CCCII
Little John was hurt full sore,
With an arrow in his knee,
That he might neither go nor ride;
It was full great pity.
CCCIII
‘Master,’ then said Little John,
‘If ever thou lovest me,
And for that ilk Lordès love,
That died upon a tree,
CCCIV
‘And for the meeds[871] of my service,
That I have servèd thee,
Let never the proud Sheriff
Alive now findè me;
CCCV
‘But take out thy brown sword,
And smite all off my head
And give me wounds dead[872] and wide,
No life on me be left.’
CCCVI
‘I would not that,’ said Robin,
‘John, that thou were slawe,
For all the gold in merry England,
Though it lay now on a rawe[873].’