Cryde out, Ah mercie Sir, doe me not slay,
But saue my life, which lot before your foot doth lay.
With that his mortall hand a while he stayd, xl
And hauing somewhat calm’d his wrathfull heat
With goodly patience, thus he to him sayd;
And is the boast of that proud Ladies threat,
That menaced me from the field to beat,
Now brought to this? By this now may ye learne,
Strangers no more so rudely to intreat,
But put away proud looke, and vsage sterne,