FRYER TUCKE.
I beshrew thy hart, knave, thou hurtest my throt.
ROBYN HODE.
I trowe, fryer, thou beginnest to dote;
Who made the so malapert and so bolde,
To come into this forest here,50
Amonge my falowe dere?
FRYER.
Go louse the, ragged knave.
If thou make mani wordes, I will geve the on the eare,
Though I be but a poore fryer.
To seke Robyn Hode I am com here,
And to him my hart to breke.
ROBYN HODE.
Thou lousy frer, what wouldest thou with hym?
He never loved fryer, nor none of freiers kyn.
FRYER.
Avaunt, ye ragged knave!
Or ye shall have on the skynne.60