_C. Count._ And I gyue hym Crystys curse, With neuer a peny in his purse. _Cr. Con._ And I gyue hym the cowghe, the murre, and the pose. _Cl. Col._ Ye, for _requiem æternam_ groweth forth of his nose: But nowe let vs make mery and good chere. _C. Count._ And to the tauerne let vs drawe nere. 2290 _Cr. Con._ And from thens to the halfe strete, To get vs there some freshe mete. _Cl. Col._ Why, is there any store of rawe motton? _C. Count._ Ye, in faythe, or ellys thou arte to great a glotton. _Cr. Con._ But they say it is a queysy mete; It wyll stryke a man myscheuously in a hete. _Cl. Col._ In fay, man, some rybbys of the motton be so ranke, That they wyll fyre one vngracyously in the flanke. _C. Count._ Ye, and when ye come out of the shoppe, Ye shall be clappyd with a coloppe, 2300 That wyll make you to halt and to hoppe. _Cr. Con._ Som be wrestyd there that they thynke on it froty dayes, For there be horys there at all assayes. _Cl. Col._ For the passyon of God, let vs go thyther![863] _Et cum festinatione discedant a loco._ _Magn._ Alas, myn owne seruauntys to shew me such reproche, Thus to rebuke me, and haue me in dyspyght! So shamfully to me theyr mayster to aproche, That somtyme was a noble prynce of myght! Alasse, to lyue longer I haue no delyght! For to lyue in mysery it is herder than dethe: 2310 I am wery of the worlde, for vnkyndnesse me sleeth. _Hic intrat DYSPARE._ _Dys._ Dyspare is my name, that aduersyte dothe folowe:[864] In tyme of dystresse I am redy at hande; I make heuy hertys with eyen full holowe; Of faruent charyte I quenche out the bronde; Faythe and goodhope I make asyde to stonde; In Goddys mercy I tell them is but foly to truste; All grace and pyte I lay in the duste. What lyest thou there lyngrynge, lewdly and lothsome? It is to late nowe thy synnys to repent; 2320 Thou hast bene so waywarde, so wranglyng, and so wrothsome, And so fer thou arte behynde of thy rent, And so vngracyously thy dayes thou hast spent, That thou arte not worthy to loke God in the face. _Magn._ Nay, nay, man, I loke neuer to haue parte of his grace; For I haue so vngracyously my lyfe mysusyd, Though I aske mercy, I must nedys be refusyd. _Dys._ No, no, for thy synnys be so excedynge farre, So innumerable and so full of dyspyte, And agayne thy Maker thou hast made suche warre, 2330 That thou canst not haue neuer mercy in his syght. _Magn._ Alasse, my wyckydnesse, that may I wyte! But nowe I se well there is no better rede, But sygh and sorowe, and wysshe my selfe dede. _Dys._ Ye, ryd thy selfe, rather than this lyfe for to lede; The worlde waxyth wery of thé, thou lyuest to longe. _Hic intrat MYSCHEFE._