Ye old mule that think your self so fayre,
Leve of with craft your beautie to repaire,
For it is true withoute any fable
No man setteth more by riding in your saddell;
To muche travaill so do your train apaire,
Ye old mule.
With fals savours though you deceve th’ayer,
Who so tast you shall well perceve your layer
Savoureth som what of a kappurs stable,
Ye old mule.
Ye must now serve to market and to faire,
All for the burden, for pannyers a paire;
For syns gray heres ben powdered in your sable,
The thing ye seke for you must your self enable
To pourchase it by payment and by prayer,
Ye old mule.