She mendeth her hose, and she crieth 'Alack!
When will Sir Ingoldsby Bray come back?'"

"Thou liest! thou liest! thou naughty Foot-page,
Full loud doth thou lie, false Page, to me!
There in thy breast, 'Neath thy silken vest,
What scroll is that, false Page, I see?"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his rage drew near,
That little Foot-page, he blanch'd with fear;

"Now where may the Prior of Abingdon lie?
King Richard's confessor, I ween, is he,
And tidings rare To him do I bear,
And news of price from his rich Ab-bee!"

"Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page!
No learned clerk I trow am I,
But well I ween May there be seen
Dame Alice's hand with half an eye;
Now nay, now nay, thou naughty Page,
From Abingdon Abbey comes not thy news;
Although no clerk, Well may I mark
The particular turn of her P's and Q's!"

Sir Ingoldsby Bray in his fury and rage,
By the back of the neck takes that little Foot-page;
The scroll he seizes, The page he squeezes,
And buffets--and pinches his nose till he sneezes;--
Then he cuts with his dagger the silken threads