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For from this place I'll never go
But Peter said, how ean that be,
How durst thou look him in the faee.
Sueh horrid sinners like to thee,
Can have no courage to get graee;
Here none eomes in but they that's stout,
And suffered have for the good eause;
Like unto thee are keeped out,
For thou hast broke all Moses' laws.
Peter, she said, I do appeal,
From Moses, and from thee also.
With him and you I'll not prevail,
But to my Saviour I will go;
Indeed of old you were right stout;
When yon did eut off Malchus' ear;
But after that you went about;
And a poor maid then did you fear.
Wherefore, saint Peter, do forbear,
A eomforter indeed you're not;
Let me alone, I do not fear
Take home the whistle of your groat:
Was it your own, or Paul's good sword,
When that your eourage was so keen,
You were right stout upon my word,
Then would you fain at fishing been;
For ere the erowing of the cock,
You did deny your master thriee,
For your stoutness turned a bloek,
