Here cometh in Foly.
Fol. Mary, Cryst graunt ye catche no colde on your fete!
Magn. Who is this?
Fol. Consayte, syr, your owne man.
Magn. What tydynges with you, syr? I befole thy brayne pan.
Fol. By our lakyn, syr, I haue ben a hawkyng[845] for the wylde swan. 1830
My hawke is rammysshe, and it happed that she ran,
Flewe I sholde say, in to an olde barne,
To reche at a rat, I coude not her warne;
She pynched her pynyon, by God, and catched harme: