‘He shalbe deade that here cometh in
Thys dore, whyle I may stand.’
26
Cloudesle bent a wel good bowe,
That was of trusty tre,
He smot the justise on the brest,
That hys arrowe brest in thre.
27
‘God’s curse on his hartt,’ saide William,
‘Thys day thy cote dyd on;