<B CEFICT2A>
<Q E2 NI FICT ARMIN>
<N NEST OF NINNIES>
<A ARMIN ROBERT>
<C E2>
<O 1570-1640>
<M X>
<K X>
<D ENGLISH>
<V PROSE>
<T FICTION>
<G X>
<F X>
<W WRITTEN>
<X MALE>
<Y X>
<H OTHER>
<U X>
<E X>
<J INTERACTIVE>
<I INFORMAL>
<Z NARR IMAG>
<S SAMPLE X>


[^ARMIN, ROBERT.
TEXT:  A NEST OF NINNIES.
FOOLS AND JESTERS: WITH A REPRINT OF
ROBERT ARMIN'S NEST OF NINNIES, 1608.
LONDON: THE SHAKESPEARE SOCIETY, 1842.
PP. 8.4  - 15.21    (SAMPLE 1)
PP. 42.8 - 48.12    (SAMPLE 2)^]

<S SAMPLE 1>
<P 8>
   Jack Oates, sitting at cardes all alone, was dealing to      #
himselfe
at vide ruffe (for that was the game he ioyed in) and as
he spide a knaue - Ah, knaue, art there? quoth he. When he
spide a king - King, by your leaue, quoth he. If hee spied a 
queene - Queene Richard art come? quoth he; and would
kneele downe, and bid God blesse her majestie (meaning,         #
indeede,
the then queene, whom he heard Sir William Hollis,
his maister, so much to pray for). But heere is the jest: Jack,
as I say, being at cardes all alone, spying a knaue, and        #
saying,
Ah, knaue, art there? a simple seruingman being in the hall,
waighting his maisters comming, walking by, and hearing him 
say so, thought he had called him knaue, tooke the matter in
dudgeen, and miscalled the foole. Another seruingman, more
foolish then both, took Jack's part, so that in short time they
two fell together by the eares; who, being parted, Jack Oates
giues them each one a hand, and so takes them into the buttry
to drinke. The knight comes in: seeing the hall not yet quiet,
askt the matter. Jack comes - Ile tell thee, Willy, quoth hee.
As I was a playing at cardes, one seeing I wonne all I playd
for, would needes haue the knaue from mee, which, as very a
knaue as hee seeing, would needes beare him knaue for company;
so bid them both welcome to thy house - I haue bin to 
intreat the knaue, thy butler, to make them drinke. I, sayes
Sir William; and you, like a knaue, made them fall out. I,
answered Jack, and your drinke, Sir Knaue, made them friends.
Sir William, laughing, departed.
   Newes came to Sir William that such a nobleman was comming 
to his house: great prouision was made for his welcome;
and, amongst all, Jack Oates put on his new motly coate, cleane
muckender, and his new shooes. Much preparation was made,
which were too long to tell; for, Ile assure ye, it was one of
the greatest earles in England, vnfit to name here: but the
<P 9>
knight and his ladie met him at the gate to entertaine him.
Sir William, with a low congy, saluted him; the good lady, as
is the courtly custom, was kist of this noble man. Jack Oates,
seeing him kisse his ladie, on the sodaine giues the earle a    #
sound
box on the eare. Knaue (quoth he) kisse Sir Willie's wife?
The good knight, amazed at this, caused him to be whipt. But
the kinde noble man, knowing simplicitie the ground of his
errour, would not suffer it, but, putting it vp, left him, and
entred the house. Jack, seeing they were sad, and he had done
amisse, had this wit in simplicitie to shadow it: he comes      #
after
and askt the earle wher his hand was? Here (quoth he) - with
that he shakes him by it, and sayes, I mistooke it before,      #
knowing
not your eare from your hand, being so like one another.
Jack thought hee had mended the matter; but now he was
whipt indeede, and had his payment altogether. Thus fooles,
thinking to be wise, become flat foolish: but all is one, Jack
neuer repented him.
   At a Christmas time, when great logs furnish the hall        #
fire - 
when brawne is in season, and, indeede, all reveling is         #
regarded,
this gallant knight kept open house for all commers, where
beefe, beere, and bread was no niggard. Amongst all the
pleasures prouided, a noyse of minstrells and a Lincolnshire
bagpipe was prepared - the minstrels for the great chamber,
the bagpipe for the hall - the minstrells to serue vp the       #
knights
meate, and the bagpipe for the common dauncing. Jack could
not endure to bee in the common hall; for, indeede, the foole
was a little proudly minded, and, therefore, was altogether in
the great chamber, at my ladies or Sir Williams elbow. One
time, being very melancholy, the knight, to rouse him vp,       #
saide,
Hence, foole! Ile haue another foole; thou shalt dwell no       #
longer
with me. Jack to this answered little; though, indeede, ye
could not anger him worse. A gentleman at the boord answers,
If it please you, sir, Ile bring ye another foole soone.
