XXV
Fayre Alyce, like a lover true,
Took a polaxe in her hande:
Said, ‘He shall dye that cometh in
Thys dore, whyle I may stand.’
XXVI
Cloudesley bente a wel good bowe,
That was of a trusty tre,
He smot the Justice on the brest,
That hys arowe brast in three.
XXVII
‘God’s curse on his harte,’ saide Wyllyam,
‘Thys day thy cote dyd on!
If it had ben no better then myne,
It had gone nere thy bone.’—
XXVIII
‘Yelde the Cloudesley,’ sayd the Justice,
‘And thy bowe and thy arrowes the fro.’—
‘God’s curse on hys hart,’ sayd fair Alyce,
‘That my husband councelleth so!’—
XXIX
‘Set fyre on the house,’ saide the Sherife,
‘Syth it wyll no better be,
And brenne we therin Wyllyam,’ he saide,
‘Hys wyfe and chyldren thre.’