"Now have I no good," sayd the knyght,
"But my chyldren and my wyfe;
God hath shapen such an ende,
Tyll [god may amende] my lyfe."200
"In what maner," sayd Robyn,
"Hast thou lore thy richès?"
"For my grete foly," he sayd,
"And for my kindenesse.
"I had a sone, for soth, Robyn,205
That sholde have ben my eyre,
When he was twenty wynter olde,
In felde wolde juste full feyre.
"He slewe a knyght of [Lancastshyre],
And a squyre bolde;210
For to save hym in his ryght,
My goodes beth sette and solde.
"My londes beth set to wedde, Robyn,
Untyll a certayne daye,
To a ryche abbot here besyde,215
Of Saynt Mary abbay."
"What is the somme?" sayd Robyn,
"Trouthe than tell thou me;"
"Syr," he sayd, "foure hondred pounde,
The abbot tolde it to me."220
"Now, and thou lese thy londe," sayd Robyn,
"What shall fall of the?"
"Hastely I wyll me buske," sayd the knyght,
"Over the salte see,
"And se where Cryst was quycke and deed225
On the mounte of Caluarè:
Fare well, frende, and have good daye,
It may [noo] better be."
Teeres fell out of his eyen two,
He wolde haue gone his waye:230
"Farewell, frendes, and have good day,
I ne have more to pay."
"Where [be] thy friendes?" sayd Robyn:
"Syr, never one wyll [me know];
Whyle I was ryche inow at home,235
Grete bost then wolde they blowe.