JOHN ADROYNES

Nay, good honest Promoters let Me go. Marry John Adroynes God save: The king? why he will not look of poor men. Will he so? then, good you he gone apace. Least in my face, he spy you too, Leave, or by God isle scratch. Yea, and bite too. Nay, do both what you can. Yea, that chull, and punch. Knaves, isle make you fart. First, take this bob. Yea, Gods ames, Christ thou creak? Care they partly, isle make them pys. Knaves, this honest man thank, That you escape so well. He will lie like a dog. What I? By my Grandsires soul, you lie. Die, Learde save us: you sqawde know, isle the: For reforming a lie, thus against Me. Can not foke kys: but they are nought by and by? Whypt, marry God shield, chy had rather be hanged Art not well hanged. Stand Still, and chull, whither they will or no: Oh Leard God, our tallow pot is not here. Why so my nails are sharp. Oh, I ken you now sir, chy cry you mercy. Here is all, ten shillings, and thyrtene pence. Give them the money. Why, they did but jest: Art gone, now the Dewle choke you all with it: How chy kiss again, the knaves hae taught me wit. But by Saint Anne, chy do see hur lady: Men may do what them will, that have money. Ich surely had be whipped, but for my gold, But chull no more, with smouches be so bold. Yea, and ych wish all Lovers to be wise, There be learing knaves abroad, have Cats eyes: Why, by Gods boars, they can both see and mark, If a man steal, but a smouch in the dark. And now the world is grown, to such jolly spy: As if foke do kiss, the'are nought by and by. Well, ych will home, and tell my Father Droyne: How that, two thieves robbed me of my Coin. My sqawde Mare, dost her know? Then scummer Me not, in haste ych go, Seek my Mare, to see the sport at Julio. A little sport. Nay skyl not a whit? T'wyll teach the hoorecup wit. H'yll hang, handsome young men for the foot sin of love, When so his knavery, himself, a bawdy Jack does prove. Well, chyll see his shoulders, from's jowl to fly. As though you did know. Lord Promos. Thou kenst. Sayest not, yes, So, Thou knowest, and thou knowest not: out horson fool, Leave stealing Cunnyes, and get thee to scoole, Farewell. Oh to art no fool good thief: Save my money take my life. I will thou knowest the King now at Julio. Thou canst tell as well as I. Let me go: Kissing and lying, ich see is all one: And chaue no money, chul tell true therefore. Then, lying Promoter, this more: Casgandra scused, Promos of honesty: And killing Ramstrugio for baudry. The king at Promos, great pleasure did take, And Casgandra, and honest woman to make: The King manded him, her Straight to marry, And for killing her brother, he must die. Why? how say you? do I lie? Gods boors, give it me, to be sweet, 'tis to cheap, But Lady yet, till sunday it will keep: Well, now God bwye, Mass lying Promoter, Wees see at the soort. Since can not find my Mare, on foot chull go: Ych think, each day a nowre, to be at Julio. farewell, henceforth be honest, And for this fault, will pass it over in jest. Then gives our money. If I could find my Mare, I would be rusty by the rood, And cham sure the hoorechup, is peaking in this wood. Thy will seek every corner, but I will find her. Bones of me, a ma ̄ were better speak to great Lords chy see, Then to our proud, Iustlers of peace, that been in the country: He that is rich, as my dame say, goes away with the Hare. This two year, they have hard my matter, & yet cham never y e near. And at first dash, a good fat Lord, God in heaven save his life. Faith, for nothing, telled the King of Mass Prostros, and my strife. Oh Leard, ych thought the King could not bide, on poor men to look, But God save his Grace, at First dash, my Supplycation he took: And you hard, how gently, he called Me poor man, and wild me go, For my Passport, I ken not what, to good sir Ulrico. Well, chull go fort, and hope to be with Master Prostros to bring: But ere ych go, chul my Ballat, of good King Corvine sing. YOu Barrons bold, and lusty Lads, Prepare to welcome, our good King: Whose coming so, his Subjects glads, As they for joy, the Bells do ring. They fryske, and skip, in every place, And happy he, can see his face. Who checks the rich, that wrong by might, And helps the poor, unto his right. ¶The love that rigour gettes through fear, With grace and mercy, he does win: For which we pray thus, every where, Good Lord preserve, our King Corvin. His favour reigns, in every place: And happy he, can see his face.