The King went to a marsh-side
And light beside his steede;
He leanèd him downe on his swordhilts,
To let his nosè bleede.
LII
There follow’d him a yeaman of merry England,
His name was John of Coplande:
‘Yeeld thee, traytor!’ saies Coplande then,
‘Thy life lies in my hand.’
LIII
‘How shold I yeeld me,’ sayes the King,
‘And thou art noe gentleman?’—
‘Noe, by my troth,’ sayes Copland there,
‘I am but a poore yeaman.
LIV
‘What art thou better then I, Sir King?
Tell me if that thou can!
What art thou better then I, Sir King,
Now we be but man to man?’
LV
The King smote angerly at Copland,
Angerly in that stonde;
Then Copland was a bold yeaman,
And bore the King to the ground.