The kyng, seith he, will nought fro this ground Or he have yolde this toun Harflete. _Wot_ye_right_well,_&c._ Tenys seyde the grete gonne, How felawes go we to game, Among the houses of Harflewe roune, It dide the Frensshmen right gret grame; Fyftene before, seyd London, tho His ball wol faire he gan it throwe, That the stepyll of Harflete and bellys also, With his breth he dide down blowe.

_Wot_ye_right_well,_&c._ XXX^{ti} is myn, seyd Messagere, And smartly went his way; Ther wallys that were mad right sure, He brast them down the sothe to say. The kynges doughter, seyde here, how thei play, Herkenyth myne maydenys in this tyde; Fyve and forty that is no nay, The wallys wente doun on every syde.