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36 OLD ROBIN OF POETINGALE.
The teares he for his master wept Were blent water and bloude.
And that beheard his deare master
As he stood at his garden pale: Sayes, " Ever alacke, my litle foot-page, as
What causes thee to wail ?
" Hath any one done to thee wronge,
Any of thy fellowes here ? Or is any of thy good friends dead,
That thou shedst manye a teare ? «
" Or, if it be my head bookes-man,
Aggrieved he shal bee : For no man here within my howse
Shall doe wrong unto thee."
" 0 it is not your head bookes-man, *s
Nor none of his degree : But, on to-morrow ere it be noone
All deemed to die are yee: " And of that bethank your head steward,
And thank your gay ladye." so
" If this be true, my litle foot-page, The heyre of my land thoust bee:"
MS. 32, blend. 47, or to-morrow.