And by it wealth he gat.
His maister ventred forth,
To a land far unknowne,
With marchandize of worth,
And is in stories shewne.

Whittington had no more
But this poor cat as than,
Which to the ship he bore,
Like a brave marchant-man.
'Vent'ring the same,' quoth he,
'I may get store of golde,
And Maior of London be,
As the bells have me told.'

Whittington's marchandise,
Carried was to a land
Troubled with rats and mice,
As they did understand.
The king of that country there,
As he at dinner sat,
Daily remain'd in fear
Of many a mouse and rat.

Meat that in trenchers lay,
No way they could keepe safe
But by rats borne away,
Fearing no wand or staff.
Whereupon, soone they brought
Whittington's nimble cat;