By the mas, the meale is myschevous musty!
And yf ye thynke my tale be not trusty, C iii b
I make ye trew promyse: come, when ye lyste, 735
We shall fynde meane ye shall taste of the gryst.
Water Myller. The corne at receyte happely is not good.
Mery-reporte. There can be no sweeter, by the sweet roode!
Another thynge yet, whyche shall not be cloked,
My watermyll many tymes is choked. 740
Water Myller. So wyll she be, though ye shuld burste your bones,
Except ye be perfyt in settynge your stones.