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Ye old
mule that think yourself so fair,
Leave off with
craft your beauty to repair,
For it is true, without
any fable,
No man setteth more by riding in your
saddle.
Too much travail so do your train appair.
Ye old mule
With false savour though you
deceive th'air,
Whoso taste you shall well perceive
your lair
Savoureth somewhat of a Kappurs stable.
Ye old mule
Ye must now serve to market and to
fair,
All for the burden, for panniers a pair.
For
since gray hairs been powdered in your sable,
The
thing ye seek for, you must yourself enable
To
purchase it by payment and by prayer,
Ye old mule.
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