And plasheth and sprayeth all that be him nye.
So fares this iollie rider in his race,
Plunging and sousing forward in lyke case, 284

He dasht, and spurted, and he plodded foule,
God giue thee shame, thou blinde mischapen owle!
Fy-fy, for grief: a ladies chamberlaine,
And canst not thou thy tatling tongue refraine? 288

I reade thee beardles blab, beware of stripes,
And be aduised what thou vainelie pipes;
Thou wilt be whipt with nettles for this geare
If Cicelie shewe but of thy knauerie heere. 292

Saint Denis shield me from such female sprites!
Regarde not, Dames, what Cupids Poete writes:
I pennd this storie onelie for my selfe,
Who, giuing suck unto a childish Elfe, 296

And quitte discourag'd in my nurserie,
Since all my store seemes to hir penurie.
I am not as was Hercules the stout,
That to the seaventh iournie could hould out; 300

I want those hearbe's and rootes of Indian soile,
That strengthen wearie members in their toile--
Druggs and Electuaries of new devise,
Doe shunne my purse, that trembles at the price. 304

Sufficeth all I haue, I yeald hir hole