For here is a symple chere.
Hast thou ony frendes, sayd Robyn,
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 wyll I right none ;
Wenest thou I wyll have god to borowe ?
Peter, Poule or Johan ?
Nay, by hym that me made,