Wherby thou may giue the horne and lease;
In siluer it wilbe verry white,
And meethinkes shold thee well please.
114
. . . . . . . . .
Still kneeled Rowland Egerton on his knee;
He sayes, If itt like your Highnes, my gracious king,
A ranger called wold I neuer bee.
115
Then our king was wrathe, and rose away,