3
'Cause of his toil, his Lady did
Intreat him not to go
Alas! good Lady, then quoth he,
Why art thou grieved so?
Content thyself, I will return
With speed to thee again.
Good father, quoth the little babes,
With us still here remain.
Farewell, dear children, I will go,
A fine thing you to buy;
But they therewith no whit content,
Aloud began to cry.
Their mother takes them by the hand,
Saying, Come go with me,
Unto the highest tower, where
Your father you shall see.
The Blackamoor perceived now,
Who then did stay behind,
His Lord a hunting to be gone,
Began to call to mind.
My Master he did me correct,
My fault not being great;
Now of his wife I'll be reveng'd,
He shall not me intreat.
The place was moated round about,
The bridge he up drew;
The gates he bolted very strong,
Of none he stood in awe.
