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Right plump he was, and ruddie glowd her cheek, Her eaie waite in milch-white boddice dight, Her golden locks curld down her houlders leek, And halfe her boome heaving met the ight, Whiles gayly he accots the ober wight: Freedom and glee blythe parkling in her eye With wanton merrimake he trips the Knight, And round the younkling makes the clover flye: But oon he tarten up, more gameome by and bye.

I ween, quoth he, you think to win a kis, But certes you hall woo and trive in vain. Fat in his armes he caught her then ywis; Yfere they fell; but loud and angry then Gan he of hame and haviour vild complain, While bahfully the weetlee Boy did look: With cunning myles he viewd his awkward pain; The myle he caught, and eke new courage took, And Kathrin then a kis, perdie, did gentlie brook.