And syth hym bete and bynde.

It is our olde maner, sayd Robyn,

To leve but lytell behynde.

The monke toke the hors with spore,

No lenger wolde he abyde.

Aske to drynke, than sayd Robyn,

Or that ye forther ryde.

Nay, for god, than sayd the monke,

Me reweth I cam so nere,

For better chepe I myght have dyned,