Fro Hyssylton to Hakenay,
Nort other half myle."
"I make a vow," quoth Perkyn, "thow speks of cold rost,
I schal wyrch wyselyer withouten any bost:
Five of the best capulys, that ar in thys ost,
I wot I schal thaym wynne, and bryng thaym to my cost,
And here I grant thaym Tybbe.
Wele boyes here ys he,
That wyl fyzt, and not fle,
For I am in my jolyte,
Wyth so forth, Gybbe."
When thay had ther vowes made, furth can thay hie,
Wyth flayles, and hornes, and trumpes mad of tre:
Ther were all the bachelerys of that contre;
Thay were dyzt in aray, as thaymselfes wold be;
Thayr baners were ful bryzt
Of an old rotten fell;
The cheveron of a plow-mell;
And the schadow of a bell,
Poudred wyth the mone lyzt.
I wot yt was no chylder game, whan thay togedyr met,
When icha freke in the feld on hys feloy bet,
And layd on styfly, for nothyng wold thay let,
And foght ferly fast, tyll ther horses swet,
And few wordys spoken.
Ther were flayles al to slatred,
Ther were scheldys al to flatred,
Bollys and dysches all to schatred,
And many hedys brokyn.
There was clynkyng of cart-sadelys, and clatteryng of cannes;
Of fele frekys in the feld brokyn were their fannes;
Of sum were the hedys brokyn, of sum the braynpannes,
And yll were thay besene, or thay went thanes
Wyth swyppyng of swepyls:
Thay were so wery for-foght,
Thay myzt not fyzt mare oloft,
But creped about in the croft,
As thay were croked crepyls.
Perkyn was so wery, that he began to loute;
"Help, Hud, I am ded in thys ylk rowte:
An hors for forty pens, a gode and a stoute!
That I may lyztly come of my noye oute,
For no cost wyl I spare."
He styrt up as a snayle,
And hent a capul be the tayle,
And reft Dawkin hys flayle,
And wan there a mare.