Here are no more but we thre :

But we brynge them to dyner,

Our mayster dare we not se. {40}

Bende your bowes, sayd Lytell Johan,

Make all yon[161] prese to stonde,

The formost monke, his lyfe and his deth

Is closed in my honde.

Abyde, chorle monke, sayd Lytell Johan,

No ferther that thou gone ;

Yf thou doost, by dere worthy god,