"And now they renne awaye fro me,
As bestes on a rowe;
They take no more heed of me
Then they me never sawe."240
For ruthe then wepte Lytell Johan,
Scathelocke and Much [in fere]:
"Fyll of the best [wyne]," sayd Robyn,
"For here is a symple chere.
"Hast thou ony frendes," sayd Robyn,245
"Thy borowes that wyll be?"
"I have none," then sayd the knyght,
"But god that dyed on a tree."
"Do waye thy japes," sayd Robyn,
"Therof will I right none;250
Wenest thou I wyll have god to borowe,
Peter, Poule, or Johan?
"Nay, by hym that me made,
And shope both sonne and mone;
Fynde a better borowe," sayd Robyn,255
"Or mony getest thou none."
"I have none other," sayd the knyght,
"The sothe for to say,
But yf it be our dere lady,
She fayled me never or this day."260
"By dere worthy god," sayd Robyn,
"To seche all England thorowe,
Yet founde I never to my pay
A moch better borowe.
"Come now forthe, Lytell Johan,265
And goo to my tresourè,
And brynge me foure hondred pounde,
And loke that it well tolde be."
Forthe then wente Lytell Johan,
And Scathelocke went before,270
He tolde out foure houndred pounde,
[By eyghtene score].
"Is this well tolde?" said lytell Much.
Johan sayd, "What greveth the?
It is almes to helpe a gentyll knyght275
That is fall in povertè."