Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
Away, away, this may not be:
For a curse upon my head he said,
If ever I trust thee one pennìe.
Then bespake the heir of Linne,
To John o' the Scales' wife then spake he:
Madame, some alms on me bestow,
I pray for sweet saint Charitìe.
Away, away, thou thriftless loone,
I swear thou gettest no alms of me;
For if we shold hang any losel here,
The first we would begin with thee.
Then bespake a good fellòwe,
Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord;
Sayd, Turn again, thou heir of Linne;
Some time thou wast a well good Lord:
Some time a good fellow thou hast been,
And sparedst not thy gold and fee:
Therefore I'll lend thee forty pence,
And other forty if need be.
And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
To let him sit in thy companie:
For well I wot thou hadst his land,
And a good bargain it was to thee.
Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
All hot he answered him againe:
Now a curse upon my head, he said,
But I did lose by that bargàine.
And here I proffer thee, heir of Linne,
Before these lords so fair and free,
Thou shalt have it back again better cheap,
By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.
I draw you to record, lords, he said.
With that he cast him a god's pennie:
Now by my fay, sayd the heir of Linne,
And here, good John, is thy monèy.
And he pull'd forth three bags of gold,
And layd them down upon the board:
All woebegone was John o' the Scales,
Soe shent he could say never a word.