CLXV
And there he lent[807] Little John,
Good strokès three.
‘I make mine avow,’ said Little John,
‘These strokes liketh well me.
CLXVI
‘Thou art a bold man and an hardy,
And so thinketh me;
And or I pass from this place,
Assay’d better shalt thou be.’
CLXVII
Little John drew a good sword,
The cook took another in hand;
They thought nothing for to flee,
But stiffly for to stand.
CLXVIII
There they fought sore together,
Two mile way and more,
Might neither other harm done,
The mountenance[808] of an hour.
CLXIX
‘I make mine avow to God,’ said Little John,
‘And by my true lewtè,
Thou art one of the best swordsmen
That ever yet saw I me.