Nought man could do have I left undone,
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run. 15
IV.
There’s nobody on the house-tops now—
Just a palsied few at the windows set—
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet,
By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow. 20
V.