_Fan._ Lo, Johnn a Bonam, where is thy brayne? 1220 Nowe put on, fole, thy cote agayne. _Fol._ Gyue me my grote, for thou hast lost. _Here FOLY maketh semblaunt to take money of CRAFTY CONUEYAUNCE, saynge to hym_, Shyt thy purse, dawe, and do no cost. _Fan._ Nowe hast thou not a prowde mocke and a starke? _Cr. Con._ With, yes, by the rode of Wodstocke Parke. _Fan._ Nay, I tell thé, he maketh no dowtes To tourne a fole out of his clowtes. _Cr. Con._ And for a fole a man wolde hym take. _Fol._ Nay, it is I that foles can make; For, be he cayser or be he kynge, 1230 To felowshyp with Foly I can hym brynge. _Fan._ Nay, wylte thou here nowe of his scoles, And what maner of people he maketh foles? _Cr. Con._ Ye, let vs here a worde or twayne. _Fol._ Syr, of my maner I shall tell you the playne. Fyrst I lay before them my bybyll, And teche them howe they sholde syt ydyll, To pyke theyr fyngers all the day longe; So in theyr eyre I synge them a songe, And make them so longe to muse, 1240 That some of them renneth strayght to the stuse; To thefte and bryboury I make some fall, And pyke a locke and clyme a wall; And where I spy a nysot gay, That wyll syt ydyll all the day, And can not set herselfe to warke, I kyndell in her suche a lyther sparke, That rubbed she must be on the gall Bytwene the tappet[822] and the wall. _Cr. Con._ What, horson, arte thou suche a one? 1250 _Fan._ Nay, beyonde all other set hym alone. _Cr. Con._ Hast thou ony more? let se, procede. _Fol._ Ye, by God, syr, for a nede, I haue another maner of sorte, That I laugh at for my dysporte; And those be they that come vp of nought, As some be not ferre, and yf it were well sought: Suche dawys, what soeuer they be, That be set in auctorite, Anone he waxyth so hy and prowde, 1260 He frownyth fyersly, brymly browde, The knaue wolde make it koy, and he cowde; All that he dothe, muste be alowde; And, This is not well done, syr, take hede; And maketh hym besy where is no nede: He dawnsys so longe, hey, troly loly, That euery man lawghyth at his foly. _Cr. Con._ By the good Lorde, truthe he sayth. _Fan._ Thynkyst thou not so, by thy fayth? _Cr. Con._ Thynke I not so, quod he! ellys haue I shame, 1270 For I knowe dyuerse that vseth the same. _Fol._ But nowe, forsothe, man, it maketh no mater; For they that wyll so bysely smater, So helpe me God, man, euer at the length I make hym[823] lese moche of theyr strength; For with foly so do I them lede, That wyt he wantyth when he hath moste nede. _Fan._ Forsothe, tell on: hast thou any mo?[824] _Fol._ Yes, I shall tell you, or I go, Of dyuerse mo that hauntyth my scolys. 1280 _Cr. Con._ All men beware of suche folys!