CLIX
There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe,
—Hys bowe was great and longe,—
He set that arrowe in his bowe,
That was both styffe and stronge.
CLX
He prayèd the people, that was there,
That they all styll wold stand,
‘For he that shoteth for such a wager,
Behoveth a stedfast hand.’
CLXI
Muche people prayèd for Cloudesley,
That his lyfe savèd myght be,
And whan he made hym redy to shote,
There was many weeping e’e.
CLXII
But Cloudesley clefte the apple in two,
That many a man it se;
‘Over God’s forbode,’ sayde the Kynge,
‘That thou shold shote at me!’
CLXIII
‘I geve thee eightene pence a day,
And my bowè shalt thou bere,
And over all the north countrè
I make the chyfe rydère[706].’