And felle down onne hys knee; 'I'm come,' quod hee, 'unto your grace To move your clemencye.'

48

Wylle val'rous actions prize; Respect a brave and nobile mynde, Although ynne enemies.'

Canynge, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n That dydd mee beinge gyve,

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92

I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade Whilst thys Syr Charles dothe lyve.

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'Wee all must die,' quod brave Syr Charles; 'Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate Of all wee mortall menne.

'Saye why, my friende, thie honest soul Runns overr att thyne eye;

Is ytte for my most welcome doome
Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?'

Quod godlie Canynge, 'I doe weepe, Thatt thou soe soone must dye,

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