‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’
Litull John can sey,
‘And thynk hit is a full fayre tyme
In a mornyng of May.’
VI
‘Ye, on thyng greves me,’ seid Robyn,
‘And does my hert mych woo;
That I may not no solem day
To mas nor matyns goo.
VII
‘Hit is a fourtnet and more,’ seid he,
‘Syn I my Savyour see;
To day wil I to Notyngham,’ seid Robyn,
‘With the myght of mylde Marye.’
VIII
Than spake Moche, the mylner son,—
Ever more wel hym betyde!
‘Take twelve of thi wyght yemèn[958],
Well weppynd, be thi side.
Such on wolde thi selfe slon[959],
That twelve dar not abyde.’
IX
‘Of all my mery men,’ seid Robyn,
‘Be my feith I wil non have,
But Litull John shall beyre my bow,
Til that me list to drawe.’