Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/278

secundus miles.

How! old thief, thy wits are lame;

To clip such it is no shame;
I rede you in the devil's name,
Ye come not here to make men game;
By Termagaunt that maketh grame,
I shall to-bete thine head.
Hic Diabolus capiat eum.
This knave hath sharp fingers, perfay;
Mahound you thank and keep alway,
And give you good knees to pray;
What man hath no lust to play,
The devil wring his ears, I say;
There is no more but wellaway,
For now am I dead.

king david.

Certes his mouth is wried and black,

Full little pence be in his sack;
This devil hath him by the back,
It is no boot to lie.

nathan.

Sitteth now still and learn of me

A little while and ye shall see
The face of God's strength presently.
All queens made as this Bersabe,