The Monk was going to Londonward,
There to hold great moot[853],
The Knight that rode so high on horse,
To bring him under foot.
CCLIV
‘Whither be ye away?’ said Robin.—
‘Sir, to manors in this londe,
To reckon with our revès,
That have done much wrong.’—
CCLV
‘Come now forth, Little John,
And hearken to my tale,
A better yeoman I know none,
To seek[854] a Monkès mail[855].’
CCLVI
‘How much is in yon other forcèr[856]?
The soothè must we see:’
‘By our Lady,’ then said the Monk,
‘That were no courtesy,
CCLVII
‘A man to biddè to dinnèr,
And sith[857] him beat and bind.’—
‘It is our old manner,’ said Robin,
‘To leave but little behind.’