‘Come on, come on, my lord,’ he sayes,
‘And all this talking now let a-bee;
For my sister is craftye enoughe
For to beguile thousands such as you and mee.’
XLIII
When they had saylèd fifty myle,
Now fifty myle upon the sea,
Hee asked, ‘How ffarr is it to that shooting
That William Douglas promised me?’—
XLIV
‘Now faire words makès foolès faine,
And that may be seene by thy master and thee;
For happen you’ll think it soone enoughe
Whenever you that shooting see.’
XLV
Jamye pulled his hat now over his browe,
I wot the teares fell in his e’e;
And he is to his master againe,
And for to tell him the veretye.
XLVI
‘He says fayre words makes foolès faine,
And that may be seene by you and mee,
For happen we’ll thinke it soone enoughe
Whenever we that shooting see.’