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Poem	Please your Grace, from out your store Give an alms to one that's poor, That your mickle may have more. Black I'm grown for want of meat, Give me then an ant to eat, Or the cleft ear of a mouse Over-sour'd in drink of souce; Or, sweet lady, reach to me The abdomen of a bee; Or commend a cricket's hip, Or his huckson, to my scrip; Give for bread, a little bit Of a pease that 'gins to chit, And my full thanks take for it. Flour of fuz-balls, that's too good For a man in needy-hood; But the meal of mill-dust can Well content a craving man; Any orts the elves refuse Well will serve the beggar's use. But if this may seem too much For an alms, then give me such Little bits that nestle there In the pris'ner's pannier. So a blessing light upon You, and mighty Oberon; That your plenty last till when I return your alms again.
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