_Mery-reporte._ Ye, fare well, good sonne, wyth all my harte, Now suche an other sorte[213] as here hath bene In all the dayes of my lyfe I have not sene. No sewters now but women, knavys, and boys, And all theyr sewtys are in fansyes and toys. 1055 Yf that there come no wyser after thys cry I wyll to the god and make an ende quyckely. Oyes,[214] yf that any knave here Be wyllynge to appere, For wether fowle or clere, 1060 Come in before thys flocke And be he hole or syckly, Come, shew hys mynde quyckly, And yf hys tale be not lyckly[215] Ye shall lycke my tayle in the nocke. 1065 All thys tyme I perceyve is spent in wast, To wayte for mo sewters I se none make hast. Wherfore I wyll shew the god all thys procys And be delyvered of my symple[216] offys. Now, lorde, accordynge to your commaundement, 1070 Attendynge sewters I have ben dylygent, And, at begynnyng as your wyll was I sholde, I come now at ende to shewe what eche man wolde. The fyrst sewter before your selfe dyd appere, A gentylman desyrynge wether clere, 1075 Clowdy nor mysty, nor no wynde to blowe, For hurte in hys huntynge; and then, as ye know, The marchaunt sewde, for all of that kynde, For wether clere and mesurable wynde As they maye best bere theyr saylys to make spede. 1080 And streyght after thys there came to me, in dede, An other man who namyd hym-selfe a ranger, And sayd all of hys crafte be farre brought in daunger, For lacke of lyvynge, whyche chefely ys wynde-fall. But he playnely sayth there bloweth no wynde at al, D iv 1085 Wherfore he desyreth, for encrease of theyr fleesys,[217] Extreme rage of wynde, trees to tere in peces. Then came a water-myller and he cryed out For water and sayde the wynde was so stout The rayne could not fale, wherfore he made request 1090 For plenty of rayne, to set the wynde at rest. And then, syr, there came a wynde myller in, Who sayde for the rayne he could no wynde wyn, The water he wysht to be banysht all, Besechynge your grace of wynde contynuall. 1095 Then came there an other that wolde banysh all this A goodly dame, an ydyll thynge iwys. Wynde, rayne, nor froste, nor sonshyne, wold she have, But fayre close wether, her beautye to save. Then came there a-nother that lyveth by laundry, 1100 Who muste have wether hote & clere here clothys to dry. Then came there a boy for froste and snow contynuall, Snow to make snow ballys and frost for his pytfale, For whyche, god wote, he seweth full gredely.