Geve me leve my horne to blowe,
That my hounde may knowe.
FRYER.
Blowe on, ragged knave, without any doubte,
Untyll bothe thyne eyes starte out.
Here be a sorte of ragged knaves come in,
Clothed all in Kendale grene,
And to the they take their way nowe. {347}
ROBYN HODE.
Peradventure they do so.