Whilst in this mill wee labour and turne round As in a conjurers circle, William found A menes for our deliverance: Turne your cloakes, Quoth hee, for Puck is busy in these oakes: If ever yee at Bosworth will be found, Then turne your cloakes, for this is Fayry-ground. But, ere this witchcraft was perform’d, wee mett A very man, who had no cloven feete; Though William, still of little faith, doth doubt Tis Robin, or some sprite that walkes about: Strike him, quoth hee, and it will turne to ayre; Crosse your selves thrice and strike it: Strike that dare, Thought I, for sure this massy forrester In stroakes will prove the better conjurer. But twas a gentle keeper, one that knew Humanity, and manners where they grew; And rode along soe farr till he could say, See yonder Bosworth stands, and this your way. And now when wee had swett ’twixt sunn and sunn, And eight miles long to thirty broad had spun; Wee learne the just proportion from hence Of the diameter and circumference. That night yet made amends; our meat and sheetes Were farr above the promise of those streetes; Those howses, that were tilde with straw and mosse, Profest but weake repaire for that dayes losse Of patience: yet this outside lets us know, The worthyest things make not the bravest show: The shott was easy; and what concernes us more, The way was so; mine host doth ride before. Mine host was full of ale and history; And on the morrow when hee brought us nigh Where the two Roses[103] joyn’d, you would suppose, Chaucer nere made the Romant of the Rose. Heare him. See yee yon wood? There Richard lay, With his whole army: Looke the other way, And loe where Richmond in a bed of gorsse Encampt himselfe ore night, and all his force: Upon this hill they mett. Why, he could tell The inch where Richmond stood, where Richard fell: Besides what of his knowledge he could say, He had authenticke notice from the Play; Which I might guesse, by’s mustring up the ghosts, And policyes, not incident to hosts; But cheifly by that one perspicuous thing, Where he mistooke a player for a king. For when he would have sayd, King Richard dyed, And call’d—A horse! a horse!—he, Burbidge cry’de[104]. Howere his talke, his company pleas’d well; His mare went truer then his chronicle; And even for conscience sake, unspurr’d, unbeaten, Brought us six miles, and turn’d tayle at Nuneaton. From thence to Coventry, where wee scarcely dine; Our stomackes only warm’d with zeale and wine: And then, as if wee were predestin’d forth, Like Lot from Sodome, fly to Killingworth. The keeper of the castle was from home, Soe that halfe mile wee lost; yet when wee come An host receiv’d us there, wee’l nere deny him, My lord of Leisters man; the parson by him,