With me, young Wilton, quod he; 'marry, and shalt. Bring us a
pint of cider of a fresh tap into the Three Cups here, wash the
pot.' So into a back room he led me, where after he had spit
on his finger, and picked off two or three motes off his old
moth-eaten velvet cap, and sponged and wrung all the rheumatic
drivel from his ill-favoured goat’s beard, he bade me declare my
mind, and thereupon he drank to me on the same.