V
‘But I am waking, sweete,’ he said,
‘Lady, what is your will?’—
I have unbethought[362] me of a wile
How my wed lord we shall spill.
VI
‘Four and twenty knights,’ she sayes,
‘That dwells about this towne,
E’en four and twenty of my next cozens
Will help to ding[363] him downe.’
VII
With that beheard his little foot-page,
Was watering his master’s steed;
Soe [sore a hearing it was to him]
His very heart did bleed.
VIII
He mournèd, sikt[364], and wept full sore;
I swear by the Holy Rood
The teares he for his master wept
Were blent water and bloude.
IX
With that beheard his dear mastèr
As he in his garden sate;
Sayes, ‘Ever alack, my little page,
What causes thee to weepe?