"Welcome, my lorde," sayd his lady;
"Syr, lost is all your good?"
"Be mery, dame," sayd the knyght,
"And praye for Robyn Hode,
"That ever his soule be in blysse;185
He holpe me out of my tene;
Ne had not be his kyndenesse,
Beggers had we ben.
"The abbot and I acordyd ben,
He is served of his pay,190
The good yeman lent it me,
As I came by the way."
This knyght than dwelled fayre at home,
The soth for to say,
Tyll he had got foure hondreth pounde,195
All redy for too paye.
He purveyed hym an hondred bowes,
The strenges welle [y-]dyght,
An hondred shefe of arowes good,
The hedes burnyshed full bryght.200
And every arowe an elle longe,
With pecocke well ydyght,
Inocked all with whyte sylvèr,
It was a semly syght.
He purveyed hym an hondreth men,205
Well harneysed in that stede,
And hymselfe in that same [sete],
And clothed in whyte and rede.
He bare a launsgay in his honde,
And a man ledde his male,210
And reden with a lyght songe
Unto Bernysdale.
As he went at brydge ther was a wrastelyng,
And there taryed was he,
And there was all the best yemèn,215
Of all the west countree.
A full fayre game there was upset;
A whyte bull [up ipyght],
A grete courser with sadle and brydil,
With golde burneyshed full bryght;220