Secundus Miles

How! old thief, thy wits are lame; To clip such it is no shame; I rede you in the devil's name, Ye come not here to make men game; By Termagaunt that maketh grame, I shall to-bete thine head. Hic Diabolus capiat eum. This knave hath sharp fingers, perfay; Mahound you thank and keep alway, And give you good knees to pray; What man hath no lust to play, The devil wring his ears, I say; There is no more but wellaway, For now am I dead.