"CANYNGE, awaie! thys traytour vile 85 Has scorn'd my power and mee; Howe canst thou thenne for such a manne Intreate my clemencye?" "My nobile leige! the trulie brave Wylle val'rous actions prize, 90 Respect a brave and nobile mynde, Altho' ynne enemies." "CANYNGE, awaie! By Godde ynne Heav'n Thatt dydd mee beinge gyve, I wylle nott taste a bitt of breade 95 Whilst thys Syr CHARLES dothe lyve." "By MARIE, and alle Seinctes ynne Heav'n, Thys sunne shall be hys laste." Thenne CANYNGE dropt a brinie teare, And from the presence paste. 100 Wyth herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief, Hee to Syr CHARLES dydd goe, And satt hymm downe uponne a stoole, And teares beganne to flowe. "Wee all must die," quod brave Syr CHARLES; 105 "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne; Dethe ys the sure, the certaine fate Of all wee mortall menne. "Saye why, my friend, thie honest soul Runns overr att thyne eye; 110 Is ytte for my most welcome doome Thatt thou dost child-lyke crye?" Quod godlie CANYNGE, "I doe weepe, Thatt thou so soone must dye, And leave thy sonnes and helpless wyfe; 115 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye." "Thenne drie the tears thatt out thyne eye From godlie fountaines sprynge; Dethe I despise, and alle the power Of EDWARDE, traytor kynge. 120 "Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means I shall resigne my lyfe, The Godde I serve wylle soone provyde For bothe mye sonnes and wyfe. "Before I sawe the lyghtsome sunne, 125 Thys was appointed mee; Shall mortal manne repyne or grudge Whatt Godde ordeynes to bee? "Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, Whan thousands dy'd arounde; 130 Whan smokynge streemes of crimson bloode Imbrew'd the fatten'd grounde: "How dydd I knowe thatt ev'ry darte, Thatt cutte the airie waie, Myghte nott fynde passage toe my harte, 135 And close myne eyes for aie? "And shall I nowe, forr feere of dethe, Looke wanne and bee dysmayde? Ne! fromm my herte flie childyshe feere, Bee alle the manne display'd. 140 "Ah, goddelyke HENRIE! Godde forefende, And guarde thee and thye sonne, Yff 'tis hys wylle; but yff 'tis nott, Why thenne hys wylle bee donne. "My honest friende, my faulte has beene 145 To serve Godde and mye prynce; And thatt I no tyme-server am, My dethe wylle soone convynce.