LXIII.
"Sen ye ar sa wourschipfull, and wourthy in were,
Demyt with the derrest, maist doughty in deid,
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Yone berne in the battale wil ye noght forbere,
For al the mobil on the mold, merkit to meid."
"Gif I de doughtely, the les is my dere,
Thoght he war Sampsone himself, sa me Criste reid! [the war.]
I forsaik noght to feght, for al his grete feir,
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I do the weill for to wit, doutlese but dreid."
Than said schir Spynagrose: "sen ye will of neid
Be bovn to the battale,
Wirkis with counsale,
It sall right gret avale,
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And do it in deid.
LXIV.
"Quhen ye mach hym on mold, merk to hym evin,
And bere ye your bright lance in myddis his scheild;
Mak that course cruel, for Crystis lufe of hevin!
And syne wirk as I wise, your vappins to weild.
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Be he stonayt, yone sterne, stout beis his stevin,
He wourdis brym as ane bair, that bydis na beild;
Noy you noght at his note, that nobill is to nevin.
Suppose his dyntis be deip dentit in your scheild,
Tak na haist vpone hand, quhat happunys may hynt;
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Bot lat the riche man rage,
And fecht in his curage,
To swyng with suerd quhil he suage;
Syne dele ye your dynt.
LXV.
"Quhen he is stuffit, thair strike, and hald hym on steir,
Sa sal ye stonay yone stowt, suppose he be strang;
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Thus may ye lippin on the lake, throu lair that I leir;
