I.

And said I that my throat was dry; And said I that no cheer was nigh, And that all giving souls were dead, And that the good to heaven were fled. And that I ne’er should put my nose Again into a tankard’s brim; And that I ne’er again should dose, Before an ale-house hearth so grim? How could I fancy such mishap, Would e’er fall from Dame Fortune’s lap, On me the happiest of mankind, The merriest mortal you may find?