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Or hast thy selfe his slomber broke?
 Or made preuie to the same?

Thomalin.
No, but happely I hym spyde,
Where in a bush he did him hide,
 With winges of purple and blewe.
And were not, that my sheepe would stray,
The preuie marks I would bewray,
 Whereby by chaunce I him knewe.

Willye.
Thomalin, haue no care for thy,
My selfe will haue a double eye,
 Ylike to my flocke and thine:
For als at home I haue a syre,
A stepdame eke as whott as fyre,
 That dewly adayes counts mine.

Thomalin.
Nay, but thy seeing will not serue,
My sheepe for that may chaunce to swerue,
 And fall into some mischiefe.
For sithens is but the third morowe,
That I chaunst to fall a sleepe with sorowe,
 And waked againe with griefe:
The while thilke same vnhappye Ewe,
Whose clouted legge her hurt doth shewe,
 Fell headlong into a dell.
And there vnioynted both her bones:
Mought her necke bene ioynted attones,
 She shoulde haue neede no more spell.
Thelf was so wanton and so wood,
(But now I trowe can better good)
 She mought ne gang on the greene,

Willye.
Let be, as may be, that is past:
That is to come, let be forecast.
 Now tell vs, what thou hast seene.

Thomalin.
It was vpon a holiday,