In these humors the week went
away, that at last Sunday came.
No sooner did Phoebus' henchman appear in the sky, to give warning
that his master's horses should be trapped in his glorious coach, but
Corydon, in his holiday suit, marvellous seemly, in a russet jacket,
welted with the same and faced with red worsted, having a pair of blue
chamlet sleeves, bound at the wrists with four yellow laces, closed
before very richly with a dozen of pewter buttons; his hose was of
grey kersey, with a large slop[1] barred overthwart the pocket-holes
with three fair guards, stitched of either side with red thread; his
stock was of the own, sewed close to his breech, and for to beautify
his hose, he had trussed himself round with a dozen of new-threaden
points[2] of medley color: his bonnet was green, whereon stood a
copper brooch with the picture of Saint Denis; and to want nothing
that might make him amorous in his old days, he had a fair shirt-band
of fine lockram,[3] whipped over with Coventry blue of no small cost.
Thus attired, Corydon bestirred himself as chief stickler[4] in these
actions, and had strowed all the house with flowers, that it seemed
rather some of Flora's choice bowers than any country cottage.
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