I pray ye do (quoth the knight) and he shall be welcome.
Jack fell a crying, and departed mad and angry down into the
<P 10>
great hall; and, being strong armed (as before I described
him), caught the bagpipes from the piper, knockt them about
his pate, that he laid the fellow for dead on the ground, and,
all broken, carries the pipes vp into the great chamber, and
layes them on the fire. The knight, knowing by Jack that
something was amisse, sendes downe to see. Newes of this
jest came; the knight, angry (but to no purpose, for he loued 
the foole aboue all, and that the household knew, else Jack had
paid for it, for the common peoples dauncing was spoiled) sent
downe Jack, and bad him out of his sight. Jack cries, Hang
Sir Willy, hang Sir Willy, and departes.
   Sir William, not knowing how to amend the matter, caused
the piper to be carried to bed, who was very ill, and said, I
would now giue a gold noble for a foole: indeede, to anger him
throughly, one of the minstrels whispers a gentleman in the
eare, and said, If it pleased him, hee would; whereat the
gentleman laught. The knight demaunded the reason of his
laughing. I pray you tell me (quoth hee) - for laughing could
neuer come in a better time - the foole hath madded me. If
it please you (sayes the gentleman), here is a good fellow will
goe and attire him in one of his coates, and can in all poynts
behaue himselfe naturally, like such a one. It is good (sayes
the knight) and I prethee, good fellow, about it; and one
goe call Jack Oates hether, that wee may hold him with talk
in the meane time.
   The simple minstrell, thinking to worke wonders, as one
ouerjoyed at the good opportunitie, threw his fiddle one way,
his stick another, and his case the third way, and was in such
a case of joy, that it was no boot to bid him make hast: but,
proud of the knight fauor, away he flings, as if he went to
tak possession of some great lordship; but, what ere he got by
it, I am sure his fiddle, with the fall, fell in pieces, which  #
grieued
his maister so, that, in loue and pittie, he laughed till the   #
water
ran downe his cheekes. Beside, this good knight was like to
<P 11>
keepe a bad Christmas, for the bagpipes and the musicke went
to wracke - the one burnt, and the other broken.
   In comes Jack Oates, and (being merry) told the knight and
the rest that a country-wench in the hall had eaten garlicke,   #
and
there was seuenteene men poysoned with kissing her: for it
was his vse to jest thus. By and by comes in a messenger (one
of the knights men) to tell him that such a gentleman had sent
his foole to dwell with him. Hee is welcome, sayes the knight,
for I am weary of this foole: goe bid him come in - Jack, bid
him welcome. They all laught to see Jack's colour come and
goe, like a wise man ready to make a good end. What say
you to this? saies the knight. Not one word sayes Jack. They
tinged with a knife at the bottome of a glasse, as toulling the
bell for the foole, who was speechlesse and would dye (then
which nothing could more anger him) ; but now the thought 
of the new come foole so much moued him, that he was as dead
as a doore nayle - standing on tip-toe, looking toward the door
to behold ariuall, that he would put his nose out of joint.
   By and by enters my artificiall foole in his old cloaths,
making wry mouthes, dauncing, and looking a squint: who,
when Jack beheld, sodainely he flew at him, and so violently
beate him, that all the table rose, but could scarce get him
off. Well, off he was at length: the knight caused the broken
ones to be by themselues. My poore minstrell, with a fall,
had his head broke to the skull against the ground, his face
scratcht; that which was worst of all his left eye put out, and
withall so sore bruised, that he could neyther stand nor goe.
