FREEWILL.
Lo, sirs, here is a fair company, God us save;
For if any of us three be mayor of London,
I-wis, i-wis, I will ride to Rome on my thumb:
Alas! ah, see; is not this a great feres?
I would they were in a mill-pool above the ears;
And then I durst warrant, they would depart anon.
HICKSCORNER.
Help, help, for the passion of my soul;
He hath made a great hole in my poll,
That all my wit is set to the ground:
Alas! a leech for to help my wound.
IMAGINATION.
Nay, i-wis, whoreson, I will bite thee, ere I go.
FREEWILL.
Alas! good sir, what have I do?
IMAGINATION.
Ware, make room, he shall have a stripe, I trow.