That were great pitye, then sayd the quene,
If any grace myght be.

My lorde, whan I came fyrst into this lande

To be your wedded wyfe,

The fyrst boone that I wold aske,
Ye would graunt it me belyfe:

And I never asked none tyll now;
Therefore, good lorde, graunt it me.

Now aske it, madam, sayd the kynge,

110

115

And graunted it shal be.

Then, good my lord, I you beseche,

These yemen graunt ye me.

Madame, ye might have asked a boone,

That shuld have been worth them all thre. 120

Ye myght have asked towres, and townes,
Parkes and forestes plentè.

None soe pleasant to my pay, shee sayd;
Nor none so lefe to me.

Madame, sith it is your desyre,
Your askyng graunted shal be;
But I had lever have given you
Good market townes thre.

V. 111, 119, sic MS., bowne. PC.

125

The quene was a glad woman,

And sayde, Lord, gramarcy: I dare undertake for them,

That true men shal they be.

130

But good my lord, speke som mery word,

That comfort they may se.

I graunt you grace, then sayd our king;
Washe, felos, and to meate go ye.

135

They knelt downe on theyr kne:

And sayd, Lord, your officers grete you well,
Of Carleile in the north cuntrè.

"Adam Bell, and Clime of the Clough,

And Wyllyam of Cloudeslè."

V. 130, God a mercye. MS.

Alas for rewth! then sayd our kynge:

My hart is wonderous sore;

I had lever than a thousande pounde,
I had knowne of thys before;

155

For I have graunted them grace,
And that forthynketh me:
But had I knowne all thys before,
They had been hanged all thre.

160

The kyng hee opened the letter anone,

Himselfe he red it thro,

And founde how these outlawes had slain

Thre hundred men and mo:

Fyrst the justice, and the sheryfe,

And the mayre of Carleile towne;

Of all the constables and catchipolles

165

And the sergeauntes of the law,

170

And forty fosters of the fe,

These outlawes had yslaw :

And broke his parks, and slayne his dere;

Of all they chose the best;

So perelous out-lawes, as they were,
Walked not by easte nor west.

V. 168, left but one. MS., not one. PC.

175

When the kynge this letter had red,

In hys harte he syghed sore:

The kyng called hys best archars
To the buttes wyth hym to go:
I wyll se these felowes shote, he sayd,
In the north have wrought this wo.

180

The kynges bowmen buske them blyve,
And the quenes archers also;

185

So dyd these thre wyghtye yemen ;
With them they thought to go.

There twyse, or thryse they shote about
For to assay theyr hande;

190

There was no shote these yemen shot,
That any prycke* myght stand.

Then spake Wyllyam of Cloudeslè;
By him that for me dyed,

I hold hym never no good archar,

That shoteth at buttes so wyde.

At what a butte now wold ye shote,'

I pray thee tell to me?

At suche a but, syr, he sayd,

As men use in my countrè.

V. 185, blythe, MS.

* i. e. mark.

195

200

Wyllyam wente into a fyeld,

And with him' his two brethren:
There they set up two hasell roddes
Full twenty score betwene.

I hold him an archar, said Cloudeslè,
That yonder wande cleveth in two.
Here is none suche, sayd the kyng,
Nor none that can so do.

205

I shall assaye, syr, sayd Cloudeslè,
Or that I farther go.

210

Cloudesly with a bearyng arowe

Clave the wand in two.

Thou art the best archer, then said the king,

For sothe that ever I se.

And yet for your love, sayd Wyllyam,

I wyll do more maystery.

I have a sonne is seven yere olde,

He is to me full deare;

I wyll hym tye to a stake;

All shall se, that be here;

And lay an apple upon hys head,
And go syxe score hym fro,

V. 202, 203, 212, to. PC.

i. e. 400 yards.

215

220

V. 204, twenty score paces. PG. V. 208, sic MS., none that can. PC.

V. 222, six-score paces. PC., i. e. 120 yards.