Then fell her head one way, her book another,
And surely she did dream by what we gather;
Maids beware of sleeping at Church.
For long she had not slept, when a rude flea
Upon her groyn sharply began to prey;
Straight she (twixt sleep and waking) in great ire,
As if sh’ad sitting been by th’ Kitchin fire,
Pulls up her coats with both hands, smock and all,
And with both hands to scratch and scrub doth fall.
Truly the Priest, though some did, saw her not,