Al the povere peple tho pescoddes fetten; Benes and baken
apples thei broghte in hir lappe, Chibolles and
chervelles and ripe chiries manye, And profrede Piers
this present to plese with Hunger.
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Then on the grounde Togyder rounde With manye a sadde stroke, They roll and rumble, They turne and tumble, As pigges do in a poke.