_Fol._ There be two lyther, rude and ranke, Symkyn Tytyuell and Pers Pykthanke; Theys lythers I lerne them for to lere What he sayth and she sayth to lay good ere, And tell to his sufferayne euery whyt, And then he is moche made of for his wyt;[825] And, be the mater yll more or lesse, He wyll make it mykyll worse than it is: But all that he dothe, and yf he reken well, 1290 It is but foly euery dell. _Fan._ Are not his wordys cursydly cowchyd? _Cr. Con._ By God, there be some that be shroudly towchyd: But, I say, let se and yf thou haue any more. _Fol._ I haue an hole armory of suche haburdashe in store; For there be other that foly dothe vse, That folowe fonde fantasyes and vertu refuse. _Fan._ Nay, that is my parte that thou spekest of nowe. _Fol._ So is all the remenaunt, I make God auowe; For thou fourmest suche fantasyes in theyr mynde, 1300 That euery man almost groweth out of kynde. _Cr. Con._ By the masse, I am glad that I came hyder, To here you two rutters dyspute togyder. _Fan._ Nay, but Fansy must be eyther fyrst or last. _Fol._ But whan Foly cometh, all is past. _Fan._ I wote not whether it cometh of thé or of me, But all is foly that I can se. _Cr. Con._ Mary, syr, ye may swere it on a boke. _Fol._ Ye, tourne ouer the lefe, rede there and loke, Howe frantyke Fansy fyrst of all 1310 Maketh man and woman in foly to fall. _Cr. Con._ A, syr, a, a! howe by that! _Fan._ A peryllous thynge, to cast a cat Vpon a naked man, and yf she scrat. _Fol._ So how, I say, the hare is squat! For, frantyke Fansy, thou makest men madde; And I, Foly, bryngeth them to _qui fuit_ gadde, With _qui fuit_ brayne seke I haue them brought From _qui fuit aliquid_ to shyre shakynge nought. _Cr. Con._ Well argued and surely on bothe sydes: 1320 But for thé, Fansy, Magnyfycence abydes. _Fan._ Why, shall I not haue Foly with me also? _Cr. Con._ Yes, perde, man, whether that ye ryde or go: Yet for his name we must fynde a slyght.[826] _Fan._ By the masse, he shall hyght Consayte. _Cr. Con._ Not a better name vnder the sonne: With Magnyfycence thou shalte wonne. _Fol._ God haue mercy, good godfather. _Cr. Con._ Yet I wolde that ye had gone rather; For, as sone as you come in Magnyfycence syght, 1330 All mesure and good rule is gone quyte. _Fan._ And shall we haue lyberte to do what we wyll? _Cr. Con._ Ryot at lyberte russheth it out styll. _Fol._ Ye, but tell me one thynge. _Cr. Con._ What is that? _Fol._ Who is mayster of the masshe fat? _Fan._ Ye, for he hathe a full dry soule. _Cr. Con._ Cockes armes, thou shalte kepe the brewhouse boule. _Fol._ But may I drynke therof whylest that I stare? _Cr. Con._ When mesure is gone, what nedest thou spare? 1340 Whan mesure is gone, we may slee care.