HAR. Will you make good your words that we want no fetches?
WIN. Ay, that he shall.
HAR. Then fetch us a cloak-bag, to carry away yourself in.
SUM. Plough-swains are blunt, and will taunt bitterly.
Harvest, when all is done, thou art the man:
Thou dost me the best service of them all.
Rest from thy labours, till the year renews,
And let the husbandmen [all] sing thy praise.
HAR. Rest from my labours, and let the husbandmen sing my praise? Nay,
we do not mean to rest so: by your leave, we'll have a largess amongst
you, ere we part.
ALL. A largess, a largess, a largess!
WILL SUM. Is there no man will give them a hiss for a largess?
HAR. No, that there is not, goodman Lungis.[80] I see charity waxeth
cold, and I think this house be her habitation, for it is not very hot:
we were as good even put up our pipes and sing _Merry, merry_, for we
shall get no money.
[_Here they all go out singing.
Merry, merry, merry: cheery, cheery, cheery!
Trowl the black bowl to me.
Hey derry, derry, with a poup and a lerry;
I'll trowl it again to thee.
Hooky, hooky, we have shorn
And we have bound,
And we have brought Harvest
Home to town_.
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