ROB. H. Give me thy hand; now God's curse on me light,
If I forsake not grief, in griefs despite.
Much, make a cry, and, yeomen, stand ye round:
I charge ye never more let woful sound
Be heard among ye; but whatever fall,
Laugh grief to scorn, and so make sorrow small,
Much, make a cry, and loudly: Little John.
MUCH. O God, O God! help, help, help! I am undone, I am undone!
LIT. JOHN. Why, how now, Much? Peace, peace, you roaring slave.
MUCH. My master bad me cry, and I will cry till he bid me leave.
Help, help, help! Ay, marry will I.
ROB. H. Peace, Much. Read on the articles, good John.
LIT. JOHN. First, no man must presume to call our master
By name of Earl, Lord, Baron, Knight, or Squire;
But simply by the name of Robin Hood.
ROB. H. Say, yeomen, to this order will ye yield?
ALL. We yield to serve our master, Robin Hood.
LIT. JOHN. Next, 'tis agreed, if thereto she agree,
That fair Matilda henceforth change her name,
And while it is the chance of Robin Hood
To live in Sherwood a poor outlaw's life,
She by Maid Marian's name be only call'd.
MAT. I am contented; read on, Little John:
Henceforth let me be nam'd Maid Marian.