But tell me here truly what I do thinke.
“Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry:
You thinke I’m the abbot of Canterbury;
But I’m his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.”
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!
“Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.”
Four nobles a weeke, then, I will give thee,