On Whitsun eve it so befell,
A posset was made to give the king,
Whereof his ladie nurse hard tell,
And that it was a poysoned thing:
She cryed, and called piteouslie;
"Now help, or els the king shall die!"
Alas for woe, &c.
One Browne, that was an English man,
And hard the ladies piteous crye,
Out with his sword, and bestir'd him than,
Out of the doores in haste to flie;
But all the doores were made so fast,
Out of a window he got at last.
Alas for woe, &c.
He met the bishop coming fast,
Having the posset in his hande:
The sight of Browne made him aghast,
Who bad him stoutly stale and stand.
With him were two that ranne awa,
For feare that Browne would make a fray.
Alas for woe, &c.
"Bishop," quoth Browne, "what hast thou there?"
"Nothing at all, my friend," sayde he;
"But a posset to make the king good cheere."
"Is it so?" sayd Browne, "that will I see.
First I will have thyself begin,
Before thou go any further in;
Be it weale or woe, it shall be so,
This makes a sorrowful heigh-ho."
The Bishop sayde, "Browne I doo know,
Thou art a young man poore and bare;
Livings on thee I will bestowe:
Let me go on, take thou no care."
"No, no," quoth Browne, "I will not be
A traitour for all Christiantie;
Happe well or woe, it shall be so,
Drink now with a sorrowful, &c."
The bishop dranke, and by and by
His belly burst and he fell downe:
A just rewarde for his traitery.
"This was a posset indeed!" quoth Brown.
He serched the bishop, and found the keyes,
To come to the kinge when he did please.
Alas for woe, &c.
As soon as the king got word of this,
He humbly fell uppon his knee,
And praysed God that he did misse