"I might have eaten my bread dry," said the King, "had I not pressed thee on the score of archery, but now have I dined like a prince--if we had but drink enow." This too is afforded by the hospitable anchorite, who dispatches an assistant to fetch a pot of four gallons from a secret corner near his bed, and the whole three set in to serious drinking.

This amusement is superintended by the Friar, according to the recurrence of certain fustian words, to be repeated by every compotator in turn before he drank--a species of High Jinks, as it were, by which they regulated their potations, as toasts were given in latter times.

The one toper says "fusty bandias", to which the other is obliged to reply, "strike pantnere", and the Friar passes many jests on the King's want of memory, who sometimes forgets the words of action.

The night is spent in this jolly pastime.

Before his departure in the morning, the King invites his reverend host to Court, promises, at least, to requite his hospitality, and expresses himself much pleased with his entertainment.