"Once more, my sonne, I sette thee clere; Amend thy life and follies past; For but thou amend thee of thy life, That rope must be thy end at last." And let it bee, sayd the heire of Linne; And let it bee, but if I amend: For here I will make mine avow, This reade shall guide me to the end. Away then went with a merry cheare, Away then went the heire of Linne; I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne, Till John o' the Scales house he did winne. And when he came to John o' the Scales, Upp at the speere then looked hee; There sate three lords upon a rowe, Were drinking of the wine so free. And John himself sate at the bord-head, Because now lord of Linne was hee. I pray thee, he said, good John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend mee. Away, away, thou thriftless loone; Away, away, this may not bee: For Christs curse on my head, he sayd, If ever I trust thee one pennìe. Then bespake the heire of Linne, To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: Madame, some almes on me bestowe, I pray for sweet Saint Charitìe. Away, away, thou thriftless loone, I swear thou gettest no almes of mee; For if we shold hang any losel heere, The first we wold begin with thee. Then bespake a good fellòwe, Which sat at John o' the Scales his bord Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne; Some time thou wast a well good lord; Some time a good fellow thou hast been, And sparedst not thy gold nor fee; Therefore He lend thee forty pence, And other forty if need bee. And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales, To let him sit in thy companie: For well I wot thou hadst his land, And a good bargain it was to thee. Up then spake him John o' the Scales, All wood he answer'd him againe: Now Christs curse on my head, he sayd, But I did lose by that bargàine. And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne, Before these lords so faire and free, Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape, By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee. I draw you to record, lords, he said. With that he cast him a gods pennie: Now by my fay, sayd the heire of Linne, And here, good John, is thy monèy. And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold, And layd them down upon the bord: All woe begone was John o' the Scales, Soe shent he cold say never a word. He told him forth the good red gold, He told it forth with mickle dinne. The gold is thine, the land is mine, And now Ime againe the lord of Linne. Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe, Forty pence thou didst lend me: Now I am againe the lord of Linne, And forty pounds I will give thee. He make the keeper of my forrest, Both of the wild deere and the tame; For but I reward thy bounteous heart, I wis, good fellowe, I were to blame.