HOe bin nod yo mast Cammell sur, by gys I trow ye byn:
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For Steven Steple twode yer marks, that yo han brought from Lyn.
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Sur, an yo woden herken me, Ile tell yo all the troth,
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My mastur Harry Whoball sur, is to to shamefull wrothe,
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Woth yore hye maship, for a byll that yo han ryten late:
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For int ye rayle apon ym sore, as he wor nod yer mate.
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Yo wost nod whad yo wenten about, for heez a gentmon borne:
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And yeery day doz hunt te deare, an yomen weare is whorne.
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Hee kylles grey gooses mony tymes, an yo their teyles shon weare:
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For heele nod han yore voxteile sur, its meete for yo to beare.
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An yore none selfe shon neede yor flap to fray the bussing flyes,
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Vrom blowing maggots: but a trowes, yo wonnod bleare yore eyes
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Woth ryting any godly thing, ne weele yor bucke to plye:
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For hit dooz seeme, yo set yor mynde apont but naughtylye.
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But lest yo drinken out yer eyen, when zommer waxes whot.
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Whyle wodder ryten in yor nome, yore nose is in the pot.
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Bynnod yo dronken quite alout. yo han tane Jacke for gyll,
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Ye slaundorne fery mony sur, that woden yo none yll.
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Sur, mastur Churchyard haz no bels, but yo don neede a Lacky,
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Some Morryon boye to hold ye up, for drinke is to to nappye.
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My mastur cowde nod weele beleve that yo sur worne a mon:
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For case yo sen yo ben a Beaste, and lyke a fengeaunce won.
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Hyt peeres that yo han naught, he says, but fengeaunce in yor braines:
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For case yo lien, an han no thonke, an putten men to paines.
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Mast Choploche, chop yo hally watur? an why nod hally breade?
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Wode ye hod chopt the sonny caks, that yo in Lyn han leade.
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For sur, my mastur merbles moch, whad mad yor braynes to crowe,
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That when yo hadden raylen ynow, wo Churchyard an wom mo:
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To gyn a yene to rayle on him, that yo ne see ne knew,
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As won that furst haz dronken alout, an gynnes a yene to brew.
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My mastur plize his bussinesse, bout fortye moyle be yend,
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An when a hard yor folysh byll, haz me to London send,
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To ash yor maship whats te case, that yo so braggen an bosten:
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As won that yeat an honest nome in all yor life neare losten.
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To sclaundren won that gnawes ye nod, nor scant offe yo haz harde:
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Soffe lately when a mon en Lyn, yor qualistries declarde,
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An lost of all to preine ye sur, a wisement butter take:
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(Bew 'are yo laft alone? indeede, yor storme will soone aslake)
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An ten my mastur woll forgie yore rashnesse, I yo shone,
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An yo won stynt by this: and let all honest things alone.
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Fareweele mast Camell thus, for I a don myn arnde:
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The which my master Whoball haz me streytly warnd.
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I syre yo bin nod spleasde, for I a sed non ill:
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But whad my master dyd me charge, to sen yo tyll.
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By yore none
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At yore maunding.
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Ar yo desiring for to lurne my nome, tough hit be rude:
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I wood hit shone, an yo wood sweare, yo wodden nod me delude.
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See ore my riting yeery whyt, an note an marke ye, that
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A childe dooze furste the letters lurne, an then taks words therat.
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A mon of wisedame, as yo bin, may knowe that children all
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Ar brought from spealing for to reade, an wooder things wothall:
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Deny nod this to be the best an rudest swort, and than
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Bee like to them, beginning furst, as weele as yere ye con.
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Ye then shon yo pike out my nome, an yore none selfe parceaven
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A pratty thing the which is int, an now hearof we leaven.
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Arrogant foke won nod do this, but yo I won nod blome:
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Desiring yo to rede tees last twolve rowes, an lurne my nome.
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