me.”
“Nay, I will not comb thee for nought. Give me one hundred roubles. Buy the comb.”
The pope’s daughter gave him one hundred roubles, and nightly he combed her.
Came a time when the workman fell out with the pope, saying:
“Render me my wage, little father.”
His wage rendered, the workman went his way. Now the pope’s daughter was not present when these things were done, but when she returned to the house she inquired:
“Where is the workman?”
“He demanded his wage and is gone forthwith to the village,” quoth the pope.
“Ah! little father! what hast thou done? He hath carried off my comb!” cried the pope’s daughter.
She hastened in pursuit, and came upon him by a little stream; the workman had tucked up his drawers and was fording the stream.
“Give me my comb!” cried the pope’s daughter.
The workman took a stone and cast it into the water.
“Pick it up,” said he; and, passing to the other side of the stream, went his way.
The pope’s daughter tucked up her petticoat, entered the water, and sought the comb. She rummaged at the bottom of the stream. No comb.
Chanced to pass a lord, who cried to her:
“What seekest, little dove?”
“My comb! I have purchased it from a workman for one hundred roubles; departing, he carried it off with him. Him I pursued, and he cast the comb in the water.”
The lord descended from his carriage, removed his breeches, and entered the water in search of the comb. They searched; together they searched. On a sudden the pope’s daughter perceived that a yard hung ‘twixt the lord’s legs. She seized it with both hands, gripped it fast, and cried:
“Shame on thee, lord! ‘Tis my comb! Give it me!”
“What dost thou, shameless one? Leave hold of me!” said the lord.
“Nay, ‘tis thou who art shameless! Thou wouldst take what pertains to another. Give me my comb!”
And she dragged him by his yard to her father.
The pope gazed through the window. Behold, his daughter dragged a lord by his yard and never ceased from crying: “Give me my comb, wretched fellow!” what time the lord made plaintive sound, saying: “Little father, deliver me from a death not deserved! All my life I will not forget thee!”
From his drawers the pope drew forth his yard, displayed it to his daughter through the window, and cried:
“My daughter! my daughter! Here is thy comb!”
“Truly ‘tis mine!” cried the daughter. “Behold its red end! And I thought the lord had taken it!”
And she released this unfortunate and sped into the house. The lord drew on his hose and took to his heels.
The girl came running into the house.
“Where is my comb, little father?”
“Ah! what a daughter!” grumbled the pope. “See, little mother. I believe she hath lost her maidenhead.”
“Examine her thyself, little father,” said the popess. “That will be better.”
The pope lowered his drawers and gave the comb to his daughter. When they were in action, the pope gasped and cried:
“No, no—the girl hath not lost her honour....”
Quoth the popess:
“Little father, push her honour yet further back.”
“Fear not, little mother. She will not let it fall. I have pushed it far.”
Thus went the pope’s daughter to the comb. Henceforward the pope combed them both, regaling them with his little ‘doll,’85passing his life in futtering both daughter and mother.