Who asked of him, Where wert thou borne ? Or tell to me where dost thou fare ? I am a poor fisherman, said he then, This day intrapped all in care. “What is thy name, thou fine fellòw, I pray thee heartily tell it to mee ?” “In my own country, where I was borne, Men call me Simon over the Lee.” {264} Simon, Simon, said the good-wife, I wish thou mayest well brook thy name. The out-law was ware of her courtesie, And rejoyced he had got such a dame. “Simon, wilt thou be my man ? And good round wages Ile give thee ; I have as good a ship of my own, As any sails upon the sea : Anchors and planks thou shalt not want, Masts and ropes that are so long.” And if you thus do furnish me, Said Simon, nothing shall goe wrong. They pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle, More of a day then two or three ; When others cast in their baited hooks, The bare lines into the sea cast he. It will be long, said the master then, Ere this great lubber do thrive on the sea ; I’le assure you he shall have no part of our fish, For in truth he is no part worthy. O woe is me ! said Simon then, This day that ever I came here ! I wish I were in Plompton parke, In chasing of the fallow deere. {265} For every clowne laughs me to scorne, And they by me set nought at all ; If I had them in Plompton park, I would set as little by them all. They pluckt up anchor, and away did sayle, More of a day then two or three : But Simon espyed a ship of warre, That sayled towards them most valorously. O woe is me ! said the master then, This day that ever I was borne ! For all our fish we have got to day, Is every bit lost and forlorne. For your French robbers on the sea, They will not spare of us one man, But carry us to the coast of France, And ligge us in the prison strong. But Simon said, Doe not feare them, Neither, mastèr, take you no care ; Give me my bent bow in my hand, And never a Frenchman will I spare. “Hold thy peace, thou long lubbèr, For thou art nought but brags and boast ; If I should cast thee over-board, There’s but a simple lubber lost.” {266} Simon grew angry at these words, And so angry then was he, That he took his bent bow in his hand, And in the ship-hatch goe doth he. Master, tye me to the mast, saith he, That at my mark I may stand fair, And give me my bent bow in my hand, And never a Frenchman will I spare. He drew his arrow to the very head, And drew it with all might and maine, And straightway in the twinkling of an eye, ‘To’ the Frenchmans heart the ‘arrow’s gane.’[316] The Frenchman fell down on the ship-hatch, And under the hatches ‘there’ below ; Another Frenchman, that him espy’d, The dead corpse into the sea doth throw. O master, loose me from the mast, he said, And for them all take you no care ; For give me my bent bow in my hand, And never a Frenchman will I spare.