He folde up his sleve,
408.
408.2 ‘yede,’ went.
And sych a buffet he gave Robyn,
To grounde he yede full nere:
‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayd Robyn,
‘Thou arte a stalworthe frere.
409.
‘There is pith in thyn arme,’ sayd Robyn,
‘I trowe thou canst well shete.’