Sir James A. Picton, in his _City of Liverpool_ selections from the municipal archives and records, states that in 1558 the Corporation of the Borough ordered that ‘every miller, on warning, shall bring his toll-dish to Mr. Mayor, to a lawful size thereof sealed, under a penalty of 6d.’ That this toll-taking on the part of millers was occasionally perverted there can be but little doubt, and it was sometimes very severely commented on, as we may see in this passage from a tragedy by Wm. Sampson (1636), called _The Vow-Breaker; or, the Fair Maid of Clifton_. ‘Fellow Bateman, farewell; commend me to my old windmill at Rudington. Oh! the mooter dish—[Multure or Toll-dish]—the miller’s thumbe, and the maide behind the hopper!’ In the Roxburghe ballads (vol. iii., 681) we have The Miller’s Advice to his _Three Sons in Taking of Toll_: ‘There was a miller who had three sons, And knowing his life was almost run, He called them all, and asked their will, If that to them he left his mill. He called first for his eldest son, Saying, “My life is almost run, If I to you this mill do make, What toll do you intend to take?” “Father,” said he, “my name is Jack. Out of a bushel I’ll take a peck, From every bushel that I grind, That I may a good living find.” “Thou art a fool,” the old man said. “Thou hast not well learned thy trade. This mill to thee I ne’er will give, For by such toll no man can live.” He called for his middlemost son, Saying, “My life is almost run. If I to thee the mill do make, What toll do you intend to take?” “Father,” says he, “my name is Ralph. Out of a bushel I’ll take it half, From every bushel that I grind, So that I may a good living find.” “Thou art a fool,” the old man said; “Thou hast not learned well thy trade. This mill to you I ne’er can give, For by such toll no man can live.” He called for his youngest son, Saying, “My life is almost run. If I to you this mill do make, What toll do you intend to take?” “Father,” said he, “I am your only boy, For taking toll is all my joy. Before I will a good living lack, I’ll take it all, and forswear the sack.” “Thou art my boy,” the old man said, “For thou has well learned thy trade. This mill to thee I’ll give,” he cried, And then he clos’d his eyes, and died.’ To show the popular idea of a miller’s integrity, I may mention that the children in Somersetshire, when they have caught a certain kind of large white moth, which they call a _Miller_, chant over it this refrain: ‘Millery! millery! Dousty Poll! How many sacks of corn hast thou stole?’ and then they put the poor insect to death on account of its imaginary misdeeds. Even Chaucer must have his gird at the miller: