“By owr swete Mercie did We caws an grete yncyneratour to be sette yn ye Serfes midst, rownde ye wych myte hem hudel for ye hete & protectioun from ye wolves,” sobbed the ancient pantomime dame. “Ye smityinge of ye Ær-port, We didst alowe; so hem hight never ygen lief yn Terrour of ye evill Dragounes cercling over hir hoveles. Highe-way brigandrie did We tackoul, by yeving countroul of ye rutted stretes to ye townes ox cart drivour; nowe, ye fell rorynge of yron stedes scarce nemour ys heer’d aftere Doske. An We did spend eche, & ev’ry, laste Groat of ye taxes; yea, verily, an muche mor; on ye glorious newe palace of tourneys.”
|The lady of Plymouth still awaits her great western carriage|
And thus it was that, throughout King David’s troubled realm, dispossessed robber barons were singing the same old song. But for them, there were no more suppers to be had.