Some hoise their heels upward, some beat in a sack,
Some manacle their fingers, some bind in the rack.
Some would I starve for hunger, some would I hang privily,
Saying, that themselves so died desperately.
Some would I accuse of matters of great weight,
Openly to hang them as trespassers straight.
A thousand mo ways could I tell, and not miss,
Which here in England, I may say to you, I have practised ere this,
And trust, by His wounds, Avarice, soon again for to try,
Howsoever the world go, before that I die.