"O goode Syr CHARLES!" sayd CANTERLOUE, 25
"Badde tydyngs I doe brynge."
"Speke boldlie, manne," sayd brave Syr CHARLES,
"Whatte says thie traytor kynge?"
"I greeve to telle, before yonne sonne
Does fromme the welkinn flye, 30
Hee hath uponne hys honour sworne,
Thatt thou shalt surelie die."
"Wee all must die," quod brave Syr CHARLES;
"Of thatte I'm not affearde;
Whatte bootes to lyve a little space? 35
Thanke JESU, I'm prepar'd."
"Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee's not,
I'de sooner die to-daie
Thanne lyve hys slave, as manie are,
Tho' I shoulde lyve for aie." 40
Thenne CANTERLOUE hee dydd goe out,
To telle the maior straite
To gett all thynges ynne reddyness
For goode Syr CHARLESES fate.
Thenne Maisterr CANYNGE saughte the kynge, 45
And felle down onne hys knee;
"I'm come," quod hee, "unto your grace
To move your clemencye."
Thenne quod the kynge, "Youre tale speke out,
You have been much oure friende; 50
Whatever youre request may bee,
Wee wylle to ytte attende."
"My nobile leige! alle my request
Ys for a nobile knyghte,
Who, tho' may hap hee has donne wronge, 55
He thoghte ytte stylle was ryghte."
"Hee has a spouse and children twaine,
Alle rewyn'd are for aie;
Yff thatt you are resolv'd to lett
CHARLES BAWDIN die to-daie." 60
"Speke nott of such a traytour vile,"
The kynge ynne furie sayde;
"Before the evening starre doth sheene,
BAWDIN shall loose hys hedde."