I' feckings! boye, I've gotte itte!"
"Marke welle my wordes," thenne sedde ye sage,
"Yffe thou dost longe for rytches,
A quack Lyfe Pille withe golde wille fille
Ye Pockettes of your britches."
"Moste surelie," crie'd ye Invalede,
"Thatte is ye waye to Welthe;
Butte oh! thou greate Philosopher!
Whiche is ye waye to Helthe?"
"Thatte's quicklie tolde," returned ye sage,