Their fasting flocks to keep.
Sike mister men be all misgone,
They heapen hills of wrath;
Such surly shepheards have we none,
They keepen all the path.
MOR. Here is a great deal of good matter
Lost for lack of telling;
Now sicker I see thou dost but clatter,
Harm may come of melling.
Thou meddlest more than shall have thank,