HICKSCORNER.
Help, help, for the passion of my soul;
He hath made a great hole in my poll,
That all my wit is set to the ground:
Alas! a leech for to help my wound.
IMAGINATION.
Nay, i-wis, whoreson, I will bite thee, ere I go.
FREEWILL.
Alas! good sir, what have I do?
IMAGINATION.
Ware, make room, he shall have a stripe, I trow.
PITY.
Peace, peace, sirs, I command you.
IMAGINATION.
Avaunt, old churl; whence comest thou?
And thou make too much, I shall break thy brow,
And send thee home again.
PITY.
Ah, good sir, the peace I would have kept fain;
Mine office is to see no man slain;
And where they do amiss, to give them good counsel,
Sin to forsake, and God's law them tell.
IMAGINATION.
Ah, sir, I ween'd thou hadst been drowned and gone:
But I have spied, that there scaped one.