A gentle jest, in soothe he cry'd, To tumble me in and leave me! What if I had in the river dy'd?-- That fetch will not deceive me. Once more I'll pardon thee this day, Tho' injur'd out of measure; But thou prepare without delay To yield thee to my pleasure. Well then, if I must grant your suit, Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir Let me pull off both spur and boot, Or else you cannot stir, sir. He set him down upon the grass, And begg'd her kind assistance: Now, smiling, thought this lovely lass, I'll make you keep your distance. Then pulling off his boots half-way; Sir knight, now I'm your betters: You shall not make of me your prey; Sit there like a knave in fetters. The knight, when she had served him soe, He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled: For he could neither stand nor goe, But like a cripple tumbled. Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten, Yet do not move nor stir, sir: I'll send you my father's serving men, To pull off your boots and spurs, sir. This merry jest you must excuse, You are but a stingless nettle: You'd never have stood for boots or shoes, Had you been a man of mettle. All night in grievous rage he lay, Roiling upon the plain-a; Next morning a shepherd past that way, Who set him right again-a. Then mounting upon his steed so tall, By hill and dale he swore-a: I'll ride at once to her father's hall; She shall escape no more-a. I'll take her father by the beard, I'll challenge all her kindred; Each dastard soul shall stand affeard; My wrath shall no more be hindred. He rode unto her father's house, Which every side was moated: The lady heard his furious vows, And all his vengeance noted. Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage, Once more I will endeavour: This water shall your fury 'swage, Or else it shall burn for ever. Then faining penitence and feare, She did invite a parley: Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare, Henceforth I'll love you dearly. My father he is now from home, And I am all alone, sir: Therefore across the water come, And I am all your own, sir. False maid, thou canst no more deceive; I scorn the treacherous bait-a; If thou would'st have me thee believe, Now open me the gate-a. The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd, My father he has the keys, sir; But I have for my love prepar'd A shorter way, and easier. Over the moate I've laid a plank Full seventeen feet in measure, Then step across to the other bank, And there we'll take our pleasure. These words she had no sooner spoke, But straight he came tripping over: The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke, And sous'd the unhappy lover. TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD. A TALE. MATTHEW PRIOR.