TYRANNY.
Is there, Mast. Parson, in your parish no schismatics?

CACON.
Yai, mara, is ther a vara busybody,
Whe will jest with me and call me fule and noddy,
And sets his lads te spout Latin ayenst me,
But ay spose then with _Deparfundis Clam aui_:
And oftentimes he wil reason with me of the Sacarment,
And say he can prove bay the New Testament
That Chraist's body is in heaven placed;
But ays not believe him, ay woll not be awt-faced.
He says besayd that the Pope is Antichraist,
Fugered of John bay the seven-headed beast,
And all awre religion is but mon's invention,
And with God's ward is at utter dissension;
And a plaguy deal mare of sayk layk talk,
That ay dar not far may narse bay his yate walk,
But ay wawd he wer brunt, that ay mawght be whaiet.[45]

TYRANNY.
He must have a cooler; his tongue runs at riot.

AVARICE.
What is his name, Sir John, canst thou tell us?

CACON.
Yai, sir, that ay ken: he is cleped Phailelegoos.