“Do thy best!” quoth Robin.
“I'm harsh o' voice—knave!”
“Then croak—rogue!” quoth Robin.
“No song have I—vermin!”
“Make one—carrion! But sing thou shalt though thy song be no better than hog-song which is grunt. Howbeit sing thou must!”
Hereupon Sir Pertinax gnashed his teeth and glaring balefully on Robin lifted hoarse voice and burst forth into fierce song:
“Thou base outlaw,
Vile clapper-claw,
Since I must sing a stave,
Then, here and now,
I do avow
Thou art a scurvy knave!
Thy hang-dog air
Doth plain declare
Thou 'rt very scurvy knave.
“Rogues breed apace
In each vile place,
But this I will avow,
Where e'er rogues be
No man may see
A viler rogue than thou,
Since it were vain
To meet again
A rogue more vile than thou.
“As rogue thou art,
In every part,
Then—”
“Hold there—hold!” cried Robin, stopping his ears. “Thy voice is unlovely as thy look and thy song as ill as thy voice, so do we forgive thee the rest. Ha' done thy bellowing and begone—”
“Ha—not so!” quoth Sir Pertinax. “For troth I do sing better than methought possible, and my rhyming is none so ill! So will I rhyme thy every knavish part and sing song till song and rhyme be ended. Have at thee again, base fellow!
Since rogue thou art
In every part—part—