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Page 69:-
Thence to Wademill, where I rest me
For a Pot, for I was thristy;
On me cry'd they, and did hout me,
And like Beetles flock'd about me:
"Buy a Whip, Sir! no, a Ladle:
"Where's your Horse, Sir? where your Saddle?
Thence at Puckridge I reposed,
Hundred Beggars me inclosed:
"Beggars, quoth I, you are many,
"But the poorest of you am I;
They no more did me importune,
Leaving me unto my Fortune.
Thence to Buntingford right trusty,
Bed-rid Host, but Hostess lusty;
That can chat and chirp it neatly,
And in secret kiss you sweetly,
Here are Arbours decked gaily,
Where the Buntin warbles daily.
Thence to Royston, where Grass groweth,
Meads, Flocks, Fields, the Plowman soweth:
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