Of an ingot, as I shall you devise; 4819 I say, he took out of his owen sleeve A teine 4820 of silver (evil may he cheve! 4821 ) Which that ne was but a just ounce of weight. And takë heed now of his cursed sleight; He shap’d his ingot, in length and in brede 4822 Of this teinë, withouten any drede, 4823 So slily, that the priest it not espied; And in his sleeve again he gan it hide; And from the fire he took up his mattére, And in th’ ingot put it with merry cheer; 4824 And in the water-vessel he it cast, When that him list, and bade the priest as fast Look what there is; “Put in thine hand and grope; 4825 There shalt thou findë silver, as I hope.”