There staid a Tinker fine:
Quoth he, much Brass he wears about,
And Target in his Apron,
Saying, that he hath perfect skill
To mend your broken Cauldron.
Quoth she, of him we have great need, [? verse 5.]
Go Porter, let him in,
If he be cunning in his Craft
He shall much money win:
But wisely wist she who he was,