Cooke, make redy anoon our mete,
Our pylgryms haue no lust to ete.»
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Then comethe oone and seyth, «Be mery;
Ye shall haue a storme or a pery.»
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Thys mene whyle the pylgryms ly
And haue theyr bowlys fast theym by
And cry after hote maluesy.
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