Þat ich here þis sorwe se!
Hugh calls out to Robert and William.
Roberd! willam! hware ar ye?
Gripeth eþer unker a god tre,
And late we nouth þise doges fle,
Til ure louerd wreke [we];
Cometh swiþe, and folwes me!
Ich haue in honde a ful god ore:
Datheit wo ne smite sore!”
Robert comes to the rescue,