_Water Myller._ Nay, by my trouth, nor wyth no nother man. Yet I saw you well, when I fyrst began. 490 How be it, so helpe me god and holydam,[156] I toke you but for a knave, as I am. But, mary, now, syns I knowe what ye be, I muste and wyll obey your authoryte. And yf I maye not speke wyth Jupiter 495 I beseche you be my solycyter. B iv _b_ _Mery-reporte._ As in that, I wyl be your well-wyller. I perceyve you be a water myller. And your hole desyre, as I take the mater, Is plente of rayne for encres of water. 500 The let wherof, ye affyrme determynately, Is onely the wynde, your mortall enemy. _Water Myller._ Trouth it is, for it blowyth so alofte, We never have rayne, or, at the most, not ofte. Wherfore, I praye you, put the god in mynde 505 Clerely for ever to banysh the wynde. _Here entreth the_ WYNDE MYLLER. _Wynde Myller._ How! Is all the wether gone or I come? For the passyon of god, helpe me to some. I am a wynd-miller, as many mo be. No wretch in wretchydnes so wrechyd as we! 510 The hole sorte[157] of my crafte be all mard at onys, The wynde is so weyke it sturryth not our stonys, Nor skantely can shatter[158] the shyttyn sayle That hangeth shatterynge[159] at a womans tayle. The rayne never resteth, so longe be the showres, 515 From tyme of begynnyng tyl foure & twenty howres; And, ende whan it shall, at nyght or at none, An-other begynneth as soone as that is done. Such revell of rayne ye knowe well inough, Destroyeth the wynde, be it never so rough, 520 Wherby, syns our myllys be come to styll standynge, Now maye we wynd-myllers go evyn to hangynge. A myller! with a moryn[160] and a myschyefe! Who wolde be a myller? As good be a thefe! Yet in tyme past, when gryndynge was plente, 525 Who were so lyke goddys felows as we? As faste as god made corne, we myllers made meale. Whyche myght be best forborne[161] for comyn weale? But let that gere passe, for I feare our pryde Is cause of the care whyche god doth us provyde. 530 Wherfore I submyt me, entendynge to se What comforte may come by humylyte. And, now, at thys tyme, they sayd in the crye, The god is come downe to shape remedye. _Mery-reporte._ No doute, he is here, even in yonder trone. C 535 But in your mater he trusteth me alone, Wherein, I do perceyve by your complaynte, Oppressyon of rayne doth make the wynde so faynte, That ye wynde-myllers be clene caste away.