Anon the Dame, her primal transports o’er,
Bethought her of the wisdom of Sir Tray,
And his fine wit, and then it shameful seemed
That he bareheaded ’neath the sky should go
While empty skulls of fools went thatched and roofed;
“A hat,” she cried, “would better fit those brows
Than many a courtier’s that I’ve wotted of;
And thou shalt have one, an’ my tender toes
On which the corns do shoot, and these my knees
Wherethro’ rheumatic twinges swiftly dart,