No chair, ne table he mote spye,

No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed, Nought fave a rope with renning noose, That dangling hung up o'er his head.

And over it in broad letters,

These words were written fo plain to see : "Ah! graceleffe wretch, haft fpent thine all, "And brought thyfelfe to penurìe?

"All this my boding mind mifgave,
"I therefore left this trufty friend :
"Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace,
"And all thy fhame and forrows end."

Sorely fhent wi' this rebuke,

Sorely fhent was the heire of Linne, His heart, I wis, was near to brast

With guilt and forrowe, fhame and finne.

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Never a word fpake the heire of Linne,

Never a word he spake but three :

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"This is a trufty friend indeed,

"And is right welcome unto mee."

Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
And sprang aloft with his bodìe:

When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,

And to the ground came tumbling hee.

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35

Aftonyed

Aftonyed lay the heire of Linne,

Ne knewe if he were live or dead, At length he looked, and fawe a bille, And in it a key of gold fo redd.

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He took the bill, and lookt it on,

Strait good comfort found he there:

It told him of a hole in the wall,

In which there ftood three chefts in fere.

Two were full of the beaten golde,

The third was full of white money;

And over them in broad letters

These words were written fo plaine to see :

"Once more, my fonne, I fette thee clere;

"Amend thy life and follies paft;

"For but thou amend thee of thy life,

"That rope must be thy end at last."

And let it bee, fayd the heire of Linne;
And let it bee, but if I amend *:

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I wis, he neither stint ne stayd,

Till John o' the Scales house he came neare.

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And when he came to John o' the Scales,
Up at the speere* then looked hee;
There fate three lords at the bordes end,
Were drinking of the wine fo free.

And then befpake the heire of Linne

To John o' the Scales then louted hee: I pray thee now, good John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend mee.

Away, away, thou thriftlefs loone;

Away, away, this may not bee:

For Chrifts curfe on my head, he sayd,

If ever I trust thee one pennie.

Then befpake the heire of Linne,

To John o' the Scales wife then spake he: Madame, fome almes on me bestowe,

I pray for sweet saint Charitìe.

Away, away, thou thriftlefs loone,

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I fwear thou gettest no almes of mee;

For if we shold hang any lofel heere,

The first we wold begin with thee.

K 3

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Then

*Perhaps the Hole in the door or window, by which it was

fpeered, i. e. fparred, faftened. Query.

Then befpake a good fellòwe,

Which fat at John o' the Scales his bord: Sayd, Turn againe, thou heire of Linne;

Some time thou waft a well good lord:

Some time a good fellow thou haft been,
And sparedft not thy gold and fee,
Therefore Ile lend thee forty pence,

And other forty if need bee.

And ever, I pray thee, John o' the Scales,
To let him fit in thy companee:

For well I wot thou hadst his land,
And a good bargain it was to thee.

Up then spake him John o' the Scales,
All wood he answer'd him againe :
Now Chrifts curfe on my head, he fayd,
But I did lofe by that bargaine.

And here I proffer thee, heire of Linne,
Before these lords fo faire and free,
Thou shalt have it backe again better cheape,
By a hundred markes, than I had it of thee.

I drawe you to record, lords, he faid.

With that he gave him a gods pennèe : Now by my fay, fayd the heire of Linne,

And here, good John, is thy money.

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And

And he pull'd forth three bagges of gold,
And layd them down upon the bord:
All woe begone was John o' the Scales,
Soe fhent he cold say never a word.

He told him forth the good red gold,
He told it forth with mickle dinne.
The gold is thine, the land is mine,

And now Ime againe the lord of Linne.

Sayes, Have thou here, thou good fellòwe,
Forty pence thou didft lend mee:

Now I am againe the lord of Linne,

And forty pounds I will give thee,

Now welladay! fayth Joan o' the Scales:
Now welladay! and woe is my life!
Yesterday I was lady of Linne,

Now Ime but John o' the Scales his wife.

Now fare thee well, fayd the heire of Linne;
Farewell, good John o' the Scales, faid hee:
When next I want to fell my land,

Good John o' the Scales, Ile come to thee.

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