That in three quarters of a year,
himself had hardly shifted:
Then up the Devil rose, and snuffed his nose,
he could indure it no longer,
Cry'd, Away with this fume, 'tis not fit for the room
it will neither quench thirst, no, nor hunger.
I pre thee, gentle Blade, tell me thy trade,
as thou hast so strong a smell,
It is for to make gunpowder, he said,
for to blow the Devil out of Hell: