And shewde the Souldiours what a spoyle he had:
“Loke here (quoth he) the litle Princes tane.”
And laught, and ran as brutish butcher mad;
But my lamenting made the souldiours sad,
Yet nought preuailde, the caytife as his pray
Without all pitie bare me still away.
[318] Till. ed. 1575.
[319] Some saide lo Elstride shee resembleth right. ib.
[320] Some. ib.
[321] Some said the thiefe. ib.