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,