The knight caused him to bee laide with the pyper, who was
also hurt in the like conflict, who lackt no good looking to,
because they miscarried in the knights seruice: but euer
after Jack Oates could not endure to heare any talke of another
foole to be there, and the knight durst not make such a
motion. The pyper and the minstrel, being in bed together,
one cryed, O! his backe and face; the other, O! his face and
eye: the one cryed O his pype! the other, O his fiddle! Good
<P 12>
mussicke or broken consorts, they agree well together; but
when they were well, they were contented for their paines:
they had both money and the knights fauour. Here you 
haue heard the difference twixt a flat foole naturall, and a
flat foole artificiall; one that did his kinde, and the other 
who foolishly followed his owne minde: on which two is 
written this Rime:
[^VERSE OMITTED^]
   Jack Oates could neuer abide the cooke, by reason that he
would scald him out of the kitchen. Upon a time he had a
great charge from his Lady to make her a quince pie of purpose
for Sir Williams owne eating, which the cooke endeuored
to doe, and sent to Lincolne of purpose to the apothecaries
for choyse quinces. Jack, being at this charge
giuen, thought to be euen with the cooke, and waited the
time when this Pie was made. It hapned so, the cooke could
get no quinces: my lady (for it was the knight's desire to
haue one) sent about to Boston, and all the chiefe townes, but
all in vaine - the season serued not; but, rather then Sir
William should be vnfurnished, sent to Lincolne againe to
buy vp many quinces, ready preserved at pothecaries, which
she had, though with great cost. The knight, asking his
Lady for his pie, she told him with much adoe she had           #
preuailed, 
but with no little paines, in seeking quinces; for she
<P 13>
was faine to buy them ready preserued, and to make a vertue
of necessity that way. Sir William, seeing it was so, said it
should bee as well eaten, and sent for his friends, gentlemen
and others of no small account. There was other great
cheare prouided to furnish vp this sumptuous feast, and as
he inuited them, hee tolde them it was a quince pie, which he
would haue eaten. The day drew on, and the gentiles were
come, and all was in a redinesse, and still Jack forgat not
the pie, but stood faintly sicke, and refused his meate: the
knight, sory that his best dish fayled him, made no small
account of his well fare, askte him, Jack, sayes hee, where
lyes thy paine? In my mouth, sayes hee (meaning, indeede,
his mouth hung for the quince pie.) A barber was sent for
from the market towne hard by, who searcht his mouth, and
could finde no cause of paine: but Sir William, thinking the
foole wanted wit to tell his griefe (though not wit to play the
thiefe) had the barber depart, asking Jacke what he would
eate? he sayd, nothing. What he would drinke? he sayd,
nothing; which made Sir William doubt much of his health,
refusing his liquour when it was usually his practice, and the
knight joyed in it too: askit him if he would lie downe?
still answering no, but would stand by the kitchen fire. The
knight, that never came there but he did some exployte,         #
forgetting
that, led him by the hand (so much he made of him) and
bad the cooke see he wanted nothing. Jack, standing still,
groan'd and sayd, If he dyed, he would forgive all the world    #
but
the cooke. Hang, foole, (sayes the cooke) I care not for thee:
die to-morrow if thou wilt, and so followed his business.
They knockt to the dresser, and the dinner went up. Jack
had a sheepes eye in the oven: anone the second course came,
the pie was drawne, set by, and among other backt meates
was to be sent up; but, wanting sugar, stept aside to the
spicerie to fetch it; and Jack, in the meantime, catcheth the
pie and claps it under his coate, and so runs through the hall
into the yard, where was a broade moate: and, as he ran, the
<P 14>
hot pie burned his belly. I, sayes Jack, are ye so hot, Sir
Willies pie? Ile quence ye anone Sir Willies pie, sayes he;
and straight, very subtilly, leapes into the moate up to the
arm-pits, and there stood eating the pie. The cooke comes
in, misses the pie, withal misses Jack, cryes out, The pie!
Sir Williams pie was gone, the author of that feast was gone,
and they all were undone. A hurly burly went through
the house, and one comes and whispers the lady with the
newes: she tels Sir William how Jack Oates had stolen the
pie. Jack was searcht for, and anon found in the moate. It
was told the knight where the foole was eating it. Gentlemen
(quoth he) we are disfurnished of our feast; for Jack,
my foole, is in my moate, up to the arme-pits, eating of the
pie. They laught, and ran to the windows to see the jest:
then they might see Jack eate, the cooke call, the people
hallow, but to no purpose. Jack fed, and, feeding greedily,
(more to anger the cooke, than disapoint Sir William) ever
as he burnt his mouth with hast, dipt the pie in the water to
coole it. O! sayes the cooke, it is Sir William's owne pie,
sirra. O! sayes Jack hang thee and Sir Willy too: I care
not; it is mine now. Save Sir William some, sayes one;
save my lady some, sayes another. By James, not a bit,
sayes Jack; and eate up all, to the wonder of the beholders,
who never knew him eate so much before, but drink ten times
more. At length out comes Jack dropping dry, and goes to
get fire to dry him: the knight and the rest all laught a good
at the jest: not knowing how to amend it, Sir William sends
for the cooke, who came up with a sorrowful heart, and,
lamentably complaining, said it was the knights fault for
placing him in the kitchen, where he never was but hee did
like villany. The knight, not satisfied with the cookes         #
answere,
presently discharges him of his service, and sent him
to live elsewhere. Goe, sayes hee; trusse up your trinkets
and be gone. The cooke, seeing no remedy, departed.
