CLXXXV
‘Yonder I see a right fair hart,
His colour is of green,
Seven score of deer upon an herd
Be with him all bedene[812];
CLXXXVI
‘His tyndès[813] are so sharp, master,
Of sixty and well mo,
That I durst not shoot for dread
Lest they would me sloo[814].’
CLXXXVII
‘I make mine avow to God,’ said the Sheriff,
‘That sight would I fain see.’
‘Busk you thitherward, my dear master,
Anon, and wend with me.’
CLXXXVIII
The Sheriff rode, and Little John
Of foot he was full smart,
And when they came afore Robin:
‘Lo, here is the master hart!’
CLXXXIX
Still stood the proud Sheriff,
A sorry man was he:
‘Woe worth thee, Reynold Greenleaf!
Thou hast now betrayèd me.’