Nay, shee's apt to every pace;
And to proove her colour good,
A flea, enamourd of her blood,
Digd for chanels in her neck,
And there made many a crimson speck: 70
I thinke theres none that use to ride
But can her pleasant trot abide;
She goes so even upon the way,
She will not stumble in a day;
And when my maister— 75