   Jack, being dry, up he comes; and, knowing he had offended,
<P 15>
tels a jest (for it was his manner so to doe) how a young man
brake his codpiece point, and let all be seene that God sent
him, or such fooleries, but that was not enough; and to chide
him was to make of things worse then 'twas, and to no purpose 
neither. Sir William demaunded why hee eate the pye?
Because I had a stomacke, sayes Jack. Would nought else
serve, sayes the knight, but my pye? No, Willy, sayes he,
thou would not be angry then, and the cooke had not been
turned away: but all is well - thou art rich enough to buy
more. The knight, perceiving the fooles envie, sent for the     #
cooke,
and bid him enjoy his place againe. So all parties [{were{]     #
well
pleased but the yong big-bellied woman, who, perchance, longed
for this long looked for pie; but if she did, though long lookt
for comes at last, yet they shoote short that ayme to hit this
marke, for Jack Oates had eaten the pie and served himselfe.
This was a flat foole; yet, now and then, a blind man may hit
a crow, and you know a fooles boult is soone shot: out it goes,
happen how it will. Had Jack kept his owne counsell, the
cooke had beene still out of service, and [{he{] had been       #
revenged,
but now, being in his place againe, may live to cry quittance
for the quince pye. 

<S SAMPLE 2>
<P 42>
   Will Sommers, in no little credit in the king's court,       #
walking
in the parke at Greenwich, fell asleepe on the stile that leads
into the walk, and many that would haue gone that way
so much loued him, that they were loth to disease him, but
went another way; I, the better sort, for now adaies beggars
are gallants, while gentiles of right blood seeme tame          #
ruffians;
but note the loue Will Sommers got. A poore woman, seeing
him sleepe so dangerously, eyther to fal backward, or to hurt
his head leaning so against a post, fetcht him a cushion and a
rope; the one for his head, and the other to bind him to the
post, from falling backward: and thus hee slept, and the woman
stood by, attending as the groom of his chamber. It changed so,
that upon great occasion, as you shall after heare, Will        #
Sommers
uncle came out of Shropshire to seeke him in the court; a
plaine old man of threescore yeeres, with a buttoned cap, a
lockram falling band, course but cleane, a russet coat, a white
belt of a horse hide, right horse-coller white leather, a       #
close,
round breech of russet sheeps wool, with a long stock of white
kersey, a high shoe with yelow buckles, all white with dust;
for that day the good old man had come three and twenty miles
on foot. This kinde old man, comming up in his countrys
behalfe, and comming into Greenwitch, asked the way to the
court: euery one directs him; but one villaine page directs
him by the court gate, to crosse in a boat over to Blackwal,
and told him that was the court. The silly old man willingly
paid his penny before hand, and was going ouer; but some
that ouer-heard their talk, hindered his journey and laughed
<P 43>
at the jest, yet pitied his simplicitie, and sets him in the    #
right
way. When he came in and saw such a place, he was amazed,
and stood gazing, which the gard and gentlewomen, in their
windows, had much sport to see. At last one asked him what
he was? The old man answeres, A poore Shropshire man; and
demands if there were not a gentleman in the court dwelling,
called by the name of M. Will Sommers? for the country hearing
him in fauour in the court, said hee was so at least. The
courtier answered, Here is such a one indeede. For fault of a
worse, saies hee, I am his uncle; and wept with joy that hee
should see him. Marry, sayes the man, Ile help you to him
straight; for, I tell you, not any in the court durst but haue
sought him, which this man did, and it was told him. Hee
was walkt into the parke, while the king slept that hote
day. Thether went they to seeke him. All this while my
friend Will was in counsel with the post; and the cushion
stood as arbitrator betwixte them, and the woman as a
witnesse what was said and done. At last came these
two and wakened him. William, seeing his head soft, What
soft post in this? quoth he. A post of mine own making, saies
the woman. But she lost nothing by her good will; for ere
shee left Will Sommers, shee got him to get her sons pardon of
the king, who was to bee hanged three days after for piracy:
but by Will Sommers means he deceived the hang-man. This
and many good deedes he did to diuers.
