FREEWILL.
Now, farewell, I beshrew you everychone.
HICKSCORNER.
Ho, ho, Freewill you threw, and no mo.
IMAGINATION.
Thou lewd fellow, say'st thou that thy name is Pity?
Who sent thee hither to control me?
PITY.
Good sir, it is my property
For to despise sinful living,
And unto virtue men to bring,
If that they will do after me.
IMAGINATION.
What, sir, art thou so pure holy?
Ah, see, this caitiff would be praised, I trow;
And you thrive this year, I will lose a penny.
Lo, sirs, outward he beareth a fair face;
But, and he meet with a wench in a privy place,
I trow he would show her but little grace:
By God, ye may trust me.