Chefe counselour was carlesse,
Gronynge, grouchyng, gracelesse;
And to none entente
Our talwod is all brent,
Our fagottes are all spent, 80
We may blowe at the cole:
Our mare hath cast her fole,
And Mocke hath lost her sho;
What may she do therto?
An ende of an olde song,