With seely shepheard's swain,
Come down, and learn the little what,
That Thomalin can sayn.
MOR. Siker thou's but a lazy loord,
And recks much of thy swink,
That with fond terms, and witless words,
To blear mine eyes dost think.
In evil hour thou hentst in hand
Thus holy hills to blame,
For sacred unto saints they stand,