MY Mall, in your short absence from this place,
Myself here dining at your mother's board,
Your little son did thus begin his grace,
The eyes of all things look on thee O Lord,
And thou their food dost give them in due season.
Peace boy (quoth I) not more of this a word,
For in this place this grace hath little reason,
Whenas we speak to God we must speak true,
And though the meat be good in taste and season,
This season for a dinner is not due,
Then peace, I say, to lie to God is treason.
Say on my boy (saith she) your father mocks,
Clowns and not courtiers use to go by clocks.
Courtiers by clocks (said I) and clowns by cocks.
Now if your mother chide with me for this,
Then you must reconcile us with a kiss.