Man. Hie you hence, fellows! with breeding;
Leave your derision and your japing!
I must needs labour; it is my living.
Now. What, sir! we came but late hither—
Shall all this corn grow here
That ye shall have the next year?
If it be so, corn had need be dear;
Else ye shall have a poor life.
Nought. Alas, good father! this labour fretteth you to the bone;
But, for your crop I take great moan;
Ye shall never spend it alone—
I shall assay to get you a wife.
How many acres suppose ye here, by estimation?
New G. Hey! how ye turn the earth up and down!
I have be, in my days, in many good town,
Yet saw I never such another tilling!
Man. Why stand ye idle? it is pity that ye were born!
Now. We shall bargain with you; and nother mock nor scorn—
Take a good cart in harvest, and load it with your corn,
And what shall we give you for the leaving?
Nought. He is a good, stark labourer; he would fain do well—
He hath met with the good man, Mercy, in a shroud cell:
For all this, he may have many a hungry meal.
Yet, well ye see, he is politic:
Here shall be good corn; he may not miss it;
If he will have rain, he may overpiss it;
And if he will have compos[t] he may overbliss it
A little, with his arse like.
Man. Go, and do your labour! God let you never thee!
Or, with my spade, I shall you ding, by the holy Trinity!
Have ye none other man to mock, but ever me?
Ye would have me of your set?
Hie you forth, lively! for hence I will you driffe!
[Mankind belabours them with his spade.