I’ll ripe them with my hand.
And now to thee I make a vow,
If ‘thou’ make any din,
I shall see a broad arròw,
Can pierce a beggar’s skin.
The beggar smil’d, and answer made,
Far better let me be ;
Think not that I will be afraid,
For thy nip crooked tree ; {101}
Or that I fear thee any whit,