I make myn avow to god, sayd Robyn,
And to the trenytè,
It was never by his good wyll,
This good is come to me.
Lytell Johan hym there bethought,
On a shrewed wyle,[156]
Fyve myle in the forest he ran,
Hym happed at his wyll ;
Than he met the proud sheryf,
Huntynge with hounde and horne,