to the purity of Mary, she is implicitly contrasted with the crude
rusticity and gaffer-like obstinacy of her aged husband. He is just such
an old hobbling wiseacre as may be found supporting his rheumatic joints
with a thick stick in any Dorsetshire village. He is an old man before
he is required to marry her, and his protests against the proposed
union, accompanied with many a shake of the head, recall to modern
readers the humour of Mr. Thomas Hardy. This is how he receives the
announcement when at length his bowed legs have, with sundry rests by
the wayside, covered the distance between his home and the Temple where
Mary and the Priest await him:

What, xuld I wedde? God forbede!
I am an old man, so God me spede,
And with a wyff now to levyn in drede,
It wore neyther sport nere game.

He is told that it is God's will. Even the beauty of the bride-elect is
delicately referred to as an inducement. In vain. To all he replies:

A! shuld I have here? ye lese my lyff:
Alas! dere God, xuld I now rave?
An old man may nevyr thryff
With a yonge wyff, so God me save!
Nay, nay, sere, lett bene,
Xuld I now in age begynne to dote,
If I here chyde she wolde clowte my cote,
Blere myn ey, and pyke out a mote,
And thus oftyn tymes it is sene.

Eventually, of course, he is won over; but the author promptly packs him