His seven heades so rored lyke the thunder.
Ryght frome my stede I light to the grounde,
And drewe Clara Prudence, that was hole and sounde.
The mighty gyaunte his axe did up lyfte,
Upon my head that the stroke should fall.
But I of him was ful ware, and swyfte;
I lept asyde, so that the stroke wythall
In the grounde lyghted besyde a stone wall,
Thre fote and more, and anone than I
Dyd lepe unto hym, strykinge full quyckly.