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Whereas long time he past is
In labour drudgingly.
His daily service was
Turning spitts at the fire; And to scour pots of brasse,
For a poore scullions hire. a>
Meat and drinke all his pay,
Of coyne he had no store; Therefore to run away,
In secret thought he bore.
So from this marchant-man, 25
Whittington secretly Towards his country ran,
To purchase liberty. But as he went along,
In a fair summer's morne, so
.Londons bells sweetly rung,
" Whittington, back return !"
Evermore sounding so,
" Turn againe, Whittington ; For thou in time shall grow 35
Lord-Maior of London." Whereupon back againe
Whittington came with speed, A prentise to remaine,
As the Lord had decreed. 40
"Still blessed be the bells; (This was his daily song)