Ile be wroken on them towe.
Sweavens are swift, master, quoth John,
As the wind that blowes ore a hill ;
For iff itt be never so loude this night,
To-morrow it may be still.
“Buske yee, bowne yee, my merry men all,
And John shall goe with mee,
For Ile goe seeke yond wighty yeomèn,
In greenwood where they bee.”
Then they cast on theyr gownes of grene,