But is that true, that thou dost show now?
Yea, i-wis from thence did she come; And she is named _The Envy_, I tell you, a great vessel and a mighty: The owner of her is called Ill-Will, Brother to Jack Poller of Shooter's-Hill.
Marry, I kept a fair shop of bawdry, I had three wenches that were full praty, Jane true and thriftless, and wanton Sybil, If you ride her a journey, she will make you weary, For she is trusty at need: If ye will hire her for your pleasure, I warrant, tire her shall ye never, She is so sure in deed; Ride, and you will, ten times a-day, I warrant you she will never say nay, My life I dare lay to wed.[132]
Now pluck up your hearts, and make good cheer; These tidings liketh me wonder well, Now virtue shall draw arear arear: Hark, fellows, a good sport I can you tell, At the stews we will lie to-night, And by my troth, if all go right, I will beguile some praty wench, To get me money at a pinch. How say you? shall we go thither? Let us keep company altogether, And I would that we had God's curse, If we somewhere do not get a purse; Every man bear his dagger naked in his hand, And if we meet a true man, make him stand, Or else that he bear a stripe; If that he struggle, and make any work, Lightly strike him to the heart, And throw him into Thames quite.
Nay, three knaves in a leash is good at nale:[133] But thou lubber Imagination, That cuckold thy father, where is he become? At Newgate doth he lie still at jail?
Avaunt, whoreson, thou shalt bear me a stripe; Say'st thou, that my mother was a whore?
Nay, sir, but the last night I saw Sir John and she tumbled on the floor.
Now, by Cock's heart, thou shalt lose an arm.
And thou make too much, I will break thy head too.
By Saint Mary, and I wist that, I would be ago.
Aware, aware! the whoreson shall aby, His priest will I be, by Cock's body.
By God, if his was nought, mine was as bad.
By Cock's heart, he shall die on this dagger.
By our Lady, then will ye be strangled in a halter.
The whoreson shall eat him,[134] as far as he shall wade.
Beshrew your heart, and put up your blade, Sheathe your whittle, or by Jis,[135] that was never born, I will rap you on the costard with my horn; What, will ye play all the knave?
