THE PROCTOURES TALE OF GAMBLYN.

A BOATING-MAN ther was at old Harwarde,

Was big of bones, strong, and somdel harde.

Wille cleped, al be that he was bigge,

Much was his playing, litel was his digge.

Wel i-knowen to ech marchaunt in toun

And eek to pocos roamen up and doun,

And oon of hem a stout Carl for the nones

Who yaf him egges, beer, and good bolognes.

He pulled with the crew many a race

As fast as runs the gre-hound in a chace.

He bared his back when he went out to rowe,

Ne cared nought how much the wind did blowe.

His schert he leved on the boat-hous flore,

Ne rekned more than doth a barne dore.

But, ywis, him were lever than his scherte

Be first upon the home-cominge spurte.

A gret eleccioun was in that lande

To chese a reuler oer that folk to stande,

And som thought Samuel the place wold gette,

Som Rutherford, and gan upon it bette,

And many put their groates in a pool.

Now Wille sayd: "By Johan I am no fool,

For on the pool at Biddeford in Maine

And other places eek in sun and raine

I won the race by pulling in my boate.

Why not upon this pool win many a groate?

Som clerkes say ye shall not deal with chaunce,

But yet I trow it is an olde daunce,

For ye ban read of Samsoun in the Bible,

How he betted ne were it not culpible;

For he held faste by this word and letter:

Who bets is bad, who betteth not, no bet-er.

A benedicite on this I'll stak my alle."

Away goth Wille to the poole halle.

Alas for him that trusteth to a theefe!

He may go pypen in an ivy leefe.

The poole man ran with the groates away.

Cryed Will: "Alas! alas! and wel-a-way!

I have been japed and ful yvel a-payd."

Creditoures knocked and Wille laid

Upon his bed and kepte verray stille,

As doth an ant upon an ante hille.

Cam Carl and loudly shouted in his eere:

"Come Wille now and pay me for the beere."

Cam he that sold him weedes for to smoke -

By Goddes bones to meet him was no joke.

Cam Ruggli, Belcher, Mann, and Richardson,

With billes in their handes everychon,

Cam Sever with the shirreve to his dore,

Cam grosse man that kept a grocery store.

Thei pound his dore and in his key-hole roare.

He studied less than Sub or Sophomore,

Fro scole was kickt with gret celeritee,

He losed then his detur and degree.

Then cam he wood as is a hare or jay,

To Blacke Hills went he, nis no more to say.

God save us all, God save both well and ille,

Keep off the fate of pore, sely Wille.