   The foole, being wakened, lookes about him; when he had
thanked the woman, asked what newes? sayes the man, Sir,
here is your uncle come out of the country to see you. God a
mercy cousin! sayes Will Sommers; I thank thee for thy
labour, you cannot uncle me so. Yes, truly, sir, I am your
own deare uncle, M. William, and with that wept. Are you
my uncle? sayes Will. I, sir, sayes hee. Are you my uncle?
sayes hee againe. I, sure, and verely too. But are you my
uncle, indeed? By my vusse I am, sayes the old man. Then,
uncle, by my vusse, welcome to court, sayes Will Sommers.
But what make you heere, uncle? He ups and tels his comming
<P 44>
to him. Will takes him by the hand: Come, saies hee,
thou shalt see Harry, onckle - the onely Harry in England;
so he led him to the chamber of presence, and euer and anon
cryes out, Aware, roome for me and my uncle! and knaues bid
him welcome. You are welcome, sir, said they: the old man
thought himselfe no earthly man, they honoured him so much.
   But Will, ready to enter the presence, lookes on his uncle,
and seeing him not fine enough to looke on the king: Come,
uncle, sayes hee, we will haue your geere mended; leads
him to his chamber, and attires him in his best fooles coate,
simply, God wot, meaning well to him; and the simple old man
as simply put it on, cap and all.
   But they come; and up they came, and to the king they
goe, who, being with the lord treasurer alone, merry, seeing
them two, how Will had got another foole, knew there was
sport at hand. How now! sayes the king, What news with
you? O, Harry! sayes he, this is my owne uncle; bid
him welcome. Wel, said the king, he is welcome. Harry,
sayes hee, heare me tell thee a tale, and I will make thee
rich, and my uncle shall be made rich by thee. Will tels
the king how Terrils Frith was inclosed. Tirrels Frith! sayes
the king; what is that? Why, the heath where I was borne,
called by the name of Tirrels Frith: now a gentleman of that
name takes it all in, and makes people beleeue it is all his,   #
for
it took the name from him; so that, Harry, the poore pine, and
their cattle are all undone without thy help. And what should
I doe? sayes the king. Marry, sayes Will, send to the Bishop
of Hereford; hee is a great man with Terril: commaund him
to set the Frith at liberty againe, who is now imprisoned by
his means. And how shall I be rich by that? sayes the king.
The poore will pray for thee, sayes Will; and thou shalt bee
rich in heauen, for on earth thou art rich already. All this
was done, and Wills uncle went home, who, while he liued, for
that deed was allowed bayly of the common, which place was
worth twenty pound a yeere. 
<P 45>
   Howseuer, these three things it came in memory, and are for
mirth incerted into stage playes I know not, but that Will
Sommers asked them of the king, it is certaine: there are
some will affirme it now living at Greenwich. The king being
on a time extreame melancholy, and full of passion, all that
Will could doe will not make him merry. Ah! sayes hee, this
must haue, must haue a good showre to clense it; and with
that goes behinde the arras. Harry, saies hee, Ile foe behind
the arras, and study three questions, and come againe; see,
therefore, you lay aside this melancloly muse, and study to
answere me. I, quoth the king: they will be wise ones, no
doubt. At last out comes William with his wit, as the foole
of the play does, with an anticke looke to please the           #
beholders.
Harry, sayes hee, what is it, that the lesser it is, the more   #
it is
to be feared? The king mused at it; but, to grace the jest
better, he answered, he knew not. Will answered, it was a
little bridge ouer a deepe riuer; at which hee smyled.
   What is the next, William? sayes the king. Marry, this is
the next: what is the cleanliest trade in the world? Marry,
sayes the king, I think a comfit-maker, for hee deales with     #
nothing
but pure ware, and is attired cleane in white linen when hee
sels it. No, Harry, sayes [{he to{] the king; you are wide.     #
What
say you, then? quoth the king. Marry, sayes Will, I say a       #
durtdauber.
Out on it, says the king, that is the foulest, for hee is
durty up to the elbows. I, sayes Will; but then he washes
him cleane againe, and eats his meate cleanly enough. I
promise thee, Will, saies the king, thou hast a pretty foolish
wit. I, Harry, saies he, it will serue to make a wiser man
than you a foole, methinks. At this the king laught, and        #
demaunds
the third question. Now, tell me, saies Will, if you
can, what it is that, being borne without life, head, lippe, or
eye, yet doth runne roaring through the world till it dye. This
is a wonder, quoth the king, and no question; I know it not.
