A flock of good fellows, all Smiths by their trade,
Within a while after a holiday made,
Unto the Smith's house they came then with speed,
And there they were wondrous merry indeed,
With my pot and thy pot to make the score hier,
Mine Host was so drunk he fell in the fire.
But quoth the good Wife, sweet hart do not rayl,
These things must be if we sell Ale.
......
But men ran so much with him on the score,