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 Through some ill craft; by Poulis head, I doubt his blood hath made so red This bird that flew from the queen's bed Whereof ye have such fear.

Yea, my good knave, and is it said That I can raise men from the dead? By God I think to have his head Who saith words of my lady's bed For any thief to hear,

I wis men shall spit at me, And say it were but right for thee That one should hang thee on a tree; Ho! it were a fair thing to see The big stones bruise her false body; Fie! who shall see her dead?

I rede you have no fear of this, For as ye wot, the first good kiss I had must be the last of his; Now are ye queen of mine I wis, And lady of a house that is Full rich of meat and bread.