There was suyng to the Quene of Fame;
He plucked hym backe, and he went afore;
Nay, holde thy tunge, quod another, let me haue the name;
Make rowme, sayd another, ye prese all to sore;
Sume sayd, Holde thy peas, thou getest here no more;
A thowsande thowsande I sawe on a plumpe:
With that I harde the noyse of a trumpe,
That longe tyme blewe a full timorous blaste, 260
Lyke to the boryall wyndes whan they blowe,
That towres and townes and trees downe caste,