But after that you went about;
And a poor maid then did you fear.
Wherefore, saint Peter, do forbear,
A comforter indeed you’re not;
Let me alone, I do not fear,
Take home the whistle of your groat:
Was it your own, or Paul’s good sword,
When that your courage was so keen,
You were right stout upon my word,
Then would you fain at fishing been;