But we bryngë them to dyner,
Our mayster dare we not se.
218.
218.2 ‘prese,’ crowd.
‘Bende your bowes,’ sayd Lytell Johan,
‘Make all yon prese to stonde;
The formost monke, his lyfe and his deth
Is closëd in my honde.
219.
‘Abyde, chorle monke,’ sayd Lytell Johan,