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.