Sheele persecute the poore wit-beaten man, 20
And so bebang him with dry bobs and scoffes,
When he is downe, most cowardly, good faith,
As I have pittied the poore patient.
There came a farmers sonne a wooing to her,
A proper man, well landed too he was, 25
A man that for his wit need not to aske
What time a yeere twere good to sow his oates
Nor yet his barley, no, nor when to reape,
To plowe his fallowes, or to fell his trees,