All day though I toil with my main and might,
With money in my pouch I come home merry at night,
And sit down in my chair by my wife fair Alison,
And turn a crab in the fire,[115] as merry as Pope John.
Jack. That pope was a merry fellow, of whom folk talk so much.
Grim. H’ad to be merry withal, h’ad gold enough in his hutch.
Jack. Can gold make men merry? they say, who can sing so merry a note,
As he that is not able to change a groat?[116]
Grim. Who sings in that case, sings never in tune. I know for my part,
That a heavy pouch with gold makes a light heart;