—‘I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage, and desprit toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom’—
Well, I’ll not give you the whole, if I remember it, and ’tis years since I thought on’t, but a little later it goes forward:—
‘I then, a’l smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered full carelessly, I know not what;