67
Yet he mar[k]t hime with the one of them,
In a previe place and a secrete pert;
He shoote hime in at the left oxtere,
The arrowe quiett throughe [the] harte.
68
‘Feight, maisters!’ said Sir Andrewe Barton,
‘I’se a lettle hurt, but I ame not slayne;
I’le lie me downe and bleede a whill,
I’le risse and feight with yowe agayne.