Tyll a table rounde,
And there he shoke out of a bagge
Even foure hondred pounde.
Have here thy golde, syr abbot, sayd the knyght,
Which that thou lentest me ;
Haddest thou ben curteys at my comynge,
Rewarde sholdest thou have be.
The abbot sat styll, and ete no more,
For all his ryall chere,
He caste his hede on his sholdèr,