All maters there he marres;
Clappyng his rod on the borde,
No man dare speke a worde,
For he hathe all the sayenge,
Without any renayenge; 190
He rolleth in his recordes,
He sayth, How saye ye, my lordes?
Is nat[145] my reason good?
Good euyn, good Robyn Hood![146]
Some say yes, and some