The maker that made them,—he shed them to shame,—to fleas and to fly,—to tyke and to toad;—so saith Romanz,—whoever read right,—fly comes of flower,—and louse comes of lad.
The rogues are horelings,—and haunt the play:—the gadlings are gluttons,—and drink before it dawns.—Satan their sire—said in his saying,—Goblin made his garner—of the grooms’ maw.
The knave crams his crop—before the cock crows;—he mumbles and mocks,—and marrs his maw;—when he is all weary of lapping (?),—and laid over law,—a dozen of dogs—could not draw him.
The ribalds arise—before the day breaks;—they scrape on their scabs,—and draw themselves to the dew.—Seen it is on his forehead—and on his eye-brows, that he looseth a flatterer,—and shoeth a shrew.
Now are horse-clawers—shamefully clothed;—they busk them with buttons—as it were a bride:—with low laced shoes—of a heifer’s hide,—they pick out of their provender—all their pride.
Whoever reckons with knaves—their expense,—the perverseness of the lad,—the pride of the page,—though he give them cats’ dirt—for their sustenance,—yet he shall rue—of the arrears.
While God was on earth—and wandered wide,—what was the reason—why he would not ride?—Because he would not have a groom—to go by his side,—nor the grudging of any gadling—to jaw or to chide.
Haste you to spew,—as men do to spell (talk);—may the fiend devour you—with flesh and with skin!—Harken this way, horsemen,—a tiding I tell you,—that ye shall hang,—and be lodged in hell.