human
Now holde your handes, cried Little John, And soe said Scarlett eke; 90
gpt
Our maister is slaine, I tell you plaine, He never more will speake.
human
In my packe, God wot, I a balsame have got, That soone his hurts will heale;
gpt
Now fare ye well, tis best not to tell, How ye three peddlers met; Or if that ye doe, prithee tell alsoe, How they made ye swinke and swett.