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Or some vile wretch who keeps a stew,

Or procuress, to hell-fire due,

Or ribald wretch, who, worn and spent

With vice, but waits due chastisement:

Though all the saints he should invoke.

He nowise can forefend my stroke;

Except by some delicious dish,

Eel, salmon, pike, or other fish,

Tarts, custards, delicate cream cheese

(Which pleasantly our gullets grease),

Sweet apple, and soft melting pear,

Fat goose and sucking-pig’s rich fare;

Or other delicacies tasty

As highly savoured roebuck pasty,

Or capon fat, sweet dainty bit,

To please me, round his neck I’ll fit

A cord and drag him to the stake

E’en though his howls the city shake,

Or in deep cell will have him cast

To languish till his life be past.

Unless he deigns to feed us well,

We’ll make his life a very hell,

For if one earn our hate, his crimes

He overpays a hundred times.

But if he hath the wit on high

To build a castle speedily,

(No matter of what sort of stone,

Or if with square and compass done,

Or whether it be of turf or wood,

So that the walls are stout and good),

And plentifully garnish it

With wares that jolly life befit,