Litull John was sore agrevyd,
And drew owt his swerde in hye[993];
This munkè saw he shulde be ded,
Lowd mercy can he crye.
LI
‘He was my maister,’ seid Litull John,
‘That thou hase browght in bale[994];
Shalle thou never cum at our Kyng,
Ffor to telle hym tale.’
LII
John smote of the munkis hed,
No longer wolde he dwell;
So did Moch the litull page,
Ffor ferd[995] lest he wolde tell.
LIII
Ther thei beryèd hem bothe,
In nouther mosse nor lyng,
And Litull John and Much in fere
Bare the letturs to oure Kyng.
LIV
[Whan John came unto oure Kyng]
He knelid down on his kne:
God yow save, my legè lorde,
Jhesus yow save and se!