They may garlycke pyll,
Cary sackes to the myll,
Or pescoddes they may shyll,
Or elles go rost a stone:
There is no man but one 110
That hathe the strokes alone;
Be it blacke or whight,
All that he dothe is ryght,
As right as a cammocke croked.
This byll well ouer loked,