Tell me ‘what’ men ye ar, he says, Or whos men that ye be: Who gave youe leave to hunte in this Chyviat chays in the spyt of me? The first mane that ever him an answear mayd, It was the good lord Persé: We wyll not tell the ‘what’ men we ar, he says, Nor whos men that we be; But we will hount hear in this chays In the spyt of thyne and of the. The fattiste hartes in all Chyviat We have kyld, and cast to carry them away. Be my troth, sayd the doughté ‘Dogglas’ agayn, Ther for the ton of us shall de this day. Then sayd the doughté Dogglas, Unto the lord Persé: To kyll all these giltles men, Alas! it wear great pitté. But, Persé, thowe art a lorde of lande, I am a yerle callyd within my contrè; Let all our men uppone a parti stande; And do the battell off the and of me. Now Cristes cors on his crowne, sayd the lord Persé, Who soever ther to says nay. Be my troth, doughté Doglas, he says, Thow shalt never se that day; Nethar in Ynglonde, Skottlonde, nar France, Nor for no man of a woman born, But and fortune be my chance, I dar met him on man for on. Then bespayke a squyar of Northombarlonde, Ric. Wytheryngton was his nam; It shall never be tolde in Sothe Ynglonde, he says, To kyng Herry the fourth for sham. I wat youe byn great lordes twaw, I am a poor squyar of lande; I wyll never se my captayne fyght on a fylde, And stande myselffe, and loocke on, But whyll I may my weppone welde I wyll not [fayl] bothe harte and hande. That day, that day, that dredfull day, The first fit here I fynde: And youe wyll here any mor athe hountyng athe Chyviat, Yet ys ther more behynd. (_FIT THE SECOND._) The Yngglyshe men hade ther bowys yebent, Ther hartes were good yenoughe; The first off arros that the shote off, Seven skore spear-men the sloughe. Yet byddys the yerle Doglas uppon the bent, A captayne good yenoughe, And that was sene verament, For he wrought them hom both woo and wouche. The Doglas pertyd his ost in thre, Lyk a cheffe cheften off pryde, With suar speares off myghtté tre, The cum in on every syde. Thrugke our Yngglyshe archery Gave many a wounde full wyde; Many a doughete the garde to dy, Which ganyde them no pryde. The Yngglyshe men let thear ‘bowys’ be. And pulde owt brandes that wer bright; It was a hevy syght to se Bryght swordes on basnites lyght. Thorowe ryche male, and myne-ye-ple, Many sterne the stroke done streght: Many a freyke, that was full fre, Ther undar foot dyd lyght. At last the Doglas and the Persé met, Lyk to captayns of myght and of mayne; The swapte togethar tyll the both swat With swordes that wear of fyn myllan. Thes worthé freckys for to fyght Ther to the wear full fayne, Tyll the bloode owte off thear basnetes sprente, As ever dyd heal or ran.