You thinke I’m the abbot of Canterbury;
But I’m his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
Naye naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke, I can neither write nor reade.
Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee;
And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home,