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OLD ROBIN OF POKTINGALE. 37
" If it be not true, my dear master,
No good death let me die: " " If it be not true, thou litle foot-page, 55
A dead corse shalt thou bee.
" O call now downe my faire ladye,
0 call her downe to mee ; And tell my ladye gay how sicke,
And like to die I bee." «o
Downe then came his ladye faire,
All clad in purple and pall: The rings that were on her fingers,
Cast light thorrow the hall.
" What is your will, my own wed-lord ? «
What is your will with mee ? " " O see, my ladye deere, how sicke,
And like to die I bee."
" And thou be sicke, my own wed-lord,
Soe sore it grieveth me : 70
But my five maydeps and myselfe Will make the bedde for thee.
" And at the waking of your first sleepe,
We will a hott drinke make ; And at the waking of your next sleepe, n
Your sorrowes we will slake."
MS. 75, first.