"With such weapons as we have here, Tyll we be out of your place; And yf we lyve this hundreth yere, We wyll aske you no grace." "Ye speake proudly," sayd the kynge, 105 "Ye shall be hanged all thre:" "That were great pitye," then sayd the quene, "If any grace myght be. "My lorde, whan I came fyrst into this lande, To be your wedded wyfe, 110 The fyrst bowne that I wold aske, Ye would graunt it me belyfe; "And I asked never none tyll now, Therefore, good lorde, graunte it me." "Now aske it, madam," sayd the kynge, 115 "And graunted shall it be." "Then, my good lord, I you beseche, These yemen graunt ye me:" "Madame, ye myght have asked a bowne That shuld have ben worth them all thre. 120 "Ye myght have asked towres and town[es], Parkes and forestes plenty." "None so pleasaunt to mi pay," she said, "Nor none so lefe to me." "Madame, sith it is your desyre, 125 Your askyng graunted shal be; But I had lever have geven you Good market townes thre." The quene was a glad woman, And sayd, "Lord, gramarcy; 130 I dare undertake for them, That true men shal they be. "But, good lord, speke som mery word, That comfort they may se." "I graunt you grace," then said our king, 135 "Wasshe, felos, and to meate go ye." They had not setten but a whyle, Certayne without lesynge, There came messengers out of the north, With letters to our kynge. 140 And whan the[y] came before the kynge, They kneled downe vpon theyr kne, And sayd, "Lord, your offycers grete you wel, Of Caerlel in the north cuntrè." "How fare[s] my justice," sayd the kyng, 145 "And my sherife also?" "Syr, they be slayne, without leasynge, And many an officer mo." "Who hath them slayne?" sayd the kyng, "Anone thou tell me:" 150 "Adam Bel, and Clime of the Clough, And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè." "Alas for rewth!" then sayd our kynge, "My hart is wonderous sore; I had leuer [th]an a thousand pounde, 155 I had knowne of thys before. "For I have graunted them grace, And that forthynketh me, But had I knowne all thys before, They had been hanged all thre." 160 The kyng opened the letter anone, Hymselfe he red it th[r]o, And founde how these thre outlawes had slaine Thre hundred men and mo. Fyrst the justice and the sheryfe, 165 And the mayre of Caerlel towne; Of all the constables and catchipolles Alyve were left not one.