CLX

Little John gave the butler such a rap,
His back yede[803] nigh in two:
Tho’ he lived an hundred winter,
The worse he should go.

CLXI

He spurn’d the door with his foot,
It went up well and fine,
And there he made a large livery[804]
Both of ale and wine.

CLXII

‘Sith[805] ye will not dine,’ said Little John,
‘I shall give you to drink,
And though ye live an hundred winter,
On Little John ye shall think.’

CLXIII

Little John ate, and Little John drank,
The while that he wolde.
The Sheriff had in his kitchen a cook,
A stout man and a bold.

CLXIV

‘I make mine avow to God,’ said the cook,
‘Thou art a shrewd hind[806],
In an household to dwell,
For to ask thus to dine.’