Why, quoth Will, it is a fart. At this the king laught hartely,
and was exceeding merry, and bids Will aske any reasinable
<P 46>
thing, and he would graunt it. Thanks, Harry, saies he; now
against I want, I know where to find it, for yet I neede        #
nothing,
but one day I shall, for euery man sees his latter end,
but knows not his beginning. The king understoode his meaning,
and so pleasantly departed for that season, and Will laid
him downe among the spaniels to sleepe.
   Of a time appointed the king dined at Windsor, in the
chappel yard at Cardinall Wolsey's, at the same time when he
was building that admirable worke of his tombe: at whose gate
stoode a number of poore people, to be serued with alms when
dinner was done within; and, as Will passed by, they saluted
him, taking him for a worthy personage, which pleased him.
   In he comes, and finding the king at dinner, and the         #
cardinall
by attending, to disgrace him that he neuer loued, Harry,
sayes hee, lend me ten pound. What to doe? saies the king.
To pay three or foure of the cardinall's creditors, quoth hee,
to whom my word is past, and they are come now for the
money. That thou shalt, Will, quoth hee. Creditors of
mine? saies the cardinall: Ile give your grace my head if any
man can justly aske me a penny. No! saies Will. Lend me
ten pounds; if I pay it not where thou owest it, Ile give thee
twenty for it. Doe so, saies the king. That I will, my liege,
saies the cardinall, though I know I owe none. With that he
lends Will ten pounds. Will goes to the gate, distributes it
to the poore, and brought the empty bag. There is thy bag
againe, saies hee: thy creditors are satisfied, and my word     #
out
of danger.
   Who received? sayes the king; the brewer or the baker?
Neyther (Harry), sayes Will Sommers. But, cardinall, answere
me in one thing: to whom dost thou owe thy soule?
To God, quoth hee. To whom thy wealth? To the poore,
sayes hee. Take thy forfeit (Harry) sayes the foole; open
confession, open penance: his head is thine, for to the poore
at the gate I paid his debt, which hee yeelds is due: or if thy
stony heart will not yeeld it so, saue thy head by denying thy
<P 47>
word, and lend it mee: thou knowest I am poore, and haue
neyther wealth nor wit, and what thou lendest to the poore
God will pay thee ten fold; he is my surety - arrest him - for,
by my troth, hang mee when I pay thee. The king laught at
the jest, and so did the cardinall for a shew, but it grieved   #
him
to jest away ten pound so: yet worse tricks then this Will
Sommers serued him after, for indeede hee could neuer abide
him, and the forfeiture of his head had liked to haue beene
payed, had hee not poysoned himselfe.
   There was in the time of Will Sommers another artificiall
foole, or jester, in the court, whose subtiltie heapt up wealth
by gifts giuen him, for which Will Sommers could neuer abide
him; but, indeede, lightly one foole cannot indure the sight of
another, as Jack Oates, the minstrell, in the fat foole's       #
story,
and one beggar is woe that another by the doore should goe.
This jester was a big man, of a great voyce, long black locks,
and a verry big, round beard. On a time, of purpose, Will
Sommers watcht to disgrace him, when he was jugling and
jesting before the king. Will Sommers brings up a messe of
milke and a manchet: Harry, saies hee, lend me a spoone.
Foole, saies the jester, use thy hands, helpe hands, for I haue
no lands, and meant, that saying would warrant his grose        #
feeding. 
I, saies Will Sommers, beasts will doe so, and beasts will
bid others doe as they doe themselves. Will, said the king,
thou knowest I haue none. True Harry, saies hee, I know
that, therefore I askt thee; and I would (but for doing thee
harme) thou hadst no tongue to grant that foole his next sute;
but I must eate my creame some way. The king, the jester,
and all gathers about him to see him eate it. Will begins thus
to rime ouer his milk:
[^VERSE OMITTED^]
<P 48>
Meaning the foole, in whose beard and head the bread and
milk was thicke sowne, and his eyes almost put out. Will
Sommers hee gets him gone for feare. This lusty jester,         #
forgetting
himself, in fury draws his dagger, and begings to protest.
Nay; saies the king, are ye so hote? claps him fast, and,
though hee draws his dagger here, makes him put it up in        #
another
place. The poore abused jester was jested out of countenance,
and lay in durance a great while, till Will Sommers
was faine, after he broke his head, to giue him a plaister, to
get him out againe. But neuer after came my jugler in the 
court moore so neere the king, being such a dangerous man to 
draw in the presence of the king. 



