O, it is not your head bookes-man, 45
Nor none of his degree:
But, on to-morrow ere it be noone[142]
All deemed[143] to die are yee.
And of that bethank your head stewàrd,
And thank your gay ladie. 50
If this be true, my litle foot-page,
The heyre of my land thoust bee.
If it be not true, my dear mastèr,
No good death let me die.
If it be not true, thou litle foot-page, 55
A dead corse shalt thou lie.[144]
O call now downe my faire ladye,
O call her downe to mee:
And tell my ladye gay how sicke,
And like to die I bee. 60
Downe then came his ladye faire,
All clad in purple and pall:
The rings that were on her fingèrs,
Cast light thorrow the hall.
What is your will, my owne wed-lord? 65
What is your will with mee?
O see, my ladye deere, how sicke,
And like to die I bee.
And thou be sicke, my own wed-lord,
Soe sore it grieveth me: 70
But my five maydens and myselfe
Will "watch thy" bedde for thee:[145]
And at the waking of your first sleepe,
We will a hott drinke make:
And at the waking of your "next" sleepe,[146] 75
Your sorrowes we will slake.
He put a silk cote on his backe,
And mail of manye a fold:
And hee putt a steele cap on his head,
Was gilt with good red gold. 80
He layd a bright browne sword by his side,
And another att his feete:
"And twentye good knights he placed at hand,
To watch him in his sleepe."