He's a gentleman born, an's got the money.

But come, Mester Bates, fill your glass, an' we'll drink health an' happiness to his honour an' my lady, and then you shall give us a song.

Sir Cristifer doesn't come hum from Italy ivery night.' This demonstrable position was accepted without hesitation as ground for a toast; but Mr.Bates, apparently thinking that his song was not an equally reasonable sequence, ignored the second part of Mr.Bellamy's proposal.

So Mrs.Sharp, who had been heard to say that she had no thoughts at all of marrying Mr.Bates, though he was 'a sensable fresh-coloured man as many a woman 'ud snap at for a husband,' enforced Mr.Bellamy's appeal.
'Come, Mr.Bates, let us hear "Roy's Wife." I'd rether hear a good old song like that, nor all the fine Italian toodlin.' Mr.Bates, urged thus flatteringly, stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, threw himself back in his chair with his head in that position in which he could look directly towards the zenith, and struck up a remarkably _staccato_ rendering of 'Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch'.

This melody may certainly be taxed with excessive iteration, but that was precisely its highest recommendation to the present audience, who found it all the easier to swell the chorus.