‘Yet one shoote I’le shoote,’ quoth Little John,
‘With Christ his might and mayne;
I’le make yond fellow that flyes soe fast,
To stopp he shall be fayne.’
XVII
Then John bent up his good yewe-bowe
And fettl’d[939] him to shoote:
The bow was made of a tender boughe,
And fell downe to his foote.
XVIII
‘Woe worth thee, wicked wood,’ sayd John,
‘That ere thou grew on a tree!
For now this day thou art my bale,
My boote[940] when thou shold bee.’
XIX
His shoote it was but loosely shott,
Yet it flewe not in vaine,
For itt met one of the Sheriff’s men,
Good William à Trent was slaine.
XX
It had bene better of William à Trent
To have hangèd upon a gallòw,
Than to be that day in the grene-wood
To meet Little John’s arrowe.