"Fyll of the best wyne, do hym drynke," said Robyn,185
"And grete well thy lady hende,
And yf she have nede [of] Robyn Hode,
A frende she shall hym fynde.
"And yf she nedeth ony more sylvèr,
Come thou agayne to me,190
And, by this token she hath me sent,
She shall have such thre."
The monke was going to London ward,
There to holde grete mote,
The knyght that rode so hye on hors,195
To brynge hym under fote.
"Whether be ye away?" sayd Robyn.
"Syr, to maners in this londe,
Too reken with our reves,
That have done moch wronge."200
"Come now forth, Lytell Johan,
And harken to my tale;
A better yemen I knowe none,
To seke a monkes male."
"How much is in yonder other [cofer]?" said Robyn,205
"The soth must we see:"
"By our lady," than sayd the monke,
"That were no curteysye,
"To bydde a man to dyner,
And syth hym bete and bynde."210
"It is our olde maner," sayd Robyn,
"To leve but lytell behynde."
The monke toke the hors with spore,
No lenger wolde he abyde:
"Aske to drynke," than sayd Robyn,215
"Or that ye forther ryde."
"Nay, for god," than sayd the monke,
"Me reweth I cam so nere;
For better chepe I myght have dyned
In Blythe or in Dankestere."220
"Grete well your abbot," sayd Robyn,
"And your pryour, I you pray,
And byd hym send me such a monke
To dyner every day."