What shalt thou gyve hym, Lytel Johan ? sayd Robyn.
Syr, a payre of gylte spores clene,
To pray for all this company :
God brynge hym out of tene ! {16}
Whan shall my daye be, sayd the knyght,
Syr, and your wyll be ?
This daye twelve moneth, sayd Robyn,
Under this grene wode tre.
It were grete shame, sayd Robyn,
A knyght alone to ryde,