awhile, and by that time it will be almost night; and I pray you give us a reckoning."

So, mannerly paying for that they took, bade their host and hostess farewell with taking leave of the cup, marched merely out of the doors towards this parson's house, viewed the same well round about, and passed by two bowshots off into a young wood, where they lay consulting what they should do until midnight. Quoth one of them, of sharper wit and subtler than the other, to his fellow, "Thou seest that this house is stone-walled about, and that we cannot well break in, in any part thereof; thou seest also that the windows be thick of mullions, that there is no creeping in between wherefore we must of necessity use some policy when strength will not serve. I have a horse-lock here about So

me," saith he; "and this I hope shall serve our turn." when it was about twelve of the clock, they came to the house and lurked near unto his chamber window. The dog of the house barked a good [deal], that with the noise, this priest waketh out of his sleep, and began to cough and hem: then one of these rogues steps forth nearer the window and maketh a rueful and pitiful noise, requiring for Christ sake some relief, that was both hungry and thirsty and was like to lie without the doors all night and starve for cold, unless he were relieved by him with some small piece of money. "Where dwellest thou?" quoth this parson. "Alas! sir," saith this rogue, "I have small dwelling, and have come out of my way; and should I now," saith he, "go to any town now at this time of night, they would set me in the stocks and punish me." "Well," quoth this pitiful parson, "away from my house either lie in some of my outhouses until the morning, and hold, here is a couple of pence for thee." "Ah God reward you," quoth this rogue; "and in heaven may you find it." The parson openeth his window, and thrusteth out his arm to give his alms to this rogue that came whining to receive it, and quickly taketh hold of his hand, and calleth his fellow to him, which was ready at hand with the horse-lock, and clappeth the same about the wrist of his arm, that the mullions standing so close together for strength, that for his life he could not pluck in his arm again, and made him believe, unless he would at the least give them £3, they would smite off his arm from the body. So

that poor parson, in fear to lose his hand, called up his old woman that lay in the loft over him, and willed her to take out all the money he had, which was four marks, which he said was all the money in his house, for he had lent £6 to one of his neighbours not four days before. "Well," "quoth they, master parson, if you have no more, upon this condition we will take off the lock, that you will drink twelve pence for our sakes to-morrow at the alehouse where we found you, and thank the good wife for the cheer she made us." He promised faithfully that he would do so; so they took off the lock, and went their way so far ere it was day, that the parson could never have any understanding more of them.

Now this parson, sorrowfully slumbering that night between fear and hope, thought it was but folly to make two sorrows of one. He used contentation for his remedy, not forgetting in the morning to perform his promise, but went betimes to his neighbour that kept tippling, and asked angerly where the same two men were that drank with her yesterday. "Which two men?" quoth this good wife. "The strangers that came in when I was at your house with my neighbours yesterday." "What! your nephews?" quoth she. "My nephews?" quoth this parson; "I trow thou art mad." "Nay, by God!" quoth this good wife, "as sober as you; for they told me faithfully that you were their uncle: but, in faith, are you not so indeed? for, by my troth, they are strangers to me. I never saw them before. "O, out upon them! quoth the parson; "they be false thieves, and this night they compelled me to give them all the money in my house." "Benedicite!" quoth this good wife, "and have they so indeed? as I shall answer before God, one of them told me besides that you were godfather to him, and that he trusted to have your blessing before he departed." "What! did he?" quoth this parson; a halter bless him for

me!" "Me thinketh, by the mass, by your countenance you looked so wildly when you came in," quoth this good wife, "that something was amiss." "I use not to jest," quoth this parson, "when I speak so earnestly." "Why, all your sorrows go with it," quoth this good wife, "and sit down here, and I will fill a fresh pot of ale shall make you merry again." "Yea," saith this parson, "fill in and give me some meat; for they made me swear and promise them faithfully that I should drink

twelve pence with you this day." "What! did they?" quoth she; "now, by the Mary mass, they be merry knaves. I warrant you they mean to buy no land with your money; but how could they come into you in the night, your doors being shut fast? your house is very strong. Then this parson shewed her all the whole circumstance, how he gave them his alms out at the window, they made such lamentable cry that it pitied him at the heart; for he saw but one when he put out his hand at the window. "Be ruled by me," quoth this good wife. "Wherein?" quoth this parson. "By my troth, never speak more of it: when they shall understand of it in the parish, they will but laugh you to scorn." "Why, then," quoth this parson, "the devil go with it,"-and there an end.

