The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soon he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke." Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learn a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel. Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us at fair London towne. Now horses, and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope. Now welcome, sire abbott, the king he did say, 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crowne of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth. "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Amonge the false Jewes, as I have bin told; And twenty nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, I did not thinke I had been worth so littel! --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride this whole world about. "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt, But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, I did not think, it could be gone so soone! --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke. "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbùry; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee." The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, He make thee lord abbot this day in his place! "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write ne reade." Four nobles a weeke, then I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee; And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John. BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY In Scarlet towne where I was borne, There was a faire maid dwellin, Made every youth crye, Wel-awaye! Her name was Barbara Allen. All in the merrye month of May, When greene buds they were swellin, Yong Jemmye Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen. He sent his man unto her then, To the town where shee was dwellin; You must come to my master deare, Giff your name be Barbara Alien.