Then I passed to the drapers,

to learn my other lessons,

To draw the edges out

that the flannel might seem longer.

Among the rich striped cloths

I learned another lesson,

Threaded them with pack needles

fastened them together,

Put them in a press,

pinned them down therein,

Till ten yards or twelve

made out – thirteen.

My wife was a weaver

woollen cloth she made

She spake to her spinners

to spin it soft,

But the pound-weight she paid by

weighed a quarter more

Than my own balance did,

when I weighed fair

I used to buy her barley,

she brewed it to sell,

Penny ale and thick ale,

she mixed it together,

For labourers and poor folk,

it lay by itself;

The best ale in my bower,

or in my bed chamber:

Any man that boozed of that

never bought other,

Four pence a gallon,

and no good measure either

When it was served in cups.

In that my wife was cunning:

Rose of the Small Shop

was her true name,

She has been a huckster

these eleven winters.