Yit saugh I never, by my fader kynne,
How that the hoper wagges til and fra!
Aleyn answerde—John wil ye swa?
Than wil I be bynethe, by my crown,
And se how gates the mele falles down
In til the trough—that sal be my disport.
Quod John—In faith, I is of youre sort—
I is as ille a meller as are ye.
* * * * * *
And when the mele is sakked and ybounde,