A Counterfeit Crank (and a printer in pursuit of copy)

Upon All-hallows-day in the morning last anno domini 1566, ere my book was half printed, I mean the first impression, there came early in the morning a counterfeit crank under my lodging at the White Friars, within the cloister, in a little yard or court, whereabouts lay two or three great ladies, being without the liberties of London, whereby he hoped for the greater gain. This crank there lamentably lamenting and pitifully crying to be relieved, declared to divers there his painful and miserable disease. I being risen and not half ready, heard his doleful words and rueful mournings, hearing him name the falling sickness, thought assuredly to myself that he was a deep dissembler. So, coming out at a sudden, and beholding his ugly and irksome attire, his loathsome and horrible countenance, it made me in a marvellous perplexity what to think of him, whether it were feigned or truth. For after this manner went he: he was naked from the waist upward, saving he had an old jerkin of leather patched, and that was loose about him, that all his body lay out bare; a filthy foul cloth he ware on his head, being cut for the purpose, having a narrow place to put out his face, with a beaver made to truss up his beard, and a string that tied the same down close about his neck; with an old felt hat which he still carried in his hand to receive the charity and devotion of the people, for that would he hold out from him; having his face, from the eyes downward, all smeared with fresh blood, as though he had new fallen, and

been tormented with his painful pangs, his jerkin being all berayed with dirt and mire: surely the sight was monstrous and terrible. I called him unto me, and demanded of him what he ailed. "Ah, good master," quoth he, "I have the grievous and painful disease called the falling sickness." "Why," quoth I, "how cometh thy jerkin, hose, and hat so berayed with dirt and mire, and thy skin also?" "Ah, good master, I fell down on the backside here in the foul lane hard by the waterside; and there I lay almost all night, and have bled almost all the blood out in my body." It rained that morning very fast; and while I was thus talking with him, a honest poor woman that dwelt thereby brought him a fair linen cloth, and bid him wipe his face therewith; and there being a tub standing full of rain water, offered to give him some in a dish that he might make himself clean: he refuseth the same. "Why dost thou so?" quoth I. "Ah, sir," saith he, "if I should wash myself, I should fall to bleeding afresh again, and then I should not stop myself." These words made me the more to suspect him.

Then I asked of him where he was born, what his name was, how long he had this disease, and what time he had been here about London, and in what place. "Sir," saith he, "I was born at Leicester, my name is Nicholas Genings, and I have had this falling sickness eight years, and can get no remedy for the same; for I have it by kind, my father had it and my friends before me; and I have been these two years here about London, and a year and a half in Bethlehem." "Why, wast thou out of thy wits?" quoth I. "Yea, sir, that I was.' 99 66 "What is the keeper's name of the house?" "His name is," quoth he, "John Smith." "Then," quoth I, "he must understand of thy disease; if thou haddest the same for the time thou wast there, he knoweth it well." "Yea, not only he, but all the house beside," quoth this crank; "for I came thence but within this fortnight."

I had stood so long reasoning the matter with him that I was a cold, and went into my chamber and made me ready, and commanded my servant to repair to Bethlehem, and bring me true word from the keeper there whether any such man hath been with him as a prisoner having the disease aforesaid, and gave him a note of his name and the

keeper's also. My servant, returning to my lodging, did assure me that neither was there ever any such man there, neither yet any keeper of any such name; but he that was there keeper, he sent me his name in writing, affirming that he letteth no man depart from him unless he be fetched away by his friends, and that none that came from him begged about the city. Then I sent for the printer of this book, and shewed him of this dissembling crank, and how I had sent to Bethlehem to understand the truth, and what answer I received again, requiring him that I might have some servant of his to watch him faithfully that day, that I might understand trustily to what place he would repair at night unto, and thither I promised to go myself to see their order, and that I would have him to associate me thither. He gladly granted to my request, and sent two boys, that both diligently and vigilantly accomplished the charge given them, and found the same crank about the Temple, whereabout the most part of the day he begged, unless it were about twelve of the clock he went on the backside of Clement's Inn without Temple-bar, there is a lane that goeth into the fields; there he renewed his face again with fresh blood, which he carried about him in a bladder, and daubed on fresh dirt upon his jerkin, hat and hosen. And so came back again unto the Temple, and sometime to the waterside, and begged of all that passed by. The boys beheld how some gave groats, some sixpence, some gave more; for he looked so ugly and irksomely, that everyone pitied his miserable case that beheld him. To be short, there he passed all the day till night approached; and when it began to be somewhat dark, he went to the waterside and took a sculler, and was set over the water into Saint George's fields, contrary to my expectation; for I had thought he would have gone into Holborn or to Saint Giles in the field. But these boys, with Argus's and lynx's eyes, set sure watch upon him, and the one took a boat and followed him and the other went back to tell his master.

The boy that so followed him by water, had no money to pay for his boat hire, but laid his penner and his inkhorn to gage for a penny; and by that time the boy was set over, his master, with all celerity, had taken a boat and followed him apace. Now had they still a sight of the crank, which crossed over the fields towards Newington, and thither he went, and by that time they