A sparrou’s horn, a prist unborn, this night to join us tua;
Or I winnë lay in your bed, nether att stok nor waa.’
a.
13
‘Ther is a hote-bed in my father’s garden wher winter chirrys grou,
Lequays a fine silk mantell in his closet which waft never gaid throu;
. . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
a.
14