And his cloke of Calabre, with alle þe knappes of golde, 265
And be fayne, bi my feith, his phisik to lete,
And lerne to laboure with londe, for lyflode is swete;
For morthereres aren mony leches, Lorde hem amende!
Þei do men deye þorw here drynkes, ar Destiné it wolde.'
'By Seynt Poule!' quod Pieres, 'þise aren profitable wordis. 270
Wende now, Hunger, whan þow wolt, þat wel be þow euere,
For this is a louely lessoun; Lorde it þe forȝelde!'
'Byhote God,' quod Hunger, 'hennes ne wil I wende,
Til I haue dyned bi þis day, and ydronke bothe.'