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In the ancient and well-thriven town of Manchester formerly dwelt a
merchant of good repute, Cornelius Ethelstoun by name. Plain dealing and
an honest countenance withal, had won for him a character of no ordinary
renown. His friezes were the handsomest; his stuffs and camlets were not
to be sampled in the market, or even throughout the world; insomuch that
the courtly dames of Venice, and the cumbrous vrows of Amsterdam and the
Hague, might be seen flaunting in goodly attire gathered from the
store-houses of Master Cornelius.
His coffers glittered with broad ducats, and his cabinets with the
rarest productions of the East. His warehouses were crammed, even to
satiety, and his trestles groaned under heaps of rich velvets, costly
brocades, and other profitable returns to his foreign adventures. But,
alas!--and whose heart holdeth not communion with that word!--Cornelius
was unhappy. He had one daughter, whom "he loved passing well;" yet, as
common report did acknowledge, the veriest shrew that ever went
unbridled. In vain did his riches and his revenues increase; in vain was
plenty poured into his lap, and all that wealth could compass accumulate
in lavish profusion.
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