398.
398.4 i.e. his arrow he shall lose.
On every syde a rose-garlonde,
They shot under the lyne:
‘Who so fayleth of the rose-garlonde,’ sayd Robyn,
‘His takyll he shall tyne,
399.
‘And yelde it to his mayster,
Be it never so fyne;
For no man wyll I spare,