THROUGH the hall the bell hath sound; Welcoming doth the mayor beseem; The aldermen do sit around, And snuffle up the savoury steam, Like asses wild in desert waste Sweetly the morning air do taste. So keen they ate; the minstrels play, The din of angels do they keep, High style. The guests have nought to say, But not their thanks, and fall asleep. Thus every day be I to dine, If Rowley, Iscam, or Tyb. Gorges be not seen. |