"Over the Tityre Tus," they answered.
"Oh, most barbarous and cuckoldy citizen, do you not recognise that you have fallen into the hands of that most noble order ?" "This is not your real monarch," said I, "for he is down beneath us chained in the pit, where some day he will gather his dutiful subjects around him." "Lo, he hath spoken treason!" they cried, on which, without much more ado, they set upon us with sword and dagger.

Neighbour Foster and I placed our backs against a wall, and with our cloaks round our left arms we made play with our tucks, and managed to put in one or two of the old Wigan Lane raspers.

In particular, friend Foster pinked the King in such wise that his Majesty ran howling down the street like a gored bull-pup.

We were beset by numbers, however, and might have ended our mission then and there had not the watch appeared upon the scene, struck up our weapons with their halberds, and so arrested the whole party.

Whilst the fray lasted the burghers from the adjoining houses were pouring water upon us, as though we were cats on the tiles, which, though it did not cool our ardour in the fight, left us in a scurvy and unsavoury condition.