"O it is not your head bookes-man, 45 Nor none of his degree: But, on to-morrow ere it be noone[L47] All deemed to die are yee: "And of that bethank your head steward, And thank your gay ladye." 50 "If this be true, my litle foot-page, The heyre of my land thoust bee:" "If it be not true, my dear master, No good death let me die:" "If it be not true, thou litle foot-page, 55 A dead corse shalt thou bee. "O call now downe my faire ladye, O call her downe to mee; And tell my ladye gay how sicke, And like to die I bee." 60 Downe then came his ladye faire, All clad in purple and pall: The rings that were on her fingers, Cast light thorrow the hall. "What is your will, my own wed-lord? 65 "What is your will with mee?" "O see, my ladye deere, how sicke, And like to die I bee." "And thou be sicke, my own wed-lord, Soe sore it grieveth me: 70 But my five maydens and myselfe Will make the bedde for thee. "And at the waking of your first sleepe, We will a hott drinke make; And at the waking of your next sleepe,[L75] 75 Your sorrowes we will slake." He put a silk cote on his backe, And mail of manye a fold; And hee putt a steele cap on his head, Was gilt with good red gold. 80 He layd a bright browne sword by his side, And another att his feete: [And twentye good knights he placed at hand, To watch him in his sleepe.] And about the middle time of the night, 85 Came twentye-four traitours inn; Sir Giles he was the foremost man, The leader of that ginn. Old Robin with his bright browne sword, Sir Gyles head soon did winn; 90 And scant of all those twenty-four Went out one quick agenn. None save only a litle foot-page, Crept forth at a window of stone; And he had two armes when he came in, 95 And he went back with one. Upp then came that ladie gaye, With torches burning bright; She thought to have brought Sir Gyles a drinke, Butt she found her owne wedd knight. 100 The first thinge that she stumbled on It was Sir Gyles his foote; Sayes, "Ever alacke, and woe is mee! Here lyes my sweete hart-roote." The next thinge that she stumbled on 105 It was Sir Gyles his heade; Sayes, "Ever alacke, and woe is me! Heere lyes my true love deade." Hee cutt the pappes beside her brest, And didd her body spille; 110 He cutt the eares beside her heade, And bade her love her fille.