705
Those out-o-their wits, and those i’ th’ wrong;
No prize between those combatants
O’ th’ times, the Land and Water Saints;
Where thou might’st stickle without hazard
Of outrage to thy hide and mazzard;
And not for want of bus’ness come 710
To us to be so troublesome,
To interrupt our better sort
Of disputants, and spoil our sport? 
Was there no felony, no bawd,
Cut-purse, no burglary abroad; 715
No stolen pig, nor plunder’d goose,
To tie thee up from breaking loose? 
No ale unlicens’d, broken hedge,
For which thou statute might’st alledge,
To keep thee busy from foul evil, 720
And shame due to thee from the Devil? 
Did no committee sit, where he
Might cut out journey-work for thee? 
And set th’ a task, with subornation,
To stitch up sale and sequestration; 725
To cheat, with holiness and zeal,
All parties, and the common-weal? 
Much better had it been for thee,
H’ had kept thee where th’ art us’d to be;
Or sent th’ on bus’ness any whither, 730
So he had never brought thee hither. 
But if th’ hast brain enough in skull
To keep itself in lodging whole,
And not provoke the rage of stones
And cudgels to thy hide and bones 735
Tremble, and vanish, while thou may’st,
Which I’ll not promise if thou stay’st. 
At this the Knight grew high in wroth,
And lifting hands and eyes up both,
Three times he smote on stomach stout, 740
From whence at length these words broke out: 

Was I for this entitled sir,
And girt with trusty sword and spur,
For fame and honor to wage battle,
Thus to be brav’d by foe to cattle? 745
Not all that pride that makes thee swell
As big as thou dost blown-up veal;
Nor all thy tricks and sleights to cheat,
And sell thy carrion for good meat;
Not all thy magic to repair 750
Decay’d old age in tough lean ware;
Make nat’ral appear thy work,
And stop the gangrene in stale pork;
Not all that force that makes thee proud,
Because by bullock ne’er withstood; 755
Though arm’d with all thy cleavers, knives,
And axes made to hew down lives,
Shall save or help thee to evade
The hand of Justice, or this blade,
Which I, her sword-bearer, do carry, 760
For civil deed and military. 
Nor shall those words of venom base,
Which thou hast from their native place,
Thy stomach, pump’d to fling on me,
Go unreveng’d, though I am free:  765
Thou down the same throat shalt devour ’em,
Like tainted beef, and pay dear for ’em. 
Nor shall it e’er be said, that wight