_Water Myller._ Amytte[165] in this place a tree here to growe, And therat the wynde in great rage to blowe; 580 When it hath all blowen, thys is a clere case, The tre removeth no here-bred[166] from hys place. No more wolde the shyppys, blow the best it cowde. All though it wolde blow downe both mast & shrowde, Except the shyppe flete[167] uppon the water 585 The wynde can ryght nought do,--a playne matter. Yet maye ye on water, wythout any wynde, Row forth your vessell where men wyll have her synde.[168] Nothynge more rejoyceth the maryner, Then meane cooles[169] of wynde and plente of water. 590 For, commenly, the cause of every wracke Is excesse of wynde, where water doth lacke. In rage of these stormys the perell is suche That better were no wynde then so farre to muche. _Wynde Myller._ Well, yf my reason in thys may not stande, 595 I wyll forsake the see and lepe to lande. In every chyrche where goddys servyce is, The organs beare brunt of halfe the quere,[170] i-wys. Whyche causeth the sounde, of water or wynde? More-over for wynde thys thynge I fynde 600 For the most parte all maner mynstrelsy, By wynde they delyver theyr sound chefly, Fyll me a bagpype of your water full, As swetely shall it sounde as it were stuffyd with wull. _Water Myller._ On my fayth I thynke the moone be at the full, 605 For frantyke fansyes be then most plentefull. Which are at the pryde of theyr sprynge in your[171] hed, So farre from our matter he[171] is now fled. As for the wynde in any instrument, It is no percell of our argument, 610 We spake of wynde that comyth naturally And that is wynde forcyd artyfycyally, Whyche is not to purpose. But, yf it were, And water, in dede, ryght nought coulde do there, Yet I thynke organs no suche commodyte,[172] C ii 615 Wherby the water shulde banyshed be. And for your bagpypes, I take them as nyfuls,[173] Your mater is all in fansyes and tryfuls. _Wynde Myller._ By god, but ye shall not tryfull me of[174] so! Yf these thynges serve not, I wyll reherse mo. 620 And now to mynde there is one olde proverbe come, One bushell of marche dust is worth a kynges raunsome, What is a hundreth thousande bushels worth than? _Water Myller._ Not one myte, for the thynge selfe, to no man.