Syghing and sobbing, they weepe and they wayle;
I marvell in my mynd what the devill they ayle.
The olde trot syts groning, with alas! and alas! 15
And Tib wringes her hands, and takes on in worse case.
With poore Cocke, theyr boye, they be dryven in such fyts,
I feare mee the folkes be not well in theyr wyts.
Aske them what they ayle, or who brought them in this staye,
They aunswer not at all, but "alacke!" and "welaway!" 20
Whan I saw it booted not, out at doores I hyed mee,
And caught a slyp of bacon, when I saw that none spyed mee,