It is impossible, it may not be. Hey nicë 2407 churl, God let him never thé. 2408 The rumbling of a fart, and every soun’, Is but of air reverberatioún, And ever wasteth lite and lite 2409 away; There is no man can deemen, 2410 by my fay, If that it were departed 2411 equally. What? lo, my churl, lo yet how shrewedly 2412 Unto my confessoúr to-day he spake; I hold him certain a demoniac. Now eat your meat, and let the churl go play, Let him go hang himself a devil way!”