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Then John he did him to record draw,
And John he cast him a gods-pennie1;
But for every pounde that John agreed,

The lande, I wis, was well worth three.

He told him the gold upon the borde,

He was right glad his land to winne; "The gold is thine, the land is mine,

And now I'll be the Lord of Linne."

Thus he hath sold his land soe broad,
Both hill and holt, and moore and fenne,
All but a poore and lonesome lodge,
That stood far off in a lonely glenne.

For soe he to his father hight.

"My sonne, when I am gonne," sayd hee, "Then thou wilt spend thy lande so broad, And thou wilt spend thy gold so free:

"But sweare me nowe upon the roode,

That lonesome lodge thou 'lt never spend; For when all the world doth frown on thee, Thou there shalt find a faithful friend."

The heire of Linne is full of golde:

"And come with me, my friends," sayd hee, "Let's drinke, and rant, and merry make,

And he that spares, ne'er mote he thee."

1 i. e. Earnest-money; from the French Denier à Dieu. At this day, when application is made to the Dean and Chapter of Carlisle to accept an exchange of the tenant under one of their leases, a piece of silver is presented by the new tenant, which is still called a God's-penny.

They ranted, drank, and merry made,
Till all his gold it waxed thinne;
And then his friendes they slunk away

They left the unthrifty heire of Linne,

He had never a penny left in his purse,
Never a penny left but three,
And one was brass, another was lead,
And another it was white money.

"Nowe well-aday," sayd the heire of Linne,
"Nowe well-adaye, and woe is mee,
For when I was the Lord of Linne,
I never wanted gold nor fee.

"But many a trustye friend have I,
And why shold I feel dole or care?
I'll borrow of them all by turnes,
Soe need I not be never bare."

But one, I wis, was not at home;
Another had payd his gold away;
Another call'd him thriftless loone,

And bade him sharpely wend his way.

"Now well-aday," sayd the heire of Linne, "Now well-aday, and woe is me; For when I had my landes so broad, On me they liv'd right merrilee.

"To beg my bread from door to door, I wis, it were a brenning shame :

To rob and steal it were a sinne:

To worke


limbs I cannot frame.

For there

"Now I'll away to the lonesome lodge, my father bade me wend: When all the world shold frown on mee I there shold find a trusty friend."


AWAY then hyed the heir of Linne
O'er hill and holt, and moor and fenne,
Untill he came to the lonesome lodge,
That stood so lowe in a lonely glenne.

He looked up, he looked downe,

In hope some comfort for to winne : But bare and lothly were the walles. "Here's sorry cheare," quo' the heire of Linne.

The little windowe dim and darke

Was hung with ivy, brere, and yewe : No shimmering sunn here ever shone; No halesome breeze here ever blew.

No chair, ne table he mote spye,

No chearful hearth, ne welcome bed, Nought save a rope with renning noose, That dangling hung up o'er his head.

And over it in broad letters,

These wordes were written so plain to see : "Ah! gracelesse wretch, hast spent thine all, And brought thyselfe to penurie?

"All this my boding mind misgave,

I therefore left this trusty friend: Let it now sheeld thy foule disgrace, And all thy shame and sorrows end."

Sorely shent wi' this rebuke,

Sorely shent was the heire of Linne; His heart, I wis, was near to brast

With guilt and sorrowe, shame and sinne.

Never a word spake the heire of Linne,
Never a word he spake but three:
"This is a trusty friend indeed,

And is right welcome unto mee."

Then round his necke the corde he drewe,
And sprang aloft with his bodìe:
When lo! the ceiling burst in twaine,
And to the ground came tumbling hee.

Astonyed lay the heire of Linne,

Ne knewe if he were live or dead: At length he looked, and saw a bille, And in it a key of gold so redd.

He took the bille, and lookt it on,


Strait good comfort found he there;

Itt told him of a hole in the wall,

In which there stood three chests in-fere.

Two were full of the beaten golde,

The third was full of white money:

And over them in broad letters

These words were written so plaine to see:

"Once more, my sonne, I sett thee clere; Amend thy life and follies past;

For but thou amend thee of thy life,


rope must be thy end at last."

"And let it bee," sayd the heire of Linne; "And let it bee, unless I amend,

For here I will make mine avow,

This reade shall guide me to the end."

Away then went with a merry cheare,
Away then went the heir of Linne

I wis, he neither ceas'd ne blanne,


Till John o' the Scales house he did winne.

And when he came to John o' the Scales,
Upp at the speere1 then looked hee;
There sate three lords upon a rowe,
Were drinking of the wine so free.

And John himself sate at the bord-head,
Because now lord of Linne was hee.

"I pray thee," he said, "good John o' the Scales, One forty pence for to lend mee.”

"Away, away, thou thriftless loone;
Away, away, this may not bee:
For Heavens curse on my head," he sayd,
"If ever I trust thee one pennìe."

1 Perhaps the hole in the door or window, by which it was speered, i. e. sparred, fastened, or shut.-In Bale's 2nd Part of the Acts of Eng. Votaries, we have this phrase (fol. 38), "The dore therof oft tymes opened and speared agayne."

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