Robyn into the churchë ran,
Throout hem everilkon ...
[Then word is gone to his yemen
In grene-wode wher they wone[978].]
XXXI
Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede,
And lay stil as any stone;
Non of theym were in her mynde
But only Litull John.
XXXII
‘Let be your rule[979],’ seid Litull John,
‘Ffor his luf that dyed on tre;
Ye that shulde be dughty[980] men,
Het is gret shame to se.
XXXIII
‘Oure maister has bene hard bystode
And yet scapyd away;
Pluk up your hertis, and leve this mone[981],
And harkyn what I shal say.
XXXIV
‘He has seruyd Oure Lady many a day,
And yet wil, securly;
Therfor I trust in hir specialy
No wyckud deth shal he dye.