“Hit is a fourtnet and more,” seyd hee,
“Syn I my Sauyour see;
To day will I to Notyngham,” seid Robyn,
“With the myght of mylde Mary.”
Then spake Moche the mylner sune,
Euer more wel hym betyde,
“Take xii thi wyght zemen
Well weppynd be thei side.
Such on wolde thi selfe slon
That xii dar not abyde.”
“Off alle my mery men,” seid Robyne,
“Be my feithe I wil non haue;
But Litulle Johne shall beyre my bow
Til that me list to drawe.”
* * * * *
“Thou shalle beyre thin own,” seid Litulle Jon,
“Maister, and I wil beyre myne,
And we wille shete a peny,” seid Litulle Jon,
“Vnder the grene wode lyne.”
“I wil not shete a peny,” seyde Robyn Hode,
“In feith, Litulle Johne, with thee,
But euer for on as thou shetes,” seid Robyn,
“In feith I holde the thre.”
Thus shet thei forthe, these zemen too,
Bothe at buske and brome,
Til Litulle Johne wan of his maister
V s. to hose and shone.
A ferly strife fel them betwene,
As they went bi the way;
Litull Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs,
And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay.
With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jone,
And smote him with his honde;
Litul John waxed wroth therwith,
And pulled out his bright bronde.
“Were thou not my maister,” seid Litulle Johne,
“Thou shuldis by hit ful sore;
Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn,
For thou getes me no more.”