Thus medled his talk with many a tear:
"Sick, sick, alas! and little lack of dead,
But I be relieved by your beastlyhead.
I am a poor sheep, albe my colour dun,
For with long travel I am brent in the sun;
And if that, my grandsire me said, be true,
Sicker, I am very sib to you;
So be your goodlihead do not disdain
The base kindred of so simple swain.
Of mercy and favour then I you pray,