And they lye still, they have so little wit:
I marvell the warriner will suffer it;
Nay, nay, they are so bad, that they themselves 20
Do give consent to catch these prettie elfes.
How if the warriner should spie me here?
He would take me for a conny I dare sweare.
But when that Francis comes, what will he say?
'Looke, boy, there lyes a conney in my way!' 25
But, soft, a light! whose that? soule, my mother!
Nay, then, all hid: i faith, she shall not see me;