Here my troth I will plight to thee,
Whether thou wilt in heaven or hell."
"Man of mould, thou wilt me mar;
But yet thou shalt have all thy will;
And, trow it well, thou 'chievest the ware[[21]],
80
For all my beauty wilt thou spill."
Down then light that lady bright
Underneath that greenwood spray.
And, as the story tells full right,