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.