Thatte mony a clerk did pain;
Which guessed it, 'Forte Fuor Vi!'
The people giggled, 'l' your ey;
It's Fume and Fight in Vain!'
Eftsoons hire cloke ye awful Night,
Yspreaden roun ilk warrihour wight,
Ye glasse of chivalrie;
But nothing daunt, he kept his course,
As well as mote his sorry hors,
Farre to the North countrée.