Litul John waxed wroth therwith,
And pulled out his bright bronde.
Were thou not my maister, seid litulle Johne,
Thou shuldis by hit ful sore,
Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn,
For thou getes me no more. {373}
Then Robyn goes to Notyngham
Hymselfe mornynge allone,
And litulle Johne to mery Scherewode,
The pathes he knowe alkone.