Yet is not the sonne at rest,
For I dare saye, and saufly swere,
The knyght is trewe and trust.
Take thy bowe in thy hande, sayd Robyn,
Let Moch wende with the,
And so shall Wyllyam Scathelock,
And no man abyde with me,
And walke up into the Sayles,
And to Watlynge-strete,
And wayte after ‘some’ [159] unketh gest,