Fol. By Cockes harte, I wene thou hast no more.
Fan. No? yes, in faythe, I can versyfy.
Fol. Then, I pray thé hartely,
Make a verse of my butterfly;
It forseth not of the reason, so it kepe ryme.
Fan. But wylte thou make another on Gryme?
Fol. Nay, in fayth, fyrst let me here thyne.
Fan. Mary, as for that, thou shalte sone here myne:
Est snavi[817] snago with a shrewde face vilis imago.
Fol. Grimbaldus gredy, snatche a puddyng tyl the rost be redy. 1170