Poor wretches up, feigning it for Christ's sake,
And threatening the poor people with his curse,
And all the while would let them fill his purse,
And to the alehouse bring him by degrees,
And then he'd drink with them, and slap his knees
For very mirth, and say 'twas some mistake.
Judas carried the bag, sirs, for Christ's sake,
And was a thief; and such a thief was he;
His master got but sorry share, pardie.
To give due laud unto this Satan's imp,
He was a thief, a Sumner, and a pimp.

Wenches themselves were in his retinue;
So whether 'twas Sir Robert, or Sir Hugh,
Or Jack, or Ralph, that held the damsel dear,
Come would she then, and tell it in his ear:
Thus were the wench and he of one accord;
And he would feign a mandate from his lord,
And summon them before the court, those two,
And pluck the man, and let the mawkin go.
Then would he say, "Friend, for thine honest look,
I save thy name, this once, from the black book;
Thou hear'st no further of this case."--But, Lord!
I might not in two years his bribes record.
There's not a dog alive, so speed my soul,
Knoweth a hurt deer better from a whole
Than this false Sumner knew a tainted sheep,
Or where this wretch would skulk, or that would sleep,
Or to fleece both was more devoutly bent;
And reason good; his faith was in his rent.