For age is a page For the courte full vnmete, For age cannat[124] rage, Nor basse her swete swete: But whan age seeth that rage Dothe aswage and refrayne, Than wyll age haue a corage To come to court agayne. But Helas, sage ouerage So[125] madly decayes, 40 That age for dottage Is reconed[126] now adayes: Thus age (a[127] graunt domage) Is nothynge set by, And rage in arerage Dothe rynne lamentably. So That rage must make pyllage, To catche that catche may, And with suche forage Hunte the boskage, 50 That hartes wyll ronne away; Bothe hartes and hyndes, With all good myndes: Fare well, than, haue good day! Than, haue good daye, adewe! For defaute of rescew, Some men may happely rew, And some[128] theyr hedes mew; The tyme dothe fast ensew, That bales begynne to brew: 60 I drede, by swete Iesu, This tale wyll be to trew; In faythe, dycken, thou krew, In fayth, dicken, thou krew, &c. Dicken, thou krew doutlesse; For, trewly to expresse, There hath ben[129] moche excesse, With banketynge braynlesse, With ryotynge rechelesse, With gambaudynge thryftlesse, 70 With spende and wast witlesse, Treatinge of trewse restlesse, Pratynge for peace peaslesse. The[130] countrynge at Cales Wrang vs on the males:[131] Chefe counselour was carlesse, Gronynge, grouchyng, gracelesse; And to none entente Our talwod is all brent, Our fagottes are all spent, 80 We may blowe at the cole: Our mare hath cast her fole, And Mocke hath lost her sho; What may she do therto? An ende of an olde song, Do ryght and do[132] no wronge, As ryght as a rammes horne; For thrifte is threde bare worne, Our shepe are shrewdly shorne, And trouthe is all to-torne; 90 Wysdom is laught to skorne, Fauell is false forsworne, Iauell is nobly borne, Hauell and Haruy Hafter, Iack Trauell and Cole Crafter, We shall here more herafter; With pollynge and shauynge, With borowynge and crauynge,[133] With reuynge and rauynge, With swerynge and starynge, 100 Ther vayleth no resonynge, For wyll dothe rule all thynge, Wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll, wyll, He ruleth alway styll. Good reason and good skyll, They may garlycke pyll, Cary sackes to the myll, Or pescoddes they may shyll, Or elles go rost a stone: There is no man but one 110 That hathe the strokes alone; Be it blacke or whight, All that he dothe is ryght, As right as a cammocke croked. This byll well ouer loked, Clerely perceuye we may There went the hare away, The hare, the fox, the gray,