Ye Printer’s Devil,
verie wyse

Ye Printer's Devil, verie wyse,
And cladd but lightlie, as ye see,
(Sith those twinn glasses o'er his Eyes
Make aile His winter Braverie) 
Clomb from ye Pitt wherein Hee laye 
To thinke alack! on Christmas Daye.

'And yt is verie harde to chuse',
(Quoth Hee) 'what Things a Maiden loves 
For There bin Farthingales and Shoos
And fans & ruffs & muffs & gloves.
I feare that these will not avail.' 
(Whereatt Hee softlie bitte Hys Tayle)

'For Gloves must burste at Stitche and Seam 
And Fans will breake and Bootes decay
And Farthingales bee but a dream
And mittens laste butt for a daye 
When that my Sisters armes they grace' 
(Whereat hee wepte a littel space)

'Behold itt is our fourfold Fate
(Sith meals be needful now and then)
With fourfold force to transmutate
Red golde from paper and from penn 
What better gifte to give remains
Than these twinn masters of our braines?

Ye Penn whereby myselfe does live 
(Albeit in an humble sort)
Thyt Penn in boxes wil I give
And paper lesst ye vagrom thought
Shall ere Shee fixe yt bee forgott— 
Also a Blotter lest she blott.

And when ye Duste Storme bloweth Harde 
And inkie papers take 'em wings—
They by a Clippe shall be debarred 
From al unlicenced wanderings
These will I giv' quoth Hee—'  Tis well' 
And soughte again Hys inkie Hell.

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