Another greeted his buttock with a Farewell, my case.

She replied, Adieu, trial.
By St.Winifred's placket, cried Gymnast, this case has been often tried.
Another asked a she-friend of his, How is it, hatchet?
She answered him, At your service, dear helve.

Odds belly, saith Carpalin, this helve and this hatchet are well matched.

As we went on, I saw one who, calling his she-relation, styled her my crumb, and she called him, my crust.
Quoth one to a brisk, plump, juicy female, I am glad to see you, dear tap.
So am I to find you so merry, sweet spiggot, replied she.

One called a wench, his shovel; she called him, her peal: one named his, my slipper; and she, my foot: another, my boot; she, my shasoon.
In the same degree of kindred, one called his, my butter; she called him, my eggs; and they were akin just like a dish of buttered eggs.