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"Dear uncle," said I, "for the life of me I cannot tell you; but that in my place he would do the like, I am sure." "He that luvith a starre To follow her, sinke or swym, Hath never a feare how farre, For the world it longith to hym: For the road it longith to hym And the fieldes that marcche beside Lift up thi herte, my maister then, So inery to-morn we ride." The Squyres Delyt.
Goe, ceize his body, But hurt him not. You must along with us, Sir: We have an easie nag will swym away with ye, You ghesse the cause, I am sure. When you are ith' saddle once, Let your Boores loose; we'll show 'em such a baste. Do not deiect yourself nor rayle at fortune; They are no helpes: thincke what you have to answeare. Mod.
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