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For, saith our master, none need be

Caitiff, whatever his degree,

except he deem him so; the king,

Proud knight, or beggar, in this thing

Fare all alike.

Light-heart and gay

Goes many a beggar by the way,

But little heeding though his back

Be bent beneath a charcoal sack.

They labour patiently, and sing,

And dance, and laugh at whatso thing

Befalls; for havings care they nought,

But feed on scraps and chitlings bought

Beside St. Marcel’s, and dispend

Their gains for wassail, then, straight wend

Once more to work, not grumblingly,

But light of heart as bird on tree

Winning their bread without desire

To fleece their neighbours. Nought they tire

Of this their round, but week by week

In mirth and work contentment seek;

Returning when their work is done

Once more to swill the jovial tun.

And he who that he holds esteems

Enough, is rich beyond the dreams

Of many a dreary usurer,

And lives his life-days happier far;

For nought it signifies what gains

The wretched usurer makes, the pains

Of poverty afflict him yet

Who having, struggleth still to get.

’Tis truth (though some ’twill little please

To hear the trader knows no ease;