  N NOWELL, nowell, nowell, nowell. Who ys there that syngith so nowell, nowell? I am here, syre Cristsmasse; Well, come, my lord sr Crstsmasse, Welcome to vs all bothe more & lasse, Com ner, nowell. Dievs wous garde brewe s^{rs} tydyge y ?ow bryng. A mayde hath borne a chylde full ?ong, The weche causeth ?ew for to syng, Nowell. Criste is now born of a pure mayde, In an oxe stalle he ys layde, Wher’for syng we alle atte abrayde, Nowell. Bevvex bien par tutte la company, Make gode chere and be ryght mery, And syng wt vs now ioyfully, Nowell. VIII.A A Bonne God wote! Stickes in my throate, Without I have a draught Of cornie aile, Nappy and staile, My lyffe lyes in great wauste. Some ayle or beare, Some lycoure thou hus showe, Such as you mashe, Our throates to washe, The best were that yow brew. Saint, master, and knight, That Saint Mault hight, Were prest betwen two stones; That swet humour Of his lycoure Would make us sing at once. Mr. Wortley, I dar well say, I tell you as I thinke, Would not, I say, Byd hus this day, But that we shuld have drink. His men so tall Walkes up his hall, With many a comly dishe; Of his good meat I cannot eate, Without a drink i-wysse; Now gyve hus drink, And let cat wynke, I tell you all at once, Yt stickes so sore, I may sing no more, Tyll I have dronken once. |
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