An’ bite hisself, but him be better now.
Laun. I chased the moon the silly moon,
Ahind a willard tree.
I knocked the stars like nine-pins down,
One, two, three.
I loved a Queen. Ha! ha! ’tis Winter.
Gwaine. And this be he, the best o’ Arthur’s Court,
A ragged ninny, mouthing wanton froth,
The sport o’ pig-folk, this be love’s good work,
Oh Love! thou hast much to answer!