Which done, at the last he blow’d a loud blast
Straitway on his fine bugle-horn :
The eccho of which through the vallies did fly,
At which his stout bowmen appear’d,
All cloathed in green, most gay to be seen,
So up to their master they steer’d.
O, what’s the matter ? quoth William Stutely,
Good master, you are wet to the skin.
No matter, quoth he, the lad which you see
In fighting hath tumbl’d me in.