Whom want of grace hath made a scorne,
Be war, &c.
In honor of my birth day then,
I robd in a bravery nineteen men.
Lord, &c.
The country weary to beare this wronge,
Ah woe is me, &c.
With huse and cries pursude me long,
Be war, &c.
Though long I scapt, yet loe at last,