And shote at the donne dere,
As I am wonte to done.
THE EIGHTH FYTTE.
Haste thou ony grene cloth, sayd our kynge,
That thou wylte sell nowe to me ?
Ye, for god, sayd Robyn,
Thyrty yerdes and thre.
Robyn, sayd our kynge,
Now pray I the,
To sell me some of that cloth,