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 Here none comes in but they that's stout, And suffered have for the good cause: Like unto thee are keeped out, For thou hast broke all Moses' laws. Peter, she said, I do appeal, From Moses, and from thee also. With him and you I'll not prevail, But to my Saviour I will go; Indeed of all you were right stout; When you did cut off Malchus' ear; But after that you went about: And a poor maid then did you fear. Wherefore, saint Peter, do forbear, A comforter indeed you're not; Let me alone, I do not fear, Take home the whistle of your groat: Was it your own, or Paul's good sword, When that your courage was so keen, You were right stout upon my word, Then would you fain at fishing been; For at the crowing of the cock, You did deny your master thrice, For all your stoutness turned a block, Now flyte no more if ye be wise. Yet at the last the Lord arose, Environed with angels bright, And to the wife in haste he goes, Desired her soon pass out of sight. O Lord, quoth she, canse do me right. But not according to my sin; Have you not promised day and night,