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 Tune my words that they may fall Each way smoothly musical: For which favour there shall be Swans devoted unto thee.

Bacchus, let me drink no more; Wild are seas that want a shore. When our drinking has no stint, There is no one pleasure in't. I have drank up, for to please Thee, that great cup Hercules: Urge no more, and there shall be Daffodils given up to thee.

Here down my wearied limbs I'll lay; My pilgrim's staff, my weed of gray, My palmer's hat, my scallop's shell, My cross, my cord, and all, farewell. For having now my journey done, Just at the setting of the sun, Here I have found a chamber fit, God and good friends be thanked for it, Where if I can a lodger be, A little while from tramplers free, At my up-rising next I shall, If not requite, yet thank ye all. Meanwhile, the holy-rood hence fright The fouler fiend and evil sprite From scaring you or yours this night.