Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two, Peter of Dale was on of tho, Tother was Bryan of Beare; {130d} Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife, And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe, What tyme as musters were. {130e} These three men wended at theyr wyll, This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll, Liggand under a tree; Rugg’d and rustic was her here, Scho rase up wyth a felon fere, {131a} To fyght agen the three. Grizely was scho for to meete, Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete, The barke cam fra’ the tree: When Freer Myddeltone her saugh, Wete yow wele hee list not laugh, Full earnestful luik’d hee. These men of auncestors {131b} were so wight, They bound them bauldly for to fyght, And strake at her full sare; Until a kilne they garred her flee, Wolde God sende thayme the victorye, They wolde aske hym na maire. The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone, And they wer on the bawke aboone, For hurting of theyr feete; They wer sea sauted {131c} wyth this sewe, That ’mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe, The kilne began to reeke! Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande, But put a rape downe wyth a wande, And heltered her ful meete; They hauled her furth agen her wyll, Qunyl they cam until a hille, A little fra the streete. {131d} And ther scho made thayme sike a fray, As, had they lived until Domesday, They colde yt nere forgette: Scho brayded upon every syde, And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde, For nathing wolde scho lette. Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bande That Peter of Dale had in his hande, Hee myght not holde hys feete; Scho chasèd thayme sea to and fro, The wight men never wer sea woe, Ther mesure was not mete. Scho bound her boldly to abide, To Peter of Dale scho cam aside, Wyth mony a hideous yelle; Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee, The freer sayd, ‘I conjure thee, Thou art a fiend of helle! ‘Thou art comed hider for sum trayne, I conjure thee to go agayne, Wher thou was wont to dwell.’ He sainèd hym wyth crosse and creede, Tooke furth a booke, began to reade, In Ste Johan hys gospell. The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare, But rudely rushèd at the freer, That blynkèd all his blee; {132a} And when scho wolde have takken holde, The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde, {132b} And bealed hym wyth a tree. Scho was brim as anie beare, For all their meete to laboure there, To thayme yt was noe boote; On tree and bushe that by her stode, Scho vengèd her as scho wer woode, And rave thayme up by roote. Hee sayd, ‘Alas that I wer freer, I shal bee hugged asunder here, Hard is my destinie! Wiste my brederen, in this houre, That I was set in sike a stoure, They wolde pray for mee!’