Will squabbled in a tavern very sore,
Because one brought a gill of wine no more;
Fill me a quart, quoth he, I’m called Will,
The proverbe is, each Jack shall have his Gill.
Satyricall Epigrams, 1619.
[61]. One can scarce forbear a smile to find in the ‘Townley Mysteries’ Noah’s wife, being pressed by her husband to enter the ark, replying—
Sir, for Jak nor for Gille
Wille I turne my face
Tille I have on this hille
Spun a space upon my rok (distaft).