Lameth. My bowe xal I drawe ryght with herty wylle,
This brod arwe I shete that best ffor to saylle;
Now have at that busche ȝon best for to spylle,
A sharppe schote I shote, therof I xall not faylle.
Cayn. Out, out, and alas! myn hert is on sondyr.
With a brod arwe I am ded and sclayn!
I dye here on grounde, myn hert is alle to tundyr,
With this brod arwe it is clovyn on twayn!
Lameth. Herke, boy, cum telle me the trewthe in certeyn,
What man is he that this cry doth thus make?