‘Bend your bows,’ said Little John,
‘Make all yon press[833] to stand;
The foremost Monk, his life and death
Is closèd in my hand.
CCXIX
‘Abide, churl Monk!’ said Little John,
‘No further that thou wend;
If thou dost, by dear-worth God,
Thy death is in my hend[834].
CCXX
‘And evil thrift[835] upon thy head,
Right under thy hat’s band!
For thou hast made our master wroth,
He is so lang fastand.’
CCXXI
‘Who is your master?’ said the Monk.—
Little John said, ‘Robin Hood.’—
‘He is a strong thief,’ said the Monk,
‘Of him I never heard good.’
CCXXII
‘Thou lìest,’ then said Little John,
‘And that shall ruè thee;
He is a yeoman of the forest,
To dine he hath bidden thee.’