"He groaneth,
He moaneth,
He aileth,
He waileth,
Lying sighing,
Nigh to dying,
Oho,
I know
'Tis so.
With bones right sore,
Both 'hind and fore,
Sir Agramore
Doth ache all o'er.
"He aileth sore yet waileth more--oho! I know, I have seen--in the chalk,
in the ink, in the smoke--I looked and saw
"Sir Agramore,
By bold outlaw,
Bethwacked most sore
As told before--"
"Nay, but, good Mopsa, how may this be? Sir Agramore rideth armed yonder,
plain to my sight."
"Child, I have told thee sooth," croaked the Witch. "Have patience, watch
and be silent, and shalt grow wise as old Mopsa--mayhap--in time.
"For, 'tis written in the chalk,
Sore is he and may not walk.
O, sing heart merrily!
I have seen within the smoke
Bones bethwacked by lusty stroke,
Within the ink I looked and saw,
Swathed in clouts, Sir Agramore;
Dread of him for thee is o'er,
By reason of a bold outlaw.
Sing, heart, and joyful be!"
"Go to, Mopsa, thou'rt mad!" quoth the Duchess.
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