VIII.

A Bonne God wote!

Stickes in my throate,

Without I have a draught

Of cornie aile,

Nappy and staile,

My lyffe lyes in great wauste.

Some ayle or beare,

Gentill butlere,

Some lycoure thou hus showe,

Such as you mashe,

Our throates to washe,

The best were that yow brew.

Saint, master, and knight,

That Saint Mault hight,

Were prest betwen two stones;

That swet humour

Of his lycoure

Would make us sing at once.

Mr. Wortley,

I dar well say,

I tell you as I thinke,

Would not, I say,

Byd hus this day,

But that we shuld have drink.

His men so tall

Walkes up his hall,

With many a comly dishe;

Of his good meat

I cannot eate,

Without a drink i-wysse;

Now gyve hus drink,

And let cat wynke,

I tell you all at once,

Yt stickes so sore,

I may sing no more,

Tyll I have dronken once.