CCCXLI
‘And he that this sorròw forsaketh,
By Him that died on a tree,
And by Him that all things maketh,
No longer shall dwell with me.’
CCCXLII
Soon there were good bows y-bent,
More than seven score;
Hedge nor ditch they sparèd none
That was them before.
CCCXLIII
‘I make mine avow to God,’ said Robin,
‘The Knight would I fain see,
And if I may him takè,
I-quit then shall he be.’
CCCXLIV
And when they came to Nottingham,
They walkèd in the street;
And with the proud Sheriff i-wis
Soonè gan they meet.
CCCXLV
‘Abide, thou proud Sheriff,’ he said,
‘Abide, and speak with me;
Of some tidings of our King
I would fain hear of thee.