Page:The green helmet and other poems.pdf/95

 The very straws may wrangle till they've thrown down the stack; The very door-posts bicker till they've pulled in the door, The very ale-jars jostle till the ale is on the floor, But this shall help no further. [He throws Helmet into the sea]

It was not for your head, And so you would let none wear it, but fling it away instead.

But you shall answer for it, for you've robbed my man by this.