Wyth that, as he departed soo fro me, Anone ther mette with him, as me thoughte, A man, but wonderly besene was he; He loked hawte,[292] he sette eche man at noughte; His gawdy garment with scornnys[293] was all wrought; With indygnacyon lyned was his hode; He frowned, as he wolde swere by Cockes blode; He bote the[294] lyppe, he loked passynge coye; His face was belymmed, as byes had him stounge: It was no tyme with him to jape nor toye; 290 Enuye hathe wasted his lyuer and his lounge, Hatred by the herte so had hym wrounge, That he loked pale as asshes to my syghte: Dysdayne, I wene, this comerous crabes hyghte.[295] To Heruy Hafter[296] than he spake of me, And I drewe nere to harke what they two sayde. Now, quod Dysdayne, as I shall saued be, I haue grete scorne, and am ryghte euyll apayed. Than quod Heruy, why arte thou so dysmayde? By Cryste, quod he, for it is shame to saye; 300 To see Johan Dawes, that came but yester daye, How he is now taken in conceyte, This doctour Dawcocke, Drede, I wene, he hyghte: By Goddis bones, but yf we haue som sleyte, It is lyke he wyll stonde in our[297] lyghte. By God, quod Heruy, and it so happen myghte; Lete vs therfore shortely at a worde Fynde some mene to caste him ouer the borde. By Him that me boughte, than quod Dysdayne, I wonder sore he is in suche conceyte. 310 Turde, quod Hafter,[298] I wyll thé no thynge layne,[299] There muste for hym be layde some prety beyte; We tweyne, I trowe, be not withoute dysceyte: Fyrste pycke a quarell, and fall oute with hym then, And soo outface hym with a carde of ten. Forthwith he made on me a prowde assawte, With scornfull[300] loke meuyd all in moode; He wente aboute to take me in a fawte; He frounde, he stared, he stampped where he stoode. I lokyd on hym, I wende he had be woode. 320 He set the arme proudly vnder the syde, And in this wyse he gan with me to chyde. DISDAYNE. Remembrest thou what thou sayd yester nyght? Wylt thou abyde by the wordes agayne? By God, I haue of thé now grete dyspyte; I shall thé angre ones in euery vayne: It is greate scorne to see suche an hayne As thou arte, one that cam but yesterdaye, With vs olde seruauntes suche maysters to playe. I tell thé, I am of countenaunce: 330 What weneste I were? I trowe, thou knowe not me. By Goddis woundes, but for dysplesaunce, Of my querell soone wolde I venged be: But no force, I shall ones mete with thé; Come whan it wyll, oppose thé I shall, What someuer auenture therof fall.