Of how they were harried in their task of tilling:
Good years and grain are both of them gone,
We enjoy here no tales, and have no song to sing.
Now we must work, no way else is known,
I may no longer live by my gleaning.
Yet even a bitterer demand has upgrown,
For ever the fourth penny goes to the king.
Thus we complain of the king and have cares that are cold;
Though we dream of recovery we are ever downcast.
He who has any goods which he hoped he could hold