SUM.  I credit thee, and think thou wert belied. 
But tell me, hast thou a good crop this year?

HAR.  Hay, good[75] plenty, which was so sweet and so good, that when I jerted my whip, and said to my horses but hay, they would go as they were mad.

SUM.  But hay alone thou sayst not, but hay-ree[76].

HAR.  I sing hay-ree, that is, hay and rye; meaning that they shall have hay and rye, their bellyfuls, if they will draw hard.  So we say, Wa hay, when they go out of the way; meaning that they shall want hay if they will not do as they should do.

SUM.  How thrive thy oats, thy barley, and thy wheat?

HAR.  My oats grow like a cup of beer that makes the brewer rich; my rye like a cavalier, that wears a huge feather in his cap, but hath no courage in his heart; hath[77] a long stalk, a goodly husk, but nothing so great a kernel as it was wont.  My barley, even as many a novice, is cross-bitten,[78] as soon as ever he peeps out of the shell, so was it frost-bitten in the blad, yet pick’d up his crumbs again afterward, and bad “Fill pot, hostess,” in spite of a dear year.  As for my peas and my vetches, they are famous, and not to be spoken of.

AUT.  Ay, ay, such country-button’d caps as you
Do want no fetches[79] to undo great towns.

HAR.  Will you make good your words that we want no fetches?

WIN.  Ay, that he shall.

HAR.  Then fetch us a cloak-bag, to carry away yourself in.

SUM.  Plough-swains are blunt, and will taunt bitterly. 
Harvest, when all is done, thou art the man: 
Thou dost me the best service of them all. 
Rest from thy labours, till the year renews,
And let the husbandmen [all] sing thy praise.

HAR.  Rest from my labours, and let the husbandmen sing my praise?  Nay, we do not mean to rest so:  by your leave, we’ll have a largess amongst you, ere we part.

ALL.  A largess, a largess, a largess!

WILL SUM.  Is there no man will give them a hiss for a largess?

HAR.  No, that there is not, goodman Lungis.[80] I see charity waxeth cold, and I think this house be her habitation, for it is not very hot:  we were as good even put up our pipes and sing Merry, merry, for we shall get no money.

[Here they all go out singing.

Merry, merry, merry:  cheery, cheery, cheery! 
Trowl the black bowl to me. 
Hey derry, derry, with a poup and a lerry;
I’ll trowl it again to thee.

Hooky, hooky, we have shorn
And we have bound,
And we have brought Harvest
Home to town_.

WILL SUM.  Well, go thy ways, thou bundle of straw:  I’ll give thee this gift; thou shalt be a clown while thou liv’st.  As lusty as they are, they run on the score with George’s wife for their posset; and God knows who shall pay goodman Yeoman for his wheat sheaf.  They may sing well enough—­