And what dost think ich get?
Vaith just my labour vor my pains,
The garrisons have all the gains,
Vor thither all’s avet.
There goes my corne and beanes, and pease,
Ich doe not dare them to displease,
They doe zo zwear and vapour:
When to the Governour ich doe come,
And pray him to discharge my zum,
Chave nothing but a paper.