Gyue it vp, and cry creke, 300 Lyke an huddypeke. Wherto shuld I more speke Of suche a farly freke, Of suche an horne keke, Of suche an bolde captayne, That dare nat turne agayne, Nor durst nat crak a worde, Nor durst nat drawe his swerde Agaynst the Lyon White, But ran away quyte? 310 He ran away by nyght, In the owle flyght, Lyke a cowarde knyght. Adue, cowarde, adue, Fals knight, and mooste vntrue! I render thé, fals rebelle, To the flingande fende of helle. Harke yet, sir duke, a worde, In ernest or in borde: What, haue ye, villayn, forged, 320 And virulently dysgorged, As though ye wolde parbrake, Your auauns to make, With wordes enbosed, Vngraciously engrosed, Howe ye wyll vndertake Our royall kyng to make His owne realme to forsake? Suche lewde langage ye spake. Sir Dunkan, in the deuill waye, 330 Be well ware what ye say: Ye saye that he and ye,— Whyche he and ye? let se; Ye meane Fraunces, French kyng, Shulde bring about that thing. I say, thou lewde lurdayne, That neyther of you twayne So hardy nor so bolde His countenaunce to beholde: If our moost royall Harry 340 Lyst with you to varry, Full soone ye should miscary, For ye durst nat tarry With hym to stryue a stownde; If he on you but frounde, Nat for a thousande pounde[263] Ye durst byde on the grounde, Ye wolde ryn away rounde, And cowardly tourne your backes, For all your comly crackes, 350 And, for feare par case To loke hym in the face, Ye wolde defoyle the place, And ryn your way apace. Thoughe I trym you thys trace With Englyshe somwhat base, Yet, _saue[264] voster grace_, Therby I shall purchace No displesaunt rewarde, If ye wele can regarde 360 Your cankarde cowardnesse And your shamfull doublenesse. Are ye nat frantyke madde, And wretchedly bestadde, To rayle agaynst his grace, That shall bring you full bace, And set you in suche case, That bytwene you twayne There shalbe drawen a trayne That shalbe to your payne? 370 To flye ye shalbe fayne, And neuer tourne agayne. What, wold Fraunces, our friar, Be suche a false lyar, So madde a cordylar, So madde a murmurar? Ye muse somwhat to far; All out of ioynt ye iar: God let you neuer thriue! Wene ye, daucockes, to driue 380 Our kyng out of his reme? Ge heme, ranke Scot, ge heme, With fonde Fraunces, French kyng: Our mayster shall you brynge I trust, to lowe estate, And mate you with chekmate. Your braynes are ydell; It is time for you to brydell, And pype in a quibyble;