Y had lever nar a hundred ponde, seyde the screffe,
And swar be the trenitè,
[Y had lever nar a hundred ponde, he seyde,]
That the fals owtelawe stod be me.
And ye well do afftyr mey red, seyde the potter,
And boldeley go with me,
And to morow, or we het bred,
Roben Hode wel we se. {92}
Y well queyt the, kod the screffe,
And swere be god of meythe.[245]