I had no sooner, as your Lordshipp badd, Putt him upon his voyadge, turn'd him out, But the ould resty stallion snuft and neighd, And smelt, I thinke, som mare, backt (I perceavd By the moone light) by a Fryar, in whose pursuite Our new made horseman with his threatninge lance, Pistolles, and rotten armor made such noyse That th'other, frighted, clamours throughe the streetes Nothinge but deathe and murder.