Were slaine both in a slade.
And Scarlette he was flying a-foote
Fast over stocke and stone,
For the proud sheriffe with seven score men
Fast after him is gone. {118}
One shoote now I will shoote, quoth John,
With Christ his might and mayne ;
Ile make yond sheriffe that flyes soe fast,
To stopp he shall be fayne.
Then John bent up his long bende-bowe,