SUM. Harvest, the bailiff of my husbandry,
What plenty hast thou heap'd into our barns?
I hope thou hast sped well, thou art so blithe.
HAR. Sped well or ill, sir, I drink to you on the same.
Is your throat clear to help us sing, _Hooky, hooky?
[Here they all sing after him.
Hooky, hooky, we have shorn,
And we have bound;
And we have brought Harvest
Home to town_.
AUT. Thou Corydon, why answer'st not direct?
HAR. Answer? why, friend, I am no tapster, to say, Anon, anon, sir:[68]
but leave you to molest me, goodman tawny-leaves, for fear (as the
proverb says, leave is light) so I mow off all your leaves with my
scythe.
WIN. Mock not and mow[69] not too long; you were best not,[70]
For fear we whet your scythe upon your pate.
SUM. Since thou art so perverse in answering,
Harvest, hear what complaints are brought to me.
Thou art accused by the public voice
For an engrosser of the common store;
A carl that hast no conscience nor remorse,
But dost impoverish the fruitful earth,
To make thy garners rise up to the heavens.
To whom giv'st thou? who feedeth at thy board?
No alms, but [an] unreasonable gain
Digests what thy huge iron teeth devour:
Small beer, coarse bread, the hind's and beggar's cry,
Whilst thou withholdest both the malt and flour,
And giv'st us bran and water (fit for dogs).
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