And welcome be thou, gentill knyght,
Under my trystell [174] tree.
But what shall these bowes do ? sayd Robyn,
And these arowes ifedered fre ?
By god, than sayd the knyght,
A pore present to the.
“Come now forth, Lytell Johan,
And go to my treasurè,
And brynge me there foure hondred pounde,
The monke over-tolde it me.