When the kynge this letter had red,
In hys harte he syghed sore:
"Take up the tables anone," he bad,
"For I may eat no more."
The kyng called hys best archars
To the buttes wyth hym to go:
"I wyll se these felowes shote," he sayd,
"In the north have wrought this wo."
The kynges bowmen buske them blyve,
And the quenes archers also;
So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen
With them they thought to go.
There twyse, or thryse they shote about
For to assay theyr hande;
There was no shote these yemen shot,
That any prycke[9] myght stand.
Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslè;
"By Him that for me dyed,
I hold hym never a good archar,
That shoteth at buttes so wyde."
"At what a butte now wold ye shote?,
I pray thee tell to me?"
"At suche a but, Syr," he sayd,
"As men use in my countrè."
Wyllyam wente into a fyeld,
And with him his two brethren:
There they set up two hasell roddes
Twenty score paces betwene.
"I hold him an archar, said Cloudeslè,
That yonder wande cleveth in two."
"Here is none suche, sayd the kyng,
"Nor none that can so do."
"I shall assaye, Syr," sayd Cloudeslè,
"Or that I farther go."
Cloudesly with a bearyng arowe
Clave the wand in two.
"Thou art the best archer," then said the king,
"Forsothe that ever I se."
"And yet for your love," sayd Wyllyam,
I will do more maystery.
"I have a sonne is seven yere olde,
He is to me full deare;
I wyll hym tye to a stake;
All shall se, that be here;