You'd better walk about begirt with briars,

Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on

A single stitch reflecting upon friars,

Although you swore it only was in fun;

They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires

Of Phlegethon with every mother's son,

Nor say one mass to cool the cauldron's bubble

That boiled your bones, unless you paid them double.