‘I have a sonne is seven yere olde, He is to me full deare; I wyll hym tye unto a stake: All shall se, that be here; CLIII ‘And lay an apple upon hys head, And go syxe score paces hym fro, And I my selfe with a brode arow Shall cleve the apple in two.’ CLIV ‘Now hastè the,’ then sayd the Kynge, ‘By hym that dyed on a tre, But yf thou do not, as thou hest sayde, Hangèd shall thou be. CLV ‘An thou touche his head or gowne, In syght that men may se, By all the sayntes that be in heaven, I shall hange you all thre!’ CLVI ‘That I have promised,’ said Wyllyam, ‘That I wyll never forsake.’ And there even before the Kynge In the earth he drove a stake: CLVII And bound thereto his eldest sonne, And bad hym stand styll thereat; And turned the childè’s face him fro, Because he should not start. CLVIII An apple upon his head he set, And then his bowe he bent: Syxe score paces they were out-met[705], And thether Cloudesley went CLIX There he drew out a fayr brode arrowe, --Hys bowe was great and longe,-- He set that arrowe in his bowe, That was both styffe and stronge. CLX He prayèd the people, that was there, That they all styll wold stand, ‘For he that shoteth for such a wager, Behoveth a stedfast hand.’ CLXI Muche people prayèd for Cloudesley, That his lyfe savèd myght be, And whan he made hym redy to shote, There was many weeping e’e. CLXII But Cloudesley clefte the apple in two, That many a man it se; ‘Over God’s forbode,’ sayde the Kynge, ‘That thou shold shote at me!’ CLXIII ‘I geve thee eightene pence a day, And my bowè shalt thou bere, And over all the north countrè I make the chyfe rydère[706].’ CLXIV ‘And I thyrtene pence,’ said the Quene, ‘By God, and by my fay; Come feche thy payment when thou wylt, No man shall say the nay. CLXV ‘Wyllyam, I make the a gentleman Of clothyng, and of fe: And thy brethren yemen of my chambre, For they are so semely to se. CLXVI ‘Your sonne, for he is tendre of age, Of my wyne-seller he shall be; And when he commeth to mans estate, Better avaunced shall he be. CLXVII ‘And, Wyllyam, bring me your wife,’ said the Quene, ‘Me longeth her sore to se: She shall be my chefe gentlewoman, To governe my nurserye.’ CLXVIII The yemen thanked them all courteously, And sayd, ‘To Rome wyl we wend, Of all the synnes, that we have done, To be assoyld at his hand.’ CLXIX So forth be gone these good yemèn, As fast as they might hye; And after came and dwell’d with the Kynge, And dyed good men all thre. CLXX