Some loke strawry,
Some cawry mawry; 150
Full vntydy tegges,
Lyke rotten egges.
Suche a lewde sorte
To Elynour resorte
From tyde to tyde:
Abyde, abyde,
And to you shall be tolde
Howe hyr ale is solde
To Mawte and to Molde.
Secundus passus.
Some haue no mony 160
That thyder commy,
For theyr ale to pay,
That is a shreud aray;
Elynour swered, Nay,
Ye shall not beare away
My[496] ale for nought,
By hym that me bought!
With, Hey, dogge, hay,
Haue these hogges[497] away!
With, Get me a staffe, 170
The swyne eate my draffe!
Stryke the hogges with a clubbe,
They haue dronke vp my swyllynge tubbe!
For, be there neuer so much prese,
These swyne go to the hye dese,
The sowe with her pygges;
The bore his tayle wrygges,
His rumpe[498] also he frygges
Agaynst[499] the hye benche!
With, Fo, ther is a stenche! 180
Gather vp, thou wenche;
Seest thou not what is fall?
Take vp dyrt[500] and all,
And bere out of the hall:
God gyue it yll preuynge,
Clenly as yuell cheuynge!
But let vs turne playne,
There we lefte agayne.
For, as yll a patch as that,
The hennes ron in the mashfat; 190
For they go to roust
Streyght ouer the ale ioust,
And donge, whan it commes,
In the ale tunnes.
Than Elynour taketh
The mashe bolle, and shaketh
The hennes donge away,
And skommeth it into[501] a tray
Whereas the yeest is,
With her maungy fystis: 200
And somtyme she blennes
The donge of her hennes
And the ale together;
And sayeth, Gossyp, come hyther,
This ale shal be thycker,
And flowre the more quicker;
For I may tell you,
I lerned it of a Jewe,
Whan I began to brewe,
And I haue founde it trew; 210
Drinke now whyle it is new;
And ye may it broke,
It shall make you loke
Yonger than ye be
Yeres two or thre,
For ye may proue it by me;
Beholde, she sayde, and se
How bryght I am of ble!
Ich am not cast away,
That can my husband say, 220
Whan we kys and play
In lust and in lykyng;
He calleth me his whytyng,
His mullyng and his mytyng,[502]
His nobbes and his conny,
His swetyng and his honny,
With, Bas, my prety bonny,
Thou art worth good and monny.
This make I my falyre fonny,[503]
Til that he dreme and dronny; 230
For, after all our sport,
Than wyll he rout and snort;
Than swetely together we ly,
As two pygges in a sty.
To cease me semeth best,
And of this tale to rest,
And for to leue this letter,
Because it is no better,
And because it is no swetter;
We wyll no farther ryme 240
Of it at this tyme;
But we wyll turne playne
