And fettled him to shoote:
The bowe was made of tender boughe,
And fell downe at his foote.
"Woe worth, woe worth thee, wicked wood,
That ever thou grew on a tree!
For now this day thou art my bale,[26]
My boote when thou shold bee."
His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet flewe not the arrowe in vaine,
For itt mett one of the sheriffe's men,