HArry whoball harke, mast Camell hath yzeene
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Thy vengeance zory bill, and thompes the as I wene,
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And is by Christ full zad, that thou comest out zo late,
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Thou mightest have had a place vor Pekehorn at his gate
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But vortune frended not, chote it very well,
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The more harde happe thou hadst, ich doo the plainly tell.
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Vor zure charde hym sweare, by gogs digne daintie bones,
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Thou shoods be newe ishod, to trample these olde stones,
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And westwardes shodst have zit, for blearyng of thyn eies.
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Vor zommer nowe a trowes, will hurt the zore with flies,
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But he no nyggon is, a wyll borde the a flappe,
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Thou shalt have a voxtayle man, to put upon thy cappe,
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And goddes benison to, tho Churcharde tye hym shorte,
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Churchard weares a belats tail to make his frendes sport,
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And Camell choppes holy water, for Churcharde & for the,
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Vor he wyll to you bothe, a holy chaplayn be.
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And if a vittin not, er twaie daies bee agoe,
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He wyll you sprinkle bothe, as varre as I doo knowe.
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Tis a vengeance beast, and bygge to beare you all,
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And if you zit not vast, bum faie, map to vall.
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