RUSTICUS

Chyll never nabore hodge, have a glade heart, Till Egistous the King, hath for his desert: Received Due punishment, for this well I know, Horrestes to Crete, with Idumeous did go. When his father was slain, by his Mother most ill, And therefore I think, that come heather he will: And revenge the iniurey, of his mother most dyare, wasting our land with zworde, and with vyare. Nabor hodge, be goge hatch none I bear, That this little hourchet, the devayaunce does bear. Come let us go, and of him in good south? We will conquear out, the verey truth. By Jesu and iche chyll master, for all my great pain, Of this matter to you to tell the veary plain: My naybor hodge and I, in good south, Mote hear in the veldes, I tell you the truth: Now as we wear talking, mark what I zaye, You came in straight, and of us crossed the way. Which thing for zartyn, when I did espy, This fancey vlouncht, in my head by and by: And to hodge I zayde that, by gys I did veare, That your masshyp, good master the devyaunce does bear, And be cause you wear little, and of stature but smaull: Your person a hourchet, in faith I did caull. But by Jesu be contented, warrant chyll neauer more, Ofvend you a gains, but cham zorey thearuore. Gods gée master patience, I pray you me tell, What horsen chorles doge, my hog so did quell: Iche zware by gise, and holy zaynt blyue, Chyll be zwinge him, and ich be a live, By gods de cham angry, and not well content, Chould would wear hear, chould make him repent. Ich had rather given, vore strike of corn, Then to had my hog on this wise forlorn: But if I knew whous dog chould be, Revenged well enough iche warrent the. Chyll be no friends, chad rather be hanged, Till iche have that old karle, well and thryfteley banged, And tweare not your masshyppe, did me with hold, To swing the ourchet, iche chould be bold, Gods gée hourson hoge, pay me for my zwine, Or eles larne to keep, that coxcomb of thine. Oh Gods get, cham zwinged so zore, Iche think chaul neauer live one hour more. Nay letes be friends, and chyll in good partly, Of brown ale at my house, give the a whole whart: What hodge shake hounds, mon be merey and lauffe, By gods ge iche had not, the best end of the staff. Hodge I harden say, thou illy, hast wrought, For my hog unto death, with Thy dog thou haste broughgt Iche bid the thy vault, to me to amend, Or chyll zwaddell the, iche zweare in my bat end.