He prycked to his pavyleon dore,
As fast as he myght ronne,
Awaken, Dowglasse, cryed the knyght,
For hys love that syttes in trone.
Awaken, Dowglasse, cryed the knyght,
For thow maste waken wyth wynne;
Yender have I spyed the prowde Perssye,
And seven standardes wyth hym.
Nay, by my trowth, the Dowglasse sayed,
Yt ys but a fayned taylle: